Page 17 of The Scarlet Spy (Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Extraordinary Young Ladies #3)

Chapter Seventeen

“ T attooed women?” Major Fenimore stretched out his legs and signaled the club porter to bring more claret. “I take it this is some sort of jest.”

“No, I’m deadly serious,” replied Osborne. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Within the atmosphere of White’s—a decidedly masculine mix of cigar smoke, leather, and gruff laughter—the suggestion did sound absurdly fanciful. However, he refused to be silenced by his friend’s wagging brow. “Look, it’s rather important.”

“Very well, I’ll ask around,” said the major. “But you will owe me a rather big favor, seeing as I’ll likely end up the butt of ridicule.”

“Agreed.” Slanting a glance around the reading room, Osborne muttered, “Anyone else I might approach?”

“Without thinking you ought to be hauled off to Bedlam?” Fenimore rubbed at his jaw. “I suppose you could search out Porter and see what he knows on the subject. There was an incident in Antwerp a year ago involving a female that was all very hush-hush.”

“Does he still favor that gaming hell off St. James’s?”

“As far as I know.”

Osborne rose abruptly.

“You haven’t finished your wine.”

“Sorry. I’m in a bit of a rush tonight. Put the bottle on my bill.” Leaving his friend looking a bit miffed, he hurried out to the street and flagged down a passing hackney.

It took several stops, but Osborne finally tracked Captain Joshua Porter to a place in Seven Dials favored by the House Guards. The officer was engaged in a heated game of dice, but a few whispered words convinced him to relinquish the ivories for a short while.

“This had better be important,” groused Porter. “I was on a winning streak.”

“A matter of life and death,” assured Osborne, thinking of the street thugs and their flashing blades. “And a certain lady . . .”

A family resemblance? Sofia stared at the looking glass, wishing for some tangible proof of her suspicions. A black tattoo marked her as a Merlin—if only there was some equally indelible badge of birthright.

Sighing, she dropped her eyes to the locket, musing on vagaries of fortune and family. It could be mere coincidence rather than any real proof of her parentage. There were a myriad of explanations for how the aging prostitute who had sheltered her as a child might have come by the bauble. As for her resemblance to the portrait . . .

Sofia smoothed down the lace ruffle of her nightrail and took another long look at her own reflection. No question that the raven dark hair and green eyes were similar, but other than that, it was impossible to say for sure. Was there a shade of Elizabeth Woolsey’s smile in her own lips? A similar slant in the cheekbones? The truth was already burred by an artist’s interpretation, the passage of time, the fading of memory.

Even the duke might see only what he wanted to see.

As for the story of how she had come to the rundown bawdy house, Sofia had no idea of how much was fact and how much was fiction. Sally Edwards, the lightskirt in question, had a romantic streak, as evidenced by her taking responsibility for a child, despite the hardships of her profession.

Sally had always claimed that her sister Mary had arrived one night, bearing a baby and a tale straight out of a penny sheet novel. Her employers—a high born young couple cast out by their families for eloping—had succumbed to sudden epidemic of influenza. On her death bed, the mother had passed the locket to Mary, along with a name. But as chance would have, Mary had sickened too, and by the time she had made her way to alleyways of St. Giles, she was too ill, too rambling to recall what it was.

Sally’s sister had not survived the night, but the story had taken on a life of its own. Sofia felt her lips quirk up at the corners. The other lightskirts had all called her ‘Princess’, and loved to talk about how someday a handsome prince would ride up to rescue her from the sordid streets of the slums.

Sofia sighed. Perhaps she really was a highborn lady. And perhaps the prostitute had merely woven a fanciful fairy tale around a locket she had found in the muck.

The truth might never be known. She, of all people, knew how elusive absolutes could be. Her training had taught that often one had to be pragmatic and accept that life was not always so clearly defined.

Her two roommates had been tough enough never to brood over their unknown bloodlines. Maybe because they had never possessed any tantalizing link to their past. Sofia wasn’t sure whether her talisman was a blessing or a curse. Sometimes the painted portrait only mirrored the sense of elemental loss and pain she felt at having been abandoned—not once, but twice. Sally Edwards had been a kind yet casual guardian. When the chance arose to retire and return to her native Yorkshire, the lightskirt had been frank about the fact that a child could not fit into such a future.

Well, she was just as tough as her fellow Merlins. She had survived by making herself strong in both body and spirit.

Snapping the gold case shut, Sofia carefully coiled the chain and tucked the locket back into her jewel case. She could not afford to become entangled in personal questions when there were so many other conundrums and conjectures to sort out.

Don’t think of the past or the future. Only the present.

Tomorrow would certainly test her skills. After reading over the paper discovered in Lord Robert’s antique, she had decided to break the normal chain of communication and request a face-to-face meeting with Lord Lynsley. He would not take the change lightly—her instincts had better be right about the urgency of the matter.

But however intimidating, the marquess was not her most formidable challenge. Later in the day, she was also due to promenade in the park with De Winton. So, rather than expend her strength fretting over her heritage, she must harden her heart and sharpen her steel for the coming confrontations. The duke was wrong—she was a woman and a warrior.

And as a well-trained soldier, she knew it was best to fight one battle at a time.

“I can’t tell you more than that.”

“Can’t or won’t?” snapped Osborne, who was growing tired of being held at arm’s length by everyone around him.

Porter made a face. “Don’t bite my head off. I am as much in the dark as you are about what really happened in the alleyway. Our operative swears it was a lady who appeared out of nowhere to save his life. A lady who looked like an angel and fought like a devil.”

The description certainly sounded familiar.

“But you know Whitehall,” continued the captain. “Everyone in that warren of weasels seems to keep his activities a closely guarded secret, even from the other departments. You would think that General Burrand’s staff was the enemy, the way they withhold vital information from us.”

“I know exactly how you feel,” murmured Osborne. “Though I suppose that intelligence is a tricky business. They must be careful about who knows what.”

“What they should be careful about is sticking their heads too far up their arses,” replied Porter with some sarcasm. “By the by, you have not yet said exactly why Lord Lynsley sent you to ask about Antwerp.”

“Something to do with smuggling and a foreign princess in distress, I believe,” replied Osborne, the half-lies slipping smoothly from his tongue. He flashed a self-deprecating smile. “But then, I’m just the errand boy. He doesn’t tell me much.”

Porter gave a bark of laughter. “To hell with him then.” The rattle and roll of the dice grew more rapid. The captain flexed his fingers, clearly itching to rejoin the game. “Care to stay and try your hand? Maybe Lady Luck will treat you better.”

“Perhaps some other time. I have a few more inquiries I wish to make.” Osborne turned to go. “Just one last question. Did your operative happen to mention whether his guardian angel had a tattoo of a hawk in flight above her left breast?”

Through the scrim of cigar smoke, he saw the captain’s eyes widen.

“Bloody hell, no. And trust me, I would not soon forget that bit of information.”Porter fingered his chin. “But come to think of it, I once heard a rumor . . .” His words trailed off.

“No doubt it’s just that—a rumor,” said Osborne after it became obvious that the captain had nothing more to add. “Thank you for your time. Good luck in your games.”

Suddenly weary of chasing in circles, he returned to the waiting hackney and gave the orders to return home. He had learned precious little from the experts.

Come morning, he would have to come up with a new strategy.

Rose tapped lightly on the door. “He is here, and waiting in the kitchen, madam.”

Sofia turned away from the window, leaving a palm print on the misted mullioned glass. Fog still shrouded the garden, silver-grey in the cold dawn light. Lord Lynsley must have risen well before sunrise to make such an early meeting. He would expect a compelling reason as to why.

Had emotion clouded her judgment? She took a deep breath and marshaled her thoughts before hurrying downstairs. Duty was not always sharply defined. Hazed by ever-shifting shadows, the lines often blurred.

It took her a moment to recognize the marquess. In contrast to his usual sartorial elegance, Lynsley was clad in tattered moleskin and soot-streaked canvas. He appeared every inch the coalmonger come to collect the monthly bill—right down to the filthy rags he was unwrapping from around his fingertips.

She didn’t care to speculate what substances were embedded beneath his normally pristine nails.

“Sorry to put you to such trouble, sir,” began Sofia, then stopped short with a strangled cough. “Er, on second thought, maybe I should keep my distance—and not simply because of I am in awe of your air of lordly authority.” She sniffed again. “What is that disgusting smell?”

“You do not find L’eau de Rotten Cabbage to your taste?” said Lynsley with a straight face. “It has taken my valet considerable effort to perfume my person with such a distinctive scent.”

Suddenly worried that he might think her remark impertinent, Sofia stammered another apology. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean?—”

“No apology is necessary. I am not so starchy that I can’t be tweaked by my agents in the field,” he went on. “You are quite right—the smell is disgusting. But it encourages my fellow pedestrians to hurry by without a passing glance.”

“Yes, sir—no, sir,” she mumbled. Despite his self-deprecating smile, it was hard to view the marquess as anything other than a commanding presence. Though he no longer took an active role in clandestine missions, the stories of his youthful exploits was the stuff of legend at the Academy.

“At ease, Sofia. You are a full-fledged Merlin, and as such, there is no need to stand on ceremony.” He gestured for her to sit down at the work table. The cook and the kitchen maid had withdrawn to the scullery, giving them plenty of privacy. “I presume from Rose’s message that you have something urgent to pass on.”

“Yes, sir.” This time she said it with more authority. Determined to show herself worthy of his assessment, Sofia quickly passed over the paper she had discovered in Lord Robert’s antique and launched into her well-rehearsed explanation for the meeting. “I would have sent this along through the usual channel, but given your schedule at Whitehall, I feared you might not receive it in time. You see, though it’s mostly in code, there appears to be a date.” She pointed out the penciled numerals. “Which is the day after the morrow. It may be some sort of delivery or shipment, so I decided that you would want to know about it as soon as possible.”

The marquess studied the writing for what seemed like an age.

Perhaps she had overreacted, thought Sofia. In which case, Lynsley would have good reason to regret his choice of agents.

Looking up, Lynsley slowly tucked the paper inside his coat. “Good thinking.”

She released a pent-up breath.

“The code seems to be based on a Vigenère Square, rather than a Caesar shift,” he continued. “Still, it should be rather simple to break. I know a cryptographer—a real Italian contessa, by the by—who is very good at this sort of thing. She will have it transcribed in a matter of hours.”

Encouraged by his praise, Sofia ventured a question. “Any luck with uncovering incriminating evidence against the list of suppliers I found in the snuff box?”

“Not as yet,” responded marquess. “But based on what you have discovered so far, we have been able to trace just how far their web of corruption has spread.” The lines etched around his ice blue eyes grew more pronounced. “From phantom shipments of woolen blankets to faulty munitions and spoiled beef, this group is making obscene profits by providing our military with substandard or nonexistent essentials. Your work has been invaluable in providing specific names, both of the key conspirators and the companies they do business with. I have no doubt that it is simply a matter of time before we have the proof we need to make them pay for their perfidy.”

“I know that learning the identity of the ringleader is imperative to putting a stop to the conspiracy, sir,” said Sofia. “And I have reason to think I shall have it for you very soon.”

“It would be a great help to know who is the head of the operation,” he agreed. “But not at any cost, Sofia. These men are extremely clever—and extremely ruthless. Be very careful how you go on from here. I would rather you didn’t take any undue risk to learn the information.”

“Don’t worry, sir. Unlike my former roommates, I am ruled by reason and restraint. I won’t do anything rash.”

Lynsley fixed her with a pensive stare.

Sofia couldn’t help wondering what he saw. A Merlin who could not quite match the fight and fire of her comrades?

His fingers drummed softly upon the scarred wood for several long moments before he went on. “And then there is the matter of Osborne.”

The sudden shift in subject took her by surprise. Still, she managed to keep her composure. “Yes?”

Again there was a pause. “What are your impressions of the man?”

Lynsley was asking her ?

She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Was this some sort of test? Did the marquess expect her to confess her tryst? A glance at his profile revealed naught but a lopsided streak of grease across his cheekbone. He was a master of hiding his emotions—a skill she decided to emulate.

As he had reminded her, she was not a callow schoolgirl anymore, but an agent who had been given the responsibility of making life and death decisions in the field. She wouldn’t lie. But nor would she volunteer her methods.

“I would say he is a man of honor and integrity,” she answered.

“Trustworthy?”

Her gaze locked with his. “Beyond a doubt.”

“Yes, I had come to the same conclusion before I enlisted his help.” Lynsley rubbed at his unshaven jaw. “It isn’t often that I call in an outsider to be part of a Merlin’s mission, but in this case, the situation was unique.” A wry sigh punctuated the sound of the kettle boiling on the stove. “However, it seems I underestimated Osborne’s tenacity. And his personal passions.”

A flush started to steal over her cheeks. “Osborne’s actions are not really personal, sir. He has a stubborn notion of chivalry, though I’ve assured him that I am capable of looking out for myself.”

“So I have noticed,” murmured Lynsley. “My ears are still blistered from the peal he rang over my head.”

To her chagrin, her skin grew warmer. “If you are wondering whether he will be a distraction, don’t worry. I can deal with both Osborne and the Scarlet Knights.”

“I’m not questioning your competence, Sofia. But a wise general knows that fighting on two fronts is always a risky division of resources. He tapped his fingertips together. “I would, of course, greatly prefer to keep this mission a secret between ourselves. But given how much Osborne knows already, and how much damage could be caused by misunderstandings, I leave the decision of what to tell him to you, Sofia.”

“I . . . I will do my best to make the right decision, sir.”

No amount of street grime could dull the intensity of Lynsley’s sapphirine gaze. ”I am counting on it.” He rose and reached for his hat. “Now, if that’s all, I shall return home for breakfast.” A drizzle of coal dust and rotten cabbage fell from its brim. “And a bath.”

As the hour for her carriage ride with De Winton drew closer, Sofia was still brooding over the early morning meeting. There were a number of unanswered questions . . .

Rose added a last hairpin and stepped back. “Shall you wear the shako or the chip straw bonnet with the emerald ribbon?”

“You go ahead and choose,” she replied, averting her gaze from the looking glass. Lynsley’s trust was both flattering and frightening. Decisions, decisions—she couldn’t afford to make the tiniest err in judgment.

The maid eyed her with some concern. “Did you not sleep well, milady? You are looking a trifle peaked.”

“Lord Lynsley is anxious to have this mission resolved as soon as possible,” she replied obliquely, unwilling to admit to any weakness of body or spirit. Rose was likely asked to report on any wavering.

“He wants every mission completed without delay. But not at the risk of an agent pushing herself too hard. That is how mistakes are made. Perhaps you ought to delay your outings for a day or two?—”

“No.” Sofia shook her head. “I dare not put off Lord De Winton. In many ways, he holds the key to my success.” She did not elaborate. Nor did Rose expect her to do so. “I must whet his appetite, make him think that he is close to tasting my charms.”

“Then let us ensure that you are a feast for the eyes.”The maid made a few adjustments to the tumble of curls then chose the shako and set it at a jaunty angle.

The curling ostrich feathers kissed Sofia’s cheek, creating a look that was both saucy and seductive. “You are a magician,” she murmured as Rose added a touch of color to her lips.

Would that she could work her own magic on De Winton. Putting aside her other thoughts, she make herself concentrate on the task at hand. It was imperative that she coax her way back into his good graces. The coming meeting with the key holders could unlock the last little secret of the clandestine consortium. Armed with the names of the principals and the lists she had discovered in the antiquities, Lynsley would be in a position to shut down the operation and bring the miscreants to justice.

All she needed was to learn the identity of the leader.

Rose arranged a lush pink Kashmir shawl over the shoulders of her azure blue carriage dress. “There—that ought to make the man’s mouth water.”

“The trick will be to stay just out of reach of his teeth,” murmured Sofia.

“Trust in yourself, milady, and you will be more than a match for any predator,” said her maid.

“Right.” Sofia hefted her velvet reticule as if it were a weapon. “Time to go.”

“Her ladyship is not at home, milord.”

Aware of Sofia’s afternoon date with a mantua maker, Osborne was ready for the butler’s response. “Yes, she did mention she had an earlier appointment in Bond Street.” He made a show of consulting his pocket watch. “Ah, it appears I’m a touch early. I’ll wait, if you don’t mind.”

The man blinked, but slowly stepped aside and gestured for him to enter the townhouse. “Very good, sir.”

“The parlor will be fine.” Osborne started across the marble tiles before the butler could direct him to the drawing room. “The lady and I do not stand on ceremony.”

“A glass of port or sherry, sir?” asked the man, following on his heels. “Or tea?”

Osborne picked up a book on Roman antiquities and began thumbing through the pages. “No, thank you. Her Ladyship has been asking for my opinion of these engravings, so I’ll just take a seat and have a quiet study until she returns.”

Taking the hint, the butler nodded gravely and drew the door silently shut behind him.

Osborne waited for several minutes before setting the volume aside and easing the latch open. The hall was deserted, and through the curve of carved balusters, the stairs looked clear as well. He slipped out and hurried up the carpeted treads. From casual conversation, he knew that Sofia’s bedchamber was at the back of the townhouse, overlooking the garden. At this time of day, the tweenies would be done with their charwork.

As for her lady’s maid . . .

Luck remained on his side. The quarters were empty. He would, however, have to work quickly to avoid the embarrassment of being caught in her rooms. His lips thinned to a wry grimace. He could claim an amorous assignation, which might satisfy a servant. The lady, however, was more likely to throw a punch to his jaw than invite him to slide between her sheets.

He cast a long look at the carved tester bed. Beneath the eiderdown coverlet and plump pillows was a tantalizing peek of creamy white linen, the delicate scalloped edges threaded with gossamer silk.

Tempting though it was to imagine Sofia’s long limbs stretched out among the folds, the rattle of a coal scuttle reminded him he had no time to waste in idle daydreams.

He was, after all, a man on a mission.

Moving on to the escritoire by the window, he checked the blotter and her letter case, then opened the top drawer and began a methodical search of its contents. How s trange , he thought, after riffling through the last little compartment. No passionate billet doux , no miniature of her late husband, no diary, no . . . nothing. For a lady who had friends and family abroad, she had no correspondence, no estate documents, no mementos from home.

It was as if her previous life had not existed.

Frowning, he circled around to the dressing tables. Other than a pair of scent bottles and a plain hairbrush and comb, the top was bare of the copious pots and potions he was used to seeing in a lady’s boudoir. Simple, spartan. A pin box and two leather jewel cases sat aligned in military precision along the edge of the gilt wood.

Osborne opened the first case. Glittering emeralds, rich rubies, lustrous pearls—it was no surprise that a contessa possessed a wealth of expensive necklaces and bracelets. Carefully smoothing the velvet flaps back in place, he refastened the clasp.

The second box held an equally impressive selection of ear bobs and jeweled pendants. He was just about to close the lid when his hand brushed up against a small gold locket, half hidden under a diamond-studded Maltese Cross.

The plain case, its worn surface nicked with age, looked very out of place among the sparkling baubles.

Curious, he clicked the cover open.

It might have been Sofia staring out at him, save that the painted features were a touch softer, a shade sadder.

Again, there was nothing terribly unusual in the fact that a young lady kept an heirloom locket with her mother’s portrait tucked away among her valuables.

And yet . . .

Osborne sat back heavily on the chinois chair. He had an excellent eye for art, and there was something about the faded image that drew a whisper from the depth of his throat

“Bloody hell.”

Fisting the filigree chain, he tucked the locket into his waistcoat pocket and quickly straightened up the tabletop. He had only a short walk to follow up on his hunch.

“You are looking very lovely, contessa,” said De Winton as he handed Sofia up to the seat of his high perch phaeton.

“How very kind of you to say so. I was afraid you might be angry over my little indiscretion the other night.” She deliberately settled her leg against his. “Osborne had been hounding me for some time. He wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

A flick of the whip set the horses into a brisk trot. “You did not look to be protesting too loudly,” he replied.

“Oh, come now, Adam, I never pretended to be a nun. And I don’t imagine that you are a monk.”

His mouth relaxed slightly. “Hardly. A life of pious celibacy would not be at all to my taste.”

“Exactly,” teased Sofia. It required all of her mental discipline to play the role of jaded flirt. The man was a depraved dastard, a party to murder and fraudall because of personal greed. She would much rather have thrashed him to within an inch of his life.

Instead, she held her outrage in check, knowing that by fighting deception with deception she could help bring all the miscreants to justice. “And speaking of taste, it is far more fun to sample a variety of treats, don’t you think, rather than stick to a steady diet of the same thing day after day?”

De Winton laughed at the innuendo. “Seeing as you had been absent from several parties, I thought that perhaps your appetite was satisfied by sweetness and sunshine.”

“It was merely embarrassment that kept me away. I was afraid I had given you the wrong impression.”

“You might have saved the first bite for me.” He eyed her with a wolfish leer. “So, you are still interested in finding out what special pleasures your key gives entree to here in London?”

“Oh, yes.” Sofia leaned in, close enough for her feathers to tickle his jaw. There was a softness to it shape—the pale skin reminded her of the underbelly of a cod—and the scent of his cologne had a decadent sweetness that nearly made her gag. “Very much so.”

Maneuvering his team through a tight turn, De Winton seemed to be taking a malicious satisfaction in drawing out the silence.

Did he wish for her to beg? Some men found it exhilarating to wield such power over a woman.

Summoning all her strength, Sofia edged her body a touch closer to his. The fight was no longer just a matter of principle. It was now personal. Among the victims of De Winton’s crimes could well have been her own cousin. She would consort with the devil himself to see justice done.

“Do say I am forgiven, Adam,” she murmured. “I am simply dying to know what you and your friends do behind locked doors.”

“Osborne won’t be invited.” His flash of teeth was likely meant as a smile. “Is that a problem?”

“None whatsoever,” she said.

“Good. The meeting is not yet set. I will let you know in a day or two when and where.”

“I can hardly wait.” Sofia stroked the folds of her skirts as she gave him a coy look. “Will I have a good time?”

De Winton laughed. “I promise it will be an experience that you won’t soon forget.”