Andrea Pickens - Merlin's Maidens 03 - The Scarlet Spy

by The Scarlet Spy (mobi)

  Passion. While she grasped the intellectual concept, the Academy lectures had not quite prepared her for the full brunt of its physical force.

  She shivered at the memory of his probing caresses, his tongue sliding so smoothly through her defenses. Hard yet soft. Sweet yet spiced with a hot, masculine need. The effect had been intoxicating. She had surrendered to his demands without a fight.

  No wonder the devilish Deverill Osborne had seduced half the ladies of London.

  Her sigh sharpened to an oath. Forewarned was forearmed. She would not let the man beat her so easily again. He might be a master of sexual swordplay, but he would soon discover that he was not the only one who could wield a sliver of steel. Any future advances on his part would be parried with better skill, she resolved.

  She was no fledging chick—she was a Merlin. Woe to any man who got too close to her talons.

  Osborne marched down the corridors of Whitehall, outpacing the young lieutenant who had been assigned to show him the back stairwell that led to the marquess’s office.

  “Sir!” wheezed the officer. “I ought to announce your presence—”

  Ignoring the call, he barged past a startled copy clerk and entered the room.

  “Osborne.” Lynsley looked up over the gold-rimmed lenses of his reading glasses, his brows arching in inquiry.

  “Forgive the intrusion.” All of a sudden, he felt rather silly interrupting affairs of state to pass on a bit of tittle-tattle. But retreat would appear even more foolish. “Might I have a word with you? In private.”

  The marquess dismissed his secretary with a tiny nod.

  “You may go ahead and draft the memorandum to the Swedish ambassador, Jenkins. I will review it later.”

  The young man gathered up a sheaf of documents and withdrew from the room.

  “Would you care for a drink?” Lynsley gestured to the tray of decanters on the sideboard.

  “Thank you, but no. I shall not take up any more of your time than necessary to …” To what? Grass on a lady’s indiscretions? Osborne felt his cheeks turn a trifle warm as he finished by saying, “To mention my concerns in regard to the contessa.”

  “Concerns?” Lynsley’s brows rose a touch higher.

  “I fear she may be falling in with a rather disreputable crowd,” he said stiffly. “I have tried to warn her off, but my opinion seems to carry little weight with her.”

  “Indeed?”

  “To be frank, the lady doesn’t like me much. However, I thought that you might have some influence over her.”

  “Lady Sofia is of age,” replied the marquess dryly. “She is free to choose her own company, regardless of what either you or I have to say about it.” He picked up a pile of reports and resumed his reading. “I appreciate your telling me this, but I wouldn’t worry about the lady. I have great confidence in her judgment.”

  Osborne made a face. “Even though she encourages a hellhound like Adam De Winton to come sniffing around her skirts?”

  Lynsley calmly turned a page. “De Winton’s pedigree allows him entrée into the highest circles of the ton. If the leading hostesses of London do not object to his presence, I don’t see how we can argue.”

  The marquess’s offhand manner was beginning to set his teeth on edge. “It is not his pedigree but his purse that is cause for concern. It’s common knowledge in the gaming hells around Town that his finances are precarious at best.”

  “A fortune hunter? Be assured that Lady Sofia is familiar with that breed of gentleman. She isn’t likely to be fooled by false flatteries.”

  “Perhaps you would be a tad more concerned if I mentioned her early morning habits,” said Osborne.

  Lynsley finally looked up.

  “I happened to spot her alone in the park around dawn,” he growled. “She was galloping hell for leather astride a great black stallion. Did you know she rides like the wind?”

  “Seeing as I arranged for her equestrian instructor, I am aware of her skills in the saddle,” replied the marquess.

  Osborne fell silent for a moment. He ought to leave it at that, but stubbornness overcame sense. “If she doesn’t slow down a bit, she may find her reputation in tatters. The tabbies are quick to pounce if a lady strays from the confines of conformity.”

  “A widow is allowed a little more latitude, as I’m sure you well know.” The marquess took up a pen and began making a notation in the margin of the paper. “Consider that you have done your duty, Osborne. You have opened the right doors, which is all that I asked of you. In good conscience, you may now stand aside. If Lady Sofia wishes to go on from here on her own, we must respect her wishes.”

  “Bloody hell.” The force of his fist hitting the desk blotter nearly knocked over the inkwell. “There is something damn peculiar about all this, Lynsley.”

  “How do you mean?” asked the marquess.

  “Well …” Nonplussed, Osborne realized he was not quite sure how to word his misgivings. Like the morning mists, they were no more than vague swirls. Ghostly vapors with no real form or substance. He blew out a harried huff of air. “I can’t help but wonder if this has anything to do with your … government duties.”

  Lynsley’s mouth quirked. “Ah, you think the lady is a secret agent from the kingdom of Naples? Or perhaps an assassin, sent by the Prince of Venice?”

  Said aloud, such suspicions did sound patently absurd.

  “Did one of your lady friends lend you a copy of The Duchess of the Dark Dagger?” went on Lynsley, a hint of humor shading his voice. “I hear it is a highly entertaining novel—even better than The Curse of the Velvet Glove.”

  Osborne swore under his breath. “Truth is sometimes stranger than fiction,” he said defensively. “Take the recent events at Marquand Castle—two peers end up dead, and my friend Kirtland returns with a mysterious bride. How the devil do you account for that?”

  “Art auctions can be a cutthroat business from what I hear,” replied the marquess with a straight face. “As for the particulars of Lord Kirtland’s love life, you would have to ask the earl himself. I was not among the guests invited to his nuptials.”

  “Yet you were investigating him.”

  “My job requires that I investigate a great many people. Most, like the earl, are proved innocent of any treasonous activities.” Lynsley cocked his head. “In any case, I fail to see the connection between Kirtland and the contessa … other than the fact that the earl and his bride took a wedding trip to Italy.”

  Put that way, Osborne had to admit that his misgivings did sound like a plot straight out of a horrid novel. The Cabal of the Killer Contessas. Mayhap he deserved to be their first victim for having such a lurid imagination.

  “Forget it,” he muttered. There was no point in prolonging the conversation. Even if there was some deep, dark secret to Lady Sofia’s presence in London, the marquess was far too clever to let it slip by mistake. “I won’t keep you from your work any longer.”

  “Osborne.”

  He turned, expecting a last little quip.

  However, Lynsley’s expression was deadly serious. “Thank you again for the warning. Allow me to return the favor. It would be a mistake on your part to become too involved with Lady Sofia. She is …”

  “Dangerous?” The word came unbidden to his lips.

  “In a manner of speaking. Though the word I was about to use was complex.”

  “How very kind of you to mention it now,” replied Osborne with a sarcastic sneer. “I wonder why you chose to honor me with the task in the first place?”

  “For the very reason that your detachment from romantic entanglements is well known throughout the ton.” The marquess set down his pen and folded his hands. “It’s said that you bestow your favors quite freely. But your heart is wholly your own.”

  Osborne could think of nothing to say in answer.

  “It is a wise strategy,” finished Lynsley. “Especially in this case.”

  “You fear that I may lose my heart to the con
tessa?” He took hold of the brass door latch. “Ha. If I were ever foolish enough to fall in love, it would not be with a high-flying spitfire with a taste for vulgar red.”

  Chapter Eight

  Grateful that duty provided a distraction from the early morning encounter, Sofia sat down at her dressing table and opened the portfolio of files provided by Lynsley. No more mental mistakes, she chided herself. It had been careless of her to assume that no gentleman of the ton would be up and about at dawn.

  She frowned, wondering just what Osborne had been doing at that hour in the park. Returning from a late-night tryst? Quite likely. The background information on him included a rather lengthy list of lovers. And no wonder. He was an incorrigible flirt, handsome, witty, and engaging enough to charm the scales off a dragon.

  As for his kisses, they were certainly practiced enough—

  Thinning her lips, she quickly thumbed through the folders to a different set of pages. Enough of Deverill Osborne. She must concentrate on the coming challenge.

  In truth, it offered a welcome change of pace from the overcrowded ballrooms and simpering suitors. She was slated to attend an afternoon lecture at the Society of Caesarian Antiquities. The gathering would provide an opportunity to meet the Duke of Sterling.

  Lynsley had made it clear that she was to seek an acquaintance with the man, though the duke must, of course, remain in the dark about her real identity and her real purpose. She wasn’t certain as to why the marquess thought a meeting important. Surely there was nothing more Sterling could tell them about the suspicious death of his grandson. But perhaps Lynsley felt the duke would be an unwitting ally in learning more about Lord Robert’s circle of friends and their favored haunts.

  Not that she expected any great revelations. However, she couldn’t afford to leave any stone unturned. The looking glass reflected her wry grimace. Even if that meant memorizing several chapters on the sculptural techniques of ancient artists. Sterling was a noted connoisseur of classical coins and portrait medallions. Pretending to share his passion would provide a perfect excuse to cultivate a friendship.

  Lies and deception.

  “Shall you wear the forest-green daydress, milady?” Rose entered the room, a stack of freshly ironed handkerchiefs in her hands.

  Sofia looked up from her reading. “Yes.” Its conservative cut—long sleeves, high neck, full folds—would help create the illusion of a prim widow, interested in furthering her knowledge of serious scholarship. “And a plain wool shawl.”

  “Very good, milady. We had best begin dressing, if you are not to be late.”

  Time to don yet another disguise.

  As her maid turned away, Sofia fingered the locket beneath her silk wrapper. A stranger in her own skin. It was yet another kinship she felt with the mystery lady portrayed in the miniature. The faded features reflected her own blurred identity. They were both nameless, with no discernible past. This foray into London Society, where every minute detail of family, rank, and relationships was scrutinized, had made her even more aware of her own isolation. Her own unanswered questions.

  Lady Nobody.

  “A simple hairstyle would be fitting, don’t you agree?” Rose gathered the loosened tumble of raven hair and coiled it in a tight bun.

  Sofia pulled her thoughts back to the present. “Yes, yes, that looks just right.”

  However, she remained somewhat distracted through the rest of her dressing. Picking up the book on Roman history, she reviewed the chapter on the Pantheon as her maid set about making the finishing touches.

  “Would that the duke had an interest in Florence or Siena,” she murmured. “I at least have a rudimentary knowledge of Renaissance art.”

  Her maid fumbled a hairpin, and it fell to the carpet.

  “It’s my fault.” The bobble brought a rueful smile to Sofia’s lips. Rose was normally so sure-handed. “I fear that my fidgets are making things harder for you.”

  “No, milady.” But Rose wore an odd expression as she reached for another pin.

  “Is something wrong, Rose?”

  “No, milady.” There was a pause as she anchored the loose strand in place. “It was simply the mention of the city—Siena. It reminded me of something else.”

  Sofia turned in her chair, nearly undoing her maid’s handiwork. “You know … Siena?”

  Rose’s gaze turned more shuttered. “I have not had the opportunity to travel in Italy.”

  “That was not what I meant.” Sofia decided to press the point. The world of polite society was all so new and disorienting. It would be nice to have someone in whom she could confide some of her secrets. Lynsley had assured her that the woman was completely trustworthy. “I was speaking of …” Sofia hesitated for a fraction. “My sister. My sister-in-arms, that is. Siena and I trained together for years.”

  The announcement finally elicited a crack in the maid’s stony stoicism. “The resemblances between the two of you are striking,” murmured Rose, allowing just a hint of a smile.

  Sofia studied her own reflection for a moment. “Would that I can show the same skill and courage in the face of danger as she did.”

  Looping the last strands of hair into place, Rose set the pins in a precise row. “From what I have seen, milady, you have no need to worry.”

  “Why, thank you, Rose.” The compliment, however oblique, was a boost to her confidence.

  The maid’s answer was a rustling within the armoire. “The burgundy shawl will add just the right touch of coloring to your ensemble. Elegant, yet sober and sensible.” The fringe feathered over Sofia’s arms, and though it might only have been her imagination, it seemed as if Rose’s workmanlike hands lingered a touch longer than usual.

  “Excellent.” The maid stepped back to judge the effect. “Now, you had better be on your way. The carriage is waiting, and it would not be wise to make a late entrance to the lecture.”

  Accepting her reticule, Sofia smiled. “I am not quite sure what to expect. Let us hope I shall not find myself thrown to the lions of the Coliseum.”

  “More likely they will put you in a place of honor so that they may feast their eyes on you.”

  The words proved to be no joke, for a short while later, Sofia found herself being escorted to a front-row seat by the head of the Society, a portly, middle-aged baron who, despite his advancing years and receding hairline, wore his locks in the latest a la Brutus style.

  “What a pleasure to have you join our little group this afternoon, Contessa,” he announced.

  “I do hope I was not too forward in asking if I might attend one of your lectures.”

  “Not at all, not at all. We are always anxious to have those with a serious interest in scholarship join our ranks.”

  Sofia hoped that Lynsley had not started a rumor regarding her expertise in some arcane area of ancient study. She was still struggling to tell the difference between Aurelian and Octavian stylistic elements. “I confess, I am merely a neophyte, but I am anxious to learn more.” She paused and heaved an audible sigh. “My late husband was a connoisseur of Roman sculpture, and he passed on his passion to me. I wish to become more conversant with his collection.”

  The baron’s smile turned positively Dionysian. “That is very commendable of you. I would be delighted to provide a private tutorial whenever you might wish.”

  “How kind.” She fixed him with a stony stare that quickly sobered his expression.

  “And then, of course, our series of talks on the—”

  “Ahem.” Clearing his throat, the gentleman at the lectern glared and shuffled his papers. “If you would all take your seats, I would like to begin with a few words on the early years of Augustus …”

  The talk prosed on for nearly an hour. Sofia struggled to keep up with the detailed explanation of stylistic nuances, yet she found her attention wandering. The elderly lady dressed in flowing white silks and a golden headdress of artificial laurel leaves must be the eccentric Dowager Marchioness of Muirfield, a lady wh
o claimed to commune with the ghost of Cleopatra. That oddity was overlooked because of her generous financial contributions to the Society, and because her essays on Roman garden design were considered quite lucid.

  Seated to her left was an effete-looking young man in high shirtpoints and an elaborate cravat. The frothing folds of the Waterfall knot matched the artful curl of his long hair—surely he was the enfant terrible poet Bryce Beecham, whose translation of Virgil’s Aeneid had made him the newest sensation of the literary world.

  Sofia’s gaze slid sideways, trying to match faces with the names and descriptions in her files. Fat and florid Lord Rockham penned sonnets in classical Latin, rail-thin Mr. Jervis had authored several scholarly treatises on the ancient aqueduct system, and the copper-curled Miss Pennington-Pryce was an authority on Roman sculpture …

  Her eyes nearly missed the Duke of Sterling, who was seated in the far corner, deep in the lengthening shadows of a large statue of Jupiter. Even half obscured, he exuded an aura of authority, with a sculpted strength to his profile that matched the regal Roman stone. The angular planes and chiseled lines had weathered over the years to a harsh edge in places. But at the age of five and sixty, the duke was still a handsome man, with a leonine mane of white hair crowning a high forehead and prominent aquiline nose.

  He looked austere, aloof and aristocratic, as befitting his august lineage. And sad.

  The death of his grandson must still be sharp in his memory, mused Sofia. She also seemed to recall mention of another family tragedy buried in the past, something about an estrangement from his only daughter, a great favorite, who had eloped in defiance to his wishes. By all accounts, the young lady had died before any reconciliation had taken place.

  Sofia gave an inward sigh. Family. Life was so fragile, so fleeting. How could any quarrel sever the bonds of love?

  After staring a moment longer, she looked away. The Academy’s classes on the beau monde had taught that love had little to do with the lives of titled families. Marriages were based on pragmatic considerations like land, power, and money, rather than any flutter of the heart. Duty came before desire.