The Spy Wore Silk

by Andrea Pickens

  “Yes, me. It was lucky for the lady that I, and not you, was the last man on her schedule.”

  Still groggy, the marquess felt at his head. A whimper replaced his earlier bravado. “You hit me?”

  “Who else? Count yourself fortunate that she stopped me from thrashing you to within an inch of your miserable life.”

  “I had no choice! I didn’t want to harm her, but …” He fell silent at seeing Kirtland’s expression. “W—what do you intend to do?” he asked. “Please, if word gets out about any of this, I’ll be ruined.”

  “From what I overheard, you should be.”

  The marquess paled. “I beg of you, Kirtland. Have mercy. We all make mistakes in life.”

  “You mean to say you are sorry for your sins?”

  “Yes, by God,” he babbled. “Exceeding sorry.”

  “Then you will wish to do penance for them.”

  “Anything!”

  Kirtland hauled the marquess to his feet. “Very well. If the lady is agreeable to it, I have a proposal.”

  She gave a slight nod, signaling him to go on.

  “You will use the money you set aside for the Psalters for another purpose.” He thought for a moment. “To establish a shelter for fallen women. In St. Giles.”

  Dunster let out a gasp. “But—”

  Siena, too, felt the breath leach from her lungs.

  “No buts,” snapped Kirtland. “Not only that, you will continue to fund it every year. And money is not the only contribution you will make. You will involve yourself personally in the programs. Talk to the girls. Attend meetings. Enlist other benefactors. Perhaps it will give you a different perspective on seduction and the casual cruelty women endure from men.”

  Dunster wet his lips.

  “It’s that, or having your perfidy made public. Think on it. I doubt you would ever be received in Society again. Widows and wives are one thing, but innocents are not fair game, even for you.”

  “Very well,” croaked Dunster. “I agree.”

  “If you fail to live up to the bargain, all of London will learn the truth as to your character. You will answer to their wrath. And mine. Do we understand each other?”

  The marquess nodded.

  “So be it, then. Now that you know what your immediate future is, take yourself off.”

  Siena waited until Dunster had slunk away into the darkness. “Perhaps I can find a suit of armor down here among all the other ancestral debris. It may need a bit of polishing to knock off the rust, but your sense of honor is already shining through, despite all your avowals to the contrary.”

  “I am not some storybook knight, but a man, Siena. One with too many flaws to write on a page.”

  “Yet you keep rescuing a damsel in distress.”

  He looked embarrassed.

  “That was a noble idea,” she continued. “I don’t care what denials you make, you are an idealist—a man who cares about defending those who can’t help themselves.”

  The earl shrugged off the praise. He needed practice in receiving heartfelt emotion as well as giving it, thought Siena. If she had any say in it, the training would be rigorous.

  He quickly changed the subject. “Did your fortune-telling turn up any other revelations?”

  She shook her head. “No, though it is quite astounding how nervous people get when the subject of secrets is mentioned. I suppose we all have private peccadilloes we are afraid will come to light. But as for learning any specifics, there were no other confessions of guilt.” Forcing her thoughts from the glimmer of Kirtland’s eyes in the lamplight, she added, “If I had to guess, I would say that Leveritt is the one worth more scrutiny. The next challenge should allow me the opportunity to take a closer look at his quarters. I wish to follow up on something he let slip.”

  Suddenly aware of the damp chill pervading the cellars, Siena shivered and her bare arms pebbled with gooseflesh. “Let us extinguish the lights and make our way back upstairs.” She turned, only to find Kirtland was blocking the doorway.

  “A moment before we go,” he said, tugging the headscarf free of her tresses. “What of you, Siena?” he asked, smoothing the tumble of curls back from her brow. “What secrets do you wish to keep hidden?”

  Whereas an instant ago she was cold, a hot flush now suffused her limbs. She had never dared voice her inner most doubts to anyone, not even Shannon or Sofia. But a look at his face, strong yet vulnerable in the stubbled light, gave her the courage to go on.

  “I—I fear letting anyone know how often I feel unsure. How at times I wonder if I am tough enough …” She drew a breath. “A true warrior should never feel doubts. It is a sign of weakness.”

  “You are wrong, my valiant Valkyrie. It is a sign of strength, for it shows you are thinking, questioning, challenging yourself. Only a fool never feels fear.”

  Siena wondered how she had ever thought the chiseled angles and faint scars of his face forbidding.

  “Anything else troubling your heart?”

  Surely her new feelings must be painfully obvious. Still, she tried to keep a brave face. “I am supposed to be asking all the questions.”

  A low chuckle. “I had forgotten your claim to Gypsy talents, seeing as you look more like a corsair than a Romany princess.”

  “We had to improvise.” She gave a wry laugh. “Perhaps I do have a special knack for reading palms. I did, after all, predict that Dunster would soon be required to spend a great deal of money.”

  “Ah.” His smile drew into a more serious expression. Taking her hand between his, Kirtland turned it upward. “Tell me, what do you see for your own future?”

  She didn’t dare meet his gaze. “Right now, I can’t think of looking beyond my mission.”

  He looked as if to pursue the matter, then simply nodded and released his hold. “Very well, we’ll wait and see. But not for long. Things have taken too dangerous a turn of late. I want you to set up the last challenges as quickly as possible.”

  Kirtland was right. There was no time to lose.

  Siena stared out her bedroom window. The rain had finally given way to scudding sunlight, and the mist had receded, leaving the moors sparkling with a hard-edged clarity. In contrast, the clouds within the castle were growing more ominous. Dunster had departed at dawn, leaving a message for the others that an urgent matter called him back to Town.

  The explanation had raised no overt comment, but at breakfast, the tension was palpable among the remaining club members. Winthrop had even suggested that the games were becoming too much of a distraction from the auction.

  She had agreed to consider changing the rules. Her masquerade was wearing thin. Orlov, she knew, already saw through the low-cut bodices and transparent silks. Whether anyone else suspected that the Black Dove was not what she seemed was … uncertain.

  Rose opened the armoire. “What dress shall you be needing for the afternoon?”

  “My riding habit, please,” she replied, hoping a good gallop would help clear her head for the challenge ahead.

  At breakfast she had pronounced Fitzwilliam the winner of the previous night’s challenge, with the prize being a ride out to the romantic ruins of a medieval abbey. Although he was no longer a suspect, she had wanted the time to consider how to deal with the two remaining suspects.

  Leveritt and Jadwin. One of them had to be the traitor. And she was almost certain as to which one it was. Something the older gentleman had said during the fortune-telling session had sparked yet another question, but she needed to work out an exact strategy for confirming her suspicions. Or dealing with the alternative. Either way, by the end of the night, the enemy would be unmasked.

  “You anticipate trouble?” Rose looked up, alerted by the click of the lock on the weapons case.

  “It’s best to be prepared,” Siena answered evasively as she opened the lid. She was not sure how much her maid knew of what took place during the games. Or how much Rose guessed. She herself had said nothing about Orlov’s bullet or Duns
ter’s attack.

  Or Rutland’s lovemaking.

  Her fingers tightened on the hilt of her poniard, matching the clench of her body. The thought of his touch sent a dagger of desire through her.

  “A wise strategy when one isn’t sure who the enemy is.” Was there a hint of warning in Rose’s tone?

  Siena slipped the extra blade into her reticule, then put away the case. “Speaking of strategy, I’ve decided to change the timing of the next game.” Making a spur-of-the-moment decision, she went on, “Instead of tomorrow, it will take place tonight.”

  “Which one do you have in mind?”

  “The treasure hunt. We need to map out a route through the castle, one that will keep the men busy for at least an hour. Perhaps you can take a look around some of the more out-of-the-way areas and decide which ones might suit our needs.”

  Rose nodded. “I already have some ideas.”

  “I will be back in several hours, and we can work out the final details.” She would make the announcement when the gentlemen gathered for drinks before supper. Even if the enemy was suspicious of her role here, the sudden change in plan might throw him off-balance. “Just keep them far away from their own quarters.”

  Kirtland shaded his eyes from the sun. From the shelter of the rock outcropping, he had a clear line of sight across to the abbey ruins. Siena had eliminated Fitzwilliam as the traitor, but he wasn’t taking any chances. None of the members of The Gilded Page Club had seemed particularly threatening before now. Yet one was a dangerous traitor.

  He had been forced to look at everyone—including himself—in a whole new light.

  At the sound of hooves thudding over the wet ground, he checked the priming of his pistol and peeked down from his aerie to see Siena and Fitzwilliam dismount. Even from afar, she drew his gaze. Like a moth to aflame. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  Despite all their differences, they were, at heart, kindred spirits. Both of them had been indelibly marked by the hardships of life, he with the scars of an enemy saber and she with a secret tattoo. They wore them as badges of honor, outward signs of a commitment to duty, to principle. He was born a peer, she a pauper, and yet some unknown alchemy, more magic than science, had bonded them together in defiance of all rational logic.

  How to explain a flash of lightning? A clap of thunder? Or the feeling of profound peace he had experienced in her arms, despite the storm raging all around them.

  Kirtland pressed back against the jagged stone, feeling a warring of desire and regret. Now that he knew she was not really a courtesan, he would not treat her as one. She might not be a real lady .. . but that was a distinction he did not care about. She had earned his respect.

  And far more. A sudden glint of sun on steel drew his attention from Siena and her escort to the trail leading up from the lake. It took a moment for his eye to focus on the approaching rider.

  Orlov.

  Deciding that the Russian was far more of a threat than Fitzwilliam, the earl hurried to mount his stallion. Cutting through the copse of pines, he cantered to the crest of the hill and picked out a path through the gorse and granite that led down into the wooded ravine.

  “Out hunting?” Kirtland waited until the other man came abreast of the trees before spurring forward to join him. The trail was narrow, forcing them close enough that their boots brushed.

  The Russian didn’t bat an eye. “I thought I might shoot some birds, if the opportunity arose.”

  “It won’t.” Rutland let the pause linger before adding, “Out of season, you see.”

  “You did not ask which species I was considering.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” answered the earl.

  “It appears we have different customs on the Continent.”

  “So it does. But as you are in England, I would advise you not to risk breaking the rules.”

  “Then perhaps I’ll set my sights on bigger game,” said Orlov blandly.

  They rode on in silence. The terrain flattened, yet still the earl clung like a nettle to the Russian’s side until they reached a fork in the trail. After a small hesitation, Orlov reined his mount toward the south fields, away from Siena. Satisfied that he no longer posed any immediate threat to her, Rutland touched the brim of his hat. “Good hunting. But have a care. The weather looks to be turning, and the moors of Devon can be dangerous for those unfamiliar with the territory.”

  Orlov turned in his saddle. “Be assured, Lord Rutland, I have hunted in far more treacherous environs than these.”

  Suddenly tiring of all the feints and probes, the earl decided to bare his steel. “Whatever it is you are after, I don’t intend to let you have it.”

  “Then perhaps I shall have to take it by force.”

  “You may try.”

  They glared at each other, both unyielding, until the Russian flashed a mocking salute. “How sporting of you to offer a warning, Rutland. I would not have expected it. A lofty set of scruples is not rumored to be one of your strong suits.”

  “Perhaps you have had an ear cocked in the wrong direction.”

  There was a momentary ripple in the flat blue gaze. Satisfied that he had made his point, Kirtland spurred his stallion into a brisk canter. Not that he had won any great advantage from the engagement. Orlov’s reasons for shadowing Siena were still as mysterious as ever. Friend or foe?

  Or something in between?

  The earl slowed to negotiate a tricky turn. Could there be any grey area when it came to treachery? He wondered. Though he had not voiced his thoughts to her, Kirtland was now of die opinion that Orlov’s shot had been fired as a warning, not a death warrant. In analyzing the incident,

  he had decided that the shot had been aimed high enough over their heads to be a deliberate miss.

  Why?

  Swearing under his breath, Kirtland wished once again that he, like Osborne, had been asked to lend bis expertise to military intelligence. In mulling over the few bits of information his friend had told him about Orlov, he had come up with even more questions about the Russian’s motives. However, to find answers, he would have to do his own reconnaissance. A search of Orlov’s rooms was in order, but he would have to be very careful. The man’s movements were unpredictable.

  As was everything about the gathering at Marquand Castle.

  The Psalters be damned. Come hell or high water, the earl decided he must spirit Siena away from its walls as soon as possible. Even if that meant taking matters into his own hands.

  The light from the drawing-room chandeliers seemed a bit more subdued than on previous evenings. As did the colors of the floral arrangement and the tone of the voices. Even the clink of crystal seemed muted as the guests gathered for the daily ritual of drinks before supper. The duke’s relatives seated themselves on the velvet sofas by the hearth, while the others broke off into several small circles of their own. The remaining members of The

  Gilded Page Club stood on their own in front of the mullioned windows.

  “I have a surprise for you, gentlemen,” announced Siena as she joined them.

  Fitzwilliam raised his glass and composed a quick rhyme. “Dare we hope the Dove has chosen a nest. And is now willing to spread her wings to the best.”

  “With such puling poetry, you have not a chance of warming your cockles beneath a blanket of downy softness,” said Winthrop.

  “As if your words would coax a crow into your bed—”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions just yet.” Siena cut off the gibes before they could turn too ugly. “What I meant was, I have decided to change the rules.”

  The four gentlemen around her exchanged speculative looks. Kirtland alone appeared more interested in the conversation taking place in one of the alcoves.

  “What say you to one final challenge?” She had not yet told the earl of her idea and hoped he would not raise any objection. “To take place tonight. Winner take all.”

  “An excellent suggestion.” To her surprise, it was Kirtland who voiced
first approval. “Why wait any longer?”

  Fitzwilliam seconded the sentiment. “Aye, it’s high time to come to the point.”

  Winthrop’s snigger quickly took on a more speculative edge. “Let us hear what you have in mind before we come to any agreement.”

  “Fair enough.” Siena indicated the bejeweled pendant nestled between her cleavage.

  “You see this golden dove? By midnight it will be resting in a different place. You will all receive a set of riddles at that time. Each one you solve will lead you a step closer to its hiding place. The first man to return to the Map Room with it will come away with two birds in hand.”

  “So this time, the winner will not be open to interpretation?” asked Leveritt.

  “No,” agreed Siena. “The outcome will leave no doubt as to who stands out from the others.”

  Jadwin had remained silent up until that moment, but on hearing the others murmur their assent, he shrugged.

  “Well, if even Kirtland is on the same page this time, who am I to object?”

  Siena signaled for more champagne to be served all round. “Then we are all in agreement. We will gather in the Hunt Room at midnight. There you will receive your set of riddles and the final instructions. Dress for a stalk, gentlemen. Although the trail will not lead outdoors, there will be a number of thorny obstacles to overcome before reaching the prize.”

  “And you, madam, should come attired for a tumble,” suggested Winthrop with a wink. “After putting us through a merry chase, I am sure the winner will not wish to waste any time in claiming victory.”

  “Good things come to those who wait,” she replied.

  “So they say. But when the moment is right, one must be ready to seize it.” Kirtland’s words were cryptic, like the crescent curve that had come to his lips. What message, if any, did he mean to convey?

  She had not long to ponder the question, for as the footman came over to refill their glasses, he contrived to murmur in her ear, “The Weapon Room. At eleven.”

  His whisper stirred a flutter of her lashes, a silent as sent. Strange how she knew he would sense its meaning. A look, a gesture—there was