“Hurry,” called Osborne, shouldering open the front door.
The rush of fresh air was blessedly cool on her face. Sofia drew in a deep gulp, then turned back. “The guard—”
He shoved her outside. “I’ll get him.” The muffled thumps from beneath the stairs gave ample indication of where the Sikh was trapped.
Both men emerged a few minutes later, coughing and sputtering. She did not ask how Osborne had come to be holding the kirpan.
Looking rather dazed, the Sikh collapsed on the ground next to his unconscious employers, moaning in Hindi and stroking his singed beard. Osborne bent over and braced his hands on his knees, expelling a whoosh of air. “I don’t fancy the idea of attempting that again,” he said through cracked lips.
Sofia had no intention of allowing him to risk his life in the inferno. She had already angled herself for a run at the open front door. “Keep an eye on these three,” she called. “I’m going after Lady Serena.”
“The devil you are!” Spinning around, Osborne tried to grab her arm, but she eluded his grasp. His words, however, followed her into the house.
“Damnation, wait for me.”
Not bloody likely. Shoving the bolt into place from the inside, she headed up the stairs.
Mano a mano. This mission was no longer just about abstract ideals. Against all the rules, it had become intensely personal. Lady Serena had killed her cousin Robert and would have murdered the man she loved without batting an eye. Sofia dodged a falling timber. Come fire or brimstone, she would see to it that the lady did not escape justice.
Coals crackled beneath his boots as Osborne took the treads two at a time. The sword had proved useful in breaking the casement windows and cutting away the mullions. Still, the delay had cost him precious seconds. Squinting through the billowing clouds of soot and ash, he tried to make out which way Sofia had gone. Her dark clothing would make her difficult to spot in the swirling smoke.
A wall of flames drove him back from the study. There was no choice but to follow the corridor to the back of the town house.
“Sofia!” he shouted, trying to make himself heard above the roar of the fire.
A hiss of sparks seemed to mock his feeble effort. His throat was dry, and the heat was growing unbearable. Pressing a handkerchief over his mouth, he stumbled forward. For some reason, he had kept the kirpan in his hand, and though the brass pricked against his palm, he used it to steady his step.
“Stop!” The disembodied cry floated up from the back rooms. Silhouetted against a bank of arched windows, a quicksilver shape darted out from the doorway and ran for the servant stairwell. Following in hot pursuit was a sinuous smudge of black.
Osborne broke into a run, heedless of the falling plaster and spreading flames. He dared not imagine what filthy tricks Lady Serena might still have up her sleeve. And Sofia was armed with only her courage and her indominable sense of honor.
Hardly a fair fight.
He paused for a moment at the stairwell entrance, listening for whether the chase had gone up or down. A flurry of footsteps sounded overhead. The roof. It made some sense, he decided, picking up his pace. The blaze had likely drawn a crowd around the town house entrance—including the authorities. Lady Serena must have figured that her best chance of escape was to cross to one of the neighboring rooftops. From there, under the cover of darkness and confusion, it would not be very hard to slip away unnoticed.
A narrow hatchway opened onto a flat stretch of tiles. A low railing of Portland stone rimmed the perimeter, and from there a short but steep pitch of slates fell off on all sides. The footing would be treacherous in the darkness, observed Osborne. But it could be done.
His gaze rose, searching among the hide-and-seek shadows for Sofia. And Lady Serena. Plumes of smoke rose up to meld with the mizzled moonlight, giving an eerie, otherworldy glow to the night. It was just bright enough to show them emerging from behind one of the large chimney pots.
As he feared, Sofia was unarmed. Lady Serena did not appear to have a pistol, but she had not come away from her rooms empty-handed. In her fist was a thick, braided bullwhip.
The lash snapped out, falling a hair short of Sofia’s face.
She didn’t flinch. “You might as well surrender, Lady Serena, and avoid any further bloodshed.”
“What a naïve appeal. You really think I care about that?” replied Lady Serena as she recoiled the leather. “On the contrary, it would give me a good deal of pleasure to see your bones broken on the terrace stones below before I make my escape.”
“There is no escape,” said Sofia. “I won’t let you get away.”
The whip cracked again, forcing Sofia to cut back toward the chimney pot.
“Stand back, Sofia.” Osborne had stayed silent so as not to distract her, but he could no longer hold back. If Lady Serena sidestepped another few feet, she would have Sofia trapped. “She isn’t worth the risk. Let her go—she won’t get far with General Burrand’s men on her trail.”
“Men.” Lady Serena allowed a contemptuous curl of her lip. “I’ve outwitted all of them before.” She, too, had seen her advantage and moved quickly to her right.
The lash could only strike at one of them. Osborne was about to make a rush when Sofia flexed her knees and sprang straight up. Her hand caught the top of the funnel, and in an shadowy blur of somersaulting limbs, she launched herself into a backflip and landed lightly on the other side of the chimney.
“H-how …” Lady Serena fell back a step in surprise. “One would need wings to fly like that!”
“I am a Merlin.” Sofia reappeared as if by magic from the twisting tendrils of smoke.
“Sofia—” he began.
“It’s all right, Deverill. Let me handle this on my own.”
“You are a trained soldier,” he counseled. “Don’t make the mistake of allowing emotion to override the proper battlefield strategy.”
“Who the devil are you?” demanded Lady Serena, her eyes darting back and forth between the two of them.
“Someone who is more than a match for your own Machiavellian mind,” replied Osborne. He edged to the front parapet, hoping Sofia would see what he intended. “Like you, Sofia is not what she seems. She is a trained killer—and seeing that you murdered her cousin, Lord Robert Woolsey, she is not about to let you melt away into the night.”
“You lie,” said Serena. “The duke’s sons have no female children.”
“But the duke’s daughter did,” replied Osborne.
“Impossible!” whispered Lady Serena. “Elizabeth Woolsey died long ago, and she left no child behind.”
“Then I must be an avenging angel,” said Sofia.
As she spoke, she slipped to a position along the low stone railing. Her eyes met with his, and she gave a small nod. Lady Serena was now caught between them. She would have to turn one way or the other to wield her weapon, allowing one of them to pounce.
“Go to hell.” Lady Serena raised the whip but realized her dilemma.
Shouts rang up from the street below. Osborne recognized Marco’s voice among them.
“Give it up,” said Sofia. “In another few minutes, the authorities will have the street surrounded.”
“Admit defeat? Never. I never lose.” Lady Serena looked around, icily calm despite the fire of fury in her eyes. “Ha! I, too, can fly.” The leather snaked across the gap between buildings and curled around a decorative iron railing.
“Damn.” Osborne saw what she had in mind. Using the whip as a swing, Lady Serena could sail across to the lower terrace of the neighboring town house. From there, she just might have a chance to slip through the rear gardens before Lynsley’s men could circle the area.
A parting smile, and then Lady Serena jumped from the ledge, her flapping skirts creating the illusion of a great malevolent crow silhouetted against the pale plumes of smoke.
There was only one way to stop her. Gauging the distance, Osborne raised the kirpan. Its razored blade would slice thr
ough the leather—
“No.” Sofia caught his arm.
“But—” His words cut off as he watched the lash slowly slip from around the metal.
Lady Serena’s low laugh turned to a shrill cry as she realized what had happened. Her spinning fall ended with a sickening thud upon the town house terrace.
Osborne did not look down. Sofia stood beside him, her profile as still and solemn as carved marble. “Why did you stop me?”
“Physics,” she replied. “We trained countless hours in that trick, and if the leather is wet, there is no way it will hold.” She turned to face him. “And a far more personal reason. You are a man of honor. You would have regretted killing a woman when it was not in self-defense.”
“I had damn good reason to want revenge,” he growled.
“Revenge is not a good motive for taking a life.”
He touched her cheek. “You are right. There are far more compelling reasons for defending a life. Like—”
A lick of flames shot up from the trapdoor.
Sofia turned, an oddly tentative look on her face. “You were saying?” Her face was streaked with soot, and her hair fell in wind-snarled waves over her shoulders. No wonder firelight and the diamond-bright glitter of stars were considered romantic by poets and painters—she was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.
However, now did not seem quite the time for artful speeches from the heart.
“It can wait,” he murmured. “I would rather not go out in a blaze of glory.” His fingers brushed an errant curl from her cheek. “I hope your Academy training has included how to outmaneuver a raging inferno.”
Sofia smiled. “Follow me.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Lynsley rose from examining the twisted corpse on the terrace tiles and dusted the ashes from his fingers. “It is not quite the ending I would have chosen for this affair. But in certain ways, it may be for the best. The lady’s demise can be explained as an unfortunate accident, avoiding a sordid scandal for both the government and her family.”
“If you live by the sword, you must be prepared to die by the sword.” Osborne dropped the kirpan onto the ground.
Despite the tricky descent along the face of the adjoining town house, he had kept hold of the weapon. Like a knight out of the Arthurian legends, ready to do battle with a fire-breathing dragon. A slightly bedraggled knight, thought Sofia with an inward smile. No armor, no lance, no snow-white warhorse. Just himself—a flesh-and-blood hero, rather than a flight of fancy out of a storybook tale.
“Amen,” murmured Lynsley.
“Yes, I suppose she got what she deserved.” Sofia sighed, forcing her thoughts back down to earth. “And yet, I can’t help feeling some pity for her. What a shame such talents went to waste. Society gives women so few choices in life. To exercise her creativity, a female is forced into the underworld of Society. She must be a criminal or … someone like me.”
“You have a point,” murmured Lynsley. As several of his men approached to cover the body with a canvas sheet, he motioned for Sofia and Osborne to follow him out through the mews. The fire brigade had the flames under control, and amid the clatter of axes and jostling of the bucket brigades, Sofia saw the wounded prisoners being carried out through the side alley.
The marquess’s men would discreetly clean up, she thought grimly. By morning, the charred rubble would tell no tales of what had really happened.
“Bella!” Marco’s voice rose above the cacophony.
She turned to see him shoving his way through the crowd that had gathered to gawk. His claret evening coat was torn in several places, his cravat was missing, and his trousers were covered with mud. “Grazie a Dio,” he cried, clasping her to his chest. “You had me worried for a moment.”
“Things were a little warm,” she replied. “But thanks to Osborne—”
“Si! Prego, prego, amico!” Marco turned and gave Osborne a fierce hug as well. “Sorry,” he added, seeing Osborne’s expression. “I tend to forget my English manners when I get overwrought.”
“No apologies necessary,” said Osborne. “Indeed, I owe you one for thinking the worst of you.”
Marco waved off the words with a cocky grin. “Si, I can be an insufferable prick, eh? But it was all for a good cause.”
“Yes, it was.” The look Osborne gave her sent a prickle of heat down her spine.
Don’t be a fool, she chided herself. It was likely the residue of the drugs that had her imagining a spark of emotion in his eyes. A hallucination. Or simply the fleeting reflection of the burning building.
Deverill Osborne had acted out of duty, not devotion. He was a man of honor, of courage. A steadfast comrade, a gentle lover. He shared his strength with his friends. But as for his heart, she feared that it was wholly his own.
“Dev! Lady Sofia!”
Sofia looked up to see Harkness join them. “Damn, I’m glad to find both of you alive.” English restraint prevented him from repeating Marco’s exuberant display of emotion, but his clap to Osborne’s shoulder held fast for an extra moment or two.
“Thank you, Nick. With your help and a little luck, we managed to dodge the devil.”
“Not without getting a few scrapes,” said Harkness, observing Osborne’s lacerated cheek and bloodied shirt. “What in the name of Lucifer happened to you?”
Lynsley cut off the conversation with a brusque cough. “Sorry, gentlemen. Though I share your sentiments, I must cut short this touching scene in order to finish my official duties. Government questions must take precedence over personal ones.” Looking to Sofia and Osborne, he indicated the gate across the carriage way. “Please follow me. The house next door has been commandeered in order to direct the firefighting efforts. My assistant has arranged private rooms for us in the back wing.”
“What about De Winton and the others?” asked Sofia once they had gained the privacy of the garden.
“He and Sforza will stand trial for the murder of Lord Robert Woolsey,” answered the marquess. “Marco convinced Familligi to testify against them in order to save his own neck. With your evidence, they will go to the gallows. Andover, Concord, and Roxbury will be spending a number of years in prison on embezzlement charges.”
That she had helped root out the poisonous poppy conspiracy brought Sofia a measure of professional satisfaction. Their scarlet sins would soon be only a faded memory. As for her own performance, had she earned a passing grade? The marquess would have to be the judge of that, once he heard the full story. Mistakes had been made, and despite the hellfire heroics of the evening, there was still much left to be resolved.
“A messy business.” Lynsley closed the door to his temporary war room. “But, thankfully, it is finally at an end.” He sighed. “Well done. Both of you.”
“Thank you, sir,” began Sofia.
“Actually, it’s not over,” interrupted Osborne.
“Please, not just now, Deverill,” she said, fearing she knew what he was about to say.
Ignoring her warning, he went on. “A complication has arisen, Lynsley. One that can’t simply be swept under the rug, like the others.”
The marquess arched a brow. “Yes?”
“Shall I tell him, Sofia? Or would you prefer to do it yourself?”
She bit her lip, uncertain about … about everything. But perhaps Osborne was right—it was best to get it over with.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I seem to be, er, that is, it may be possible …”
“Bloody hell, you don’t have to apologize for who you are, Sofia.” All of a sudden, Osborne seemed to explode in anger. Eyes ablaze, he turned on Lynsley, his tone taking on an edge of sharp sarcasm. “Congratulations on a successful mission. But perhaps you ought to do a bit more checking up on the backgrounds of the urchins you pluck from the streets and thrust into harm’s way to do your dirty work.”
The marquess’s face darkened in a rare show of uncontrolled emotion. “You think me remiss in my duties? Do you imagine that I enjo
y sending the Merlins into danger?” His voice rose to a pitch she had never heard before. “You have been quite vocal in your criticisms, Osborne. Now, damn it, I expect you to explain your scurrilous accusation—”
“Gentlemen.” Sofia spoke softly, yet they both fell silent, looking a trifle embarrassed. “Really, there is no need to shout at each other.”
“I suppose that was an unfair blow, Lynsley. Accept my apology.” Osborne ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “Espionage is a nasty, dangerous business. However, Sofia has nothing but praise for your methods and motives.”
The marquess nodded stiffly.
“Besides,” he added with a wry grimace, “gentlemen ought not raise their voices in the presence of a lady.”
Lynsley’s brow pinched in question.
“Let us not make a Gothic tale of it,” blurted Sofia. “What Osborne means to say is that during the course of my investigation, I discovered that I may well be the Duke of Sterling’s granddaughter.”
“Sofia has a locket. Inside is a portrait of her mother—or so she was led to believe by the prostitute who raised her,” added Osborne. “It is an exact copy of the painting in Sterling’s private study.”
“Good Lord.” Lynsley’s expression mirrored her own initial shock. However, his surprise quickly turned into a rueful smile. “I confess, I try to plan for every contingency, but I never quite imagined this one. Though in truth, perhaps I should have expected that such a revelation might happen one day.”
Forcing a nonchalant drawl, she replied, “Why ever would you think that one of your ugly ducklings might turn into a swan?”
“So, it seems that our charade had a grain of truth to it, milady.” Lynsley pursed his lips. “Does Sterling know?”
She shook her head. “No, sir. I only just stumbled upon the possibility a few days ago. And to be fair, there is no real proof.”
“You are living proof, Sofia,” insisted Osborne. “The likeness is undeniable. Why fight it?”
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