Sinclair nodded his thanks to his coachman as he walked back to the door. What a waste of time! The hackney had been empty, its driver blathering on about mysterious riders who disappeared along the way after paying in gold. The fellow only knew he was to follow Sinclair’s coach until it reached its destination. Sinclair was no closer to guessing his quarry’s identity, and he still had to get Ariadne safely home without incurring her parents’ wrath.
He opened the door and climbed inside, and she launched herself at him.
“Oh, it was horrid, hideous!” she cried, clinging to him.
Sinclair put his arms around her, held her close, breathing in the scent of honeysuckle. Her curves nestled nicely against him. The silk of her cheek against his was softer than fine muslin.
“Now, then,” he murmured. “It’s all right. I’m back. No one shall harm you.”
She pulled away, lamplight from outside sparkling on the tears trickling down her cheek. “That’s not the issue. He was here, in this coach, offering danger.”
He stared at her. “You saw him?”
“Saw him, spoke to him,” she insisted, head bobbing so hard some of her hair tumbled down to brush her shoulders. “It was positively terrifying.”
Sinclair grabbed the door handle once more and leaped from the coach, pausing to glance back at Ariadne, who had pushed herself into her seat. “Which way did he go?” he demanded.
She waved a trembling hand. “Left? Right? Who knows in the dark? Besides, it’s too late now. You’ll never catch him.”
Again. Disappointment bit sharply as he climbed back into the coach. She drew in a shuddering breath, and the terror inside her seemed to reach out to him and draw him closer. He sat down beside her, put an arm about her shoulders and let her head rest against his shoulder.
“At least he didn’t hurt you,” he murmured, thankfulness welling up inside.
She shook her head, and his heart sank. “What he did was far worse,” she said. “He issued a generic warning!”
Now Sinclair shook his head, certain he’d misheard. “What?”
She sat back from him as if intent on making him see her case. “He issued vile threats with no substance behind them, and when I demanded details, he said he’d wring Daphne’s neck. Oh, but he must be stopped!”
He quite agreed, but he still felt as if he’d come into a play in mid-act and had no idea of the plot. “Perhaps you should tell me exactly what happened.”
She squared her shoulders. “No time. We must meet with Lord Hastings immediately.”
Something cold slid over him. How did she know? Was she a member of Lord Hastings’s cadre as well, or had Sinclair given her some clue that would allow her to guess the name of their leader? He refused to believe she was anything other than innocent.
Careful to betray none of his feelings, Sinclair eyed her. “Lord Hastings? Do you mean the Marquis of Hastings? What has he to do with all this?”
She threw up her hands. “Apparently he is your employer.”
Still, he refused to react. “What would make you think that?”
“Because the villain claimed it! Oh, please hurry. Who knows what he’s planning? I won’t have my sister harmed. She isn’t even part of the story!”
He reached out and took her hands in his. “Don’t worry, Ariadne. I’ll keep her safe.”
“How?” she demanded. “You couldn’t even catch him in his carriage.”
He released her hands and sat back. She was right, of course. He’d thought he’d had the fellow cornered at the Rottenford masquerade, but the spy had escaped discovery. He’d caught sight of the fellow when the fiend had fired in Hyde Park and given chase, but his quarry had disappeared. Sinclair had been within yards of him just now and missed him completely. Some intelligence agent he made.
His feelings must have betrayed him, for she quieted. “Forgive me. I never meant to disparage your skills.”
“Such as they are,” he replied. “Pardon me a moment.” He opened the window and instructed Butters to take them back to the Rollings’s town house.
“I’m sure you’re an excellent intelligence agent,” she insisted as he settled back in his seat across from her. “You’ve proven quite resourceful.”
“Not resourceful enough.” He rubbed his hands along his coat. “I didn’t intend to be an agent. I wanted to go to Spain, fight alongside Wellington. Many of my friends from school went. Father refused to jeopardize his heir.”
“Understandable,” she commiserated as the coach set off once more. “I imagine some tight-fisted distant cousin with horrible taste would inherit if something happened to you.”
He smiled at the picture. “Actually, Cousin Leonard is a very nice fellow who endows the Royal Society for the Arts generously. He was eagerly anticipating the title until I came along.”
“So denied the right to join the Hussars, you became an intelligence agent instead?”
The way she said it made his decision sound wildly romantic. He had to admit it felt that way some times.
“I needed to do something,” he explained. “Some of my friends never came back, you see, or came back battered, broken. It didn’t seem right that I was allowed to stay home, dance the night away, while they risked their lives and futures. I must have complained about the situation to the right person, because my superior sought me out.”
“Lord Hastings,” she surmised.
Not much use denying it now. “Lord Hastings. He is aware of the need for intelligence to help win this war, and he realized that a great deal of intrigue is masked by Society’s polite façade.”
“Very nicely said,” she replied. “I wish I had my journal with me to record that sentiment.”
For some reason, her statement eased the disappointment of the last few minutes. “Now that’s the Ariadne I know and admire,” he said. “I take it you’re feeling better.”
“I was only rattled,” she promised. “But I still wish to meet Lord Hastings.”
Sinclair shook his head. “Out of the question. For one thing, it’s difficult to know where he’ll be at any given moment.”
“He is a marquis,” she said. “Surely he must meet with his man of affairs, attend Parliament, eat dinner with family.”
“Most likely, but I have no knowledge of his staff, I am not a member of Parliament just yet, and his only son is a greater profligate than I am, so I doubt they spend many dinners together.”
She sighed. “You are far too busy with important matters to qualify as a profligate. Lord Hastings must have some place he accepts reports from his agents. Take me there.”
“I don’t think that’s wise,” he started, and she slumped in her seat.
“I see,” she said, and he was afraid to hear just what that clever mind had gleaned from his demeanor and conversation this time. “Is it that you are afraid to acknowledge me as your betrothed? Is that why we had to meet your father at night? Am I such an ape leader?”
He’d heard the term applied to confirmed spinsters with faces like horses. “Certainly not!” he declared, stiffening. “I can honestly say you’re one of the loveliest young ladies out this Season. And I doubt there’s one more intelligent. No, we met my father at night because he tends to sleep most of the day.”
She seemed to accept that. “Then why not allow me to meet Lord Hastings?”
Was he being overly cautious? Or did some part of him want to keep the excitement of spying to himself? Neither furthered his cause. Hastings could surely keep her safe even if Sinclair could not.
“All right,” he agreed, and she gave a little squeal of delight. He held up his hand. “But not tonight. I’ll call on you at eleven and take you to him.”
“Promise?” she challenged.
“Promise,” he said.
He only prayed it was a promise he would live to keep.