The Scarlet Spy

by Andrea Pickens

  “No! That is …” Sofia stammered as color rushed to her cheeks. “You are hardly in your dotage, sir. Marco says you still best all of our times on the equestrian obstacle course.”

  Lynsley chuckled. “He knows who pays his salary.”

  “It does not sound as if the rascal has need of the Academy’s money.”

  “Conte della Ghiradelli was under my strict orders to keep his identity a secret.”

  Sofia dropped her gaze. “I was not questioning your authority, sir. All of the Merlins know that our usefulness to our country depends on discretion and deception.”

  “Among other things,” he murmured.

  “But you were asking about Lord Osborne, not Lord Marco,” she went on quickly. “My comment only meant that he seems very attentive to ladies. I hope that will not prove a distraction from the duties you wish him to perform.”

  “Ah, you fear his amorous attention might interfere with our plans?” Lynsley laced his hands together and looked up at the ceiling rosette. “All my information indicates that Osborne makes a point of favoring everyone with his charms. He has assiduously avoided any serious involvement with a lady, so that should not be a problem.”

  Her blush grew warmer. “I was not implying that the gentleman would find me irresistible. It’s clear his flirtations are just a game. I …” She hesitated, unsure of what she meant to say. “I realize that I know nothing of Polite Society. So if you are satisfied that Osborne will do, I most certainly defer to your judgment, sir.”

  “It’s merely for a matter of a fortnight or so. You will soon be established in your own right. The ladies won’t welcome a new beauty to their ranks, but they will not dare withhold their invitations, fearing that another hostess will have you—and all the gentlemen under sixty—gracing her ballroom.” The marquess paused, his expression taking a more serious slant as he dropped his gaze from the decorative detailing. “Do not underestimate your own charms, Sofia. Men will find your beauty irresistible. And as a widow, you will be considered fair game. It will take a good deal of prowess to play along and turn their lust to your own advantage. The mission depends on your skill.”

  “The class in seduction came right before self-defense,” she quipped. “I can handle myself in a duel of wits or steel.”

  “If I did not sincerely believe that, you would not be here.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The marquess was right. She wasn’t going to need Osborne for very long. Which was probably for the best in light of her odd reaction to his presence. “Mrs. Merlin mentioned you might have a few more things to add to her explanations.”

  “Just one key element.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and slowly unrolled its folds. “This was found hidden in the binding of Lord Robert’s diary.”

  Sofia studied the details of the key and its distinctive scarlet poppy for several moments before speaking. “The goldwork and enameling look to have been crafted in Venice,” she said slowly, glad to discover that the long hours of art history classes could be put to practical use. “Have you any idea what it’s for?”

  “That’s part of your assignment, Sofia. I suspect it is part of a set, but it’s up to you to discover what it’s for and who else might possess similar ones.”

  She was beginning to understand why the marquess considered this such a difficult mission.

  The shadows beneath his eyes seemed deeper, darker than just a few days ago. “Having second thoughts?” he said softly.

  “Not at all, sir. A Merlin rises to any challenge.”

  Her bravado brought a ghost of a smile to his face. “I appreciate your courage, but be careful how you unfold your wings, Sofia. London is home to many dangerous predators.” Rising, he tucked the silk square back in his coat but handed her the key. “It might prove useful, so you keep it.”

  Its ornate teeth looked rather menacing against her palm.

  “After tonight, we will not be seen together in public. The Scarlet Knights must think the connection between us is a distant one at best. I won’t really be traveling, but neither will I be making any appearance in Society. You may send word to me through Rose when you have something substantive to report. Otherwise, you are on your own.”

  “Don’t worry, sir. If I have to probe every lock in London, I will discover what secrets this pretty poppy guards.”

  “Rotten Row? What a very odd name.”

  “It’s said to derive from the French Route de Roi, or King’s Road. King William III had the avenue built in 1690, in order to have a safe way to travel between St. James’s Palace and his new court at Kensington Palace.” Osborne shifted the reins of his phaeton to return a greeting from the dowager Duchess of Canfield and her party. “At night, it was lit by three hundred oil lamps—”

  “Osborne!” A wave of lace fluttered up from a quartet of ladies strolling beside the crush of carriages. “You must promise to attend my musicale. The tenor is from Milan and is said to have the voice of an angel. But as your taste in music is divine, I must of course hear your opinion.”

  “You may count on my presence, Lady Caroline.” He drew his team to a halt. “However, I imagine Contessa della Silveri, who has just this week arrived from the Continent, would have a more expert opinion on Italian singers. Allow me to introduce you and your friends.”

  The lady did not look overly enthusiastic at the prospect. Her smile froze, and she greeted Sofia with a chilly politeness and ice in her eyes. It took several more pointed hints before an invitation to the musicale was grudgingly given.

  As for Lady Caroline’s companions … Osborne allowed a harried inward chuckle. He did not know how females managed to defy the laws of physics by appearing to be looking down their noses when observing someone high above their heads.

  His gentlemen acquaintances showed a decidedly warmer response to the presence of a new face in the crowd. The high-perch phaeton was quickly surrounded by riders eager to get a closer glimpse of the features beneath the poke brim bonnet.

  “You seem to know a great many people, Lord Osborne,” said Sofia as the crowd of well-wishers finally thinned.

  “It may seem as if all of London takes a turn down this pathway, but in truth, the ton is a very small world.” He guided his team around a lumbering barouche. “Surely you must be acquainted with some people in Town.”

  “No, not a soul, save Lord Lynsley.”

  “The marquess mentioned your father was English. Will you not seek some contact with this family?”

  “No.” Her voice was clipped, cold.

  “The expatriate community in Rome is quite large, though. No doubt some friends of your parents would be delighted to hear you are in London.”

  “My parents did not socialize much.”

  Clearing his throat, Osborne tried another topic of conversation. “Your English is impeccable, Contessa. Lynsley mentioned having recommended the school you attended—it appears you were subject to a rigorous training in the language.”

  “The Academy’s curriculum demanded that its students become proficient in a number of disciplines.”

  “It sounds awfully strict.” He smiled, hoping to encourage her to relax a little.

  “Yes, it was,” she replied with rigid correctness.

  “All work and no play? And here I thought Eton was tough on its charges.” He gave a light laugh. “What was the name of this institution of learning?”

  “I am sure you have never heard of it, Lord Osborne.” Her tone signaled an end to the subject.

  Leaving off his questions, Osborne maneuvered through the crush of carriages and turned homeward, using the stretch of silence to regroup his thoughts. He was rarely at a loss for words, especially with women, but the contessa was proving devilishly difficult to converse with. Clearly her past was an uncomfortable subject.

  It was strange, but he sensed a tenseness to her that seemed more than mere shyness. Her gaze was wary, watchful of everything around her.

  There was definitely more to all t
his than met the eye.

  His sidelong glance lingered for a moment on her profile. Not that he minded the view. Lynsley’s description had not done the lady justice. She was not merely lovely—she was absolutely stunning. Raven-dark hair, thick and lustrous as polished ebony, curled around her face. Unlike English ladies, she had allowed the sun to color her complexion to a light tan. Unfashionable perhaps, but the effect was entrancing. The green of her eyes seemed even more intense, and the kiss of bronze seemed to make all her features come gloriously alive. The angled slant of her cheekbones, the pert tilt of her nose, the lushness of her lips—everything about her was sculpted in strong relief.

  Maybe too strong by conventional standards. Yet, next to Contessa Sofia Constanza Bigham della Silveri, the milk-and-water London beauties paled in comparison. Osborne felt his mouth quirk. He wouldn’t be at all surprised if tanned cheeks became all the rage for the coming season.

  Seeing that her eyes were intent on something up ahead, he reluctantly let his own gaze follow hers.

  “Are you interested in horses, Contessa?” he asked, noting that she was studying a sleek silver-gray stallion being put through his paces along the Serpentine. “Grafton’s mount is a splendid animal, is it not?”

  “Well-muscled, but there is a slight hitch to his gait.” She watched until horse and rider disappeared around the bend. “Are ladies allowed to ride in the park?”

  Ah, finally, a slight unbending of her spine. “In a manner of speaking. You are permitted a sedate walk, but a gallop is frowned upon.”

  Sofia looked slightly disappointed. “London Society certainly has a great many rules governing what a female can and cannot do. Still, it will be pleasant to get a bit of fresh air and exercise.”

  “Have you arranged for a saddle horse while you are here? I should be happy to have a look at Tattersall’s for you. Unfortunately, it is yet another rule that ladies are not allowed to attend the auctions. However, I am accorded to be a good judge of horseflesh. You have only to tell me what qualities you are looking for and I’ll find you a prime animal.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She resumed her expression of formal politeness. “That won’t be necessary. Lord Lynsley has already taken care of the matter.”

  “Then perhaps you would allow me to show you the best bridle paths. Some parts of the park are a bit rough for a lady.”

  “I tend to ride quite early, sir. As for the paths, I’ve ridden under far rougher conditions than these.”

  Damn, the lady seemed determined to keep him at a distance.

  Though his jaw tightened, Osborne maintained a smile in the face of the obvious rebuff. He was not so vain as to think that every female in Christendom was longing to throw herself at his feet. But nor did he expect to have his pleasantries hurled back in his face. Did she think him naught but a flirt and a fribble?

  Fisting the reins, he silently guided his team through several tight turns. It was only when the Stanhope Gate came into view that he spoke. “Is there a reason you have taken a dislike to me, Contessa?”

  He saw a flare of emotion in her eyes before she looked away. “I fear, sir, that you misunderstand my English.”

  Both in word and inflection, her English was perfectly clear. It was her motives that were cause for question.

  “Please forgive me if I have given you the wrong impression,” she continued. “Lord Lynsley and I are extremely grateful for your willingness to introduce a complete stranger into your circle of friends. I should be greatly upset if you should think otherwise.”

  It was a handsome apology, and yet her spine remained stiff, her gaze guarded.

  “It is I who must apologize for distressing you,” he said softly. “The last thing I shall say on the subject is that if I have unwittingly offended you, I hope you will allow me to make amends.”

  After an awkward silence, Sofia asked him to identify several of the buildings along Half Moon Street. The rest of the ride passed in pleasantries; however, as he helped her down from the high perch, Osborne sensed she was anxious to escape his presence.

  Lud, he didn’t have the plague or a paunch. His irritation increased as he watched her hurry up the marble steps and let the door fall closed without a backward glance. Perhaps his feelings were still on edge from his recent mistakes, but the fact that a complete stranger had snubbed his offer of friendship piqued his pride.

  Still staring at the dark green portal, he flexed his gloved fingers. For whatever reason, Lady Sofia Constanza Bingham della Silveri had thrown down a gauntlet. Was he up to the challenge?

  The corners of his mouth curled. The duel would at least keep boredom at bay. It would be interesting to see which proved stronger—his reputed charm or her inexplicable disdain.

  Turning away, he walked back to his vehicle with a spring in his step. His friend Kirtland, a decorated veteran of the Peninsular War, had a name for such a confrontation.

  Mano a mano.

  He gave the horses a light flick of the whip.

  Mano a mano, he repeated to himself. Well, may the best man win.

  Chapter Five

  The scent of sweet perfumes and spicy colognes mingled with the smoke from the blazing torchieres flanking the front door. The evening was cool, but the heat inside the crowded entrance hall was already oppressive.

  Sofia looked around, taking care to mask her amazement over the sights, the sounds, the smells of her first London ball. She was now a fine lady, she reminded herself. No one must guess she was not at home in the sumptuous splendor of Mayfair’s mansions.

  A lady must always be in control of her emotions. For an instant, the echo of Mrs. Merlin’s words rose up over the trilling voices and velvety swoosh of the evening finery. She could feel the curious stares upon her as the marquess handed her cloak to one of the porters.

  From now on, she would have to do a much better job at hiding her feelings. That Lord Osborne had seen through her show of politeness so quickly was something of a shock. Given his golden looks and great popularity, she had assumed that he would be more interested in himself than anyone else. She would take greater care not to underestimate his powers of observation again.

  “A dreadful crush, is it not?” The marquess surveyed the line of guests trying to make their way up the curved stairway. “That is, of course, the highest accolade for any evening entertainment.”

  “A crush indeed.” Sofia swept her skirts from the paths of two young gentlemen, who nearly collided with each other as they turned to ogle her bosom. “Cabbage heads,” she said under her breath, watching them fuss with the voluminous folds of their cravats. “If their shirtpoints were any higher, they would be in danger of poking out their eyes.”

  “As you see, many of the ton are slaves to fashion,” said Lynsley dryly. “Take a moment to look around and familiarize yourself with the beau monde. Once we pass through the receiving line and enter the ballroom, things will begin moving quite fast.”

  “I will stay on my toes, sir.” She had not made mention of her pointed exchange with Osborne. She would give the marquess no further cause for complaint.

  “Just Lynsley,” he reminded her. “I am no longer your superior, merely a friend.”

  Yes, sir. Quelling the urge to snap a salute, Sofia assumed an air of nonchalance and began a slow survey of her surroundings.

  The vast stretch of black and white marble floor tiles were barely visible beneath the sea of ruffled silks and polished pumps. The effect was still impressive, as was the glossy white paneling, trimmed in a tone of deep claret. Several large gilt-framed portraits peered down in grim-faced silence at the milling guests. Judging by the starched white ruffs and richly embroidered velvet doublets, they had witnessed several centuries of frivolity without cracking a smile.

  Their old-fashioned sartorial splendor was more than matched by the feathered finery of the present day.

  Lud, were those really pink ostrich plumes crowning a billowing purple turban? Sofia stilled the flutter of her lips
as her gaze moved on. The ballgowns ranged from demure pastel confections to daring jewel tone designs that bared a goodly amount of flesh. Highlighting the soft shimmer of the fabrics was the hard-edged sparkle of gold and precious stones. Lace fichus, gold-threaded overskirts, fringed shawls, painted fans … Sofia felt her head spinning at the flamboyant show of au courant styles.

  The gentlemen were strutting around like peacocks as well. Though some were, like Lynsley, dressed in stark black and white, there was plenty of colorful plumage to be seen. Her eye lingered on a swallowtail coat of canary yellow pressed shoulder to shoulder with a sky-blue wasp-waisted jacket. Even more colorful were the waistcoats, which came in a dizzying assortment of stripes and patterns. The accessories were no less extravagant. Brass buttons the size of saucers festooned the superfine wool, ruby stickpins held knotted cravats in place, and the thick gold watchchains hung heavy with ornate fobs.

  Privilege, power, pedigree. Wealth had a language of its own.

  “If you are ready, my dear, I think we can begin making our way up to greet our hostess.” Lynsley’s words roused her from her study.

  “Yes, of course.”

  The line snaking up the ornately carved staircase did not appear to have thinned much, but Sofia followed Lynsley’s lead. She felt the brush of wool against her bare arms and heard whispers stir behind her back. Lifting her chin, she pretended to take no notice.

  She was an actress playing a role, she reminded herself. Now that the curtain had risen and she had stepped onto the grand stage, she must get used to being the subject of scrutiny.

  As they made the last turn to the upper floor, the light from the massive chandelier seemed to take on an even more glittering intensity.

  “My dear Thomas! To what do we owe this rare honor? It isn’t often that we can coax you out of the warrens of Whitehall.”

  “To the daughter of an old friend, Sally. Allow me to introduce Lady Sofia della Silveri—”

  “Ah, yes, I’ve heard all about the contessa.” Lady Jersey waggled a plump finger. “You’ve stirred up quite a gaggle of gossip, my dear, by convincing the devilishly handsome Lord Osborne to ask you to ride in his phaeton.” The countess lowered her voice, though to Sofia it still sounded like a stentorian shout. “Caro Culverton has been trying for years to wheedle her way to such lofty heights. But Osborne is known for never sharing the seat of that particular vehicle. You must tell me what hold you have over the man.”