“And keep your damn voice down. We are trying to polish your image, a hard enough task without offending the ears of the Dowager Duchess of Roxburghe.”
“I doubt she could hear a troop of swearing Hussars if they rode up her backside…” A quelling glance from his friend caused him to let the retort trail off.
Osborne tipped his hat to a trio of strolling ladies. “Do try to smile, Julian,” he murmured out of the corner of his mouth. “The countess is bosom bows with Sally Jersey. And as her daughters are entering the Marriage Mart with modest dowries, she will be inclined to speak favorably of you to The Dragon if given the least bit of encouragement.”
The observation earned yet another ungentlemanly comment, though this one Kirtland refrained from saying aloud.
“And look, there are Grafton and Stevens.”
The earl gave a grudging nod to his two former army comrades as Osborne beckoned them over.
“Are you in Town for the Season, Kirtland?” inquired Colonel Stevens.
“I’ve not yet decided on my plans,” replied the earl.
“Well, come around to Manton’s one morning if you wish to knock the rust off your shooting skills.”
“Hah!” Captain Grafton gave a gruff laugh. “Somehow I imagine Kirtland has kept his trigger well oiled.”
Though Grafton smiled, the earl thought he detected an undertone of resentment. He knew a number of his fellow officers thought he had gone off half-cocked in his confrontation with General Dalrymple. No matter that Dalrymple—who was mockingly referred to as “The Dowager” by his troops—had been recalled to London shortly after the earl’s court-martial and relieved of his command. Kirtland had defied authority, and insubordination was far more frightening than incompetence to the military mind. And far more dangerous than enemy bullets or blades.
“Thank you for the invitation, but contrary to the captain’s assumption, I am out of practice in the disciplines of warfare,” said the earl. “The only weapon I wield with regularity these days is a book knife.”
“Which, I might add, you looked ready to use in slicing out Grafton’s tongue,” murmured Osborne as the officers rode off to greet another group of gentlemen.
“Someone ought to trim him down to size. He has always possessed a puffed-up sense of his own importance.”
“Some might say the same of you.”
Kirtland felt his lips twitch. “Touche.”
“You owe me a forfeit, then—you must try not to look so bored for the rest of the ride.” Straining to see through the crowd, Osborne stood in his stirrups. “I think I spy Lady Heffelin’s barouche up ahead. Come on, you will actually enjoy making her acquaintance. She is sharp as a tack despite her age, and a great reader of the classics—”
A sudden commotion cut short his words. A high-pitched gasp was swallowed in a rumble of male applause.
All heads turned toward the Serpentine. The earl looked around to see a high-perch phaeton tooling down the path. It was not just the color—a
blinding yellow—that arrested his attention, but the fact that the driver was a statuesque female standing, rather than sitting, atop the box. There was no mistaking her sex, seeing as a great deal of it was on prominent display. Clad in a shockingly low-cut froth of champagne-colored silk, she held the reins in one green-gloved hand while brandishing a pink whip with the other. Quite competently, he noted. The flick of the long lash was keeping the team of snow-white stallions in perfect step despite the breakneck pace.
He and Osborne were not the only ones staring. A gaggle of young bucks on horseback were vying with several of their friends in curricles for the best vantage point. In the jostling, one of the animals spooked. Rearing in its traces, it bolted forward.
The driver, a cow-handed dandy, lost control of the reins. Clutching at his seat, he managed to keep from falling beneath the wheels, but his shrill curses did nothing to slow his team’s wild flight.
“Bloody hell.” Kirtland saw there was no way of averting disaster. The two vehicles were headed on a collision course, with no more than a hairbreadth of room for maneuvering. On one side of the graveled way was a group of children and their nannies playing at hoops. On the other was a line of close-set elm trees.
Someone screamed. A lady fainted. The earl braced himself for a crash. Splintering wheels, crushed limbs … But at the last second, the phaeton veered left, then sharply right, a deliberate maneuver that required an iron fist and steel nerve. Somehow, the lady remained perfectly balanced as it tipped onto one wheel and passed between the runaway curricle and the trees with scant inches to spare.
Cheers flew up from the crowd. Acknowledging the accolades with a jaunty salute, the lady righted her rig and kept on going.
“God, it looks as if she’s taking another spin around the lake,” Osborne began laughing.
“I knew a fellow at Eton whose family motto was ‘Luck favors the bold.’ Perhaps the lady is a relation.” He watched her fluttering gold-threaded silks disappear around a bend in the carriage path. “If I hadn’t seen a female perform such a feat with my own eyes, I would dismiss all reports of this incident as utter nonsense. Or the delusions of an unstable mind.”
“As would I.” Kirtland shook off a strange sense of foreboding. “I, too, am reminded of an old aphorism— Lightning never strikes the same place twice.”
“Meaning?”
The earl shook his head. “Never mind. The essence would most likely be lost in translation.”
“Ravishing.”
“Exquisite. Absolutely exquisite.”
The formal meeting of The Gilded Page Club had not yet been called to order, and as they waited for the others to arrive, Fitzwilliam, Dunster, and Winthrop were perusing some offerings from a Bond Street dealer in rare books.
Kirtland had come early to the club town house and was engaged in studying a seventeenth-century Spanish Bible.
However, on hearing the comments, he put it away and joined the other three club members at the main display table.
“It’s a handsome enough engraving,” muttered the earl as he leaned in for a closer scrutiny. “But the letterform and the detailing of the decorative acanthus leaves are hardly out of the ordinary.”
“And those breasts …” Baron Fitzwilliam paid him no heed. “Luscious as perfectly ripe melons.”
Breasts? Kirtland squinted and tilted his head. Either his eyesight or his hearing was sadly askew for the shape remained naught but a simple T.
“Drool all you want, Fitz.” The Marquess of Dunster was quick with a jeer. “I doubt you’ll be offered a taste.”
The earl cast a sidelong glance at the trio and suddenly realized no other eyes were focused on the printed page. “What the devil are you talking about, Dunster?”
“The newest highflyer in Town.”
“Caused quite a flap on her first appearance in Hyde Park yesterday,” added Fitzwilliam with a casual flutter of his hands. Unlike the others, he was dressed informally, the loose cut of his jacket reflecting the style currently in vogue with the artistic set. As if to emphasize the slightly raffish image, he wore his wavy auburn hair long and brushed straight back from his forehead.
“With feathers like that, is it any wonder?” Dunster’s smirk revealed a gleam of white teeth. “I have never seen such transparent silk.”
Like a wolf ready to devour some tasty morsel, thought Kirtland. Which was fitting, as the marquess had a reputation for chasing after female flesh as well as rare books.
Given his wealth and his classical good looks, it was likely he did not have to break much of a sweat. With his pomaded blond hair brushed to a brilliant shine and a smooth smile that looked to be sculpted of marble, he exuded the arrogance of an Adonis.
“Silk?” Lord Winthrop leered. In contrast to Dunster, he was short and stout, with a dark, pointed beard that gave him the look of a dissolute satyr. “From where I was standing, it did not appear there was much of any fabric-transparent or otherwise-obscuring t
hat delectable decolletage.”
“Let us pray she did not take a chill.”
“I would warm her up soon enough,” sniggered Winthrop.
“With what? That piddling appendage you call your cock?” drawled Fitzwilliam. “While I, on the other hand—”
“Have even less to offer the likes of the Black Dove,” retorted Winthrop. “From what your current mistress says, the only way to enlarge your member is to use a magnifying glass.”
“If you gentlemen wish to dissect the fine points of anatomy, go attend a lecture at Royal Medical College,” snapped the earl. “Otherwise, do you mind if we focus our attention on the subject of typography?”
The lewd laughter gave way to a stiff silence.
“Lud, Kirtland, one would think the only substance flowing through your veins is piss and printer’s ink …” Winthrop bit back the rest of his retort, and as he turned from the candlelight, the earl caught a flicker of fear on his face.
His teeth set on edge. It was true that he had a rather volatile temper. But like the other facets of his character, it appeared to have been blown all out of proportion by the tattlemongers.
A second glance showed that the others were also eyeing him uncertainly. Did they think him a threat? The truth was, even after two years of belonging to the club, he knew very little about his fellow members, save that like himself, they all possessed great wealth, august pedigrees, and an interest in rare books.
Was Dunster really a rake who had bedded half the married ladies of the ton? There appeared to be an underlying conceit to his finely chiseled features, but the earl knew well enough that the glare of notoriety could distort the view.
And what of Fitzwilliam? A crack whipster and marksman, he was also said to pen soulful poetry. But that, too, the earl knew only from hearsay.
Winthrop, an acquaintance from university days, was not quite as much of a blank page. Kirtland had witnessed firsthand the other man’s talent
for historical research and architectural sketching. As well as his taste for tavern wenches. Still, he could hardly claim to be friends with the fellow.
The fact was, the earl knew more about the ancient philosophers than he did about his contemporaries.
He looked away. Though only a few feet separated him from the others, it felt like they were worlds apart. The fault was his own. He had never found it easy to be part of the ribald camaraderie that most gentlemen favored.
Drinking, gaming, ogling the latest opera dancers—all the pursuits that passed for privileged pleasure left him bored to perdition.
Still, they did share a common interest in the art of books. Recalling Osborne’s oblique warning on the dangers of isolation, the earl decided that he ought to make more of an effort to fit in.
He forced the grim set of his lips to relax. “I still have a bit of blood running through my veins, Winthrop. However, I don’t quite see what all this fuss is about. There are flocks of lovely females whose favors are for sale.”
“Ah, but this one is a bird of a different feather,” assured Dunster. Seeing Kirtland’s skeptical sneer, he hastened to add, “You ought to have seen her handle the whip and ribbons. Threaded a team of blooded stallions through the crowded park without blinking an eye.”
“With a touch like that, imagine her prowess when mounted on a single steed,” murmured Fitzwilliam.
“Hah!” Winthrop snorted. “Your imagination is as close as you will come to those graceful fingers and long, lithe legs.”
“Never seen anything quite like her,” said Dunster. “Just ask the others when they arrive if she isn’t some unique species. Decked out in those flashy baubles and bright silks, she looked like some exotic bird of paradise.”
“Sent down from the heavens.” The baron sighed.
“You are exaggerating her charms,” muttered Kirtland.
“I saw her from afar, and while there is no denying she cuts a colorful dash, there are other brazen beauties who are just as ripe for plucking.”
“It’s not just her stunning looks that set the Black Dove apart. It’s her announcement.”
The earl couldn’t help himself. “What announcement?”
“How she intends to choose a protector.”
“It usually works the other way around,” he said dryly.
“Not in this case,” replied Dunster. “She has let it be known that she will assess the gentlemen who qualify for consideration and make known a short list of finalists for her favors. The lucky devils will then be subject to a personal interview before she makes her decision.”
The earl’s skepticism winged to new heights. “The ladybird may be in for a rude surprise. I would be willing to wager that money is more seductive than a pair of shapely… thighs.”
Dunster stroked his chin. “You think she will renege on her promise and surrender to the highest bidder?”
His lips curled in a sardonic smile. “How many females do you know who value principle over greed?”
The marquess gave a bark of laughter. “Damn, but you have a point, Kirtland. Perhaps I shall make an offer— that is, unless you are planning on taking the lady under your own wing.”
“I doubt she would be worth the price.” On the far wall, flickering shadows danced across a painting of a reclining nude. Her voluptuous smile played hide-and-seek with his gaze, beckoning for an instant, then disappearing in a wink of darkness. As the earl’s eyes slid down over the fleshy curves, ripe with the promise of pleasure, his own expression compressed to a cold, hard line. A woman who might touch more than fleeting physical need? It was naught but illusion.
“There are any number of beautiful females who can offer physical pleasure at far less cost,” he finished.
Before any of the others could frame a reply, the door opened to admit the last two members of The Gilded Page Club.
“Forgive our tardiness.” Viscount Leveritt, the eldest of the group, headed straight for the tray of spirits on the sideboard. A connoisseur of fine brandy as well as Durer woodcuts, he quickly poured himself a glass. But rather than savoring it in his usual manner, he tossed it back in one gulp. “However, I assure you that the announcement we bring will more than make up for the delay.”
Lord Jadwin’s normally placid features were also flushed with excitement. “Indeed, indeed. Just wait until you hear the news!”
“What? Has the Dove settled on a love nest?” quipped Dunster.
Looking momentarily befuddled, the viscount smoothed at the intricate knot of his cravat. It was rare to see him with so much as a fold out of place, for he was a stylish dresser who paid meticulous attention to detail.
“I don’t recall any ornithological prints being on the agenda for this evening?”
“Dunster is referring to a bird in the flesh,” said the earl.
“Oh-the new slut.” Leveritt dismissed her with an offhand wave. “There are plenty more where she came from.”
Kirtland felt a certain smugness at hearing his own sentiments echoed aloud.
“But there are only two St. Sebastian Psalters in all of England. And we have just learned that the rumors are true! The Duke of Marquand has decided to sell them at a special private auction.”
A slow, spiraling heat spread through the earl’s limbs. The mention of fleshly treasures had left him cold, but he had lusted after those manuscripts for ages. Pressing his fingertips together, he could almost feel the smoothness of the ancient vellum, infinitely more enticing than any courtesan’s flesh. And even the most alluring topaz eyes would pale in comparison to the jewel-bright tones of the painted colors. Yes, females would come and go, while the art inspired by eternal love and devotion endured.
Love. Thank God he had not fallen under that spell. He would save his caresses for the painted page.
“You have not yet heard the best of it.” Jadwin, eager to share in the announcement, edged in. “Only a very small, very select group of collectors are being permitted to bid.”
He paused. “B
ut after several bottles of White’s best port, the duke’s representative agreed that the members of The Gilded Page are among those with the money and the knowledge to appreciate such treasures. We were able to secure an invitation for all six of us to Marquand Castle for the sale.”
“There is to be a house party, a fortnight in the wilds of Devon,” added Leveritt.
“The duke insists on becoming acquainted with the prospective buyers, and each one will have to submit to a private interview. It seems he has become a trifle eccentric in his old age and wishes to ensure that his books are going to suitable home.”
“Bloody hell, we are looking to make a business transaction, not a betrothal,” grumbled Winthrop.
“What’s the difference?”
Dunster’s sardonic quip elicited a rumble of laughter. “Such a special opportunity calls for a toast, don’t you think?” He raised his drink. Light winked off the cut crystal, yet to Kirtland the glint in his eye had the sharper intensity. “May the best man win.”
“As long as that man is me.” Winthrop said it lightly, yet the hard line of his jaw spoke volumes as to the strength of the sentiment.
The laughter died away quickly as the gentlemen drank.
Through the swirl of his brandy, the earl saw the others angling glances around the room. His hand tightened, the faceted glass prickling against his palm. Each member had his own reasons, his own passions for wanting to possess such a prize. They were all smiles now, but hidden in all the polish and sparkle of civility, most serious collectors had a darker side.
Obsession could lead to cutthroat competition.
War. Though he gave a wry grimace as the spirits touched his tongue, Kirtland knew a battle of wits was brewing, with the strategies and tactics of actual combat likely to come into play. From now on, he could not afford to let his guard slip. Not if he wished to have any chance at victory.
“As the hour grows late, perhaps we ought to proceed with the program for this evening’s meeting.” It was Leveritt who moved to break the awkwardness of the moment. “I shall have Rusher bring in the folio of Raphael’s engravings that my agent discovered in Florence. You are in for a real treat, gentlemen. Few people are aware of the artist’s erotic work. Even fewer have seen an example.”
The Spy Wore Silk Page 5
