Andrea Pickens - Merlin's Maidens 03 - The Scarlet Spy

by The Scarlet Spy (mobi)

  Sofia had a headful of questions she wished to ask, but she kept her reply short and simple. “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you for the excellent tea and tarts, Charlotte.” Lynsley tucked a large leather portfolio under his arm. “And for dispensing a liberal dose of wisdom to go along with them.”

  “Nice legs … well-defined chest … good stamina and good wind, wouldn’t you say so?”

  “A bit too good.” Osborne winced. “Lud, I daresay her shrieks could be heard all the way to Kew Gardens.”

  “I am talking about the horse, Dev.” Lord Nicolas Harkness gave a low snort. “Damn it, do try to pay attention. This is an expensive proposition.”

  “So was Collette,” he quipped. “Cost me an arm and leg to sever the relationship.”

  “You’re lucky it didn’t cost you your prick in the bargain.” Harkness chuckled as he stepped away from the stallion and propped a boot on the fence rail. “From what you said, she was looking to sever more than her services.”

  “Escaped by the skin of my … teeth.” He grinned, then winced again as the big bay let out a sharp whinny. His mouth felt dry as straw, and the cacophony of harried hooves and high-stakes haggling echoing through the yards was exacerbating the pounding in his head. Not to speak of the pungent smells. The auctions of prime horseflesh at Tattersall’s always drew a crowd of gentlemen looking to buy or sell.

  Taking a seat on a bale of hay, Osborne began massaging at his temples. “Sorry to be such dull company, Nick. Give me a moment to collect my wits and I’ll take a better look at the animal.”

  “It’s worth the wait. I trust your judgment.” Harkness lit up a cheroot. “Even when your brain is half pickled in brandy.”

  In his present mood, he wasn’t quite so sanguine as his friend. His judgment had been sadly lacking of late. The scene with his mistress was just the latest in a series of embarrassing little incidents. At Lady Haverstick’s musicale, he had been a bit too vocal in voicing the limericks he had composed about a rotund peer of the realm. The rhymes had been clever, and people had laughed. But he had embarrassed an acquaintance and had woken the next morning feeling ashamed of himself.

  “I’m not sure I’m in any shape to find flaws in your stallion, seeing as I’ve been acting like an ass recently.”

  Harkness cocked a brow. “Is that a black cloud hanging over little Lord Sunshine’s head?”

  Osborne swore, loud enough to startle an elderly gentleman who was examining a pair of matched carriage grays nearby. “Call me that again and you will be digging your teeth out of yon pile of horse droppings.” A number of ladies had given him the moniker on account of his fair hair and ebullient manner. He usually laughed off any teasing from other men, but at the moment it was not remotely amusing.

  “A show of temper?”

  Osborne muttered another oath.

  “Any particular reason for the foul mood?” His friend blew out a smoke ring. “Aside from losing your place in La Colette’s bed.”

  He merely shrugged, happy to encourage the idea that his malaise was on account of sex—or the impending lack of it.

  “Not that you won’t have a host of ardent admirers willing to assuage your loss. I hear Lady Pierson arrived from Yorkshire yesterday, leaving the old earl to rusticate with his horses and hounds.”

  “Luscious Lucinda?” Osborne gave a mock shudder. “I have no desire to jump from the proverbial frying pan into the fire. Her ample physical endowments are matched by a penchant for emotional excess.”

  “Lady Wellton has always appeared to have her eye on you—you lucky dog.” Harkness coughed slightly. “But then, you may already be intimately aware of her interest.”

  “If I was, I would not be so ungentlemanly as to talk about it.”

  “Quite right, quite right.” His friend ground the butt of tobacco beneath his boot heel. “Perhaps a night away from female company would clear that black scowl from your brow. There are several new gaming hells in the stews that I’ve heard are worth a visit, and you always have the devil’s own luck at cards.” Harkness lowered his voice. “The place in Seven Dials is said to be quite unusual.”

  Osborne shook his head. “Tempting. But I have promised to show my phiz at Lady Haverton’s ball. She is counting on me to keep Silliman and Morse from coming to blows.”

  “Lud, are they still threatening to spill each other’s claret over the pattern of a waistcoat?”

  “They both take matters of fashion very seriously. But I believe I’ve thought of a way to stitch together a truce.”

  Harkness rolled his eyes. “Well, if anyone can mend frayed feelings, it’s you.”

  Would that he could feel comfortable in his own skin.

  “Now, about the horse, Dev.”

  “Right. Let’s have a look …”

  “I can’t thank you enough.” Light from the glittering chandeliers caught the curve of the lady’s smile as she twirled through the last figures of the waltz. “Without your help, those two might well have declared a duel right here on the dance floor. It would have ruined the evening.”

  “Nothing could have marred such an enchanting entertainment.” Osborne glanced around the crowded ballroom. “The musicians are marvelous, and the flower arrangements are exquisite.”

  Lady Haverton turned as pink as the peonies. “You like them?”

  “Stunning,” he murmured, knowing full well that the lady, a bluestocking botanist, had designed them herself.

  Her blush deepened. “You are too kind—”

  “La, Osborne!” As the final notes of the dance ended, a buxom blonde turned from her partner and tapped his shoulder. “You simply must call on me tomorrow and give your opinion on which shade of blue I should choose for the drawing room draperies.”

  He inclined a bow. “I should be delighted to.”

  “Osborne!” The hail was from a group of gentlemen by the punch bowl.

  “As always, you are in great demand.” His hostess smiled as she took her glove from his arm. “Let me release you to your friends.”

  “I shall be back. I’ve put my name on your card for the supper dance.”

  “Much to the dismay of every other lady in the room.” Lady Haverton patted his sleeve. “Go on.”

  “Osborne!”

  “Osborne!”

  He slowly made his way through the crowd, stopping every few steps to exchange pleasantries. When finally he managed to slip behind a screen of potted orange trees, he let out a sigh and took a sip of his champagne.

  “A popular fellow, I see.”

  Osborne looked around to find Lord Lynsley by his shoulder. “I seem to have a knack for keeping them amused,” he replied lightly, though to his own ears the words had a slight edge to them.

  The marquess regarded him thoughtfully before replying. “Major Fenimore thinks your talents merit a more serious adjective than amusing. He said your analysis of French cavalry tactics at the battle of Marengo will prove invaluable for our Eastern allies.”

  “I am gratified to hear it.” Osborne quaffed another swallow of his wine, unsure of how else to respond.

  Lynsley’s official position at Whitehall was not overly important, but Osborne was aware that his real government responsibilities were a closely guarded secret. The vague rumors about the marquess’s early exploits abroad were enough to make a man’s hair stand on end. And though Lynsley now spent most of his time behind a desk, Osborne imagined he was involved in more than pushing papers around on his blotter.

  “I wonder … might you be interested in helping out in another matter?” In the play of light and shadow, it was hard to make out the marquess’s expression. “This one would not require any military expertise.”

  “Perhaps,” he replied, keeping his own face neutral. “I would, of course, have to hear what you have in mind.”

  “A diplomatic reply.” There was no mistaking the twitch of Lynsley’s lips. “It’s a very a simple matter, really, especially for a gentleman of your sta
nding in Town. You would do me a great favor if you would agree to introduce an Italian countess to Society. The lady is a wealthy young widow who knows no one here in London.”

  “And you wish to see her established among the ton,” said Osborne slowly. “Invited to all the evening entertainments, included in the rounds of morning calls.”

  “Precisely. My upcoming duties do not allow me the time to take on the obligation myself.”

  “It seems a simple request.” Far too simple. Given the aura of intrigue surrounding the marquess, Osborne suspected that Lynsley was leaving a great deal unsaid. But despite the swirl of questions suddenly spinning in his head, he merely asked, “Is she pretty?”

  “Very,” replied Lynsley.

  “That should make the task even easier. I will—”

  “Ah, Osborne, there you are.” Two gentlemen in regimentals waved for him to join them. “Come help settle this argument about who makes the better pistol—Manton or that upstart Purdey.”

  “Forgive me, but Captain Tolliver won’t take no for an answer,” said Osborne softly. “I had better go before they go off half cocked and ruin Lady Haverton’s evening.”

  “Perhaps you should consider taking up a position in the Foreign Service,” murmured the marquess. “In the meantime, think it over—”

  “No need.” He finished his drink and set the glass aside. “When would you like me to meet her?”

  “The day after tomorrow. I’ll come for you at White’s around two, if that is convenient.”

  “Perfectly.” A change in his daily routine might be just what he needed to shake off his odd mood.

  Chapter Three

  “Shorten your stride, my dear.” Mrs. Merlin murmured a low reminder. “A lady never appears to be in a rush.”

  “Sorry.” Sofia swallowed a sigh as she took another turn around the Academy drawing room. “I shall try not to trip up again.”

  The headmistress smiled. “You are doing very well.”

  “Si, si, bella.” Marco eyed her with obvious approval. “Lift your chin a touch higher, add a curl of condescension to your smile—yes, that’s it. Now you are the very picture of a regal contessa.”

  “You are looking rather respectable yourself,” she shot back. The starched cravat was a perfect counterpoint to his olive complexion, and the tailored fit of the elegant evening coat accentuated his broad shoulders and slim waist. Even his hair had been trimmed, though it still fell nearly to his shoulders. She had to admit that the effect was impressive. “Indeed, I think you are an even better impostor than I am.”

  “What makes you think I am merely playing a role?” he asked, sweeping low in a courtly bow.

  Sofia’s laugh ended on a note of uncertainty. The school instructors included a former courtesan to King Carlos, a convicted cardsharp, a Negro pugilist, and an Indian yoga guru. It was not beyond the stretch of imagination that the Milanese swordsman could be …

  “Watch your step, Sofia,” cautioned Mrs. Merlin.

  Watch your step. Those words would be her mantra for the coming months.

  “You must always appear cool, calm, and collected,” added the headmistress.

  Sofia nodded, though her insides were aflutter. Her traveling trunks were already in the entrance hall, packed with the costly silks and glittering jewels that would turn a nobody into a noble lady. Her fingers felt the plain gold locket under her lace fichu. Unlike in a fairy tale, there was no golden wand to help with the transformation.

  They would all have to hope that Mrs. Merlin’s magic was enough.

  “Excellent.” The headmistress removed her spectacles and pinched at the bridge of her nose. “I think we’ve finished with the lessons. Come have some tea before the coach arrives.”

  Sofia assumed a seat on the sofa and smoothed her silks into place. “Thank you,” she said with a hint of hauteur. “You have no idea how difficult it is to get decent tea in Rome. It is only when I am at my summer calle near Venice that my cook can purchase a proper oolong blend from Ceylon.”

  “The accent is perfect,” said Marco. “You have a good ear for Italian, bella.”

  She grinned. “I’ve been listening to you whisper sweet nothings for long enough. Something was bound to rub off.”

  “A pity it was not my hands doing the caressing.”

  “Behave yourself,” she muttered under her breath.

  “Ah, yes, I almost forgot—I must act like a gentleman. How very …” He mouthed the word boring, then winked.

  Sofia bit back a grin. “Not for much longer.”

  Steam swirled though the air as Mrs. Merlin poured hot water over the tea leaves. “Actually, Marco will also be traveling to London. Lord Lynsley is arranging for you to have an English escort to ease your way into Society. But given the complexities of this mission, we decided it would do no harm to have an ally on hand. Besides, his amorous attention will also serve to spark the interest of the other gentlemen.”

  Marco flashed a wicked smile.

  “I trust I don’t have to remind you not to overplay the role,” added the headmistress with a warning wag of her finger.

  “Non, non. When I put my mind to it, Signora Merlin, I can recall all the rules of proper etiquette.”

  Sofia arched a skeptical brow. “I shudder to think of where you might have picked up such knowledge.”

  He exaggerated a look of reproach. “My family is one of the oldest and most respected names in all of Lombardy.”

  Skeptical, she looked to Mrs. Merlin, only to see the headmistress nod. “I think it is about time we cleared up any misconceptions regarding our assistant fencing master. Marco’s full name is Giovanni Marco Musto della Ghiradelli. Heir to the Conte of Como’s title and fortune.”

  “A bloody conte?” Sofia could not contain her shock.

  “Ladies must never swear, bella,” he murmured.

  “On second thought, I’ll strangle you with my bare hands.” Shaken by the revelation, Sofia felt somehow betrayed. She had seen Marco as a kindred soul—a rascal with no place in the world, save for what he could carve out for himself with his blade. To learn his august bloodlines ran back for centuries made her feel even more alone.

  “Damn it, you lied to me.”

  His look of amusement was gone in a flash. “Never. I may have omitted some parts of my background, but I never told you anything that was not true.”

  “It comes down to the same thing,” she snapped. “You deliberately deceived me.”

  “Deception is one of the basic teachings of the Academy. It must fit as easily as a second skin if we are to serve our purpose.” Mrs. Merlin was observing her through hooded eyes. “Marco’s true identity was something that Lord Lynsley wished to keep a secret. But as he is acquainted with one of our suspects from their school days in Geneva, it was decided that his presence could prove useful in making your mission successful. If you have any problems with that, Sofia, please voice them now.”

  Drawing a deep breath, Sofia willed the heat to cool from her cheeks. “I’ve no problem at all,” she replied. “You are right, of course. It simply took me by surprise that a friend … It won’t happen again.”

  “There is no such thing as friendship in our world,” said Mrs. Merlin. “The only emotion allowed is a dispassionate devotion to duty.”

  “I won’t make that mistake again.”

  For a moment, the only sound in the room was the ticking of the tall case clock. Sofia sat very still, spine rigid, wondering if her slip had just cost her dearly. Perhaps Mrs. Merlin was recalling all the times she had bent the Academy rules to help keep her roommates out of trouble.

  Personal loyalty would no doubt be seen as a weakness, not a strength.

  The crackle of papers seemed loud as cannon fire. The headmistress edged forward, light flashing off the lenses of her spectacles. “Let this be a last lesson before you go—you must never lower your guard, Sofia.”

  Her muscles relaxed ever so slightly, allowing her to nod. “I won
’t fail you or Lord Lynsley.”

  Mrs. Merlin skimmed over her notes, then looked up. “It won’t hurt to use the last few minutes here to review the assignment. The first order of business is to establish your welcome with the highest circles of Society. You are …”

  “I am Contessa Sofia Constanza Bingham della Silveri,” recited Sofia. “My father, a younger son of Lord Whalley, was an English expatriate living in Rome who married an Italian barone. My husband was an elderly Venetian nobleman who passed away a little over a year ago. I am just coming out of mourning and wished to visit the country of my father’s birth.” She paused. “I take it all these people are real, seeing as there are several Italians among the group you wish me to infiltrate.”

  “Of course,” replied Mrs. Merlin. “Mr. Bingham and his wife passed away years ago. Their only daughter—who, by the by, is living in a nunnery in Sicily—has never met her English relatives. As for your late husband, he was a notorious recluse and sheltered his young bride from Venetian society for the few months of their marriage. She then slipped away to Greece with her head gardener. You should encounter no awkward inquiries concerning your identity, but if you do—”

  “If I do, I shall improvise,” said Sofia.

  “Excellent. And, of course, Marco will lend credence to your story. He will appear in London a day or two after your arrival and will take up residence at the Pulteney Hotel.” Mrs. Merlin turned a page. “Once you are accepted in London Society, you are to cultivate a friendship with a group of gentlemen who fashion themselves as the Scarlet Knights.”

  The headmistress glanced at Marco. “Again, the conte will help with the necessary introductions.”

  Sofia avoided his eye. “Have we a name for the Englishman who is providing an entrée into the ton?”

  “Not as yet.”

  “Not that it matters. I don’t imagine I will be seeing much of him after the first round of parties.” She quickly continued with the review of her orders. “The plan calls for me to hint that life as a proper young widow is a bit boring and that I am not averse to experiencing a little adventure.”