The Scarlet Spy

by Andrea Pickens

  “I’ve brought the items you wish to see into one of the galleries.” He indicated a large writing table set between the display cabinets.

  “Thank you.” Setting her reticule aside, Sofia studied the antiques for a moment or two before choosing the icon and lifting it to the light. The wood panel was thick and blackened with age, though the paint pigments and gilding still had a luminous richness. St. George and the Dragon. Murmuring a silent prayer that she, too, could slay an evil threat, she carefully turned it over.

  Her fingers ran over the rough oak, feeling along the edges of the framing. She wasn’t exactly sure what she was looking for. Perhaps Lord Robert had merely been drawn by the art—

  Snick.

  A tiny lever moved, revealing a small compartment. Inside was a piece of folded paper. Edging a step closer to the leaded glass, Sofia turned slightly, just enough to hide her hand from the duke’s brooding gaze.

  “Anything of import?” he asked, noting her movement.

  It took only an instant to slip the hidden paper into her sleeve. She had decided beforehand to keep any discovery to herself. Not only would the knowledge distress the duke, but it might also put him in danger.

  “There is a crack in the edge, but on closer inspection, it looks to be quite old.” Sofia set the icon back on the table and reached for the statue.

  Clasping his hands behind his back, Sterling wandered to the far end of the casement and stared out at the gardens.

  An examination of the carved bronze revealed a similar hiding place. It was empty, but Sofia was satisfied that her hunch was correct. Robert had figured out how messages were passed from abroad to the London group of conspirators. It was a deviously clever plan. Not only was it safe from prying eyes, but also the means of transport was yet another way of making money. Andover would receive a handsome cut for his cooperation, but still, the business in expensive antiquities likely turned a profit for everyone involved.

  “Have you found any clues?” asked Sterling.

  Sofia shook her head. “Not that I can say. But thank you for the chance to see the items for myself.”

  Sterling nodded, then indicated the glass display cases. “Now that you are here, would you care to see my coin collection?”

  “Very much so, sir.”

  Sofia did not have to feign her enthusiasm as they made their way around the perimeter of the room. “It is a most fascinating collection, Your Grace.” The duke’s knowledgeable commentary and his obvious love of the subject had excited her own interest. Each face did possess its own individual character, each expression told a poignant story about the artist as well as the person portrayed in precious metal or clay.

  For a moment, she forgot about her own dilemmas while taking in the history of the past centuries. “Have you special friends among all these faces, sir?” she asked, staring in fascination at a set of golden sesterce depicting Julius Caesar.

  The duke led her through an alcove, which opened into an adjoining room. Like the larger gallery, it was paneled in sherry-colored wood and lit by a bank of large leaded windows. The afternoon light warmed the acanthus-leaf carvings and beaded molding to a mellow glow.

  “There is just one case of coins in here—my personal favorites,” said Sterling. “The rest of the art is simply family portraits.” His eyes strayed to the gilt-framed paintings on the far wall. “But I prefer this space to the formal splendor of the main library or drawing room. It is here that I come here to read. And to reflect.”

  “I can understand why.” Sofia touched the decorative detailing. A tip of the wooden leaf had been broken off, but judging by the smooth patina of the grain, the damage must have occurred a long time ago. “Even to a stranger, it feels welcoming.” She hesitated, loath to intrude on his privacy. Yet a sidelong glance at his lined face prompted her to add, “You must have many fond memories to think about.”

  He, too, reached out to finger the chipped leaf. “My daughter broke that with her brother’s cricket ball when she was ten. Her governess paddled her for the offense, but she said it was worth every stroke to have bowled over the lad at his own game.”

  Sofia smiled. “It sounds like she had an arm to be reckoned with.”

  “Aye.” As a slow sigh leaked from his lips, the duke seemed to deflate before her eyes. “And a will to match. She did not back down from a challenge. A fault, I fear, she learned from me.”

  “I think we all have flaws that we would alter, if that were possible,” said Sofia. “But we are human, sir, and far from perfect.”

  “You are most kind to offer such words of comfort. But looking back from the vantage point of my advanced years, it is the flaws that take on a sharper focus.” He gave a wry grimace. “Overweening pride, to begin with. Be glad you have no such sin to be ashamed of.”

  Lies and deceptions. Sofia was not proud of the fact that duty demanded she use false pretenses to cultivate a friendship with the duke. “I, too, have things I regret.”

  “None so unforgivable as hubris.”

  Avoiding his eye, she looked around the room again. “Let us not dwell on the dark side of life when there is so much light and beauty here. I should like very much to see more of the things that are dear to your heart.”

  “Yes, I am surrounded by the things I love,” he murmured. “Come, let me show you.” He offered his arm and crossed the carpet. “This is Robert, my grandson, done when he was ten.”

  The painting showed a winsome young boy mounted on a large pony. Though his boots did not quite reach the stirrups, he gripped the reins with a dogged determination.

  “I see a great deal of you in him,” she said after studying the shape of the boyish chin and the squint of the sky-blue eyes.

  “My son George’s child,” he mused. “He was a young man of passion and principle. I find it impossible to believe he frittered away his talents in drugs and dissipation.”

  Sofia remained silent.

  Sterling sighed, then moved on past several other portraits—twin granddaughters frolicking with a pair of pug puppies, a young man in his Eton robes with a cricket bat on his shoulder. Stepping around a set of Tudor bookcases, he led Sofia to another part of the room.

  “And here are my children. John is my eldest son and heir.” His gesture indicated a solemn face, its austere planes softened only slightly by a fringe of fair hair. “Next to him you see George, the adventurer of the family, who is currently the Governor-General in Jaipur.”

  The duke shuffled a step. “And Elizabeth …”

  The rest of his words were drowned out by a sudden roaring in her ears. Overcome by a wave of dizziness, Sofia swayed slightly, feeling like a thousand little dagger points were prickling against her flesh. Then there was only a chilling numbness, save for the hammering of her heart against her chest.

  “Lady Sofia.”

  She was only dimly aware of the duke’s agitated voice.

  “Lady Sofia!” He steadied her buckling knees. “Dear Lord, what’s wrong? You look as if you have seen a ghost.”

  Though still in the grip of shock, she managed to loosen her tongue enough to speak. “Forgive me, I … I don’t know what’s come over me. I feel a trifle unwell.”

  The duke helped her to the sofa and rang for a servant. “Fetch a maid and some hartshorn, Givens,” he called to the footman who answered the summons. “Quickly!”

  “Thank you, but I don’t need any vinaigrette, Your Grace. It was just a fleeting faintness. The moment has passed.”

  “Don’t try to rise yet.” He pressed her shoulders back against the damask pillows, then rose and threw open the casement. “Perhaps a breath of fresh air will help.”

  “Yes,” she murmured. “It is a trifle warm in here.”

  Sterling returned with a glass of sherry. “Drink this,” he commanded, thrusting the glass into her hands.

  Sofia sipped gratefully at the fortified wine. Falling into a dead faint only happened in the pages of a horrid novel. She was not a peagoose
heroine but a full-fledged Merlin.

  And yet the plot was beginning to rival the gothic twists and turns of Mrs. Radcliffe’s wildly popular books. A mysterious locket, a foundling child, a wealthy duke …

  A kindly grandfather?

  “Feeling better, my dear?”

  “Yes, much,” she lied.

  “Perhaps I should summon a physician. You are still looking awfully pale.”

  “Please, there is really no need for that. I am merely overtired. I fear I am still not quite accustomed to the late hours of London life.” Taking a deep breath, she rose and smoothed out her skirts. “Again, I apologize for such a silly show of weakness. I shall take my leave and return home for the rest of the day. A hot posset and a nap are the only medicines I require.”

  “The swirl of London Society can be dizzying, even to those accustomed to a fast pace.” His lined face wreathed in concern as he offered the support of his arm. “You must promise me that you will cancel any social engagements for the evening, else I shall be forced to come stand guard on your doorstep.”

  “You have my word of honor, Your Grace. The only activities I will indulge in are sipping hot chocolate and reading.”

  “I am relieved to hear it. Still, perhaps I ought to escort you home, just to make sure—”

  “No!” The last thing Sofia wanted was to prolong the encounter. “That is, my carriage is right outside, sir. I feel badly enough about my show of weakness without putting you to any further trouble.”

  “It is no trouble at all. As if you should feel compelled to apologize. Good heavens, my dear, you are a woman, not a warrior.” However, sensing her agitation, Sterling relented with a sigh. “But I shall respect your wishes.”

  Accepting his arm, Sofia somehow managed to maintain her poise and make polite conversation, though she had no recollection of passing from the duke’s private study to the entrance hall.

  It wasn’t until the carriage door fell closed and the wheels started over the cobbles that she allowed her resolve to waver.

  “God help me,” she groaned, pressing a fist to her lips. Everything about this mission seemed to be spinning out of control.

  But after a moment or two, she blinked the tears from her lashes. She couldn’t look for divine intervention.

  A Merlin must overcome adversity on her own.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Tattooed women?” Major Fenimore stretched out his legs and signaled the club porter to bring more claret. “I take it this is some sort of joke.”

  “No, I’m deadly serious,” replied Osborne. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Within the atmosphere of White’s—a decidedly masculine mix of cigar smoke, leather, and gruff laughter—the suggestion did sound absurdly fanciful. However, he refused to be silenced by his friend’s wagging brow. “Look, it’s rather important.”

  “Very well, I’ll ask around,” said the major. “But you will owe me a rather big favor, seeing as I’ll likely end up the butt of ridicule.”

  “Agreed.” Slanting a glance around the reading room, Osborne muttered, “Anyone else I might approach?”

  “Without thinking you ought to be hauled off to Bedlam?” Fenimore rubbed at his jaw. “I suppose you could search out Porter and see what he knows on the subject. There was an incident in Antwerp a year ago involving a female that was all very hush-hush.”

  “Does he still favor that gaming hell off St. James’s?”

  “As far as I know.”

  Osborne rose abruptly.

  “You haven’t finished your wine.”

  “Sorry. I’m in a bit of a rush tonight. Put the bottle on my bill.” Leaving his friend looking a bit miffed, he hurried out to the street and flagged down a passing hackney.

  It took several stops, but Osborne finally tracked Captain Joshua Porter to a place in Seven Dials favored by the House Guards. The officer was engaged in a heated game of dice, but a few whispered words convinced him to relinquish the ivories for a short while.

  “This had better be important,” groused Porter. “I was on a winning streak.”

  “A matter of life and death,” assured Osborne, thinking of the street thugs and their flashing blades. “And a certain lady …”

  A family resemblance? Sofia stared at the looking glass, wishing for some tangible proof of her suspicions. A black tattoo marked her as a Merlin—if only there was some equally indelible badge of birthright.

  Sighing, she dropped her eyes to the locket, musing on vagaries of fortune and family. It could be mere coincidence rather than any real proof of her parentage. There were a myriad of explanations for how the aging prostitute who had sheltered her as a child might have come by the bauble. As for her resemblance to the portrait …

  Sofia smoothed down the lace ruffle of her nightrail and took another long look at her own reflection. No question that the raven-dark hair and green eyes were similar, but other than that, it was impossible to say for sure. Was there a shade of Elizabeth Woolsey’s smile in her own lips? A similar slant in the cheekbones? The truth was already blurred by an artist’s interpretation, the passage of time, the fading of memory.

  Even the duke might see only what he wanted to see.

  As for the story of how she had come to the run-down bawdy house, Sofia had no idea of how much was fact and how much was fiction. Sally Edwards, the lightskirt in question, had a romantic streak, as evidenced by her taking responsibility for a child, despite the hardships of her profession.

  Sally had always claimed that her sister Mary had arrived one night, bearing a baby and a tale straight out of a penny-sheet novel. Her employers—a highborn young couple cast out by their families for eloping—had succumbed to a sudden epidemic of influenza. On her deathbed, the mother had passed the locket to Mary, along with a name. But as chance would have it, Mary had sickened, too, and by the time she had made her way to the alleyways of St. Giles, she was too ill, too rambling to recall what it was.

  Sally’s sister had not survived the night, but the story had taken on a life of its own. Sofia felt her lips quirk up at the corners. The other lightskirts had all called her “Princess” and loved to talk about how someday a handsome prince would ride up to rescue her from the sordid streets of the slums.

  Sofia sighed. Perhaps she really was a highborn lady. And perhaps the prostitute had merely woven a fanciful fairy tale around a locket she had found in the muck.

  The truth might never be known. She, of all people, knew how elusive absolutes could be. Her training had taught that often one had to be pragmatic and accept that life was not always so clearly defined.

  Her two roommates had been tough enough never to brood over their unknown bloodlines. Maybe because they had never possessed any tantalizing link to their past. Sofia wasn’t sure whether her talisman was a blessing or a curse. Sometimes the painted portrait only mirrored the sense of elemental loss and pain she felt at having been abandoned—not once, but twice. Sally Edwards had been a kind yet casual guardian. When the chance arose to retire and return to her native Yorkshire, the lightskirt had been frank about the fact that a child could not fit into such a future.

  Well, she was just as tough as her fellow Merlins. She had survived by making herself strong in both body and spirit.

  Snapping the gold case shut, Sofia carefully coiled the chain and tucked the locket back into her jewel case. She could not afford to become entangled in personal questions when there were so many other conundrums and conjectures to sort out.

  Don’t think of the past or the future. Only the present.

  Tomorrow would certainly test her skills. After reading over the paper discovered in Lord Robert’s antique, she had decided to break the normal chain of communication and request a face-to-face meeting with Lord Lynsley. He would not take the change lightly—her instincts had better be right about the urgency of the matter.

  But however intimidating, the marquess was not her most formidable challenge. Later in the day, she was also due to promenade
in the park with De Winton. So, rather than expend her strength fretting over her heritage, she must harden her heart and sharpen her steel for the coming confrontations. The duke was wrong—she was a woman and a warrior.

  And as a well-trained soldier, she knew it was best to fight one battle at a time.

  “I can’t tell you more than that.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” snapped Osborne, who was growing tired of being held at arm’s length by everyone around him.

  Porter made a face. “Don’t bite my head off. I am as much in the dark as you are about what really happened in the alleyway. Our operative swears it was a lady who appeared out of nowhere to save his life. A lady who looked like an angel and fought like a devil.”

  The description certainly sounded familiar.

  “But you know Whitehall,” continued the captain. “Everyone in that warren of weasels seems to keep his activities a closely guarded secret, even from the other departments. You would think that General Burrand’s staff was the enemy, the way they withhold vital information from us.”

  “I know exactly how you feel,” murmured Osborne. “Though I suppose that intelligence is a tricky business. They must be careful about who knows what.”

  “What they should be careful about is sticking their heads too far up their arses,” replied Porter with some sarcasm. “By the by, you have not yet said exactly why Lord Lynsley sent you to ask about Antwerp.”

  “Something to do with smuggling and a foreign princess in distress, I believe,” replied Osborne, the half-lies slipping smoothly from his tongue. He flashed a self-deprecating smile. “But then, I’m just the errand boy. He doesn’t tell me much.”

  Porter gave a bark of laughter. “To hell with him, then.” The rattle and roll of the dice grew more rapid. The captain flexed his fingers, clearly itching to rejoin the game. “Care to stay and try your hand? Maybe Lady Luck will treat you better.”