Kirtland thought for an instant of firegold eyes and a rainswept kiss …
The Black Dove was clever indeed to create such a powerful diversion. His lips quirked in a grudging smile. Oh, she was good. Very good.
If he could not put his talents to any official use, he could at least use them in his own personal battle to beat a scheming rival at his own game. He would not let the treasures within Marquand Castle slip so easily through his fingers. If the Russian-and his lovely accomplice— thought he might steal them away without a fight, he was in for a rude awakening.
And yet, as he glanced at the crumpled paper on the carpet, Kirtland reminded himself that at the moment he was only sparring with shadows.
He could not overlook the possibility that his real opponent in this war of distraction was one of the other guests. Rubbing his jaw, he picked up the list and read over the names once again.
Who, aside from the Russian, might have hired the Black Dove?
It seemed safe to cross off the two elderly gentlemen from Edinburgh. One was, like the duke, confined to a bath chair, and the other seemed prone to mental wandering. The nabob from Brighton? As he had only recently returned from years in India, the chances seemed remote.
Lord Bantrock, the stocky Irish lord, seemed a more likely suspect. He appeared to have both the money and the Machiavellian intelligence to come up with such a plan.
As for the other members of The Gilded Page Club, he could surely write them off. Or could he?
Every man had his passion. And a price he was willing to pay to make it his own.
Which brought his thoughts back to the Black Dove.
Much as he wished to concentrate on books, on art, the mysterious beauty cut againt his peace of mind like a razored blade. It angered him that he could not dull its edge. Or ignore the arousal of primal pride. She dared challenge him? He would show her that he had not lost his touch. Two could play at seduction …
His lips slowly stretched to a smile. An experienced soldier, he knew one of the keys to victory was keeping the enemy off-balance. So far, direct confrontation had only resulted in a stalemate. It was time to change tactics.
The first test had gone quite well, thought Siena as she sat down at her dressing table the following morning. She had made several important discoveries. After studying the sonnets, she had definitely ruled out Fitzwilliam as the man she was seeking.
Letterforms could of course be disguised, but the men didn’t know she had a sample of the traitor’s handwriting. The baron was left-handed, and as such could not have penned the traitorous letter uncovered by Chertwell’s men.
After careful consideration, she had chosen Winthrop as the winner of the first challenge.
The files had suggested that he was the most dull-witted of the group, so she decided he would be the easiest of the remaining members to eliminate as a suspect. Crossing another name off her list this early in the game would be a great advantage.
So far, luck was running in her favor. As his reward, she had arranged to meet him in the Persian Room for a private reading of erotic poetry. During their hour to gether, Winthrop revealed his imagination to be just as unimpressive as his appearance. Though he had made a show of ogling her breasts and bragging of his amorous conquests, most of his attention had been focused on polishing off a bottle of the duke’s aged brandy. Along with one of port.
The minutes had ticked by with excruciating slowness, but by the time he staggered away, she was even more certain that her first instincts about him were correct. And this morning, she had a chance to confirm those impressions. Winthrop was one of the first bidders scheduled for the requisite private interview with the duke. His secretary had warned them all that the meeting would last over an hour…
An hour should be more than enough time to search through his personal belongings.
Lifting her skirts, Siena strapped her knife in place, then stepped out into the deserted corridor. Rose had discovered the door to a back stairway hidden in the heavy paneling. It led down to the floor below, where the gentlemen of The Gilded Page Club were quartered. Since Stoneleigh had arranged a special showing of the duke’s gun collection for the other men, it should prove easy enough to slip unseen into Winthrop’s rooms. Even if
she were spotted by one of the servants, the presence of a wealthy widow dallying near the male guests would only provoke a few ribald chuckles.
Her decorative hairpin, a special design forged of stiff steel, made quick work of the ancient lock. Noiselessly sliding the bolt back in place, she turned and moved to the dressing room first, deciding on a quick search through the gentleman’s clothing before tackling the desk. Riffling through his waistcoats, she found nothing. The coat pockets yielded only a rather hefty bill from a wineshop on Jermyn Street. After feeling through his trousers and finding no hidden pockets or papers, she returned to the bedchamber.
The contents of Winthrop’s valise were equally innocuous. But on opening his lettercase, Siena hit upon a more interesting discovery. Tucked under a letter from his sister were several beribboned condoms, a recipe for a poultice guaranteed to enlarge a man’s cock, and a pamphlet on sexual positions. She allowed a small smile. So far the only thing suspect about Winthrop was the working order of his male member. The last sheet of paper was further evidence as to its precarious position. It was a detailed receipt for a stay at Dr. Erector’s Health Spa for Discerning Gentlemen, located near York.
But it was not the treatments listed that drew Siena’s eye. It was the dates—they matched the time when the third of the government documents had been stolen. Lynsley’s agents had also been able to pin down the week in which the rare copy of Paradise Lost had gone missing from The Gilded Page Club town house.
She carefully replaced the items and closed the case. Winthrop was not her man. That left four. Checking to make sure she had left no sign of her visit, she slipped out of his room and jingled the lock back in place.
“Well, well, what have we here?”
For a big man, Bantrock moved with surprising stealth.
“My dear Lady Blackdove, you seem to have strayed from your nest.”
“Indeed.” Siena toyed with the topknot of her curls, casually sliding the hairpin into the twist of ribbon. “I had a question for Lord Winthrop and thought I might find him here before nuncheon. But he does not appear to be in.”
“I am sure I can satisfy any demand you have.” The Irish lord caught hold of her wrist. “Why not step inside my room and let me display my expertise.”
“Maybe later, sir. At the moment, my first order of business lies with Lord Winthrop.”
His grip tightened. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
“A tempting offer, but—”
A rumble of laughter punctuated the sound of steps approaching.
Taking advantage of Bantrock’s momentary distraction, she pulled free and hurried through the double doors of the connecting corridor before he could follow.
Slowing to a more leisurely pace, Siena found herself in the section of the castle that housed the main display rooms. Not wishing to risk another encounter with the Irish lord by returning to her room, she decided to linger a bit and explore. Each portal was marked with an ornate brass plate proclaiming the treasures within. The New World Room held brightly painted Aztec pottery … the Calligraphy Room held intricate Arabic manuscripts … The Renaissance Room held masterpieces from Florence and Siena …
On impulse, she stepped inside and was immediately enveloped in a pale, pearlescent light, despite the overcast skies. Looking up, she saw its source. An expanse of Palladian windows, arcing to cathedral heights, filled the far wall, their graceful proportions aligned to a northern exposure. The perfect artist’s light, she recalled from her reading. Cool and pure.
Her gaze returned to the row of gilded frames hung above the glass front cabinets. Michelangelo, Botticelli, Da Vinci. She was familiar with all the famous names of the period from her art classes at the A
cademy, but the opportunities to view actual examples of their work had been very rare.
Recalling the erotic engravings of Raphael, she allowed an ironic smile. Oddly enough, he was one of her favorites. According to her lessons, he was reputed to be quite a lady’s man. Sensual, as well as sensitive, reveling in feminine beauty, whether it be a Madonna, a pagan deity, or a lover. His drawings certainly showed a masterly touch for the female form.
But no black-and-white line work could match the power of the colors that now met her eye. She never ceased to be amazed at how such mundane materials—pigment, linseed oil, turpentine—could be so magically transformed. Powdered clays and finely ground semiprecious stones had no emotion of their own. It was the artist’s hand that gave them spirit, laughter, love. Life.
Her breath caught in her throat. She was well schooled in the art of war, a skilled practitioner of darkness, of death. Perhaps that was why she found the world of light and color so wondrously intriguing.
Seeing a copy of Vasari’s Lives of the Artists on one of the bookstands, Siena opened it to the chapter on Raphael and began reading.
“A connoisseur of quattrocentro art?” Kirtland’s voice suddenly cut through her reveries.
His shadow fell across the page as he leaned a shoulder to the molding. “Another skill in your arsenal of talents?” Strangely enough, his tone was more teasing than taunting, and his mouth was curled up at the corners.
Siena smiled in return. “An appreciation of beauty is not reserved for the sole pleasure of the privileged few who possess wealth and rank.” As she spoke, she couldn’t help admiring his muscular frame. His aura of masculine vitality was undeniable-Raphael’s handsome archangels suddenly paled in comparison.
He moved closer and waggled a brow, as if daring her to go on.
“Indeed, many of the greatest works of art were meant for the masses,” she said slowly, trying to ignore the sinuous curling of his long hair or the sculpted lines of his broad shoulders. “Churches commissioned frescoes or altar screens to inspire and to teach. The vast majority of people could not read, and such pictures were how they learned the stories of the Bible.”
“So, you have studied art, as well as fencing.” As the earl gave a slight bow, his coat brushed against her skirts.
Oddly enough, the fleeting touch aroused a lick of heat along her spine. Her nerves must still be on edge from her encounter with Bantrock. How else to explain being so acutely aware of his closeness?
“And you appear well taught,” he finished.
“I know a little. But I am no match for you in that subject, I am sure,” replied Siena. Kirtland’s skills with a sword were clear enough. Here was a chance to probe into a different facet of his character. She must not allow herself to be distracted. “As a matter of fact, I was just puzzling over a term in this book that I don’t understand. Might you explain what ‘chiaroscuro’ means?”
“It is a term for light and dark. A style of accentuating contrast for dramatic effect.”
The earl took her hand and set it in the crook of his arm. “Come, let me show you.”
Was it her imagination, or did he deliberately draw out the intimacy of the moment? Siena shook off yet another strange little shiver.
He turned and led her to a small portrait of a young woman. “Do you see how Da Vinci has chosen an angle of light to create strong highlights and shadows?”
She studied the face, half in sun, half in shade. “It adds an emotional depth, does it not?”
He gave an encouraging nod. “Yes. Well said.”
Was Kirtland actually going out of his way to be engaging? Siena took a moment to steady her breath before going on. “So an artist doesn’t just paint what he sees. He uses his mind’s eye to envision an idea, then draws on his physical skills to create it on canvas.”
A playful expression tugged at his lips. “Artists, like swordsmen, have a great many tricks of the trade. For example, the use of perspective was one of the revolutionary innovations of the Renaissance.” He gestured to a Madonna and Child, with a trio of adoring Magi in the foreground. “As was composition. A triangular design was a favorite device in guiding the viewer’s eye to the focal point.”
Intrigued, she put aside her musing on the earl long enough to study the design.
“I never realized how many subtle elements came into play.”
As the earl warmed to the subject, his features softened. Tracing over the painted folds of ivory linen, his touch was gentle as a caress. She wondered how she had ever thought him a hard, forbidding man.
“A great many subtleties are involved,” he explained. “As the finest pigments came from Tuscan soil, the painters of Florence and Siena were especially skilled in capturing the nuances of color.”
A flutter of longing stirred inside her. What inexplicable yearning had taken hold of her senses? It was bad enough to be thinking about how the earl’s hands would feel on her face, but now she was suddenly imagining what it would be like to experience the beauty of her namesake city. To learn more about art, poetry, and the splendor of sunlight.
“Have you ever been there,” she asked. “To Siena, I mean?”
“Yes, as a young man I traveled through all of Italy.”
“What is it like?” she asked. It was, after all, her duty to learn more about the earl’s love of art.
Kirtland hesitated, and in that instant she saw her own longing reflected in his eyes. “It is, in a word, magical. Its treasures are perhaps overshadowed by the brilliance of Florentine art,” he began. “Yet there is a raw energy to Siena that is unique.”
It was the first time the earl had ever spoken so freely to her. She found herself hoping he would go on.
“Set on three hills, the city rises out of the surrounding olive groves and vineyards. Inside its walls, the cobbled streets are steep and narrow. The Piazza del Campo lies at its heart, while other landmarks include the Duomo, a magnificent cathedral of green-and-white marble, with works of art by Donatello and Pisana.”
Green-and-white-like his eyes. Alight with a passion for his subject, they held her gaze.
“And of course there is the annual Palio delle Contrade, a wild horse race dating from medieval times that runs through the twisting byways of the city. Slashing hooves, flying elbows, daredevil riders jockeying for victory as the bells of Torre del Mangia ring out, and the crowds scream for blood.” His smile revealed that beneath the usual sardonic set of his features was a dry sense of humor. “You would be quite at home there.”
As his fingertips drummed lightly against her wrist, Siena felt her heart begin to gallop. Reminded that she was dangerously close to forgetting her mission, she forced her thoughts back to the job of seducing the earl into wanting a more intimate acquaintance. “You describe it very well, sir.”
“Words do not do it justice.”
“On the contrary. You are an excellent teacher. Perhaps you would consent to another lesson sometime soon.”
“Speaking of which, where did you study?”
“A small academy for girls. You would not have heard of it.”
“Was it near London, or in some distant shire?” pressed Kirtland.
She looked away. “I cannot imagine that where a courtesan received her training would be of any real interest to you.”
“I can’t help but be curious.” He leaned back against the display case, and suddenly his shoulder was touching hers.
Damn the man. He had no idea how the feel of his body against hers was affecting her equilibrium. Or did he?
“By your cultured tone,” he went on, “I would guess you were not bred for your current profession.”
A laugh escaped from her lips. “No, I was not.”
“A family misfortune?” His voice was even, but his brow betrayed a furrow.
Thrust and parry. Seeing she had piqued his interest, Siena decided it was time to withdraw. Da Rimini believed that the first round of a fencing match should combine advances and retreats,
especially against a skilled opponent. The earl had caught her off guard with his unexpected moves, but she must now get a grip on her emotions and shift the balance back in her favor.
Before Kirtland could ask any more questions, she turned quickly and moved for the door. “If you will excuse me now, I must go change for nuncheon.”
Kirtland watched the provocative sway of her hips. With her willowy height and sinuous grace, she reminded him of a rapier forged of the finest Toledo steel.
Beautiful but deadly. He could not help thinking of her in terms of martial metaphors, even though this last exchange had signaled a truce of sorts.
In truth, it had been awfully easy to put his new strategy into play. Too easy. The Black Dove’s sharp intelligence—a beguiling counterpoint to her expert sword skills—made her infinitely intriguing. Beneath the cynical smiles and gaudy gowns there seemed to be more than a scheming courtesan.
The earl found himself conflicted. He wished to think of her in terms of black-and-white, but the Dove defied such simple outlines. As this interlude had illustrated, she was far too complex, a contradiction in character. His gaze moved from the Botticelli Madonna to the Raphael portrait of Imperia, the most famous Roman courtesan of her day.
Innocence and experience.
Heaven and hell.
Kirtland caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the gilded wall sconce. Was there a devilish flickering of desire?
He turned away quickly, reminding himself that he had come to Marquand Castle seeking a treasure crafted of vellum and ink, not some chimerical Valkyrie, capable of stirring flesh-and-blood longings. He must have a care that a more intimate acquaintance with her did not become a two-edged sword. Her body was a powerful weapon in itself. Even now he could feel the heat of her lovely flesh imprinted on his hands. Somehow the slow burn had seeped to the rest of his limbs, leaving a trail of singed nerves. Which was even more reason why he must discover for whom she was fighting.
“Stealing a march on the rest of us?”
The Spy Wore Silk Page 14