Merlins Maidens - Secuced by Spy - Pickens, Andrea

by Seduced by Spy (mobi)

  “Isn’t that exactly the sort of male a gently bred young lady is taught to avoid?”

  “Ah, but a taste of the forbidden has been an irresistible attraction since the Garden of Eden was put on this earth…”

  Shannon’s kiss-swollen lips pressed together.

  Was it his imagination, or did they quiver ever so slightly? “You won’t be jealous, will you, if I flirt with them?” he asked.

  She swore, drawing a small laugh from him. “No, I didn’t think so, golub.” He turned, then hesitated as an unwelcome thought came to mind. “But no doubt they will gossip to the gentlemen about your own availability. Be aware that they may seek to take the same liberties as I just did.”

  “I can handle myself, Mr.—”

  “Alex,” he interrupted. “Remember that we had agreed to dispense with formalities. And it suits our intimacy. If we were carrying on an illicit affair, we would hardly be calling each by our surnames.”

  “I—it is only an act.”

  Orlov found himself savoring the sight of her blush. Color spread slowly over her cheekbones, the dark crimson hue pooling in the hollows, then lightening to a more nuanced shade of pink as it crept toward her eyes. “Ah, but they don’t know that, do they, Shannon?”

  “Let us hope it is not the only falsehood they fail to discover,” she muttered. The temperature was dropping, and Orlov felt the pebbling of goosebumps beneath the thin fabric of her sleeve. “De Villiers was awfully attentive during our little tête-à-tête last evening. He even inquired where in the country I was raised.”

  “How did you keep him occupied?”

  She exaggerated the flutter of her lashes. “By asking him to explain the mysterious workings of a seventeenth-century fowling piece.” The thick fringe of gold seemed to spark flecks of fire in her emerald eyes. “By the by, his discourse on ballistics was woefully inaccurate. It was the Bavarian necromancer Moretius who wrote a treatise on the principles of rifling, not some Benedictine monk from Savoy. In 1522, not a century later.”

  Orlov couldn’t help but smile at the thought of the Frenchman’s expression had she gone ahead and tossed the facts back in his face. “You didn’t correct his error, I trust?”

  Her gaze turned slitted. “You are not the only one who can play the game of flattery. The Academy’s training includes expert instruction on the arts of seduction as well as weaponry. I am well aware that men cannot bear to be wrong in anything.”

  His humor suddenly darkened to match the clouds overhead.

  “You won’t be jealous, will you, if I flirt with him and his friends?”

  He swore, surprising himself with the vehemence of his oath.

  “No, I didn’t think so.” Hugging her arms to her chest, Shannon turned into the teeth of the wind.

  “Be careful,” he warned. “Don’t get too close to De Villiers. He may be naught but a pompous prig, but if he is in league with D’Etienne, he is a trained killer.”

  “Then it will be a match made in heaven,” she shot back. “I shall take pleasure in sending him straight to hell.”

  “Take care you don’t get burned.”

  “As you saw in Ireland, I am very good at handling lucifers.”

  “Playing with fire is always unpredictable—in case your damn training failed to make that clear.” Her announcement had taken him by surprise. Though why he should be disturbed to learn of her schooling in feminine wiles was odd. It was merely another weapon in their arsenal, and if she could wield it well, all the better for their chances of success.

  “I know full well the dangers of what we do.”

  Orlov wished he could feel so sanguine. “Well then, you need no further counsel from me.”

  “Indeed not. As I said, I can take care of myself.” She patted at her skirts—no doubt checking that her knife had not shifted during their amorous interlude. “I would rather you worry about how we can make any further progress in securing the house from intruders. The terrace is now protected by trip wires, but there are a good many other ways into the place.”

  “I, too, am not in need of a lecture to alert me to the dangers lurking at our gates,” he snapped. “After a wee dram of spirits with Rawley and Euan last night, I was able to learn which side doors and cellar entrances are never used. I’ve shut them with my own set of padlocks, so that cuts down on the number of ways into the house.”

  She nodded. “And all jesting aside, your earlier comment about nailing the windows shut is not a bad idea either.”

  In defensive strategy, at least, they saw eye to eye. Orlov held her gaze for a moment longer before turning for the terrace. “I’ll see to it before supper if you will take my place at the chess board.”

  “One other thing—I also overheard a squabble between Annabelle and her brother. Apparently she began a flirtation with a Yorkshire baron they met on their way north. From what I could gather, there may be a moonstruck young man on the way north, hoping for an invitation to join the house party here.”

  “Damn, there are too many strangers as it is,” he muttered.

  As for any offensive gambits by their enemy… he would have to stay on guard.

  Chapter Fourteen

  So many questions, so few answers.

  Shannon drew a piece of chalk in random circles across the schoolroom slate, wondering how she had let herself be so distracted that she had neglected to ask Orlov about several pressing concerns. His kisses, however fake, had left her momentarily robbed of reason. The why of it was proving as elusive as all the other answers they sought, she thought glumly. But personal concerns, however nettling, could wait.

  Lady Octavia was a far more important mystery. The dowager’s reaction to the visitors from London had so far been marked by an odd combination of feistiness and fear. The acquaintance was admittedly a very short one, but Shannon was willing to wager that the elderly lady did not shrink from confronting a difficulty head-on. And with her trusty stick held firmly in hand.

  For the dowager to looked defeated by anything less than a fire-breathing dragon…

  The sharp scratch caused Emma to look up from her lettering exercise. “B is devilishly difficult to get right,” she sighed. “It comes out all lumpy, no matter how carefully I try.”

  “You must not say ‘devilish,’” corrected Shannon.

  “Scottie does.” The little chin, now liberally smudged with ink, rose a fraction higher. “And so does Uncle Angus.”

  “If Prescott does so within hearing of Mr. Oliver, he may feel a birch on his backside. As for your uncle…” She drummed her fingers on the desk. “Perhaps we will wash his mouth out with soap.”

  As she had hoped, Emma giggled. But the sound was fleeting. All too soon, the little girl was looking wistful. And wary. “I miss him very much. Grandmama says he has been delayed in England, and that we must be patient.” The little girl brushed a knuckle to her cheek. “It is devilishly hard to be patient.”

  “Yes, it is.” After squeezing the hunched little shoulders, Shannon leaned in for a look at the letters. “You are doing very well. Try holding the pen a bit closer to the nib. That way, I think you will find the stroke easier to control.” Turning to a fresh page in the copybook, she added, “Now write the passage one more time. Practice makes perfect.”

  As Emma sighed and set to work again, she could not resist sneaking into the corridor for a quick peek at the adjoining schoolroom. Orlov and Prescott were engaged in the study of the globe. Its slow spinning beneath the tutor’s touch seemed an apt metaphor for her own unsettled emotions. The Russian had a knack for keeping her off balance.

  War is the Tao of deception.

  Recalling one of Sun-Tzu’s basic precepts, Shannon was once again reminded of how the smallest slip could spell disaster.

  Between Orlov’s explosive kisses and the Frenchman’s smooth flirtations, she had better find a way to keep a firm footing.

  “What a lovely little folly you have down the by the loch, Lady Octavia,” said Hele
n brightly as she wandered around the drawing room, waiting for the evening tea to be served. “We took a short stroll there this morning and spent a very pleasant hour enjoying the view.”

  “The fourth Laird McAllister was a great admirer of Greek architecture,” replied the dowager without looking up from her book.

  “There is a charming little boat tied to the steps,” continued Helen, her words now directed to the gentlemen of her party. “Might we convince you to take us out on the waters some afternoon?”

  “I would be happy to handle the oars if your friends prefer to devote their leisure hours to hunting,” offered Orlov quickly.

  Jervis, who along with Talcott and the comte was perusing a folio of bird engravings, set aside the print of a gyrfalcon. “What an amiable fellow you are, Mr. Oliver,” he said with an ill-concealed sneer. “But I thought that your duties in the schoolroom did not allow such liberties.”

  “Oh, I am sure I can arrange my schedule to attend to the needs of the ladies as well as my pupil.” As he had hoped, his offering of his services had struck the London lord as presumptuous.

  “Amiable, indeed.” Lady Sylvia appeared to have no such objections. Her murmur was more of a purr. “We shall be delighted take advantage of your kind offer. Perhaps tomorrow?”

  “But my dear Sylvia, I thought we had agreed on holding our archery challenge in the morning,” reminded the comte. “We gentlemen ought to sharpen our skills before setting out for the moors.”

  “Ah, yes. Quite right, Arnaud. I don’t know how it slipped my mind.” Lady Sylvia seemed aware of the tension she had stirred. And in no hurry to smooth any ruffled feathers. “Another day then, Mr. Oliver.”

  “I am at your service, milady. You have only to say when.”

  “Well, then.” She toyed with the ends of her sash. “Perhaps you would agree to serve as a second for the ladies in tomorrow’s competition. As the gentlemen are determined to see us defeated, we cannot count on them to play fair.”

  “I would be delighted to be of assistance.”

  “Would that my brother had such solicitous manners. But he cares more for his clubs and his card games than his sisters.” Annabelle’s mouth pursed to a petulant pout. “I vow, he thinks only of himself and never of our pleasures. He so rarely offers to take us driving in the park, or to escort us to a ball, even though he knows how much we enjoy such activities.”

  Talcott stalked to the sideboard. “Perhaps if you behaved more like a proper lady than a spoiled schoolgirl I would be inclined to accede to your whims. However, your behavior on the trip here did not augur well for that ever happening. Your outrageous flirtations were extremely embarrassing.” He scowled. “It was bad enough that a broken wheel forced a delay of a day at that dreadful inn, but to have you encourage the attentions of a mere baron was outside of enough. Lord Nobody—”

  “Stop calling Lord Norbert a nobody!” exclaimed Annabelle.

  Orlov saw for himself that Shannon had not exaggerated the ill-will between siblings. The chit’s choice of suitors apparently did not please her brother.

  “A Yorkshire title glitters just as brightly as one from London,” she continued. “And his charm is certainly a good deal more polished than yours. He was gentlemanly enough to ensure that the landlord saw to the comforts of us ladies while you became foxed on the local ale.”

  Ignoring her retort, he added another splash of whisky to his glass. “Really, Helen, can’t you exercise a bit of restraint on the chit? I am beginning to think Aunt Georgianna was right in saying she needs a more steadying influence than you and Mama if she is to avoid dragging the family into scandal.”

  Helen drew in a sharp breath at the rebuke. “It is not I who have the tabbies wagging their tongues. Your recent luck—or rather the lack of it—at the gaming halls around Town is the only family foible giving rise to gossip.”

  “Bite your tongue,” growled her brother. “My personal affairs—”

  “That’s quite enough,” said Lady Sylvia. “From all of you.”

  “But Helen is right.” The youngest Talcott seemed to think the command did not include her. “The only reason Robert agreed to this trip was not out of concern for our wishes, but to escape from his creditors.”

  “Right or wrong, one does not discuss such private family matters in public.” Lady Sylvia’s smile did not quite reach her eyes. “You ought to have learned that much by now.”

  Orlov hid a smile on seeing the look of sulky defiance Annabelle directed at both her brother and the other lady. A headstrong little hellion. With the right sort of encouragement, she might well be coaxed into making more indiscreet revelations about the London party.

  “You see what I have to put up with?” said Talcott with a long-suffering sigh. “While you are up, do pour me another measure of that excellent malt, Jervis. Unpleasant arguments always give me a thirst.”

  Annabelle looked about to retort, but a frown from her sister warned her to silence.

  “Indeed, it is a trifle warm in here,” murmured De Villiers. “I think I shall step outside for a breath of fresh air. Would you care to join me for a turn around the terrace, Miss Sloane? Given your educational expertise, I was wondering whether you might be able to tell me the English names for several of the specimen plantings.”

  Shannon hesitated, then set aside her book. “I would be happy to try, sir, though plants are not my field of expertise.”

  The tension in the room eased slightly, yet Orlov was aware of a constriction in his own chest. So, she had been deadly earnest about her intention of using her sex as a lure. It shouldn’t surprise him. They were both trained to use an enemy’s weakness as a weapon. Still, though his mask of good humor remained unflinching, he could not quite shake off the unsettling sensation—an odd mixture of irritation and apprehension.

  “The reading material here is all so boring,” groused Annabelle. “The only copy of Ackermann’s fashion plates is at least a decade old.”

  “While the gentlemen enjoy their drinks, perhaps the ladies would like to learn the basics of a board game from India.” Turning away from his inner misgivings, Orlov flipped a pair of ivory dice into the air and caught them with a show of bravado. “I came upon a backgammon set in the card cabinet, and think you will find it a most interesting combination of luck and strategy.”

  “You intrigue me, Mr. Oliver.” Lady Sylvia gave the sisters no time to respond. “I should be delighted to match wits with you.”

  “A regrettable lapse in manners,” murmured the comte. “Please accept my apologies for my friends.”

  “You have nothing to apologize for.” Shannon allowed him to lead her to the railing. The night was cool, but clear, the stars sharply luminous against the sable skies. A crescent moon cast a soft light over the decorative urns and twists of ivy. “It was not you who misbehaved.”

  “So I am not guilty by association?”

  “I believe in judging people on their own individual merits.”

  “You are kind, Miss Sloane.” He touched her hand, his meaning unmistakable. “More than kind.”

  Shannon leaned back against the stone balusters, slipping her fingers free from his.

  “Ah.” A smile played on his lips. He seemed more amused than angry at having his advances snubbed. Everything about him—his gestures, his dress, his way of tilting his face to show off its best angles—suggested a man supremely confident that no one could long resist his charms. “Speaking of individual merit, what is your relationship to Monsieur Oliver?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Far be it from me to repeat idle gossip, but the ladies observed a rather intimate scene this morning. I am simply curious as to how deep the attachment is.”

  She lifted her shoulders, imitating his Gallic shrug. “We have no formal understanding, if that is what you mean. What happened today was merely a whim of the moment. He has a very high opinion of himself, as I am sure you have noticed. And with some reason. There is no denying that
he is a very handsome man.”

  “Handsome, indeed.” The comte toyed with his watch fobs. “But a humble tutor nonetheless. One who likely has little to offer an intelligent young woman like yourself, save for his kisses.”

  “And you do?”

  “Most certainly. A snug little nest in London, stylish gowns, enough money to keep you in comfort.”

  “Why me?” she asked after a moment. “We have only just met.”

  “Why?” he repeated. “You are extremely lovely, and have a certain je ne sais quoi about you.”

  She arched a brow.

  “An aura of mystery. An intriguing hint of steel in your spine. I confess, the idea of convincing you to unbend to pleasure is rather provocative.”

  “You seem quite sure of yourself.”

  “When I put my mind to something, I am not in the habit of failing,” replied the comte.

  “Some might call that arrogance, Monsieur De Villiers.”

  “And some might call it honesty. What, pray tell, might you say, Miss Sloane?”

  Shannon smiled and answered in the same soft whisper. “In all truth, I have not yet decided just what to think, sir.”

  “A woman who takes time to deliberate on all her options.” He nodded. “How very wise.”

  “There are a great many pitfalls for one in my profession. I would not survive on my own if I were not careful.”

  “And yet, I do not detect any note of bitterness,” said the comte slowly. “Even though the cruel vagaries of Fate have left you alone in the world, and forced to labor for a living.”

  “Whining is a waste of breath.”

  “There are those who could profit from your example.”

  Shannon acknowledged the compliment with a light laugh. Strangely enough, against all reason, she was finding it hard to dislike the man. He had a certain…

  Je ne sais quoi, she repeated silently, savoring the mellifluous echo of his native tongue. Part of it was a quick wit and disarming frankness about what he wanted.