Merlins Maidens - The Spy Wore Silk - Pickens, Andrea

by The Spy Wore Silk (v1. 1) (mobi)

  yet, it was nothing he could put a finger on. However, ever since the fair-haired stranger had joined the near table, it seemed that play had

  taken a more serious turn.

  “The deuce take it. I believe you have won again,” Lord Henniger, an octogenarian who hated to be parted from so much as a farthing, slapped down his hand.

  “Luck appears to be running in my favor tonight.”

  Lynsley did not recognize the gentleman who spoke, which in itself was odd. He made it his business to know the faces of even the most marginal members of the ton.

  A half turn allowed him to make a closer scrutiny of the stranger’s countenance. There was something exotic about the man’s looks-high, slanting cheekbones, an aquiline nose, lips that were almost feminine in their full contours. His eyes were an unusual shade of arctic blue, with a glacial glitter that seemed at odds with the overheated cardroom. Cold, calculating.

  The impression was accentuated by a mane of pale blond hair. Pulled back from his face in a severe style, it was tied in a queue with a black velvet ribbon.

  “Shall we play another hand, gentlemen?” continued the stranger. Like his looks, his speech had a hint of foreignness to its tone. “After all, Fortune is a fickle mistress.”

  “I wouldn’t waste my blunt if I were Henniger,” murmured Major Chertwell as he joined the marquess in the shadows. “Alexandr Orlov rarely loses at cards.”

  Lynsley did not look around. “You know the fellow?”

  “I’ve met him on several occasions. A strange breed. His mother is English, from a gentry family in northern Yorkshire, and his father is a Russian of questionable lineage who clings to the fringes of the upper class.” The major’s return to Prussia had been delayed by the latest theft of government secrets. In the meantime, he had, like Lynsley, been making the rounds of the clubs and balls, seeing what gossip might prove useful. “Orlov himself was raised in St. Petersburg and runs tame among a set of young noblemen from the Tsar’s Imperial Guards. A wild bunch, known for their heavy carousing, but from what I gather, Orlov is a bit of a lone wolf.”

  “Is he an officer as well?”

  “Nobody seems to know quite what he is.”

  “I wonder what brings him to London,” said the marquess softly, his eyes never leaving the foreigner’s face.

  “Business.” Chertwell’s tone tightened. “Word has it Mr. Orlov has been hired to represent the interests of a reclusive collector at a forthcoming sale of rare objets d’art.”

  “Would those objects happen to be a collection of fourteenth-century illuminated Psalters?”

  “By coincidence, yes.”

  “Coincidence, indeed.” Lynsley took care to keep his face expressionless as he watched the flutter of cards fall to the table. “So, Mr. Orlov will be attending the auction at Marquand Castle.”

  “So it seems.” Chertwell watched the Russian take a card from the deck. “Another rumor I’ve heard says that the fellow may in fact be working for himself, amassing a collection of valuable items for his own personal gain— without having to pay for them.”

  “A thief?”

  “A very high-class one. By virtue of his position in society, he is invited to a great many fancy parties. My informants in Prussia mentioned that he has been present at a number of houses where expensive art or jewelry has gone missing.”

  As Orlov reached out to rake in his hand, the marquess allowed an inward smile. Showing beneath the Russian’s starched shirtsleeve were several fresh scrapes on his wrist. Lynsley’s trained eye also spotted telltale smudges of brick dust clinging to the cuffs of his trousers. An amorous assignation? Or had the Russian been looking for more than a quick tumble in bed?

  “The plot thickens,” he murmured. “Though whether Mr. Orlov has anything to do with our story remains to be seen.”

  Chertwell signaled for a passing footman to refill his glass. “As if we need any new complications. My superiors are demanding to know when we will shut the book on this case.”

  “As are mine. But seeing as we all wish for a happy ending, we cannot afford to rush. A mistake at this point would be difficult to erase.”

  “I don’t suppose there is any way to send … an alert on this new development.”

  Lynsley didn’t blink. “Let us wait and see before making a decision. If it proves necessary, I can pass on a message.”

  “Beggared again.” From the table came a loud snort as Henniger threw down his cards in disgust. “Come Redmond, come Willis, let us seek out the supper room and wash away the taste of defeat with some champagne and lobster patties.”

  “Anyone else care for a game?” As if sensing the scrutiny, Orlov looked around to the alcove. “Ah, Major Chertwell. What an unexpected pleasure to see you again. Might I tempt you to join me in a hand or two?”

  Chertwell shook his head. “Unfortunately, I am promised to a friend’s sister for the upcoming set of dances.”

  “A pity.” The Russian angled his ice blue eyes to Lynsley. “Perhaps your companion …”

  The major had no choice but to make the introductions before heading off to the ballroom.

  “I am honored to make your acquaintance, Lord Lynsley.” It might only have been the accent that added an edge of irony to Orlov’s words. “Indeed, I had been hoping for some time that the opportunity would present itself.”

  The marquess shrugged. “I cannot imagine the reason.”

  “You are being far too modest. Your reputation precedes you.”

  “As what?” he asked quickly, hoping to catch the other man off guard.

  “Why, as a scholar, sir. I have heard that you have quite an interest in books.”

  A game of cat and mouse rather than vingt et un? The marquess decided to play along for the moment. “That depends on the subject matter. What of you, Mr. Orlov? Are you interested in literature?”

  The Russian smiled, revealing teeth white as winter snow. “I am interested in anything that promises to make me a handsome profit.”

  “Pragmatism over poetry?”

  “Art is a luxury reserved for the indolent rich.” As he spoke, Orlov shuffled the deck with practiced precision and laid a row of cards facedown on the table. “Those of us who must work for a living are often forced to choose between idealism and reality.” With a quick sleight of hand, he rearranged them into a half circle.

  The marquess remained silent.

  “Speaking of choices, Lord Lynsley, would you care to pick a card?” continued Orlov. “In Russia, we have a little game we call ‘St. Peter’s Pistol.’ You get one shot at victory—the highest card wins all.”

  Lynsley regarded the scattering of silver upon the table. Ballroom betting was rarely for more than pin money. “What wager do you have in mind?”

  “Something other than mere shillings. The higher the stakes, the more compelling the game.”

  “Only if you like taking risks,” replied the marquess.

  “Don’t you?”

  “I am really not much of a gambler. I dislike leaving things to chance.”

  “So, you prefer to watch?” Orlov swept up the cards and returned them to the top of the deck. “I see my friends were right—you are a very cautious gentleman, ruled by logic and not emotion.”

  “Or perhaps I simply lack the imagination to do aught but perform my clerical duties.”

  For an instant, a spark of amusement warmed the ice from the other man’s gaze. “Somehow I doubt that.” He rose and tucked his winnings into his waistcoat pocket. “I have enjoyed our conversation immensely, milord. Perhaps we will have opportunity to meet again during my stay in England.”

  Lynsley watched the Russian saunter away, the black velvet ribbon of his tied-back locks waving a last mocking salute.

  “You may bet on it, Mr. Orlov,” he said softly.

  Siena regarded the package left by the intruder for a moment longer before lifting it from Oban’s palm. It was a small, roughly stitched leather purse, wrapped in a leng
th of twine. Loosening the knots, she emptied the contents into her hand. A gleaming gold coin and a folded piece of vellum.

  Moving to the table, she saw that the money was French. One side bore a portrait of the Emperor, while the other was emblazoned with three words. Liberte. Egalite. Fraternite.

  Setting it aside, she smoothed open the sheet. It looked to be the frontispiece from an old book. Aside from the elegant italic title, there was no other printing on the page.

  Pasted in the blank space was an ornate bookplate depicting a family crest. A scrolled banner beneath the shield provided room for a name

  to be entered.

  Julian Henning. The script was written in a bold, slanting hand.

  Siena studied the fierce eagle rampant, its gold talons and menacing beak standing in sharp relief against a crimson background. A solitary nature and snappish temper appeared to run in the Kirtland blood.

  And now, someone was implying that the current earl was tainted by treason.

  The accusation could not have been writ plainer, but it paled against the far more subtle message—despite every precaution, someone knew of her mission. Or at least suspected she was not just a soiled dove.

  Should she send word to Lord Lynsley and inform him of the disquieting development?

  It would, of course, be tantamount to conceding defeat.

  “Any problem?” asked Oban.

  “No.” Siena decided not to share the contents of the purse with him. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him. She didn’t trust anyone. Had she made some tiny slip, some subtle gesture that had betrayed her charade? Her hands, now empty, fisted, and, as she turned abruptly from the table, Da Rimini’s

  favorite exhortation echoed in her head.

  The most dangerous enemy is often yourself, Volpina.

  For all his lecherous leering, the wily old wolf understood the art of war. Siena forced the knotted tension from her muscles and mind. There was no need to overreact to the first attack. Go slowly, feel out the enemy’s strengths and weaknesses before taking the offensive.

  “I doubt we will have any more nocturnal visitors,” she went on. “Come morning, we shall go over any other precautions to take for the next few days.”

  Oban nodded and departed just as silently as he had arrived.

  Left alone, Siena slowly cut a riposte through the air, pausing, perfectly balanced, on the balls of her feet. Time was running out, and not even the considerable magic of Mrs. Merlin and the marquess could conjure up a new plan to trap the traitor. She would wait before sending any message to Lynsley.

  A spinning leap and she landed light as a feather atop the window ledge. Peering out through a gap in the draperies, she smiled. Her shadowy opponent had been clever, attacking from an unexpected angle. But having been taught by a master of Machiavellian deception, she, too, had a few tricks up her sleeve. Come tomorrow night, she would wing into action.

  The rope slithered across the slates, the looped end falling into place around the chimney pot. A quick tug tightened the knots. Satisfied with its hold, Siena slipped the hood down over her face and donned a pair of whisper-thin leather gloves. Like her slim-cut trousers and shirt, they

  were black as the shadows shrouding the walled garden.

  Each of the six members of The Gilded Page Club would have an unannounced visitor over the next two nights, starting with the Earl of Kirtland.

  Her feet left the earth, and she rose quickly, as if on silent wings, to the narrow ledge of the second floor. Centered in an arch of Portland stone, a bank of leaded windows overlooked the neatly pruned hedges and ornamental plantings. The library.

  It would be a pleasant spot to linger in the afternoons, she noted as she edged closer.

  The angled light would fill the room with a golden glow, mellowing the brass fixtures and oak paneling to the color of aged sherry.

  She froze, ready to fly for cover, as a sudden rasp of metal rattled the glass. The window opened a crack to the cool evening air, but after a moment she heard steps moving away from the casement. They were followed by the clink of crystal and a splash of liquid.

  Flattening herself against the wall, Siena slipped closer and ventured a sidelong peek into the room.

  Brandy in hand, Kirtland had taken a seat in the leather chair by the hearth. A book lay open upon the side table, and as he stretched his long legs out toward the fire, he resumed his reading.

  She could not help but note that he had shed any semblance of lordly formality. His feet were shod in naught but stockings, and he wore no coat or waistcoat. His linen shirt was open at the throat, revealing a glimpse of tanned flesh and dark curls. The rolled sleeves bared his forearms as well, the light from the brace of candles limning the cording of muscle. As he raised his glass to his lips, Siena saw that several deep scars cut across sinew and bone—a stark reminder that Kirtland was a battle-hardened soldier. She must never lose sight of that fact.

  But as he stirred and turned the page, he was hardly the picture of a perfidious traitor. His hair fell in tousled disarray across his brow, the silky black strands curling around his ears and collar, softening the angled planes of his cheek and jaw. The fringe of sable lashes deepened the color of his eyes to a swirl of smoky green. Or molten jade, for despite the blinking shadows, she could see flecks of fire in their depth.

  He smiled—a mere quirk of his lips—and the breath caught in her throat. Steadying herself against the stone, Siena was suddenly sure she recalled the full, sensuous contours of that mouth. The taste of brandy and a male essence far more potent than spirits.

  She bit back an oath. The similarities were striking, but the notion was … insane.

  Kirtland could not be her midnight stranger.

  And yet, for an instant, she could not help imagining what it would be like to kiss him. To find herself in his lap, soft leather beneath them rather than sodden saddles and bucking horseflesh.

  Siena quickly reined in such seductive thoughts. No question the earl was a sinfully handsome man, but he might also be the devil—

  “Hell’s bells.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Siena saw a blur of black fur land on Kirtland’s shoulder.

  “Move away, Lucifer,” he muttered.

  A tail twitched, and with an arrogant arch of its back, the cat reached out a paw and swatted at the page.

  “Ah. Do I take it you would prefer William Blake’s poetry to that of Southey? Tyger, tyger, burning bright…”

  The cat cocked its head, its fire gold eyes fixing Kirtland with an unblinking stare.

  The earl raised a brow. “Paradise Lost, perhaps?”

  Lucifer did not appear as amused as his master. With a low growl, the animal turned its claws on the flap of Kirtland’s collar.

  “Ouch-I appear to have fallen from grace,” exclaimed the earl as he rubbed at his neck. His fingers curled into the cat’s fur and began a slow tickling.

  Lucifer’s rumblings settled into a steady purr. Inch by inch he slipped down the front of Kirtland’s shirt, landing with a tumbling somersault smack atop the book.

  Laughing, the earl extracted the pages from under the ball of fur. “Imp of Satan, look what you have done! The pages are dog-eared.”

  The cat answered with a feline smirk.

  From the doorway came a low woof.

  “No offense, Mephisto,” he murmured as a huge hound shambled into the room. Its shaggy fur was the color of Toledo steel, save for around its massive jaws, where the wiry whiskers had gone white with age.

  Woof. The hound plunked its head in Kirtland’s lap, cheek by jowl with the cat. The earl dutifully scratched behind one ear, while Lucifer bit at the other. A look of blissful contentment on his bearded face, Mephisto gave a loud snuffle and licked at his master’s fingers.

  “Right. Us old dogs must stick together.”

  The hound thumped his tail on the carpet.

  “Go warm your ancient bones by the fire.” It was only then that Siena saw the scruf
fy blanket folded close by the carved-marble hearth. “I shall leave orders with Givens that the logs be lit while I am away.”

  Both animals looked up sharply.

  “It will only be for a fortnight or so.” He looked rather guilty as he tickled under the upturned noses. “Besides, you know damn well that Cook is far more generous with tidbits of chicken than I am.”

  A man who loved animals? It was hard to see him as a villain.

  Siena had not really expected her spying to catch the earl in the act of treason. She had simply wished to take a measure of the man in an unguarded moment. According to Da Rimini, knowing the enemy was a weapon in itself. But never in her wildest dreams had she imagined she might find this cozy domestic scene. In their first encounter at The Gilded Page Club, Kirtland had been a forbidding presence, so stern, so solemn in his unrelenting black evening clothes. Disapproval had pinched his features, thinned his mouth.

  Watching him with his cat and dog made him appear very human. The man by the fire looked younger, more carefree. Here, among his books and pets, he did not seem a man embittered by the unfairness of war but a man at peace with himself.

  The hound circled the blanket and lay down, tucking his nose under his tail. A moment later, the cat jumped from the earl’s lap and sauntered over to take up a new perch atop the canine rump.

  “Fickle beast.” Kirtland set aside his much-abused book and rose. “I, too, think I shall retire for the night.” He extinguished all the lights, save for a single candle, and quietly closed the door.

  Siena had seen enough.

  And yet, it was not enough. She hesitated, then looped the rope around her arm and climbed to the next ledge. Oban’s sources had indicated that the earl’s bedchamber was also located at the rear of the town house, directly above the library. Siena crept close to the casement and waited for a flicker of light to appear.

  The earl entered, unaccompanied by any valet to minister to his preparations for bed. A self-reliant man. And one of simple tastes, she noted as he lit the brace of candles on his bureau. The furnishings were dark mahogany, with a palette of deep green and burgundy complementing the discreet accents of brass and leather. No expensive silver grooming implements or bottles of fancy cologne and pomade cluttered the dressing table. A set of well-worn wooden brushes, a looking glass, and a plain vial of bay rum. Spartan, as befitting a decorated war veteran. They exuded an essence of masculinity.