The Scarlet Spy

by Andrea Pickens

  “Don’t stop,” she whimpered.

  “Not if the devil himself demanded I do so,” he replied, lifting her up a fraction.

  Purring like a hungry kitten, she twisted against his grasp.

  His hands fell away and then he was inside her.

  Sweet Jesus.

  Sofia stilled for a moment, then her hips began to rise and fall. Holding back a grunt of triumph, Osborne willed his body to match her rhythm. He felt her breasts grow aroused, the tips like points of fire against his fevered hands. She cried out again as he teased them with slow, circling caresses. How perfectly she fit in his palms, as if made for him.

  It was all he could do to keep from coming completely undone. There was a sinuous, sensuous beauty to the sleek stretch of rippling muscle, the hint of callus on her fingertips. A Goddess of War, leaving a trail of sparks in the misted moonlight.

  Osborne shivered, awash in her liquid heat. He had experienced a good many sexual trysts, but nothing quite like this. The connection seemed more than fleshly, the need more than casual lust. Something about her strength, her spirit, touched him in a place he had always kept private.

  As the tempo increased, their bodies seemed innately in tune. He was acutely aware of her wonder—and his own—at what was happening between them. A poet might describe it in a lilting ode to love.

  That word again.

  Closing his eyes, Osborne willed himself not to think of such things. Friendship he gave freely to his lovers—it was, he knew, a part of his charm. Up until now, he had never felt the need for anything more. Need was rather frightening.

  For an instant, a wild, desperate laugh rumbled deep in his throat. He used laughter to guard against the unknown. To give himself completely seemed daunting. Perhaps because it required him to look deeply into his own soul, and he wasn’t sure he liked what he saw. Everyone else did, because they saw the surface, the good humor, the bon mots.

  He had never shared the darker side, the doubts.

  “Deverill!” Sofia’s smoky plea roused him from his mordant reveries. Her voice sounded stretched to the breaking point.

  Time enough later for introspection. A truce. With his own demons, his own doubts. For now, he would surrender himself wholeheartedly to the strange alchemy that Fate had forged between them.

  Perhaps it was only fool’s gold. But for the moment, it was exquisitely real.

  “Ohhh, I feel I am about to shatter into a thousand shards,” she cried, her eyes aglitter in the flickering candle flame.

  “Hold on to me, Sofia,” he rasped. “I will keep you safe and whole.”

  She clutched at his shoulders, her hair falling over his chest like a shower of silky soft midnight rain. His hips surged up from the stone, meeting her need with his own. She was riding him hard and fast now. Whipped to a frenzy, his heart was pounding at a furious pace.

  A last rise and fall, and Osborne felt the tension within her crescendo into a shuddering release. He heard her wordless wonder and his own voice joining in hoarse exultation.

  Somehow, a small vestige of reason remained, allowing him to pull her off of him in the nick of time. He rolled on his side, his body spent, his lungs heaving as his climax spilled onto the rumpled wool of his coat.

  For a lingering instant, a single drop of his seed clung to the tip of his manhood, a pale, perfect reminder of what they had shared. Two bodies, coming together as one.

  “Cara.” Sofia was touching him, stroking his shoulders, his neck, the length of his spine.

  Osborne turned back and kissed her lightly on the forehead before gathering her into his arms. Moonlight danced over their sweat-sheened limbs. Closing his eyes, he was suddenly aware that he hadn’t ever felt such profound peace in his life.

  It was exhilarating—and frightening.

  Her whisper, a teasing, tantalizing mix of English and Italian, tickled against his ear.

  Truth and lies. Who was she, this lady who was stealing not only expensive baubles but also his heart?

  So many questions. But mystery could wait until morning. For the moment, he would savor the quicksilver magic of these midnight hours.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sofia awoke to the sound of rain pattering against the glass. Or was it simply the lingering thrum of her heart, beating a soft tattoo against her ribs? She shifted on the coat, only to find the curve of her spine nestled against Osborne’s chest.

  The intimacy felt oddly comforting. As if that made any sense. In truth, she wasn’t sure she was thinking all that clearly. Had everything changed? Or nothing at all? Every inch of her body felt somehow different. She was no longer a maiden, but a …

  She was a Merlin, she reminded herself. With a difficult, daunting mission to complete. She flexed her bruised knuckles. Not that she needed a mental scold to remind her of the dangers she faced.

  “Awake, are you?” Dawn was just beginning to tinge the night sky, so Osborne’s expression was impossible to discern as she turned in his arms.

  “Yes,” replied Sofia, grateful that the shadows hid her own face. “And we had best dress quickly and be gone from here. The servants will soon be up and about their daily chores.”

  “Not so fast.” He shifted his body to block her escape. “We have yet to talk, Sofia.”

  “There is no time—” she began.

  “There’s time enough for certain explanations.” He touched the tiny black hawk above her breast. “Beginning with this.”

  Sofia parried with a question of her own. “How much do you know about my tattoo?”

  “Ah, are we back to being at daggers drawn?”

  Was the edge in his voice disappointment? She let out a sigh. “I—I don’t want to fight you, Deverill.”

  “But you don’t want to trust me either.” The curve of his lips hardened. She wished to reach out and soften the sardonic twist.

  “It’s not a matter of trust,” she replied. “I don’t want to draw you into danger. You were forced to risk your life because of me tonight.”

  He hesitated, looking uncertain of what to say. When finally he spoke, it was half question, half statement. “You are involved in a ring of thieves.”

  “Yes,” she admitted, deciding there was no point in denying it. “I’ve been sent to steal some valuables.”

  “By whom?”

  “That is not important,” she said quickly. “What does matter is that it is a difficult, dangerous job.”

  The rain had stopped, and for an instant the only echo off the glass was of silence. Then his gaze locked with hers. “Perhaps I can help.”

  Osborne kept surprising her. But much as the idea was intriguing, she forced a shake of her head. “The golden Lord Osborne seized by Bow Street Runners for robbing the mansions of Mayfair? Think what a scandal such headlines would stir.”

  He shrugged. “I would not be around to read them. I would be on a transport ship to Botany Bay.”

  “It’s no joking matter,” she said, seeing the tiny twitch of his mouth. “I am deadly serious.”

  “As am I.” He laced his hands behind his head. “Think of it—I am intimately acquainted with the ton. I know their habits, their homes, and in the case of some, their most intimate hiding places.”

  “Don’t be daft.” Sofia watched the play of rain-washed light, pale and pearlescent, limn his profile. Its softness seemed to bring out the subtle strength of his features. He was no longer just a handsome face, a smoothly sculpted Adonis, perfectly polished but devoid of real character.

  She forced her eyes away. “Why would you hazard your reputation for a share of ill-gotten gains? You have no need of money.”

  Osborne leaned in closer. “Oh, something tells me you are not doing this simply for money, Sofia.”

  “W-what makes you say that?”

  “I consider myself a good judge of character.” A flicker of moonlight glinted off his lashes. “It is not greed that that makes you so passionate about your pursuit.”

  “My reasons ar
e mine alone.” His probings were coming far too close for comfort. She must find a way to deflect him. “You haven’t thought about the risks.”

  “You think me too devoted to my creature comforts to chance a bit of danger? Too settled in my drawing-room manners?” His voice had a rasp of roughness to it.

  “I am not questioning your courage, Osborne.” Sofia sighed. “Merely your sanity. You would be a bloody fool to involve yourself in this affair.”

  He turned slightly, fixing her with a storm-blue stare. “I already am.” His tangled locks shadowed his expression. “It is Osborne now? That seems rather distant, seeing the intimacies we have shared.”

  The space between their bodies was mere inches, but Sofia knew that there was a chasm he could not be allowed to cross. Duty demanded she keep him from coming too close. “That was … nothing personal. As you said, the heat of battle does strange things to the blood.”

  “Nothing personal?” he repeated. “So I was merely a convenient means of cooling your fire?” His face froze in a sardonic smile. “Dear me, I feel you have taken unfair advantage of me, Contessa.”

  Sofia felt a dull heat flush her cheeks. “Th-that’s not precisely what I meant.”

  “What, precisely, did you mean? For I confess, I am having trouble discerning your true sentiments from all the tangle of lies.”

  “I work alone.” She shivered, suddenly aware of being naked beneath his gaze. Groping among the discarded clothing, she found her chemise and clutched it to her breast. “Let us leave it at that.”

  Osborne caught her wrist. “I don’t intend to be dismissed so easily. You promised some answers, and I mean to hold you to that.”

  She tried to break away, but he held fast. “That black bird on your breast—what the devil does it signify? Are you part of some secret army? Some force of … of …”

  “Of trained killers?” Sofia finished his faltering words with a scoff. “Good Lord, Osborne, perhaps you should turn your hand to writing novels. You have a lurid enough imagination for the job.” Seeing his anger flicker to uncertainty, she went on the offensive. “What will you accuse me of next—being a foreign assassin sent to cut Prinny’s throat?”

  He had the grace to flush.

  “Now please let me go.” The rattle of a coal scuttle in the main corridor punctuated her demand.

  His grip fell away. “You are sharp as steel—that is for sure, Sofia. Again I shall retreat, so as not to sully your name. But don’t be so sure you have seen the true test of my mettle.”

  Ignoring the raised eyebrows of document clerks, Osborne stormed through the copyroom and turned into Lynsley’s office.

  This time, the secretary managed to intercept him in the anteroom. “His Lordship is not available,” said the young man, moving with great agility to block the path to the closed door.

  Osborne stopped just short of bowling him over. “Is he away, or is he simply refusing to see me?”

  The answer was fittingly evasive. “The marquess is not at his desk.”

  He glared at the young man, who did not flinch. “Tell him I called,” he said, deciding that it was unfair to vent his spleen on someone who was simply doing his job. Tossing his card on the side table, he added, “It is a most urgent matter.”

  “I will give His Lordship the message when he returns.”

  “Let us hope he is not on a slow boat to China,” muttered Osborne under his breath.

  The secretary kept a straight face. “I think I can safely say that the marquess is not currently engaged in any diplomatic dealings with the Forbidden City.”

  “But of course you are not allowed to tell me his whereabouts.”

  The young man gathered up an armload of files. “Is there anything else I can assist you with, Lord Osborne?”

  “Good day,” he growled.

  Quitting the warrens of Whitehall, he made his way to White’s. But several glasses of the club’s best brandy did nothing to quench the fire in his belly. Indeed, his anger had risen from a slow simmer to a point perilously close to a boil.

  Explosive might be a more apt description, he fumed as he took another gulp of the spirits. It was ironic, seeing as he was known for his calm demeanor, his dispassionate view of the Polite World. However, he was anything but detached these days.

  What had prompted the odd offer of helping the contessa? She was right. It was absurd to think of him as a cracksman—though in truth he did know a number of flash houses, where stolen merchandise was fenced, on account of having friends among the lower circles of Society as well as at the top.

  Why did he care so passionately about Sofia? It was hard to explain, even to himself. She had an unwavering courage and a sense of conviction he found immensely admirable. Opposed to his own recent sense of aimlessness. Of drifting, with no real purpose besides casual amusement to his life.

  Shifting uncomfortably in the reading room armchair, Osborne tried to concentrate on the latest war dispatches from the Eastern front. Finally, he tossed back the last swallow of his drink and slapped down the newspaper.

  “Aye, the news is grim enough to drive a man to strong drink.” Colonel Edwards, an adjutant on General Burrand’s staff, looked up from his magazine. “Kutusov appears to be as spineless as the rest of the Russian officers. Bonaparte is now taking supper in the Kremlin. In another month, he’ll be skating on the canals of St. Petersburg.”

  His own mood was on thin ice, so Osborne simply nodded, hoping to avoid a lengthy discussion on military tactics.

  “What the Tsar needs is some officers who are unafraid to match wits with the Little Corsican.”

  “True.” Osborne silently signaled to the porter for his gloves and walking stick.

  “Someone with the boldness and bravery of, say, your friend Lord Kirtland.” Edwards pursed his lips. “Has he returned yet from his wedding trip to Italy? I have some reports from the Peninsula that I wouldn’t mind asking him to read over.”

  “No, he has not.” He was halfway out of his chair but sat back down. “Tell me, Edwards, do you recall the name of Kirtland’s bride?” He had been in Scotland at the time of his friend’s sudden wedding and knew precious little about any of the details. Kirtland was a very private man to begin with, and his letters were even less revealing. The only message the earl had left before departing for the Continent had been a maddeningly short missive dropped off at Osborne’s residence—Married. Will explain when I return from Italy.

  “Er …” The colonel tapped at his chin. “Some city name … ah, yes, Siena, it was.”

  Siena. Osborne nodded. “Family name?”

  “Haven’t a clue. Don’t think it was ever mentioned.”

  “No matter.” This time, he rose in earnest. “One last thing, I’ve been given a message to pass on to Lord Lynsley. I don’t see him here tonight. Any idea where he resides? The family town house on Grosvenor Square does not look to be in use.”

  The colonel slanted a look around before answering. “The marquess prefers quieter quarters while in London. I know you’ve been working with Fenimore on the Prussian problem, so I daresay you can be trusted with the information.” Lowering his voice even more, he murmured an address on a quiet side street off Dorset Square.

  “Thank you.”

  A short while later, Osborne shouldered past the startled footman. “I don’t care if he’s taking tea with the Prince Regent or sleeping with the Queen of Sheba, tell Lynsley I want to see him.” He tossed his hat on the sideboard. “NOW.”

  “No need to shout, Osborne.” The marquess appeared at the head of the stairs. “Do come up.”

  Osborne shrugged out of his overcoat and took the carpeted treads two at a time.

  Lynsley ushered him into a small study.

  The room had a comfortable coziness to it. A large pearwood desk was piled high with books and official-looking document cases, but the silver penholder was a dragon, which looked rather whimsical with the ebony shafts bristling from its jaws. The same juxtaposi
tion was evident in the mahogany bookcases lining the walls. Softening the hard-edged planes was an eclectic mix of mementos from faraway places—Cossack daggers, Saracen jambiyas, African masks, Etruscan artifacts. The sideboard held an assortment of ruby ports and tawny sherries, their rich colors mellowed by the glow of the fire blazing in the hearth.

  The marquess mirrored the informality of the room. His collar was open, his shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows, his feet encased in Moroccan slippers. Stepping over the sheaf of documents that lay on the carpet, he resumed his place in one of the leather armchairs by the fire and gestured for Osborne to do the same.

  “Help yourself to a glass of spirits.” Lynsley’s voice betrayed no surprise or surliness at having his private retreat invaded.

  Did nothing disturb the dratted fellow’s sangfroid?

  “No. Thank you.” Osborne remained on his feet.

  “Is something amiss?” To his irritation, the marquess picked up a packet of notes and began perusing the pages.

  “Other than the fact that the contessa is a jewel thief?” he shot back sarcastically. “And nearly had her throat cut by four footpads last night?”

  The marquess didn’t look up. “As I told you before, the contessa is an independent lady. She is not subject to your censure or mine. If I were you, I would not involve myself in her private life. It seems that she can take care of herself.”

  “Don’t patronize me. I’m not some snotty-nosed schoolboy.” Osborne stalked to the fire and set a boot on the brass fender. “I’ll not be fobbed off with a little lecture and sent on my way.”

  “Then let me phrase it a bit differently,” said Lynsley. “You have done what I asked. Now please leave the lady alone.”

  “I’m bloody tired of being used by you—and by her.” He was now perilously close to shouting. “I want some answers, Lynsley.”

  A sigh. “What are your questions?”