Nathan Kent said, clasping his hands behind his bottle green coat as he and Sinclair ambled back toward their ladies through the other shoppers thronging Bond Street. Sinclair would hardly have called his relationship with Ariadne easy. Interesting, exhilarating, challenging, certainly. But he couldn’t exactly complain about his family issues or their investigation of the French spy to the Duke of Rottenford’s personal secretary, however wise Nathan was rumored to be. So he turned the comment around instead. “Your betrothal can hardly be called difficult. Half the fellows in London would kill to be in your position, or so I’ve heard.” Nathan glanced ahead to where Priscilla was paused before the window of a jeweler’s, the golden curls escaping her bonnet to catch the summer sun. “I am to be envied above all men. I merely meant that of Priscilla and her friends, your betrothal is most likely to meet with the approval of the ton. Cropper’s mother may have been aristocracy, but the fact that his father never acknowledged him makes it difficult for him to be received.
