The Scarlet Spy

by Andrea Pickens

  “Ah, but to be honest, what lady does not like just a hint of Lucifer in a lordly smile.” Lady Serena quickly extinguished any spark of trouble with her droll rejoinder.

  Osborne tipped his glass in silent salute as everyone laughed.

  “Si, si, Adam.” Sforza snickered. “Like your namesake, you, too, have succumbed to temptation when it comes to pleasures of the flesh, eh?”

  Fire glinted off the goblet as De Winton raised his brandy to his lips. “To Temptation.”

  Taking a seat on the divan, Osborne wasn’t sure whether to feel annoyed or amused by the evening so far. The present company didn’t promise much in the way of stimulating conversation. Beecham and Andover were too pompous, Lady Cordelia too rapacious, and her sister too gauche to excite any real interest.

  But he had to admit that Lady Serena was intriguing. Their paths had not crossed much in the past. However, now that she had decided to take up residence in Town, they were bound to meet far more often.

  The champagne tickled against his tongue. The possibilities were tantalizing. Enough so to offset the sour taste bought on by the presence of De Winton and his friends.

  Catching a scarlet flash of the man’s reflection in the glass door, Osborne found himself wondering again what attraction he held for a lady of obvious intelligence. Granted, he was handsome and possessed a certain rakish charm, but surely any female with half a brain knew better than to think there was a knight in shining armor hidden beneath the roguish red silk.

  But perhaps ladies were not always looking for a chivalrous hero. He thought for a moment of his own forays into the darker side of London life. Without an occasional taste of spice, Society could be bland and boring. Who could blame females for having the same cravings?

  “Are you having second thoughts on the design of the doors?” Lady Serena arched a brow as she settled herself by his side. “Please don’t hesitate to give me your honest opinion.”

  “A lady who prefers the truth to flatteries?” he teased. “How very unique.”

  “I’m not sure I should consider that a compliment. Most men prefer women to be patterncards of propriety,” she said in a throaty murmur. “But as you see, I am not as conventional as many other ladies of the ton.”

  Osborne eyed the curved moldings and panes of glass for an instant before replying. “Be assured that I think your style shows a commendable imagination.” He was flirting quite shamelessly, curious to see how she would respond.

  “Thank goodness you did not call me an Original. That would put me in league with bluestockings or the eccentric old ladies who have miniature palaces built for their cats.”

  Her sly humor provoked a grin. “Did I not catch a glimpse of cerulean peeking out from beneath your petticoat?”

  “How very ungentlemanly to mention it if you did.” She shifted her skirts to show a touch of ankle. “There—you see you are mistaken.”

  Osborne decided that the evening was going to be enjoyable after all.

  But alas, that illusion was quickly shattered by the footman’s announcement of the latest arrivals.

  “Conte della Ghiradelli and Contessa della Silveri, madam.”

  “Pardone. Pardone. I trust we are not unfashionably late.” Lady Sofia’s escort did not look in the least contrite. “Fifi had not yet seen the Serpentine by moonlight.”

  Fifi? Osborne felt his teeth set on edge.

  “Izz very romantic, you know.”

  Was it his imagination, or did the contessa’s cheeks looked kissed by more than the evening breeze? Osborne looked away quickly.

  “Yes, but do have a care about venturing into the park at night, sir,” said Lady Serena. “There is always the danger of footpads.”

  The conte cut a zigzagging flourish through the air. “I am very skilled with a sword, cara.”

  Bloody buffoon.

  The ladies, however, seemed to find the man’s antics amusing. All of them were smiling. Especially Lady Cordelia, whose lips parted to reveal a flash of teeth.

  Osborne bit back a smirk. Let the Italian snake seek to slither into her bed. He would soon find that his fangs were no match for those of the baroness. She would fight like a cobra to keep him away from other women.

  “I believe you know the others, Lady Sofia,” went on their hostess. “But are you acquainted with your fellow countrymen, Signor Sforza and Signor Familligi?”

  “Yes, we met last night at the theater.”

  Osborne’s grip on his glass tightened. So, her excuse of fatigue had simply meant she was tired of his company. He knew he ought to ignore the provocation, and yet he could not refrain from comment.

  “Did you enjoy the play, Contessa? Do remind me what was playing—was it The Taming of the Shrew?”

  Sofia met his slitted gaze without batting an eye. “No, it was The Merchant of Venice. Marco thought I might enjoy a reminder of home.”

  She made the conte’s name sound as if it were melted toffee on her tongue.

  “Speaking of home, Marco, word has it you have been absent from Milan for quite some time now,” said Sforza. “What have you been doing with yourself?”

  The conte flicked a mote of dust from his sleeve. “Oh, a little of this, a little of that. For the most part, though, I have been teaching at a school for select young ladies.”

  It took several moments for Sforza to control his laughter. “Pray, what subjects?” he sputtered.

  “Art. The fine points of fencing. Ballistics.”

  “You do have an explosive effect on females.” Familligi chortled. “I seem to recall two puttanescas from Pisa who fought a duel for your favors. Diavolo, the curses were flying like bullets.”

  “I heard the weapons were whips at two paces,” said Sforza. “And that poor Lucrezia bore the marks on her bum for weeks afterward.”

  “Might I remind you gentlemen that there are ladies present?” muttered Osborne.

  “Oh, come, sir, we are all worldly people here.” The baroness tossed off the last of her wine and signaled Sforza for more. “There is no need to pretend we don’t know that bawdy houses exist.”

  “What Lady Cordelia means is that among select friends, we have a more relaxed attitude in regard to expressing ourselves,” explained Lady Serena. “Females included.”

  “A more sophisticated view of the world and its workings,” said De Winton softly. “But then, if you are not open to new ideas, you might want to take your leave now, Osborne. I’ve brought along a special treat for the group—however, it may not be to your taste.”

  “Si. For the most part, the English seem to favor burned toast and boiled beef.” Familligi gave a dismissive wave. “While we Italians, whose heritage mixes East and West, appreciate much more exotic fare. We are open to new flavors, new delicacies.”

  “Being half English and half Italian, I suppose that leaves me somewhere in the middle.” Sofia strolled away from the conte and went to stand on her own by the japanned curio cabinet.

  The silver candelabra, ablaze with a tiered glow of flickering flames, illuminated every detail of her attire. She was wearing a deep plum velvet gown, a simple but striking design that accentuated her willowy height and cascade of ebony curls. The bodice was embroidered with shimmering gold thread. As if any glitter was needed to draw the eye to her magnificent bosom. The lush fabric clung like a second skin to her curves.

  Osborne meant to ignore her presence, but he found he could not tear his eyes away. There was something so very different about her. As yet, it was impossible to define. There was something in the lithe, feline grace of her movements, the low, smoky lilt of her accent, and the way her eyes cut like steel against his flesh.

  Dangerous.

  No question about it. His peace of mind had suffered several serious blows. Lynsley’s advice to make a strategic retreat made sense, especially as he had not quite hit on an effective way to defend himself.

  But he was not the only man who was drawn, like a moth to a flame, to the sight of her f
ire-kissed profile.

  Indeed, the baroness and her sister were starting to pout, when Marco sauntered over to them and began flirting.

  Fool. The fellow was a brainless fribble to prefer women who offered themselves on a platter over the darker, more distant allure of the contessa.

  “Now that all of the guests have arrived, let us move into the Grotto Room,” said Lady Serena. “I’ve had a special table set up, and my chef has prepared a selection of amuse-bouches that I think you will find quite titillating.”

  Appetite teasers? Osborne rose, wondering what sort of games Lady Serena had in mind.

  “Keep the ladies amused.” Sofia managed a whisper to Marco as they made their way down the corridor.

  “What about Osborne?”

  The dratted man’s presence did present an unexpected complication, but she would deal with it as before. “Don’t worry, I will simply ignore him,” she replied.

  Marco’s expression was eloquent in its skepticism, but he shrugged and quickened his steps to catch up with the sisters.

  “Might I escort you to your place, Lady Sofia?”

  She caught a flicker of red as the gentleman extended his arm. “Ah, how lovely of you to ask, Lord De Winton. As you see, that rascal Marco is extremely fickle in his attentions.”

  “Does that distress you?”

  “La, not at all.” Sofia met his inquiring gaze with a light laugh. “If you are asking whether the conte and I have any understanding between us, the answer is no,” she added. “We are simply casual friends.”

  “I am delighted to hear it.”

  She lifted her chin in challenge. “Would it have stopped you from seeking a closer acquaintance, sir? I have heard you are a man who is not afraid to take what he wants.”

  De Winton allowed a flash of teeth. “Some ladies might find that reputation frightening.”

  Her answer was a coquettish smile.

  After everyone was seated at the table, Lady Serena rang the gilded bell by her place. Two servants dressed in saffron silks and bulbous red turbans pinned with peacock feathers paraded into the room, each bearing a large silver platter of sweetmeats.

  “Turkish delight,” announced Lady Serena as she helped herself to several pieces. “For those of you who are unfamiliar with the treat, it is a confection of dates, walnuts, sugar, cinnamon—”

  “Spiced with a liberal sprinkling of high-quality cannabis,” finished De Winton.

  Familligi inhaled deeply over his helping, setting off puffs of the powdered sugar. “Very fine, indeed.”

  “These are my favorites.” The baroness nibbled on one of her squares. “Do have a taste, Osborne. They are reputed to be a potent aphrodisiac, you know.”

  Sofia sensed there was a history between the two of them, though the lady’s name was not on the list of his past lovers. Food for thought. But not now, she reminded herself. Breaking off a piece of sticky sweet, she popped it into her mouth. “Mmmm. Unusual.”

  “I assure you, the taste will grow on you,” said Familligi, much to the hilarity of his friends. Marco joined in the male laughter while making eyes at the baroness.

  Diverted from her surreptitious study of Osborne, Lady Cordelia looked more than happy to strike up a new flirtation.

  The platters were served up again, accompanied by cups of sweetened tea. Out of the corner of her eye, Sofia saw that the servants extinguished a number of the candles on their way out, leaving only the wall sconces lit. The Murano glass shades, a spiraling mix of translucent red and white patterns, cast a warm pinkish glow over the table. The illusion was soft, sensuous, like bathing in rose petals.

  The laughter took on a languid note as well. Sofia flicked open her fan, using the move to secret the rest of the sweetmeat into her reticule. She wished to keep her head clear, yet the others seemed to be enjoying the effect of the narcotic. Even Osborne seemed more relaxed. His attention had shifted from her to Lady Serena.

  All the better. Yet oddly enough, she felt her insides clench at seeing his face light with a smile. Their hostess touched his sleeve, then leaned in to whisper in his ear. Highlighted against the dark wood paneling, the two heads, with their finespun flaxen hair, appeared nearly as one. Ducking away, Sofia shook off the tautness with another flutter of her fan. Her rebuffs had been purposefully rude. Of course the man would seek more congenial company.

  It must be the cannabis affecting her senses. She must not allow it to dull her sense of duty.

  Duty.

  She forced her flirtations to be more blatant with De Winton. “Do tell me about some of the interesting attractions of London, sir.” Lifting the screen of painted silk, she fanned her lashes. “And I don’t mean the museums or the Tower menagerie.”

  He responded with a predatory flash of teeth. “There are, to be sure, more exotic places and creatures than a cage of mangy lions. Assuming a lady is willing to be adventurous and explore what lies outside the gilded confines of Mayfair.”

  “Boundaries are so boring.” Her breathy laugh stirred the folds of his cravat.

  “My sentiments exactly.” Edging his chair a touch closer, he asked, “Do you like to gamble, Contessa?”

  “That depends on what I stand to gain.”

  He laughed softly. “Oh, I know of some places where the risk is worth the reward …” He began to describe several gaming hells in the slums of Seven Dials.

  Sofia was soon rewarded for her efforts. Under the table, De Winton’s thigh was pressing hers, and as he spoke, he inched his chair in far closer than was proper.

  She fingered the scarlet silk of his waistcoat, egging him on. “How fascinating. What other pleasures can be found in the stews?”

  “Most anything you can imagine.”

  “Indeed?” She arched her brows suggestively. “I have a very vivid imagination.”

  He wet his lips with a swallow of wine.

  Deciding not to overplay her interest in the slums, Sofia turned her hand to matching his physical flirtations. “You, too, appear to have a bold sense of style.” She touched his watchchain, then fell to toying with the fobs. “This is an unusual design.” The gold serpent had huge ruby eyes.

  “It is Ottoman. I purchased it from Andover. His gallery has many unique offerings.”

  “I shall have to pay him a visit.” Sofia playfully pulled the pocketwatch from his waistcoat pocket. There was, she saw, a slight bulge beside the oval shape. Another fob?

  Sure enough, a last little tug revealed a gold key, crowned with a red poppy.

  The discovery dispelled all thought of Osborne. Senses sharpened, Sofia let her fingers linger on the smooth enamel. Now, finally, there was something tangible to go on.

  She peeked up to see De Winton staring at her. For an instant, a wolflike wariness clouded his expression. Then he laughed and casually tucked the key back in his pocket.

  “What a very pretty fob,” she murmured. “I’ve seen one just like it in Italy.”

  Would he take the bait?

  “You must be mistaken, Lady Sofia,” he said softly. “This particular key was specially made and is not for sale in any shop.”

  “Oh, I am aware of that,” she replied in the same dulcet tone. “Just as I am aware that it is not handed out indiscriminately. It’s only for a discreet group of people who appreciate the finer things in life and are willing to pay for the privileges it unlocks.”

  “Ah, so you are familiar with la bella papavero. Tell me, whose did you see?”

  Sofia decided to play it a bit coy. “What makes you think I don’t have one of my own?”

  His eyes betrayed a flicker of surprise. “Do you?”

  “Perhaps.” She must take care not to let the game of cat and mouse get out of hand tonight. The trick was to tease more information out of him while not giving herself away.

  Switching tactics, she let her fingers tickle over the back of his knuckles as she reached for a sweetmeat.

  “Won’t you have another treat, De Winton?” She
held the confection teasingly close to his lips. “One can never have too much of a good thing.”

  “Indeed not.” He leaned in closer to take it with his teeth. She felt the hot rush of his breath on her skin as his tongue flicked out over his lower lip. “Do call me Adam. My friends do not stand on formality.”

  “You missed a bit, Adam.” Sofia brushed a crumb of crystalized sugar from the corner of his mouth.

  “Mmm, wouldn’t want it to go to waste.” He caught her hand and licked the tip of her thumb.

  A shiver ran through her, but as she maintained a seductive smile, he seemed to mistake it for one of pleasure.

  “Westover is having a gathering at his town house on Monday evening. A very private affair that won’t be mentioned in polite circles. But I promise, it will be far more entertaining than the poetry to be recited at Lady Kennington’s literary soiree.”

  “Naughty man.” Sofia tapped her fan to his cheek. “You are suggesting I change my schedule? The baroness would be most disappointed.”

  He winked. “The same could not be said for you, Lady Sofia.”

  “How can I resist?”

  “At ten, then. And I suggest you come in an unmarked carriage. You wouldn’t want to risk your reputation by having someone spot your arrival at a rake’s private residence.”

  Sofia peeked over the painted silk. “A soupçon of risk adds a certain spice to life, Adam. Count on it. I will be there.”

  “Excellent.” A smile stretched on his lips. “Oh, and if you do have a key, be sure to bring it with you. If it’s a fit with mine, I promise you it will unlock some special treats here in London.”

  Chapter Ten

  Pushing up from the parquet floor, Sofia arched her back into the cobra position of her yoga routine. The stretching and sweating had helped dispel the muzziness lingering from the previous evening. Still, the noxious taste of the drugs and drink clung to her tongue, an unpleasant reminder of the revelries, which had lasted into the early morning hours.