The Scarlet Spy (9 page)

Stifling a yawn, Sofia massaged the back of her neck. The hours were certainly more grueling than her Academy schedule. The
ton
danced every night until the wee hours of the morning, so it was no wonder that the pampered ladies of privilege rarely rose before noon. She, on the other hand, was usually up at the crack of dawn. Riding, yoga, an hour of fencing exercises in the ballroom to keep her skills sharp. The household staff, all carefully selected by Lord Lynsley, did not question such strange activities. But as the threat of someone spying her secret exercises always hovered over her head, she took every precaution to keep them well hidden.

Thrust, spin, parry.
No amount of strenuous physical activity could dispel the nagging worry that things were not going as fast as they should. Lynsley had given no deadline, but it was understood that in any mission assigned to a Merlin, time was of the essence.

Patience, princessa—like your sword, it can be used as a weapon.
Her fencing master’s exhortations echoed in her ears.
Il Lupino
was a lecherous old wolf, but he was a master strategist when it came to the art of war. His teaching stressed that victory was as much a matter of mental discipline as it was of physical strength.

Sofia studied her reflection in the looking glass. Of the three roommates, she was considered the most refined. Siena and Shannon both had a swashbuckling athleticism, a certain bold spirit that seemed to give a fire to their eyes. She leaned in a bit closer. Her own spark was perhaps a bit more subtle.
Ladylike.
Her fingers tightened and slid down to the locket at her throat. Did that mean she was any less of a warrior than her sisters-in-arms?

Such questions seemed to trouble her more than they did the others. Siena and Shannon never gave much thought to who they were and where they had come from. They were Merlins, and that was all that mattered. Sofia took a quick peek at the tiny portrait nestled within the gold case, then snapped it shut. She, too, was a Merlin. And she would prove her mettle in this mission.

Tucking the filigree chain back inside her dressing gown, she turned her focus back to the challenge at hand. Lord De Winton was becoming increasingly attentive. Now it was time to encourage a more intimate acquaintance. One of her dance partners had mentioned that Lady Serena Sommers sometimes played hostess to special soirees for the Scarlet Knights. It should not be too difficult to coax De Winton into offering an invitation.

Lord Osborne would, of course, disapprove.

He was taking his role of White Knight rather too seriously. Sofia frowned. His protectiveness was surprising, given his own dalliances with married ladies and widows. But then, the man was an odd mix of contradictions. Most of the time, he seemed naught but a charming flirt. But there were moments when he showed an unexpected depth of character.

Who was the real Deverill Osborne?

Sofia took up her brush and began combing out a snarl in her hair. It didn’t matter. Osborne could be the Angel Gabriel or Lucifer Incarnate for all she cared. His role in her mission was over—a fact for which she should be grateful. She had enough mysteries to unravel without getting entangled in any further musings on the man.

The bristles snagged in a knot. “Damn,” she muttered, angry at herself for letting Osborne get under her skin.
Hot and cold—the shivers were conflicting, confusing.
That her reaction to him defied reason made her more determined to ignore him in the future.

Rising abruptly, Sofia took her notebook and locked it back in the secret compartment hidden beneath the parquet floor of her dressing room. The click of the cunningly designed latch was an audible reminder of how she must never let her guard down. The slightest slip could betray her charade …

“You had best start dressing for Lord and Lady Gervin’s ball, milady.” Rose entered the bedchamber after a discreet knock. “Shall it be the apricot velvet and gold-threaded overskirt?”

“No, let us choose something a bit more … daring.” Sofia returned to her chair and resumed a careful study of her own reflection.
Deception must fit like a second skin.
Smoothing a hand over her bosom, she said, “The new gown from Madame Fournier arrived this afternoon, did it not?”

She had ordered a special design from the most fashionable modiste in Town. Not only was the neckline cut to show a provocative amount of cleavage, but also the color was a deep, luscious shade of scarlet.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Excellent.” Sofia turned from the looking glass. “I think it’s time to take the bull by the horns, so to speak. Tonight we shall wave a red flag in front of Lord Adam De Winton.”

Rose nodded. “Shall you wear the rubies as well?”

She shrugged. “If I am to appear as a scarlet lady, I might as well dress to the hilt.” The earbobs were large, teardrop jewels dripping from a chain of tiny seed pearls. The matching necklace featured a massive pendant that dangled just above the curves of her cleavage.

“Aye. And with a string of seed pearls setting off the ebony luster of your hair …” The maid began to dress the strands in a stylish topknot. “The man will come running.”

Sofia watched the nimble movements of her maid’s fingers. She, too, would have to exercise exquisite skill in handling De Winton. One slip could destroy her chances of unlocking the secret of the golden key and its mysterious crown—

Looking up abruptly, she asked, “Have we any poppies to use as hair ornaments?”

“No, milady.”

“Send one of the footmen to find some. I don’t care if he has to go all the way to Kew Gardens.” A smile blossomed on her lips. “There is an old adage about gilding the lily …”

Red was fast becoming his least favorite color. Bypassing the claret punch, Osborne took up two glasses of champagne. Lady Sofia seemed intent on ignoring his warnings about the Scarlet Knights. Not only had she danced two sets with De Winton at this evening’s festivities, but she had also allowed several other members of the group to take their turn as her partner.

Slanting a sidelong look at her profile, he repressed a scowl. By the look of it, she was fascinated by the devilish color. Not that the deep red ballgown didn’t look divine on her. The bold hue brought out every sleek, sensuous curve of her body.

Bloody hell.

Osborne’s eyes narrowed even more as he turned from the punch table. Yet another gentleman was sauntering up to the contessa. This one was not wearing red, but his appearance was still cause for concern. He looked to be a Continental coxcomb, for the velvet cutaway coat and snug-fitting pantaloons had not been fashioned by any English tailor.

As he returned to Lady Sofia’s side, Osborne found his impression was confirmed by her greeting to the stranger.

“Ciao,
Marco! How delightful to discover you have come to England!” She allowed him to kiss her cheek instead of her hand.

“The pleasure is all mine,
bella.”

A fellow countryman?
That would explain the prancing entrance and flamboyant dress—Italians were, after all, famous for their love of operatic spectacle.

“Will you be in London long?” asked Sofia.

“Is hard to say.” Her friend emphasized his words with a lift of his elegant shoulders. As he did so, Osborne noted the subtle ripple of muscle beneath the soft wool and ruffled linen. So, the fellow was no mere fop, despite the pretty face and flowing curls of shoulder-length hair.

“I have some business to attend to before returning to Milano.”

Osborne cleared his throat, causing Sofia to give an embarrassed laugh.
“Santa Cielo,
I am forgetting my English manners again.” She turned. “Lord Osborne, allow me to present Conte della Ghiradelli.” To her countryman, she added, “Papa’s old friend, Lord Lynsley, has kindly arranged for Osborne to escort me through my first few weeks in London Society.”

“Lucky devil,” murmured the
conte
with a broad wink.

Taking an instant dislike to the jackanape, Osborne fixed him with a cool stare and inclined his head just a fraction.

Sofia’s brow winged up for an instant before the
conte
leaned in to whisper something in her ear. They both laughed.

Restraining the urge to plant his foot in the Italian’s well-shaped arse, Osborne took a long swallow of champagne. But the explosion of tiny bubbles on his tongue only exacerbated his prickly mood.

“Lord Osborne.”

Welcoming the excuse to turn away, he smiled. “Lady Serena.”

“I have not yet had a chance to thank you for recommending Repton’s book on landscape design.”

Like the contessa, Serena Sommers was a young, wealthy widow. However, the similarities ended there. In contrast to Lady Sofia’s dark coloring and willowy height, Lady Serena had a pale, finespun fairy appearance. Silvery blond curls framed delicate features, and her porcelain complexion accentuated the deep topaz hue of her eyes.
A Pocket Venus.
Pretty, polished, petite. And possessed of a lively wit, which was something he had only recently discovered.

His smile broadened. “I trust that you found some interesting ideas for your terrace.”

“Very interesting,” she replied. “His ideas on nature and maintaining a certain wildness are very provocative. I have begun making some sketches of what I have in mind.”

Catching the flash of pasteboard at her wrist, he seized the chance to leave the contessa to her Milanese macaroni. “If you are free for the next set, I would be delighted to hear more about it.”

“I did not mean to interrupt …” She slanted a look at Lady Sofia and the
conte.

“Not at all. The contessa would no doubt welcome the opportunity for a private chat with her compatriot.” Good manners demanded that he make introductions all around, a task he performed with deliberate brevity after setting the drinks aside.

“I feel I am the last lady in London to make your acquaintance, Contessa.” Lady Serena flashed a dimpled smile. “Please accept my belated welcome to Town. You have an excellent guide in Lord Osborne. He is so very knowledgeable about a great many subjects.”

“How very kind of you, Lady Sommers.” Sofia did not so much as glance his way. “I am indeed fortunate that Lord Osborne sacrifices so much of his time to a complete stranger.”

“I doubt you shall remain a stranger in Society for long,” replied the widow. “Indeed, if you do not find discussions of art and literature too dull, you must come to one of my soirees—”

Osborne cut her off with a touch to her arm. “The music is starting, Lady Serena.”

“If you are sure …” The widow hesitated, still looking a trifle embarrassed at having interrupted.

Taking her hand, Osborne stepped smoothly for the dance floor. “Very sure,” he added once they had assumed their position for the first steps. “Indeed, you have done me a favor.”

She looked surprised. “From what I have heard, you occupy the most enviable position in Town. The lady is very beautiful.”

“There is an old adage about beauty being only skin deep.”

A spark of amusement lit in Lady Serena’s eyes. “Dear me, how very cruel of you to reveal just how easily you see through the rice powder and rouge.”

“Ah, but seeing as you have no need to resort to such artifice, you have no need to worry.”

Lady Serena was quick with an answering quip. “Think what you will, sir. You will not trick me into giving away my secrets for keeping the ravages of age at bay.”

Osborne gave an appreciative chuckle. The lady had just the tart sort of humor he enjoyed. “You have a few years to go before you sink into permanent decline.”

“I am greatly relieved to hear that Lord Sunshine does not yet think I am cast in the shade,” she said dryly.

His smile turned a bit pinched at the corners. “Speaking of light and dark, tell me more about your designs for a city garden. If I recall, the height of your garden walls will block …”

Sofia lost sight of the dark navy coat amidst the sea of swirling couples. Would that she could lose the recollection of Osborne’s sardonic smile as he had turned away.
What was ailing the dratted man?
His manners tonight had been brusque to the point of rudeness.

Her mouth pursed. That was rather like the pot calling the kettle black, she supposed. She had been deliberately cool over the past week, so perhaps it was not so surprising that he had responded with a cold shoulder.

“Something wrong,
bella?”
Marco was trying to follow her gaze.

“No … just thinking.” She touched his sleeve. “Come, let us take a stroll on the terrace. We’ll have more privacy to talk.”

“Not to speak of stirring up a bit of gossip.” He lowered his voice and leaned in a touch closer. “People are already staring.”

“All the better.”

The brass torchieres cast a flickering glow over the stone balusters and slate tiles. A light breeze set the flames to dancing, their movements matching the melody drifting out from the ballroom. Marco took her arm, and after promenading the length of the walkway, he chose a prominent position at the railing, in full view of the French doors.

“How are things progressing?” he asked softly.

“A good deal slower than I would like,” she replied. “I have met several members of the Scarlet Knights but have yet to manage a more intimate acquaintance.” Staring out at the shadowed garden, she expelled a sharp sigh. “I wish Lord Lynsley had given me more than vague hints and suspicions. I feel as if I am fencing with specters.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself,
bella.
Things will shape up soon enough. You have done well to establish yourself in Society so quickly.”

“You think so?” She was not so certain. For some reason, she was feeling unsettled this evening, even though the introduction to Lady Sommers was a step forward.

Noting the edge to her voice, Marco cocked his head. “You are sure you do not have anything else that is troubling you?”

“No.” Even if she wished to confide in her friend, she was not quite sure how to express the strange flutterings inside her. A Merlin did not allow any distractions from her duty. The mission was all that mattered, not her own personal puzzlings over Lord Osborne.