The Spy Wore Silk

by Andrea Pickens

  An aura accentuated as Kirtland undid the fastenings of his shirt and tugged it over his head.

  His sculpted shoulders looked even broader without the tailored encumbrance of clothing. The candles cast the chiseling of muscle and sinew in sharp relief, light and shadow cutting a clear picture of every nuanced contour. Smooth as marble, hard as granite. The symmetry of corded flesh and angled shoulder bones was marred by a single sword scar near his neck, its puckered red color a harsh contrast to the sun-bronzed splendor of the rest of him.

  Santo Cielo. Siena had seen Da Rimini and his fellow instructors at the Academy stripped to the waist, but never a man as magnificently masculine as Kirtland.

  The scar only added to his allure. Only putti—pudgy little angels—were unflawed. The earl was certainly no angel. He was …

  A Greek god?

  He turned, and as he performed his ablutions at the washstand, she caught a first glimpse of his bared chest.

  Sable curls dusted his tanned flesh, their silky texture a tantalizing counterpoint to the hard, slabbed planes of his collarbones. Beneath the dark, flat nipples, muscles rippled over his ribs, the ringlets running down the center of his abdomen in a teasing trail, drawing her eye ever lower. Siena felt a strange lick of heat as she watched a splash of water trickle down through the wisps of hair and disappear beneath his trousers. The earl’s shoulders accentuated the sharp taper to a narrow waist and sword-straight hips. At this angle, the flames cast a reddish glow over his torso. Poised on powerful thighs, he looked like Apollo in all his bellicose beauty.

  A warrior deity.

  Kirtland toweled off, a shake of his head sending a shower of golden drops through the air. He threaded his fingers through the tangled locks, pushing them back from his brow. Damp strands clung to the curve of his neck, the curling ends grazing the ridge of his shoulders.

  Her mouth went dry as his hands moved to the flap of his trousers. As the buttons slipped open, the melton wool hung for an instant on his hip bones before falling around his feet in a pool of dark folds. He picked the garment up from the carpet and carefully smoothed out the creases before draping it over a chair.

  A man who paid meticulous attention to detail, noted Siena, trying to avert her gaze from the thin cotton drawers that served as the earl’s fig leaf. Given his current position in front of the flickering flames and the transparency of the fabric, a bit of greenery would have provided far more

  cover. As it was, little was left to the imagination … None was needed after a quick tug to the drawstring sent the undergarment fluttering

  to the floor.

  Siena suddenly experienced the oddest sensation inside her chest—like a bird was beating its wings against her rib cage. It took her a moment to master its wild thrashings and regain control of her thudding heart.

  It wasn’t that she hadn’t seen a man naked before. Given the nature of the missions assigned to Merlin’s Maidens, the Academy had considered it an integral part of their education to be intimately familiar with the physical makeup of men. Science lectures had presented a dispassionate view of anatomy and biological functions, while art classes had drawn on nude models to illustrate the mysteries of the male form. Giovanni Musto, the assistant equestrian instructor, had provided a particularly well-endowed example of what to expect. The young man was, as Shannon had once quipped, as well hung as a stallion.

  Being Italian, Giovanni had a rather more lyrical way of referring to his private parts—gioielli di famiglia.

  The family jewels.

  No wonder the Earl of Kirtland was counted among the wealthiest men in all of England. Set against the marble whiteness of his thighs, the thatch of raven-dark curls formed a dramatic crown for his maleness. Siena had seen a number of classical dieties presented in all their erect glory, but even in repose, the earl’s embarrassment of riches put the whole of Mount Olympus to blush.

  Siena felt a naughty rush of heat stealing over her cheeks. All she knew of Kirtland painted a portrait of a man of rigid discipline, of demanding self-control. Yet she couldn’t help wonder what he would be like in the throes of unbridled passion, limbs taut, flesh on fire, that deep baritone voice smoky with need.

  Not that she had actually experienced the intimate coupling of flesh. She had seen it often enough in the alleyways of St. Giles. Girls growing up in the slums learned far more about the realities of life than highborn females. And the lessons were often harsh. Her hands clenched for an instant. She had never been forced to submit to a man, but she had seen what happened to others who were not as quick or as tough as she was.

  Still, seduction was part of every student’s basic training. Siena knew what was expected from her, if necessary. And she accepted that a mission might require her to sleep with a man—though she hoped it might be with someone she could respect.

  A cynical smile quickly tugged at her lips. Given the nature of her assignments, that seemed unlikely. At least let the man be physically attractive, she thought. There was no doubt that the earl was sinfully—

  “Damn.” The earl’s voice cut through the shadows.

  Snapping out of her reverie, Siena realized that he had moved a step closer to the windows. Her grip tightened on the rope. Had she made some sound, some slip that had given away her presence?

  Kirtland reached down to retrieve his pocket watch from the carpet. He placed it atop the dresser, then turned and walked back toward his bed, the flexing curves of his buttocks and long legs radiating a primal grace. A man at ease in his own skin. And just what skin was that? Soldier? Hero? Lover? Traitor?

  Siena drew in a deep breath. She had come seeking to sharpen her perception of the earl, but what she had seen had only given rise to more questions than answers. The only thing she had learned for sure was that he was kind to animals. And that he slept in the nude.

  From the bookshelf by his bed, the earl picked a volume from the leather-bound set of Shakespeare’s works, plumped the pillows, and settled between the sheets to read.

  The candlelight caught the gleam of the gilt title. Hamlet.

  Good night, sweet prince.

  She cocked a silent salute before taking the rope in hand and dropping down into the darkness. And yet, she could not quite slip away from the strange soliloquy taking voice in her own head. To be or not to be… distracted by unaccountable emotions. She had been trained to keep a distance from the suspected enemy.

  You may fight with your heart, Volpina, but never allow it to gain the upper hand over your head—Da Rimini’s exhortations chorused a steely echo to her own whispered warnings.

  She should not be at all drawn to Julian Henning. He might be a traitor, a man who would crush all the ideals she held dear. However, it was hard not to feel a grudging admiration for him. Even in the privacy of his own home, the earl seemed to radiate a certain strength of character that belied the notion of duplicity and deception.

  But as her feet hit lightly upon the ground, she steadied her resolve. She would not be seduced into thinking his principles were as finely honed as his body.

  Such a mistake could be fatal.

  “When do you leave for Marquand Castle?”

  “On the morrow,” growled the earl. Osborne’s suggestion of a rousing gallop in the park had seemed like a good idea an hour earlier. But rather than clear his thoughts, the vigorous exercise had only exacerbated bis foul mood.

  “You do not sound like a man about to set off in quest of his eternal amour.” Osborne slowed his mount to a walk.

  “I would have expected a little more enthusiasm. After all, the journey has all the makings of an epic adventure—trial by combat, romance—”

  Kirtland silenced him with an oath. He had not slept well at all, and his head felt as if a blade were boring into his skull. “Stubble the sarcasm if you don’t mind. I am no knight-errant, playing a part in some medieval chanson de geste.”

  “You are storming a castle. And while there may be no fire-breathing dragon guarding its wa
lls, you will be facing off against a shadowy foreigner who seems equally intent on winning the prize.”

  The earl jerked back on his reins. “What the devil do you mean?”

  His friend gave a long-suffering sigh. “If you would show your phiz at White’s on occasion, you would discover that books are not the only sources of valuable information. Last night I happened to hear that a Russian has recently arrived in Town, and he has made no secret of the fact that he has been sent by a private collector to bid for your precious Psalters.”

  “Who?”

  Osborne shrugged. “Haven’t a clue as to the identity of the collector. But the agent is a gentleman by the name of Alexandr Orlov. Or at least he claims to be a gentleman. No one in Town knows much about him, save that his mother is rumored to be English and his father a minor member of the Russian gentry. Orlov himself is said to spend most of his time carousing with a rakehell crowd of officers from the Tsar’s Imperial Guards.”

  Kirtland frowned, the curl of his lip turning into a wince as his stallion shied away from the snap of a lady’s parasol. “There is something damn peculiar about this auction,” he muttered. “Something …” He let his voice trail off, unsure of the exact word he wished to choose.

  “Sinister?” suggested Osborne with a slight chuckle. “Really now, you—” His brow arched as the scudding sun hit the earl full in the face, bringing to light the deep shadows beneath his eyes and the tautness etched at the corners of his mouth. “You look like hell.”

  “I had a fitful night,” he replied. “Strange dreams.” He did not elaborate on the subject, knowing his friend would laugh even harder at the weird stirrings of his imagination. The sensation of being observed by unseen eyes had been unsettling, to say the least. The breeze from the open windows had crept in like a cool caress, raising a prickling of goose bumps along his flesh.

  “Dreams?” His friend’s expression took a more quizzical cant as they fell into the shadows of the stately linden trees lining one side of the bridle path. “It’s not like you to fall prey to flights of fancy. Next you are going to say you saw evil spirits lurking … speak of the devil.”

  The earl followed Osborne’s gaze to the swath of turf bordering the Serpentine. A lone rider spurred to a canter as he rounded the stone embankment, his fluid movements matching the stallion’s powerful stride. His azure coat and buff breeches seemed purposely chosen to set off the mane of golden hair tied back from his face. Contrary to fashion, he was hatless, with only the thick, sky-blue velvet ribbon as a concession to propriety.

  “That’s Orlov,” murmured Osborne. “Flashy cove, isn’t he?”

  Kirtland didn’t answer until the Russian was lost to sight among the snaking turns of the shimmering waters.

  “Sometimes where there is flash, there is fire. He rides like a man with experience in the saddle.”

  “You judge him to be more than a mere popinjay?”

  “Only a fool underestimates the enemy before taking full measure of his strengths and weaknesses.”

  “A wise strategy.” A gust of wind tugged at the crown of Osborne’s high crown beaver hat, and for a moment, the ruffling of fair hair obscured his profile. “I trust you will display equal intelligence in regard to Lord Lynsley. I have been thinking… we must come up with a discreet way to let him know there is no need to poke around in your affairs—”

  “To hell with Lynsley,” muttered the earl. “He can poke his head up his arse for all I care.”

  “Is there a particular reason you are in such a black humor?”

  “Aside from you and your insufferable chatter?” he shot back. “Let us drop this absurd discussion of castles and dragons.”

  Osborne’s expression clouded. “I have only been trying to tease you out of a sulk. Not to speak of doing my best to keep you out of trouble.” His spine stiffened, and, moving without his usual grace, he turned his horse toward the South Gate. “Damn it, Julian. I am your friend, so stop treating me like the enemy. I’m just trying to help. God knows, you have pulled my irons out of the fire on countless occasions in the past.”

  Kirtland felt a sudden stab of guilt. The ton did not always give Osborne the credit he deserved for the courage of his convictions. It was easy to mistake the breezy banter for a lack of real substance. But he, of all people, should know better. Their very first encounter at Eton had come when Osborne—the smallest of all the other new boys—had been the only one brave enough to join him in standing up to a bullying prefect. They had both suffered a beating. But while the bruises were soon gone, the bond forged in battle remained a lasting one. Since then, the two of them had weathered countless school pranks and grueling military campaigns together.

  And when he had suffered through the darkest moments in his life, Osborne had stood by him, heedless of the cost to his own reputation in Society.

  “My apologies, Dev,” he said softly. “I have been acting like an ass.”

  Osborne relaxed in the saddle and grinned. “Yes, you have. But you are forgiven.”

  They rode for a few minutes in silence, and Kirtland was grateful for the unspoken understanding between them that required no further words.

  “I appreciate your concern,” he went on once they had passed by an abigail walking a pair of yapping pugs. “Truly I do. But it’s hard to view Lynsley as a threat. He sits in some cubbyhole in Whitehall and files meaningless reports. Besides, I have done nothing to warrant his attention. Let him ask questions and write up some prosy document.” The earl frowned. “I’m more concerned about this fellow Orlov.”

  “Heed your own words about jumping to conclusions, Julian. Lynsley is no mere bureaucrat, whose skills are confined to shuffling papers. His official title is deceptively boring. As is his outward affability and unruffled demeanor. But I have heard stories from a reliable source that would make your hair stand on end.”

  A foreboding needled at the nape of Kirtland’s neck.

  “You remember Nelson’s bombardment of Copenhagen in ‘01, and how the leading ships were in peril until the Trekroner battery was silenced?” Osborne spurred forward to a more private spot on the bridle trail. “Well, Lynsley was serving a temporary post as embassy secretary at the time. And though he was a member of Lord Gervin’s diplomatic mission to Sicily three years later, he did not return to England with the rest of the group. It wasn’t until the official announcement of the prince’s assassination—and Sir John Moreton’s murder—was made public that he reappeared in London. Word from my source is that Lynsley was also left for dead in the back alleys of Naples but somehow managed to survive.”

  “Well, well.” Rutland wasn’t sure what to make of the revelations. “It appears the marquess is more interesting than he looks.”

  “Quite. And it’s not just his past that makes one curious. His current doings are all very hugger-mugger.”

  “For someone who seems to spend most of his time in ballrooms and boudoirs of Mayfair, you appear remarkably well-informed on confidential government matters.”

  “I am not quite such an indolent idler as that.” Osborne gave a flick of his crop. “Although I, like you, have sold out my army commission. I spend some hours each week reading over reports from abroad for a friend on Burrand’s general staff.”

  The unexpected announcement caught the earl off guard. “I am glad to hear you are using your head as more than a target for Gentleman Jackson’s fists,” he replied, though the news also struck a raw nerve. Knowing that the situation in Eastern Europe was a powder keg ready to explode, he, too, would have liked to offer his services to military intelligence.

  But the chances of that ever happening were as likely as St. Peter inviting Lucifer inside the Pearly Gates to take tea, he reminded himself.

  “Seeing as you are privy to state secrets, any further idea of why Lynsley was asking about me?”

  “Not yet, but I am working on it. In the meantime, try not to do anything that might antagonize the marquess.”

  “I did
not go out of my way to draw his attention in the first place,” he said stiffly.

  Osborne rolled his eyes. “Perhaps it’s a good thing you are leaving Town for a time. Out of sight, out of mind.”

  A heavy mist swirled through the moors surrounding Marquand Castle, muddling the nascent greens and yellows to hazy shades of grey. Stark, forbidding, despite the tantalizing hint of spring. Rather like the Earl of Kirtland…

  Stop thinking of the man. As Siena looked out the window of her quarters, she warned herself not to concentrate her attention on Julian Henning. There were the other suspects to consider, though the nocturnal visit to each of their residences had left her as much in the dark as before. Indeed, even after a last, meticulous review of the information before consigning the files to the fire, she felt no closer to finding a telling clue.

  The traitor had eluded the snare of pen and ink. She would have to catch him in the flesh.

  Mindful that every moment mattered, Siena moved away from the casement and unlocked her personal traveling case. Rose had hung up the gowns and unpacked the other clothing, but as there were still several hours until the formalities commenced in the drawing room, she had retreated to the attic quarters assigned to the visiting maids. No doubt she would be mapping out an exit route and inquiring about the routines of the castle—the number of servants, the time of the meals, the location of the guest rooms. Anything that might prove useful in planning the next move.

  Rose herself was proving not only useful but also invaluable. Her skills with a needle and curling iron were matched by a sharp eye and an unflappable demeanor.

  Steady as a rock was Rose, with a precise efficiency that ran like clockwork. If she offered little in the way of casual conversation, her pragmatism was reassuring if anything went wrong.

  Not that Siena meant to rely on anyone else in a pinch.

  Unfolding the cloth from around her private arsenal, she ran an oiled rag over her sword blade, checking that the arduous carriage ride had left no nicks on the steel. The case would remain locked to the prying eyes of the duke’s servants. Lud, what a gabble of gossip the sight of the assorted weapons would provoke, for along with knives and pistols, she had included a few more exotic implements. They would only appear under extreme circumstances, but as an everyday precaution, she would go nowhere without a small knife strapped to her leg. The case also held other tricks of the trade. Colorful Italian tarot cards, sleeping potions, painted masks—all the things she would need to play her deadly games with the gentlemen of The Gilded Page Club. There were also a few more lethal concoctions, enclosed in a smaller box.