Eloquence and Espionage Read Free Page A

masquerade, Ariadne thought Miss Tate more attractive.
He was always surprised by the mistaken impressions people
harbored. Miss Tate was a sugar plum compared to Ariadne Courdebas’
roast beef dinner. He doubted she’d approve of that comparison, but
the fact was that no one survived on sugar plums for long.
    Besides, mistaken beliefs could serve his
purpose. They made his famous father ignore the hints that his heir
was delving into forbidden matters. They kept his grandparents
safe. They made his foes underestimate him. With any luck, mistaken
beliefs would cause his quarry to show his hand and prevent a
tragedy.
    And where would England’s enemy be on a
sunny day in May if he hoped to steal the secrets of the
aristocracy? Nowhere else but Hyde Park.
    He strolled among the many couples--the
ladies with their plumed bonnets, the gentlemen in their tailored
coats--and nodded to acquaintances. His gaze, though casual,
searched each face for hidden intentions, studied demeanors for
dark purpose. Somewhere, a spy walked among them, ready to lie,
steal, and even kill for the honor of France. He had been told only
that the fellow was a gentleman who could pass himself off as
English. And that the spy’s orders were deadly. He’d stalked the
shadow through balls, along dark corridors of the theatre, among
the crowds at race tracks, with no more than a hint of the man’s
presence. The miscreant must be found, before murder was done.
    Not that he wanted to spend much time in
Hyde Park. Society called him arrogant, claimed that he thought no
one’s company was good enough. It was not the presence of the
living that held him back from trivial pursuits. It was the memory
of the dead. He saw the shade of his friend Winston Wallingford
pelting down Rotten Row, John Warren laughing as he knocked his
friend’s hat off on the bridge over the Serpentine. He smelled the
picnic lunch Peter Makepiece’s mother used to foist on them to her
son’s protesting delight. And he remembered why he was defying his
father to spy for England.
    He wasn’t sure how he knew Ariadne had
arrived in the park as well. Perhaps it was the shift in the wind
that brought the scent of honeysuckle. Perhaps it was the sound of
her sister’s ringing laugh. Turning, he glanced toward Rotten Row,
the sandy track that claimed the most gentlemen riders. The
familiar crimson landau was stopped alongside, windows open to
allow Ariadne inside and her sister on horseback to converse. The
breeze tugged loose a strand of her warm brown hair and set it to
stroking her cheek. His fingers tightened as he remembered the feel
of her skin.
    Why was she here? Was she still seeking him,
or was her visit as innocent as her looks? He did not think she
would notice him in the crowd, dressed as he was in the common navy
coat and fawn trousers of half the gentlemen on the ton .
Even so, he ducked into the shadows of the trees, keeping an eye on
her.
    Her sister nodded at something she’d said.
She pulled her horse back. The door swung open, and the lady
herself stepped down. She touched her sister’s skirts as if
confiding something, then turned and hurried into the trees.
    Alone.
    Lady Emily Southwell climbed from the coach
as well and stood watching her, as did her coachman and footman.
Where was she going with such purpose? Why did no one follow?
    What could he do but discover the answers
for himself?

Chapter Three
    He was here.
She could feel it. Perhaps it was the whisper of a warm male voice
carried on the breeze. Perhaps it was the sight of a top hat on
black hair over broad shoulders, disappearing into the trees.
Regardless, she wasn’t about to let him get away this time. She’d
told Daphne she needed a moment to herself for inspiration,
something her sister accepted without question having been privy to
her flights of fancy since the day Ariadne had been born.
    Emily, however, had raised a brow as if she
doubted this sudden need for serenity.
    “I shall count to two