The Spy Wore Silk

by Andrea Pickens

  Siena ducked her head. “I know a great many fascinating details about you.”

  “Go on.”

  “You own a very spoiled cat named Lucifer, and a great hairy dog—or perhaps it is a pony or a basilisk.”

  “Mephisto’s great hairy nose would be out of joint to hear you cast aspersions on his pedigree. He is a Scottish deerhound, bred from Highland stock renowned for its fierce loyalty and tenacious strength. And if his bark is now worse than his bite, I would never have the heart to tell him so.” The earl shifted his weight. “Anything else?”

  “You sleep in the nude.”

  He was no longer feeling quite so amused. “Do you mean to say you were spying on me?”

  “It seemed only fair. After all, you had seen me in a rather compromising position.”

  “Only because you presented yourself on a proverbial platter.” He could not bite back a smile. “You were a feast for the eyes.”

  “As were you. But do not get too swelled a head about my attraction to your physical charms. It was merely … business. You were not the only gentleman I observed. The five other members of The Gilded Page Club also received a midnight visit.”

  Back to business.

  It was just as well. He must not lose sight of his earlier resolve in the flame-kissed curve of her lips.

  “So, you were not entirely forthcoming the other afternoon.” He edged forward in his seat, intent on finally forcing the truth from her. “One of us is, in fact, the dastard you seek?”

  “I have yet to find the evidence I need to prove it, but yes, I am fairly certain.”

  “What proof?”

  “That is not your concern, sir.”

  “The hell it isn’t. You can’t deny that I have been drawn into this dangerous game you are playing. I need to know who you are and where you have come from.”

  “We did not come here to discuss me or my past.”

  “I do not recall agreeing to any such rules.” Seeing he had her on the defensive, the earl quickened the thrust of his questions. “Seeing as I nearly took a bullet to the brain this afternoon, I think I have a right to demand some answers from you. Let’s start with the real reason you are here.”

  “I told you why I am here—to avenge a betrayal. And to be certain it never happens again.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Why do you care so passionately?”

  “I have a duty to care.”

  “Duty?” He gave the word a mocking edge. “Being a courtesan is an odd choice of professions, given such noble sentiments.”

  Her jaw clenched. “Go to hell.”

  “You may join a long list of people who wish me to the devil.” Kirtland softened his sarcasm. “But whether you care to believe it or not, I do understand idealism.”

  “Not many people do.”

  “No. And even fewer have the heart to stand up for their beliefs. Because at times it hurts, and leaves you wondering whether it is worth the pain.”

  Her hands clenched into fists.

  Sensing that he had touched a raw nerve, Kirtland kept up the attack. “So, is there actually a chink in your armor?”

  Siena rose abruptly and turned for the door. “We have nothing more to discuss, Lord Kirtland. Enjoy the fruits of your victory for as long as you wish, but I am returning to the castle.”

  “Not so fast.” His hand caught her wrist.

  Siena spun around. A physical confrontation? Somehow she had let the earl get the best of her in their verbal duel. She had been distracted, her edge dulled by his personal questions—and by the play of the light upon his face. It wouldn’t happen

  again.

  Anger gave added force to the twist of her shoulder, the flip of her wrist.

  “Damn.” Kirtland stared up at her from the floor. “Gentleman Jackson himself has never knocked me to the canvas.”

  “Because boxing is too crude a sport,” she replied. “There are far more effective disciplines. I could easily put you on your arse again.”

  The earl was upright in an instant, a martial light in his eye. “You think so?” It appeared that he, too, could not resist rising to a challenge. “I have a few tricks of my own.”

  “Feel free to try them. No holds barred.”

  The gleam of his gaze dimmed slightly as he surveyed her skirts and slim form. “I am afraid I might hurt you. Superior size and weight give me an unfair advantage were I to fight dirty.”

  Siena made a rude sound. “You should know better than that by now. It’s you who will be dusting the seat of your breeches. Come, try to overpower me.”

  “You asked for it.” He circled warily, feinting several times before rushing in low and hard.

  Her own limbs were a blur of motion. Block. Spin. Twist.

  THUMP.

  “How the devil did you do that?” asked the earl admiringly as he rubbed his bruised elbow.

  “By employing an ancient Eastern discipline called tai chi. The principle is actually quite simple. It uses an enemy’s strength against him.”

  Kirtland rose, this time a bit more gingerly. “Show me.”

  “Very well. Come at me again, but this time very slowly.” Siena demonstrated the footwork and technique she had used to knock him down. “Now, say you were to grab me from behind …”

  He obliged.

  “It’s a matter of timing, but if I shift my weight like this, and like this, I could easily flip you into the coals.”

  He practiced a few of the moves. “I think I grasp the essence of it.” His hand suddenly shot out, and with a deft lunge, he knocked her back onto the sofa.

  Bloody hell. She should have known he would prove a quick study. “That was an underhanded trick, sir.”

  “There is an old saying—all is fair in love and war.”

  “This is neither,” she retorted quickly.

  “No? Yet you are waging a deadly battle. Perhaps to the death, if what happened this afternoon is any indication.”

  His tumbled locks softened the harsh planes of his face. Candlelight caught the flicker of concern in his gaze. She closed her eyes, willing herself to ignore the curve of his cheek, his lips, as he crouched down beside her.

  “I am aware of that.” She tried to pull free, but he kept his hands on her shoulders.

  “Stop fighting me, if only for a moment,” he began.

  “I have been fighting my whole life,” she whispered. “It is … a part of who I am. I don’t expect you to know what I mean.”

  And yet, Siena saw from his face that he did. “You are up against a dangerous man.”

  “I am willing to accept the risk.”

  Kirtland swore under his breath. The stirring of air tickled her lashes. “You are too brave for your own good, my bold Valkyrie.” She was suddenly aware of a warmth on her brow. His lips, light as a whisper of poetry. “Tell me your enemy. And let me help you beat him.”

  Speaking of risk.

  “Please,” she managed a ragged reply. “You have no idea what you are asking.”

  His mouth moved down to the hollow of her throat. Her pulse began to pound wildly.

  “Trust,” he said softly.

  Tai chi was no defense against this. Nor were any of her other finely honed skills. The only thing that might save her now was—

  A brusque knock sounded on the door.

  Siena seized the moment to slip free of his embrace. “Oban has returned.” She shook out her tangled skirts and grabbed for the candle. “It is time to go.”

  “Trust,” repeated Kirtland as she hurried away. “What I am asking for is your trust, paloma. How many times must I say it—you have nothing to fear from me.”

  Kirtland helped Siena down from the open carriage. A cool silence had cloaked the drive back to the castle.

  If she had heard his last words, she had chosen to ignore them.

  “Thank you, Lord Kirtland,” she said as he took her wrap and handed it to the porter. Her tone was even chillier than the night air, the note of dismissal unm
istakable. “And good night.”

  He followed her across the entrance hall. “It’s still early. You are sure you would not care for a stroll to the conservatory?” He knew her answer would be no. Indeed, he was counting on it. “We were having such an interesting conversation at the hunting lodge. I was hoping we might pick up where we left off.”

  Her mouth thinned at the half-mocking edge to his voice. “I think we have had enough intimate contact for the evening.” A piano sonata drifted out from the Music Room. “I prefer to take tea with the other guests and listen to the Mozart recital.” She took another step, then paused. “And you?”

  The earl slanted a look at the main stairs, then gave a nonchalant shrug. “In that case, I think I shall join the other gentlemen for port and billiards.” Without a backward glance, he walked down the corridor and entered the Game Room. But he lingered in the haze of cigar smoke and male laughter only long enough to ensure that the Black Dove had time to settle down with a cup of oolong.

  She thought to brush him off so easily? He flexed his fingers and allowed a grim smile. The lady was indeed skilled at fighting. But so was he. And she was not the only one who possessed some underhanded tricks. During the drive back to the castle, he had decided that the time had come to strip off his scruples and use a few of them. If she would not reveal any information about her true identity, he would search her rooms.

  There had to be some clue of a personal nature, some telltale hint that would betray her real reasons for being at Marquand Castle.

  Perhaps he should not care so passionately. He had been disappointed, disillusioned in the past. Yet he could not help feeling more and more certain that she wielded her strength for something more lofty than personal greed. Her words on fighting—spoken with such a heartfelt edge—had resonated with the courage of her convictions.

  Or so he wished to believe. But there was still a whisper of doubt.

  Retracing his steps, the earl angled a peek through the Music Room doors. So far, so good. The Dove was sitting on the sofa, conversing with the plump Swedish countess from Stockholm.

  Hurrying up a back stairway, he made his way to the second floor of the East Wing. The corridor was deserted, with only a single sconce lit near the door to her chambers. Kirtland tested the latch, not at all surprised to find the lock firmly in place. It was, however, an ancient model, not one of the complex military mechanisms that had guarded her London residence. A flick of his penknife coaxed the bolt free.

  The scent of verbena hung in the air, along with the earthier, exotic spice he had come to identify as uniquely her own. Once he had lit the branch of candles by the doorway, he looked to the dressing table and saw only a single perfume bottle, a simple set of wooden brushes, several small bottles of cosmetics, and a box of hair ornaments—all arranged in parade ground precision. A rather spartan array for a lady of her profession. Indeed, there were very few of the frilly feminine touches that were usually found in a courtesan’s boudoir.

  He picked up one of the hairpins and twirled it between his fingers, curious to discover that the shaft was steel, and stiff as a rapier. Setting it aside, he moved to the escritoire. Ink, paper, the poems from her first challenge… Lud, had Winthrop really penned such painfully prosaic rhymes?

  But no personal papers. Not a letter, not a card from a Bond Street shop, not a dressmaker’s receipt. He checked the drawers and beneath the blotter to make sure he had not overlooked anything. Nothing. It was as if she had not existed before her recent appearance in London.

  A search of her dressing room only underscored the impression. All the elegant dresses were new, as were the assortment of petticoats and undergarments. Only a pair of well-worn riding boots and the dark breeches and shirt looked to have had much use.

  Frowning, the earl returned to the bedchamber. Rather than shed any light on the Black Dove, his clandestine foray had only deepened the aura of mystery surrounding her. He leaned against the carved bedpost and made another slow sweep of the room with his gaze. What the devil was he missing? His eyes fell to the crisp folds of the counterpane, the plumped pillows. More out of frustration than expectation of finding anything, he thumped a

  fist to the eiderdown and turned down the sheets. “Bloody hell.” Hating to retreat empty-handed, he got down on his hands and knees for one last look under the bed skirts.

  If not for the wink of light off the brass catch, he might have missed the slim black box. It was heavier than it looked and took a moment to maneuver out to the center of the rug. Several tries at forcing the lock proved futile. It was a far more sophisticated design than the duke’s old

  latches, but he was not about to be defeated by a few bits of metal.

  Suddenly recalling the steel hairpin, he plucked it from the pile and set to work.

  His reconnaissance missions with the Spanish partisans had given him experience in such shadowy skills. On the third try, his efforts were rewarded. With a soft snick, the lid popped open a fraction.

  Kirtland moved the candles closer and folded back the velvet cloth.

  The cavalry saber and brace of pistols he had seen before. It was the rest of the weaponry that caused the breath to catch in his throat. Needle-thin stilettos, crescent-curved jambiyas, wide-bladed daggers—there were at least half a dozen different knives of various shapes and sizes. Not to speak of the more exotic implements. Razored throwing stars that he recognized as Indian in design, a hollow wooden pipe with several tiny arrows, and a selection of glass vials containing colored powders. He didn’t dare hazard a guess as to what they were for.

  As he sat back on his haunches, one other item caught his eye. Lifting the sheath from the case, he slid the poniard out from the leather. It was perfectly balanced, with a distinctive crosshatched hilt that fit snugly in his palm.

  “Bloody hell,” he breathed, after holding it up to the moonlight and examining the tiny initials etched on the base of the blade.

  Returning the sheath to the box, the earl closed it and shoved it back beneath the bed. The poniard he kept in his hand.

  Then he sat down to wait.

  Siena joined in the polite applause. The duke had arranged for a noted Viennese musician to play for the guests, and the man was superb. However, as he paused to change his sheet music for the next set of sonatas, she quietly excused herself and slipped into the corridor.

  The noise from the Game Room had grown louder, the crack of the billiard balls punctuated by the chink of glasses and rumble of laughter. She strolled closer, hoping the door was open enough to see inside.

  Damn. There was no more than a crack, and that was clouded with smoke. But as she turned, Fitzwilliam came out, staggering slightly but looking to be in a jovial mood.

  “Er, thought I’d get a breath of fresh air,” he slurred, tapping a bit of ash from his cheroot. “The terrace …”

  Siena pointed him in the right direction. “Is Lord Rutland still playing?” she added casually.

  “Kirtland?” Fitzwilliam’s brow furrowed; then his expression smoothed to a smile.

  “Yes, yes. Just saw him there in the corner.”

  She watched the baron pass through to the garden entrance hall before continuing on to the side corridor and making her way back to the East Wing. Aware that Kirtland was not wont to linger too long with the other gentlemen, she knew she would have to hurry. Even so, it was a calculated risk. She would have to trust her luck.

  Trust.

  The word pricked at her conscience. The truth was, she wanted to trust the earl.

  From the very beginning, she had viewed his austerity, his refusal to compromise his principles, in a favorable light rather than shadowed in suspicion. But perhaps she had gone too far in allowing feelings rather than facts to affect her judgment.

  That was a cardinal mistake for any soldier.

  Siena slowed, her stride no longer so sure. Her mission was clear, but was she fighting her own desire as well as the unknown enemy? Her heart wanted very much to b
elieve that Kirtland was innocent, while her head warned that she must keep on the attack.

  She drew to a halt at the archway, her shoulders pressing back against the molding as she looked down the row of doors. Behind one of them was a traitor. Did she have the mettle to match his strength and cunning? He was a master of deception.

  But she was a Merlin.

  Steeling her spine, Siena was just about to cross over to the earl’s quarters when the sound of footsteps caused her to freeze. The notes of a Mozart melody echoed off the walls as the gentleman’s whistling grew louder. A key rattled in the doorlock. Venturing a quick peek, Siena saw Orlov enter his rooms, leaving the door slightly ajar.

  Sometimes the best plan of attack is to retreat, Volpina.

  Siena edged back the way she had come. It was too risky to try a search of Kirtland’s quarters. She would have to find another time or another way to know for sure whether he was friend or foe.

  There was no need for stealth once she reached the main staircase. Still brooding over the earl, she hurried to the next floor, anxious for a safe haven in which to regroup her thoughts. Given the recent turn of events, she could not afford the slightest slip of her guard. She had been careless and clumsy earlier in the day. On the fencing field, Da Rimini would be exhorting her to keep her weapon raised, her wrist firm— It took her only a second to realize that the door had opened at the first touch, but by that time it was too late. A hand had yanked her inside and slammed it shut.

  The room was dark, save for a sliver of moonlight. But she instantly knew who had hold of her. His touch, his scent, his strength were by now intimately familiar.

  She made no attempt to struggle.

  “Have a seat, Madame Dove. The bed would be the most appropriate place, would it not?”

  Siena turned slowly. The sight of her own poniard hovering just inches from her face was a shock, but she sought to cover her confusion with a verbal parry. “If you are in an amorous mood, Lord Kirtland, perhaps you ought to try flashing another sort of blade.”

  His laugh had no trace of humor. “My mood at the moment would not be described as amorous.”

  “No? Then perhaps you would explain why you are here.”