The Scarlet Spy (30 page)

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 languid, 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.

“Sofia.” His voice was barely more than a whisper. In the smoke-smudged light, he couldn’t tell whether or not she was breathing.

“Sofia.” He managed to say it louder, and to his relief, her lashes stirred ever so slightly.

He lifted her gently into his arms.

One lid lifted, showing a peek of glassy green.

“Can you stand, sweeting?” he asked.

A giggle slipped from her lips. Her legs were still unresponsive, but her hands came suddenly alive with amorous intent, caressing at his crotch and trying to work free the fastenings of his trousers.

“Mmmmmmm.” Her kiss missed the mark by several inches. “Y’ smell good ’nough to eat.”

Osborne steadied her sway. There was indeed a cloying scent of sweetness in the air. Clove, cinnamon, and some earthier spices that threatened to suffocate his senses. The effect was unsettling, unpleasant.

Realizing how deeply she was drugged, he slapped her face. “Sofia. Wake up.”

She laughed, then frowned. “That hurt. Kiz me instead, Dev.”

He evaded her lips. “Yes, sweeting, I’ll kiss you, but later. Let’s get some air.”

Sofia slumped, her body going slack against his.

“Mmmmm. Too tired t’ move. Let’s lie down.” Her speech was growing more slurred.

Tilting her chin, Osborne saw that her pupils were dilated. He slapped her again, harder.

The sting drew a flutter of life. She tried to lift her hands and push him away. “Yes, that’s it—fight back,” he whispered.

Her groan was more of a slurred mewl. And after a moment, Sofia was once again limp as a kitten.

Pushing through the red curtain, he moved into the foyer and looked around for a way out. The Sikh guard was watching the stairs, and even if he managed to slip past the man, the two hulking porters posted at the main entrance were certainly in De Winton’s pay. There must be another route of escape. He tried to think, but the sickening scent of the smoke was making him light-headed.

“Sunshine!” Sofia’s head rolled backhand she stared at him with glazed eyes. Her pupils were nearly as big as saucers as her gaze drifted to the flaming wall sconces. Her face lit in a beatific smile. “Sunshine.”

Keep moving, keep moving.
There wasn’t a moment to lose. He had to prevent her from falling unconscious.

A side door opened, and a naked man stumbled out, weaving a path for the Pipe Parlor. Following right behind him, a woman wearing only a leather thong crawled out on her hands and knees.

“Any brandy left around here, luv?” she asked.

He nudged a half-empty bottle over with his foot.

“Yer an angel.” Grabbing the amber glass, the harlot looked up with a grin. “The great Golden Gabriel.”

“Take it with my blessings,” he murmured. Craning his neck, he peered into the shadowed room. In the light of the single lamp, he could just make out a mattress on the floor, a tangle of silken sheets … and a window.

Osborne forced a leering smile. “What say you to spreading your wings with me and m’ friend.”

“The three of us?”

He nodded, already angling Sofia through the narrow door.

The harlot shrugged. “Why not? As long as I get to ride on top.”

“Oh, I’ve got something even more fun in mind.” Propping Sofia against the wall, he began to knot the bedsheets together. “Here, give me a hand,” he said, tossing several to their new companion. “Tie them tight.”

Comprehension dawned, along with a low titter. “We’re making a rope? Whattya got in mind, Gabriel? Tying us up?”

“Something like that.” Osborne slid up the frosted glass and drew in a gulp of the fresh air. It wasn’t much more than a thirty-foot drop. The silk should be just long enough.

Taking Sofia by the shoulders, he stuck her head outside. “Breathe deeply. In and out, like in your yoga classes,” he ordered, punctuating the command with a sharp slap to her derriere.

The harlot giggled. “Me next.”

“In a moment. But first, hand me your section.” He knotted the two lengths together. “Now hold this end.” Satisfied that the silk would hold, he smiled. “That should do.”

She clapped and turned with a saucy wiggle of her bare bum. “Ye gonna spank me now, Gabriel?”

“Yes. Lie facedown on the mattress.”

The harlot did a swan dive atop the eiderdown duvet. “Ready when you are, luv,” she cooed.

His first smack drew a delighted giggle.

“Sorry,” he muttered under his breath, his hovering hand moving up to her throat. Her laugh gurgled to a snuffled sigh as he pressed hard at a point just behind her ear. “You’ll awake in several hours with nothing worse than a slight headache,” he added.

Stepping over the harlot’s prostrate form, Osborne hurried to the window.

“Sofia.” He slid the window up a notch.

“C-cold,” she muttered through chattering teeth. Her arms were pebbled with goose bumps.

“It’s good for you.” He snugged the silken sheet beneath her arms. “Try to stand, sweeting,” he coaxed.

His words drew only a querulous mutter.

“Damn it, Sofia. Snap to attention!”

The martial command seemed to penetrate her fuzzed brain. Slipping, sliding, she mustered a modicum of control over her treacly limbs.

“Hold tight,” he barked. After knotting the makeshift rope under her armpits, Osborne fisted her hands around the tail end. “Don’t let go until I say so.” He would be doing all the work in lowering her to the ground, but a flapping arm might smash a windowpane or draw unwanted attention.

Adding a silent prayer that the porters did not keep a close eye on back of the building, Osborne maneuvered her out onto the narrow ledge. Once he braced himself against the stone, lowering her down took only a few moments.
So far, so good.
As soon as her feet touched the ground, he turned and took up a steel-handled whip from the collection of sex toys arrayed on the wall. The shaft was wider than the window, and once wedged inside the casement, it looked sturdy enough to hold his weight.

Not that he had much choice. The great golden Gabriel was not about to sprout wings.

After tying the end of the sheet to the shaft, he slithered out the window. Boots rasping over bricks, he slid down the wall as fast as he dared. Though the silk was soft, the friction burned and blistered his palms. Ignoring the pain, he wrenched Sofia free of the knots and shoved her forward.

“March!” He mouthed a whispered shout. The fog was thick with the smells of the river, yet somehow the scent of rot and decay was not as noxious as the perfumed lies within the opium house.

Sofia soldiered on a few steps, then stopped and gagged. Her eyes were going opaque.

Fighting down a sense of panic, Osborne looked around. There was no time to make their way through the rookeries on foot. He needed to purge the poison from inside her. Already it might be too late. They would have to chance finding a hackney in the narrow street and hope they did not encounter De Winton or one of his henchmen.

Lady Serena might also be in danger. The sudden thought caused his throat to tighten in frustration. He would try to send a warning, but until Sofia was safe, he could do nothing.

Bloody hell.
Why did the ladies he cared for seem drawn to danger? Osborne gave a harried sigh, admitting in the same breath that he couldn’t really blame the young widow for being seduced by the Scarlet Knights. Curiosity was a potent drug in its own right, and a lady of sharp intelligence had so little opportunity to explore the world outside the narrow boundaries set by Society. He, too, would have chafed at the rules and restrictions.

“Oy, stay clear o’ me rig, nancy boy.”

In the fog, Osborne had stumbled up against the wheels of a glossy black landau. The driver flicked his lash, the leather cutting a sting across his cheek.

Before he quite realized what he was doing, Osborne set Sofia against the side of the cab and vaulted up to the perch. His fist smashed into the driver’s jaw before the man could wield the whip as a weapon. A second blow knocked him out cold. Cursing under his breath, Osborne dumped the limp body on the ground beside a stack of broken wine crates.

“Next time, keep a civil tongue in your head,” he muttered. “Come, Sofia, we are almost there.”

She didn’t make a sound as he lifted her to the seat. The silence sent a shiver down his spine. Grabbing the reins, he set the horses into motion, mindless of the pain shooting through his bleeding hands. Mayfair was much too far away, he thought as he guided the team through the twisting turns. Yet where in the godforsaken slums of Southwark could he look for help?

His thoughts were spinning furiously as the carriage careened around the corner. Just ahead, he would have to choose which way to go. Left or right.
Salvation or damnation.
If Sofia died, he wasn’t sure he could ever live with himself.

There was one place … It was a gamble, but he would have to roll the dice.