The Scarlet Spy

by Andrea Pickens

  She and Marco had left before Osborne. Had he spent the night with Lady Serena? It was, of course, none of her business. His private life, his personal pleasures, were not of prurient interest. She was merely curious, in case his choices affected her mission.

  A flex of muscle and she moved to the lotus position. The previous evening had left no doubt that within the stately world of Mayfair mansions dwelled a nest of vipers. Just how far their poison spread was what she must discern—without drawing a venomous strike. Lord Robert had come too close to whatever sordid secrets they were hiding.

  Was De Winton the head of the serpentine coil? Sofia held the stretch a moment longer, then expelled her breath and lowered herself to the canvas mat. He had the scruples of a snake, that was for sure. Hopefully the discovery of the key, and the coming meeting, would begin to open the way to the truth—

  A soft knock on the door was followed by the equally discreet voice of her maid. “There is a Conte della Ghiradelli to see you, milady. He insists you will not mind the interruption, despite the early hour.”

  Sofia stood up and toweled the sweat from her face. “Please show him in, Rose,” she murmured, quickly unlocking the door. Catching the maid’s questioning look at her short cotton tunic and drawstring trousers, she added, “It is quite all right. He’s a trusted member of Lord Lynsley’s network.”

  Marco did not appear to be suffering any ill effects from the party. “Ciao, bella. Keeping up your strength, I see.” He picked up one of the thin wooden cudgels and cut a swoosh through the air. “Care to test your steel against mine?” He gave the tip a suggestive waggle. “Winner take all.”

  She made a rude sound. “I’m in no mood for games, if you don’t mind.” Looking a bit more closely, she saw his face was not quite so fresh as she had first thought. Beneath the fringe of dark lashes, his eyes were red with lack of sleep, and the cocksure smile was a bit ragged at the edges. “Anyway, it looks as if you played hard last night.”

  He shrugged. “I’m no angel.”

  Sofia realized that she knew very little about his past life. His disappointments, his desires. What needs would drive a man of pampered privilege to become a blade for hire?

  “Is there a smudge of the ladybird’s lip paint on my chin?” He stroked the dark stubbling shading his jaw and exaggerated a leer. However, the banter sounded a bit brittle. “I met up with Sforza and Familligi at a gaming hell near Jermyn Street. The barmaids were all Swedish.”

  “Go to bed, Marco.”

  “With you, bella?” He clasped his hands to his chest. “Be still, my fluttering heart.”

  “Be still, your twittering tongue.” Sofia took his arm and urged him toward the door. “Let us have a seat in the study. I’ll have Rose bring some tea and toast.”

  He dropped the role of bawdy jester long enough to sigh. “Grazie. Coffee would be even more welcome than sex.”

  “I take it this is not a purely social call,” she said once the order for refreshments had been given.

  “Much as I longed to see you again, your guess is correct.” Marco dropped into the leather chair by the hearth and propped his boots on the fender. “A message from Lynsley was waiting at my rooms when I returned this morning. I’ve just come from meeting him—though he might have had the grace to choose a more comfortable spot than an unmarked carriage jostling over the rutted byways of Regent Park.”

  Sofia felt her spine stiffen as she perched on the arm of the facing chair. “I imagine the marquess had more on his mind than ministering to your physical well-being.”

  A grin quirked at the corners of his mouth. Then for once, Marco looked dead serious. “Correct again, bella. A naval courier sloop from Bombay docked at Isle of Dogs last night. It brought word of an East India Company scandal. One of their high officials, the man in charge of trade with the Moghul princes, was found murdered in his own house.” He paused as Rose entered with the coffee and gratefully accepted a cup.

  Sofia shook her head. Her throat was suddenly too tight to swallow.

  Marco took a long sip before continuing. “Along with the official dispatch came a confidential report from the chatelaine in charge of the company residence—a former Merlin. It included a mention that among the man’s personal effects was found a gold key topped with a red enamel poppy.”

  Another key. But to what?

  “Of course, the marquess does not think it a coincidence. But he did not offer any speculation on what it might mean to your investigation.”

  “No, he would not.” Lynsley struck her as a most meticulous man. He would follow every lead before coming to a conclusion. She was determined to do the same. But as she watched Marco wolf down a piece of buttered toast, she wished she had a clearer idea of which way to turn.

  What, exactly, was she looking for?

  Even Lynsley seemed unsure. Which did little to loosen the knot in her stomach. Despite the hour of rigorous stretching, she felt her muscles begin to tighten.

  The obvious path was to discover who else here in London possessed a gold key. Did all of the Scarlet Knights carry one? It seemed doubtful. Whatever privileges the key unlocked were likely shared by only a select few.

  Still, she could not afford to guess.

  “It seems a little callous to leave you without a clue to go on,” said Marco between bites. “You are not a magician or a seer who can divine the truth from a crystal ball.”

  “No, I am a Merlin. And Merlins are trained to fly on their own. If the marquess had wished to be a mother hen, he would have hatched a very different sort of school than our Academy.”

  Marco refilled his cup. “The Inglieze are lucky to have your beauty, your brains, and your bravery.”

  “You may leave off dispensing with flatteries, Marco. Let’s get down to work.” She kneaded the back of her neck. “I made a discovery of my own last night. De Winton also possesses a key. He wears it on his watchchain. I hinted that I might have one too.”

  “Dangerous.” Marco frowned. “Seeing as you don’t have a clue as to its significance.”

  “A calculated risk,” admitted Sofia. “But in a mission like this one, I doubt we will get anywhere by being conservative. In thinking over all the information at hand, I came to the conclusion that the secret circle of keyholders likely stretches from London to the Far East. Which leaves just enough room for doubt as to whether I am part of it.”

  “Perhaps,” he conceded. “In any case, you will have to handle the next meeting with extreme care.”

  “That goes without saying.” She shrugged and changed the subject. “Did you learn anything from your long-lost friends?”

  “Aside from the fact that their company is even more boring than it was in the days of our misspent youth?” Marco pursed his lips. “So far, I got little more out of them than a detailed description of the bordellos favored by the rakes of the ton. The only information that sounded halfway interesting was a mention of a club in Seven Dials that caters to more exotic tastes.”

  “In what way?”

  Turning his palms up, he made a face. “We were interrupted.”

  Still puzzling over the connection between countries, between continents, Sofia took another turn around the room. “I confess, I have yet to see how these pieces of the puzzle fit together,” she muttered. “Any suggestions?”

  Marco shook his head. “You have the brains, bella. I am merely the brawn.”

  She certainly wasn’t feeling very smart at the moment. Mayhap it was a residue of the drugs. Her mind was sluggish, her thoughts clouded. Lynsley’s new information tickled like a tendril of smoke against her consciousness. Damn. What was it she was missing?

  Pausing by a window overlooking the garden, she watched a sparrow flit from tree to tree, wings flapping hard against the freshening breeze to keep from being blown off course.

  “Shipping,” she suddenly said aloud. “What cargo does Sforza’s family fleet bring to England? And do the Familligi banking interests help finance the en
deavor?”

  Marco smacked a palm to his brow. “You see, bella. You are the clever one. I shall look into it.”

  “Do.”

  Another question occurred to her. How did De Winton support his vices? On paper, his family fortune had been reduced to naught but a scribble of red ink. The unentailed land had been sold off long ago, and the rest of the estate had been mortgaged to the hilt. More recently, a collection of art had been put up for auction. But other than the proceeds from the sale, the man had no discernible source of income.

  Tracing a random pattern on the glass, she said as much.

  Marco took his time in considering the statement. “Perhaps he is lucky at cards. I know of some men who live on their wits alone.”

  “Perhaps.” However, De Winton did not strike her as having the discipline or diligence to win at the gaming tables. She made a mental note to ask Rose to send Lynsley a request for more information on the man’s finances.

  A clear picture had yet to take shape, but Sofia had a feeling she was beginning to sketch in the first faint outlines. It would, however, take a number of bold strokes to fill the blank canvas.

  “Go home and get a few hours of sleep, Marco. Then I’d like you to take me to Bond Street this afternoon.”

  “Shopping?”

  “Yes, but not just for any old bauble.”

  “Lord Osborne! How lovely that the weather allowed us to keep our rendezvous.” Lady Serena looked up at the cloudless sky with a mischievous smile. “Have you a certain sway with heavenly bodies?”

  He chuckled. “I’m afraid my reach does not extend past the divine shapes here on Earth.” Rotten Row was already beginning to crowd with the crush of fashionable ladies and gentlemen out for their daily promenade. “Shall we avoid the herd and ride toward the Serpentine?”

  Lady Serena reined in her mount and motioned for her groom to make way for Osborne’s bay. “Your reputation precedes you, sir. Mayhap I ought to be careful just how close I allow you to come.”

  “Oh, I promise to behave like a perfect gentleman.” He winked. “For now.”

  Seated on her petite mare, the lady was a picture of elegance and grace in the saddle. A stark contrast to Sofia and her daredevil skill on a muscled stallion. Heaven and Hades. Sweetness and shadows.

  Determined to take Lynsley’s advice to heart, Osborne jerked his thoughts from that wild dawn gallop, that hellfire kiss. It was high time for tamer pursuits. Let Sofia flirt with the red devils of the Scarlet Knights. Or that vagabond in velvet, Conte della Ghiradelli. Despite her protestations, he had a feeling they were more than just friends.

  “I do hope you did not disapprove of my soiree. Such diversions are not to everyone’s taste.”

  “On the contrary, I found it quite stimulating. A constant diet of the same bland entertainments leaves one starved for a bit of spice.”

  “I am relieved to hear it,” she replied. “I feared you might think me too … naughty.”

  “Are you?”

  The bridle path skirted close to a row of stately elms, forcing his horse closer to hers. A whisper-soft swoosh of merino wool brushed against his boot, light as her little laugh. “You must promise not to tell, but I think I am somewhere between naughty and nice.”

  “Your secret is safe with me, Lady Serena.”

  “I had a feeling I could count on your discretion in that.”

  Flirtatous flatteries. He knew the game well. However, his vanity did not object to a bit of stroking. Ducking the dancing leaves, he returned the favor by touching a quick caress to her knee. “I should like for you to trust in confiding any matter with me, whether naughty or nice.”

  They rode out of the trees and close to the water’s edge. Sunlight shimmered off the flat calm, its brilliance nearly blinding.

  “Well, then … There is to be another party early next week.” Was she testing his daring? “At Lord Concord’s house.”

  “Is that an invitation?”

  “Would you care to come?” she countered. Coy, but not cloyingly so.

  “Very much so.”

  Lady Serena smiled. “I will let you know the time and direction.” A light pressure on her reins turned the mare back toward the Cumberland gate. “I read the first of Repton’s essays on nature, and I am curious as to your opinion on the subject …”

  The door to Andover’s antique shop was polished to the patina of aged sherry. It swung open at the touch of Marco’s gloved hand, setting off a melodious chiming of bells.

  “Tibetan,” he murmured, glancing up at the cluster of carved silver. “Very old, very valuable.”

  “The same can be said about everything here,” said Sofia dryly.

  The main gallery was a long, narrow space paneled in dark wood. The multitude of nooks and wall niches were crammed with all manner of exotic treasures. They looked to be mostly Eastern in origin—Ottoman, Persian, Mogul, Chinese. Brass figurines, exquisite porcelains, colorful carpets, gold and silver jewelry glittering with precious stones. And, as Marco had remarked, everything looked extremely ancient and extremely costly. It was as if one of the legendary Silk Road caravans had by some mysterious magic transported its booty from the Khyber Pass to the middle of London.

  “Speaking of which,” she said after making her survey, “how do you know that the bells are Tibetan?”

  “I am an art instructor, remember?”

  “And pigs may fly.”

  The whisper drew a low snort from Marco. “Porca—” he began, but the sound of a door opening silenced his retort.

  Sofia edged a step sideways in time to see the shop owner come out of a side room, accompanied by another gentleman she had never seen before. Blocked by a life-size statue of Buddha, Andover did not spot the two of them until Marco called out a greeting.

  “Ciao, Signor.”

  He seemed surprised—and, to her eye, a little nervous—at finding them inside his gallery, but he quickly assumed an ingratiating smile. “Lady Sofia. Lord della Ghiradelli. What an unexpected pleasure.”

  “We had the afternoon free and thought we would come have a look around. If you don’t mind, that is.” Marco was already inspecting a small bronze statue of Shiva, the Indian destroyer god. “Or would you prefer that we make an appointment?”

  “Not at all, not at all. Please, make yourselves at home. My assistant is running an errand, but I will be with you in just a moment.” He did not look inclined to introduce his companion. However, the man took matters into his own hands.

  “Don’t rush me away, my dear Andover. Granted, you’ve shown me a number of the rare treasures reserved for your special clients, but none are half so lovely as the Contessa della Silveri.” He bowed low over Sofia’s hand. “Allow me to make your acquaintance, milady. I have heard much about you.”

  “Mr. Stanton Roxbury, Lady Sofia,” said Andover.

  Again, Sofia had the impression that he was reluctant to perform the social niceties.

  “Are you an avid collector, Mr. Roxbury?” she asked after he finished his string of effusive compliments.

  “I make the occasional purchase,” he replied. “Alas, a gentleman in my humble position cannot afford more than that.”

  Raising his ribboned quizzing glass, Marco subjected the man to an ogling scrutiny. Magnified by the gold-rimmed lens, his eye appeared as large as a cricket ball. “And pray, sir, what position is that?”

  No wonder Osborne had looked tempted to bat the Italian’s ballocks through a wicket, thought Sofia. Marco could be insufferably obnoxious without exerting much effort.

  “I am employed by the Ministry of War.”

  Mention of Whitehall snapped her senses into full alert. “How very impressive, sir, given England’s importance in defending the world from Napoleon’s onslaught.”

  Roxbury’s chest immediately swelled. So, the man had an inflated sense of his own worth, she thought. The added bulk did not quite hide the fact that his large body was going to seed. His face was still handsome enou
gh, despite a weak chin and florid complexion. But another few years of excess food and drink and he would be fat as the Prince Regent.

  Oblivious of her critical eye, he preened like a peacock.

  “As Associate Minister for Military Transport, I do play a rather significant role in seeing that our armies are supplied with ordnance and supplies in all the far-flung corners of the globe.”

  “Bravo.” Marco contrived to look extremely bored by the mention of war.

  “Is not Lord Lynsley your sponsor in London Society, milady?” asked the minister, as her friend wandered away to inspect a display of Persian jambiyahs from the time of the First Crusade.

  “He was an acquaintance of my father, from a long time ago.” Sofia thought it wise to distance herself from any real relationship with the marquess. “And, yes, he was kind enough to arrange my entrée into the ton. But I’ve only met him on several occasions since arriving in Town. His work does not permit him much time for entertainment, or so he claims.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “In truth, he strikes me as rather … dull.”

  “Dull as dishwater.” Roxbury gave a sharp laugh. “His Lordship is always so very sober and straightlaced. And by all accounts, a stickler for detail. Thank God my department has very little contact with his.”

  “How fortunate for you,” she replied.

  “Indeed, indeed.” As a Damascene clock struck the hour, Roxbury’s smile faded. “Alas, duty does demand that I return to the Ministry. No matter that your company is far more alluring than a desk full of documents.”

  “We must not keep you from your work.” Sofia favored him with a flutter of lashes as he passed by. “Perhaps we will meet again soon.”

  “Oh, I shall make sure that Andover arranges a social engagement without delay.”

  The gallery owner escorted Roxbury to the front door, where they exchanged a few private words before the minister hurried off after a passing hackney.