The Spy Wore Silk

by Andrea Pickens

  “Refined my arse,” muttered Shannon, much to the amusement of the others. “It would take a sledgehammer and chisel to sculpt me into any semblance of a drawing-room miss.”

  “Appearance is not the problem.” Sofia regarded her friend’s Valkyrean figure and shook her head. “Lord, I’d kill to have your bosom. It’s a question of attitude. If you would put your mind to it—”

  “Need I remind you again?” warned Miss Clemens. “One more infraction for tardiness, and the three of you will be mucking out the stables for a month.”

  “Hell, I would rather concentrate on riding and rapiers than on the proper way to curtsy to a duke,” grumbled Shannon as the three of them took the stairs two at a time and raced to their room.

  “As would I.” Siena slipped out of her shirt and breeches. “But to be effective, we must be well schooled in the more subtle forms of warfare.”

  “Easy for you to say,” shot back Shannon. “You seem to have a natural talent in the classroom as well as on the fencing field.” She made a face. “Lord, you even excel in art history.”

  “I find the subject interesting, don’t you?”

  Shannon shook her head. “Not unless the paintings portray some of the more esoteric uniforms or weaponry of the period.”

  “La, Nonnie is right, Siena. You should have been to the manor born,” teased Sofia. “A fine lady, with nothing better to do all day than dabble in watercolors and collect priceless paintings.”

  “Ha—in another moment you’ll be collecting my boot up your backside,” retorted Siena. She turned quickly, using a laugh to mask the

  fact that the barb had struck a sensitive nerve. As she reached for her chemise, she caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the looking glass. Cheekbones sharp as sabers, lashes dark as gun powder, gaze guarded as the Crown Jewels. Fighting had become second nature. And she was good at it.

  But Shannon was right—a number of subjects seemed to come naturally to her, especially art. She liked the way it challenged her to think and to see things from a different perspective. Was it a weakness to appreciate such things? At times she wondered. But she was not about to admit it aloud. A Merlin was not meant to let down her defenses, not even for a moment.

  A shadow fell across her face. Storm clouds were scudding in from the sea, obscuring the sun, and already the echo of thunder rumbled through the school courtyards.

  Light and dark. At times, she couldn’t help recalling odd flashes of her life before the Academy. An old prostitute had once given her a brightly colored penny print. Oh, how she had guarded that scrap of paper.

  Drawing on her yoga training, Siena took a deep breath and shrugged off such strange musings. After all, Da Rimini had drummed into her that thinking too much could be dangerous …

  “For pity’s sake, Siena, stop woolgathering,” chided Sofia. “Unless you wish for us to be shoveling manure for the next few weeks.”

  Her friends were already dressed and sorting through their hair ribbons for the finishing touches to their toilette.

  “And you know how La Grande Dame dislikes getting her hands dirty,” drawled Shannon as she mimicked a ballroom twirl.

  “Merde!” A crumpled kidskin glove flew across the room. “Just because I like silks as much as saddles doesn’t mean I can’t whip you in a match of riding skills. Just name your stakes.”

  Shannon speared the fuchsia missile with a hairpin and tossed it back. “Ha—a challenge? What sort of race do you have in mind?”

  “Stubble the horseplay.” Siena grabbed for her indigo gown. “Has anyone seen my India shawl, or has it wound its way back to Bombay?”

  Her friends were too sharp to miss the slight edge to her voice. They exchanged puzzled looks.

  “Is something wrong?” asked Sofia as she pulled the missing item from beneath a pair of muddied riding boots. “You seem in a strange mood.”

  Shannon nodded. “If I had just flattened Il Lupino, I’d be crowing from atop the highest chimney pot.”

  “I fear…” Her friends would likely laugh to hear what she had been thinking. “I fear I can’t explain it.”

  “Fear?” scoffed Shannon. “Ha, you are the most fearless of us all.”

  Sofia said nothing but fixed her with a searching stare.

  “Forget it,” she muttered, suddenly feeling foolish for even hinting there might be a chink in her armor. The training of the Academy only echoed the lessons of the alleyways—never show any vulnerability.

  The tread of Miss Clement’s half boots suddenly interrupted the exchange. Siena swore under her breath, sure that a stern scolding was in order, along with the threatened detention.

  But the prefect appeared oddly distracted. She shooed Sofia and Shannon out of the room with a vague wave. “Be off, you two. As for Siena …” A hesitation hung in the air. “You need not hurry. Mrs. Merlin has excused you from your next class. She wishes to see you in her office as soon as you have changed into your new emerald green ball gown. Withers will be here in a moment to dress your hair.”

  Siena turned, her eyes narrowing at the news. “Why?”

  Miss Clemens lifted her bony shoulders. “I am not privy to that information. But I expect you will find out soon enough.”

  Was it her imagination, or did the words indicate that the time had come?

  “York says she spotted a fancy carriage pulling up to Mrs. Merlin’s private entrance not ten minutes ago,” added the prefect. “Two gentlemen got out.”

  Dagger points danced down her spine. Her palms began to tingle. Fear. The friendly banter echoed in her ears. Her only real fear was that the school directors might decide she wasn’t sharp enough for a real mission. The gentleman with the ice blue eyes would, as was his wont, be kindly but firm. Only the very best measured up to the Academy’s stringent standards for the Master Class. Those who did not make the grade were directed into less demanding programs, ones that trained them for other useful duties. Innkeepers, lady’s maids …

  Siena’s hands clenched, then her chin rose. A challenge? She would rise to the occasion and prove herself. She was one of Merlin’s Maidens. And Merlins were meant to fly.

  “Street orphans!” Chertwell choked on his tea.

  “Kindly remember you are sworn to silence.” Lynsley helped himself to another biscuit.

  The major uttered an oath.

  “Need I also remind you that a lady is present?”

  Chertwell’s face turned nearly as red as his regimentals. “Your pardon, madam,” he said stiffly. “I meant no offense to you or your pupils, but I feel duty-bound to voice an objection to this… joke?”

  His hopeful look was snuffed out by the headmistress’s brisk reply. “Lord Lynsley is quite serious. As am I.” Mrs. Merlin was a frail, feather-thin widow with a cap of dove grey curls framing her narrow face. Age had softened her features and blunted the poke of her prominent nose, but behind the oval spectacles, her silvery eyes gleamed with a hawkish intensity. “Won’t you try a strawberry tart, young man? They are quite delicious.”

  “I don’t want a damn tart! I want an explanation!” Sputtering, the major shot an accusing look at Lynsley.

  “England is in imminent peril while we are sitting here having a tea party!”

  “Dear me, Thomas, is the major subject to megrims?” Mrs. Merlin darted a look at Lynsley. “Shall I fetch a vial of vinaigrette?”

  Chertwell’s jaw dropped a touch, then snapped shut. His silence did not preclude a pronounced scowl.

  “Excellent. I see we may forgo the hartshorn and apply instead a healthy dose of reason to the problem.” Moving with a ruthless efficiency that belied the sweet smile, Mrs. Merlin set aside her teacup and snapped open a document case. A quick rap squared the sheaf of papers within. “But before we get down to business, perhaps you ought to finish your explanation.”

  “Thank you, Charlotte. As always, a meeting with you is an educational experience.”

  Lynsley settled back against sofa pillows. The
lines deepened at the corners of his eyes, turning his gaze more shadowed. “As I was saying, Chertwell, the students of Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Select Young Ladies are hand-picked from the legion of orphans who roam the stews of London. There are, I regret to say, a great many to choose from.” He stared into his tea. “I select all of them myself. I look for signs of courage and cleverness. And looks. Beauty can be a weapon in itself.”

  “Let me get this straight.” Through gritted teeth, the major managed a mutter. “You take in a ragtag rabble of female urchins and mold them into a special fighting force?”

  The marquess allowed a faint smile. “England’s ultimate secret weapon.”

  “God save the King.” A stern look from the school’s headmistress caused Chertwell to swallow any further sarcasm.

  Lynsley continued as if uninterrupted. “I convinced the government to give us this old estate, which had been used as cavalry pastures. I pay the operating expenses out of my own pocket, and Mrs. Merlin oversees all the day-to-day duties. The idea was inspired by a book I read on Hasan-I-Sabah, a Muslim caliph who raised a secret society of warriors at his mountain citadels. His men were known for their deadly skills and fanatic loyalty. The caliph used them only in times of dire danger to his rule. And legend has it they never failed on a mission. The very name Hashishim —or Assassins—was enough to strike terror in the heart of the Master’s enemy.”

  “Assassins?” Chertwell blinked. “Surely you don’t mean to imply that these girls…”

  “Are trained to kill.” Mrs. Merlin brushed a bit of powdered sugar from her lip. “But of course.”

  “Merlin’s Maidens receive expert instruction in a number of disciplines,” explained Lynsley. “Use of weapons is only part of the curriculum. They also are taught all the social graces—proper speech, proper manners, polished skills at music, art, and dancing—so that, if need be, they may move in the highest circles of Society.”

  “Indeed, our girls follow a course of study much the same as that at any other school for highborn young ladies of the ton,” added Mrs. Merlin. Surrounded by cheery chintz florals and delicate Sevres china, the elderly lady looked the very picture of prim propriety. Save for the tip of the poniard that slipped from her cuff as she consulted one of the documents. “The emphasis is on violence as a last resort.”

  “It sounds …” The major shifted his seat on the sofa.

  “I would say ‘absurd,’ but I fear you would fillet my liver with that blade.”

  Mrs. Merlin smoothed the sprigged muslin over the razored steel. “I assure you, Major, our students are carefully screened, and once they are here, they are subject to rigorous training and constant testing. Those who fail to make the grade are sent off to be taught a more suitable profession.” As she pushed her spectacles back to the bridge of her nose, a gleam of candlelight winked off the lenses. Under less serious circumstances, it might have been seen as a twinkle. “You see, Major, unlike in the military, wealth or rank cannot buy you a place in our Academy. Merlin’s Maidens win their badge of honor by merit alone.”

  Chertwell thought for a moment. “Why girls?”

  “An astute question.” Lynsley gazed up at the painting above the mantel, a depiction of Boudicca, the ancient British Warrior Queen, in full regalia.

  “Because females have far more flexibility when it comes down to devising strategy and tactics. They can learn to master the martial arts as well as any man, whereas men cannot perform certain feminine disciplines. They will always find certain doors closed to them.”

  “Clever,” conceded the major. “I can see where sex can indeed be a more effective weapon than steel.” He tapped at his chin. “However, abstract theory is one thing, and practical application is quite another. Have you ever employed these Hellion Heroes in an actual mission?”

  “Arthur Wellesley would not be alive today if one of the leaders of the Mahratta uprising in India had not suffered an untimely demise during a tiger hunt—an arrow to the throat, I believe …” Lynsley proceeded to rattle off several other names and places.

  “God save the King.” This time the major’s murmur held a note of awe rather than sarcasm.

  Mrs. Merlin moved the tea tray to one of the chinoise side tables. “Having reviewed your requirements, I have selected the student I think is most qualified for the job.”

  “Who?”

  “Siena.”

  He steepled his fingers and appeared to be contemplating his watch chain. Several moments passed before he spoke. “An interesting choice.”

  “The nature of the assignment is extraordinarily cornplex,” replied the headmistress. “The agent we choose will require a depth of character to match up against the gentlemen you wish to have investigated.”

  “Indeed. I agree that she is one of our best students.” Lynsley twisted at one of the fobs. “Yet I confess there are parts of her that remain a mystery to me.”

  “Beneath the steel, there is a sensitive side of her nature—which only adds to her allure. And not only is she skilled in all forms of weaponry, but her knowledge of art will prove useful in this case.” Mrs. Merlin held his gaze. “I feel confident in the choice. But no doubt the two of you will wish to conduct your own interview. Shall we call her in?”

  The slide of silk was smooth, sensuous against her skin as she rose from the straight-backed chair. Siena straightened the niched bodice, her fingers lingering on the row of seed pearls that decorated the plunging decolletage. A handful would have fed her for a year in St. Giles. But here they were insignificant baubles, tiny specks on a sea of gold-threaded emerald splendor. The gown was a sinfully expensive extravagance, cut snugly in the bosom and hips, with waves of ivory lace frothing down to the gold-fringed hem.

  It was more fitting for a fairy tale princess than a penniless urchin, a fact that Siena had been quick to point out. But Mrs. Merlin had simply flashed her cat-in-the-cream-pot smile as she added the expense to the school accountings. That appearances could be deceiving was an integral lesson to learn, she had counseled.

  Siena’s lips quirked. The elderly headmistress was living proof of the old adage—she could still blast a hole through a guinea at thirty paces, though she needed her spectacles to do so.

  As her own gaze took in the familiar details of the small waiting room, Siena couldn’t help recalling her first meeting with Mrs. Merlin. She had been dressed in rags, rather than riches, and her skinny little limbs had been covered with mud and bruises. Frightened out of her wits

  by the strange new surroundings, she had responded to the headmistress’s first gentle words with a gutter curse.

  Instead of a slap or a punch, she had been offered a strawberry tart and tea. It was her first taste of true kindness. And true patience. Gaining the trust of a street-savvy urchin was no easy task.

  Siena had found it hard to believe that a real bed, clean clothes, and regular meals were anything other than cruel tricks, designed to soften her up for the kill. Old habits died hard. Even now, she knew a small part of her remained wary, watchful.

  “They are ready for you,” whispered the secretary.

  Discipline. Duty. Desire.

  Marshaling her wayward thoughts, Siena gathered her skirts and glided gracefully through the doorway. “How delightful that you could join us, my dear.” Ever the gracious hostess, Mrs. Merlin indicated her guests. “You are, I believe, acquainted with Lord Lynsley.”

  Siena performed a perfect curtsy and allowed the gentleman to lift her hand to his lips. “It is a great pleasure to see you again, my lord.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Miss Siena. I trust your studies are going well.”

  “Very well, thank you.” Dropping her gaze in maidenly modesty, she answered with the requisite small talk. Yet beneath the flutter of her lashes, she remained alert. This was, she knew, a test of her skills. A test she was determined not to fail. “The weather, however, has been quite wretched of late, has it not?”

  After exchanging a few more pl
easantries on the subject, the marquess indicated his companion. “Allow me to introduce Major Chertwell, who is on leave from his posting in Prussia.”

  The officer was staring at her with an expression of frozen horror. Like a mouse facing a cobra, she thought. She must charm him into thinking she would not bite.

  A melting look. An arch of admiration. A caress of her fan. The famed Spanish courtesan known as La Paloma had taught the Academy students any number of tricks for putting a gentleman at ease. “That sounds frightfully important, sir,” said Siena. “Are you attached to the diplomatic corps or the army?” Not a trace of the guttersnipe was evident in her cultured tone. She could converse in French, if need be, or fall back into the rough patter of the stews.

  “Er… neither.”

  “Major Chertwell serves as a liaison between the two,” murmured Lynsley.

  Feigning flattery was the first order of drawing-roomdecorum. Followed by a subtle flirtation. Siena gave an inward sigh. She did not envy the highborn daughters of the ton.

  It took a great deal of effort to sound so egregiously silly.

  And training.

  Her efforts were quickly rewarded-as La Paloma had promised, men were very predictable.

  Encouraged by several more questions and sultry smiles, Chertwell relaxed enough to carry on a coherent conversation.

  Mrs. Merlin allowed the interlude to go on for some minutes before suggesting some music. “I know Lord Lynsley is quite fond of the pianoforte. I am sure he would be pleased to hear you play.”

  Siena seated herself at the instrument. “Have you a favorite piece, my lord?”

  “I leave it to you to choose.”

  She thought for a moment. Ebony and ivory. Light and dark. She must coax them into perfect harmony. Placing her fingers upon the keys, she began a difficult Mozart sonata. The notes flowed softly at first, then crested to a skilled crescendo. Without missing a beat, she played through the entire score. It was, she knew, a flawless performance.