Ariadne finished explaining the situation to Emily, who nodded in the dark of the coach, the brim of her blue velvet bonnet framing her narrow face. “And I take it you have shared this with no one else, except Daphne, of course.”
Ariadne bent her head to tuck her journal back into her reticule. “Actually, I haven’t confided in my sister.”
When Emily touched her hand, Ariadne hurried on. “It’s all rather embarrassing, really. I mean, things like this happen in books and plays, not to people like me.”
“And haven’t you been the one to consistently compare our lives to gothic novels and farces?” Emily challenged, pulling back.
Ariadne raised her head. “Certainly. I can’t help it if life mirrors art. You make a perfectly wonderful heroine, Emily, the lonely daughter of a noble house, eschewing rank for her passions.”
Now Emily ducked her head and rubbed at the navy lustring skirts of her gown. “Thank you, I think.”
“And Priscilla,” Ariadne continued. “Beauty daunted by tragic circumstances, triumphing over adversity.”
Emily smiled. “She has at that. News of her betrothal to Mr. Kent is on everyone’s lips.”
“As it should be,” Ariadne agreed. “And I understand Daphne’s Amazon feats in discovering Lord Robert’s dastardly plan at your come out ball are still discussed in hushed tones of awe among the sporting gentlemen.” A sigh escaped her. “And then there’s me, watching from the wall, forever in the shadows. I’m sure that’s why the patronesses never sent me vouchers to Almack’s. Perhaps I’d just like to come out into the light for once!”
Emily caught her hand and gave it a squeeze. “None of us sees you that way but you.”
“Rather say,” Ariadne insisted, “that no one but you three sees me at all. He did.”
Emily nodded, releasing her. “Very well, then. This paragon of paragons must be found. I suggest we start with Priscilla.”
She was going to help. Ariadne drew in a breath. “Because she knows every gentleman on the ton.”
Emily grinned at her. “No, because she can persuade Nathan Kent to share the guest list for His Grace’s masquerade.”
Why hadn’t she thought of that? Even though she’d searched London to no avail, she’d been so certain she would recognize her hero without his costume. Perhaps the sound of that warm voice would make her turn at a ball to find him gazing at her with a smile that made her tremble. Or while strolling in Hyde Park, she’d catch a glimpse of midnight black hair and a confident walk, and he’d fall into step beside her. She’d imagined a dozen places they might meet again and twenty ways she might tell him she wished him to call upon her. She’d never considered simply consulting the guest list.
As it was, that proved more difficult than expected. Priscilla was happy to oblige. She’d seen the centurion, after all. She knew the effect of his sartorial splendor. And, deliriously happy in her betrothed state, she was delighted to further another possible romance.
“But I cannot trouble Nathan just now,” she explained to Ariadne and Emily from the mismatched furniture of the drawing room in the tiny house Priscilla’s father had rented for the Season. Her golden hair was not yet dressed for the day, and she wore a dressing gown with a profusion of cream-colored lace. “His Grace is determined to find a bride, so Nathan has his hands full fending off fortune hunters and title nabbers.” Though Priscilla had been both until recently, she showed considerable disdain for the breed now, pink lips curled and head high. “And my father certainly isn’t helping.”
The Tates, Priscilla’s parents, who were pockets to let, had been devastated to learn their daughter was planning to throw over the wealthy duke they had seen as their salvation for his cousin and personal secretary. Nathan’s solution had been for His Grace the Duke of Rottenford to fund Priscilla’s father as a social advisor. So far, Mr. Tate’s advice had only managed to run up the duke’s bill to his tailor and lengthen the list of sycophants knocking at his door.
“Do what you can,” Emily replied, and Ariadne swallowed her disappointment and nodded in agreement.
“Would you like me to drive you home?” she asked Emily as they descended to the pavement where her family’s coach waited. “I’m to meet Daphne in Hyde Park in a quarter hour.”
Emily glanced at the coach as if weighing its advantages. It was a fine landau, lacquered in crimson, the bold color one of the few concessions Lord Rollings had managed to secure from his stern wife. Emily had her own carriage, Ariadne knew, with driver and groom. She was also on tremendously good terms with her father’s staff, who she saw more often than her busy father. Ariadne could not make the same statement. Though her father was a well-respected viscount, their staff only listened to one person: her iron-willed mother.
“I’ll come with you,” Emily offered. “It will keep Lady Minerva off the scent.”
Lady Minerva was Emily’s eagle-eyed aunt who served as her chaperone for the Season. She had been a thorn in their sides at first, forever demanding certain types of behavior, but she and Emily had come to an uneasy truce, until Emily had declared her preference for an unsuitable suitor, Jamie Cropper, a Bow Street Runner. Now Lady Minerva spied out Emily’s every move and threatened to tell her father of any alleged impropriety.
With their tendency to uncover murder and other misdeeds, there were entirely too many things to give the older lady pause.
Of course, Ariadne had her own watchdogs to consider. She’d had to work extra hard the last few days to follow the trail of her centurion without raising suspicions. She could feel Mr. Crease watching her now as their footman Oscar handed her and Lady Emily into the landau. The coachman’s feathery gray brows were down in censure. Really, what unconscionable sin had she committed? She’d gone to Gunter’s and Priscilla’s, neither of which was unusual for her. The only thing unusual about it all was that she hadn’t eaten a single thing in either location.
How could she eat when all she could think about was finding him?
*
It wasn’t easy seeking his quarry knowing Ariadne Courdebas was intent on finding him. He’d followed her as far as the Tate house and figured she’d likely visit her friend Priscilla for a time. By her conversation at the Duke of Rottenford’s 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?