The murmurs grew a trifle less muted as the members took their seats around the table. Rusher, the town-house butler, entered the room a few moments later, wearing his usual gold-braided livery and pompous smile. He made a show of unfolding a black velvet tablecloth and placing the leather case atop it before taking his leave with a low bow.
Kirtland closed the book on letterforms. Though he did not usually take an interest in viewing graphic sex, he was mildly curious to see how a man of Raphael’s talent would handle the subject.
Leveritt untied the ribbons and slid out the first of the unbound prints. “The series depicts the Goddess Diana being ensnared by a passion for a handsome satyr. Here we have the Huntress, resplendent in—”
Without so much as a warning knock, the door swung open.
“Damnation, Rusher, you know the club rules! We are never to be interrupted in the middle of—”
This time it was shock rather than anger that cut short his words.
“Yes, it is terribly naughty of me to intrude.” Limned in the light of the corridor sconces, the silhouette appeared more spectral than human. But the sultry voice was clearly female. As were the hands that sketched a sinuous salute. “But then, I have never paid much attention to rules.”
Kirtland watched as the lady peeled off a pair of elbow-length black gloves and let them fall to the floor. The soft whoosh of leather was echoed by a collective intake of breath. A voluminous cloak hid her face and figure, but as she glided across the carpet, a pair of golden slippers flashed from beneath the flounced hem, leaving a trail of sparks in their wake.
“I trust you won’t mind if I join you for a short interlude.”
“Er…” Leveritt appeared to be having great difficulty in recovering his voice.
Seeing no one else capable of speech, the earl took it upon himself to assume charge of the situation. “I fear you have stumbled into the wrong gathering, madam. This is a private meeting of book collectors.”
“Oh, there is no mistake, sir.” She turned to face him.
As if lit by an inner fire, two glittering amber orbs peered out from the hooded shadows. Her gaze held his for only an instant before moving on to the Raphael print.
There was something about that fleeting look that sparked the oddest sensation. A flash of recognition? His palms prickled as her fingers smoothed at the dark wool of her cloak. It was, of course, absurd to imagine he had seen those eyes, those hands before.
“This is The Gilded Page Club, is it not?”
Kirtland nodded.
“Then I have come to the right place.” A toss of her head threw back the folds of fabric, revealing an artfully arranged tumble of raven
curls, crowned with a delicate circlet of laurel leaves.
Even the earl felt the air leach from his lungs. The styling was an identical match to the engraving, lying in front of Leveritt, right down to the last hair.
“I’ll be damned,” murmured Dunster.
“Come, sir,” said the lady. “Don’t tell me you are concerned with the state of your soul when the pleasures of the flesh are at hand.”
The earl was not the only one who suddenly recognized the daring driver of the phaeton.
“W—What brings the Black Dove to our town house?” asked Winthrop in a hoarse whisper.
“A proposition,” she answered, loosening the strings at her neck. “A mutual love of things that glitter, shall we say.” The cloak parted, showing a gold chain and a jeweled pendant shaped in the form of a stag. As in the picture, they were nestled between two perfectly shaped bare breasts.
Kirtland considered himself a connoisseur of ideal beauty. And in his experience there was usually no comparison between art and reality. Now, however, when forced to match paper against flesh, he had to admit that the lady put inspiration to blush. She was magnificent. Absolutely magnificent.
He had precious little time to admire the view. The Black Dove spun back in a blur of steps, capes flaring out from her shoulders. The trailing flounces flew up, offering a tantalizing glimpse of alabaster leg, then fell back to earth as she went perfectly still.
Someone groaned.
Silence swallowed the sound. Not a muscle twitched, not a paper stirred.
Her arms slowly spread, and with a theatrical flourish she flung the garment into the earl’s lap. With the same sweeping gesture, she loosened the weapons tied at her waist.
Striking the same statuesque pose as Raphael’s Diana, the Black Dove then nocked a small gilded arrow in her Cupid’s bow and aimed it heavenward. The string stretched taut, wood and cording forming the outline of a heart.
The air seemed suddenly alive with a pounding pulse.
Kirtland was vaguely aware of an echo in his ears. Like cannon fire, it seemed to thunder a warning of impending doom. Yet like the others, he stood mesmerized by the sight.
The courtesan’s resemblance to the engraving was uncanny. Every detail of her dress was an exact replica of the original. Slung low on her left hip, a slim quiver hung from a tasseled silk cord that was knotted at her waist. A pair of serpentine gold bracelets encircled each arm from wrist to elbow, the flashing fangs studded with tiny diamonds. Aside from the wealth of weaponry, and a silken oak leaf strategically placed between her thighs, the Black Dove was as naked as a newborn babe.
She held fast to the moment, allowing the full impact of her scandalous state to strike home. Then, arching her back, she let fly with her missile. Like a bolt of lightning, it struck a glancing blow to the chandelier before ricocheting off the ceiling rosette.
No one in the room paid me least attention to the shower of plaster and splintered glass that fell upon the table. Not even Leveritt flinched as the barbed steel came perilously close to piercing his priceless art.
She cocked a smile, looking supremely sure of her spellbinding effect on every male present. Her limbs, now relaxed in a supple splendor, glistened with sun-kissed glow. Perfumed oil highlighted the allure-jasmine and some earthier scent the earl could not identify. Not that his cognitive powers were functioning with any clarity, he thought wryly. He, too, was staring like a puerile schoolboy. And much as he wished to express a stern disapproval of such wanton debauchery, a part of him had the urge to applaud such outrageous daring. It was a rare female who possessed the courage or the cleverness …
His jaw tightened. Impossible.
He forced his eyes up from the lush swell of flesh and rouged nipples to study her face. The night had been dark, and his midnight Valkyrie’s
features had been obscured by a squalling storm and their tempestuous struggles. Still, he could have sworn that there was something hauntingly familiar about the pliant curves of the painted lips, the tilt of her chin.
Or perhaps he had been away from feminine company for so long that all women were beginning to look alike.
Damn. Kirtland wasn’t sure whether to laugh or groan. Betrayed by his body, he fisted the folds of her cloak, fighting down a sudden, unwilling flare of desire. He would have to see about engaging a new mistress, and soon. But not this one. No matter that she sparked an inexplicably potent attraction.
His own conflicting feelings were overshadowed by the courtesan’s next move.
“So, gentlemen, are you interested in hearing what I have to offer?”
Setting aside her bow, Siena placed a hand on her hip. The air fairly crackled with anticipation, and for an instant she understood what Mrs.
Siddons felt like on the stage of the Theatre Royal. There was a powerful thrill to having an audience riveted on every nuance of expression.
A tiny twitch quivered on her lips. Though in this case, the gentlemen were looking somewhat lower than her face.
She held the pose a touch longer, using the silence to survey the surroundings. After reviewing the files, and following up on several contacts suggested in Lynsley’s notes, she had learned all the details of this evening’s club meeting. Rumors of the forthcoming sale of the Psalters had also reached her ea
rs, and she had acted on instinct.
“By all means, yes.” It was either Fitzwilliam or Winthrop who finally managed to croak a reply.
“I was hoping as much.” With a slow, swaying step, she paraded in front of the table, giving the company a full display of her charms. Her early life on the streets had taught her not to be self-conscious or ashamed of her body—a lesson that suited the Academy’s purpose quite well. “You six are accorded to be the very cream of London Society—gentlemen of title, taste, and wealth.”
“Precisely.” Dunster leaned a little closer to the candelabra, no doubt aware that the light gave his patrician profile a golden gleam.
“As I am determined to settle for no less in my choice of protector, I have decided to simplify the selection process. Why waste precious time looking elsewhere when all that I require is here in this room?”
“W—why, indeed?” stuttered Jadwin.
“How do you know that?” The black-haired gentleman was the only one not grinning from ear to ear. The Earl of Kirtland.
He wore an inscrutable expression, the hard-edged planes of his face revealing little save for an aura of chiseled strength to his features. And yet, the austere aloofness was at odds with the intensity of his gaze.
“I have my sources,” she replied.
His eyes narrowed.
“And quite accurate they are,” Dunster was quick to offer assurance. With curling blond hair crowning the smooth symmetry of his features, he was more conventionally handsome than the dark earl. But a certain slyness to the curve of his mouth gave his smile a predatory pinch. “You won’t be disappointed.”
“Not at all,” chorused the others. Save for one.
Siena shifted her stance, angling her hips to an even more suggestive thrust. “I have every expectation of being completely satisfied.”
It was the earl who cut to the chase. “You have yet to explain how you mean to make a choice.”
“It’s actually quite simple. You gentlemen all mean to travel to Marquand Castle for the sale of some moldering manuscripts. Allow me to accompany you and to devise a series of private entertainments for the fortnight.” She pursed her lips to a provocative pout.“ Surely you will require more animated company than paper and ink to keep you amused.”
“Games?” The earl made no attempt to temper his disdain.
“They shall be slightly more sophisticated than pin the tail on the donkey, milord.”
Siena gave a feline stretch and a cat-in-the-cream-pot smile. “As will be the prize,” she purred.
Kirtland looked as if he had swallowed a mouthful of nails. “Let me hazard a guess.”
The others reacted with a good deal more enthusiasm. “I am certainly up for the challenge,” said Fitzwilliam.
“What say you, gentlemen, to adding an extra dimension to the competition?”
“Two birds with one stone, as it were,” murmured Siena.
Lusty laughter greeted her quip, the flickering of the candle flames accentuating the glint of teeth. Hungry.
They were all smiles now, but already a look of speculative greed was beginning to shade their expressions. These were men used to having their every desire gratified. Men who didn’t like to lose at anything. Driven by greed, by pride, by … what other powerful emotion?
It was up to her to discover the answer.
Lowering her lashes, she angled a look at Kirtland. He sat solemn, silent, watching the other members with a Sphinx-like stare. What would it take to chip away at the stony facade? To find some fissure, some crack in that unblinking composure? For even solid rock had a weakness.
It was simply a matter of hitting the right spot.
He turned slightly, seeming to sense her scrutiny. Despite the warmth of the fire, goose bumps prickled the length of her spine. As if a swirl of wind, lick of rain, and brandied kiss were trailing over her flesh. Siena suddenly felt… more than naked under his gaze.
She covered her shiver with a slow, sauntering spin around the table. It was merely a quirk of light that made the earl seem familiar. She looked again but found it impossible to judge the true shape of his mouth, distorted as it was by a grim clench.
The midnight stranger had not been so hard, so hostile.
“So, do I take it we have an agreement?” she demanded.
“No.” Rutland’s growl was the lone voice of dissent.
“Afraid you are not up to the challenge, Major?” Siena countered his aggression with a bold thrust of her own. She reached for her cloak, letting her fingertips graze across the front of his trousers. “Ah, but I daresay you have nothing to be ashamed of. You may have been stripped of your commission, but it appears that your saber is as sharp as ever.”
If looks could kill. Turning quickly from his daggered gaze, she silenced the lewd laughter with a wave. “Your decision, gentlemen?”
“Let us take a formal vote. Who is opposed to the idea?” asked Dunster.
The earl’s lone voice had no echo.
“There is just one other thing—it must be all or nothing ,” she said. “If one of you chooses not to play along, I am afraid I shall have to withdraw my offer.”
As she had hoped, a groan rose from the others.
“Damnation, Kirtland,” said Winthrop. “I pray you don’t break ranks with us now.”
She held her breath, wondering if the bluff would work.
The earl hesitated, clearly reluctant to commit himself to the fray. “How do you intend to obtain an invitation to Marquand Castle? It is not quite the same as seeking admittance to the Cypriot’s Ball.”
“You may leave that to me, sir. As I said before, I have resources here in Town.”
She had no doubt that Lynsley’s contact could somehow arrange things with the duke.
He glanced at his fellow members. “Very well. If you show up at the duke’s auction, I shall consider it my duty to play along.”
“So you concede defeat, Lord Kirtland?”
She watched the earl fold his arms across his chest, the black cloth of his coat stretching slightly from the rippling of hidden muscle. The sardonic smile curled tighter.
“Perhaps for now, madam. But according to you, the real game has yet to begin.”
“Is it true?”
Kirtland nodded, not quite trusting his voice. Even though he and his friend were ensconced in the comforts of his own town-house library, the memory of the previous evening still intruded on his peace of mind.
“Art imitating life—or is it the other way around?” Osborne chuckled. “A singular performance.” He loosened his cravat and propped his feet on a bookstand. “Damn, whatever the price of admission, it would have been worth the show.”
The earl grimaced. “She will exact far more than money from any man who plays her game.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic,” chided his friend.
“Me ?” retorted Kirtland. “It was the lady who stripped off every last stitch of clothing and sent an arrow quivering into the Adam ceiling.” He sipped at his brandy. “We ought to send her a bill for the damage. The plasterwork will likely never be the same.”
His friend coughed. “Every last stitch?”
“Not quite literally—there was silk cord around her hips and a bit of fabric cut in the shape of an oak leaf.”
“And?”
“And not much else,” admitted the earl. “Save for the tattoo of a bird above her left breast.”
“A tattoo?” Osborne pursed his lips. “How odd. I once heard a rumor about a cadre of women …”
“What of it?” urged the earl as his friend lapsed into silence.
“Never mind. It’s too absurd for words.” After a moment, Osborne resumed his teasing tone. “It appears that a library is a far more fascinating place than I ever thought. Had I known that reading could give rise to such pleasure, I would have listened to your lectures on books and art more carefully.”
“I’m glad you find the situation so bloody amusing.”
&nbs
p; “Come, you are usually the first to appreciate life’s little absurdities. Where is your sense of humor?”
“Filed on the bookshelf next to As You Like It and The Merry Wives of Windsor?” he snapped. “It’s not funny Dev; it’s … unsettling.” Though articulating why was proving devilishly difficult. Like the lady herself, the right words seemed elusive—vague blurs hovering at the edge of his consciousness, tantahzingly out of reach. “She is unlike other females—”
“That’s for certain,” interrupted Osborne with another wry laugh. “How many other women would have the ballocks to do what she did?”
Kirtland swore a warning through gritted teeth.
His friend eyed him askance. “Lud, again you are acting like a bear with a thorn in his arse. If I were you, I would not be growling over the fact that London’s most alluring courtesan is singling out the six members of The Gilded Page Club as the finalists for her favors.”
“But why?” persisted the earl. “I swear, there is more to this than meets the eye.”
“Not a great deal more, from what you have described.”
The earl could not help but surrender to a bark of laughter. Perhaps his friend was right, and he was overreacting to the situation. Perhaps the lady was just what she appeared to be—a sensuous sylph willing to sell her services to the highest bidder.
Osborne settled himself a bit more comfortably in the arm chair. “Speaking of arses, was she …”
“A work of art.” He sighed. “Not the softly rounded voluptuousness of Rubens or Titian, but a litheness of curves that was infinitely more intriguing in its vitality. The tautness of muscle only accentuated the more feminine forms. The effect was extremely…”
“Potent.”
Potent. The brandy on his tongue took on a hotter burn. Like a lick of fire. Rising, Kirtland topped off their glasses before perching a hip on the edge of his desk. “I suppose you could say that.”
“Then you should be giddy with delight at the prospect of her presence at Marquand Castle. It will provide a most welcome distraction from the musty manuscripts and prosy peers.”
The Spy Wore Silk Page 6
