“Precisely.” A distraction was the last thing Kirtland wanted. Especially one as provocative as the Black Dove. On returning from the battlefields
of the Peninsula, he had decided that books were far better company than people, save for the rare exception like Osborne. Despite his show of outward indifference, the betrayal of friendship by his fellow army officers had been wounding. He did not mean to make himself vulnerable again.
Which made the strange sensations she stirred within him even more inexplicable. Fire and ice. Desire dueling with reason.
No wonder he was on edge. “I cannot help but think it is no coincidence that she has chosen us as her quarry.”
“Hmmm. The dove turning into a hunter?” mused his friend. “Or being staked out as bait.”
There was a moment of silence. “You believe a competitor has arranged for her to serve as a diversion?” Osborne’s voice lost a bit of its teasing tone.
“Possibly.”
“That would require a great deal of quick planning and a great deal of ready blunt, wouldn’t it?”
“Indeed.” The candlelight turned to spun gold in the slow swirl of the earl’s brandy. Lifting his glass, he watched its faint reflections cast hide-and-seek patterns across the wood paneling. “But to a certain group of people, the reward would be well worth it.”
Intent on his own observations, his friend steepled his fingers and regarded the flickers of amber. “That throws a different light on things, I suppose. But forewarned is forearmed. No reason not to enjoy the game, as long as you play with your eyes wide open.”
“Don’t worry. I have no intention of losing my focus. Or the St. Sebastian Psalters.”
“God help the enemy. Not for all the painted prayer books in Christendom would I want to be the one standing in your way when you get that look on your phiz.”
Dunster, Fitzwilliam, Jadwin, Leveritt, Winthrop. The files lay aligned in alphabetical order on the table of her town-house study.
And Kirtland.
Siena hesitated, then placed his packet slightly apart from the others. She would leave the earl for last.
Stepping back, she shifted the candles, pooling the papers in a circle of bright light. The rest of the room was dark and silent, save for the feathery brush of her bare feet on the carpet. And even that faint sound stopped as she paused beside her chair and fixed the files with a focused stare.
Recalling the lessons of the Indian fakir, Siena held her breath and tried to sharpen her sixth sense. Lurking within the ink and foolscap was a hidden text, one that would reveal the enemy, if only she could decipher the unwritten message.
Whether it be mystical meditation or mere intuition, could she trust in feelings as well as facts? Her lips compressed to a thin line. She could certainly use some occult magic—or perhaps her friend Sofia’s uncanny skill with the tarot cards—to interpret the truth. So far, the notes on each man had not been overly revealing.
She reopened Dunster’s file and read over the first few pages. On the surface, he appeared an unlikely suspect for high treason. Heir to one of the oldest titles in the land, he was a scion of wealth and privilege. Lynsley’s agents had uncovered no ruinous gambling debts, no family skeletons
in the closet that might make a man desperate or vulnerable to blackmail. And if his penchant for cuckolding his fellow peers showed a certain taste for betrayal, it was of the sort that was accepted—even lauded—by Society.
The material on Fitzwilliam yielded even less to go on.
He looked to be the very pattern card of a proper lord. A prosperous estate in Oxfordshire, an imposing town house on Grosvenor Square, a well-matched marriage allying two noble names. A discreet mistress tucked away in a quiet part of Town. Why, the damn fellow even penned
poetry.
Thumbing through several samples, Siena had to admit that they weren’t half-bad.
Lynsley’s cover note dismissed them as derivative of Wordsworth’s style, but to her, the stanzas showed a certain talent for rhyme and meter.
But then, all six suspects were connoisseurs of literature and art. No doubt they would be diabolically clever at manipulating words.
One by one she worked her way through the rest of the files, her growing frustration echoed by the crackle of each turning paper. What was she missing?
Surely among all the detailed data on finances, family, and personal habits was the telling clue. If only her intellect would prove as sharp as her sword.
Winthrop’s folder fell closed with a thump. Nothing out of the ordinary there that she could see, aside from the fact that he took his sexual pleasure with tavern wenches rather than expensive whores. A sigh escaped her lips. Going by the book, none of the gentlemen seemed remotely sinister.
Her eyes strayed to where the candlelight edged up to shadow. The Earl of Kirtland was a different story.
Standing alone before his bedchamber hearth, Kirtland was not feeling quite so sanguine as he had earlier in the evening. Osborne’s sardonic humor had mellowed his own misgivings for a time. But now, with the effects of the easy camaraderie and aged brandy wearing off, a sense of uneasiness had once again enveloped him in a black humor.
Black as midnight lashed with a sudden storm. Black as pirate silk pulled low over amber eyes.
A chill teased at his limbs, despite the roaring fire.
Why was it that the unknown Valkyrie had plundered his peace of mind? As she had said, she was no one he would ever encounter again.
And yet…
The cold turned to a slow, curling heat. But as the earl stared at the dancing flames, he told himself he was only seeing shadows-strange, sinuous shapes of his own desire.
Women. He had never felt vulnerable to such flights of imagination before. Maybe Osborne was right about the dangers of self-imposed solitude. Living alone, with only his own thoughts for company, could give rise to bizarre ideas.
Kirtland tightened the sash of his dressing gown, hoping to throttle any further fancies. He turned for his bed but realized he was far too restless for sleep. Veering around the canopied posts, he began to pace. Only to discover that physical agitation was a mistake. The swoosh of silk against his bare skin a far too physical reminder of the Black Dove’s brazen touch.
And her taunting challenge. She thought herself capable of besting him in any sort of competition? Even as he dismissed the notion as ridiculous, he felt himself growing aroused.
Damn.
It was lust, pure and simple, that had him so out of sorts. It had been an unnaturally long time since he had bedded a woman. In Spain, he had enjoyed more than his share of sultry senoras, but since returning to England with a cloud hanging over his honor, he had spent much of his time brooding in the solitary splendor of his estate.
He had his beloved books for company. What more did he need?
Yet contrary to Osborne’s needling, he was not a monk, shriven of all normal, masculine urges. If there had been any doubts of that, the encounter with the midnight Valkyrie had put them firmly to rest. As for his reaction to the Black Dove and her golden arrows …
Strangely enough, both women wielded weapons that had found a chink in his armor.
The earl gave a baleful glance down at his own stiffening sword, then to the ormolu clock on the mantel. He had heard that his former mistress had not yet chosen a new protector. He did not doubt that Adrianna would welcome his person—and his purse—back into her boudoir for a night.
He dressed quickly and called for his carriage to be brought around. But at the last minute he added a detour to the familiar directions. He, too, had sources, and the information had not been all that difficult to discover. As the cobbles grew rougher under the wheels, Kirtland looked out the paned glass and spied the small brick town house on Hadlow Street.
As ordered, his coachman drew to a halt in the middle of the block. The house, separated from its neighbors by an alleyway on each side, was dark, save for a sliver of light showing through the draperies
on the third floor. The lady’s aerie? he wondered.
For despite her chosen moniker, the earl thought of her more as a hawk than a dove. A lithe raptor, beautiful but dangerous.
Forcing his attention back to earth, he saw that the entrance was faced in white Portland stone, with two simple columns framing the door. The front gate, a tall scrolling of iron, was shut tightly …
Kirtland frowned.
A moment later, he was on the street, moving quietly across the stones. Just as he thought, a closer inspection revealed that the lock was a model made by a small Bavarian firm renowned for its complicated mechanisms. He had seen several of them before—the embassy in Lisbon, a munitions warehouse in Oporto. But never one on a private residence.
Crouching, he traced a finger along the distinctive brass handle, making note of the special dead bolts that fit perfectly into a reinforced steel plate. The complex system of wheels and levers looked to be fashioned with the same precision. No picklock or probe would defeat such troops.
With his cheek pressed up against the bars, he spotted a tiny trip wire running from the base of the hinges to an underground pipe. Even if by some miracle the lock was forced, the slightest opening of the gate—an inch, maybe two—would likely trigger a warning bell in the cellar.
Why the devil did a courtesan have need of such elaborate security?
Not to guard her virginity.
Dusting his palms on his trousers, Kirtland rose and stepped into the shadows of a linden tree. The cloud of mystery surrounding the Black Dove seemed to be taking on a darker, deeper hue. He hesitated, feeling uncertain of which way to turn.
This was unfamiliar ground—a man used to taking decisive action, he was suddenly gripped by indecision. Reason said to walk away and forget about what he had seen. And yet, a reckless desire urged him to break through all the carefully constructed defenses and confront her.
Ha, he would like to see just how she reacted to having her inner sanctorum invaded!
Stirred by a sudden prickling at the back of his neck, Kirtland looked up at the darkened windows and thought he caught a flutter of the draperies.
Was it his imagination, or was someone watching him? A rustling in the alleyway seemed amplified by the sooty brick. Four-footed scavengers? Or an even stealthier threat? He strained to see what might be prowling in its depths, but the opaque shadows masked any movement.
In Spain, his inner alarm bell had saved his life on more than one occasion. Tonight, however, he wondered whether the warning was merely the jangle of over-wrought nerves.
After one last look around, the earl retreated to his carriage and headed off into the night.
If ever a man had reason to feel resentment, it was the Earl of Kirtland.
Siena paged through his military record and could not help feeling a reluctant respect. He had won a fistful of medals for valor in battle, along with glowing citations from Wellesley for his work with the partisans behind enemy lines. Staff commendations and military correspondence showed that he had also earned the respect of his fellow officers, even though his aloof demeanor had set him apart as a bit of a loner.
No one questioned the earl’s bravery. Merely his penchant for ignoring the chain of command.
It was not that he was undisciplined. Quite the opposite. He had drilled his troops into a fighting force of iron-willed order and lethal precision. And to a man, his soldiers were intensely loyal, looking up to him as a leader who did not hesitate to put his own life on the line. The word was that they would follow him to hell and back if so ordered.
Taking up her penknife, Siena spun it in her fingers. The familiar feel of steel, however short and slender, was reassuring. Something she could get a grip on, while the earl’s true character was still elusive, out of reach. But one thing was easy enough to grasp. Julian Henning did not suffer fools gladly.
A fact that was brought to a head by one explosive incident. A war of words that had cost the earl his rank. And his honor in the eyes of Society. Though some of his fellow officers had remained loyal to him, the majority viewed him as … dangerous.
Though she had read over all the documents several times before, Siena took her time in reviewing the facts of the case again.
Despite overwhelming evidence that the British forces were being lured into an ambush, General Dalrymple had insisted on sending his lead battalions in pursuit of a French cavalry squadron. Instructed to march his men through a treacherous mountain defile, Kirtland had shredded the dispatch and kept his troops in place, choosing instead to go on alone, in direct defiance of the written orders. A daring feint had drawn out the enemy fire,
single-handedly saving a number of soldiers from senseless slaughter.
His actions did not win him any gratitude from the general. Furious over the questioning of his authority, Dalrymple had threatened to court-martial Kirtland for dereliction of duty. The rules and regulations were lined up in the general’s favor, no matter that common sense sided with the earl.
Siena frowned as she went over the confidential transcript of the disciplinary hearing.
At the last moment, Kirtland’s direct superior had wavered in a promise to support the earl’s decision, which added to the gravity of the situation. The army high command had been caught in an embarrassing dilemma. Though they were reluctant to lose Kirtland’s services, they feared if he went unpunished, it would set a dangerous precedent. After much discussion, they had come up with compromise—a reprimand and reduction in rank, with the private promise of its being restored rather quickly.
A slap on the wrist.
Disgusted with the hypocrisy and the betrayal of trust, Kirtland had refused to go along with the deal. The military had been left with no choice but to demand him sell out his commission and return to England. As no official reason had ever been announced, rumors had run rampant over the true nature of the earl’s disgrace.
A part of her applauded his rebellion. That was true courage, to risk himself and his reputation rather than his men. Perhaps Kirtland’s standards were impossibly high, but he appeared a man of principle, demanding no more of others than he did of himself.
Closing her eyes for a moment, Siena now viewed his unyielding austerity in a different light, the facts softening the harsh planes of his face. In the past, she, too, had sometimes stood her ground against impossible odds, even though retreat might have been a wiser choice.
Her grip tightened on the knife. She could not allow herself to see things in aught but black-and-white. There was no room for subtlety, for sympathy. The earl had disobeyed a direct order and paid a dear price.
Ruined, resentful—was he now demanding repayment?
She stood and stretched, her loose Turkish trousers and linen shirt affording a sinuous ease of movement. Hands clasped high overhead, she held the position, standing still as a statue, though her thoughts were spinning like whirling dervishes. Releasing her breath in a long, low whoosh, she bent low and grasped an ankle. As she rose, she set the ball of her foot on her hip bone.
Lud, if the guttersnipes from St. Giles could see her now, they would fall down on their arses laughing.
Yoga. It was an odd name for an odd—but highly effective—discipline of body and mind. Balance. Focus. Free the mind of distractions.
She tried to picture a single searing light, but the flame kept flickering, as if caught in a gusting wind—
Oban’s sudden appearance in the doorway took her by surprise. Though their acquaintance was short, it was already clear that he wasted no words on small talk.
“Is something amiss?” she asked, feeling for the knife strapped to her leg.
“Perhaps. The Earl of Kirtland just paid us a visit. And he seemed particularly interested in the gate lock.”
She frowned. “How did he learn where I live?”
“He is a former military man, is he not?”
Siena wondered how much the taciturn Scot knew of her mission.
He seemed to sense her
query and went on. “His name was in all the newspapers for a time last year. Something to do with a conflict with his commanding officer. The details were hushed up, but it was no secret that he was forced to resign his commission. Came home in disgrace, he did.”
So, his humiliation by the government had been very public Siena shifted her stance.
A man with any pride would feel cut to the quick. Would such a wound fester enough to turn poisonous?
Siena wasn’t quite sure how she would feel in his place. But she might very well wish to strike back. With a vengeance.
Setting aside such musings for later, she turned her thoughts back to the matter at hand. “You are right about the earl. He is no stranger to surveillance tactics. And it isn’t exactly a secret where the Black Dove keeps her nest. I made no effort to hide my comings and goings.”
Oban nodded but made no move to leave. “The earl was not the only one prowling.”
Siena looked around sharply. “Who else?”
“I regret to say that I saw only a silhouette of the intruder as he climbed over the garden wall. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and moved quicker than a cat.”
The description did not seem to fit any of the other members of The Gilded Page Club.
“I will keep better watch in the coming nights.”
As will I, she promised herself. But for now, her talons would stay hidden. She slipped the knife back into its sheath. “Anything else?”
“Aye.” Oban took a small packet from his pocket. “Whoever it was left this.”
The trilling melody of a country gavotte drifted out from the ballroom, accompanied by the clink of crystal and a lady’s high-pitched laugh.
But the Marquess of Lynsley was not drawn to the dancing. Instead, he shifted a step deeper into the alcove of the cardroom, intent on watching one of the games unfold. To his ear, the shuffle of pasteboard struck a slightly discordant note to the gaiety of Lady Haviland’s soiree. As of
yet, it was nothing he could put a finger on. However, ever since the fair-haired stranger had joined the near table, it seemed that play had
taken a more serious turn.
The Spy Wore Silk Page 7
