The Spy Wore Silk

by Andrea Pickens

  You have nothing to fear from me.

  Recalling his touch, Siena skimmed her fingertips to the small hawk tattooed above her left breast. As one of Merlin’s Maidens, she knew better than to let girlish imagination take flight. A friend? They had none, save for duty, discipline, and determination.

  Siena set the glass to her lips, intent on turning her attention to a dispassionate assessment of her own performance.

  Yet another swallow of brandy did not quite chase the black-haired gentleman from her mind. She gave herself high marks for horsemanship—but

  so, too, did he deserve accolades. Indeed, he had ridden like the very devil, unswerving, unflinching in the face of the drenching darkness.

  In command.

  From his iron-fisted control of the reins and firm seat in the saddle, she guessed that he had some experience in the military. It would have been interesting to test her skills against him in some other equestrian maneuvers.

  A sudden smile curved her lips. Lud, but there was no doubt that she had gotten the best of him with her unexpected acrobatics. She could hear Il Lupino’s exhortation echoing in her ears. Keep the enemy off-balance. Not that she meant to think of the stranger as the enemy.

  Not that she meant to think of him at all. No more distractions. It was time to put all memories of the gentleman behind her, time to think of the challenges ahead.

  The mission, as sketched out by Lord Lynsley, called for discretion, but most of all deception.

  Slanting a look at the silky night rail, she felt a flutter of excitement at the idea of slipping out of her old skin and into a new one. Come morning, one of Merlin’s hawks would appear as a bird of a different feather. The rippling water stirred the scent of honeyed florals and musky spices.

  Heady with hints of powerful passions, hidden dangers.

  All her training had been for just such a moment. The basic instincts of survival honed of its rough edges, sharpened to a sense of purpose by the Academy. As a small child, she had battled blindly against brutal bullies. Sometimes she had won; sometimes she had lost. The harsh reality was that the law of the jungle governed the stews. Left unchecked, the strong could always dominate the weak.

  But now she could truly fight back. With a purpose.

  Lifting the sponge high overhead, Siena squeezed a drizzle of the water over her face. Any inner misgivings washed away with the last of the drops. She couldn’t wait to spread her wings.

  The Earl of Kirtland took another brusque turn before the blazing fire. Although the library occupied an entire floor of his London town house,

  he couldn’t help feeling caged in. Of late, he had experienced the same uncomfortable sensation each time he entered the outskirts of the city. But

  this time, he hoped the visit would be worth the aggravation. Since his arrival that morning in Grosvenor Square, he had been looking to confirm an intriguing rumor …

  “Do stop pacing like a bear with a thorn in his arse.” Deverill Osborne looked up from the book he was perusing. A friend since their first days at Eton, he was the only one of Kirkland’s acquaintances who dared tease him in such a familiar fashion.

  Kirtland reluctantly took a seat at the reading table. “Have a care with that, Dev. It’s worth a bloody fortune.”

  Osborne casually flipped another page. “Seeing as you are richer than Croesus, you can well afford it if I spill my claret over the gold-leafed illuminations.”

  “But you could not.” Kirtland quickly drew the leather-bound volume back across the velvet display cloth. “For I should slice out your lungs and liver and chop them into mincemeat.”

  “Come now, it’s only a book.”

  “And the Magna Carta is only crinkled parchment and a dribble of ink,” growled the earl.

  “I take it you are going to tell me what makes it worth all the fuss.” Grinning, his friend added another splash of wine to both of their glasses. The opposite of the earl in both looks and manner, Osborne was fair-haired and fun-loving. His breezy charm and sunny disposition made him a favorite within the highest circles of Society— especially the ladies. And yet, despite all outward differences, they were more alike than most people guessed.

  “Trying to educate you on the fine points of bibliography is a waste of breath. The only pages you bother to read are those of the betting book at White’s.” Kirtland exaggerated a pained grimace, though he knew very well that his friend was not nearly so shallow as he pretended to be. “However,” he continued, “even you ought to appreciate its exquisite beauty.” His sarcasm softened as he looked down at the delicate brushstrokes and jewel-tone

  colors. “This is a rare fourteenth-century Burgundian Psalter, illuminated by the monks of St. Sebastian Abbey. To my knowledge, there are only two other examples of their art in all of England.”

  “Indeed?”

  “And word has it that they may both be coming up for auction in the next few months.”

  “Ah, so that is what brings you to London at the height of the Season?” Osborne eyed the earl from over the rim of his wineglass.

  He nodded. “That, and the quarterly meeting of The Gilded Page Club. We have several important acquisitions to consider for our collection.”

  “What is it that the six of you do inside the confines of your club town house?”

  His friend cocked a brow. “And by the by, is that hideous golden knocker meant to be a serpent?”

  Kirtland allowed a small smile. “A bookworm.”

  “One of you has a rather twisted sense of humor.”

  “Actually, we are all quite serious about scholarly pursuits. As for what we do …” His fingers traced over the corded leather and gold-leaf lettering. “We meet over the course of a week each quarter in order to share our research and exhibit the latest additions to our own private libraries. In addition, we review what rarities are coming up for sale, both here and abroad. Occasionally we add to the Club Collection.”

  “Who are the other members?”

  “Dunster, Fitzwilliam, Winthrop, Leveritt, and Jadwin.”

  “The devil you say.” Osborne made a face. “The six of you certainly make odd bedfellows. How long have you been part of the club? I don’t recall you having mentioned it before.”

  “We are not in the habit of discussing scholarly matters,” replied Kirtland dryly. “As for The Gilded Page, 1 was invited to join two years ago, to fill the spot left vacant by the death of Lord Woodbridge.”

  “The fellow probably expired from sheer boredom,” quipped Osborne. “I can’t quite picture how you rub together very comfortably with the others.”

  “One does not have to be on intimate terms with a man to enjoy discussing books and art.”

  “Sounds dreadfully dull.” His friend toyed with the ends of his cravat. “Skip tomorrow evening’s meeting and come with me to Lady Sefton’s masquerade ball.”

  Kirtland’s reply was somewhere between a snort and a snarl. “You know damn well I have no intention of appearing in Society.”

  “Your absence only encourages the rumors. People repeat the gossip surrounding your court-martial, and it grows more twisted with each telling. They say you betrayed a sacred trust and are a loose cannon. Just waiting for the slightest spark to explode.”

  “I couldn’t care less what whispers are making the rounds of the drawing rooms.”

  Osborne lifted a brow but remained tactfully silent.

  “Let them talk.” He turned away from the candlelight and carefully squared the leather binding upon the velvet cloth. Wagging tongues, razored teeth. Was it any wonder that he much preferred books to people?

  His friend waited for some moments before offering another comment. “Each passing word only distorts the truth.”

  The earl laughed harshly. “Since when has the ton cared for the truth? Society finds scandal far more entertaining.” He gestured at his library shelves. “If you wish to find anyone interested in that concept, you will have to search out the writings of Plato or
Aristotle.”

  “Have they also penned a chapter on cynicism?”

  Despite the show of insouciant wit, Osborne could be quite perceptive. Sometimes too much so.

  “I am in no mood for a lecture, if you don’t mind.”

  “Still, I feel obliged to voice my concern. I would hate to see you become a hermit, bloodless and bitter. Or a monk.” His friend’s stare was like a knifepoint probing against a raw spot. “Speaking of which, is it true that you gave Adrianna her conge?”

  Kirtland felt himself flush. “She was becoming too demanding.”

  “Ah. You mean she wished to see you on occasion?”

  “I am not quite as bloodless as that,” he replied, trying not to sound too defensive. He thought for a moment of mentioning his encounter with the midnight Valkyrie but decided that the truth would sound stranger than fiction. Or, for that matter, more sensational than any of the gossip swirling through Society. His lips quirked on recalling that strange interlude. Never again would he accuse Mrs. Radcliffe, the famed novelist, of possessing an overwrought imagination.

  “Still, you ought to leave the cozy confines of Henning Hall more often. It is important to know what is being said.”

  Something about his friend’s tone cut short his musings. “What the devil is that supposed to mean?”

  “A bit of friendly advice is all.” Osborne rose and moved to the mantelpiece. “Since we are speaking of truth, Julian, the fact is that Lord Lynsley was asking me about you the other evening. Discreetly, of course, but the question of loyalty to King and country came up.”

  The earl felt his jaw go rigid. “You doubt my loyalty?”

  “Not for an instant.”

  Kirtland slowly let out his breath. Osborne was his closest friend. Perhaps his only friend. And though he would never admit it aloud, the slightest hesitation would have cut him to the quick.

  “But for all his outward affability and supposedly minor position in the ministry, I do not underestimate the marquess’s influence. Or his intelligence—in every sense of the word. Is there any reason he might think you involved in some intrigue?”

  “Intrigue?” Kirtland made a face. “Oh, quite right—I am conspiring with my sheep to corner the English wool market.” He raked a hand through

  his hair. “In case it has been forgotten, I am retired from active duty. My life is not nearly so interesting as the two of you seem to imagine.”

  “Hmmm.” Osborne’s chuckle faded to a more serious sound. Looking puzzled, he paused and propped a boot on the fender. “I admit, it seems odd. And yet, I suggest you have a care as to the activities and company you mean to seek out in Town.”

  “Very well—no rolling barrels of gunpowder down the corridors of Parliament or taking tea with Marshal Soult.”

  “I’m not joking. Try not to stray from the ordinary. You already have a reputation as a dangerous man. One who lives by his own rules.”

  “And why shouldn’t I? The rules of Polite Society are naught but a collection of pompous platitudes mouthed by hypocrites.”

  “Damn it, Julian.” A slap to the marble mantel echoed the exasperated oath. “I am trying to help. Yet you refuse to defend yourself, your honor.”

  “I did nothing wrong. It was Colonel Hartland who betrayed a spineless lack of honor by refusing to speak up in support of my actions. By overriding General Darymple’s orders, I saved the lives of my men, and were I to be court-martialed a hundred times over, I would make same decision every time.”

  “I agree that Hartland was wrong to renege on his promise of support,” replied Osborne. “He should have stood up for your decision in spite of Darymple’s wrath, rather than leave you at the last moment to bear the brunt of it alone. He was weak, and afraid for his own position. But the fact is, a bit of compromise on your part might have avoided the whole ugly affair.”

  “I am at peace with myself. That is all that matters.”

  “Are you?” Kirtland turned his gaze to the crackling coals.

  “Unlike the pages of your books, the world is not black-and-white, but an infinite range of greys,” continued Osborne. “All I am saying is try to temper your lofty principles. It does no harm to keep some of your more outspoken opinions to yourself.”

  “I—I shall try.”

  But the earl’s words had little conviction behind them. Compromise never came as easily to him as it did to others. Perhaps that was why he much preferred living alone.

  “Be assured that I have learned my lesson,” he muttered. “These days, I do not go looking to stir up trouble. Aside from you and the members of The Gilded Page Club, I have no intention of associating with anyone.” He traced the intricate pattern of gold tooling on the leather binding. “Bloody hell. It is not as if I can get into much mischief discussing the artistic merits of incunabula with a group of book collectors.”

  A deft twist of the hairpin freed the last few curls of the topknot, allowing them to fall in artful disarray.

  “You are very adept with your hands, Rose.” Siena eyed the effect and allowed a small smile. The maidservant’s fingers, though small and rather stubby, possessed a nimble grace. No doubt she was equally skilled at handling a blade or a picklock if need be.

  “Thank you, milady.” The woman’s voice had the same clipped precision as her movements.

  “I am no more a lady than you are,” murmured Siena, savoring the irony of the moment along with the last sip of black coffee.

  “Best we play our roles, even in private.” The words betrayed no emotion. That in itself served as an oblique reminder that any personal attachments might only get in the way of performing their respective duties.

  Siena nodded in understanding. The arrangement, however intimate, was purely about getting the job done.

  Her gaze shifted to the schedule in her lap as Rose put the finishing touches on her toilette. A review of the escape routes with Oban at ten, Lynsley’s messenger was due to deliver the ministry files at noon, a drive in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour of five …

  She set the paper aside. “You may inform Oban I won’t need him to handle the ribbons this afternoon. I will put the team through its paces myself.”

  “As you wish, milady.”

  “And ask him to have a colored whip made up. Something along the lines of a shocking pink would do nicely.”

  With its canary yellow lacquer set off by lime green upholstery and matching wheel spokes, the high-perch phaeton was already sure to draw attention. But the more outrageous extravagances she could add to the trappings, the better. She meant to make a lasting impression.

  “As for personal preparations, a bit of powdered gold mixed with the face powder will create an exotic glow. The lip color should be a deep scarlet, with matching os trich feathers to top off the coiffure.” As Siena spoke, she made a mental note of the alterations she wished to make on her carriage dress. “Can you set a stitch, Rose?”

  “Quickly and neatly,” came the prompt reply. “I served a short apprenticeship with one of the most fashionable French modistes here in Town.”

  No doubt there was an intriguing story behind the facts, but knowing Rose was not likely to embroider any details, Siena merely murmured, “Excellent.” Her brows, dark with kohl, drew together in a perfect raven-wing arch. “Here is what I have in mind …”

  The first part of the mission, as outlined by Lord Lynsley, called for her to make a grand entrance into Society. But the details on how to accomplish such a feat had been left to her discretion.

  Or, more precisely, indiscretion. Siena intended for eyes to pop when she rolled down Rotten Row for the first time. And for tongues to wag … She had already chosen her nom de guerre —the Black Dove—and Oban would make sure that it was repeated often throughout the park. By midnight all of London would be abuzz with the news that a colorful new ladybird had come to roost in Town.

  From there, the next move should go smoothly …

  Six names. The files would provide a mor
e intimate acquaintance with the gentlemen in question. But facts were only a skeleton. To flesh out a true portrait, there was no substitute for a face-to-face meeting. More could be read in the blink of an eye, the frisson of a frown than in a ream of ministry notes. Words, however eloquent, could say only so much. The nuances of sweat, of smell, of sound turning shrill with fear were all too often lost in translation.

  Yes, the sooner she saw for herself just who—and what—she was up against, the better.

  Lynsley had left no doubt that time was of the essence. A terse written message had arrived at dawn from the marquess himself. A breach of his rules, to be sure, but one that he explained was unavoidable, given the gravity of the situation.

  Her mission was even more important than before. A new theft had occurred. A letter—a frank appraisal of the Eastern allies from the Tsar, meant only for the eyes of Lord Castlereagh—had been stolen from the Secretary of War’s private safe. If it were made public, the Russian leader would be forced to distance himself from England, with catastrophic repercussions for the efforts to halt Napoleon’s march into Prussia and Poland.

  The marquess believed that the traitor still had the stolen dispatch in his possession. Siena’s assignment was now not only to discover the rogue lord’s identity, but also to retrieve the Imperial paper. No matter what the cost.

  “Why do we bother riding in the park now, when we cannot manage more than a sedate walk,” groused the earl.

  He had forgotten what a crush of horseflesh and humanity crowded the wide swath of bridle path known as “Rotten Row” at this time of day. The afternoon promenade was a daily ritual for the ton.

  It was as if all of fashionable Society turned out along the south edge of Hyde Park to breathe in the sooty air and latest on dits.

  “The point of the exercise is not to fly by in a blur of sweating muscle and lathered flesh, but to be seen,” replied Osborne. “As you well know.”

  Kirtland uttered an oath.