The Scarlet Spy

by Andrea Pickens

  “No, but they will both be at the Theatre Royal tomorrow evening. I will introduce you.”

  She frowned slightly. “Lord Osborne has accepted an invitation to a musicale.”

  “Cry off.” Marco flashed a grin. “It is a lady’s prerogative.”

  “Yes, of course.” The man already thought her cold and unfeeling. The rudeness would not surprise him.

  “The two gentlemen are from noble families that have powerful interests in banking,” her friend went on. “Sforza is also involved in trade with Constantinople.”

  “I see,” she replied, though at the moment, she had not a clue as to how the connections tied in with Lord Lynsley’s information. But that was her job—to discover if there was indeed a web of intrigue spreading out from the heart of London.

  Sofia repressed a shiver, aware of goose bumps prickling like dagger points along her bare arms.

  “Shall we go back in?”

  “Yes—no.” Turning, she caught a glimpse of Adam De Winton and his fellow Knight Charles Lexington at the far end of the terrace. The two men were lounging in the shadows of a massive stone urn, savoring a smoke and their snifters of brandy.

  Tired of all the waiting, she made a quick decision. “I have an idea. Let us show De Winton that I am a real scarlet lady.”

  Marco followed her lead along the railing. “What do you have in mind, bella?”

  Sofia waited until they were close to the urn before drawing his hand to her waist and whispering, “Kiss me.”

  Marco did not need any further encouragement. Spinning with a low laugh, he pressed her back up against the weathered stone and brought his lips down upon hers.

  “Naughty man,” she scolded, after allowing the lush kiss to go on for a lengthy interlude. “I ought to slap you.” However, she took care not to sound the least outraged.

  “Si, but I can’t resist your charms, cara. It’s been far too long since we have had the chance to be together.”

  “Ssshhhhh. You will ruin my reputation.”

  “As what? A lady of straightlaced propriety?” Marco nuzzled her neck and gave a husky laugh. “We both know better.”

  “My dear Marco, unlike men, we ladies cannot afford to be too blatant in our behavior. I do not want to be shunned by Polite Society, so I must appear to play by the rules. At least in public.”

  “Ah, very well.” He exaggerated a sigh, then quirked his brows in silent question.

  Sofia gave a tiny nod. Enough. Now it was time to withdraw.

  The charade should tempt Adam De Winton into seeking a more intimate acquaintance.

  “Why the stormy face, Lord Sunshine?”

  “Stubble the chatter, Nick. Unless you wish to have your deadlights darkened.”

  “Really, Dev.” Harkness rolled his eyes. “You’ve had an awfully thin skin of late.”

  “Perhaps my patience has been worn thin by the company I’ve been keeping these days,” snapped Osborne.

  “I wouldn’t be complaining if I were you,” drawled his friend. “You are the envy of every gentleman in London between the ages of eight and eighty.”

  “Trust me, it has not been quite so edifying an assignment as everyone seems to think.”

  “Ah, you mean to say that for once you haven’t managed to charm a female out of her stockings—”

  “Nick …” warned Osborne.

  “Metaphorically speaking, of course,” replied Harkness. “I know you would never be so ungentlemanly as to discuss the luscious details.”

  “Let us drop the subject, if you please.”

  Harkness gave a shrug. “There doesn’t seem to be anything else interesting to talk about here. I’m heading on to White’s. Care to accompany me?”

  “Not tonight,” he answered brusquely. “I am obliged to stay with the lady until the end of the evening.”

  “She does not appear to be lacking in male companions to keep an eye on her,” quipped his friend.

  “Nevertheless, I promised Lynsley to serve as her escort.”

  Harkness finished his wine. “Suit yourself. But you really ought to save a night soon for a trip to Seven Dials. The Puff of Paradise is a most fascinating place. The Oriental motif is exotic—and so are the women within the private gaming rooms.” He lowered his voice. “Those serving the drinks are usually buck naked.”

  “Sounds interesting,” replied Osborne without much enthusiasm.

  “Lud, are you sure you aren’t ill? You don’t sound at all like your usual self.”

  His usual self?

  And what was that? wondered Osborne. A sunny but essentially superficial fellow? An amusing supper partner, but not someone to be taken seriously? Perhaps his irritation with the contessa’s character was due in part to his own dissatisfaction with himself.

  Her cold courtesy seemed to say that style was no substitute for substance. And while such scorn stung, he could not argue.

  “I am fine,” he replied. “Just a trifle tired of Polite Society.”

  “A night out in the stews would relieve the boredom. What say you to tomorrow?”

  Osborne shook his head. “I am engaged for a musicale. Maybe later in the week.”

  “You know the saying about all work and no play making for a very dull boy. Take care you do not lose your edge, Dev.”

  His life at the moment was not only dull but also depressing.

  As his friend walked away, Osborne turned for the terrace, hoping to soothe his sulky mood with one of his host’s spiced cheroots. The breeze had freshened, and its coolness ruffling through his hair was a welcome antidote to the stuffiness of the overcrowded ballroom. Seeking to avoid any company, he slipped behind a grouping of marble statuary—Lord Gervin was a noted collector of Greek antiquities—and found a secluded spot in the shadows.

  Muted laughter mingled with scented smoke as several more gentlemen stepped out for a break from the indoor festivities. Leaning back against the railing, Osborne lit the tip of his tobacco from one of the torchieres, glad that he was hidden from view. He drew in a mouthful of the pungent sweetness … and nearly choked on looking up.

  From his vantage point, he had a clear view across the boxwood plantings to the large Athenian urn on the other side of the terrace. The angle afforded not only a lovely view of the sculptural details, but also of the couple engaged in a passionate kiss.

  Damn.

  What the devil was the contessa thinking? A widow was permitted to have an affair, but only if she was very discreet about it. Lady Sofia ought to know better than to flaunt her preferences so shamelessly. It was almost as if she wished to be thought a trifle risque.

  The taste of the smoke suddenly bitter on his tongue, Osborne tossed down the unfinished cheroot and ground it out under his heel. Lynsley had asked him to be an escort, not a nursemaid. It was not his responsibility to lecture the lady on proper behavior. Besides, she had already shown how little stock she put in his advice.

  He glanced around, but no one else seemed to have witnessed her indiscretion. The lady had been lucky to escape without suffering any serious consequences. However, Luck was notoriously fickle. She might not be so fortunate next time.

  Chapter Seven

  Osborne added another splash of brandy to his glass. Yet neither the warmth of the spirits nor the banked fire in his bedchamber hearth had eased the tautness of his temper.

  “Absurd,” he growled aloud, smoothing the silk of his dressing gown against his bare skin. He had returned home over an hour ago, and yet here he was, acting like an adolescent schoolboy, mooning over a lady who could barely tolerate his presence. Was it the challenge that had him too restless to seek sleep? Her disdain was tantamount to a taunt.

  And he was vain enough to believe that his charm could disarm any female.

  Yet, so far, Sofia Constanza Bingham della Silveri had parried his pleasantries with ruthless ripostes. With cold steel.

  Damn. The recollection of her kissing the Italian sent a frisson of fire through his li
mbs.

  Shrugging off the silk, Osborne stalked to the window and pressed his brow and palms to the leaded panes. The patter of a passing rain seeped through the glass, cool against his naked flesh and tensed muscles. If only it could drown the devils in his head.

  “I’m a bloody, bloody fool,” he cursed, hoping to counter the seductive demon whispers concerning the arch of her neck, the curve of her breasts.

  If anything, the voices grew louder. He stared balefully at his growing erection. The sinful words were like pitchforks to his prick.

  He swore again, his breath misting the glass. Air—he suddenly needed to escape the stifling confines of his room, of his own overheated imagination. Dressing quickly, he grabbed up his boots and hurried for the back stairs.

  It was barely light as he eased open the doors of the mews and rode out toward the Cumberland Gate of Hyde Park. The snorts of his stallion formed puffs of vapor with every step, ghostly white against the rain-gray dawn. Fog hung heavy over the cobblestones, muffling the sounds of the waking city. He passed a drowsy scullery maid struggling with a coal scuttle and a costermonger wheeling his barrow through the puddles.

  At this early hour, the bridle paths should be deserted, he mused. The perfect time for a hell-for-leather gallop. Though as he shifted in the saddle, Osborne realized that riding was perhaps not the best activity at the moment. The feel of his stallion’s flexing muscles and sleek hide against his legs was an uncomfortable reminder that his discontent was as much physical as mental.

  He needed to find another mistress, and fast. Someone sultry and sexy enough to cause his mind and body to forget all about Lady Sofia.

  Spurring to an easy canter, Osborne slowly relaxed into the rhythm of the ride. The question was, who among the available ladies might suit his fancy. No old flame could hold a candle to the contessa. It would have to be someone new, someone unexpected—

  Through the mists and shadows, he suddenly spotted a ripple of motion up ahead. An instant later, the blur took shape as a stallion galloping at breakneck speed between the trees. Amidst the flailing hooves and flying clods of earth, a slim figure was just visible, crouched low and clinging to the saddle.

  “Bloody hell.” Osborne watched in horror as a boot kicked loose from the stirrup, and the rider tumbled toward the ground. But by some miracle, both feet hit the earth, and the lucky devil managed to bounce back up and gain a tenuous grip on the wet pommel.

  Despite the timely acrobatics, the young groom had clearly lost control of the horse and was in danger of being trampled. Osborne urged his own mount forward, ducking the overhanging branches as they gathered speed and raced along the narrow bridle path.

  Thundering through a break in the trees, Osborne’s big bay gained enough ground to pull abreast of the runaway stallion. Fisting his reins in one hand, he angled in closer—a dangerous move, for one tiny slip could break both of their necks.

  Just another inch or two … Daring a low lunge, Osborne grasped the runaway rider around the waist and yanked him to safety. But instead of holding a tearful lad, limp with relief, he found himself fighting a twisting and tossing of tensed muscle.

  “For God’s sake, stop squirming like an eel.”

  The boy had the ballocks to answer with an oath. Another kick grazed his horse’s flanks. The bay snorted and shied away, nearly unseating them both.

  “Bloody little bastard,” he growled, trying to control the ungrateful imp’s sharp elbows.

  In the tussle, the lad’s floppy cap came loose, revealing a tumble of raven tresses.

  “L-lady Sofia?” Osborne blinked, wondering whether he had taken complete leave of his senses. For unless he was crazy, it was the contessa in his arms, dressed as a boy in breeches and a moleskin jacket.

  “Yes, dammit. Now let me go,” she demanded.

  As he drew to a skittish halt, she wrenched free of his hold and dropped lightly to the turf. Turning without a word, she stalked away to snatch up the reins of her own mount.

  He slid down from the saddle and hurried after her. “Are you all right, milady?”

  “I am quite fine,” she snapped.

  “But …”

  “But what?” She whirled around, eyes ablaze, cheeks flushed, ringlets in wild disarray around her face.

  Osborne couldn’t tear his eyes away from her—and the curves set off by the snug buckskins.

  “Hell, you ride like a Hussar,” he said admiringly.

  “A fact I hope you will keep to yourself.” It was no longer merely anger but trepidation he saw on her face. “Prego, Lord Osborne,” she added after drawing a deep breath. “I beg you will not speak of this to anyone. I am aware that the rules governing a lady’s behavior are very strict here in England. Many people might consider me too … fast.”

  “Dangerously fast, Lady Sofia.” Osborne stepped closer. They were both still a bit breathless from the exertion, and he could feel the whisper of warmth cut through the damp mists swirling around them. Gentlemanly scruples demanded that he honor her request. But at the moment, a far more devilish desire seemed to overpower any notion of honor.

  “In our country, it is customary that one who asks a favor is willing to grant one in return.”

  Her eyes widened slightly. Whether it was shock or a spark of some other emotion was difficult to discern in the shifting shadows. “What sort of favor, Lord Osborne?”

  Despite the chill, her skin glistened with tiny beads of sweat, and the pulse at her throat mirrored the thud of his own racing heart. His lips lowered and covered the quivering spot.

  A moan resonated somewhere deep in her throat, but she didn’t push him away.

  Emboldened, Osborne skimmed a kiss along the line of her jaw, inhaling the sublime sweetness of her scent. Heather and honey. He couldn’t help himself—he simply had to have a deeper taste. Crushing his mouth to hers, he drew her lower lip between his teeth.

  Gently, gently. But his body was not listening to his mind. His stubble scraped against her delicate flesh as he forced her head back. His hands threaded through her windblown hair; his tongue thrust deep inside her, drinking in her warmth.

  Dear God, he was drowning in pure, primal desire.

  What a spectacle he was making of himself. The debonair Deverill Osborne, desperate for a fleeting kiss.

  He didn’t care. His hands found the opening of her jacket, and then the swell of flesh beneath the scrunch of linen. Cupping her breasts, he stroked upward.

  Her response was fiercely feminine. The tips of her nipples hardened against his palms.

  “Please …” She twisted back and forth, rubbing the front of her breeches against his hardening cock. “Please, this really must stop.”

  Osborne’s simmering frustrations were on the verge of exploding. “If you are begging for release, you are going about it all wrong.”

  She stilled in his arms.

  “Why are you so warm to that preening peacock of a conte and so cold to me?” he demanded.

  “I … he …” she stammered. “Marco is an old friend.”

  “An old lover?”

  She looked away, her loosened hair falling across her face, a shimmering black curtain between them.

  “I’m sorry. That was unspeakably rude,” he said with a ragged sigh. “I don’t know what comes over me when I am around you. My manners seem to go up in smoke.”

  “Please let me go, Lord Osborne.”

  He drew his hands away, but not before brushing an errant curl from her cheek. She flinched as if singed by his touch. And yet, for a fleeting moment, her mouth had been molten with desire. He had kissed enough women to know that without a doubt.

  “And now that you have taken your pleasure, sir, I trust I can count on your silence in return.”

  Stung by the scorn in her voice, he couldn’t keep from retorting in kind. “The pleasure was not all one-sided, Contessa. Admit it, you wanted me just as much as I wanted you.”

  Her cheeks flushed red as her kiss-roughened lip
s. “Why, you arrogant ass.”

  “You haughty hellion.”

  They stood toe-to-toe, glaring at each other through the tendrils of dawn mist. Much as he wished to turn his back on the lady and stalk away, Osborne felt held in thrall by some mysterious spell. Black magic. The breeze stirred her loosened hair, setting the raven strands to dancing along the line of her shapely shoulders. Her eyes, aswirl with anger, had an alchemy all their own. Emeralds on fire.

  He found it difficult to breathe.

  A dog barked, breaking the dark enchantment. Swearing softly, Sofia snatched up her hat and tucked her tresses out of view. Several quick strides brought her abreast of her stallion. Without waiting for any assistance, she caught up the reins and vaulted lightly into the saddle, her boot barely touching the stirrup.

  Whatever else her faults, the lady looked magnificent on her mount. Like Minerva, the ancient Roman goddess of war. A bellicose beauty.

  “Andiamo, Jupiter,” she said.

  The horse whinnied, his hooves kicking up clods of the damp earth. A flick of her heels and they were gone.

  A close call.

  Sofia slumped back against the stall door and pressed her palms to her sweat-slicked brow. Another few inches and Osborne’s roving hands would have hit upon the small turn-off pocket pistol hidden in her waistband. He was already asking enough uncomfortable questions without wondering why she was carrying a firearm.

  She bit her lip—a definite mistake, as it was yet another reminder of how badly she had let her guard slip.

  Her tongue flicked over the raw flesh, tasting the lingering traces of his brandy and her own egregious folly. What madness had come over her? The man possessed a potent charm. And a sinful, sensuous smile. When his mouth had come close, hovering a hair’s breadth from hers in the morning mists, she had been powerless to resist.

  Passion. While she grasped the intellectual concept, the Academy lectures had not quite prepared her for the full brunt of its physical force.

  She shivered at the memory of his probing caresses, his tongue sliding so smoothly through her defenses. Hard yet soft. Sweet yet spiced with a hot, masculine need. The effect had been intoxicating. She had surrendered to his demands without a fight.