The Scarlet Spy

by Andrea Pickens

  Osborne found himself frowning. “What do you mean?”

  She gave an airy wave. “You know, some people will not take advantage of certain loopholes in the law, even when a clever business manager can find a way to do it legally.”

  There was something unsettling in her making light of the matter. But then, a lady would not be expected to understand all the nuances of business ethics. “Hartwick won’t seek any special favors,” he said firmly.

  “Not even if you were to speak to him?”

  “Actually, I find his refusal to do so commendable,” replied Osborne. “Given the war, one should not profit from loopholes simply to pocket personal gain.”

  “Most men find that money is an irresistible lure,” murmured Lady Serena.

  He leaned back against the windowsill. “Not to me. I have enough.”

  She laughed. “Does anyone ever have enough?” The question hung in the air for an instant, and then she softened the cynicism with a brief smile. “Obviously you have a noble heart, Osborne. How very admirable. Not many men possess your principles.”

  Strange, but it was almost as if she was mocking him. He shrugged off the sensation and replied with the same teasing tone. “Trust me, I am far from perfect.”

  “I am glad to hear it—for a moment I was worried about you.” A tilt of her chin set her face in flawless profile. “Perhaps you would care to come by my town house after the party, where we have a bit more privacy to discuss the subject of right and wrong.”

  Spend the night with the lovely widow? Osborne knew he should be salivating at the offer. But suddenly, for some odd reason, the prospect of a torrid tumble in her bed held little appeal.

  He feigned a grimace. “Alas, I promised Harkness I would meet him sometime after midnight in Southwark. He has been anxious to show me a new gaming hell, and it would be shabby of me not to show.” He kept his response deliberately vague. “Perhaps another time.”

  Lady Serena’s eyes narrowed slightly, and between the glare of the glass and the flicker of the candles, it seemed that a blaze of anger flamed in her gaze.

  However, it was gone in a flash, and he felt a little foolish having imagined it, for when she spoke, it was with her usual calm.

  “Of course, a gentleman cannot leave his friends in the lurch.”

  “You are more understanding than I deserve.” He ran a hand through his hair, unable to explain his odd mood. “Forgive me. I seem to be poor company for anyone this evening.”

  As she was about to answer, one of Concord’s servants approached and cleared his throat. “Your pardon, milady, but a message has come for you.”

  “Please excuse me, Osborne.” She hurried off to confer with Concord, then returned after several minutes to retrieve her reticule. “I, too, find that I am obliged to attend to another matter this evening. I must take an early leave.”

  “I trust it is nothing serious?”

  “No, merely an ailing relative who needs my attention. There does not appear to be any immediate danger, but I ought not ignore the note.” Her tone was quite calm, but Osborne noted a ripple of emotion in her gaze. “You know how trifling things can take a turn for the worse if left unattended.”

  Seeing her concern made him feel even more foolish for his unkind thoughts. “Your compassion is commendable,” he murmured. “I will call on you soon.”

  “Yes, do.”

  Osborne could hardly blame her for sounding a bit cool. If she had taken offense at his behavior, it was what he deserved. He ought to go home and brood alone over his brandy.

  And yet, he couldn’t quite keep his eyes from straying to find the contessa.

  Sofia edged along the corridor, keeping to the shadows. The door to Concord’s study was unlocked—no need yet for the steel pick hidden among her hairpins. Slipping inside, she hurried to the desk. The drapes were drawn, so she ventured to strike a light to the candle by the inkwell. She would give herself five minutes, no more, to search the drawers. Though the gentlemen seemed engrossed in their pleasures, there was no point in taking chances.

  A riffling through the top two revealed little more than bills from a wine merchant and gaming vowels. The bottom one was locked, but it proved no match for her steel. At first glance, she saw nothing of interest, but on probing under a sheaf of estate papers, her hand brushed up against something hard and smooth. Drawing it into the light, she saw it was a gold snuffbox decorated with the same enameled poppy that crowned her key.

  Inside was a folded note …

  The rattle of the door latch gave her just enough warning. Shoving the box into her sash, Sofia quickly relocked the drawer and was just spinning away from the desk when a figure entered the room.

  She thought fast and tugged loose the silken ribbons of her bodice, allowing a tantalizing peek of her décolletage. Whoever it was, she trusted that the sight of rosy flesh would distract him from asking what she was doing alone, in her host’s private quarters.

  “Looking for something to read, Contessa?”

  Sofia laughed as she caressed the leatherbound books. “The party is rather a bore, Lord Osborne. I was seeking a distraction—and it seems you are of the same frame of mind.”

  The flicker of candlelight did not quite reach his face.

  “Perhaps we could make the night a bit more interesting,” she added coyly.

  “Is that an invitation?” His voice was as inscrutable as his expression. “I was under the impression that my advances were not welcome.”

  “A lady must sometimes play hard to get.” Hearing voices at the far end of the corridor, she took a step closer. “Most gentlemen are hunters at heart. They find the chase exhilarating.”

  “And when the quarry is cornered?”

  She reached out her hand and touched his jaw, smooth, strong, with just a faint hint of stubbling against her fingertips. “Then I expect the hunter will move in for the coup de grace.”

  Osborne hesitated for a heartbeat, then caught her up in his arms. His kiss was searing and sweet with the taste of brandy. She opened her mouth, allowing the heat to flood over her tongue.

  The trail of his lips slid to the hollow of her throat, the ridge of her collarbone. A moment later, his hands tugged the silk down across her skin, and he sucked in the tip of her breast. Fire tingled through her as he teased the sensitive flesh with his tongue.

  And then with his teeth.

  With a wordless moan, Sofia slid her hand inside his shirt, reveling in the smooth, slabbed muscle, the frizz of curls, fine as spun gold beneath her fingertips. A stud popped loose as she pulled at the tails of his cravat. Stumbling, they fell against the desk.

  Osborne lifted her, pushing away the pens and inkwell, and perched her derriere on the burled walnut.

  Sofia pulled her skirts up around her thighs and opened her legs, drawing him into the froth of lace and satin. The voices outside were closer now. She could hear the scuff of leather against the parquet floor.

  “Deverill!” Her knees clenched around his sword-slim hips. His arousal was hot, heavy against her.

  As the door to the study swung open, De Winton and Concord stopped short, their surprise limned in the light of the hallway scones. After an instant, it turned to leers.

  “Oh, dear!” Sofia made a halfhearted attempt to sit up. “It looks as though we’ve been caught in the act, my dear Deverill. How very naughty of us.”

  De Winton laughed.

  Osborne looked around. “Do you gentlemen mind finding another spot to enjoy your brandy and cheroots?”

  “But no other room offers quite such an interesting view,” drawled De Winton.

  “Indeed.” Concord smacked his lips. “Can’t we watch?”

  “Sorry,” said Osborne. “I don’t perform before an audience.”

  “Lud, if I were mounted on such a prime filly, I’d be happy to show off my skill in the saddle.”

  De Winton added his own lewd remark. But the ribaldry did not quite veil the look of malice in hi
s eyes. Had she made an enemy by appearing to favor Osborne over him? There had been no choice.

  “Nonetheless, gentlemen, the lady and I would prefer a bit of privacy,” replied Osborne. “If you please.”

  With a last snigger, they backed off and shut the door.

  Sofia smiled, though her heart was pounding so furiously that she feared it might shatter a rib. “Now, where were we, cara?”

  Osborne was still looking at the doorway.

  She tried kissing the corner of his mouth, hoping to arouse his passion again.

  He didn’t bite. “They’re gone. What was that you slipped into your sash?”

  “La, you are imagining things, Osborne,” she teased.

  “I saw the flash of gold as you hid it away, Contessa,” he insisted.

  “Your eyes deceived you, Osborne.” She threaded her hands through his hair. “It was merely the glint of my rings.”

  “Who the devil are you?” In the flickering shadows, his eyes were as dark as a storm-tossed sea.

  “What a strange question, sir.” She drew in a tiny gulp of air and tried to soften the shrillness of her voice with a light laugh. “Have you forgotten already which of your legion of admiring ladies you hold in your arms?” She nibbled at his ear. “Here, allow me to refresh your memory, Osborne. I am Sofia Constanza Bingham—”

  “I know what names you go by, Signora della Silveri,” interrupted Osborne. “The far more pressing question is what lurks beneath those silken lies.”

  “You are calling me a liar, sir?” She tried to sound outraged.

  “And a thief.” Without warning, his hand shot out and snagged the snuffbox from the sash of her gown.

  Sofia tried to grab it back, but he was too quick.

  Stepping back, Osborne held it up to the candlelight. “A pretty enough bauble, but there are more valuable pieces in the curio cabinet. Perhaps what is inside it is what interests you.” He started to open the lid …

  Damn. She had to make a split-second decision.

  Spin, step, lunge—in a blur of lashing limbs, she closed the short distance between them. A sharp blow to the jaw momentarily stunned him, allowing her hand to find his carotid artery. Her fingertips pressed against his pulse.

  Without so much as a sound, Osborne slumped to the carpet.

  “Sorry,” she muttered, straightening his unconscious form to a more comfortable position. Looking around, she quickly knocked a small bronze statue of a satyr from its marble plinth. When he came to, the evidence would indicate that he had suffered an accidental slip.

  “Sweet dreams, sir,” she added before retrieving the fallen snuffbox and hurrying from the room.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bloody hell.

  Osborne lifted his head from the carpet and winced. Lud, what the devil had hit him? Still groggy, he propped himself up on his elbows and looked around. His gaze locked on a squat bronze satyr lying close by. Was he really so clumsy? The recollections were awfully hazy. He had been holding a snuffbox but couldn’t quite recall what had happened next.

  After studying the marble plinth from several angles, he frowned. The geometry made no sense at all. He would have had to fall face-first into the damn thing, dislodge the statue, then spin around in the opposite direction. And yet, there was no other explanation, unless …

  No. Impossible.

  He rubbed gingerly at his jaw. In any case, the contessa had a great many questions to answer.

  Osborne got to his feet and dusted his trousers. She might have won this skirmish, but she was greatly mistaken if she thought he would slink from the field without a further fight. Warfare often called for feints and diversions. He would retreat tonight and let her imagine the battle was over.

  For a female, she possessed an unusual array of martial skills. However, a lady unschooled in the art of actual combat was likely to underestimate the enemy. Let them meet again, mano a mano, and then they would see who came out on top.

  Sofia backtracked from her first hiding place in the kitchen pantries and took up a position in the servant stairwell, watching and waiting for Osborne to leave the study. She flexed her fist, hoping that she hadn’t hit him too hard.

  She frowned. What if he was truly hurt? But after a moment of misgiving, she forced herself to squelch her sympathies. Duty came first. Osborne would have to take care of himself.

  Finally, he emerged from the room, moving with a slight limp. It served him right for interfering, she told herself. And yet, Osborne had served as an unwitting ally in distracting De Winton and Concord. Things might have turned a good deal hotter had he not obliged with his passionate kisses.

  Biting her lip, she looked around. Damn, it was risky. But she had to replace the snuffbox. Reading over the paper hidden inside had made the task even more imperative. The keyholders must not guess that she knew about this list. On it were the names of some suppliers, which Lynsley could begin to investigate. But what she needed was the names of the conspirators. And proof of their perfidy. Until then, she must give no hint that their operation was under suspicion.

  Sofia saw no shiver of movement in the corridor, save for the flicker of the wall scones. No sound stirred from within any of the rooms. She waited a heartbeat longer, and then satisfied that she was alone, Sofia eased the paneled door open.

  It took only a few moments to replace the gold box at the bottom of the drawer. As the steel pick teased the lock back in place, she lifted her skirts and hurried to retrace her steps.

  In and out. Just as the former jewel thief had demonstrated in the Academy classes.

  But in her haste to be gone, Sofia did not notice the silk sweep a scrap of paper under the desk.

  For some reason, Osborne lingered on the sidewalk rather than heading for the corner where he might flag down a passing hackney. The fog had thickened, its clammy touch like a chill finger at the back of his neck. Teasing a sense of prickling unease.

  But then, any thoughts about Lady Sofia stirred the sensation of dagger points dancing across his flesh.

  He turned and began walking, but after several strides, he realized what was amiss. The lady’s carriage was nowhere to be seen. And yet, he had distinctly heard her taking leave of the group in the drawing room as he had let himself out through one of the side entrances. He hesitated, then reversed directions, moving lightly across the cobbles. The street was dark, deserted. Frowning, he took up position in the gated archway to the adjoining garden.

  Perhaps she had other plans—an amorous assignation, another clandestine bit of thievery. It was none of his business, but curiosity kept him in place.

  He had not long to wait. The town house door soon opened, and Lady Sofia—unmistakable in her stylish scarlet-trimmed hooded cloak—came down the marble steps. She was alone, and as she reached the curb and looked both ways, it seemed clear that the absence of her horses and driver was unexpected.

  She waited a moment or two, a slim silhouette in the mizzle of moonlight, then turned for the alleyway leading back to the mews. Keeping close to the garden wall, Osborne shadowed her steps. The contessa was just disappearing into the gloom when out of the corner of his eye, he caught a sudden ripple of movement from up the side street.

  A pack of men materialized from the mists, running swiftly, silently over the slick cobbles.

  Footpads.

  Calling a warning, he raced into the alleyway and shoved Sofia against the wall. “Stay back,” he ordered, squaring himself to meet the attack. Four against one. Not the best of odds, especially as he was unarmed. He tightened his grip on his walking stick and dropped to a defensive crouch. Like them, he had no intention of fighting fair.

  “Run, Lady Sofia,” he muttered. “To the mews or out to Queen Street.” Surrounded as they were by walled gardens on either side, there was little chance of anyone hearing a cry for help.

  On spotting him, the lead footpad slowed to a walk. “Get out of the way, lest ye want yer fancy throat slit from ear te ear.”


  “And leave the lady alone with you filth?” replied Osborne. “I think not.”

  The footpad’s cohorts closed ranks to block any escape. “Filth?” snarled one of them. “It’s yer golden locks that will soon be soaking up the muck.”

  Osborne saw a glint of a knife.

  “Jem, you and ’arry see to the bitch. Me and Bill will take care of this toff.” The leader flicked a menacing slash.

  “Use yer blades rather than yer barking irons. No need to risk waking the street with a shot.”

  Likely not, thought Osborne grimly. But perhaps he could hold them off long enough for the contessa to raise the alarm. He fell back a step and let his hands drop, feigning a look of fear.

  Damn. Why wasn’t the lady running for her life?

  He shifted sideways, hoping to give her an extra second to slip away, but as the leader lunged out with a vicious slash, he had no more time for reflection. The sharpened steel was only inches from his chest when Osborne jerked up his stick and swung it down hard. Wood cracked against bone, sending the weapon flying. He ducked under the outstretched arm and smashed his knee hard into the other man’s groin.

  A scream shattered the silence, and the leader dropped like a stone.

  Osborne hit the ground as well, rolling to avoid a flailing kick. As his hand closed over the fallen knife, he saw a flash of red.

  “Run, dammit!”

  Sofia had flung off her cape and wrapped the thick wool around her arm. Using the makeshift shield, she was fending off the feints and slashes of her two assailants. Osborne swore again. Was she mad? Pitted against the two hulking brutes armed with cudgels and knives, she had as much chance of survival as a lamb being led to slaughter. In another instant …

  Before he could make a move, Sofia suddenly spun forward in a blur of whirling limbs and flaring skirts. One elbow caught the nearest man flush on the throat. He staggered back with a gurgling gasp, only to have a stiff-armed jab send him careening into the brick wall. Dazed, he slid down to his knees, blood spurting from his broken nose.