Page 13 of The Scarlet Spy (Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Extraordinary Young Ladies #3)

Chapter Thirteen

B loody hell.

Osborne lifted his head from the carpet and winced. Lud, what the devil had hit him? Still groggy, he propped himself up on his elbows and looked around. His gaze locked on a squat bronze satyr lying close by. Was he really so clumsy? The recollections were awfully hazy. He had been holding a snuff box, but couldn’t quite recall what had happened next.

After studying the marble plinth from several angles, he frowned. The geometry made no sense at all. He would have had to fall face first into the damn thing, dislodge the statue, then spin around in the opposite direction. And yet, there was no other explanation, unless . . .

No. Impossible.

He rubbed gingerly at his jaw. In any case, the contessa had a great many questions to answer.

Osborne got to his feet and dusted his trousers. She might have won this skirmish, but she was greatly mistaken if she thought he would slink from the field without a further fight. Warfare often called for feints and diversions. He would retreat tonight, and let her imagine the battle was over.

For a female, she possessed an unusual array of martial skills. However, a lady unschooled in the art of actual combat was likely to underestimate the enemy.

Let them meet again, mano a mano, and then they would see who came out on top.

Sofia backtracked from her first hiding place in the kitchen pantries and took up a position in the servant stairwell, watching and waiting for Osborne to leave the study. She flexed her fist, hoping that she hadn’t hit him too hard.

She frowned. What if he was truly hurt? But after a moment of misgiving, she forced herself to squelch her sympathies. Duty came first. Osborne would have to take care of himself.

Finally, he emerged from the room, moving with a slight limp. It served him right for interfering, she told herself. And yet, Osborne had served as an unwitting ally in distracting De Winton and Concord. Things might have turned a good deal hotter had he not obliged with his passionate kisses.

Biting her lip, she looked around. Damn, it was risky. But she had to replace the snuffbox. Reading over the paper hidden inside had made the task even more imperative. The keyholders must not guess that she knew about this list. On it were the names of some suppliers, which Lynsley could begin to investigate. But what she needed was the names of the conspirators. And proof of their perfidy. Until then, she must give no hint that their operation was under suspicion.

Sofia saw no shiver of movement in the corridor, save for the flicker of the wall scones. No sound stirred from within any of the rooms. She waited a heartbeat longer, then satisfied that she was alone, Sofia eased the paneled door open.

It took only a few moments to replace the gold box at the bottom of the drawer. As the steel pick teased the lock back in place, she lifted her skirts and hurried to retrace her steps.

In and out. Just as the former jewel thief had demonstrated in the Academy classes.

But in her haste to be gone, Sofia did not notice the silk sweep a scrap of paper under the desk

For some reason, Osborne lingered on the sidewalk rather than heading for the corner where he might flag down a passing hackney. The fog had thickened, its clammy touchlike a chill finger at the back of his neck. Teasing a sense of prickling unease.

But then, any thoughts about Lady Sofia stirred the sensation of dagger points dancing across his flesh.

He turned and began walking, but after several strides he realized what was amiss. The lady’s carriage was nowhere to be seen. And yet, he had distinctly heard her taking leave of the group in the drawing room as he had let himself out through one of the side entrances. He hesitated, then reversed directions, moving lightly across the cobbles. The street was dark, deserted. Frowning, he took up position in the gated archway to the adjoining garden.

Perhaps she had other plans—an amorous assignation, another clandestine bit of thievery. It was none of his business, but curiosity kept him in place.

He had not long to wait. The townhouse door soon opened, and Lady Sofia—unmistakable in her stylish scarlet-trimmed hooded cloak—came down the marble steps. She was alone, and as she reached the curb and looked both ways, it seemed clear that the absence of her horses and driver was unexpected.

She waited a moment or two, a slim silhouette in the mizzle of moonlight, then turned for the alleyway leading back to the mews. Keeping close to garden wall, Osborne shadowed her steps. The contessa was just disappearing into the gloom when out of the corner of his eye, he caught a sudden ripple of movement from up the side street.

A pack of men materialized from the mists, running swiftly, silently over the slick cobbles.

Footpads.

Calling a warning, he raced into the alleyway and shoved Sofia against the wall. “Stay back,” he ordered, squaring himself to meet the attack. Four against one. Not the best of odds, especially as he was unarmed. He tightened his grip on his walking stick and dropped to a defensive crouch. Like them, he had no intention of fighting fair.

“Run, Lady Sofia,” he muttered. “To the mews, or out to Queen Street.” Surrounded as they were by walled gardens on either side, there was little chance of anyone hearing a cry for help.

The lead footpad slowed to a walk on spotting him. “Get out of the way, lest ye want yer fancy throat slit from ear te ear.”

“And leave the lady alone with you filth?” replied Osborne. “I think not.”

The footpad’s cohorts closed ranks to block any escape “Filth?” snarled one of them. “It’s yer golden locks that will soon be soaking up the muck.”

Osborne saw a glint of a knife.

“Jem, you and ‘arry see to the bitch. Me and Bill will take care of this toff.”The leader flicked a menacing slash. “Use yer blades rather than yer barking irons. No need to risk waking the street with a shot.”

Likely not, thought Osborne grimly. But perhaps he could hold them off long enough for the contessa to raise the alarm. He fell back a step and let his hands drop, feigning a look of fear.

Damn. Why wasn’t the lady running for her life?

He shifted sideways, hoping to give her an extra second to slip away, but as the leader lunged out with a vicious slash, he had no more time for reflection. The sharpened steel was only inches from his chest when Osborne jerked up his stick and swung it down hard. Wood cracked against bone, sending the weapon flying. He ducked under the outstretched arm and smashed his knee hard into the other man’s groin.

A scream shattered the silence and the leader dropped like a stone.

Osborne hit the ground as well, rolling to avoid a flailing kick. As his hand closed over the fallen knife, he saw a flash of red.

“Run, dammit!”

Sofia had flung off her cape and wrapped the thick wool around her arm. Using the makeshift shield, she was fending off the feints and slashes of her two assailants. Osborne swore again. Was she mad? Pitted against the two hulking brutes armed with cudgels and knives, she had as much chance of survival as a lamb being led to slaughter. In another instant . . .

Before he could make a move, Sofia suddenly spun forward in a blur of whirling limbs and flaring skirts. One elbow caught the nearest man flush on the throat. He staggered back with a gurgling gasp, only to have a stiff-armed jab send him careening into the brick wall. Dazed, he slid down to his knees, blood spurting from his broken nose.

“Poxy slut!” The other man flung himself at her, but his snarl segued into a howl of pain. A flick of her wrist, a twist of her hip, and he was jerked off his feet and thrown head over heels to the ground.

Osborne scrambled to his feet, just in time to parry the attack from fourth footpad. Steel clashed against steel as their knives crossed. He countered with a swift slice that nearly struck home. But then a fist clipped his cheek, and the man scrambled back, circling warily to his right.

Osborne edged along with him, eyes intent on the razored blade.

“Osborne!” Sofia called a warning.

He looked around to see that the leader had recovered his footing and was pulling a pistol from his coat.

At the same time, Sofia snatched up the fallen cudgel and lashed out at the man’s head. He managed to dodge the blow, but the stumble threw off his aim. The bullet exploded against the bricks high overhead, sending down a harmless shower of shards.

“Shoot the bloody she-devil,” he bellowed.

Osborne had already flattened Broken Nose with a right cross to the jaw. As for the others . . .

Whipping around, he saw that Sofia had followed up her first slash with a lightning flurry of sword strokes. Giroste, cavazione, contrapostura . His jaw dropped slightly. By god, the lady wielded her weapon like a Death’s Head Hussar. Had the stick been a saber, the men would have been chopped into mincemeat. As it was, their upraised arms were likely purpling with bruises as they were forced to retreat in the face her onslaught.

A light suddenly lit in one of the townhouses across the street. Then another.

“The Charleys will soon be here,” snarled the leader. “Let’s be off.” Grabbing the collar of their fallen comrade, the two others hauled him to his feet. Hurling a last volley of curses, they fled back into the night

“Sticks and stones may break my bones,” mutteredOsborne. He flexed his aching fist, then turned to Sofia. Both of them were breathless, and bleeding from a number of small cuts. “Are you injured, contessa?”

Sofia shook her head and dropped the cudgel. “What about you?” Stepping to his side, she reached up and touched a fingertip to the corner of his mouth.

“Nothing to speak of.” Looking down, he saw her gown was ripped in several places. “You are sure you are not hurt? In the heat of battle, injuries often go unnoticed . . .” As he smoothed at the silk, a ruffle slipped, baring her left breast.

Osborne stared at the tiny tattoo of a hawk in flight, not quite believing his eyes. Its jet black wings stirred a sudden recollection of strange rumors that had floated through General Burrand’s headquarters a year ago. Rumors that, at the time, he had dismissed as preposterous flights of fancy.

Feeling a bit dizzy, he lifted his gaze to Sofia’s face.

Her lashes fluttered, blurring her expression.

“That mark,” he whispered. “I have heard stories about?—”

Swearing softly, Sofia hurried fixed her bodice. “Before you fly to any conclusions, we must talk, sir.” She darted a look around. “But not now. We must be gone from here, and quickly, to avoid being caught up in any scandal.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow at?—”

“No, it must be tonight,” he countered, determined that this time she would not evade him so easily. “I’ll slip into your garden through the back gate. Leave your conservatory door unlocked.”

The distant shout of a night watchman drew a reluctant nod from her. “Very well.”

Not daring to linger any longer, Osborne cut through the mews and led the way out into the adjoining side street, where he quickly flagged down a hackney to take her home.

“Until later,” he murmured.

“Give me an hour to dismiss my servants for the night,” she replied. “Then we shall have a . . . council of war.”