The Spy Wore Silk

by Andrea Pickens

  “Thank you, Mr. Orlov.” Siena brusquely put an end to his attentions. “No matter how often we hear a compliment, those of our sex always appreciate being noticed. But now, if you will excuse me, I see some acquaintances I must greet.”

  The Russian accepted the set-down with a show of good grace. “What fortunate gentlemen. Perhaps we will have an opportunity to get to know each other better during the coming days.”

  “Are you a wealthy man, sir?”

  “Alas, unlike you, Lady Blackdove, I haven’t a feather to fly with.”

  “Then let us be frank, sir.” She dropped her voice to a discreet whisper. “We will not be forming a more intimate acquaintance.”

  He cocked a sardonic smile. “Is money all that matters to you?”

  “But of course.”

  “And yet, it is said that money is the root of all evil.”

  “And you are implying that your root will do me some good?” She tapped her fan to his cheek. “I think not, sir.”

  He laughed softly.

  “As for those who malign the power of money, they are the ones who have never gone without it.”

  Orlov stepped aside, but not before leaving her with a parting shot. “There are some things in life even more powerful than greed, madam.”

  Like lust?

  Surrounded by hungry eyes and wolfish smiles, she was inclined to agree.

  Leaving the Russian behind, Siena moved on to where The Gilded Page Club had gathered.

  “Good evening, gentlemen.” With a silky whisper of her skirts, she glided to a position in the center of their circle. “I am gratified to see that no last-moment obstacle prevented any of us from making the journey.”

  Kirtland edged back, his face falling into the shadows of a decorative urn.

  “As we did not meet each other formally during our initial encounter, shall we begin this evening on a more proper note?” She fluttered her lashes, fanning the recollection of her wanton nakedness. “For this fortnight, you may call me Lady Blackdove. The winner of our private competition will naturally be granted the use of a more intimate name.”

  One by one, the gentlemen introduced themselves.

  Fitzwilliam … Jadwin … Leveritt. Each file began to take life as a face, a touch.

  “Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament…” Baron Fitzwilliam had brushed his long, curling hair to the gleam of burnished copper. His way with words was equally polished as he flashed an easy smile. “Shakespeare would have waxed even more poetic had he witnessed your entrance. Your gown is stunning.” He paused just a fraction. “Though its beauty cannot quite measure up to your own natural splendors.”

  Siena acknowledged the compliment with a coy flutter of her fan before moving on. The gentleman had a clever tongue. But did the outward charm disguise an inner anger?

  Leveritt and Jadwin murmured no more than their names, unwilling—or unable—to match the baron’s way with words.

  “The gown is indeed ravishing.” When it came to his turn, the Marquess of Dunster held her hand a touch too long after raising it to his lips. “I saw that mongrel Orlov sniffing around your skirts. I should be happy to kick some manners into him.”

  “La, I am sure that violence won’t be necessary.” Siena gave a mock shudder. “You gentlemen seem to find blood sports appealing, but I can think of far more enjoyable activities to satisfy such primal urges.”

  “As can I.” Winthrop took hold of the opportunity to make his own obeisances. After bowing low over her glove, he wasted no time in asking, “When will we learn more of the games you have planned for the coming days?”

  Speaking of dogs, thought Siena. For all their tailored elegance, the members of The Gilded Page Club reminded her of a pack of curs fighting over a bone. All save Kirtland. The earl did not allow his lips to stray anywhere near her.

  “I shall hand out the first of the challenges tomorrow morning at breakfast. At which time I shall explain in more detail how the competition will be conducted,” she answered. “Shall we meet at ten?”

  Dunster licked his chops. “I can’t think of a more delectable way to start the day.”

  The others chimed in with equal enthusiasm. Siena kept up a flirtatious banter, trying not to sneak a look at the earl. She already knew his expression was black and brooding as a midnight storm. She could guess at the surface reasons, but she could not yet fathom the full depth of his character. What secrets lay hidden inside that for bidding figure? He was a conundrum, a contradiction. The papers had revealed one side of the man while his fleeting kiss had revealed quite another.

  Was Julian Henning capable of betrayal? Or was it her own heart that was playing her false?

  The quickening beat in her chest seemed to drum a warning not to let her attention tarry on Kirtland. There were five other men whose most intimate thoughts she must strip bare.

  The florid flatteries told her nothing useful. As they all paused to accept another round of drinks, Siena adroitly changed the subject. “In addition to the first game in the morning, I would like to schedule a short, private meeting with each of you in the afternoon.” It was, she knew, an aggressive gambit to try an early attack from two angles. But she had learned from Il Lupino that a quick start could often put an opponent enough off-balance to reveal a telling weakness. “As you are all accorded to be discerning connoisseurs of art as well as flesh, I should like for each of you to acquaint me with some specific treasure of Marquand Castle. Count on a half hour each. It will give us a chance to converse on a more intimate footing.”

  “An excellent idea.” Looking smug, Jadwin took the lead and was quick to rattle off a brief history of the house.

  “The conservatory was designed by the same man who created Prinny’s Pavilion in Brighton. The height and circumference of the glass cupolas are an engineering marvel,” he added. “I should be delighted to show you around the structure and point out its most salient features.”

  Siena smiled. “Excellent. Shall we meet at three?”

  Leveritt invited her to view the portrait gallery, and Winthrop offered his expertise on the medieval tapestries. Dunster chose the collection of Rembrandt etchings while Fitzwilliam suggested a tour of the formal gardens designed by Capability Brown.

  Feeling rather flushed with the success of her first thrust— and a second glass of the duke’s excellent champagne—Siena was emboldened to confront the earl. He alone had made no offer.

  “Have you no field of knowledge you wish to share, Lord Kirtland? No passionate interest?”

  “You appear to be having no trouble in keeping yourself occupied while you are here, madam.”

  “But I should like to hear your opinion on some facet of art.”

  His brow arched upward. “Why?”

  His question took her by surprise, but she quickly regained her balance and replied coolly, “Because I wish to get to know those who are in the running for my favors.”

  “I will not be breaking into a sweat anytime soon. I don’t run. Nor do I jump through hoops.”

  “That is hardly a gentlemanly reply.”

  His sardonic sneer—a look she was beginning to recognize all too well—curled to new heights. “Seeing as your sources seem quite well-informed as to our personal peccadilloes, that should not come as any shock.”

  Did the man ever smile at people? Or was it just his animals that were favored with a flash of real warmth. Siena stared at the hardness of his mouth before countering, “What is surprising is your reluctance to accept a challenge from a female. What are you afraid of?”

  His face remained absolutely impassive, but a strange spark of light turned his emerald eyes to pools of molten jade.

  The earl did not lack passion—she knew that already. He merely kept it well hidden.

  Along with what else?

  That was her job to discover. “Your Spanish allies would call it mano a manor.”

  “My Spanish allies would also say you possessed iron cojones, madam.
I would agree with them, save for that I have seen evidence to the contrary.”

  A soft laugh slipped from her lips. “Touche, sir.”

  For an instant, the earl’s expression betrayed a twitch of amusement. It was quickly obscured by the wink of cut crystal as he raised his glass in mock salute. “As you see, madam, a match between us would hardly be fair.” With that, he turned on his heel and walked off.

  Siena had little time to contemplate the skirmish, for a bell chimed, announcing that the Duke of Marquand had entered the room.

  “Welcome.” Age and arthritic joints now confined him to a bath chair, and his voice seemed a bit fragile as well. “I am pleased that you all accepted the rigors of a journey to the Devonshire moors.”

  He waited for his servants to roll him up onto a low dais discreetly disguised with garlands of ivy before going on. “Unfortunately, my condition makes it difficult for me to travel these days. I do hope you will think the discomfort worthwhile.”

  Polite laughter greeted the self-deprecating remarks. Someone lifted a glass in toast. “Hear, hear.”

  The duke cleared his throat. “I am sure you are all eager to hear more concerning the auction of my Psalters. First and foremost, I imagine you are wondering why I have invited you here for a fortnight.” He paused, a slight twinkle coming to his crinkled eyes. “A prerogative of age. I like a party, and so few of my friends are still alive …”

  Once the chuckles had died down, he continued. “On a more serious note, my books have been a great love of my life. But as my heir does not share my feelings, I have, with his blessings, decided to see that a select group of my treasures goes to a collector who will appreciate their beauty.”

  Siena watched as a solemn, middle-aged man dressed in black helped Marquand lift a glass of water to his lips. It appeared as if his physical infirmities did not allow his body to keep pace with his lively mind. Still, it was evident why the duke was renowned as the most erudite art connoisseur in the realm.

  No wonder other collectors saw this auction as a golden opportunity.

  “Call it the whim of a foolish old man, but a dukedom does allow me the privilege of eccentricity. So, the two weeks afford me the chance to conduct a private interview with each prospective buyer in order to ensure that all are worthy candidates to possess my Psalters. A younger man would no doubt accomplish the task in a far shorter time, but be that as it may. Be advised—some of you may find yourselves excluded from the actual bidding.”

  A fit of coughing forced him to interrupt his explanation. “Forgive me, my strength seems to be waning. I shall leave it to Stoneleigh, my personal secretary, to finish the rest of the explanations. As you all shall have a good deal of leisure time, I have asked him to arrange a number of daily activities and excursions for your pleasure. You are, of course, free to do exactly as you choose. I should like for you to treat the castle as if it were your own home for the coming fortnight. Should you have any specific wishes, you have only to ask him to make the arrangements.”

  After accepting another drink of water from his secretary, the duke signaled for the liveried footman to roll his chair toward the door.

  Stoneleigh took his place, speaking in a clipped tone about the dining hours and the variety of daily activities that would be available. A schedule, he explained, would be posted each morning in the breakfast room. His little speech ended with a shake of the silver bell, summoning them to the welcoming banquet.

  Fitzwilliam was quick to offer Siena his escort to the dining room, a move that drew scowls from some of the other club members. “Are you, perchance, an early riser, madam?” he inquired.

  “I am quite flexible when it comes to bedtime habits,” replied Siena with a flutter of her fan. “Why?”

  “Instead of viewing the gardens in midafternoon, I thought you might like to see them before breakfast, when the light is still pale and pure as a virgin’s breast.”

  “Is that a line from one of your sonnets, sir?”

  “Not yet. But I am sure you will inspire me to write an ode.”

  “Not to virginity,” she said dryly. “Very well. I shall meet you at nine on the upper terrace.” So far, so good, she thought as they separated to take their assigned places at the banquet table. Now that she had the gentlemen all under one roof, it was time for the games to begin in earnest.

  A banked fire glowed in the hearth, and the soft crackling of its coals was a welcome respite from all the clinking crystal and male laughter.

  Kirtland paused on the threshold and pressed his fingertips to his temples as he surveyed the study. It was one of a number of Tower rooms that displayed the duke’s vast collection of artistic treasures, and its quiet splendor offered a refuge from the smoky revelries of his fellow collectors. The banquet had stretched on interminably, serving up course after course of rich foods and banal conversation. The combination had left a bad taste in his mouth, and when finally the few ladies present had with drawn, leaving the men to their port and cheroots, he had excused himself as well.

  Was he, as Osborne had hinted, in danger of becoming a hermit? The earl admitted that he did not suffer fools gladly, and the trouble was, so few people were truly in teresting. Most cared for naught but feasting on the latest gossip. He caught a number of furtive glances directed his way during the meal. No doubt his presence—and past scandal—were providing a juicy tidbit to gnaw on.

  Swearing silently, he looked to the sideboard, where the candles spilled a mellow light over a tray of decanters—ruby ports, tawny sherries, fiery brandies. Deciding he needed a drink, he was halfway across the carpet before he realized he was not alone. Though the alcove was deep in shadow, Kirtland had no trouble recognizing who was studying the set of engravings hung on the wall. Bloody hell.

  He had assumed that the Black Dove had retreated to her own chambers for the evening. But apparently not. He thought for a moment about backing off and finding another room in which to seek sanctuary, but pride pushed him on. He would be damned if he let the woman force him to retreat.

  As he approached, the earl saw that the plates were from an Italian Renaissance manual of fencing. “Have you an interest in swordplay? I was under the impression that females couldn’t care less about the martial arts.”

  She turned, but in the flickering light her expression was unreadable. “I know a thing or two about the subject. I have often observed some friends exercising their skills.”

  Tired and irritated at having his interlude of solitude spoiled, Kirtland replied with an edge of sarcasm. “There is a big difference between observation and actual practice.”

  Her bare shoulders lifted in a careless shrug as she turned back to the prints. “Perhaps. But anyone with an elementary knowledge of the discipline can see that the artist has the grip wrong in the first figure.”

  The earl laughed—then looked a bit closer. She was right, but in his present mood he was loath to admit it. A pair of ancient rapiers framed the row of prints. On impulse, he took one down and offered her the hilt. “Care to show me the correct way?”

  Her gloved hand closed unerringly around the chaised silver, the lead finger wrapping around the quillons and ricasso in a style that ensured superb control of the blade.

  Without hesitation, she cut a perfect arrebatar through the air, ending with a flourish.

  He took down the other weapon and crossed swords with her. The blades kissed with a soft snick.

  “En garde,” he murmured. “Let us see how well you move through a botta dritta.”

  The Black Dove flashed a smile. “Whenever you are ready.”

  The slivers of steel danced through the shadows as she matched him stroke for stroke, parrying each angle of attack with deft precision.

  “Punta sopramano,” she countered.

  Their positions reversed, with Kirtland performing the defensive maneuvers. They moved noiselessly across the carpet, at times so close his thigh brushed hers. He was in timately aware of the strength in her wrist
, the lithe curve of muscle running up her bare arm.

  “Your friend must be an excellent teacher.” He angled a slow lunge. She deflected it past her cheek. Their faces were now mere inches apart. Kirtland saw that her eyes were even more luminous than he had imagined—a rich amber gold that once again sent a stab of recognition through him.

  No. It was the surfeit of champagne playing tricks with his mind. Distracted, he nearly allowed her weapon to slip under his guard.

  “He is… very good.” Siena spun at half speed through a flawless sopra il braccio.

  “But not as good as you?”

  Was it merely a quirk of light, or did she flash a challenging wink along with a stocatta lunga. “Not many men are.”

  “A pity this is not the place to question such a bold assertion,” he whispered. “I should like to test your true mettle.”

  Their gazes locked, like steel on steel.

  “Indeed, there is not the proper space for a full range of maneuvers.”

  He suddenly spun a step closer. Those cheekbones, that mouth.

  Her lips parted in a sliver of a smile.

  There was no mistaking the truth now. “You!”

  She cut a quick salute. “Yes, our paths cross once again.”

  “Who the devil are you?” he rasped. “And this time I demand more than a show of acrobatics for an answer.”

  Her blade blocked his path. “I don’t answer to you, Lord Kirtland, or to anyone here, save myself.”

  “You—”

  The sound of footsteps, punctuated by shouts of drunken laughter, echoed in the corridor. In a few minutes they would no longer be alone.

  “You haven’t heard the last word on this, madam.” Unwilling to be caught up in a fresh round of gossip, the earl broke away and hung the rapier back on the wall. “The duel is not yet done,” he warned, pausing in the doorway. “And next time don’t count on the rules of engagement being skewed in your favor.”

  Had she made a reckless mistake?

  Tightening the sash of her wrapper, Siena moved to her bedchamber window and stared out at the sloping lawns and topiary trees. The scudding moonlight cut like quicksilver blades through the budding branches, a sharp reminder that this hide-and-seek charade was a dangerous game to play.