The Scarlet Spy
Andrea Pickens
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
The Dish
Copyright
For Frances Jalet-Miller
With many thanks for all your
thoughtful insights and comments.
You really helped the Merlins take wing!
Chapter One
Candlelight kissed the cut crystal, the fire-gold sparks dancing in time to the Viennese waltz. The whisper of silk swirled with the scent of roses and jasmine. A lady’s laugh, light and lush as the pearls at her throat, twined with the trilling notes of the violins.
“Place your hand a bit lower.” Her partner, a dark-haired gentleman with angelic eyes and the devil’s own smile, slid her gloved fingers to his hip. “Si, si. Now, if only I could ask you to dip into my trousers, bella.”
She stifled a laugh as the spinning steps of the dance drew them closer. “Naughty man. I—”
“Non, non, NON!” The dancing master rapped his ebony stick against the pianoforte. “That was clumsy as an ox—I saw your hand slip into his coat pocket.”
“Sorry.” The student known only as Sofia ducked her head in contrition.
“Try again.” Thwack. “And you, Marco, stop distracting her with your lovemaking.”
“Ah, but I cannot help it.” Marco’s lips twitched. “We Italians have a weakness for heavenly beauty, and signorina is a work of art, an ethereal Venus in velvet. Botticelli himself could not—”
Another sharp smack cut off the florid reply. “If you can’t keep your lively appreciation from straying to Sofia’s arse, you will be spending the rest of the class time scrubbing the stables.”
“These hands were not made for mucking manure,” he murmured with a waggle of his well-shaped brow.
“Zees class is not a joke, Monsieur Musto! Sofia must master not only the nuances of ballroom etiquette, but also the fine points of picking a gentleman’s pocket. The success of a mission may depend on it.”
“It’s my fault, Monsieur Lemieux.” Sofia spoke up quickly. “I fear I’m far more comfortable dressed in buckskins and boots than satin and slippers. And my grip is far more used to taking hold of a sword than a sliver of gold.”
“Would that you’d take hold of my sword, bella,” whispered Marco.
“Put a cork in it.” She punctuated the warning with a discreet kick to his shin. “You’re going to land us both in deep suds.”
Marco composed his expression to a semblance of seriousness. “Prego, bella. I don’t want you to suffer for my sins.”
“Which Lord knows are legion,” she muttered as the music struck up again. “Do try to behave, Marco. A black mark on my record is no laughing matter. I can’t chance a failing grade.”
Discipline. Duty. Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Select Young Ladies held its students to a higher standard than most schools. But then, its mission was not to polish the highborn daughters of the ton into Diamonds of the First Water. Rather, it was to mold a ragtag group of orphans—all handpicked from the slums of London for their courage and cleverness—into a secret force of women warriors. Dancing and drawing room manners were part of the curriculum. But so were fencing, shooting, and riding—not to mention the more esoteric arts of war and seduction. And the lessons learned within its classrooms could mean the difference between life and death.
“Attendez-vous, musicians. The violins and cellos will begin at the last stanza.”
Sofia forced herself to relax. The subtle sleight of hand depended on perfect timing. A twirl, a spin …
This time around, her fingers slipped in and out of Marco’s coat without stirring a thread. As the melody rose to a final crescendo, she held the gold pocketwatch aloft.
The dancing instructor—a former jewel thief whose exploits had been the toast of Paris until the Terror cut short his career—gave a grudging nod of approval. “Better. But there is still room for improvement.”
“That is all we have time for today.” Mrs. Merlin, the elderly headmistress of the Academy, rose from her chair. “However, I’ve scheduled a double session for tomorrow. It’s even more important that a document or letter can be removed from a gentleman’s coat without anyone being the wiser.” Dressed in dove-gray silks that matched the silvery hue of her hair, she looked frail as a feather in the swaying shadows of the potted palms. But the glint from behind her spectacles was still sharp as steel as she surveyed the school ballroom.
Sofia slanted a look around as well. From its polished parquet dance floor to its ornate Adam ceiling, every detail was designed to replicate the splendor of a Mayfair mansion. The headmistress was a firm believer in having her students practice their skills under real-life conditions. Were a rose petal or a velvet swag out of place, it would not escape the lady’s eye.
Seemingly satisfied, Mrs. Merlin’s gaze turned from the decorative urns flanking the entrance. “It appears you are making good progress, Sofia. You may take a short recess before your next class.”
Good. But was it good enough? Sofia bit back a sigh.
“I’ve ordered refreshments to be served. Do sample the champagne. You ought to become familiar with its taste and how it affects your head.” As the headmistress stepped away to confer with the dancing master, a servant approached with a tray of drinks.
“I must say, I am having a hard time deciding which is my favorite extracurricular activity—dancing or art.” Giovanni Marco Musto’s official duties at the Academy were to serve as assistant riding and fencing instructor. However, the mercenary from Milan—who preferred “Marco” to his other moniker—was often called upon to serve as a model for the advanced drawing class, a position he enjoyed with shameless delight, seeing as it called for posing in the nude. With his dark eyes, sensual mouth, and sable locks that curled in Renaissance ringlets around his collar, he was a picture of masculine beauty.
And well he knew it.
“I would rather be practicing my skills with a saber,” muttered Sofia under her breath.
“Si?” Marco cocked his head. “But you have a natural knack for more subtle forms of attack.”
“I’ve had enough practice.” She forced a sardonic smile, though the memory of her early life was not something she cared to recall. “Stealing is one of the basic skills for survival when you are living on the streets. You don’t last very long if you aren’t good at it.”
Despite his exaggerated preening and ribald banter, he was sensitive enough not to miss the tautness in her voice. “There is nothing shameful about staying alive, bella,” he replied softly. “And Signora Merlin obviously feels those early lessons can be put to good use.”
“I would rather be working on more martial skills.”
“All work and no play makes for a dull existence, bella.” His swagger returning in the blink of an eye, Marco thrust a glass of champagne into her hands and drew her to the far corner of the ballroom. “Come, let us drink up. After all, part of your education in the ways of Polite Society is to learn an appr
eciation for fine wine.”
“I can’t help but wonder why all this is a necessary part of my training. Merlins are meant to fight.” Sofia waited until she was sheltered behind one of the marble columns before making a face. “Blades and bullets are far more important subjects to master.”
“Beauty can also be a deadly weapon.” The Italian grinned as he raised the crystal coupe to his lips. “Indeed, its effect on men can be lethal.”
“I’m not looking to slay hearts,” she replied somewhat snappishly. Marco’s teasing was usually amusing. But of late, her mood had been a bit blue deviled, though she couldn’t put a finger on why. Save for the small stumble on the dance floor, she was earning top honors in all of her other studies. And yet, loath though she was to admit it, the daily routine had grown a bit dull. “Unlike you, I try to think of more than pleasuring my flesh.”
“Well, your thoughts do not appear to be making you very happy. If you would come to my bed tonight, I would tease that scowl into a smile.”
Sofia laughed in spite of herself.
“Va bene—that’s better.” He cocked his head. “Is something bothering you, bella?”
“No,” she lied. “It’s just that Siena and Shannon never had to polish their ballroom skills to this extent.”
She looked away and smoothed at her skirts, trying not to think too much of her former roommates. The three of them had become as close as sisters during their years at the Academy. Shared adversity was perhaps a more binding tie than blood. They had all managed to survive the savage slums without family, without friends. Without names. On first entering the Academy, all students were placed before an ornate globe, and as it spun, they chose a moniker from the swirl of gold lettering. A new name for a new life. Siena. Shannon. Sofia.
And now, suddenly, her comrades were gone. Within the last eight months, they had both been given difficult, dangerous assignments. Not only had they passed with flying colors, but they also had moved on to new lives and new responsibilities in the world outside the Academy walls.
Leaving her as the only one of the tight-knit trio who had not been called upon to test her wings in a real mission.
Sofia fought down a stab of self-pity. She could not help feeling a little lonely, a little lost. Of the three friends, she had always been the voice of reason and restraint, reining in her more reckless roommates to keep them out of disciplinary trouble. Did her superiors think she lacked the mettle to be a Merlin?
Seeing Marco’s eyes narrow in concern, she quickly swallowed her doubts with a tiny sip of champagne. “Their victories depended on swashbuckling feats of daring, rather than picking a gentleman’s pocket while dancing a waltz,” she went on. “My swordplay may not be quite as sharp as theirs, but my riding and shooting skills are bang up to the mark. I daresay I can hold my own in a fight against any opponent.” A hint of heat, at odds with her usual cool composure, crept into her voice. “Yet of late, it seems I’ve been relegated to nothing but drawing room duties.”
“Each Merlin is called upon to undertake a different sort of mission, Sofia.” As if by magic, the Marquess of Lynsley appeared in one of the archways of the alcoves. Dressed in somber shades of charcoal and gray, he was nearly invisible in the darkness—a choice that was no doubt deliberate, for the marquess spent much of his time in the world of shadows.
“One that is matched to her unique talents,” he continued. “Not every enemy can be fought with steel or gunpowder. You have a natural grace and elegance, which are far harder to learn than fencing or marksmanship. Such qualities will allow you to move within the highest circles of Society without drawing undue attention.”
She felt her heart flutter. “Does that mean you have something specific in mind, sir?” Not only was Lord Lynsley the founding father and leading benefactor of the Academy, but he was also the commander in chief of the elite force of women warriors who trained within its walls. It was he who personally picked each child and offered her a place at the school. And it was he who decided which member of the Master Class was ready to fight against England’s enemies.
“Perhaps.” It was hard to read his face in the flickering light. “Much as I enjoy Mrs. Merlin’s excellent strawberry tarts, I did not journey here from London simply for tea and cakes.”
“Must you leave so soon, my dear, delightful Devil?” Lord Deverill Osborne untangled his legs from the satin sheets and sat up. Squinting, he tried to bring the hazy shapes on the gilt dressing table into focus. Was that a third bottle of brandy? Or merely a crystal flask of Collette’s expensive French perfume? Judging by the overlush scent clinging to both the bedclothes and his person, it was likely to be as empty as the glass of spirits that had fallen to the carpet.
“It’s past noon.” His gaze had cleared enough to make out the hands on the ormolu clock.
“Then stay until the morrow. Think of all the sinful things we can do before the next dawn.” The courtesan lowered her voice to a smoky murmur. “Have you any idea how many naughty ways there are to use an ostrich plume?”
“I’ve no doubt a ladybird of your talent can exercise a great deal of creativity.” He laughed softly as her fingers glided over his cock. Like the rest of her, they were supple, shapely, sensuous … and a little too grasping of late. “But I fear I have quite exhausted my own capacity for pleasure, sweeting.”
“With a little rest and a little champagne, I am sure I can coax a little more life into you.”
“I’ve had enough to drink.” Osborne tugged his shirt out from beneath the rumpled counterpane. His trousers had suffered a similar fate. “In any case, I must go. I am engaged to meet Lord Harkness at Tattersall’s, and it looks as if I will have to make a stop at my town house for a change of clothing.” He drew in a deep breath. And a bath.
“Will you return tonight?”
He shook his head. “Sorry, but I promised to attend Lady Haverton’s ball.”
His cher amie’s lips pursed to a pout. “I don’t intend to be a ladybird forever, Deverill. Marriage would make me a respectable lady, and then I could accompany you to the glittering ballrooms of Mayfair.” In the sliver of sunlight coming through the draperies, her eyes took on a mercenary gleam. “Just think of it—we could drink and dance until dawn, and you could awake every afternoon with me by your side.”
Marriage?
He repressed a shudder. It was time to think of giving La Belle Collette her congé. She had lasted longer than most of his mistresses. Perhaps because it had seemed too great an effort to look for a replacement.
“Come, sweeting, you are a woman of the world.” He found his shoes under the bed and slipped them on. “Let us be frank. Our arrangement is one of mutual convenience. It will not culminate in a walk down the aisle of St. George’s on Hanover Square.”
“But you find me tres amusing, non?”
“No. Not when you start to sound like a shrew.” He looped his limp cravat over his collar, somehow feeling as if a noose were tightening around his neck. The air was suddenly cloying, and his head was beginning to ache abominably. “Wheedling and whining does not become you.”
“Why, you ungrateful, uncaring man! After all I’ve done to please you—how dare you accuse me of wheedling!” Her voice was now more of a screech than a whine.
Osborne had heard quite enough. He turned to retrieve his coat, ducking just in time to avoid the Sevres figurine she hurled at his head. Picking his way through the shards of porcelain, he paused just long enough to toss a fistful of banknotes onto her dressing table.
“Choose a parting gift at Rundell and James,” he said quietly before shutting the door on a string of French invectives.
Lud, the ladybird’s language would put a bloody pirate to blush. She was no longer speaking of what she would do with a feather. The muffled shrieks were more of a blow-by-blow description of how she would sauté his testicles in garlic and olive oil.
He supposed he should count himself fortunate to have escaped with his limbs, if not his
dignity, intact. Running a hand through his tangled hair, he sighed and finished tucking in his shirttails. In the past, he would have found the scene highly diverting. Now it was merely … depressing.
Stepping out to the street, Osborne flagged down a passing hackney and settled back against the squabs for the ride back to Grosvenor Square. He was weary to the bone, and not just from a night of torrid sex. The truth was, his rakish life was becoming tiresome. Was he growing old? Or merely jaded? Everything seemed to come easily to him.
Too easily, perhaps. He feared he was in danger of becoming careless, contemptuous of everything around him. It was hard to value the things that required little effort to possess. Osborne sighed. Having breezed through his studies at Oxford with the highest academic honors, he ought to be smart enough to figure out the cause of his malaise. But somehow it defied all logic. By any rational measure, he had everything a man could want. Yet something essential seemed missing.
Catching a glimpse of himself in the windowpane, he stared for a moment at the smudged glass. Fair hair, blue eyes, classically chiseled features that many ladies were wont to describe as angelic. He knew he was a great favorite of the ton, a sought-after guest at any entertainment. His face was considered highly attractive, his conversation highly amusing, and his manner highly engaging, to both men and women alike. Such qualities, coupled with a perfect pedigree, opened any door in Polite Society.
Handsome. Witty. Charming. Whispering the words aloud left a stale taste in his mouth. It all sounded so shallow. Skin deep, rather than having any real substance.
The vision suddenly dissolved in the pelter of a passing rain shower. What was the true reflection of who he was?
Closing his eyes, Osborne pressed his fingertips to his temples and thought about how he was spending his time. At the moment, the few hours a week that he spent reviewing military documents for Army Intelligence was the most rewarding part of his life. The challenge kept boredom at bay. Perhaps his friend on Burrand’s general staff could be persuaded to give him more work.
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