“Doomed,” Ariadne intoned as Sinclair sat across from her in his carriage. “My plans for being an intelligence agent, my dreams of a Season, gone! Oh, a pox on those patronesses!”
Sinclair wasn’t sure whether to sympathize or thank God. He knew all too well the heady feeling of being chosen to join Lord Hastings’s cadre, of thinking himself of use at last. He hated to deny her that joy. But the idea of watching her put herself in harm’s way knotted his stomach.
That’s why he’d lashed out at her in Whitehall. She seemed to see the world as if everyone was an actor on a stage. The world, he knew to his sorrow, was far more unpredictable. Look at how so many of his friends were already gone. Look at how his mother had died so young of the influenza. Look at how his father had declined, the way he’d lashed out at Sinclair’s grandparents. If Ariadne joined the cadre and was hurt, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. He didn’t want to lose her too.
“Perhaps it’s for the best,” he said. “You have enough on your hands with the Season and your literary hopes.”
She shook her head, and a bit of the veil, which was still on top of her hat, slipped down over her forehead. “Our engagement has made the Season moot in any event. Mother won’t push me to find a husband when she thinks I already have one. And I’ve already told the publisher the second volume will be late.”
He had thought she only had hopes of publishing one day. He should have known she’d already accomplished it. He’d heard tales of some popular novels written “by a lady.” Was he looking at the author of Pride and Prejudice?
“The publisher?” he said with feigned nonchalance. “Then you are writing one of your romantic novels.”
She blanched. “No, I, well, not exactly.”
Good Lord, what was she writing? Something told him he would not like the answer to his question. He couldn’t stop himself nonetheless. “Ariadne, you must know that the exploits of Lord Hastings and his men are not for public consumption.”
She beamed. “Excellent turn of phrase.”
Why did he feel like preening? “Glad you approve. But I want your word that you will not write about what you know of Lord Hastings or his cadre.”
She raised her hand. “I solemnly swear. May my last quill snap in two if I so much as consider writing about any of this.” She lowered her hand with a giggle. “Though it would make a marvelous story.”
Just what he’d feared. “This isn’t a story! You cannot dictate the outcome.”
Her smile faded. “And am unlikely to even participate in it at this rate. Oh, I wish I knew a way to get my hands on a voucher!”
It was obvious the matter concerned her, and for more reason than that she hoped to identify this French spy to him and Lord Hastings. He understood a little why. His friend Wallingford’s sister had once been denied vouchers, and the poor girl and her mother had gone into a decline.
“No chance of a decent marriage now,” Wally had confided in Sinclair. “Some of the high sticklers won’t even receive her.”
Ariadne wouldn’t have that problem so long as people thought her engaged to Sinclair, but once their false betrothal was ended, she could well struggle to remain a viable part of high society if she wasn’t allowed into Almack’s.
“Perhaps simply request a voucher?” he suggested.
She eyed him. “You have clearly never been initiated in the ways of Almack’s, sir. My mother submitted a request for herself and her daughters before we ever reached London. Besides, a lady patroness does not grant vouchers to anyone who she has not called on personally.”
“So invite one to call,” he said, wondering why the matter had to be so difficult. It wasn’t as if she were trying to smuggle secrets to Wellington behind enemy lines.
“The Countess Lieven has already called,” she informed him. “And questioned Daphne and me at great length. Vouchers arrived shortly after. For my mother and Daphne.”
Oh. Well, that did make the matter trickier. “Perhaps she thought you were too young.”
“Of Daphne and I, which of us appears the most mature?” she challenged.
Her, certainly. Her sister was far too exuberant, likely to fly off on odd tangents. Yet somehow he felt any answer would disappoint Ariadne.
“So, what will you do?” he asked.
She twitched her mouth back and forth, the movement drawing his attention to her lips. They were the prettiest shade of pink, and he knew from experience that they felt softer than her cheek. He had to force his gaze to meet hers.
“I fear I must appeal to an expert on such matters,” she said with great resolution.
“Your mother,” he guessed.
Now she wrinkled her nose. “Certainly not. My mother may be well respected in Society, but sometimes I think she has no idea how things are really done. No, I need someone of sophistication, of undeniable cunning. Take me to Priscilla.”
*
Ariadne was not surprised to learn Priscilla was not at home. It was the Season after all. They managed to track her down on Bond Street, coming out of a haberdashery on the arm of her betrothed, Nathan Kent.
“Lord Hawksbury,” he greeted, remarkably fine gray eyes shining through his spectacles. “Miss Courdebas. What a pleasure.”
Priscilla’s curtsey was designed to honor a monarch and display her considerable curves to advantage in the frilly muslin gown. She was the one person Ariadne knew who actually made white muslin look good.
“My lord,” Priscilla said, fluttering golden lashes. She was fawning from habit. Priscilla was engaged, and so, for all Nathan knew, was Ariadne, to Sinclair.
Sinclair inclined his head in greeting to both of them, then looked to Ariadne to share their purpose. Should she broach the subject with Nathan watching? Like Sinclair, Priscilla’s betrothed was an upstanding young man. Ariadne wasn’t sure how he’d take Priscilla’s stragems in this instance.
Priscilla seemed to sense a problem, for she linked arms with Ariadne. “Walk with us,” she said. “I’m sure Nathan and Lord Hawksbury will find something fascinating to discuss.” Her look back to Nathan was pointed.
Nathan chuckled. “I know when we’re not wanted, Hawksbury. Come with me to Ackermann’s. They have some excellent caricatures on display, guaranteed to amuse.”
Sinclair’s gaze remained on Ariadne, so she gave him a quick nod. He turned and left with Nathan.
Priscilla led her along the row of shops, where everything from multitiered wedding cakes to bright bolts of satin were on display. “Quickly,” Priscilla said. “They won’t be able to leave us alone along. What do you need?”
“Vouchers,” Ariadne answered, twitching aside her walking dress from a puddle on the pavement. “By next Wednesday.”
Priscilla tapped one finger to her perfectly shaped lips. “Not enough time to blackmail a patroness, and I suppose putting an acquaintance in a compromising position is also out of the question.” She cast Ariadne a look, green eyes tilted up like a cat’s.
Ariadne shook her head. “I fear so.”
“Hmm.” She stopped in front of a shop where feathered hats sat on plump velvet pillows like pampered parrots. “Then you’ll simply have to do something to impress them.”
Her bones positively wilted at the thought. “That approach has not proven effective.”
“That’s because you haven’t made an effort,” Priscilla informed her, turning to face her.
Ariadne raised her chin, then took a step back as a mother and daughters exited the shop, followed by a footman armed with packages. “I most certainly have. Ask Mother. I’ve been polite when others would have railed; danced with every gentleman who asked even when he was rude, frog-faced, or flat-footed; and attended every at-home and generally listened more than I talked.”
Priscilla shook her head, the cabochon on her bonnet flashing in the sunlight. Only Ariadne and Priscilla’s parents knew the gem was paste.
“So has every young lady on the ton,” she insisted. “You have to rise above, show them you are worth their time, prove that you are remarkable.”
Ariadne sighed. “Even when I fear I’m not?”
Priscilla’s look softened. “You are, you know. There isn’t a girl in London who can match you for intellect.”
Ariadne cast her a grateful smile. “Thank you. But I doubt that will dazzle the patronesses.”
“Perhaps not, but they do enjoy wit,” Priscilla suggested.
Through the glass, Ariadne could see a clerk gazing at them. He began waving his arms as if to draw their attention to the various wares so beautifully displayed. So as not to give him false hope, she turned and led Priscilla forward.
“I enjoy wit as well,” she told her friend as they wended through the growing crowds of shoppers. “I simply tend to think of the witty thing to say after the conversation is over.”
Priscilla stopped in front of a jeweler’s, gazing longingly at a tiara shining in the window. “There is another way,” she murmured. “Though it will take all your courage and cunning.”
Neither of which she could rely on. “What do you advise?”
She turned to meet Ariadne’s gaze. “All the patronesses pride themselves on knowing everything about Society. Lady Jersey in particular thrives on gossip. Her sobriquet is Silence, because she is so rarely that.”
“I’m not much of a gossip,” Ariadne protested. “It is an abhorrent practice that too often is rife with untruths and misconjectures.”
“Precisely,” Priscilla agreed. “But you do know a perfectly true secret or two.”
Ariadne started shaking her head, but Priscilla caught her arm.
“Listen to me! If you truly want vouchers, Ariadne, there is only one thing for it.”
Ariadne swallowed. “What?”
Priscilla’s face was hard. “You will have to lay bare your deepest, darkest secret and pray it doesn’t spread through the ton like wildfire.”