The Spy Wore Silk

by Andrea Pickens

  Too on edge to return to her quarters after the banquet, she had sought one of the smaller display rooms, curious to see some of the duke’s treasured books and prints. The appeal of having such beauty and knowledge at one’s fingertips was so alluring that she had been tempted to reach out and touch the copperplate engravings when the earl had entered the room. Fencing had been the last thing on her mind, but as Il Lupino had often said, sometimes it was necessary to improvise.

  Hilt in hand, she felt confident of her abilities. But in the heat of battle, had she gone too far?

  Revealing her identity to Kirtland this early in the game was a bold gambit. Perhaps too bold. Given the way he shunned her presence, he might not have made the connection on his own.

  On the other hand, she reasoned, it had been necessary to do something striking to keep him from staying at arm’s length. She needed to be close to him—and to all of the suspects—if she had any hope of learning their secrets.

  Well, there was no question she had gotten Kirtland’s attention.

  Her palms prickled, recalling the sweet smoothness of steel in her hand and the matching grace of his movements. Elegant, effortless. The man was a master of the sword as well as the saddle. Clashing at quarter speed, their skills were equal. In a real duel, she wondered who would come out on top.

  As for their war of words…

  So far their encounters had all been marked by conflict, with neither of them giving ground. Siena thought for a moment. One of Da Rimini’s rules was to keep the enemy off-balance. So perhaps it was time to switch tactics. Could Kirtland be seduced into lowering his guard?

  She sensed that he was not impervious to desire. His kiss, however fleeting, had revealed an unexpected passion. An oddly vulnerable need.

  A tiny spark flared as she ran a fingertip over her lip, but she quickly extinguished it with a low oath. Her decision was based purely on pragmatism, not on her own strange reaction to his intimate touch. Given his military background and experience in clandestine intelligence, the earl was the most obvious suspect. It would test all of her cunning and cleverness to cut through his defenses.

  However intriguing that individual challenge, she pushed it aside for the moment. She had another, more immediate test looming.

  Seating herself at the escritoire, Siena slid a fresh sheet of foolscap upon the blotter and uncapped the inkpot. The slim shaft of ebony did not feel quite so solid in her hand as a length of steel, despite the old adage that Mrs. Merlin was so fond of repeating. The pen is mightier than the sword.

  These gentlemen had lived all their lives in a world of nuanced language and oblique meanings. A world where a word, a phrase, could shift the balance of power as surely as armies. It was, after all, a letter that had set all these forces in motion.

  Including herself.

  In contrast, her own early lessons in life had been grounded in the fact that physical force dominated all else. At an early age, she had quickly realized that the only way to beat brute strength was through quickness, cunning, and an absolute refusal to knuckle under to fear, no matter how scared she was inside. She suffered her share of blows, yet had somehow managed to best the bullies who would have sold her services to a tavern or

  brothel. But was an orphan—a street urchin with no family, no erudite education, no fancy home like Marquand Castle—a match for these highborn scions of privilege?

  For the first dozen years of her life, her bed had been the dirt floor of a gin shop cellar, shared with a pack of other children, and her food had been scraps scavenged from the alleys. The Academy had polished her perception of the world outside the slums of St. Giles.

  But now that understanding would be put to the test.

  The nib hovered over the pristine white paper. The Gilded Page Club members were primed for the first game to be handed out in the morning. It must be a provocative one, a task that would appeal to their own desires while revealing more than they might realize.

  The candles guttered as the night breeze found the cracks in the casement, and with it came the reminder of a recent evening, a fire blazing in the hearth, a gentleman reading, a dog-eared page …

  Strangely enough, it was the earl who served as inspiration for the first test of wits.

  Smiling, Siena began to write.

  The next day dawned cloudless and surprisingly mild. Draping a silk shawl over her shoulders, Siena passed through the French doors of the Music Room and let her self out onto the upper terrace. Its slate tiles, still damp with the morning dew, glistened like ebony as she moved to the far railing. None of the other guests appeared to be stirring yet. The ton, she knew, rarely rose before noon— another reason she had chosen an early hour for the first challenge. Fatigue often fostered a mental mistake.

  Fitzwilliam, however, showed no outward signs of overindulgence. His step was brisk as he came to greet her, his eyes unclouded. He cocked a look at the skies and the graveled path leading down through the ornamental shrubbery. “As the weather looks agreeable, shall we take a tour of the Conservatory grounds? From there, you shall get a good overview of Brown’s genius.”

  “I am in your capable hands.” She smiled, settling his glove a touch more intimately on her arm.

  “I shall try not to disappoint,” he replied with a twitch of his own mouth. “Launcelot Brown earned the moniker ‘Capability’ on account of his fondness for speaking of a county estate as having a great capability for improvement. He saw himself as a place maker, not a gardener, and his style of smooth, undulating grasses and serpentine lakes …”

  As Fitzwilliam explained the basic theory of Brown’s landscape design, Siena surreptitiously watched his face rather than the examples he pointed out. Like his voice, his countenance had a good-humored cant to it, affable rather than arrogant. Indeed, on recounting an anecdote from a past garden party, he showed himself capable of laughing at his own gaffes.

  “You have quite a marvelous way with words, sir,” she said as they paused to admire the view. “Are you equally poetic in other performances?”

  Fitzwilliam laughed softly as he gave a toss of his coppery hair. “My audience has always seemed satisfied.”

  A subtle answer, revealing a certain self-deprecating wit.

  Feeling she was learning a great deal about his character, Siena decided to sharpen her banter and probe for information about the others.

  “So the six of you do not fear that the competition will spoil your close friendship?”

  He shrugged. “In truth, aside from a passion for rare books, we have few interests in common. Outside of the club, all of us move in different social circles. Dunster spends his leisure time with the Carlton set, while I prefer a less flamboyant crowd.”

  He thought for a moment.

  “Come to think of it, Leveritt and Jadwin are the only ones who have a friendship that goes beyond the occasional meetings of The Gilded Page. They share other artistic interests, and I believe they belong to several of the same Societies.”

  Leveritt certainly looked the very picture of refinement, she mused. The oldest member of the Club, he dressed with an understated elegance—from his close-cropped locks, now going a touch grey at the temples, to the exquisite cut and subtle colorings of his clothing, not a hair ever seemed out of place.

  As for Jadwin, she had noticed that he not only emulated the viscount’s sartorial style but also copied some of his little mannerisms. It seemed likely that he looked up to the viscount as a mentor of sorts. According to Lynsley’s files, both men were bachelors who were quite active in the social swirl of Mayfair.

  “Indeed, they are cofounders of the Doric Club, which specializes in the study of Greek antiquities,” added Fitzwilliam.

  It was little details such as these that might prove useful. But not wishing to seem too curious about the others, Siena turned the talk back to Fitzwilliam and his poetry.

  They circled around through the topiary trees as they chatted and were about to enter the West Wing whe
n another guest came striding up from the stables.

  “Putting a filly through her paces before breakfast, eh, Fitzwilliam?”

  Siena recognized the gentleman in riding dress as the Irish earl, Lord Bantrock.

  “Rather the other way around,” said Fitzwilliam lightly. “The lady asked for an explanation of the duke’s landscape design.”

  Ignoring the baron’s pleasantries, Bantrock took her hand and made a show of kissing her fingers. “Should you need an expert to show you around the interior of the castle, feel free to ask me.”

  “You consider yourself an expert on architecture, milord?” she asked coyly.

  “Oh yes, I am quite an authority on boudoirs,” he said with a leer.

  His hand still held hers, and she gave it a playful squeeze. “Do remind me to ask your opinion of the four-poster bedstead in my room. By its size and shape, it appears to be Elizabethan, a style I find attractive.” She gave a husky little laugh.

  “But then, I do tend to favor things that are large and well built.”

  Bantrock grinned. “Be assured, I shall do so at the first available opportunity. Until then, madam.” Flashing a wolfish wink, he walked off.

  Fitzwilliam seemed unperturbed by her amorous exchange with another man. Deciding to take the bull by the horns, she remarked, “Quite frankly, I am surprised that you do not appear more aggrieved at having another man tread on your toes, so to speak. Is it not a challenge to your pride, as well as your ego?”

  He shrugged. “Your charms are very alluring, madam, and these little games quite amusing. I would gladly pay a great deal to bed you. But should I fail to win your favor, I shall not fall on my sword.”

  A man of moderate temperament. Siena was growing more and more sure that Fitzwilliam had not the passion to be the enemy she sought.

  “However, Dunster, for one, won’t like the idea of additional competition,” he added.

  “Indeed?”

  “He was not at all happy to see the Russian hanging on your arm.”

  “Ah, yes, I do recall his offer to kick some manners into the man.” She let the words hang for an instant. “Does he have a temper?”

  “I suppose you could say so,” answered the baron. They crossed the marble foyer and passed through the Tower archway. “Or rather, he grows irritated when he is not the center of attention. By virtue of his rank and his looks, he is used to being fawned over.”

  “And the earl?”

  “Kirtland?” There was a fraction of a pause. “The earl is more of an enigma.”

  So even his acquaintances found him hard to read. Siena hesitated, then decided a show of curiosity would not seem unnatural, given her intention of choosing a protector. “Yet I have heard of his hair-trigger temper. Is he easy to anger?”

  “Not that I have seen.”

  It was a very fair response, given that Kirtland was a fellow competitor.

  As they came to the main stairs, Siena gracefully took her leave. “I thank you for a most engaging interlude, sir, but now 1 must ready myself for breakfast.” She bestowed a quick caress to his cheek. “It was extremely interesting.” And informative. “I give your first performance high marks.”

  “My pleasure,” he said politely.

  Siena hid a smile. The pleasure had, in truth, been all hers.

  The curve of the cheek, the luster of the hair, the delicacy of the fine-boned features—her beauty was breathtaking.

  Mother of God. Kirtland leaned closer to the glass case. It was just this morning that the duke had unveiled the St. Sebastian Psalters. For the next fortnight they would be on display in a special room of their own—guarded, he noted, by two burly footmen who stood just outside the doorway.

  Unable to resist, the earl had stopped by on his way to the breakfast room for a first peek. Their exquisite artistry had not been exaggerated. The Madonna on the sample page was enough to make a man forget flesh-and-blood females, no matter how alluring.

  “Sublime, aren’t they?”

  The earl looked up. Apparently he was not the only bidder interested in getting an early look. Alexandr Orlov, accompanied by Lord Bantrock, sauntered over to the display case.

  “One would kill to possess such treasures,” added the Russian.

  “If you had ever experienced the carnage on a battlefield, you might not be so glib, Mr. Orlov,” replied the earl.

  “Forgive me, Lord Kirtland. Given your reputation…” The pause was pronounced enough to be noticeable. “… as a collector, I should have realized that a seasoned soldier would also have a sensitive side to his nature. So I take it art is not worth dying for?”

  Kirtland wondered why the Russian seemed so intent on instigating a fight. Perhaps he hoped to goad an explosion of temper that would result in the earl’s being sent home in disgrace. One less opponent is always an advantage.

  The other man might have read the legendary Sun Tzu’s manual on the art of war. However, he would have to be far more clever to win outright victory with this preliminary skirmish.

  “I have never thought of staking my life on it, Mr. Orlov,” he answered politely. “Have you?”

  “Good heavens, no.” The Russian laughed and turned to his companion. The Irish lord, a noted collector from Dublin, looked as if he had just come in from riding. “As I was just telling Bantrock, I know precious little about the subtleties that you real connoisseurs hold so dear. I am merely acting on the desires of another.”

  “You play the part well,” replied the earl. “But as the drama unfolds, the role may become more of a challenge. Have a care not to trip on your lines.”

  “You are saying I should watch my step?”

  “Whether maneuvering on the bloody battlefields of Spain or the polished parquet of a ducal estate, there are always pitfalls, Mr. Orlov. A prudent person takes care to avoid them.”

  The Irishman touched the glass, his gaze reverential as he regarded the open Psalters.

  “Yet there is no getting around the fact that the competition to acquire these books will be very fierce.” His deep brogue did not disguise the force of his own desire.

  “Quite right, my dear Bantrock. However, unlike us uncouth Celts and Slavs, the English will conduct themselves with the utmost civility.” Orlov quirked an inquiring brow. “At least, I believe that is the translation of Lord Kirtland’s message.”

  The earl read a brief Latin passage from the Psalters aloud. “That is the beauty of language. It is always open to interpretation.”

  Stepping back, he invited the others to take his place at the center of the case. A quick glance showed that his retort had squeezed some of the smugness from Orlov’s smile.

  The Russian’s eyes narrowed as well—to razored slits that once again had Kirtland wondering why the other man looked, for all his gregarious charm, ready to cut his throat.

  “Enjoy your study of this exquisite art, gentlemen.” He couldn’t resist adding a parting jab. “For all but one of us, the opportunity shall be short-lived.”

  “Here you are, gentlemen.” Siena passed five folded missives across the table. The sixth she kept in hand. No point in putting it on an empty plate. The question was, would the earl renew hostilities by failing to show up for the first challenge? That would demand a quick shift in strategy …

  Murmurs rose from the far end of the breakfast room as several of the other guests entered. She heard her name whispered and felt the heat of a few ogling stares. Reminded that all eyes were upon her, Siena made herself concentrate on the matter at hand.

  She had no doubt that the real reason for her presence here was known to most of the other male guests. Gentle men were as eager for gossip as ladies. And while the reclusive duke and his family might not be aware that a notorious courtesan was sitting down with the respectable guests, the members of The Gilded Page Club had no doubt trumpeted their enviable status in another, more private competition to their fellow collectors.

  The charade of being Lady Blackdove, a wealth
y widow dedicated to continuing her late husband’s passion for acquiring medieval manuscripts, was likely as transparent as the lace fichu at her bodice. In particular, Lord Bantrock and the nabob from Brighton had been eyeing her with undisguised lust since the previous evening. And they had the air of being men who were used to getting what they wanted, whether it be art or sex.

  “What the devil is this?” Leveritt’s mutter mingled with the crackle of the foolscap as he unfolded the note.

  Siena looked up from her momentary musings and forced a smile.

  “Desire.” Winthrop read aloud the single word printed at the top of each of their papers.

  “Yes, desire,” repeated Siena, surveying the five faces. The reactions ranged from surprise to bemusement to utter blankness. “The first task is to compose a sonnet on the subject of desire …”

  The door opened and without a word of greeting, Kirtland took his place at the table.

  She wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed at the earl’s appearance.

  True to his word, he had evidently decided to take part in the group games, despite his personal objections.

  “The first challenge, sir,” she said, placing the last sheet of paper square on his plate.

  With nary a glance at its contents, Kirtland signaled to one of the footmen for some coffee.

  “What has such a tedious task to do with proving which of us can offer you the most satisfying terms?” demanded Jadwin.

  “I wish to ensure that the gentleman I choose is… creative.” Siena tilted her head, taking full advantage of the honey-colored light flowing in through the windows. She had chosen a gown of apricot silk with a full overskirt of sarcenet lace. A lacing of gold accentuated the snugness of the niched bodice. The slanting sun would, she knew, ripen the color and the curves of her throat to a luscious hue.

  “However,” she went on, placing a hand on her hip, “if you feel your performance won’t measure up, you can always turn in a blank sheet, though such action would leave you at a distinct disadvantage in the long run.”