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

by The Scarlet Spy (mobi)

  The Puff of Paradise. Osborne had heard rumors of the exotic opium den. It would not be too hard to find.

  “I will inform him, if necessary,” said the maid. “Do stop fidgeting, milady. As it is, we have our work cut out for us to have you ready to leave at eight.”

  “Forgive me, Rose. I find it hard to sit still, now that the time for action is finally near.”

  “I understand.” Osborne heard the click of metal on metal. “You are taking your pistol, I presume?”

  “Along with several blades,” said Sofia. “I shall have a choice of weapons at my fingertips …”

  Having heard enough, Osborne started to inch away from the mullioned glass.

  “What was that?” Sofia’s voice rose a notch. “I heard something stirring outside.”

  “A dove, no doubt,” said Rose. “Don’t move—I’m using the forged steel hairpins, in case you have need to pick a lock.”

  “I’ve my key,” quipped Sofia. “Let us hope it will open the way to shutting down this evil operation.”

  Osborne heard no more as he made his way to the far end of the building before slipping back down to earth. He had now a time and a place. Come hell or high water, Sofia was not going into the night alone.

  “How very interesting.” Sofia regarded the arched door. Screened from the main room of the opium den by a line of potted palms, the oiled teakwood was an intricately carved panel of eye-popping erotic scenes. Men with ruby-tipped phalluses. Women with pink diamonds between their legs. Sexual positions that must have required years of yoga training …

  “It’s designed to put everyone in the mood for what pleasures lie inside,” leered Sforza.

  “The patrons seem to need little added encouragement to enjoy themselves,” observed Sofia. Squinting through the haze of smoke and fizzled light, she saw that a goodly number of gentlemen were already occupying the velvet-cushioned banquettes. Scrims of colored silks hung from the ceiling, their sinuous shapes dancing in the flickering flames of brass braziers and latticed lanterns. “Do you turn a good profit?”

  Sforza snickered. “They pay an arm and a leg for admittance.”

  Those were not the only appendages involved, noted Sofia. The barmaids serving drinks were all as naked as newborns, and some of the men had already followed suit.

  “The place makes an obscene amount of money—like all our ventures,” the Italian went on. “Our leader is a genius when it comes to—”

  “Upstairs is by invitation only,” interrupted De Winton, signaling the hulking porter to undo the latch. “For special guests. We have our own private room. Come, let us show you. The others will be along shortly.”

  Sofia stepped into the dark stairwell. Inside her glove, the gold key pressed hard against her palm. What did it unlock? She still didn’t have a clue and would have to go on very carefully. A stumble at this stage of the game could put the whole mission in jeopardy.

  “Turn to the left at the top of the stairs.” De Winton’s voice had an otherworldy quality to it. Was the potent perfume and exotic incense already affecting her head? Sofia covered her nose and tried to draw in a breath of fresh air.

  The stairwell opened up to a large octagonal entrance hall. A velvet curtain cloaked each of the corners, but from the sounds of gurgled laughter floating through the air, she guessed that there were a number of pleasure rooms hidden behind the draperies.

  “In here.” De Winton beckoned for her to pass through the folds of shimmering scarlet.

  Candlelight cast a reddish glow over the tasseled floor cushions and thick Persian carpets. A glance around showed that the walls were hung with iridescent silks in jewel-tone shades of topaz and amethyst. A matching pair of gilded wood screens angled out from the back corners, and set in the very center of the room was a low divan, covered in sumptuous Moroccan leather.

  A pleasure palace, indeed, thought Sofia, half expecting a genie to pop out of the ornate oil lamp hanging overhead.

  “Here is your change of clothing.” De Winton handed her a set of folded garments. “You may change behind the far screen, while we use this one.”

  Sofia stared down at the gauzy garments in dismay. Damn. She doubted the flimsy material would hide her weapons.

  “Yes, relax and get comfortable, Contessa,” added Sforza. “We want to make sure you enjoy your experience with us.”

  She would have to change plans along with her attire. A wry twist came to her lips as she shook out the set of harem pantaloons and sleeveless blouson. It looked as if she would have no choice but to fight with her bare hands if it came down to a struggle. Given the sheerness of the silk, she might as well be donning nothing at all.

  Smoothing the folds into some semblance of modesty, she stepped out from behind the shelter of the screen, leaving her own clothing and weapons wrapped together in a neat roll.

  “You look ravishing, Contessa,” said Sforza with abroad wink at De Winton. Both men had slipped into flowing Bedouin robes tied at the waist with a scarlet sash.

  “Good enough to eat,” he agreed. “Have a seat. I’ll call for the refreshments to be brought in.” He punctuated his words with a loud clap. “Gulmesh!”

  Sofia eyed the empty cushions as she sat down. “Should we not wait for the others?”

  De Winton waved off the question. “There’s been a delay. We are to start without them.”

  “They will be coming, won’t they?” she probed. “My friends in Venice speak so highly of your organization. I am anxious to meet everyone. Especially the man in charge.”

  Sforza laughed. “What makes you think our head is a man? A clever little hussy like you is proof enough that females can possess the cunning of a Machiavelli.”

  Sofia felt her mouth go a bit dry. Was he merely playing games with her? Or was there a possibility she had missed a key clue? Feeling their eyes upon her, she covered her confusion with a show of bravado. “Of course we are clever and cunning—we have to be, in order to get anywhere in a man’s world.”

  “A toast to the feminine mind.” De Winton uncorked one of the bottles that the servant had brought in. “You must try our special blend of brandy and cognac.” A splash of amber spirits filled her glass.

  “I brought along a rare vintage from Tuscany,” said Sforza. “Have a taste, Adam, and tell me what you think.” He poured two portions of the red wine. “Cin cin.”

  The fortified brandy was cloyingly sweet. Sofia choked down a swallow as she regrouped her thoughts. “Let me take a guess. Lady Guilford seems to possess some talent.”

  “Only in the boudoir. Her mind is not nearly as dexterous as her hands,” replied Sforza. “Guess again.”

  Before she could speak, the servant reappeared, this time bearing a tray of Oriental water pipes. The inlaid brass took on a coppery glow in the lamplight, and the coiled hoses, with their carved amber mouthpieces, looked like cobras rising out of the shadows.

  With a slow flourish, De Winton reached into his robes and withdrew three gold boxes. “You are, of course, familiar with the ritual from Venice. Each of the keys unlocks an individual box, and inside it is a share of the monthly profits, divided according to how many shares each member owns.” He set them on the divan. “But seeing as this is your first meeting, and your share of the London operations has yet to be worked out, we decided to prepare a special treat for you. An initiation, if you will, into our Society.”

  “It is an honor to be admitted to your company,” murmured Sofia, trying to think of a way to keep the guessing game alive. “But—”

  De Winton pushed one of the boxes her way. “But, of course, you must show us that your key fits and is not a well-made fake. There is only one craftsman who knows the secret of cutting in the correct grooves to open the locking mechanisms.”

  Holding her breath, Sofia inserted her key and gave it a turn.

  Snick.

  The lid popped open. Inside, lying on a bed of rose petals, was a sticky substance rolled in the rough shape of a ball.
Its color was a deep cinnamon, speckled with poppy-red flecks.

  “Opium of the highest grade,” said De Winton softly. “Mixed with our little secret additions to give it an added punch.”

  “Let me show you how to use it.” Sforza took up the razor-sharp knife from the tray and shaved off a few thick curls into the bowl of her pipe. Next to it was a small bowl filled with glowing coals. “You take the tongs and hold a coal like so.”

  De Winton polished the pipe’s mouthpiece on his sleeve, then handed it to her. “Abracadabra. Now, you simply take a puff of pleasure.”

  With a languid laugh, Sofia drew in a mouthful of the pungent smoke, trying to use her yoga training to inhale as little of it as possible. Concentration. Control. She must keep her wits about her.

  “Sweet,” she said, expelling her breath with a soft sigh. “Won’t you join me in a taste?”

  Both men had already fired up their own pipes. “No, your portion is a very rare and costly blend.” It was De Winton who answered. “It’s for you to savor, compliments of our leader.”

  Ah, finally the chance to turn the tables in her favor. Reaching across the divan, Sofia teased a caress to De Winton’s hand. “My dear Adam, I am beginning to fear that I have fallen out of your good graces. Have you decided to favor your mystery lady over me?” She pursed a provocative pout. “Tell me the name of my rival so that I may know whose charms I must compete with.”

  “You still haven’t figured it out?”

  The opium had to be a powerful narcotic, for even with exercising extreme care, Sofia felt a wave of dizziness wash over her. “Give me another hint,” she coaxed.

  Perhaps it was the sweetness of the perfumed smoke, but the only female who came to mind was the young widow. Serena Sommers? Surely not. Despite her slightly naughty parties, Lady Serena had a certain air of innocence about her. A daughter of privilege, she had been pampered, protected all of her life. The idea of her as the mastermind of a criminal organization seemed crazy.

  “I’ll do more than that.” said De Winton. The candles flickered in a sudden swirl of air, setting off a strange flare in his gaze.

  No doubt her own eyes looked filled with fire.

  “We owe this all to Lady Serena,” he went on.

  “I confess, I wouldn’t have guessed her capable of putting together such a complex organization,” answered Sofia. “I see I underestimated her.”

  “Many people do.” Through a puff of smoke gleamed a pearly flash of teeth. “She looks so dainty and demure, doesn’t she? But then, we all know that looks can be deceiving.”

  “Indeed,” she agreed, ignoring De Winton’s veiled innuendo. When in doubt, it was best to brazen out any suspicions. “Most people see Roxbury as a glorified clerk and Andover as a mere shopkeeper, but they obviously have brains and a bold imagination. Concord has connections with influential politicians, while Neville has made friends with many of the wealthy peers in Town. And with your Italian friends supplying the ships and the banking connections …”

  “So you figured that out for yourself?” said De Winton. “I commend you, Contessa. You are very clever too.”

  His answer was final confirmation of her surmises. She now knew all the names for sure. The hard part was over. From here, it was simply a matter of getting back to Lynsley, as soon as she found an excuse to absent herself.

  If only she didn’t feel so lethargic …

  “Yesshhh. I hope to play a large role in your future plansshh.” Sofia realized she was slurring.

  “We’ll see.” De Winton added more of the special opium to her pipe and fanned its burn to a red hot glow.

  “I … I …” she stuttered. Her words dissolved in a fit of giggles. Somehow the inability to speak seemed funny. The room began to spin. Things were suddenly blurry …

  The last thing Sofia heard as she slumped to the floor was De Winton’s throaty laughter joining with hers.

  Chapter Twenty

  Damn

  Osborne was growing more and more uneasy with each passing minute. Sofia had passed through the guarded portal some time ago. He couldn’t imagine why she would be up there so long with De Winton and Sforza …

  Yes, actually he could.

  Thinking of her indulging in any intimacies with the dastards drew another low oath from his lips.

  “Care fer another drink, luv?” One of the barmaids sidled up to him, flashing a saucy wink. “Or a pipe? I got a cozy little booth in the corner, where we can be private.”

  “Thank you, but I haven’t yet decided what I want.” Waving her away, Osborne edged closer to the screen of palms. The low light and hazy shadows hid his movements from the guard. And if spotted, he could always feign a drunken disorientation. He slanted another look around, but no one seemed to take any notice of his shuffling steps or bizarre dress. The other patrons were all in various states of undress, so the fact that he had tied a scarf around his head, pirate style, to hide his blond locks and had left his coat and cravat in the alleyway did not look a hair out of place.

  Indeed, compared to the hulking Sikh guard, with his towering turban and sashed robes bristling with weaponry, Osborne felt that he blended right into the woodwork.

  Slipping deeper into the overlapping fronds, he moved in for a closer look at the carved door. He had been told that admittance to the top floor was by invitation only. But it seemed very odd that a walking arsenal was necessary to enforce the policy. Something was not quite right here—he was sure of it. His hands clenched. He should have thought to bring something more menacing than a penknife with him.

  However, if Sofia did not reappear soon, he would force the hinges open with his bare hands.

  As the brass latch gave a loud click, Osborne crouched down among the terra-cotta pots. A moment later, De Winton and Sforza emerged from the stairwell. Both men were laughing, and their scimitar smiles sent a stab of fear through his chest.

  Where the devil was Sofia? Inching as close as he dared, Osborne strained to overhear their words.

  “You go see that Roxbury has the coach ready. I’ll check on the warehouse,” said De Winton, brushing a bit of ash from his sleeve. “We’ll meet back here in a half hour and finish the contessa off, if need be.”

  Sforza laughed. “She will not be waking from that dose. I mixed it myself. A pity—I was looking forward to swiving the bitch before we got rid of her.”

  “Both our pricks will be on the chopping block if we don’t take care of business before pleasure,” replied De Winton grimly. “After we dispose of the contessa, we will head to Lady Serena’s town house. Understood? After tonight, there will be no loose ends left to tie up.”

  Osborne felt sick. Both ladies knew too much.

  “Si,” said the Italian.

  De Winton signaled to the swarthy Sikh. “I’ll have Arjun make one last check on things upstairs, then remain on guard here to ensure that she does not leave.”

  Osborne inched forward, grateful for the haze of smoke and wildly flickering patterns of the latticed lamps.

  Framed in the open doorway, the guard bowed and listened intently to the whispered instructions.

  “Yes, memsahib. It shall be done,” he growled as the two conspirators turned and hurried away.

  Osborne allowed the door to fall nearly closed before darting out from the greenery and sticking his penknife between the moldings to keep it from locking. He waited a moment, then slipped inside.

  Blinking lights, dancing smoke, whirling colors. Sofia blinked, trying to bring the room into focus. How odd, but her head felt swathed in silk.

  “Mmmmmmmm.” Her own voice was weirdly altered as well. It sounded as if she were purring like a cat.

  She had a feeling that she should be fighting the sensation, yet couldn’t quite put her finger on why. Struggle seemed far too much of an effort. It was very pleasant lying on the pillows, listening to the laughter from outside and the lazy rasp of her own breathing.

  As she gave a feline stretch, a lan
guid, liquid laziness took possession of her limbs. Sleep beckoned. Why resist?

  Sweet dreams.

  Whatever the reason she was here, it could wait until later.

  * * *

  The only light in the stairwell was the guard’s glass-globed lantern. Praying that the Sikh would not look back, Osborne kept close to the man’s heels. At the top of the landing, the guard headed to the right, allowing him to duck into the opposite room—where he quickly discovered that he wasn’t alone. Lolling on the thick Persian carpet were two middle-aged gentlemen, naked save for their garters and stockings. The low light of the brass brazier showed they were surrounded by a bevy of exotic courtesans, ranging from a creamy-skinned Swede to an ebony African.

  A redheaded Celtic beauty rose and with an inviting shimmy of her hips sidled up next to him. “Care to join in?”

  Shaking his head, Osborne pointed across the way. “I’m here to meet a friend,” he mouthed. “But thank you.”

  She made a moue of disappointment and sought to twine her arms around his neck.

  He slipped away, leaving only his pirate headscarf in her grasp. Would that he could extract himself—and Sofia—as easily from this hellhole. Where was she? Taking shelter in the next doorway, he waited for the Sikh to reappear. There were six other rooms, but for the moment, discretion still seemed the better part of valor. Until he knew what all he was facing, he dared not risk a confrontation.

  Yet every excruciating second counted. Time was ticking away.

  A flutter of velvet and the guard finally emerged from behind the scarlet drape. Padding on bare feet, the man did not glance up as he tugged at his kirpan and headed back down the stairs.

  One, two three … Osborne counted to ten before crossing the hall and fisting aside the folds of fabric.

  Lying spreadeagle on a stack of silken pillows, Sofia appeared dead to the world. Her eyes were closed, and her hair had come loose from its pins. As he came closer, he saw she was dressed in Eastern garb rather than her own English clothing. The gauzy Turkish trousers were cinched at the waist with a sash of embroidered silk, and the top was a sleeveless scrim of linen, so sheer that the dark areolae of her breasts were plainly visible.