The Scarlet Spy

by Andrea Pickens

  A giggle slipped from her lips. Her legs were still unresponsive, but her hands came suddenly alive with amorous intent, caressing at his crotch and trying to work free the fastenings of his trousers.

  “Mmmmmmm.” Her kiss missed the mark by several inches. “Y’ smell good ’nough to eat.”

  Osborne steadied her sway. There was indeed a cloying scent of sweetness in the air. Clove, cinnamon, and some earthier spices that threatened to suffocate his senses. The effect was unsettling, unpleasant.

  Realizing how deeply she was drugged, he slapped her face. “Sofia. Wake up.”

  She laughed, then frowned. “That hurt. Kiz me instead, Dev.”

  He evaded her lips. “Yes, sweeting, I’ll kiss you, but later. Let’s get some air.”

  Sofia slumped, her body going slack against his.

  “Mmmmm. Too tired t’ move. Let’s lie down.” Her speech was growing more slurred.

  Tilting her chin, Osborne saw that her pupils were dilated. He slapped her again, harder.

  The sting drew a flutter of life. She tried to lift her hands and push him away. “Yes, that’s it—fight back,” he whispered.

  Her groan was more of a slurred mewl. And after a moment, Sofia was once again limp as a kitten.

  Pushing through the red curtain, he moved into the foyer and looked around for a way out. The Sikh guard was watching the stairs, and even if he managed to slip past the man, the two hulking porters posted at the main entrance were certainly in De Winton’s pay. There must be another route of escape. He tried to think, but the sickening scent of the smoke was making him light-headed.

  “Sunshine!” Sofia’s head rolled backhand she stared at him with glazed eyes. Her pupils were nearly as big as saucers as her gaze drifted to the flaming wall sconces. Her face lit in a beatific smile. “Sunshine.”

  Keep moving, keep moving. There wasn’t a moment to lose. He had to prevent her from falling unconscious.

  A side door opened, and a naked man stumbled out, weaving a path for the Pipe Parlor. Following right behind him, a woman wearing only a leather thong crawled out on her hands and knees.

  “Any brandy left around here, luv?” she asked.

  He nudged a half-empty bottle over with his foot.

  “Yer an angel.” Grabbing the amber glass, the harlot looked up with a grin. “The great Golden Gabriel.”

  “Take it with my blessings,” he murmured. Craning his neck, he peered into the shadowed room. In the light of the single lamp, he could just make out a mattress on the floor, a tangle of silken sheets … and a window.

  Osborne forced a leering smile. “What say you to spreading your wings with me and m’ friend.”

  “The three of us?”

  He nodded, already angling Sofia through the narrow door.

  The harlot shrugged. “Why not? As long as I get to ride on top.”

  “Oh, I’ve got something even more fun in mind.” Propping Sofia against the wall, he began to knot the bedsheets together. “Here, give me a hand,” he said, tossing several to their new companion. “Tie them tight.”

  Comprehension dawned, along with a low titter. “We’re making a rope? Whattya got in mind, Gabriel? Tying us up?”

  “Something like that.” Osborne slid up the frosted glass and drew in a gulp of the fresh air. It wasn’t much more than a thirty-foot drop. The silk should be just long enough.

  Taking Sofia by the shoulders, he stuck her head outside. “Breathe deeply. In and out, like in your yoga classes,” he ordered, punctuating the command with a sharp slap to her derriere.

  The harlot giggled. “Me next.”

  “In a moment. But first, hand me your section.” He knotted the two lengths together. “Now hold this end.” Satisfied that the silk would hold, he smiled. “That should do.”

  She clapped and turned with a saucy wiggle of her bare bum. “Ye gonna spank me now, Gabriel?”

  “Yes. Lie facedown on the mattress.”

  The harlot did a swan dive atop the eiderdown duvet. “Ready when you are, luv,” she cooed.

  His first smack drew a delighted giggle.

  “Sorry,” he muttered under his breath, his hovering hand moving up to her throat. Her laugh gurgled to a snuffled sigh as he pressed hard at a point just behind her ear. “You’ll awake in several hours with nothing worse than a slight headache,” he added.

  Stepping over the harlot’s prostrate form, Osborne hurried to the window.

  “Sofia.” He slid the window up a notch.

  “C-cold,” she muttered through chattering teeth. Her arms were pebbled with goose bumps.

  “It’s good for you.” He snugged the silken sheet beneath her arms. “Try to stand, sweeting,” he coaxed.

  His words drew only a querulous mutter.

  “Damn it, Sofia. Snap to attention!”

  The martial command seemed to penetrate her fuzzed brain. Slipping, sliding, she mustered a modicum of control over her treacly limbs.

  “Hold tight,” he barked. After knotting the makeshift rope under her armpits, Osborne fisted her hands around the tail end. “Don’t let go until I say so.” He would be doing all the work in lowering her to the ground, but a flapping arm might smash a windowpane or draw unwanted attention.

  Adding a silent prayer that the porters did not keep a close eye on back of the building, Osborne maneuvered her out onto the narrow ledge. Once he braced himself against the stone, lowering her down took only a few moments. So far, so good. As soon as her feet touched the ground, he turned and took up a steel-handled whip from the collection of sex toys arrayed on the wall. The shaft was wider than the window, and once wedged inside the casement, it looked sturdy enough to hold his weight.

  Not that he had much choice. The great golden Gabriel was not about to sprout wings.

  After tying the end of the sheet to the shaft, he slithered out the window. Boots rasping over bricks, he slid down the wall as fast as he dared. Though the silk was soft, the friction burned and blistered his palms. Ignoring the pain, he wrenched Sofia free of the knots and shoved her forward.

  “March!” He mouthed a whispered shout. The fog was thick with the smells of the river, yet somehow the scent of rot and decay was not as noxious as the perfumed lies within the opium house.

  Sofia soldiered on a few steps, then stopped and gagged. Her eyes were going opaque.

  Fighting down a sense of panic, Osborne looked around. There was no time to make their way through the rookeries on foot. He needed to purge the poison from inside her. Already it might be too late. They would have to chance finding a hackney in the narrow street and hope they did not encounter De Winton or one of his henchmen.

  Lady Serena might also be in danger. The sudden thought caused his throat to tighten in frustration. He would try to send a warning, but until Sofia was safe, he could do nothing.

  Bloody hell. Why did the ladies he cared for seem drawn to danger? Osborne gave a harried sigh, admitting in the same breath that he couldn’t really blame the young widow for being seduced by the Scarlet Knights. Curiosity was a potent drug in its own right, and a lady of sharp intelligence had so little opportunity to explore the world outside the narrow boundaries set by Society. He, too, would have chafed at the rules and restrictions.

  “Oy, stay clear o’ me rig, nancy boy.”

  In the fog, Osborne had stumbled up against the wheels of a glossy black landau. The driver flicked his lash, the leather cutting a sting across his cheek.

  Before he quite realized what he was doing, Osborne set Sofia against the side of the cab and vaulted up to the perch. His fist smashed into the driver’s jaw before the man could wield the whip as a weapon. A second blow knocked him out cold. Cursing under his breath, Osborne dumped the limp body on the ground beside a stack of broken wine crates.

  “Next time, keep a civil tongue in your head,” he muttered. “Come, Sofia, we are almost there.”

  She didn’t make a sound as he lifted her to the seat. The silence sent a sh
iver down his spine. Grabbing the reins, he set the horses into motion, mindless of the pain shooting through his bleeding hands. Mayfair was much too far away, he thought as he guided the team through the twisting turns. Yet where in the godforsaken slums of Southwark could he look for help?

  His thoughts were spinning furiously as the carriage careened around the corner. Just ahead, he would have to choose which way to go. Left or right. Salvation or damnation. If Sofia died, he wasn’t sure he could ever live with himself.

  There was one place … It was a gamble, but he would have to roll the dice.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Praying he could recall the way through the squalid rookeries and broken-down gin shops, Osborne turned the horses toward the river. A stretch of warehouses loomed, dark and deserted in the ghostly mists. He counted the passing buildings. One, two, three … At the fourth, he turned sharply and pulled to a halt in front of a narrow brick house tucked between the stone structures. The ornate iron gate was slightly ajar, and he took the marble steps two at a time, despite the dead weight of Sofia in his arms.

  “Stop, sirrah! You cannot bring your own doxy in here.” A middle-aged matron hustled out from behind a velvet curtain. She was dressed in peacock blue, and the iridescent feathers in her graying hair fluttered wildly in the glow of the oil lamps. Her frown grew more pronounced on surveying his rumpled shirt and muddied trousers. “Indeed, you cannot bring yourself in here. This establishment caters exclusively to gentlemen—”

  “Harkness—I need to know if Lord Harkness is here.” Osborne fought to catch his breath.

  “We don’t discuss our patrons,” came the cold reply. “If you—”

  “Please! I need his help. This lady is going to die if I can’t purge the poison from her stomach. Harkness knows about such things.” He must have been shouting, for a pair of female faces suddenly peered out from behind the curtain, and several doors opened along the length of a dimly lit corridor.

  “She don’t look good, Mistress Mavis,” murmured one of the girls. “Best we get her te shoot the cat.”

  Osborne swayed slightly, feeling he was trapped inside some horrible nightmare. “Damn it, I don’t want any living thing to die!”

  “What Rosie meant, sir, is we got to get yer friend to cast up her accounts,” offered the girl’s companion.

  The matron’s stern face softened slightly. But before she could speak, the thud of steps sounded on the staircase.

  Osborne looked up. “Nick!” Relief welled in his eyes—to hell if tears were considered unmanly.

  His friend was barefoot and still trying to stuff his shirt-tails into his trousers. “Dev. Good Lord, what—”

  “I remember back in school you had a trick for making the other boys puke,” he cried. “Can you do it now?”

  Harkness blinked, then to his credit did not waste any time hemming and hawing. “Yes, the ingredients are all common enough.” Turning to the matron, he rattled off a list.

  She nodded. “They should all be among our medicinal supplies. Fanny, go fetch them from the cabinet. And bring a basin as well.” She pushed up the sleeves of her gown. “There is a sofa in the parlor. Let us lie her down there.”

  “My room is empty,” piped up Rosie. “A bed will be a mite more comfortable.”

  “Don’t just stand there, gentlemen.” The matron pointed the way. “First door on the right.”

  “Thank you,” said Osborne, his voice still unsteady.

  “What did she eat or drink?” asked Nick as they laid Sofia on the counterpane.

  “I—I’m not sure. Opium and brandy. Maybe some other drug.”

  “How long ago?”

  Osborne tried to think. It felt like an eternity since he had passed through the doors of the Puff of Paradise. But in actual time?

  “A little less than an hour.” A glance at the mantel clock confirmed the guess.

  Harkness frowned. “We need to work fast. By the look of it, whatever she ingested was meant to cause a violent reaction. Her pulse is weak, and her breathing is shallow.”

  “Sit her up,” said Mistress Mavis. “I’ve seen drug overdoses before. Rosie, run and get a cold compress. And fetch a funnel from the kitchen.”

  Osborne cradled Sofia in his arms and brushed the tangled strands of hair from her cheek. Her skin was deathly cool to the touch. “Don’t you dare leave me, love,” he whispered. “We’ve not yet settled our wager on who is the best shot, and honor demands that you not renege on a bet.”

  He felt a slight stirring of air against his jaw.

  Harkness squeezed his shoulder before moving to the bedside table. “I’ll need a candle and a measuring spoon.”

  “Keep talking to her, sir.” Despite the outward show of gruffness, Mistress Mavis took a seat on the bed and set to chafing Sofia’s hands. “Rosie, hand the gentleman that compress,” she directed, seeing the girl return with a dampened flannel. “Place it on her brow, sir. And keep talking.”

  Osborne wasn’t sure what he was saying. The words were simply babbling out of their own accord, as if they were a lifeline that could hold Sofia from slipping into darkness.

  “Hurry, Nick,” he added as he dabbed the cooling cloth to Sofia’s brow. Her earlier chill had turned feverish. Her face was now sheened in sweat.

  His friend held the spoon over the candle flame a moment longer. “Almost done,” he answered. Adding the heated liquid to the glass on the table, he stirred furiously. “How did such an accident happen?”

  “It was no accident,” answered Osborne through gritted teeth. “She uncovered some secrets that will send several gentlemen to the gallows, once the evidence becomes known to the authorities.”

  “Good Lord.” Harkness gave a last swirl of the liquid. “Open her mouth, Dev.”

  The matron slid his trembling fingers aside and helped insert the funnel. “Like this, sir. She mustn’t choke on her own tongue.”

  Harkness tipped the potion down her throat. “Be ready to move quickly, Dev. Where is the basin?”

  “Here, sir.” Rosie and Fanny took hold of each handle.

  Osborne felt his chest constrict. There was no sign of life from Sofia. She still lay pale and unmoving in his arms. “It’s not working, Nick.” His voice sounded unnaturally calm, as if it were detached from his own body.

  “Give it a moment more,” whispered his friend. Harkness was sweating, too, the muscles of his clenched jaw standing out in sharp relief in the flickering shadows.

  “Thank you for trying—”

  There was a sound from Sofia, a zephyr of a groan. Her eyelids fluttered open. “Arrrggh.” She shuddered, then was suddenly violently sick.

  A laugh welled up in his throat.

  “It’s not funny,” she gasped between retches. “Ooooh, I feel sick.”

  Sick, but alive. Gloriously alive.

  Sofia lifted her chin. Her eyes were slitted in shadow, and her hair was hanging in snarls. Never had she looked so lovely.

  “W-what happened?” she asked.

  “De Winton tried to kill you with an overdose of narcotics.”

  “Damn.” She blinked and tried to focus her gaze. “I … I have to—”

  He hugged her tighter and pressed the cloth to her lips. “Rest easy. You aren’t going anywhere tonight. I will find Lynsley and inform him of all that has happened. Let him clean out that nest of vipers.”

  She looked about to argue, but her strength sagged and she slumped back against his shoulder.

  Looking up at the circle of faces, he managed a wan smile. “Thank you—all of you.”

  “I’ve got a clean nightrail in me chest o’ drawers,” volunteered Rosie. “If ye gents will give us a few moments, we’ll see yer lady friend tucked in right and tight.”

  Harkness drew him into the corridor. Mistress Mavis followed along behind them and drew the door shut.

  “Might I impose on your goodwill a while longer, madam?” Osborne turned. “I must go warn the authorities before the mi
screants try to escape from the country.” He raked back his hair from his brow. “But even before I do that, there is another lady who may be in danger. That will be my first stop.”

  The matron gave a curt nod. “Your friend is safe here for the nonce.”

  “Who?” began Harkness.

  “Lady Sommers.”

  “You’ll need a coat and a carriage,” said Harkness. “Take mine.”

  “I’ve a fresh team right outside. But I’ll accept the loan of clothing.” His mouth twitched. “Sorry to leave you in the lurch, Nicky.”

  “I shall take care to see you pay me back. In spades.” His friend grinned. “Wait here. I’ll just be a moment.”

  There was a short silence, save for the patter of steps on the Oriental runner.

  “If, perchance, your female friend is looking for future employment …” murmured Mistress Mavis.

  Osborne smiled. “She has a job.”

  The matron sighed. “I do hope it is not with a competitor. Her beauty and body are quite unique.”

  “It’s in a different line of work.”

  “Ah. Well, good luck to her. And to you, sir.”

  Harkness returned and thrust a clean shirt and coat into his arms. “Godspeed.”

  Osborne nodded, but he was not going to count on divine help. He would crush the devils who dared harm Sofia with his bare hands if need be.

  “Ye best not try te move, miss.”

  Though still woozy from the effects of the narcotic, Sofia managed to sit up.

  “Here, have some more tea.” A pair of young women were hovering over her bedside, their kohl-rimmed eyes wide with concern.

  “Thank you.” Her throat was parched, and she gratefully sipped the sugared beverage. “I feel much better.”

  Both were blond and buxom, with rouged cheeks and painted lips that quickly curled up in matching smiles. “Thought ye were a goner,” said the one on the right.

  “Aye, and so did Goldilocks.” The one on the left winked. “Right handsome gent is that one. He your protector?”

  Osborne her protector? Sofia quirked a small smile. “I suppose you could call him that. Though we are more like … friends.”