The Spy Wore Silk

by Andrea Pickens

an understanding between them that went beyond words. Their bodies were in tune. Even now, she did not need to look around to know he had moved a half dozen paces to her right, his shoulders squared to the marble hearth.

  A moment later he was gone, drawn away to converse with the duke’s secretary at the far end of the room.

  Siena turned slightly, letting her gaze linger on the spot he had just vacated before looking to the open French doors. Torches were lit along the terrace, and several of the gentlemen had stepped out to enjoy a smoke in the lingering twilight. The carved balusters had mellowed to the color of amber honey, and she suddenly felt the need to seek a sliver of solitude. She slipped from the room and found a spot at the railing, far from the rumblings of male laughter. Like distant thunder that presaged a storm, it stirred a thrumming awareness that her mission was drawing to a head. The very air seemed charged with the crackle of coming lightning. Drawing a steadying breath, she sought to channel its force deep within her.

  Her hands pressed hard against the weathered stone. The flex of muscle rippled through her limbs, in perfect harmony with balance and focus. She trusted her body, her physical training. If it came down to a test of strength or stamina, she was a match for any man.

  As for a battle of wills? Siena stared out at the purpling moots. Her belief in the principles of the Academy was unflinching as well. She would fight to the death to defend them.

  Never hesitate, Volpina. When the time comes to thrust the blade home, you must think of nothing else. Da Rimini had taught her well.

  Her arm was poised, her steel was honed. The only possible weakness was her heart. She had let emotion come into play, stirring feelings that had no place in a warrior’s world. Distractions could prove deadly.

  And love was perhaps the most dangerous of them all. Love. It was a two-edged sword. She loved her profession and all the noble ideals espoused by Lord Lynsley. But Julian Henning had made her realize that love was more than an abstraction. He embodied all that she held dear—strength, honor, compassion. He had also awakened her to other elemental passions.

  The pleasures of lovemaking, the nuances of art, the power of poetry.

  As a lone child in the slums, she had seen men as threatening brutes. As a student at the Academy, she had learned to view them in a more admirable light. They were teachers, disciplinarians, leaders who set an honorable example. They had molded her mind and her body. But until now, she had never imagined a man could be trusted with her heart. Duty and desire. If only …

  Siena thrust such musing aside. There was still a battle to fight before she tried to sort out her inner conflicts. It wasn’t as if the earl had asked her to choose between her world and his. Their alliance was only temporary.

  “Your face is far too lovely to be wearing such a pensive frown.” Fitzwilliam, bearing a fresh bottle of champagne, perched a hip on the stone balustrade and refilled her drink.

  Sentiment gave way to a steely smile as Siena turned.

  “Come, let us toast to the striking sunset. And the corning dawn. By tomorrow, you will have settled on your new protector. I should think that the prospect would be a pleasing one, for no matter whom you choose, you have a good deal to gain.”

  And a good deal to lose.

  She raised the glass to her lips. “To the new day.”

  Would that she and Kirtland lived to see it.

  The surrounding steel of the Weapons Room— centuries of razored blades, hammered shields, and daggered points—gave the clock chimes an added edge. Her nerves already sharp with worry, Siena moved deeper into the recess between the display cabinets. Row upon row of Roman knives lay upon pristine velvet.

  She forced her eyes away.

  The earl entered, his dark evening dress blending in with the night shadows. A glance around, and he came to her with a silent, stalking step. His features, chiseled to a harsher angle by the reflected light, betrayed his own tension. He said nothing as he slipped into the narrow space beside her, his mouth set in a hard line.

  And then, suddenly, his lips were upon hers, softening for just an instant into a searing kiss, before resuming their martial slant.

  “This change in strategy—what have you planned?” he asked.

  “The treasure hunt will allow me to search Leveritt’s room first, then move on to Jadwin’s if need be.” Some how she managed a show of composure despite the flutter ing of her heart. “Rose and I have routed the trail through the far reaches of the attics. The riddles should keep them occupied for well over an hour.”

  “Give yourself no more than half an hour,” he replied. “After that, the risk grows too great.”

  “The timing should be no problem.” She sketched out the logistics, and though his frown deepened, Kirtland raised no objection until she had finished.

  “I cannot say I like what you are proposing. There are too many things that may go wrong.”

  “No battle plan is foolproof. If need be, I will improvise.”

  “I will drop out of the hunt and come back to keep track of Orlov. He poses as great a threat as the others.” He touched her arm. “Promise me you will stay away from his quarters.”

  “I am not so rash as to walk straight into the lion’s den.”

  “Knowing your unflinching courage, I would not put it past you to charge straight through the gates of hell.”

  “Only if Lucifer stands between me and the paper I have been sent to recover.” She wished to say more, but to speak now of personal matters might weaken her resolve.

  His jaw clenched, and for a moment, Kirtland looked on the verge of voicing a more vehement protest. But then, he seemed held back by the same reticence that gripped her. “Be careful, Siena.”

  A low murmur and a last light brush of his lips to her forehead were all he allowed before disappearing back into the shadows.

  “And you, Julian,” she whispered into the darkness.

  Kirland doubled back through the gallery corridor, pausing every few steps to check for footfalls behind him.

  Feigning puzzlement at the first of Siena’s riddles, he had been the last to leave the Hunt Room, and from there, it had been easy enough to

  drop away from the rest of the group as they hurried for the attic storerooms. Still, he could not shake off a feeling of unease. An unseen threat shadowing his steps.

  Taking cover in the doorway of the Renaissance Room, he checked again for any sign that he was being followed. Silence.

  Not a scuff or a flutter of movement, save for the noiseless flicker of the wall sconces. And yet, the hairs on the nape of his neck stirred a prickling warning.

  He forced a measured breath. The rasp of his nerves was no doubt due to rust. He was out of practice—that was all. And in the past, his fears had been for himself and his battle-hardened troops, not a lone young female. That she was trained to take care of herself did not still the thud

  of his heart. She was in danger, and his instinct was to rush to her rescue, no matter that their strategy demanded that he guard the flanks.

  Damn. Despite Osborne’s teasings, he had never thought of himself as a parfait chevalier in a chanson de geste. He had too many chinks in his armor. Yet armed with naught but his heart, he would gladly joust dragons, demons, or the devil himself to keep Siena safe from harm.

  All the more reason to locate Orlov, he reminded himself. And quickly. Her change in strategy had made a search of the Russian’s rooms less important than finding the man himself. Knowing Orlov was in the habit of lingering over port and cigars, Kirtland decided to head for the small studies on the floor below. Wherever he was, the Russian was soon to acquire a companion. A shadow to his every move. Hurrying his own strides, the earl slipped down one flight through the servant stairwell and picked his way past a row of decorative plinths. The first few rooms were dark, deserted. He came abreast of the Coin Room and, finding the fire banked and the candles extinguished, turned for the East Wing. A move that would bring him closer to the Russian’s quarters.
And to Siena.

  “Looking for something?”

  The sudden sound froze Kirtland in his tracks. “A drink,” he replied.

  Orlov, his brows a golden gleam of mock surprise, clucked in dismay. “Have the duke’s servants let all the decanters go dry at the same time? How shockingly lax. But then, it is so difficult to come by good help these days.”

  “I find myself in the mood for something other than brandy or port.”

  “Indeed? Have you ever tasted Russian vodka?”

  “No.” The earl kept his voice deliberately neutral.

  “I have a bottle in my room. Would you care to try it?” An invitation, or a challenge?

  “I warn you, though, it is an acquired taste.”

  “Like you?”

  Orlov laughed softly. “You are not the first to imply that I am best enjoyed in small doses.”

  The man did possess a dry sense of humor, admitted the earl. To go along with his insolent arrogance.

  “The same might be said for you, Lord Kirtland,” continued the Russian. “But despite our apparent distaste for one another, why don’t we put aside our differences for the moment and have a friendly chat. Who knows, perhaps we will come to some sort of meeting of the minds.”

  “Perhaps.” Kirtland nodded his agreement. “Very well. Let us raise a toast. To the hope of continued goodwill between our two countries, if nothing else.” Not that he trusted the man’s sudden civility for an instant. But the opportunity gave him a perfect excuse for being close at hand to the rooms of Leveritt and Jadwin in case Siena ran into any trouble.

  “Just so. A spirit of international cooperation between St. Petersburg and London.”

  However silkily the Russian dressed his words, they had a hint of menace to them.

  What did Orlov really want, other than a handsome sum for his services? Until Kirtland knew the answer, he must assume the worst. He would be vigilant if the other man tried any tricks.

  They walked in silence, the slide of the Russian’s velvet slippers matching the whisper of the earl’s soft-soled evening shoes. Like a panther and a lion, thought Kirtland. Prowling through a gilded jungle. It was not until they had entered the East Wing that Orlov started up again with his usual small talk. “How strange that you have chosen not to compete for the pleasure of buying the Dove’s services. Or mayhap…” He stretched the pause out for several steps. “You have other arrangements with her. Mayhap you are getting them for free.”

  “I am not sure why my decisions should be of any interest to you, Mr. Orlov.”

  “We are engaged in our own competition, are we not? Your choices may affect my own strategies. Rather like on a battlefield.”

  As if he needed any reminder that he was treading on dangerous ground.

  They turned into the corridor, and the earl could not keep from tensing every muscle. The Russian kept pattering on with his sly innuendoes, but Kirtland was only paying them half a mind. Most of his attention was focused on the closed doors and what might be taking place behind them. There was no need to be so on edge, he assured himself. It was far too early for any of the club members to be returning from the hunt.

  A click of the latch and Orlov entered his rooms. “Wait here, I’ll light a taper for the candelabra.” He returned, the single flame in one hand, a bottle in the other. “The glasses are on the sideboard.”

  Kirtland took a step, then hesitated.

  “Na Zdorovie,” announced the Russian, lifting his arms in some impatience. “That is, unless you are having second thoughts about trusting my hospitality. I assure you, the drink is not drugged.”

  Still thinking of Siena and her dangerous games, Kirtland darted one last glance to the corridor. Was there a shifting of the shadows? His eye was off the Russian for hardly more than a heartbeat.

  Just long enough for the heavy glass to come crashing down upon his head. As he slipped into blackness, he heard Orlov add, “But the bottle has rather nasty aftereffects.”

  Leveritt’s door was locked, but Siena had anticipated as much. The ancient iron was no match for the blade of her pick. The door opened and closed so quickly it appeared naught but a stirring of the corridor shadows. As a precaution, she took a moment to throw the tumbler back in place.

  His room was inordinately neat, the brushes on the dressing table perfectly aligned, the bottles of Macassar oil and cologne in a straight row, the dressing gown already laid out in precise folds upon the bed. Siena smoothed a hand over the paisley silk, then moved to the dressing room. Elegant coats of the softest superfine wool hung paired with tailored waistcoats of costly brocades. Pantaloons, trousers, formal breeches—all bespoke an exquisite sense of style. Her gaze fell to the buttery-soft leather boots and embroidered slippers. Apparently no expense had been spared on achieving such sartorial splendor. Leveritt was a gentleman who did not overlook details. Next she checked the bureau drawers. Scented shirts, starched cravats, silk stockings.

  Everything in exact order.

  Not a hair out of place.

  Siena paused for a moment, slightly puzzled as to why this perfection was stirring a prickling at the back of her neck. Then, acting on instinct, she turned to the desk.

  Surely it couldn’t be quite that simple. And yet, a methodical mind might well stick to its ordered routine. As Il Lupino had constantly reminded her, an enemy’s strength could often be turned into his ultimate weakness. Opening the letter case, she found only a correspondence from Leveritt’s banker and a bill from an antique dealer on Bond Street. The contents of a notebook proved equally bland. Several scribblings regarding a recent art exhibit, a sketch for a silver epergne, a reminder of a forthcoming auction of Italian paintings. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  Pressing her eyes shut, Siena focused her thoughts on all she had read of the men, the mission. What was it that tied all the elements together?

  The answer seemed so obvious as to be absurd.

  Books.

  Turning slowly, almost casually, she moved to the bedside table. The book was, ironically enough, a thick tome on Russian religious icons, lavishly illustrated with hand-tinted engravings. Its binding fell open to reveal a folded paper, nestled between a grim-faced St. Sergius and an unsmiling Madonna and Child.

  God in heaven. Siena ran a finger over the broken wax seal, tracing enough of the double-headed Imperial eagle to know she had at long last found what she had come for.

  Her elation had little time to take wing, for as she lifted the document from its hiding place, hurried footsteps sounded in the corridor and a key rattled in the lock.

  Siena shoved the paper inside her shirt and bolted for the open window. The thin ledge provided a precarious perch, but balanced on her bare toes, she began inching as fast as she dared toward the decorative arch. Another few feet, and she could climb to cover—

  Damn. Up ahead flashed a glimmer of fair hair. Like a bad penny, the Russian kept turning up where he was least wanted. A swirl of smoke explained his presence at the open casement. But where was Kirtland? Her foot slipped as she shifted her stance.

  Steady, she warned herself. The earl had come unscathed through a brutal war. He knew how to take care of himself. Still, she could not keep from wondering if he was close. If he was safe.

  Her mind clouded with questions, she nearly missed the tiny flare of orange as Orlov tossed away the butt of his cheroot and flexed his shoulders. In another instant he would turn her way.

  She could not go forward; she could not go back. The only choice was the mullioned glass at her shoulder. Jadwin’s room.

  The latch gave way to her hip, and she rolled silently onto the carpet. For a moment she lay still, honing her senses to a fighting edge. Victory was so close. She must not allow it to be snatched away at the last moment.

  Keep your mind and your eye on the opponent’s blade until it is lying in the dust, Volpina! Desperation gives men an added strength. She must use Da Rimini’s words to steel her own nerve for the final flurry. Her fin
gers pressed to her left breast. She would draw courage from not only the

  hawk, but from something deeper within herself. Love.

  She had come to understand that it was not a weakness but a strength.

  Stilling the racing of her heart, Siena angled a glance around the room. Jadwin’s trunk was unlocked, his port manteau propped open against a chair, offering a tantalizing peek at a jumble of papers. But there seemed little point in snooping through his personal effects. Whatever his faults, she decided to let them remain private. Her mission was to unmask a traitor, and the proof of perfidy was in her possession.

  Her hand was on the door latch when it suddenly rattled in her grasp.

  “The devil take it…”

  Siena fell back, narrowly avoiding a blow from the door.

  Jadwin stared in shock at her black shirt and trousers. “W—what game is this?”

  There was nothing to do but brazen it out.

  She arched a leg and gave a sultry look. “Take a guess, sir.” She toyed with the top fastening of her shirt. “I had a feeling that you would have no trouble with the riddles.” It was odd that both he and Leveritt had returned sooner than she expected, but perhaps Rose had not reckoned with the linguistic talents of the club members. They were, after all, particularly skilled with words. “Did I make them too easy?”

  “No—that is, I felt a trifle unwell and decided to come lie down.”

  Her palm slid suggestively over the curve of her breast. “I am sure I can cure any malady that ails you.”

  He grabbed for her hand. “I fear I must—”

  His fingers snagged in the silk, ripping loose a button. The dispatch fell to the floor.

  Before she could react, Jadwin picked it up. “What’s this?” he stammered, staring at the red wax seal as if it were a pool of blood.

  “Nothing,” she assured him. “A billet doux I found under my door.” Plucking the folded document from his grasp, Siena covered her concern with a quick laugh.

  “You don’t want to read it. The prose is quite embarrassing. Why, I am sure the fellow who penned it is already regretting his folly of putting pen to paper.” The crackle mimicked her own inward warnings as she wedged it into the hidden pocket of her trousers.