The Scarlet Spy (28 page)

“Not a chance.”

“I had a feeling you would say that.” She exaggerated a sigh. “Very well, if you really wish to help, I would be grateful if you could approach Lord Coxe and see what you can find out about how he acquires his antiquities.”

Osborne’s well-shaped brows quirked in question. “Coxe? The man is over seventy years old! Surely you don’t suspect him of being a criminal mastermind?”

“Not wittingly,” replied Sofia. “But I have reason to suspect that messages between the conspirators, as well as valuable contraband, are being passed along inside cargos of expensive art.” One of the lessons she had learned at the Academy was that the best lies always had a grain of truth to them. “If we knew what shipping firm handles his business and who arranges the deliveries, it could help shed light on the whole operation.”

Coxe, a fellow member of her Roman society, was a noted collector who frequently received deliveries from all over Italy. That he was also a sweet old man, without an evil bone in his body, would ensure that Osborne would be off digging through harmless information.

His initial look of skepticism sharpened to a speculative stare. “I see what you mean. Clever of the bastards.”

“Quite,” she murmured.

Osborne pursed his lips. “Come to think of it, isn’t that fellow Sforza involved in shipping?”

Damn, he was quick.
Too quick. “Don’t bother with Sforza or Familligi. Marco is already investigating their businesses.”

“Marco?” Osborne’s voice took on an odd edge. “You trusted him before me?”

“Marco is one of Lynsley’s operatives,” she murmured.

“So, the fellow is more than a braggart and a buffoon?”

“In fact, he was one of my instructors at the Academy.”

“Dear God,” growled Osborne. “I shudder to think what he teaches.”

“Fencing, among other things.” She grinned, hoping to further distract him from thoughts of the Scarlet Knights. “He is very good with a blade.”

The force of his oath surprised her. “He had better keep it sheathed around me—and you. Else he’ll be fishing his cods out of the Thames.”

Surely Osborne wasn’t … jealous?
Though he was known for his even temperament and adroit avoidance of emotional entanglements, she knew that deep down he was a man who cared passionately about certain principles.

Honor. Friendship.

She must not confuse his feelings for her as anything more than the concerns of a true gentleman.

“Marco is far too fond of his
gioelli de famiglia
to risk offending either of us, Deverill.” Her teasing softened Osborne’s scowl just a touch. “Besides, despite his braggadocio, he is a consummate professional. He won’t leave a stone unturned in seeking to uncover what his fellow countrymen are up to here in London.”

“Which is your way of tactfully telling me not to muck things up by getting in his way.” He made a wry face. “I can’t help but feel you have given me the easiest of all the assignments. I am to spend a comfortable evening drinking brandy and discussing art, while you expose yourself to God knows what sort of dangers.”

“All of our roles are important,” she said softly. “As for my next move, right now I do not anticipate any real danger. Aside from engaging in a bit more flirtation with De Winton, I have no other immediate plans.”

Osborne didn’t look completely convinced. “Promise me you will not take any rash steps without telling me. I have been thinking … The alley attack might well have been a warning that someone suspects you are not what you seem.”

“Let us not imagine phantom dangers. We have enough real conundrums to contend with.” Sofia saw his jaw tighten and quickly went on. “The chances that someone has discovered my real mission are very slim. Lynsley and his operatives are very good at what they do. As am I.”

“Nonetheless …” His movements were like a quicksilver wink of sunlight. Before she quite realized what had happened, she was in his arms and the warmth of his lips grazed her cheek. “Promise me you will not take any untoward risks.”

“I—I will do my best, Deverill.”

“I suppose I must be satisfied with that.” His mouth was no longer so gentle as it took her in a hard, possessive kiss. There was an oddly vulnerable note of longing to his whisper that left her slightly weak in the knees. “For now, at least.”

A soft rap on the door interrupted his words. Reluctantly, he released his hold and allowed her to step back.

“Your pardon, milady.”

Sofia noted with wry amusement that her maid did not wait for any reply before entering the room.

“If we do not begin dressing for the evening, you will be late for Countess of Wright’s card party.”

“Thank you, Rose,” she said. “Lord Osborne was just taking his leave. I shall be up in a moment.”

“Very good, milady.” The maid’s basilisk gaze lingered for a moment on Osborne before she took her leave.

“My fears are put slightly to rest by knowing that such a woman is standing guard over you,” he murmured. “I, for one, would not care to risk her ire.”

“I can’t say that I blame you. I have reason to believe that Rose possesses a number of formidable skills, aside from her talents with hairpins and a crimping iron.”

“Another of Lynsley’s agents?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“In that, at least, I have no quarrel with him.” He cleared his throat. “As to this evening—”

“It is purely a social engagement. The countess has invited a group of her lady friends for a quiet evening of whist and supper. I am attending merely to keep up the appearance of seeking entrée into Society.”

“Then I shall start in on making myself agreeable to Lord Coxe,” said Osborne. “He often stops by at White’s for a cigar and brandy before retiring for the night.” A pause hovered between them, heavy with unspoken questions. But when he spoke again, it was simply to ask, “What about your plans for tomorrow?”

“I believe my schedule calls for a lecture at the Literary Ladies of Mayfair.”

“If things change, you will let me know?”

“Please don’t worry, Deverill.” Sofia sidestepped an outright lie as she moved for the doorway.

He wasn’t fooled by the maneuver. “Sofia—”

“I had better go, before I incur Rose’s wrath.”

“Have a care, sweeting.” His voice was as soft as the rustle of her silks. “May Luck watch over you like a hawk.”

“And you,
cara,”
she whispered as she hurried up the stairs.

But in truth, she sensed they would need more than luck to beat the Scarlet Knights at their own game.

Leaving the puzzled shipping clerk a generous payment for his efforts, Osborne tucked the copy of the manifest into his pocket and returned to the waiting hackney. He was no expert in the criminal underworld, but if the firm of Hillhouse and Brewster was hiding any nefarious activities, he would eat his hat, grosgrain ribbon and all.

Like Coxe, the two elderly proprietors of the business could not have been more happy to talk about the logistics of transporting valuables from abroad. Pretending an interest in assembling a private collection of his own. Osborne had asked a number of detailed questions, all of which had been answered with great openness. Files had been retrieved from the storerooms, and the recent records reviewed. He had even been invited to visit one of the ships docked in Greenwich.

Frowning, he took another look at the latest shipping bill. It only confirmed what he had seen for himself at the earl’s town house. The items were naught but a rather boring assortment of marble fragments. Sculpted of solid stone, they were all of modest shape and size. Not a one offered a sliver of space in which to hide contraband goods or communication. Either Sofia’s hunch was way off the mark.

Or she had deliberately sent him astray.

Had he been a fool to accept her story about the school for spies?
A cadre of swashbuckling females headed by that paragon of propriety, Lord Lynsley? Osborne rubbed at his temples, admitting that were he to repeat a quarter of what he had heard the previous afternoon, he would be laughed out of his club. If not hauled off to Bedlam.

But however outrageous the details might sound, he did not really doubt Sofia’s veracity. She cared—and passionately—about justice. It came through in any number of subtle ways. It was in her voice, her eyes, her body. The very texture of her being. A good many things could be faked, but not courage, not conviction.

And besides, Lynsley’s odd reaction to the reports of Sofia’s behavior corroborated her claims. A proper guardian, especially one as supposedly straightlaced as the marquess, would have had a fit of apoplexy on hearing of her exploits around Town.

Oh, yes, she was telling him the truth. Though not all of it.

Osborne sat in a brooding silence as the simple brick business buildings gave way to the elegant mansions of Mayfair. It didn’t take much mental effort to come to the conclusion that she had made her decision for one of two reasons—either she didn’t trust him to keep silent about her strategy, or she didn’t think him capable enough to outwit or outfight the enemy.

He wasn’t sure which was worse.

After another stretch of melancholy musing, he rejected the first possibility. She knew him better than to think he would spill her secrets in some unguarded moment of bluster. Which left him facing the fact that she must consider him a bumbling ox.

Any gentleman worth his salt would find that thought rather irritating, decided Osborne. He did not consider himself to be a conceited coxcomb, but he
was
a battle-hardened veteran of the Peninsular War. His steadiness under fire had been tested time and time again, and though he didn’t have as many medals as his friend Kirtland, he had saved his share of lives.

Come to think of it, he hadn’t done too badly in defending
her
neck from attack.

That the lady considered his skills somehow lacking piqued his pride. If Sofia would not allow him to prove his worth, he would simply have to take matters into his own hands.

Osborne expelled a breath, then rubbed the fog from the windowpane.
Deception and diversion.
She would soon find that such tactics could be a two-edged sword.

Sofia stared at the card on the silver tray, then set aside her notebooks and followed the butler to the drawing room.

“Adam, what a pleasant surprise,” she exclaimed, approaching her guest. “May I offer you some brandy?”

De Winton still had his gloves and hat in his hands. “Regretfully, I am in somewhat of a hurry and cannot stay.” He looked a little on edge. “I just wanted to inform you that the special meeting of the Golden Key members has been set. It’s tonight.”

“Tonight?” echoed Sofia.

“A special celebration, in honor of the arrival of a new shipment of … but, of course, you know what is arriving from Venice. I’m sure you will not want to miss it.”

Though his gaze was hooded, she could tell he was watching her intently. She knew that she could not refuse. Not that she wanted to. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“I hoped you would say as much.” His eyes had an over-bright glitter, leading her to wonder whether he had already been indulging in opium. His wits still seemed sharp enough, though. “It is to take place at the Puff of Paradise, a special establishment hidden in the stews of Southwark. A carriage will call for you at eight.”

“No need,” she replied. “I’ll come in my own conveyance.”

De Winton shook his head. “Trust me, it’s better this way. Your man does not know the streets, or the procedure. We prefer not to draw attention to our gatherings.”

Sofia didn’t dare argue. “At eight, then. I will be ready.”

“One last thing.” He smoothed at the scarlet silk of his waistcoat. “It goes without saying, but be sure to bring your key. We go by the same rituals here in London as in Venice.”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Excellent. Then I shall take my leave.” De Winton left off toying with his watch fobs to flourish a farewell.
“Ciao,
Contessa.”

Again, Sofia was struck by his mood, which seemed an odd mix of anticipation and apprehension. The celebrations planned for the evening must be even more dissolute than usual, she decided. But De Winton’s appetites were not of primary concern.

Turning her gaze from the mantel, Sofia hurried for the stairs. He hadn’t given her much time. For a moment, she thought about sending word to Osborne. But only for an instant. Aside from the fact that De Winton had been very clear that the meeting was only for keyholders, this was
her
responsibility,
her
risk. Osborne would be a dangerous distraction. His valor was unquestioned—it was her own heart that might waver. She couldn’t take the chance of being weakened by the worry that some harm would befall him.

She was a Merlin, and her wings were strong enough to lift her over any challenge.

A tiny sigh fluttered from her lips. Though she had no qualms about flying into the unknown, she would not have minded having Marco around to watch her back. However, he had sent word this morning that he had been asked to join Familligi at a gaming hell in Seven Dials. There was no point in changing plans now.

She would go well-armed, of course. A small Italian pocket pistol in her skirt pocket and a stiletto strapped to her leg, along with an Indian throwing star disguised as a hair ornament.
Silk and steel.
Between the two, she should have no trouble getting the job done.

From the shadows of the garden wall, Osborne watched De Winton hurry down the steps of Sofia’s town house and set off on foot in the direction of the park. A prickling of foreboding ran down his spine. The Scarlet Knight did not often appear in the light of day.
Coincidence?
He doubted it. His suspicions that Sofia had misled him seemed confirmed.

However, he was ready to get back on track.

Moving out from his hiding place, he edged into the alleyway between the mews and slipped a knife blade into the gate lock of Sofia’s garden. A twist turned the tumblers, allowing the iron-banded oak to open a crack. He followed along the line of the privet hedge to the back of the town house terrace, where thick vines of ivy rose up to the slate gables.