She was on her own.
Keeping close to the low wall lining the street, she made her way to Lady Serena’s residence. De Winton’s carriage had drawn to a halt by the iron gates, and the coachman sat slouched on his perch, his collar turned up to ward off the rising breeze. It took only a moment to render him unconscious. After trussing his hands with the lash of his whip, Sofia turned her attention to the entrance.
The front door was slightly ajar. No light shone through the crack. Like the rest of the town house, the entrance hall was as dark as a tomb. Quelling the urge to draw her steel and plunge ahead, she forced herself to make a more measured approach. The Academy fencing master had often counseled that probing for a weakness was often a far more effective way to gain victory than trying to overpower an enemy with a slashing assault.
Ducking through the boxwood plantings, Sofia flattened herself to the brick and inched to the edge of the casement windows. From there, she angled a look inside. Nothing. She gave it another minute, watching for any shift of darkness within the darkness. Her patience was rewarded—a wink of movement caught her eye just as she was about to turn away.
The man’s black beard and dusky skin made his face nearly invisible in the dappling of moonlight. His tunic and pantaloons were a deep indigo as well, which blended into the midnight shadows. It was the flicker of metal in his pointed turban that gave his presence away. Squinting, Sofia could just make out his shape. He was well over six feet tall and broad as a Brahmin bull. How Lady Serena had come to have a Sikh from Punjab in her employ was no doubt a question that would greatly interest Lord Lynsley.
But right now her only concern was putting him out of action. No small feat, seeing that his sect was one of the most feared group of warriors in all of Asia.
Think. Sofia didn’t need the quickening thud of her heart to remind her that Osborne’s life depended on her strategy. She wouldn’t get a second chance.
The man shifted his stance and blew out his breath. He looked to be growing bored and a bit restless. Turn the enemy’s strength into a weakness. It was one of her fencing master’s favorite exhortations. She drew in a calming breath and moved for the side of the house, giving thanks that her Academy instructors included not only the best blade in all of Europe but also an Indian guru and a Chinese tai chi expert.
Each discipline taught that flexibility, both physical and mental, was a weapon unto itself.
Locating the broken window latch on the parlor window—a detail she recalled from her earlier visit—Sofia slipped inside the room. She, too, had the advantage of clothing that helped mask her presence. Rosie had dug up a pair of slim black trousers abandoned by an Eton prefect while Fanny had located a pleated silk shirt left by a Prussian count who fancied himself the Lord of Midnight. Black satin slippers, courtesy of Mistress Mavis, allowed her to move noiselessly over the parquet floor of the corridor.
“Arrumph.” The Sikh warrior shifted his weight and stretched. Hanging from his sash was a kirpan, the deadly sharp curved sword worn by all members of his sect.
The man was a walking arsenal, thought Sofia as she took cover in a recessed nook beneath the curved staircase. In hand-to-hand combat, the odds were not in her favor. But head-to-head …
The door behind her came slightly ajar, revealing a small storage closet used for coal and the cast-iron scuttles.
Stepping inside, she took up a tiny sliver and tossed it onto the polished wood.
For a big man, the Sikh moved quickly and quietly. Rounding the corner, knife in hand, he surveyed the empty stretch of space.
She rattled the iron and gave a tiny growl.
“Harrumph.” He had to bend low to stick his head inside the cramped space.
Whooomph. The layers of his headcloth somewhat muffled the crack of metal against bone. A moment later, an echoing thud sounded as his bearded chin hit the sooty floor.
Sofia paused just long enough to pluck the quoits from his turban and lock the latch, then raced for the stairs.
Lady Serena touched her thumb to the edge of the first blade, a crescent sliver of steel topping a thin brass rod. The others laid out on the desk were equally unusual in shape, and all were decorated with intricate patterns of gold damascene.
“Have you ever seen a set of knives like these?” she asked, holding one of them uncomfortably close to Osborne’s eyes. “They are used by the Sikh Akali sect, who are famous throughout India as religious fanatics and fearless fighters, to extract information from their enemies.”
“Thank you for the anthropology lecture. But if you feel compelled to demonstrate one of Andover’s little trinkets, I would rather see a demonstration of the techniques used to create his collection of Persian painted books.”
She slapped him hard with the back of her hand, the faceted diamond ring raising a welt across his cheek. “Don’t make this hard on yourself, my dear Deverill.” Her voice was chillingly calm. “Tell me where she is now, and I’ll promise to make your death a painless one.”
Osborne swallowed hard, the sharp sting of bile mingling with the taste of his own blood. He was not ashamed to admit his hands were shaking and his shirt nearly soaked through with sweat. As he had told Sofia, he was no storybook hero, impervious to fear or pain. Harkness knew his intentions, but he would be long dead before his friend figured out that anything had gone wrong.
Things were not looking good.
As if reading his thoughts, Lady Serena gave a light laugh. “I wouldn’t count on anyone riding to your rescue. Even if you left word on where you were going, an Akali warrior came along with our friends and is now stationed downstairs to greet any uninvited guests.”
“He is quite a sight. All of the sect members wear a towering turban of indigo cloth, decorated with quoits of all different sizes,” said De Winton.
Sforza drew a finger down the center of his chest. “The better to gut an opponent.”
“Yes, I would rather like to see someone try to slip by Arjun’s guard,” snickered De Winton. “I saw him practicing his throwing technique the other day. He could split a man’s skull in two at thirty paces.”
Osborne felt sickened by their callous depravity. Suffering was a subject of mirth. Death was a matter of entertainment. Thinking of all the brave men who had died on account of the group’s greed renewed his fighting spirit. He would go to the grave with Sofia’s secrets.
“Indeed he could.” Sforza rubbed his hands together. “I would guess that Lady Serena will be equally skillful in her own way.”
“Make sure the curtain is drawn,” she ordered.
Sforza wiped the leer from his face and hurried to do her bidding.
Bloody hell. Osborne swore a silent oath. Had his legs been free, he would have kicked himself. It had certainly taken him long enough to see the obvious—the leader of the cabal was not a he but a she.
“Very clever,” he murmured. “I don’t know why I didn’t catch on any earlier.”
“Because you are, like most men, blinded by your pride and your prejudices.” Flexing her wrist, she cut through the front of his shirt with a silky slash. “You cannot conceive of a female having the brains or the boldness to oversee a business operation like this one.”
She was right, of course, admitted Osborne. Though he, of all people, ought to have had an inkling of just how capable a woman could be in a man’s world.
“Your talents are indeed extraordinary,” he said aloud.
Lady Serena looked pleased by the compliment. Perhaps he could use her own pride and vanity to his advantage.
“How did you come up with the idea?” he asked.
The blade stilled just above his bare chest. “My husband was asked by a friend to invest in a shipment of opium,” she replied. “A very small deal, though it proved profitable enough. I pointed out the potential of the business, but Freddie was too stupid to understand the opportunities that were opening up, what with Napoleon marching through Europe and the Mahratta fomenting trouble with the Ea
st India Company’s trade.”
“As I said, very clever,” murmured Osborne. “So you convinced him to let you do all the thinking?”
Her laugh was devoid of emotion. “In a manner of speaking. You see, his drinking and gambling soon became a liability. His partners didn’t want to deal with an unreliable investor. So, as with any liability, I took steps to eliminate the problem.”
Osborne blinked. Good Lord, the lady was even more cold-blooded than he imagined. “Let me guess,” he said softly. “An overdose of opium?”
“Freddie’s excesses were well-known. No one was surprised when his heart simply could not keep pace with his depravities.”
“His partners were willing to accept a female?”
“Unlike Freddie, I recognized genius when I saw it,” said De Winton. “I had no objections to letting a lady give the orders. After all, one of England’s greatest monarchs was a woman. And Lady Serena quickly proved she deserved the power.”
De Winton would have taken orders from a snake if there was any profit in it, thought Osborne.
“Si. And as we Italians have a long tradition of females wielding their influence in business and politics, I was happy to go along with the arrangement,” added Sforza with a shrug.
“Enough of the history lesson.” Lady Serena’s tone was once again brusque and all business. The knife pressed lightly against his flesh. “Where is Lady Sofia?”
“Just out of curiosity—what made you choose to become friendly with me?” he asked, stalling for time.
“Because with your connections in Society, you could have been extremely useful in opening up new doors. People like and respect you, Osborne. I could have made you very rich, had you been willing to bend your prudish principles just a bit.” She made a face. “Most men are seduced by greed. Or sex. You proved to be an exception. A pity, really. We could have made a lovely couple.”
The idea of any intimacy with her made his skin crawl.
His face must have betrayed his disgust, for her expression suddenly hardened. “You favored that slut Sofia over me. A bad investment, as you see now. But I shall give you one more chance to recoup some of your losses. Where is she?”
Osborne closed his eyes.
“My dear Deverill.” He felt her fingertip caress the line of his jaw. “We can make this easy. You can have pleasure …” Her mouth touched his, her tongue teasing over his lower lip. “Or pain.”
The scalpel bit into his flesh, cutting a razor-thin gash above his right breast. He clenched his teeth to keep from crying out.
She flicked a drop of blood from the steel tip. “Where is Lady Sofia? I won’t ask again nicely.”
“Sorry.” Osborne mustered a smile. “A gentleman never discusses a lady in public. It’s a matter of honor, you know.”
“You won’t be speaking so glibly when she reaches your testicles,” said De Winton.
“And you won’t be sneering so smugly when the Crown’s hangman knots the noose around your neck,” he retorted.
The reply earned him another cut. Damn. The pain was not so bad now, but he had no illusions about how quickly that would change. During his time in Portugal, he had seen the partisans torture an informant. He still had nightmares in which he heard the man’s screams.
“This is your last chance, Deverill. Don’t play the hero,” said Lady Serena. “You think the contessa would sacrifice herself for you?” The sharpened blade kissed up against his throat. “Where is she? Speak up now, or I promise you will regret it.”
Strange, but his only regret was that he had never told Sofia that he loved her. He wished he had spoken from the heart, had expressed his admiration for her courage, her compassion, her convictions. His magnificent Merlin. Just thinking of her gave wings to his sinking spirit. His own sun might be setting, but she would live to see another day.
Brightened by the thought, he mustered a laugh. “Go to hell.”
“Very well. If that is your answer, we will get down to business. First, I am going to flay a strip of skin from—”
“I think not.”
Osborne’s eyes flew open.
“Step away from the chair, Lady Serena.” Sofia stood framed in the doorway, pistol in hand. “There is no need to ask Lord Osborne any more questions about my whereabouts. As you see, I’m right here.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Arjun!” cried De Winton.
“If you are looking for your guard, he is engaged in Naam Japna—the quiet meditation of God required of all good Sikhs each day,” said Sofia. “He won’t be waking anytime soon.”
“A dramatic entrance, Contessa.” The momentary shock on Lady Serena’s face had smoothed to a look of cold calculation. “But one that shows how unschooled you are to match wits with real professionals. By charging in with weapons drawn, you’ve made a fatal mistake.” Darting a look at her two henchmen, she gave a short laugh. “She has one bullet and there are three of us—shoot her.”
The lady had nerve, thought Sofia. To go along with her utter ruthlessness. As for her own emotions, she didn’t dare look at Osborne. She must remain disciplined, dispassionate.
Instead, she mimicked Lady Serena’s air of icy indifference. “You are right. Simple arithmetic would seem to add up in your favor—that is, assuming I don’t have a pocket pistol tucked in my trousers.” Sofia flexed her finger on the trigger. “So, who wishes to be the sacrificial lamb?”
“Sforza, you do the honors,” ordered Lady Serena. “Even if she manages to fire, she likely can’t hit the broad side of a barn.”
“Me?” The Italian wet his lips as he edged back. “Bloodshed was not part of our deal.”
“Especially his own,” said Sofia. Seeing Sforza’s uncertainty mirrored in De Winton’s eyes, she gave a curt laugh. “Your Scarlet Knight does not appear to be in any great rush to be a hero either. No doubt he prefers the coloring of his waistcoat not to come from his own veins.”
“Shoot her, Sofia,” said Osborne calmly. “It’s what she deserves.”
“Shut up,” ordered Lady Serena. She was still standing next to him, her bloodied blade dangerously close to his throat.
Too close. Sofia had a clear shot, but a twitch of the razored steel might well sever his artery. And despite the other lady’s murderous madness, she couldn’t quite bring herself to kill in cold blood. “Step away from Lord Osborne, Lady Serena, and lay down your knife. Surely you are smart enough to see the game is over. The authorities are being alerted as we speak. There is no chance of escape.”
“You are bluffing.” For the first time, Lady Serena’s voice betrayed a flicker of doubt.
“No, I am not.” Sofia spoke with a measured calmness, though her heart was beating an erratic tattoo against her ribs. The opaque look in the widow’s eye was frightening. It was beyond hatred, beyond reason. “Surrender now without further bloodshed and I will see that your cooperation will be taken into account with the government.”
“Don’t believe her.” Lady Serena shot a sidelong glance at her cohorts. “No one knows, other than these two.” Her lip curled. “And do you really think that the government will show any mercy? Trust me, we will all hang if we are caught, so there’s nothing to lose.”
Sofia saw fear flare in De Winton’s eyes. His hand jerked up.
Damn. She had no choice but to fire first.
“It seems that I underestimated you, Contessa.” Lady Serena watched De Winton slump to the floor. “You do have nerve. But not brains.” Her knife jabbed a mocking cut at Sofia. “Finish her off, Lorenzo.”
The Italian fumbled for his pistol.
Sofia had the split second she needed. Spinning forward, she whipped the hidden quoits from her cuffs and sent them flying through the air. Her left-handed throw sliced across Lady Serena’s wrist, knocking the knife from her grip. The other sliver of steel struck Sforza square in the chest.
He screamed and fell back, knocking the lamp to the floor. The glass shattered, spraying hot oil and spar
ks over the damask draperies. With a muffled whoof, the heavy fabric ignited in flames.
“Deverill!” Sofia lunged for the chair as Lady Serena swore and clawed the pistol from the Italian’s limp grip. Grabbing the back slat, she knocked it over, covering Osborne’s trussed form with her own body.
A shot exploded overhead as they hit the carpet, followed by another high-pitched oath.
“Damnation.” Osborne’s curse was considerably softer. “Stop taking such devilishly dangerous risks, Sofia.”
“Not when you insist on riding to my rescue.” She fumbled for her hidden knife and quickly set to work cutting away his bonds.
A second bullet whizzed past the overturned chair, missing them by a hair.
“Not much help, was I?” he said wryly. “What sort of hero bumbles right into the arms of the enemy?”
The blaze lit the bruises and gash on his cheek, and beneath her fingers, Sofia felt his shirt was sticky with blood. “Only the very bravest sort,” she whispered, brushing a kiss to his brow.
“Only the most besotted sort.” His mouth curled in a lopsided grin. “Have I told you how much I love … your bravado?”
“No—you’ve been too busy ringing a peal over my head.” Her hands, which had gone very still, began moving again. For an instant, she had thought he was going to say something else. “Just one more twist.” The last bit of rope snapped free.
“I’ve never met anyone quite like you.”
“I don’t doubt it. Your friends have all been raised to be ladies, not hellions.” She ducked as a jade figure smashed against the hearth, sending a shower of shards over their heads. “Sorry to put you through such a dangerous ordeal.”
The flames were licking higher. Dropping the spent pistols, Lady Serena ducked through the acrid clouds and darted out the door.
“Ordeal? I haven’t had so much fun in years.” Sofia saw that the flying stones had cut another ragged nick across his sweat-streaked flesh. And yet he was smiling.
Andrea Pickens - Merlin's Maidens 03 - The Scarlet Spy Page 26