The Spy Wore Silk

by Andrea Pickens

  “Where did you learn that?” he asked, once he was capable of speech.

  “In school.”

  “That’s not exactly the sort of subject they teach at boarding academies for young ladies.”

  “Oh, but they do. The class was between archery and dancing.”

  Kirtland laughed, albeit softly. “Perhaps at some point you will stop titillating me with lies and tell me the truth.”

  “I have learned not to trust anyone with my secrets.”

  Whatever hidden secrets lay between them, they were not nearly so strong as what drew them together, thought Kirtland. The realization had come to him over time, building slowly, like their strange friendship. He could not put a finger on the exact moment when his intuition had won out over his suspicions. But when the moment of truth had come—when he had pressed the point of cold steel up against her throat—he had known she was not the enemy.

  Perhaps the key was that he had come to trust his own heart as well as hers. They were both people of principle, no matter that most people thought otherwise. She was seen as naught but a whore, and he was considered a coward. But outward appearances did not begin to define their true spirit. They were alike in so many ways. He had never imagined he might find a match for both body and soul.

  Kirtland drew her closer. Even though their bodies were no longer joined as one, he could not help but feel a bond still connected them, one far more lasting than a momentary coupling of flesh. He had come to admire her courage, her conviction, her humor.

  Everything about her.

  He drew in a deep breath. Even the air was redolent with the mingled scent of their passion. Two as one. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

  She flinched. “You keep telling me that. But can I truly trust you?”

  He drew in a breath. “That is for you to decide.”

  The faint hiss of the wicks made her silence seem louder. Kirtland dared not exhale. He had thought that books and art were the only real passions in his life. But now the thought of having only paper and pigment as company in his life sent a chill through him. What had come over him?

  Love?

  Surely he was far too worldly to believe in that emotion. True love only happened in the pages of a book— fairy tales, epic poems, chansons de geste.

  Real life was not so romantic.

  Kirtland found himself achingly sorry to be so cynical.

  Siena stirred and finally spoke. “I—I did go to school.”

  Her halting words gave him a flicker of hope.

  “A special school,” she continued. “Whose ranks are filled from the legion of orphans who roam the London stews. The man I spoke of as my protector chooses only those who appear tough enough, clever enough, and fearless enough to stand up to the rigorous training and discipline.” Her mouth crooked. “We learn how to act like ladies. And like men, for the curriculum includes riding, fencing, and other such martial arts.”

  The earl drew a measured breath. “A strange choice of study that this protector of yours set up,” he said, hoping to draw her into further revelation.

  “Yes, but…” She broke off. “Before I tell you about that, I have a question about Orlov. Any idea who he is working for?”

  He shook his head. “I was going to ask you the same thing. All I know is that he claims to have been sent here to buy the Psalters.”

  “I have been warned that he may be dangerous.”

  “In what way?”

  “I don’t know.” She reacted to the curl of his lip with a small sigh. “Truly. My superiors aren’t sure what he is after.” She hesitated just a fraction before adding, “By the by, I believe it was Orlov who fired on us. He implied the bullet was aimed at you, not me.”

  He wondered how she had managed to learn that little nugget of information, but he schooled his features to remain impassive. “Why me, and not one of the other members of The Gilded Page Club, I wonder.”

  “He did not say. I imagine he sees you as the greatest threat.” She hesitated. “I would.”

  “A threat to what? His lust for the Psalters?” The earl prided himself on his logic, but as yet, he was still having a devil of a time trying to fit all the pieces of the puzzle together. “I find it hard to believe that he was sent here with orders to kill for the manuscripts. And even if he was, how does it tie in to you? None of this is making a great deal of sense.”

  She flattened her hand against his chest. “I asked before whether I could trust you, Julian. And …”

  He could feel his heart thudding against her touch. Again, there was nothing between them save for a sliver of silence. He closed his eyes and waited for her decision.

  “And…”

  The single syllable continued to resonate in the air.

  Could she trust her feelings enough to risk not only herself but also her country?

  Beneath her fingertips, the beat of his heart was strong and steady, echoing her own inner resolve. And her own inner certainty. Julian Henning was no traitor. He was an honorable man. A chivalrous man, despite his cynical denials. Despite their vastly different backgrounds—he a peer of privilege, she a product of poverty—they were more alike in spirit than she could ever have imagined.

  The linking of bodies had joined them in ways far deeper than flesh.

  Trust. Intuition warred with reason for an instant longer before her head surrendered to her heart.

  “And no matter that Da Rimini would likely expire on the spot, I have decided to tell you everything.” His slow exhaling of breath was warm against her hair. “Your guess was right. I do work for the Crown. I have been sent here to flush out a gentleman who is passing military secrets on to the enemy.”

  She felt his muscles tense. “Sent by whom?”

  “Someone at Whitehall. His name is not important.”

  She shrugged. “He would deny all knowledge of me. As would anyone connected with the government. We work strictly undercover—”

  “We?”

  “I was not joking about that school.”

  “Good God.” The earl made a choking sound from somewhere deep in his throat. “There are more of you?”

  She touched her tattoo. “At present, there are six of us who have graduated from basic training into the Master Class. Though we have all been schooled in a variety of disciplines, each of us has different strengths. Such flexibility allows for a better match to each mission.”

  The moonlight cast Kirtland’s face in harsh relief. Still, the shadows could not hide the fierce flicker of his gaze. It was a moment before he spoke. “These missions … what happens if you fail?” he asked.

  “The odds are that we die.” Aware he was watching her very closely, Siena allowed a ghost of a smile. “You have experience in battle, Julian. Defeat and death often go hand in hand. We, too, are soldiers, though our existence is a closely guarded secret. My sisters-in-arms and I understand and accept the risk.”

  “As a military officer, I may call in reinforcements,” replied the earl slowly. “And you?”

  She shook her head. “We are on our own. Those are the rules.”

  The touch of his lips sent shivers up her spine. “To hell with the rules.”

  “But-”

  He silenced her with a soft caress. “As you know from your scrutiny of my past, I believe in doing what is right, not what is written. This is war, a far more dangerous one than is waged by conventional armies. Don’t deny that you could use an ally.”

  As well as a friend and a lover?

  Swallowing a sigh of longing, she nodded. “I, too, believe there are times when the rules must be broken. If you really wish to help, let us join forces.” For the moment she would take what he offered.

  Kirtland shifted slightly. “If we are to be comrades, I ought to know your real name.”

  “It is… Siena.”

  “Siena,” he repeated. “Yet another reason I felt a bond between us from the start.”

  He spun a lock of her hair around his
finger and held it to the candlelight. “It’s a beautiful name, and fits you like a glove—a sinuous curve of syllables, sensuous as honey on the tongue. How did you come to be called that?”

  “Few of us have a name when we come to Mrs. Merlin’s Academy. So when we are first brought to the headmistress’s office, we are put before a globe, a great, glorious orb of gilded wood and wondrous lettering. It is set to spinning, and we are told to choose a city.” She crooked a smile. “A new name for the new world we enter.”

  “Like you, it is unexpected. And unique.” The earl paused. “You are even braver than Boudicca. Stronger than a Valkyrie.”

  “Oh, I have my weaknesses,” she murmured.

  “Name one.”

  Siena was not sure she was ready to reveal quite that much. “Only mythic figures have no frailties, no faults.”

  His jaw tightened. “God knows, I can attest to that”

  She could not help but ask, “Did it wound you when the military questioned your loyalty?”

  “I cannot deny it. Of course it hurts to be misunderstood. But I don’t regret my choice. It was the right thing to do.”

  “You see.” His reflection in the darkened wmdowpanes accentuated the chiseled planes of his face. “You are an idealist, willing to risk all for what is right.”

  “And so are you.” A smile flickered on his lips before he assumed a more military face. “Getting back to business, Siena, I take it you have a plan for identifying the enemy.”

  “Yes. These games have all had a purpose. They are designed to draw out traits in each man that might unwittingly reveal a telltale clue.”

  “I figured as much. Have you eliminated any of the six?” He drew a breath. “Aside from me?”

  “Fitzwilliam is left-handed and cannot have written the sample I have been shown. And my search of Winthrop’s room revealed that he has a firm alibi for the time when one piece of incriminating evidence was stolen. I cannot rule out the others. Though Dunster strikes me as a man of weak will beneath all his bluster.”

  “Still, you cannot count him out.” His mouth pursed. “So that leaves three. What is your next strategy?”

  “Another challenge, as quickly as possible. You see, my mission has an added sense of urgency in that we think the traitor has brought a stolen dispatch here—one that would destroy England’s alliance with Russia if it reaches the wrong hands. I must at any cost see that does not happen.”

  “Such stakes will make the man you seek even more dangerous. What is the next game you have in mind?”

  “As to that, I have—”

  The slight rattle of the iron latch was softer than a whisper, but Siena shot up in a flash and raced to the door. On whipping it open, she saw only shadows and the steady flame of the wall sconce.

  “Naught but a draft from the windows,” murmured Kirtland. He was at her shoulder, the poniard in hand.

  “Perhaps.” After another look up and down the dark corridor, she eased the door closed. “But you cannot stay here any longer. We must not be caught conspiring together.” Goose bumps prickled her flesh as she moved away and slid her silk wrapper over her shoulders. Was her decision to confide in the earl already coming back to haunt her?

  “The strategy,” he began.

  “There is no time to talk now. You must hurry. Already the servants are beginning to stir.” She tossed him his shirt. “The details will have to wait until later.”

  To her relief, Kirtland did not argue. He dressed quickly, pausing only long enough to hand over her blade and press a kiss to her brow.

  “Until later.”

  Lynsley removed his spectacles and pinched at the bridge of his nose. He was tempted to pour a drink from the decanter behind his desk. Not claret or port, but a strong Islay malt, redolent of the harsh seas and smoky peat of Scotland. After reading over the note that had just come from Marquand Castle, he needed some sort of fire to melt the chill forming in the pit of his stomach.

  Instead, he rose, paper still in hand, and went to stand by the hearth. Oban had served him well in a number of past missions. The former pugilist possessed a sharp eye, granite fists, and a loyal heart—a good man to have in a fight. However, subtlety was not his strength. And he had never worked for a woman before. It was possible that he had misinterpreted a word, a gesture. The marquess stared out at the Thames, then slowly shredded the missive and let it fall onto the coals. He considered himself an astute judge of character, but the young woman called Siena had always been something of a mystery to him. A Renaissance beauty, with a dark sensuality shading her luminous gaze. Did she also possess a streak of de Medici cunning?

  Unwilling to trust anything to chance, he locked up the sheaf of documents on his desk, then gathered his hat and overcoat. Driven by a growing sense of urgency, Lynsley found his thoughts becoming more and more unsettled as his carriage sped out of Town. So much was riding on the success of this mission. If the Russian Tsar did not trust in the secrecy of the negotiations and pulled out of the alliance…

  He pressed his fingertips to his brow. No, he would not contemplate failure. Not just yet. But as his lathered team of horses raced through the Academy gates, he had to admit that he might have to consider what other options were at his command.

  “Good morning, Thomas.” The door of Mrs. Merlin’s private office was opened by the lady herself. Her eyes crinkled at the corners, the only outward sign of surprise at his unannounced visit. “I take it something is amiss.”

  “I am not sure,” he admitted. “I thought I had best come here and discuss the matter with you in person.”

  “Do have a seat. I’ll ring for tea.”

  “All the tea in China will not drown the deuced problem,” he murmured, sinking into the sofa pillows.

  “Right, but I think better with a cup of oolong in my hand.” She snapped open a notebook.

  “What is the trouble?”

  “Siena. I received word from one of my sources at Mar-quand Castle that she may be consorting with the enemy.”

  “That was rather the point, was it not?”

  “Yes.” Lynsley matched her ironic smile. “But she may have crossed over the line.”

  Above the crackle of the coals, he heard the rapid-fire click of desk drawers and the shuffling of papers. “Hmmrnm.” Mrs. Merlin adjusted

  her spectacles. “Her records are faultless. But then, you knew that. I would not have suggested Siena had I harbored any reservations.” She scribbled a few lines.

  “The only weakness, if it may be called that, is an inclination for introspection.”

  “Which can be a two-edged sword in our profession. Thinking too much can sometimes be more dangerous than thinking not at all.”

  “You don’t trust her?”

  “I don’t trust anyone.” The brutal truth of it gave edge to his sigh. “Save for you, of course. Which is why I wish to hear your opinion of her heart.”

  The elderly lady tapped her pen to her chin. “How reliable is your source?”

  Lynsley made a face. “I do not question his observations, merely his interpretation. A word, a gesture…” He threaded a hand through his hair. “You have seen far more of Siena than I have over the past few years. Do you think her capable of betraying all her training?”

  The headmistress did not answer right away. Her gaze flitted from the portrait of Francis Walsingham, Elizabeth I’s secret spymaster, to the collection of Turkish daggers atop the curio table. When she looked back at him, her eyes were shaded with a certain sadness. “We train the girls to lie, to deceive. To kill without compunction. And while we believe we can tell the difference between acting for good or for evil, who can say for sure when the line becomes blurred?”

  “An eloquent speech, as always, Charlotte.”

  “But of no damn practical use to you,” she added, with a faint twinkle in her eye. “However, when you get to be my age, the urge to pontificate is sometimes hard to resist.”

  He sighed. “At the moment, I f
eel old as Methuselah.”

  “At four-and-forty, you have some years to go to match his 964 winters, Thomas.”

  Lynsley allowed a wry chuckle. “1 will settle for weathering this current crisis.”

  Mrs. Merlin flashed a smile before turning deadly serious. “Then we had better get down to specifics. Why does your source think Siena has betrayed her mission?”

  “Because she was overheard telling one of the prime suspects all the reasons why she is at Marquand Castle. Every last detail, including the existence of this school.”

  He paused. “The conversation—or confession—came after an interlude of torrid lovemaking.”

  “Ah. So the question is, who has seduced whom—”

  A sound at the door caused her to cut off. As she turned sharply, Lynsley saw the point of a dagger slip out from beneath her cuff. “Whoever is out there, show yourself this instant!”

  It was Siena’s roommate Shannon who entered the study, her hands grey with gunpowder, her face sheened in sweat.

  “Shouldn’t you be in ballistics class?” asked Mrs. Merlin.

  “Yes, ma’am. I—I was. But Mr. Musto sent me to ask you to order a fresh shipment of mercury ralminate.”

  “Then perhaps you would explain to us what you were doing standing outside the door.”

  Shannon did not flinch from the question. “I was listening to what was being said about Siena.”

  There was a fraction of a pause. “In that case have a seat, my dear. You are acquainted with Lord Lynsley, of course.”

  “Of course.” As she turned, her gaze shot from the floral chintz to her sweat-dampened shirt and muddy boots. “I think it best if I remain standing.”

  “How much did you overhear?” asked Mrs. Merlin.

  “Enough to know Siena is in trouble.”

  Lynsley thought for a moment. “Have you any reason to think that she may no longer believe in the mission of the Academy?”

  “You doubt her heart?” Shannon’s chin shot up. “Tell me why!”

  “It is for Lord Lynsley to ask the questions,” said Mrs. Merlin softly, though there was no missing the note of authority. The iron fist in the velvet glove. Despite her age, thought the marquess, the elderly widow had not lost her touch. He steepled his fingers, hoping that he could prove as adept at dealing with the crisis. The traitor must not be allowed to slip through his hands.