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

by The Scarlet Spy (mobi)

  Maneuvering his team through a tight turn, De Winton seemed to be taking a malicious satisfaction in drawing out the silence.

  Did he wish for her to beg? Some men found it exhilarating to wield such power over a woman.

  Summoning all her strength, Sofia edged her body a touch closer to his. The fight was no longer just a matter of principle. It was now personal. Among the victims of De Winton’s crimes could well have been her own cousin. She would consort with the devil himself to see justice done.

  “Do say I am forgiven, Adam,” she pleaded. “I am simply dying to know what you and your friends do behind locked doors.”

  “Osborne won’t be invited.” His flash of teeth was likely meant as a smile. “Is that a problem?”

  “None whatsoever,” she said.

  “Good. The meeting is not yet set. I will let you know in a day or two when and where.”

  “I can hardly wait.” Sofia stroked the folds of her skirts as she gave him a coy look. “Will I have a good time?”

  De Winton laughed. “I promise it will be an experience that you won’t soon forget.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Duke of Sterling was at home, and in response to Osborne’s calling card, he sent a servant to escort him to the library.

  “Thank you for giving me reason to set aside my steward’s report.” Sterling removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I trust him to make the decision about sowing wheat or rye, but the fellow’s feelings are hurt if I don’t read over his reasonings.”

  “Duty is often tedious,” murmured Osborne politely.

  The duke sighed. “Yes. I confess that I find much more pleasure in translating Cicero than the current technical data on farming. But I’m sure you did not come here for a lecture on ancient Rome.”

  “Actually, I did.” Osborne was quick to smile. “I was wondering if I might see the display of Roman coins in your South Gallery. Lady Hentman asked me for some ideas for a decorative frieze in her morning room, and I was thinking of suggesting a motif of classical portraits.”

  “I am always delighted to show my collection to someone who appreciates art.” Sterling rose. “Come this way.”

  As Osborne remembered, the glass case was filled with burnished bronzes and gleaming golds. He took his time over the display, pretending to study the nuances of the different faces. “Magnificent,” he finally murmured. “Would you mind if I made a few quick sketches?”

  “Why, not at all, not at all,” replied the duke.

  “The thing is, I seem to have forgotten my copybook.” Osborne gave an apologetic smile. “Might I trouble you for pencil and paper?”

  As he had hoped, Sterling waved off the problem. “It’s no trouble. There are writing supplies in the desk next door. I shall just be a moment.”

  As soon as the duke was out of view, Osborne hurried over to the wall of family portraits. Stopping before the gilt-framed canvas of the duke’s daughter, he drew out the locket and thumbed the case open. Just as he suspected, the miniature was an exact copy of the painting.

  His breath caught in his throat. Seeing the larger image, Osborne was struck by the subtle resemblances to Sofia. The same winged brows, the same slant of the cheekbones, the same determined set of the mouth. Rather than shed any light on the subject, the painting only deepened the mystery surrounding her and Lynsley’s strange request.

  If Sofia was the duke’s granddaughter, why was there a secrecy surrounding the family connection? And even more puzzling, what was she doing stealing valuables from the ton?

  The more he thought about it, the more it made no sense at all. And he doubted that the marquess would answer any questions …

  “Good God, where did you get that?” For a large man, Sterling was surprisingly light on his feet.

  Osborne made no effort to prevent the duke from snatching up the locket. “I am very sorry, Your Grace. But at the moment, I am not at liberty to say.”

  Sterling fingered the worn case, then traced the delicate brushstrokes with a trembling hand. “I had this made as a keepsake for Elizabeth on her eighteenth birthday.” A tear rolled down his cheek.

  “I thought I recognized the face,” said Osborne softly. “And so I borrowed it from the owner to see if my hunch was correct.”

  “Please tell your acquaintance that I will pay any price to have it, especially if I can learn how it was obtained.” Sterling wiped at his cheek. “I was estranged from my daughter, you know. On account of her eloping with a man I considered beneath her. How I paid for my pride and my prejudice! It took months for me to learn of her death.” His voice turned ragged. “It was an epidemic of influenza, which also struck down her husband and newborn child. By the time I journeyed to their village, all mementos of her had disappeared from the cottage where they lived.”

  So, the duke didn’t know about Sofia?

  “The current owner is not offering it for sale, Your Grace,” replied Osborne. “I’m afraid I must take it back. But now that I know its provenance for sure, I promise to see what I can do to reunite you with your lost … heirloom.”

  Sterling let the filigree chain slide slowly through his fingers. “You have always struck me as an honorable man, Osborne. I will trust you to keep your word.”

  Sofia untied the strings of her bonnet and tossed it on the entrance table. Shopping was more tiring than fencing drills, but at least the appointment on Bond Street had allowed her to cut short her ride with De Winton.

  Things had gone well enough with the Scarlet Knight, she decided, though his touch now made her skin crawl. Compared to Osborne …

  No, she would not allow her thoughts to go there. Thankfully, De Winton had made no effort to offer his escort to the mantua maker. Out of sight, out of mind.

  Shrugging off her shawl, Sofia entered the side parlor. She had been neglecting her study on ancient Rome, and if she was to keep up appearances for the duke, she ought to finish reading—

  She stopped short on seeing Osborne sitting by the window. Legs outstretched, cravat loosened, he was perusing her book. But the tension in his shoulders belied the casual pose.

  Masking her surprise with a curt nod, Sofia asked, “To what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit?”

  In answer, he held up the locket.

  Sofia felt the color drain from her face. Taking a quick stride toward him, she tried to snatch it away.

  He yanked it back out of reach. “Another gold bauble you have stolen?” he said sarcastically, a dangerous edge to his voice.

  “No!” she said shrilly. “Damn you, Osborne. You have no right to riffle through my personal things.”

  “Where did you get it?” he demanded.

  “None of your bloody business,” she cried.

  “Not mine, perhaps. But isn’t the Duke of Sterling entitled to know that his granddaughter is masquerading as an Italian contessa?”

  Sofia tried to speak but found her lips refused to form any words.

  “Or perhaps it is the other way around,” he added.

  “What?” She didn’t have to feign her confusion. He already had her off balance. Somehow she must regain her equilibrium.

  “I’ve been sitting here for some time, trying to work out just what it is that you are up to.” Osborne’s eyes were cold as ice. “I cannot quite see Lord Lynsley being part of a scheme to deceive Sterling. So perhaps you are just taking advantage of a resemblance to the duke’s daughter. Did you simply steal the locket? Or did you do away with Elizabeth Woolsey’s daughter so that you could take her place and claim a rich inheritance?”

  Sofia couldn’t hold back a twitch of her lips. “And perhaps you are a long-lost relative of Anne Radcliffe—your imagination certainly rivals hers when it comes to the plot of a horrid novel.”

  “Have I got the story wrong?” he retorted. “Is the real motif theft? Given your skills at stealing, it wouldn’t surprise me to hear you were planning to rob the duke of his priceless antiquities.”


  Her quirk of humor quickly faded. “In all seriousness, Osborne, do you really think I am capable of murder and such duplicity for the sake of greed? Just a few days ago, you did not believe it so.”

  He threw up his hands. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

  “It’s nothing like that,” she replied.

  “Then for God’s sake, tell me what is going on! Why doesn’t the duke know he has a granddaughter?”

  Turning away, she moved to the sideboard and poured herself a sherry. Her hands were trembling badly. “There is no proof that I am of the duke’s flesh and blood,” she whispered.

  Osborne drew a deep breath. “I’ve seen the original portrait, Sofia. The family resemblance is unmistakable.”

  She shook her head. “I happen to have black hair and green eyes. So do any number of orphans in St. Giles.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew she had made a tactical blunder.

  “Orphan?” Osborne narrowed his eyes. “Is this another one of your absurd lies? Lynsley himself told me that he had arranged for your riding master.” His fist smacked against his palm. “Bloody hell, stop playing me for a fool, Sofia.”

  She sighed. “Would that I could.”

  His expression softened. “Trust me.”

  “This isn’t about you, Deverill, or me. It’s about …”

  “What?”

  As Osborne’s demand echoed in her ears, it was joined by the whisper of Lynsley’s earlier words. I would prefer to keep this a secret.

  Torn between her heart and her sense of duty, she tried to put him off. “I—I can’t tell you that either.”

  His hand was suddenly on her shoulder. If he had shouted, or shaken her, she could have fought back. But instead he simply stroked the ridge of her collarbone, then touched the pulse point at her throat. His fingertips thrummed with warmth, and she could feel the beat of his heart—strong, steady—in harmony with hers.

  “I am so very sorry that you cannot bring yourself to share your secrets with me,” he said. “I’ve tried to show myself worthy of your trust. But if heart is not enough, there’s naught more I can do. I will leave you to your task.”

  A fleeting caress to her cheek and he stepped away. “The duke is an old man. He doesn’t know the truth and deserves to. I hope you will have the compassion to tell him at some point.”

  “Wait!” she cried.

  Osborne turned, a crooked smile on his face. His windblown hair fell in gilded curls around his collar.

  “I will tell you what I can—”

  He stopped her with a small shake of his head. “No more half-truths, Sofia. No more conundrums and innuendos. You either trust me wholeheartedly or not at all.”

  She hesitated.

  He waited a fraction longer, then let himself out of the room.

  Out of her life.

  “Osborne.” It was more of a murmur than a shout. Did she dare add force to it? Once the step was taken, there was no going back.

  “Osborne!”

  The silence seemed a mocking echo of her hesitation. He was gone for good, and who could blame him for turning a deaf ear to her call?

  Then, as if by magic, the door reopened.

  “Yes?”

  She released a pent-up sigh, suddenly sure she was making the right decision. “It’s true—Lynsley did arrange for my riding master. In fact, he arranged for all my schooling. There is an academy outside of London for … girls like me.”

  “A school for charity cases?” he asked after closing the door behind him.

  “I suppose you could call it that,” she said.

  Osborne frowned. “Why the marquess, and not your real family?”

  “I had no idea who my mother was. Not until a few days ago. The only family I ever knew was an aging whore in a run-down bawdy house in St. Giles,” replied Sofia. “She told me that her sister appeared one night, weak with influenza and bearing a mysterious infant and the locket. But that was all she knew—her sibling died before dawn.”

  Osborne’s expression softened, yet there was still suspicion in his eyes. “I don’t understand about Lynsley, and why he would involve himself with the schooling of orphans, given all his other duties.”

  “No, I don’t imagine you would. He keeps it very hush-hush.”

  “Why?” Exasperated, he threw up his hands. “Is it a state secret?”

  A smile stole to her lips. “As a matter of fact, it is.”

  Seeing he was on the verge of another explosive outburst, she went on quickly. “Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Select Young Ladies is located outside of London. But it might as well be on the moon for all that the public knows of the place. You see, I was not joking about a school for spies.”

  “Damn it, Sofia,” he began.

  “Wait, hear me out.”

  His jaw clenched. “Go on.”

  “According to our headmistress, Lord Lynsley founded the Academy after reading a book on Hasan-I-Sabah. a Muslim caliph who raised a secret society of warriors at his mountain citadels. His men were known for their deadly skills and fanatic loyalty. The caliph used them only in times of dire danger to his rule. And legend has it they never failed on a mission. The very name Hashishim—or Assassins—was enough to strike terror in the heart of the Master’s enemy.”

  “Assassins,” repeated Osborne. “You don’t mean to say you are trained to—”

  “Kill? But of course,” said Sofia calmly. “However, we prefer to use bloodshed as a last resort.”

  To his credit, he didn’t blink. It was, however, an uncomfortably long silence before he asked, “How does the marquess recruit you?”

  “I was not lying about the orphans either.”

  His expression still hovered between doubt and trust.

  She wished she could gloss over the details. But Deverill Osborne had earned the right to know everything about her. Even the parts of her life that she was not terribly proud of.

  “Lord Lynsley handpicks the students from the legion of children running wild in the stews,” she went on. “I have been told he looks for courage and cleverness.” It was not easy to speak so dispassionately about her past, but Sofia forced herself to go on. “He saw me fighting off a pimp who was trying to take away one of my friends, a smaller girl who was not tough enough to stand up for herself. Evidently I was quick enough and good enough with a blade to catch his eye.”

  Osborne was regarding her through the fringe of his lashes. Blurred by the sun-kissed flecks of gold, his expression was impossible to read.

  “How old were you?”

  Sofia lifted her shoulders. “Eleven or twelve—I cannot say for sure.”

  “And then what?”

  “When we first come to the Academy, Mrs. Merlin shows us the large ornate globe that stands in her office and has us choose a name from the myriad of cities lettered on its surface. A new name for the new world we are about to enter.” Sofia paused for a moment, thinking about her little muddy finger running at random over the varnished surface. “From there, we enter a program of rigorous training—learning proper speech and etiquette as well as traditional schoolroom subjects. And, of course, the martial arts.”

  “It sounds demanding,” said Osborne. “I would imagine that not everyone achieves a passing grade.”

  “Competition for the Master Class is fierce. Those who don’t make it are trained for other useful purposes, such as maids, tavernkeepers, or governesses. The marquess has eyes and ears in most every city from here to Peking.”

  “And you?”

  Her mouth curled up at the corners. “I suppose you could say that my fellow Merlins and I are England’s secret weapon.”

  He began to pace, and the slanting shadows hid his face. “How many of these warrior women are there?”

  “Our number varies,” answered Sofia. “Right now, the ranks of full-fledged Merlins are somewhat depleted, due to … circumstances beyond Lord Lynsley’s control.”

  “Death?” he asked thr
ough gritted teeth.

  “That is always a possibility,” she said softly. “However, in this case, I was referring to matrimony.”

  “Good Lord.” He turned slowly. “Perchance is one of your comrades named Siena?”

  Sofia countered with her own question. “W-what do you know of Siena?”

  “Only that she recently married one of my closest friends.” He raked a hand through his hair. “It seems that … Well, it’s rather a long story. And we have our own tale to sort out.”

  That was putting it mildly. However, before changing the subject, Sofia explained, “Siena was one of my roommates. I have not yet had a chance to meet the Earl of Kirtland. Neither Shannon nor I were able to attend the wedding ceremony, for Academy rules forbid any public appearances where someone might wonder about our identity.” The thought of her friends was another sharp reminder of how alone she was in the world. “I was not aware of your friendship with Lord Kirtland. But then, I suppose it is not surprising—you are friends with most everyone in Society.”

  “Julian is special,” replied Osborne. “He and I have been through a lot together. On the field of battle, you quickly learn which comrades you would trust with your life.”

  She nodded. “Yes, I know what you mean.”

  His face pinched to an odd expression. His voice was equally enigmatic. “Yes, I imagine you do.”

  Was he shocked by her profession? Disgusted? The females of his world were all genteel, well-bred ladies, trained to excel in the social graces, rather than the sordid arts of war.

  Despite the ache in her chest, Sofia gave a careless shrug. “No doubt you think me a hardscrabble hellion, unworthy to rub shoulders with the proper ladies of the ton. However, there are times when a female is best suited to root out the enemy, and I don’t mind getting my hands dirty.”

  “I think …” Osborne turned, the sunlight from the window suffusing his features. “I think that you are, without question, the most admirable individual I have ever met. You make me ashamed of my own lily-white hands. We lords and ladies live in a world of pomp and splendor because you are willing to fight to defend our privileges.”