The Scarlet Spy

by Andrea Pickens

  “Do forgive me,” said Andover as he rejoined them.

  “Rather it is for us to apologize, for barging in unannounced,” said Sofia.

  “You are, of course, welcome anytime.” Seeing Marco casually hold a piece of Ming Dynasty porcelain up to the light, he added, “May I show you anything in particular, milord?”

  “Just looking.” After spinning the bowl on the tip of his finger, Marco put it back in its place.

  “This is quite fascinating.” She chose a Byzantine brooch at random. “What lovely filigree work, and the stones look to be of excellent quality.” After studying the lapis and carnelian inlays a bit longer, she asked, “Have you any others?”

  Andover found another on a nearby shelf. “These are the only two I have at the moment.”

  “I don’t like the colors.” She made a moue of disappointment. “You are sure that you do not have one in the private rooms reserved for your special clients?”

  “Roxbury was jesting, milady. I assure you that everything I have is out on display.”

  “The two of you were locked away—”

  “In a storage room, Lady Sofia,” said Andover quickly. “I was merely showing him a sketch of an icon that I sold to Lord Hillhouse last month.”

  She surrendered with a pout and a sigh. “Oh, very well. Then let me have a look at some of the other jewelry.”

  “I have a very nice selection of Persian pendants just over here. The shades of turquoise are sublime.”

  Seeing Marco edge around a group of terra-cotta Chinese warriors and signal her to keep Andover occupied, Sofia quickly accepted the offer. “I’ll have a look. And then I would also like to see that jade dragon by the set of Turkish scimitars.”

  “Of course, milady.” Andover still appeared a bit edgy as he opened the display case and took out a velvet-covered tray of ornaments.

  She took her time in examining each piece, which was not difficult. They were, as promised, exceptionally beautiful, the rich blue stones complemented by the superb craftsmanship of the carved goldwork. “Where on earth do you find such magnificent treasures? Have you discovered Aladdin’s secret cave? Or a genie in a brass lamp who conjures a wealth of riches out of smoke and fire?”

  “A flying carpet appears every full moon, loaded with every imaginable prize from the Orient,” said Andover, matching her tone of light teasing.

  The bells rang out, amplifying her peal of laughter. Looking up, Sofia saw a young man enter the shop, two large packages wrapped in oilskin in his arms. He looked about to speak, but then seeing there was a customer, he ducked his head and quickly slipped into the far aisle. Hurried footsteps echoed in the momentary silence, heading for the far end of the gallery.

  A flutter of coattails, and she saw him disappear behind a door set into the paneling.

  “My clerk,” said Andover, eyeing the clock. “He is late.”

  “Anything interesting?” she teased.

  “Packing supplies,” came the curt reply.

  Twine and pasteboard seemed an unlikely source of agitation. But perhaps he had an important purchase waiting to be delivered. Sofia dropped the subject and asked him to explain the artistic style of a hammered gold disc set with amethysts.

  All smiles again, Andover was quick to reply.

  She browsed through a few more trays of jewelry before picking out a simple aquamarine ring for purchase. Marco should have had time to check inside the private room by now.

  “A lovely choice,” said Andover, then added the price.

  She nearly choked, but Marco didn’t bat an eye as he sauntered around the corner of the shelves. “Send the bill around to my hotel, signor,” he announced. An airy wave cut short her protest. “A belated birthday gift, bella.”

  “Grazie,” she stammered.

  Andover’s mouth curled to a scimitar smile. “A bauble is the best way to a lady’s heart, milord.” His tone implied a rather different part of a female’s anatomy.

  “Si, si.” Marco winked. “I hope to be a regular customer. So save a selection of your prime pieces.”

  Both men exchanged knowing looks.

  Out on the street, Sofia drew in a deep breath and muttered, “Bloody hell, that amount of blunt would feed and clothe an army of orphans for a year in St. Giles.”

  “Si.” Her friend was no longer leering. “But the money is also being spent for a good cause, bella.”

  “Assuming Lord Lynsley does not succumb to a fit of apoplexy when he sees the bill.”

  “He can afford it. As can I.”

  His soft words reminded Sofia once again how little she really knew about the Italian. Save that beneath the braggadocio and blatant flirtations, he was a stalwart friend.

  “Don’t look so blue-deviled,” said Marco after slanting a sidelong look at her face. “Or are you wishing you had chosen the set of diamond earbobs?”

  “Don’t be daft,” she muttered, not about to admit she had picked the ring because its color was the exact shade of Deverill Osborne’s eyes. “What about the private room?”

  “Locked,” he replied.

  There was nothing suspicious about that. Records and receipts would naturally be guarded.

  “But I will, of course, need more trinkets for my many mistresses.” He took her arm and started down the street.

  “Don’t fritter away the family jewels all in one place.”

  Grinning, Marco waggled his brows. “The della Ghiradelli fortune is enormous.”

  She laughed in spite of her vague sense of unease. “I shall take your word for it. And as you say, I suppose the money was well spent. From what we saw just now, I think that both Mr. Andover and Mr. Roxbury are worth further scrutiny.”

  As they strolled past the other fancy shops along Bond Street, Sofia could not quite shake off the sense that there was something strange about the gallery. It had a cold, creepy feel to it …

  Lud, she must not start acting like a heroine in a novel, imagining mad monks or a cabal of killers lurking among the antique treasures.

  “Hopefully they will be among the guests at the upcoming party that De Winton mentioned.” She needed something more substantial than feelings to act upon. “But no matter who is there, it’s time to start seeing through the haze of smoke and lies.”

  Chapter Eleven

  In contrast to the previous night’s risque revelries, the Harpworth soiree promised to be a staid affair. Too staid, thought Osborne with an inward grimace. Though the evening’s program of violin and cello concertos had barely begun, the music was already beginning to grate on his ear.

  Seeing that Sofia had chosen a seat between Miss Pennington-Pryce and the dowager Countess of Kenshire without so much as a look in his direction, he slipped from his place in the back of the room and into the corridor. Several other gentlemen were milling about, clearly bored by the proceedings. Lady Harpworth’s musicales were noted for their lengthy recitals. But as her husband was noted for the quality of his cellars, the evenings always drew a crowd.

  When one of the men suggested the refreshment room, the others were quick to follow. Osborne, however, hung back and then headed the opposite way. Another turn brought him to a darkened stretch of corridor at the back of the town house. The trilling of the violins had faded to a faint buzz, and grateful for an interlude of silence, he loosened his cravat and peeked into the first room he came to. It was a study—a masculine one by the look of the chess sets and backgammon boards on the worktable. Several comfortable armchairs flanked the hearth, and an excellent selection of brandies and ports lined the sideboard.

  Osborne struck a flint and lit a brace of candles. The scent of tobacco and leather was in the air. It seemed unlikely that anyone would mind if he enjoyed a cheroot in peace and quiet.

  Sofia was having an unnerving effect on him, despite his determination to ignore her. Clasping his hands behind his back, he started to wander the perimeter of the room, looking at the sporting prints while trying to dispel the thrum of restl
ess energy that was tingling through his body.

  Damn. He would definitely have to do something about arranging a new mistress. And soon. The sense of frustration was threatening to explode.

  He was just about to turn in search of the cigar box when his gaze fell on a brass-rimmed dartboard hanging on the wall, its surface intricately painted in a series of concentric circles. As he moved closer, he saw that they were further divided into quadrants of varying widths and colors.

  On impulse, Osborne plucked the trio of feathered darts from the cork. Stepping back as far as the gaming table allowed, he tossed them in quick succession at the target.

  Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

  Each hit just outside the small bull’s-eye.

  “Not bad.”

  Osborne whirled around to find Sofia framed in the doorway.

  “I suppose you think you could do better,” he snapped.

  “Without a doubt.”

  Don’t react, said his brain. It could only lead to another quarrel. Or worse. But the curl of her lip, supremely sensuous in its claim, silenced reason.

  “Care to test that assumption?” he challenged.

  She walked into the room, her silken skirts whispering against the soft Persian carpet. Stopping before the game table, she slowly stripped the elbow-length gloves from her arms.

  The leather slapped softly against the waxed wood.

  Osborne swallowed hard, aware his throat had gone a bit dry. If she was trying to distract him, she was doing a damn good job of it.

  Next came her shawl, leaving her shoulders bare. “What are the rules of engagement?”

  “Fire at will,” he said, flexing his right fist. Indicating a medallion on the carpet, he added, “And you must stand there. No foul allowed.”

  She rubbed her palms together. “Sounds simple enough.”

  He retrieved the darts and handed them over with a mocking bow. “Ladies first.”

  One by one, Sofia tested their balance on her two forefingers.

  “You hold them point first,” he said with deliberate sarcasm. “In case you were wondering.”

  “You don’t say?” All of a sudden, she tossed one straight up, plucked it out of midair, and in the same smooth motion flung it at the board. The point bit into the outer edge of center circle.

  “Beginner’s luck,” he growled.

  She shrugged and threw the next two with equal precision.

  Osborne removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves.

  Several French soldiers lay dead in the dusty plains of Spain on account of his prowess with a throwing knife. He was not about to be bested by a show of circus tricks.

  Sofia went to the cabinet and dusted off a second set of darts. She placed them on the table and set a hand on her hip. “Your turn, sir.”

  Stepping to the line, he gauged the distance to the target with a little more care this time around. She had been right to test the heft of the darts as well. He fingered the brass grips, smoothed the tailfeathers.

  “You are stalling,” she muttered.

  “A seasoned soldier always studies the field of battle before making the first charge.” His eyes were still on her as he launched the darts in rapid-fire succession at the target.

  Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

  From that distance, it was impossible to see who had won. Sofia picked up the candlestick and moved closer. He followed.

  “It appears the round is yours.” Her nose was nearly touching the cork. “By a hair.”

  Caught up in a simple topknot, her curls spilled in soft ringlets to the ridge of her shoulders. Black velvet kissing white satin. Why was it that metaphors of dark and light always seemed to come to mind? Sofia of Sparks. Sofia of Shadows.

  He inhaled a breath, the mysterious scent of her perfume sweetening the masculine traces of cigars and cognac. “Yours are close. But not close enough.”

  “I think it’s only fair you allow me a rematch,” she declared. “One where I set the parameters.”

  “Very well.” Osborne allowed himself a well-deserved smile. Having drawn first blood, as it were, the advantage lay with him. He could afford to be generous. Besides, a gentleman could hardly say no to a lady’s request.

  A gentleman could, however, in good conscience employ a bit of teasing to rattle her composure. “If you are quite sure you wish to subject yourself to such a trial. The ability to perform under pressure is an art in itself. I know many men whose hands begin to tremble when put on the line.”

  “As always, an eloquent warning, Lord Osborne.” Sofia rolled her shoulders—a movement that caused her bosom to rise and fall beneath the snug silk. “But I’ll take my chances.”

  Damn the minx. His palms prickled and began to perspire.

  She was facing the unlit hearth, her back to the target. Setting her hip to the game table, she cleared a bit more space. “Let us add some distance to the toss. We will start from here.” Her slipper indicated a swirl of indigo on the carpet. “Winner goes first.”

  Spinning the first dart between his fingers, Osborne stepped to the spot and assumed his stance. A few paltry yards were nothing. He was about to take aim when she interrupted. “Wait. I haven’t finished spelling out the rules.”

  He straightened.

  “You must remain facing the mantel, like so.” Her body was squared to the carved marble. “And then throw over your left shoulder.”

  “Without looking at the target?”

  “Correct.”

  “That’s hardly fair,” he murmured. Seeing her lips creep up at the corners, he quickly continued. “For you, I mean. I served as an officer in the Peninsular War, Lady Sofia. We soldiers spent hours in the practice of throwing a knife. Our lives depended on such prowess.”

  The candlelight caught the flicker of her ebony lashes. For an instant, they hid her eyes.

  “I thought it only sporting to warn you,” he continued. “I wouldn’t want to win by foul means, so feel free to choose another position.” Osborne couldn’t help savoring the moment. “Or to surrender. Be assured, there is no dishonor in conceding the field to a superior opponent.”

  Her expression remained inscrutable. “As I said, sir. I’ll take my chances.”

  “Very well.” He resumed his position, adding an extra flex to his knees as he glanced at the target over his shoulder. The dart’s tip nicked the cork near dead center but didn’t hold and fell to the floor.

  “Sorry.” Sofia smiled. “Doesn’t count.”

  “Blast,” he muttered. “A bit out of practice,” Altering his stance, he made his second throw. This one stuck, but in the outer ring.

  “Hmmm. I think you’ll have to do better than that, sir.”

  “You do? Hah! We’ll soon see your prowess on the line.” Irked by her teasing, Osborne rushed his last try. The needled steel struck home, but only within the middle ring. Not an overpowering display of skill. However, he doubted she could top it.

  “Now it’s your turn.” He perched a hip on the edge of the table and folded his arms across his chest.

  Sofia smoothed her skirts, her lithe hands skimming the curve of her derriere. He turned his gaze to the target with an inward smile. In warfare, timing was everything. Her diversion was a touch too late.

  “Clothing a tad too tight?” he asked. “Whalebone stays must be deucedly uncomfortable.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” she shot back. “I don’t wear a corset.”

  “Ah.” Osborne couldn’t resist the opening. “What do you wear beneath that lovely gown?”

  “State secret. I could tell you, sir. But then I would have to kill you.” As she spoke, she whipped her hand across her body. The dart flew over her shoulder, as straight as a hawk honing in on its prey.

  Bloody hell. Osborne could not quite believe his eyes. The quivering point had hit smack in the center of the bull’s-eye.

  “This round appears mine.” She tossed the two other tiny missiles on the table. “No need for these.”

  “H
ow the devil did you do that?” he blurted out.

  “We had archery classes in school.”

  Osborne made a face. “It sounds as if Italian classes for young ladies are far more permissive than those here in England.”

  “To be sure, we were not taught a traditional course of study,” answered Sofia.

  He suddenly found himself curious to know more about her upbringing. Lynsley had mentioned the hell-for-leather riding instructor. What other martial skills did she possess? “It sounds unusual. What else were you taught?”

  “Oh, hand-to-hand combat. Our headmistress believed that a lady should know how to defend herself.”

  Osborne went to the sideboard and poured himself a drink. “Now I know you are bamming me. Archery? Hand-to-hand combat? Next you will be telling me you studied ballistics and marksmanship.”

  “I am a crack shot,” she replied with just the tiniest hint of a smile.

  “Then you won’t object to a third round. To break the tie.”

  “I’m game. Name your challenge, sir.”

  “Care to make the competition even more interesting?” he asked after a moment of hesitation.

  Sofia watched him draw in a mouthful of his whisky. The cut crystal cast a fire-gold pattern of winking light across his face. Like diamonds, sharp-edged and alight with a brilliant glitter. “What do you have in mind?” she asked.

  “A wager.” He refilled his drink from one of the decanters.

  How many glasses of spirits had he drunk? One? Two? Enough to bring a dangerous glint to his eye. “Perhaps we should simply call it a draw, Lord Osborne.”

  “Afraid of losing? Surely a lady who rides like a hellfire hussar is not about to shy away from a hurdle simply because it’s a touch higher than any she’s tried before?”

  She smoothed at the folds of her skirts. “I have nothing to prove.”

  “No.” His voice dropped to a husky murmur. “But where’s your sense of daring now, Lady Sofia?”

  “Why is it you feel so compelled to raise the stakes, sir?” she countered.

  “All men like to gamble,” he replied. “Didn’t they teach you that in your fancy school?”