The Spy Wore Silk

by Andrea Pickens

  The marquess got to his feet, rather more quickly than Kirtland expected. Perhaps Osborne had not exaggerated the cursed fellow’s credentials. His movements seemed a great deal more nimble than those of any deskbound bureaucrat. “It isn’t often that I am delighted to discover that I was wrong,” went on Lynsley as he dusted the seat of his trousers. “My apologies to you, Kirtland. Might we declare a truce before any more shots are fired?”

  “You ought to be apologizing to Siena,” he muttered. “She is the true hero of all this.”

  “Indeed. She has come through with flying colors. A true Merlin.” Lynsley turned slightly. “I will need a full report, of course, but it can wait until morning.” He angled a glance at the two corpses. “As you see, I have several more pressing matters to clear up. The physical evidence must be removed, and an explanation for the events must be decided on. Though I confess I am still searching for one that will suit.”

  “You might call it a lover’s quarrel,” ventured Siena.

  Lynsley blinked. “An interesting suggestion. That would certainly be grist for the gossip mills. Especially if there is a grain of truth to the story.”

  “There is, sir.”

  “Again, you have made my job a little easier.”

  “Speaking of which.” Siena could not contain her curiosity. “How did you come to be here?”

  “Having heard conflicting reports about your actions, I thought it best to come see for myself. I have been enjoying a few days of leisurely fishing along the River Ex. While at night Oban and I have been keeping watch on the castle. I told the magistrates that I heard shouting while out for a late ride and came to offer my assistance.”

  Lynsley turned.

  “SirὌa last question. Did Shannon …”

  The marquess shook his head. “No. Not that I would not consider it a black mark against her if she had. It seems it was Orlov who administered the coups de grace.”

  “Orlov?” she exclaimed. Kirtland saw a war of emotions wage across her features.

  He suspected she had a softer spot for the rogue than she cared to admit. “But why?” she asked, half to herself.

  “For the same reasons as you,” answered the earl. “He told me he had been hired to steal the government dispatch and was willing to go to any extremes to get it.”

  “Then why didn’t he simply cut your throat and come after me?”

  “I do not pretend to understand what game he was playing,” replied Kirtland. An inquiring look at Lynsley elicited naught but a shrug. “He did, however, claim it was to keep it out of the hands of the French.”

  “Perhaps. Then again, there is the chance that he was using the document as a distraction, and his true intentions were always to steal the Psalters,” said the marquess in answer to the unspoken question. “They have, by the by, disappeared. As has Orlov.”

  “The devil you say!” Was it a touch of jealousy that gave an extra edge to his disappointment?

  Kirtland decided he was in no frame of mind to grapple with that question. “It seems I have more than one score to settle with that spawn of Satan.”

  “Whether he is in league with Lucifer or not, the fellow has proved hellishly hard to pin down,” said Lynsley with a tight-lipped grimace. “My sources still cannot say whom—if anyone—he is working for. And though I have sent out alerts to the towns along the coast, I doubt we shall catch him.”

  All thoughts of the Psalters were suddenly forgotten as he watched Siena’s face.

  No gold-leafed Madonna, no pigment made of powdered jewels was half so precious to him as the curl of her dark lashes, the curve of her lips. The courage of her convictions.

  The earl suddenly quirked a smile. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Her eyes widened slightly.

  “Let him have the blasted books and be damned. Considering the stakes, I consider myself the winner by far.”

  Lynsley looked thoughtfully to Siena and back again. “Your personal loss has been England’s gain.”

  “We shall see,” he said, a reply that won a cryptic smile from the marquess. “The final tally has yet to be made.”

  “If punishment is to be dealt…” Siena’s voice dropped a notch. “I should not be here if not for Shannon. Nor would the dispatch. I know that her passions sometimes get the better of her. But she has the heart of a Merlin. Please do not clip her wings.”

  “She said much the same of you.” The marquess clasped his hands behind his back.

  “I shall take your support into account when making my final decision.”

  “Might I add—”

  Kirtland touched her arm. “Duty can wait until dawn.”

  “But—”

  He cut her off with a request of his own. “If you don’t mind, Lynsley, I would like a few words in private with Siena.”

  “Of course.” The marquess coughed. “But before I go, I would like to extend one last apology, Kirtland. And an offer. That is, if you would consider putting your considerable talents to future use for your country.”

  Still a bit wary of Lynsley’s wiles, the earl was slow to answer. “How so?”

  Strangely enough, the marquess was looking at Siena rather than at him. “There is a good deal of unrest in Italy at the moment. I could use an experienced eye to take a firsthand look around and report on the situation. Seeing as the two of you seem to work well together, I am hoping you might agree to continue as a team. A rich gentleman taking the Grand Tour would be the perfect cover. And a female companion would add to the appearance of its being merely a personal pleasure trip.”

  “You are proposing that Siena and I take on another mission?”

  The marquess replied with a straight face, but Kirtland thought he detected a shade of a smile. “Just a thought. In case it might dovetail with a more private proposal.”

  “Two birds with one stone?” The earl arched a brow.

  “In a manner of speaking.” There was now no mistaking the twitch of Lynsley’s lips.

  “No need for an answer right now. I will leave the two of you to talk it over.”

  A brief bow, and he was gone, leaving only the echo of his last words.

  Siena seemed hardly aware of them as she continued to fret over her comrade’s future, rather than her own. “If I have caused Shannon to lose—”

  Kirtland silenced any further recriminations by sweeping her up in his arms. “Enough, amore. You have done your duty. And far more.” Seeing that he had her full attention, he followed in Lynsley’s footsteps and hurried through the door. “From what you have told me, your friend is quite capable of fighting her own battles. Right now, I don’t want to speak of war, or of others, but of us.”

  Whether it was the dizzying pace as he veered off sharply and started up the stairs, or the fact that his lips were teasing a trail of kisses across the nape of her neck, Siena replied with only a soft sigh. He reached the first landing before she recovered enough of her equilibrium to speak.

  “D—did you just say ‘love’ in Italian?”

  “Would you care to hear it in Greek or Latin? Mittel—deutch? I can even manage it in Russian—lubov.”

  “I would rather hear it in plain English.” Her fingers threaded through his still-damp hair, twining them closer. Their cheeks touched. “Unless, of course, you are merely playing word games.”

  “It is no game, Siena. It never has been, this powerful attraction that had drawn us together from the very first.”

  “Magic. There is no other word for it.”

  “Yes, there is.” He spun in a circle, his heart feeling light as a feather. “Love.”

  “Julian—”

  “Ah, that’s another word that sounds delightful on your lips. Say them both again, Siena. Together, in concert, if you please.”

  “I love you, Julian.”

  Sweet music to his ear. For all the cuts and bruises, the shivering doubts and painful memories, his world was suddenly in perfect harmony. “And you, my midnight merlin, are the
light of my life. I love you.”

  The sparkle of his eyes, the lilt of his laugh. It was, she knew, a moment she would always treasure, no matter how quickly it might pass. No one had ever said those three words to her before. Nor had she ever uttered them aloud. Such a simple string of letters. How was it they changed everything?

  Everything and nothing. They dwelled in different worlds. He lived in light, she in shadow. Their paths from here must eventually take them apart.

  And yet…

  She stifled such wishful thinking in a small sigh. Lyn-sley’s proposal, however enticing, would only prolong the moment.

  “Just a little longer.” Kirtland seemed to sense the tension taking hold of her.

  “We are almost there.”

  “W—where are you taking me?”

  “To your bedchamber. You need warm blankets and a swallow of brandy to bring the color back to your cheeks.” He grinned, looking sinfully handsome despite his disheveled state. “And perhaps a bout of heated love-making, once I have your glorious limbs tucked in among the silk sheets and eiderdown pillows.”

  Her eyes clouded, dimming for an instant the gleam of his gaze. What else could he offer her but to continue in the role of a courtesan? It was, after all, what the marquess had suggested. The prospect should not hurt, but it did. “You are asking me to be your mistress?”

  He pressed a kiss to her brow. “I am asking you to be my wife, Siena.”

  “The earl and the urchin?” She dared not let hope take wing. “Or worse, the lord and the lightskirt. Think of the scandal. Your name would be savaged by the gossips. You can make so much higher a match.”

  “I have weathered far worse slander. Let the tabbies talk. You know how little I care for their opinion.” He stopped, set her down, and took her face between his hands. They were rough yet warm, scarred, yet strong. So like the rest of him. “I learned on the battlefield that title and pedigree mean nothing. It is heart and soul that are the true measures of a man and a woman.”

  “The challenges will be daunting.”

  “Perhaps. We are both unused to letting down our guard. Expressing our feelings does not come so easily as wielding a sword to keep others at a distance. But I am willing to try. What say you, Siena? I think we match up quite well— I shall teach you a proper rompere di misura, and you shall show me the footwork of a tai chi flying dragon.”

  She started to speak.

  “There is just one catch.”

  Her lips stilled.

  “We shall have to put off a conventional wedding trip until later. I would like to take up Lynsley’s offer of the Italian mission. The chance to serve King and country plays some part in the decision, but I have some very selfish reasons as well. I want to ride through the streets of Siena with you, meander through piazzas of Florence, float along the canals of Venice, with arias of amore serenading our ears.” His face was alight with a warmth that no Renaissance master could ever capture with paint and canvas. “What say you?”

  “Yes.” Siena wished to sing to the heavens, but barely managed a whisper.

  “To Italy or to me?”

  “I think,” she said softly, “that both sound wonderful beyond words.”

  Epilogue

  Coals cracked in the hearth, setting up a cheery blaze that was only partially blocked by the great mass of grey fur curled in front of the hearth.

  “Good of you to share a spark or two with us,” murmured the earl as he settled down upon the sofa and propped his boots on a stack of books.

  Mephisto raised his shaggy head and gave a low woof.

  Kirtland smiled, a sigh of contentment slipping from his own lips. He did not need any outward spark to warm his bones. He had an inner flame.

  The fire within.

  Not bad for a first line of poetry. Perhaps he would take a stab at writing an ode to his new bride, though her singular spirit seemed to defy description in mere words.

  It would, he decided, take a lifetime for her moods, her mysteries to become commonplace. Maybe two.

  “I am waiting.” Siena’s raven tresses tickled his cheek as she leaned her head on his shoulder. “A teacher should not be tardy to his own class.”

  “Where did we leave off?”

  “William Blake.” She handed him the book. “Songs of Innocence and Experience.”

  “Hmmm. I’m afraid we were neither last night. If I recall correctly, the lesson on meter came to a rather abrupt end when the pupil insisted on asking for a more detailed demonstration.”

  “Do not deny your experience, my lord. You seemed quite conversant on the subject.”

  “With you, it takes on a whole new meaning. However, at this rate, it will take us quite some time to cover all the basics of English poetry.”

  “I will try not to distract you again,” she said primly. “I am beginning to understand the nuances of coupling rhymes.”

  “Rhyming couplets.” He grinned.

  “What are we studying tonight?”

  “I’m sure I’ll come up with an interesting topic once we begin.” He hesitated a fraction. “You are sure that you are not growing too bored with books? Lynsley promises we shall soon be leaving for Lombardy.”

  “You could never be boring, Julian.” Curling her fingers with his, she lifted his hand to her lips. “I love learning more about art and literature, though I do confess that I am looking forward to testing my mettle in a new mission.”

  His palm cupped her chin. “But this time we go together from the start. You will never again face danger alone, Siena. Never.”

  “Together,” she whispered. “I never dreamed such an ordinary word could sound so poetic.”

  After a last, lingering caress, Kirtland cleared his throat and opened the leather-bound volume. But instead of his silver bookmark between the pages, he found a folded piece of vellum.

  Eyes narrowing, he smoothed it open.

  If you are still interested in a certain collection of manuscripts, I am of the opinion that they would be most at home in the library of someone who appreciates beauty and intelligence. It will, of course, cost you, but no more than you were willing to spend in the first place. If the offer is agreeable to you, bring a portmanteau with the money to The Hanged Man Tavern on Wilmot Lane, tomorrow at precisely 4 in the afternoon. Ask for the room of Mr. Smythe. Leave it there. The books will arrive at your town house later that evening.

  You will have to take a leap of faith. The question is, who do you trust?

  It was signed with a slashing “O” written in red ink. Below it was a postscript.

  By the by, felicitations on your recent nuptials. Your bride is indeed a most remarkable lady. Indeed, were I ever to find her match, I might even consider matrimony myself—a state I have assiduously avoided at all costs. But the odds are, I will enjoy my bachelorhood until I shuffle off this mortal coil.

  “I’ll be damned,” muttered Kirtland. “That does not rhyme.” Brows quirked, Siena looked up.

  He handed the note to her.

  “Hmmm.” Her expression was equally inscrutable.

  “Perhaps Lynsley can nab him,” mused the earl.

  She thought for several moments. “Do you want the manuscripts?”

  He made a wry face. “Pragmatic, as always, my love. Are you suggesting that I ignore the possibility of capturing the rascal and simply hand over the amount he is asking for?”

  “Why not?” Siena pursed her lips. “I don’t think Lynsley would disagree. The matter is finished, and Orlov, for all his faults, did us a favor.” She tilted back her chin, and batted her lashes. “Do you, perchance, hold a grudge?”

  “No doubt I am being terribly petty to feel just a touch of resentment toward a man who tried to feed me to the duke’s trout.”

  She laughed, a carefree sound that warmed his heart. “He did say he was sorry. As for feeling any hesitation over edging out the other bidders, consider the Psalters a reward of sorts from a grateful government. Do you mind that you must b
ear the actual cost?” A mischievous smile played on her lips. “Perhaps I could put in a voucher for expenses.”

  Kirtland chuckled. “The expression on Lynsley’s face would be priceless. But no, I will not ask the government to pay a penny. I will consider it my penance for past mistakes to pay Orlov’s price. And then, of course, I shall have to settle up with the duke.”

  “Are you sure the cost is not too high?”

  “You, my brave and bold avenging angel, are worth every illuminated manuscript in Christendom.” He kissed her upturned lips. “How could I begrudge the cost of the Psalters—even if it’s going to that imp of Satan—when you turned out to be the answer to all my prayers?”

  About the Author

  Andrea Pickens started creating books at the age of five, or so her mother tells her. And she has the proof-a neatly penciled story, the pages lavishly illustrated with full-color crayon drawings of horses and bound with staples-to back up her claim.

  Andrea has since moved on from Westerns to writing about Regency England, a time and place that has captured her imagination ever since she opened the covers of Pride and Prejudice.

  A graduate of Yale University, she works in New York City as the Creative Director of a lifestyle sporting magazine, a job that lets her combine her love of the printed word with her master’s degree in Graphic Design. Her work lets her travel to a number of interesting destinations around the world—but her favorite spot is, of course, London, where the funky antique markets and used-book stores offer a wealth of inspiration for her stories.

  Please visit Andrea’s Web site at www.andreapickens online.com. She loves to hear from her readers!

  My research included a good deal of poking around Portobello Road, that delightful stretch of antique markets in the Notting Hill section of London, where one can spend hours poring over all the wonderful vintage jewelry, engravings, weaponry, and fashions of the time. And for those who wish to get a peek at the wilds of Dartmoor, check my Web site www.andreapickensonline.com for photos of the estate that inspired Marquand Castle. Enjoy!

  From the desk of Candy Halliday

  The fun part in writing any series is the opportunity to reunite the characters from the previous book. That was certainly fun for me in the Housewives Fantasy Club series. Revisiting Woodberry Park and being back together with sassy Fantasy Club members Zada, Tish, Jen, and Alicia was a reunion I didn’t want to miss. However, in the second book of the series I wanted to make sure outcast Alicia in YOUR BED OR MINE? finally got