The Scarlet Spy (11 page)

Despite the chill, her skin glistened with tiny beads of sweat, and the pulse at her throat mirrored the thud of his own racing heart. His lips lowered and covered the quivering spot.

A moan resonated somewhere deep in her throat, but she didn’t push him away.

Emboldened, Osborne skimmed a kiss along the line of her jaw, inhaling the sublime sweetness of her scent.
Heather and honey.
He couldn’t help himself—he simply
had
to have a deeper taste. Crushing his mouth to hers, he drew her lower lip between his teeth.

Gently, gently.
But his body was not listening to his mind. His stubble scraped against her delicate flesh as he forced her head back. His hands threaded through her windblown hair; his tongue thrust deep inside her, drinking in her warmth.

Dear God, he was drowning in pure, primal desire.

What a spectacle he was making of himself. The debonair Deverill Osborne, desperate for a fleeting kiss.

He didn’t care. His hands found the opening of her jacket, and then the swell of flesh beneath the scrunch of linen. Cupping her breasts, he stroked upward.

Her response was fiercely feminine. The tips of her nipples hardened against his palms.

“Please …” She twisted back and forth, rubbing the front of her breeches against his hardening cock. “Please, this really must stop.”

Osborne’s simmering frustrations were on the verge of exploding. “If you are begging for release, you are going about it all wrong.”

She stilled in his arms.

“Why are you so warm to that preening peacock of a conte and so cold to me?” he demanded.

“I … he …” she stammered. “Marco is an old friend.”

“An old lover?”

She looked away, her loosened hair falling across her face, a shimmering black curtain between them.

“I’m sorry. That was unspeakably rude,” he said with a ragged sigh. “I don’t know what comes over me when I am around you. My manners seem to go up in smoke.”

“Please let me go, Lord Osborne.”

He drew his hands away, but not before brushing an errant curl from her cheek. She flinched as if singed by his touch. And yet, for a fleeting moment, her mouth had been molten with desire. He had kissed enough women to know that without a doubt.

“And now that you have taken your pleasure, sir, I trust I can count on your silence in return.”

Stung by the scorn in her voice, he couldn’t keep from retorting in kind. “The pleasure was not all one-sided, Contessa. Admit it, you wanted me just as much as I wanted you.”

Her cheeks flushed red as her kiss-roughened lips. “Why, you arrogant ass.”

“You haughty hellion.”

They stood toe-to-toe, glaring at each other through the tendrils of dawn mist. Much as he wished to turn his back on the lady and stalk away, Osborne felt held in thrall by some mysterious spell.
Black magic.
The breeze stirred her loosened hair, setting the raven strands to dancing along the line of her shapely shoulders. Her eyes, aswirl with anger, had an alchemy all their own. Emeralds on fire.

He found it difficult to breathe.

A dog barked, breaking the dark enchantment. Swearing softly, Sofia snatched up her hat and tucked her tresses out of view. Several quick strides brought her abreast of her stallion. Without waiting for any assistance, she caught up the reins and vaulted lightly into the saddle, her boot barely touching the stirrup.

Whatever else her faults, the lady looked magnificent on her mount. Like Minerva, the ancient Roman goddess of war. A bellicose beauty.

“Andiamo,
Jupiter,” she said.

The horse whinnied, his hooves kicking up clods of the damp earth. A flick of her heels and they were gone.

A close call.

Sofia slumped back against the stall door and pressed her palms to her sweat-slicked brow. Another few inches and Osborne’s roving hands would have hit upon the small turn-off pocket pistol hidden in her waistband. He was already asking enough uncomfortable questions without wondering why she was carrying a firearm.

She bit her lip—a definite mistake, as it was yet another reminder of how badly she had let her guard slip.

Her tongue flicked over the raw flesh, tasting the lingering traces of his brandy and her own egregious folly. What madness had come over her? The man possessed a potent charm. And a sinful, sensuous smile. When his mouth had come close, hovering a hair’s breadth from hers in the morning mists, she had been powerless to resist.

Passion.
While she grasped the intellectual concept, the Academy lectures had not quite prepared her for the full brunt of its physical force.

She shivered at the memory of his probing caresses, his tongue sliding so smoothly through her defenses. Hard yet soft. Sweet yet spiced with a hot, masculine need. The effect had been intoxicating. She had surrendered to his demands without a fight.

No wonder the devilish Deverill Osborne had seduced half the ladies of London.

Her sigh sharpened to an oath. Forewarned was forearmed. She would
not
let the man beat her so easily again. He might be a master of sexual swordplay, but he would soon discover that he was not the only one who could wield a sliver of steel. Any future advances on his part would be parried with better skill, she resolved.

She was no fledging chick—she was a Merlin. Woe to any man who got too close to her talons.

Osborne marched down the corridors of Whitehall, outpacing the young lieutenant who had been assigned to show him the back stairwell that led to the marquess’s office.

“Sir!” wheezed the officer. “I ought to announce your presence—”

Ignoring the call, he barged past a startled copy clerk and entered the room.

“Osborne.” Lynsley looked up over the gold-rimmed lenses of his reading glasses, his brows arching in inquiry.

“Forgive the intrusion.” All of a sudden, he felt rather silly interrupting affairs of state to pass on a bit of tittle-tattle. But retreat would appear even more foolish. “Might I have a word with you? In private.”

The marquess dismissed his secretary with a tiny nod.

“You may go ahead and draft the memorandum to the Swedish ambassador, Jenkins. I will review it later.”

The young man gathered up a sheaf of documents and withdrew from the room.

“Would you care for a drink?” Lynsley gestured to the tray of decanters on the sideboard.

“Thank you, but no. I shall not take up any more of your time than necessary to …”
To what?
Grass on a lady’s indiscretions? Osborne felt his cheeks turn a trifle warm as he finished by saying, “To mention my concerns in regard to the contessa.”

“Concerns?” Lynsley’s brows rose a touch higher.

“I fear she may be falling in with a rather disreputable crowd,” he said stiffly. “I have tried to warn her off, but my opinion seems to carry little weight with her.”

“Indeed?”

“To be frank, the lady doesn’t like me much. However, I thought that you might have some influence over her.”

“Lady Sofia is of age,” replied the marquess dryly. “She is free to choose her own company, regardless of what either you or I have to say about it.” He picked up a pile of reports and resumed his reading. “I appreciate your telling me this, but I wouldn’t worry about the lady. I have great confidence in her judgment.”

Osborne made a face. “Even though she encourages a hellhound like Adam De Winton to come sniffing around her skirts?”

Lynsley calmly turned a page. “De Winton’s pedigree allows him entrée into the highest circles of the
ton.
If the leading hostesses of London do not object to his presence, I don’t see how we can argue.”

The marquess’s offhand manner was beginning to set his teeth on edge. “It is not his pedigree but his purse that is cause for concern. It’s common knowledge in the gaming hells around Town that his finances are precarious at best.”

“A fortune hunter? Be assured that Lady Sofia is familiar with that breed of gentleman. She isn’t likely to be fooled by false flatteries.”

“Perhaps you would be a tad more concerned if I mentioned her early morning habits,” said Osborne.

Lynsley finally looked up.

“I happened to spot her alone in the park around dawn,” he growled. “She was galloping hell for leather astride a great black stallion. Did you know she rides like the wind?”

“Seeing as I arranged for her equestrian instructor, I am aware of her skills in the saddle,” replied the marquess.

Osborne fell silent for a moment. He ought to leave it at that, but stubbornness overcame sense. “If she doesn’t slow down a bit, she may find her reputation in tatters. The tabbies are quick to pounce if a lady strays from the confines of conformity.”

“A widow is allowed a little more latitude, as I’m sure you well know.” The marquess took up a pen and began making a notation in the margin of the paper. “Consider that you have done your duty, Osborne. You have opened the right doors, which is all that I asked of you. In good conscience, you may now stand aside. If Lady Sofia wishes to go on from here on her own, we must respect her wishes.”

“Bloody hell.” The force of his fist hitting the desk blotter nearly knocked over the inkwell. “There is something damn peculiar about all this, Lynsley.”

“How do you mean?” asked the marquess.

“Well …” Nonplussed, Osborne realized he was not quite sure how to word his misgivings. Like the morning mists, they were no more than vague swirls. Ghostly vapors with no real form or substance. He blew out a harried huff of air. “I can’t help but wonder if this has anything to do with your … government duties.”

Lynsley’s mouth quirked. “Ah, you think the lady is a secret agent from the kingdom of Naples? Or perhaps an assassin, sent by the Prince of Venice?”

Said aloud, such suspicions did sound patently absurd.

“Did one of your lady friends lend you a copy of
The Duchess of the Dark Dagger?”
went on Lynsley, a hint of humor shading his voice. “I hear it is a highly entertaining novel—even better than
The Curse of the Velvet Glove.”

Osborne swore under his breath. “Truth is sometimes stranger than fiction,” he said defensively. “Take the recent events at Marquand Castle—two peers end up dead, and my friend Kirtland returns with a mysterious bride. How the devil do you account for
that?”

“Art auctions can be a cutthroat business from what I hear,” replied the marquess with a straight face. “As for the particulars of Lord Kirtland’s love life, you would have to ask the earl himself. I was not among the guests invited to his nuptials.”

“Yet you were investigating him.”

“My job requires that I investigate a great many people. Most, like the earl, are proved innocent of any treasonous activities.” Lynsley cocked his head. “In any case, I fail to see the connection between Kirtland and the contessa … other than the fact that the earl and his bride took a wedding trip to Italy.”

Put that way, Osborne had to admit that his misgivings did sound like a plot straight out of a horrid novel. The
Cabal of the Killer Contessas.
Mayhap he deserved to be their first victim for having such a lurid imagination.

“Forget it,” he muttered. There was no point in prolonging the conversation. Even if there was some deep, dark secret to Lady Sofia’s presence in London, the marquess was far too clever to let it slip by mistake. “I won’t keep you from your work any longer.”

“Osborne.”

He turned, expecting a last little quip.

However, Lynsley’s expression was deadly serious. “Thank you again for the warning. Allow me to return the favor. It would be a mistake on your part to become too involved with Lady Sofia. She is …”

“Dangerous?” The word came unbidden to his lips.

“In a manner of speaking. Though the word I was about to use was
complex.”

“How very kind of you to mention it now,” replied Osborne with a sarcastic sneer. “I wonder why you chose to honor me with the task in the first place?”

“For the very reason that your detachment from romantic entanglements is well known throughout the
ton.”
The marquess set down his pen and folded his hands. “It’s said that you bestow your favors quite freely. But your heart is wholly your own.”

Osborne could think of nothing to say in answer.

“It is a wise strategy,” finished Lynsley. “Especially in this case.”

“You fear that I may lose my heart to the contessa?” He took hold of the brass door latch. “Ha. If I were ever foolish enough to fall in love, it would not be with a high-flying spitfire with a taste for vulgar red.”

Grateful that duty provided a distraction from the early morning encounter, Sofia sat down at her dressing table and opened the portfolio of files provided by Lynsley.
No more mental mistakes,
she chided herself. It had been careless of her to assume that no gentleman of the
ton
would be up and about at dawn.

She frowned, wondering just what Osborne had been doing at that hour in the park.
Returning from a late-night tryst?
Quite likely. The background information on him included a rather lengthy list of lovers. And no wonder. He was an incorrigible flirt, handsome, witty, and engaging enough to charm the scales off a dragon.

As for his kisses, they were certainly practiced enough—

Thinning her lips, she quickly thumbed through the folders to a different set of pages. Enough of Deverill Osborne. She must concentrate on the coming challenge.

In truth, it offered a welcome change of pace from the overcrowded ballrooms and simpering suitors. She was slated to attend an afternoon lecture at the Society of Caesarian Antiquities. The gathering would provide an opportunity to meet the Duke of Sterling.

Lynsley had made it clear that she was to seek an acquaintance with the man, though the duke must, of course, remain in the dark about her real identity and her real purpose. She wasn’t certain as to why the marquess thought a meeting important. Surely there was nothing more Sterling could tell them about the suspicious death of his grandson. But perhaps Lynsley felt the duke would be an unwitting ally in learning more about Lord Robert’s circle of friends and their favored haunts.