Sofia shook her head.
“They should have.” Osborne approached with a slow, stalking step. “After all, whatever the curriculum, those expensive academies are simply preparing you young ladies for matrimony. You should not be innocent of men’s baser urges.”
Up close, his gold-tipped lashes seemed alight with sparks. The rest of his face was shaded in shadows. She drew a small breath, trying to ignore the spicy scent of his cologne. “Trust me, sir, we were taught enough about the realities of life.”
“Indeed?” Osborne laughed softly. “Then I assume that one of the first lessons was that the prospect of risk and reward adds a certain edge to any endeavor.”
“Rather, our instructors trained us to react with reason rather than emotion when faced with a challenge,” replied Sofia.
“What a pity.” He took another swallow of spirits. “I was looking forward to the duel. But then, I should have suspected that a lady would only go so far before retreating behind the skirts of maidenly excuses.”
Sofia knew he was simply baiting her. She had proved her point. Her fencing instructor had often said that knowing when to withdraw was as important as knowing when to engage. Risk and reward.
“I was going to let you retreat with your dignity intact, Lord Osborne,” she answered. “But if you insist—name the stakes.”
“The loser must pay a forfeit,” he replied.
“Of what?”
“Oh, as to that.” He drew out his words. “The winner may name what he wants.”
“Or she,” countered Sofia. “And the game?”
“Alternate shots, each from a different position in the room.” A grin curled the corners of his mouth. “We’ll pick the spots as we go along. The winner of each toss shall make the choice.” He retrieved the darts from the board, along with a wooden case from the bookshelf. Inside it were four more of the feathered missiles. “We’ll each take five. That should ensure that the match does not end in a draw.” Light winked off the steel as he separated the weapons into two piles. “By virtue of your last victory, you may call the first shot.”
Sofia looked around. Spotting the heavy brass fender around the hearth, she fisted her darts and marched to its far edge. “Very well. We’ll shoot from here—balanced on one foot atop the rail.” She kicked off a slipper and set her silk-clad toes on the polished metal. “Shoes are optional.”
Her throw hit home close to dead center.
“You are good,” he said grudgingly as she slipped her footwear back on. He stepped up to the bar and whipped a sidearm toss at the target.
His dart kissed up against hers.
“So are you.” Sofia grinned back at him. “Your call, sir.”
They traded shots, each winning one.
On her next choice, Sofia turned around and slowly untied his cravat, pulling the length of snowy linen free of his shirtpoints. “This one we’ll do blindfolded.” She looped it around her eyes and was at once intimately aware of the lingering scent of his shaving soap and bay rum cologne. For an instant, she felt a little dizzy but managed to keep her equilibrium and make a decent strike in the middle circle.
“You have left me an opening, Contessa.” Osborne reached out, his fingers grazing her flesh as he unknotted the cloth. “I shall have to see if I can take advantage of it.” He cracked his knuckles, then let fly. But his dart only hit the band of blue as well.
“Still tied,” she murmured.
“This way.” As the choice was his, Osborne drew her to the far corner of the room.
There wasn’t much space to maneuver, and the carved molding forced them shoulder to shoulder. Sofia could feel the heat from his thigh. His profile showed a spark in his eye as well.
Osborne was right. Risk did add a frisson of fire to a competition.
She felt the blood thrumming through her veins. Her fingertips were tingling.
“Last shot. To decide the winner.” His lips were tantalizingly close to her cheek. His breath was redolent of whisky. Sharp, sweet.
She turned, just enough to gulp in a bit of fresh air. “You have the honors, sir.”
His laugh was light as a feather against her skin. “There is nothing honorable about me right now. Indeed, if we were caught in this compromising position, I would be called a cad. Or worse.”
“A widow—” she began.
“A widow ought to be even more aware of the consequences of surrendering to the heat of the moment,” said Osborne.
“Then luck must be on my side,” countered Sofia. “For there is no one around to witness the transgression.”
Some perverse magic must have been in the air, for there suddenly came the scuff of footsteps at the head of the corridor and the murmur of masculine voices.
“Damn,” muttered Osborne. Grabbing up his coat and cravat from the table, he moved quickly to a side door, which led to the adjoining room, and eased it open. “Take my glass and have a seat,” he called in a whisper. “A widow is permitted to indulge in a discreet nip of spirits. I’ll find a way back to the festivities without being spotted.”
The latch closed with a soft snick.
Sofia had just enough time to grab up his drink and settle herself on the sofa. After quickly rearranging several pieces on the chessboard, she assumed an air of studious interest as her host, accompanied by two gentlemen companions, entered the room.
“Light the fire, Fitz, while I fetch those Turkish cigars I was telling you about. We have at least a half hour to enjoy a smoke and a bit of peace and quiet before my wife notices that we have scarpered—” Lord Harpworth stopped in dismay as he caught sight of a telltale ruffle of silk curled atop the patterned carpet.
“I’m afraid I’ve scarpered too, sir.” Sofia straightened and fixed the trio with a guilty smile. “I hope you gentlemen will be kind enough not to give away my naughty secrets.”
Harpworth eyed the glass of whisky. “Er, you may count on our discretion, Lady Sofia.” He gave an embarrassed chuckle. “After all, we are being a bit naughty ourselves.”
“Just so,” chimed in Mr. Kepton. He, too, seemed to be staring at the whisky, though he quickly shifted his gaze to the chessboard. “Uh, it seems that your king is in danger of checkmate, milady.”
Sofia gave a casual shrug. “Someone must have left a game unfinished. Perhaps he—or she—sensed the imminent danger.” She slowly replaced the figures to their starting positions. “Let us do the players a favor and allow them a fresh start.”
“How very sporting of you, Lady Sofia.” Sir Taft cleared his throat. “Well, gentlemen, we ought to withdraw and allow the Contessa to finish her, er, libation—”
“No need. I was just about to return for the Mozart concerto.” Sofia rose. “Having heard so much about your Scottish malt, I could not resist trying a sip,” she went on. “However, I find it a bit too fiery for my taste.” Retrieving her shawl, she draped the Kashmir weave around her shoulders. “I shall stick to champagne in the future.”
“A wise choice, Contessa,” agreed her host. “Highland whisky is much too rough for a refined lady.”
She winked. “Live and learn.”
Chapter Twelve
Her nerves winding tighter with every turn of the carriage wheels, Sofia watched the glitter of the Mayfair streets fade to a more haphazard swirl of light and shadow. Would tonight bring her one step closer to the grim truth? It was, perhaps, waxing overly dramatic, but given what she had learned over the past few days, she couldn’t help but feel that this evening’s party at Lord Concord’s retreat would mark a turning point in her search—she was sure of it.
The last few days had passed quietly, for other than several routine morning calls and an appearance at the Theatre Royal, she had cried off from her other social engagements. Lying low had allowed her to sift through the file of notes that had suddenly arrived from the marquess.
Following up on her request, Lynsley’s agents had uncovered a number of interesting leads on De Winton’s source of income
and Roxbury’s ties to Sforza’s shipping company in Venice. That all three men—along with a prominent government official in Bombay—were partners in a private banking account was the most intriguing information. Marco had spent the last two nights poking around the East India docks at Blackwall, east of the Isle of Dogs. He would be there this evening as well, instead of joining her here. They had decided his talents were better put to use in picking locks than in serving as her escort.
As she stepped down from the unmarked carriage and moved up the slate walkway, Sofia reminded herself to relax. She must appear a lady interested in a taste of illicit pleasures, nothing more.
It was Lord Concord himself who answered her knock. “Welcome, Contessa. I thought you would prefer to make a discreet entrance, rather than be greeted by strangers.” He pressed a kiss to her hand. “A lady can’t be too careful of her reputation.”
De Winton, who was standing at his friend’s shoulder, was quick to offer his own effusive greeting. “Indeed, indeed. Be assured that there are just a few trusted servants around to serve our needs. So your naughty secret is quite safe here.”
“Thank you, Adam.” She allowed him to take her cloak before adding, “Have I been naughty?”
“Simply by virtue of joining this gathering, you would stir a bit of scandal among the sticklers of the ton.” His gaze lingered on the satin trim of her bodice, which cut a deep V between her breasts. “As for anything else, I suppose that is up to you.”
De Winton’s look made it clear he expected to bed her. The idea was not appealing, but if duty demanded it …
“Allow me to show you to the drawing room.” Concord stepped forward and took her arm. “I believe you are acquainted with some of the other guests, but there are new faces as well.”
Perhaps having the two men vie for her favors could be turned to her advantage. “I always look forward to new experiences, including making new friends,” replied Sofia. “It makes life so much more interesting than staying within the same old circle.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Lady Sofia,” said Concord.
Accepting a glass of champagne from the servant stationed by the door, she took a long sip in order to survey the room. She recognized Andover and Roxbury, along with Sforza and Lord Neville, another of the Scarlet Knights. They were by the hearth conversing with a trio of females who, despite their costly silks and jewels, appeared to be … not quite ladies.
Cyprians, guessed Sofia. Curious at her first glimpse of the demimonde, she allowed her gaze to linger a moment longer before moving on to the sofa and settee, where Lady Serena was presiding over a group of gentlemen that included Roxbury and Familligi. Osborne had not yet arrived.
Or perhaps he had chosen to stay away.
“Champagne seems such a tame choice for a lady of adventurous tastes.” De Winton sidled close. His glass was filled with a liquid nearly as red as his waistcoat. “The punch is a mix of pomegranate juice, brandy, and grappa.”
“I am merely whetting my palate,” she replied.
“Speaking of treats, Lady Sofia, did you bring your gold key?” The overbright glitter in his eyes looked to be lit by more than the spirits. “Or were you merely pretending to know about the secret language of flowers?”
Thrust and parry. Sofia couldn’t afford the slightest slip in this verbal duel. “I will let you be the judge,” she countered. Moving into the shadows cast by a japanned screen, she plucked the sliver of gold from a hidden pocket sewn into her sash.
He studied it for a long moment before asking, “Did you get it from Della Croce in Venice?”
Not wanting to fall into a trap, Sofia batted her lashes. “What do you think, cara?”
“Beauty and blunt—Vittorio has a weakness for both.” De Winton laughed. “No wonder he was willing to share in his part of the business.” He fingered the silk of his waistcoat. “Like Venice, there is a special place here in London. You put the key in the lock, and it opens the door to pleasure. And, of course, profit.”
Sofia hid her excitement beneath a sly smile. “So I have been told. Just how—”
“How delightful to see you again, contessa.” Roxbury’s greeting interrupted her question. “I was hoping you would be among the invited guests.”
“I wasn’t aware that the two of you had met,” said De Winton.
“Lady Sofia and her Italian friend happened to stop by for a look around Andover’s shop while I was there,” replied Roxbury. “Did anything catch your eye?”
“A great many things. He has quite a unique selection of treasures.” Sofia held up her hand. “But for the moment, my only purchase was this charming little ring.”
“Charming, indeed.” But his gaze was on the key. “Andover does not keep those out on display.”
“I came by mine in Venice,” she murmured.
“Ah.” Andover joined them, leaving the three Cyprians to Lord Neville. “Might I have a look at the workmanship?”
Sofia could think of no reason to refuse.
The gallery owner studied the enameling from several angles, then handed it back. “Verchiotto’s work is unmistakable,” he murmured with a tiny nod at De Winton.
“Welcome to our circle, Contessa,” said Roxbury before the other men could speak.
“You possess a key, too, Mr. Roxbury?” she asked.
“Indeed, like De Winton and Andover, I am one of the Select Six here in London. I act as quartermaster, coordinating the lists of suppliers, and the logistics—”
Andover nudged him to silence. “Really, Roxbury, you know better than to discuss the details of our business outside the monthly meetings.”
“But we are among friends,” he said rather sulkily.
Much as she wished to hear more about any lists, Sofia was quick to agree with Andover. “Si. We are equally careful in Venice.”
“Castillo is said to run a tight ship,” said De Winton.
She played it coy, avoiding a direct answer. “Of course, we don’t mention names either.”
Andover nodded. “Of course.”
So far, so good. None of the others called her bluff.
Still smiling, the gallery owner drew De Winton aside. “Adam, do let me show you one of Concord’s Chinese porcelains. I have a similar one you might be interested in purchasing …”
The two men moved away, leaving her alone with Roxbury. The opportunity was enticing—given the man’s vanity, she had no doubt she could tease further indiscretions out of him. But she dared not seem too curious about the workings of the group. Not yet.
“Come, you must introduce me to the man who just joined Lord Neville,” she said. “And to their female companions.”
Roxbury looked loath to agree, but after several florid flatteries earned him no reprieve, he reluctantly led the way to join the others. As the conversation began anew, Sofia smiled and managed to appear attentive, although in truth her thoughts were engaged on what she had heard earlier.
De Winton, Roxbury, Andover—they each possessed a key. And according to Roxbury’s slip of the tongue, there were three more. Concord? Given his role as host, he was certainly a prime suspect. As for the other two, it was a pity that Marco had not succeeded in having a look inside Andover’s storeroom. The hint of incriminating lists had her fingers itching to put her lock-picking skills to work.
A late-night foray to Bond Street? Too risky without a proper surveillance of the premises.
Sofia made another surreptitious look around. De Winton and Andover were still engaged in a private talk by the curio cabinet, while Lady Serena was keeping the Italian and several other men amused—including Osborne, who had lost no time in joining the ranks of her admirers. The laughter from that end of the room was growing more animated, and to augment the array of champagne bottles, a servant appeared with a tray of jade pipes.
Improvise. The echo of her fencing master’s exhortations drowned out the chatter of the Cyprians. Bond Street was out of bounds, but Concord’s private study was
just a short stroll away, down a deserted corridor.
No one would give it a second thought if she excused herself to find the withdrawing room.
Osborne sipped his brandy, trying to ignore the sight of Sofia flirting with Lord Neville and a man from the ministry whose name he had forgotten. She looked incredibly seductive in the smoky light. The deep green velvet bodice was cut low and spangled with gold. As if the lush curves of her breasts needed any enhancement.
He told himself to concentrate his attention on the other Lady S. The fair-haired widow was far more accessible.
Sensing his sidelong glance, Lady Serena turned and offered him a Turkish confection of dates and nuts. “Would you care for a sweetmeat, Osborne?”
He gave a half-hearted chuckle. “Am I looking sour-faced?”
“Your expression is black as a storm cloud—as opposed to your usual sunny humor.” She rose, drawing him up along with her. “Come take a turn with me around the display of Indian bronzes. I wish to hear your opinion on their artistic merit.”
Osborne followed along. “I’m afraid my knowledge of Eastern art is woefully lacking,” he murmured as they approached the teakwood table.
“So is mine,” she replied with a light laugh. “However, you looked as if you needed a respite from the crowd.”
“Thank you.”
“You are welcome.” Running a finger over the elephant profile of a Hindu deity, Lady Serena continued on with a few pithy comments on the stylistic details before adroitly changing the subject. “Speaking of long faces … You are so popular with the ton, I would assume you know everyone, even so gruff a man as George Hartwick.”
“Yes, reasonably well, in fact.” Osborne was puzzled as to why she would have any interest in the curmudgeonly head of a family that controlled most of the cotton plantations along the coast of the Carolinas. Aside from cotton, Hartwick’s other passion was landscape painting, and they had met a number of times at art exhibits. “Is there a reason you ask?”
“In fact, there is. I have a friend who is interested in doing a bit of business with him. Is it true that Hartwick is a stickler for following the rules?”
The Scarlet Spy Page 14
