Eloquence and Espionage by Regina Scott Page A

demanded, looking
Ariadne up and down as if inspecting her for cuts and bruises. “I
saw Father’s face as he left the balcony. He looked as if he’d just
jumped the biggest fence of his life and wasn’t sure how his horse
had managed to land on the other side.”
    She knew how he felt--delight and dismay
mingling. “I found my centurion.”
    “And?” Priscilla asked, joining them with a
swish of her creamy skirts. “I refuse to believe it was Mr.
Cunningham.”
    “I thought I saw someone follow him, but I
couldn’t be certain,” Emily added, coming along as well.
    “You did,” Ariadne confirmed, “although I
didn’t notice him at first in the darkness. And it wasn’t Archibald
Stump.”
    Daphne wrinkled her nose. “Well, it can’t
have been Freddie Pulsipher, for I can see him standing just there
near the window. Or did you notice him through the glass and
recognize him?”
    “Girls.” Lady Rollings glided into their
midst, hands clasped properly before her rich gown. “Your father
just gave me the news, Ariadne. It seems congratulations are in
order.”
    “Congratulations?” Daphne interrupted,
glancing between Ariadne and their mother.
    Ariadne swallowed. “Yes. I have agreed to
marry Lord Hawksbury.”
    In any other circumstance, she might have
been amused by their reactions. Priscilla straightened, golden
lashes fluttering in rapid blinks as if she simply could not
imagine such a thing. Emily’s mouth actually dropped open.
    Daphne frowned. “Who?”
    “Jason Sinclair, Lord Hawksbury,” their
mother intoned as if she were a footman announcing the fellow at a
fancy dress ball. “Heir to the Marquess of Winthrop, with income of
more than twenty thousand pounds per annum from his mother and his
own estate outside London. As he is eighteen months shy of reaching
his majority, I had not realized he was seeking a bride.”
    Because he wasn’t. He was only three years
older than her sixteen years. Most titled gentlemen did not begin
their bride hunt until they were at least five and twenty.
    “How exactly did you meet?” her mother
asked.
    How to answer that? She could make up some
proper introduction, but her mother could easily confirm that for a
lie.
    Priscilla must have seen the panic on her
face, for she stepped in smoothly. “At Lord Rottenford’s
masquerade. They had a fascinating conversation overlooking the
ballroom.”
    “And they’ve met at Hyde Park since,” Emily
put in.
    “And Hatchard’s,” Ariadne added,
remembering.
    “Where was I in all this?” Daphne demanded.
“Why was I not informed?”
    Ariadne cringed, but her mother touched
Daphne’s arm. “Now, then. I know we all expected you to make the
first match as the eldest, but your time will come.” She glanced at
Ariadne. “Indeed, your sister’s fame may well propel you further
into Society. This betrothal is a considerable coupe.”
    Oh, but there would be a price to pay when
her mother learned the truth. For now, Ariadne put on a smile and
accepted her mother’s well-wishes. There had been many times over
the years when she’d hoped for a word of praise, when she’d written
a poignant poem or crafted a chronicle she felt worthwhile. It hurt
now to hear that praise finally given and know it was
undeserved.
    *
    Sinclair stood in the doorway of his family’s
town house off St. James’s. His father sat in his study, as he
often did in the evenings at this time, in an armchair of Moroccan
leather, slippered feet up on a tufted hassock, long fingers
turning the crystal goblet to set the brandy inside to swirling.
The deep amber of the liquid glinted in the light of the fire
nearby.
    None of Lord Winthrop’s friends dared
approach him anymore. His ability to slay an opponent with a word
was as legendary as his temper. Once he’d even dueled with a Prime
Minister over some imagined slight. But those days were far behind
him. The wrapping on his foot was testimony to the gout that
plagued him, as was the twist of