The Spy Wore Silk

by Andrea Pickens

  The thought of using them made her skin crawl. It was one thing to kill an enemy with a straight-forward sword thrust or shot. But to tip a powdered poison into a drink…

  However, orders were orders. If it came to that, she wouldn’t spill a grain.

  Lynsley’s contact had proved highly efficient in finding the supplies. He had also taken care of arranging the invitation to the auction. She imagined it had taken some skillful maneuvering, but the name of “Lady Blackdove” now graced the ducal guest list.

  A lady. Siena nearly laughed at the irony of an urchin from the slums impersonating a refined female of noble birth. Her training would allow her to play the role fault lessly. But at the same time, she was keenly aware of being an imposter. Who was she? She knew nothing of her past, her parents.

  You are what you make of yourself, Volpina.

  Da Rimini had often challenged her with such taunts when she had thought herself too exhausted to lift her sword. There was some wisdom to his words. The past was the past—she must focus on the present.

  Satisfied that all was in perfect readiness, Siena hid the key in the sheath of her knife. Like Rose, she meant to make a preliminary reconnaissance of Marquand Castle before the formal welcoming ceremony that evening.

  They had timed their travels to be among the earliest arrivals at the duke’s estate. And from all outward appearances, eccentricity must run in the family.

  The rambling structure looked to be an architectural oddity, with elements that reflected a hodgepodge of centuries and sensibilities. A central tower of weathered stone rose to a crenellated crown—no doubt the remnants of an ancient fortress that had inspired the original name. Attached to each side was an L-shaped wing, with blackened Tudor timbers and whitewashed stucco becoming a sprawl of Georgian brick as it turned the corner. The longer length of each side faced an interior maze of terraced gardens. At the far end of the greenery was a massive conservatory, an improbable

  pagoda of turreted glass that connected the two wings.

  A flight of fancy if ever there was one, reflected Siena. She had made a rough sketch based on the first, fleeting view. But the sooner the details were added, the better.

  She sat at the desk and began making a few notes on her own situation. The butler had, after hushed consultation with an elderly majordomo, assigned her to quarters on the second floor of the East Wing, overlooking the winding gravel drive. The rest of the rooms along her corridor looked to be deserted.

  Was her isolation designed to protect her from the advances of the men, or the other way around? Her lips pursed. In either case, the privacy suited her purposes quite well. She planned to be moving about during the night and wished to avoid any awkward encounters with amorous guests. And while she would have preferred windows looking out over the gardens…

  The thud of hooves drew her eye from the paper. Siena rose from her chair, angling for a clearer view of the oncoming rider. Who, she wondered, had chosen to forgo the relative comforts of a closed carriage in order to gallop across the wild moors?

  An answer was not long in taking shape. Cutting through a row of ghostly apple trees, a hard-charging stallion suddenly broke free of the fog. Flanks glistening, mane whipping in the wind, the black beast cleared the orchard fence without breaking stride and crossed the back lawns at a pounding

  pace.

  Had the magic of Devon’s druids conjured up a mythical centaur from the swirling vapor? Nose pressed to the windowpane, Siena stood mesmerized by the animal grace of the apparition. So matched were the movements of horse and rider that it took her a moment to distinguish between the two.

  “Bloody, bloody hell.” The glass was like ice against her flesh. And then like fire.

  It was some darker, devilish alchemy at play. For as the figure came into focus, all her previous doubts were put to flight. There was no mistaking the magnificent mount or the powerful thighs astride the hard saddle. No denying the terrible truth.

  Her midnight stranger and the Earl of Kirtland were one and the same gentleman.

  With a flick of his gloved hands, Kirtland slowed the stallion to a walk. His breath formed fine clouds, pale against the stubbling that shadowed his jaw, and the flapping shoulder capes of his oilskin cloak further obscured his face. Not that she needed any nuance of expression to identify the earl. The arrogant tilt of his nose, the supreme sensuality of his mouth, the chiseled contours of his body were already branded upon her consciousness.

  He looked up, raindrops clinging to his dark lashes. But nothing could water down the intensity of that hooded gaze. Like an eagle.

  Siena spun away from the window, hoping he hadn’t seen her staring. Recalling the earl’s family crest, she rubbed at her own indelible marking. Two birds of a feather? Solitary raptors circling in wary speculation, wondering if the other was fair game.

  The hunt would begin in earnest this evening, when all the guests were expected to gather in the drawing room at the stroke of seven. Along with her suspects, ten other gentlemen had been invited to bid for the Psalters. She had no reason to view any of them as a threat. Indeed, they might even prove unwitting allies in flushing out her prey, for the man she sought was governed by primal passions— whether they be anger, revenge, greed. Or jealousy.

  Adding herself and various Marquand family members present, the assembled group would number an even two dozen.

  Following a formal welcome from the duke himself, his secretaries were to pass out a detailed schedule for the days preceding the auction. A variety of amusements had been planned. Somewhere between the lines of the riding and shooting, the eating and drinking, the betting and bluffing, she would have to pencil in trapping a dangerous traitor.

  The odds were still stacked against her, but the game was only just heating up.

  “This promises to be a memorable interlude, does it not, gentlemen?” Smoothing a last preening touch to his hair, Dunster paused at the threshold of the drawing room and turned to the other club members. “Shall we go in?”

  The six of them had agreed to meet upstairs and come down together. Though Kirtland would have preferred to make his own plans, he considered himself pledged to be part of the group.

  Taking the lead, Dunster chose a spot by the arched windows, which afforded an excellent view of all the formalities. A footman brought champagne, and the marquess, resplendent in a claret-colored evening jacket and gold-threaded waistcoat, quickly proposed a toast. “To the coming competition.” He smiled, the flash of teeth mirroring the hard-edged glint of his glass. “Those who think that the appreciation of art is a dull subject have never experienced the thrill of having their fingers a hair breadth away from possessing perfection.”

  An air of anticipation, heady as the scent of the magnificent hothouse roses, swirled through the duke’s drawing room as the other guests began to make their entrance. To the earl, it appeared to sharpen the shimmering light from the crystal chandeliers and deepen the jewel-tone colors of the rich furnishings. Even the gilt frames of the paintings seemed to reflect the glitter of each individual’s desire.

  “Aye, it’s anything but academic,” agreed Leveritt after a long sip of the sparkling wine. Unlike Dunster, the viscount had dressed in muted shades of grey for the occasion, relying on subtle touches, like the unusual knot of his cravat and the cut of his lapels, to distinguish himself from the others.

  Kirtland repressed a sardonic smile. In a competition of style, Leveritt’s understated elegance won hands down.

  Jadwin, who was standing in the viscount’s shadow, surveyed the surroundings. “Speaking of academics, I see that Lord Brewster has come down from Oxford. Given his fortune and his scholarship, he must be considered a serious contender.”

  The marquess dismissed the idea with a brusque wave. “I assure you, he is no match for me.”

  “Don’t let your palms get too itchy, Dunster. You are not the only one imagining your hands caressing a sublime beauty.” Fitzwilliam had his gaze locked on the e
ntrance to the drawing room, watching like a hawk for the first flutter of the Dove. “By the by, does anyone know whether our luscious ladybird has arrived?”

  The earl wrenched his eyes away from the doorway, unwilling to be seen staring. Swearing silently, he edged a step away from the other club members, trying to distance himself from the lewd talk of her charms. But the subject seemed to take on a life of its own.

  “Yes, she has. Just after nuncheon,” offered Winthrop. His thick fingers, which rarely seemed still, twitched his beard to a sharper point. “According to my valet, the footmen have been speaking of nothing else all afternoon. Had them tripping over their boots to show her the way around the East Wing, and the most direct route to the conservatory at the far end of the gardens.”

  “Where the duke’s nephew invited her to pick her choice of flowers for her evening coiffure.”

  “That’s gilding the lily,” quipped Fitzwilliam. “She needs no adornment to accentuate her charms.”

  “Indeed. I, for one, would say she looks better plucked than decked out in all her fancy feathers.” Dunster’s teeth seemed to have a predatory gleam. For some unaccountable reason, Kirtland felt the urge to knock them down the marquess’s throat.

  “Those rose-tipped nipples, those silky black curls,” continued the marquess. “Just aching for a man’s caress.”

  “It’s your own length of flesh that is throbbing for release, Dunster,” replied Fitzwilliam.

  “No doubt he’s hard up for a female’s touch.” Winthrop ran his thumb along the lip of his wineglass. “Not that I wouldn’t mind finding my cock in her velvety grasp.”

  “Or buried deep within her petals …”

  “Are you gentlemen talking of flora and fauna rather than parchment and pigment?” From behind them, a stranger’s voice interrupted the conversation. “I cannot say I am sorry to see my fellow competitors so easily distracted.”

  The earl turned and immediately recognized Orlov. Despite the other man’s slight smirk, he found himself welcoming the intrusion.

  “Might I be so bold as to introduce myself?” The Russian bowed to the group with a low, sweeping flourish. The gesture seemed deliberately flashy—like his attire. Tonight he was dressed in an azure blue velvet evening coat, matched with buff pantaloons and a wide-striped silk waistcoat of ivory and jonquil. To top it off, he had knotted a length of gauzy paisley silk at his collar instead of a starched cravat. “I have heard much about the gentlemen of The Gilded Page Club.”

  “Who the devil is this jackanapes?” muttered Dunster under his breath.

  The Russian’s smile stretched a touch wider. “I am Alexandr Orlov, visiting from St. Petersburg.”

  Kirtland and the other club members had no choice but to respond. However, both Leveritt and Jadwin ignored the Russian’s outstretched hand.

  “I take it you are interested in rare books, Mr. Orlov.” Winthrop was the first to break the cool silence that followed the individual introductions.

  “Not really. I am merely representing the interests of, shall we say, a friend.” The Russian flicked a mote of dust from his sleeve. “My duty is simply to ensure that the Psalters do not fall into the wrong hands.”

  “You are not the only one intent on taking home the prize,” said Dunster.

  “I imagined as much.” Orlov’s hair was loose tonight, and a toss of his head set the golden locks to dancing along the ridge of his shoulders. “We wouldn’t all be here if the prize were not worth fighting for.” Kirtland caught a slight narrowing of the Russian’s eyes as the man turned to him. Like slivers of arctic ice. The look—at odds with the oiled charm—melted in an instant. “Wouldn’t you agree, Lord Kirtland?” he asked

  with exaggerated innocence. “As a former military man, you are the most experienced among us in the art—and the betrayals—of war.”

  The earl saw his fellow club members stiffen at the allusion to his disgrace, but his own reaction was one of mild amusement. If the Russian’s tactics were to get under his skin, the fellow would have to employ a less back-handed attack. “I may no longer hold any army rank, but I trust that my battle skills have not grown too dull from disuse.”

  Orlov acknowledged the riposte with an ironic salute. “A bit of friendly competition always serves to sharpen the senses. I look forward to a spirited duel of wits.”

  “Damned impertinent fellow,” muttered Winthrop as the Russian moved off to fetch a fresh glass of champagne. “I wonder that Marquand’s man of affairs allowed him to join our company.”

  “His friend must be someone of great influence, to have garnered an invitation for a surrogate to be part of the proceedings.” Leveritt frowned.

  “At least the coxcomb’s English seems polished enough, even if the same cannot be said for his manners.”

  “His mother is from Yorkshire.” Kirtland saw no reason not to share what little he knew of the man.

  “You know him?” asked Dunster, his look of irritation suddenly giving way to an air of alertness.

  “Only by reputation. I heard a few things about him before I left Town.”

  “So did I.” Jadwin looked a bit smug. “And even if what they say is only half-true, Dunster, you may find yourself with a rival for the title of Master of the Mayfair Boudoirs.”

  The marquess did not join in the laughter.

  Kirtland noted the tautness around Dunster’s mouth. Something had put the man on edge, whether it was the Russian’s deliberate insouciance

  or Jadwin’s veiled barb.

  It was not the first time that the earl had sensed a friction between the two club members. One that went deeper than friendly bantering. As for Orlov, he himself was undecided on whether to think of the Russian as a puffed-up jackanapes or someone more subtly sinister. But further musings on the other gentlemen present were suddenly overshadowed by the entrance of the Black Dove.

  She had chosen a crimson gown, a sleek, high-waisted Grecian design that was cut to accentuate her willowy height. In concession to ducal propriety, the bodice was less scandalously revealing than her usual garb. Yet there was no question that every male eye in the room was on her magnificent bosom, whose alabaster curves were teasingly evident above the pleated ruffles of red.

  Including his own.

  She moved through the crowd of gentlemen, a tongue of fire licking up around coal black embers. Much as he wished to ignore her, his gaze was drawn to her incendiary presence. Like a moth to a flame.

  Turning on his heel, Kirtland sought to douse his growing heat with a sip of the sparkling wine. And yet, even then he could not seem to escape her allure. He heard the soft rustle of silk, and a moment later a cloud of ethereal scent enveloped his senses. A lemony verbena spiced with lusher hints of cinnamon and cloves.

  Light and dark. Unlike the cloying scents usually favored by women of her profession, it was a mysterious blend. One that left much to the imagination.

  Damn. He forced himself to think of the smoothness of flesh-colored vellum, the scent of rich leather, the feel of corded spines, and the soft sheen of gilded letters. Books should be far more seductive than a fancy trollop.

  “Damn.” It was Dunster who uttered the oath aloud. “It looks as though that bastard Orlov is introducing himself to the Dove. He may have carte blanche to bid on our books, but I’ve no intention of allowing him to insinuate himself into our own private competition.”

  “It is the ladybird who has the last word on that.” The earl did not bother to watch the performance.

  “Her proposal included only us.”

  “It was not exactly a binding legal contract,” sneered Leveritt. “What do you plan to do—sue her for breach of promise?”

  “There are other ways of making her pay,” muttered the marquess darkly.

  By deliberate design, Siena did not approach the members of The Gilded Page Club directly. It had been a week since she had appeared at their meeting. Let them watch her flirt a bit, she thought. Hovering just out of reach would
rekindle the flames of desire.

  And so, she did not object when the tall, golden-haired gentleman boldly moved in to block her path.

  “You must be the magnificent Lady Blackdove that everyone is talking about. Allow me the liberty of introducing myself—Alexandr Orlov.”

  As he murmured his name, the Russian turned her gloved hand palm up and placed a kiss on her bare wrist. Siena repressed a shiver. His lips, though full and firm, were cold. As were his eyes.

  “This is, to be sure, an exciting moment,” he finished.

  She had been taught about men like Alexandr Orlov. They were the sort who looked to turn any situation to their advantage. “Good evening, sir,” she replied coolly. “Indeed, it is, for we are about to hear the duke explain the details of the coming auction.”

  “You already have an unfair advantage, milady. I fear I shall have trouble concentrating on mere words,” he murmured.

  “I advise you to pay close attention. Otherwise, you might risk your chance of winning the Psalters.”

  Orlov placed a hand on his heart. “Until now, I would have said that the prayer books were the finest treasures in Marquand Castle. However …” His voice trailed off in a sigh.

  Did he hope to charm his way into her bed? If so, he faced an impossible climb.

  “However,” he repeated, “I may have to revise my thinking.” His fingers caught the tassels of her fan and slowly smoothed the fringed silk.

  Slanting a sidelong glance at the members of The Gilded Page Club, Siena saw a stirring of impatience within their ranks. It was time to move on.