Page 19 of The Scarlet Spy (Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Extraordinary Young Ladies #3)

Chapter Nineteen

L eaving 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 townhouse. The items were naught but a rather boring assortment of marble fragments. Sculpted of solid stone, they were of all 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 story. She cared—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 straitlaced 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 give 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 about 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 overbright 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 flash a farewell wave. “ 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 key holders, 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 townhouse and set off on foot in the direction of the Park. A prickling of foreboding ran down Osborne’s 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.

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 townhouse terrace, where thick vines of ivy rose up to the slate gables.

His earlier surveillance of her bedchambers and its surroundings had revealed the thin ledge of Portland stone running the length of the building just below the window casements. He flexed his hands. It had been a while since he had scaled the cliffs around Badajoz, but he was not yet in his dotage. Slowly, silently, he worked his way up through the curling greenery, given thanks that the angle of the setting sun wreathed the gardens in shade.

The day was still warm, and with any luck, Sofia’s window would be open to the breeze . . .

“The crimson silk, milady?” The maid’s question floated out clear as a bell. “Are you sure? If things go wrong, it won’t provide much camouflage.”

Osborne heard Sofia laugh. “If things go wrong, I’ll likely not make it out to the streets. But let us look at the brighter side—red is far more alluring than indigo, and as I mean to draw the enemy into making a fatal mistake, I’ll take the chance.

So, he had been right about her plans.

“Very well, milady. But as a precaution, I ought to know where you are going, in order to pass on the information to Lord Lynsley.”

“Agreed,” replied Sofia. “De Winton named a place called The Puff of Paradise, in Southwark. As for information, the marquess can find all of my notes, locked in the secret compartment of my escritoire drawer. The key is hidden beneath the velvet cushion of my jewel case.”

The Puff of Paradise. Osborne had heard rumors of the exotic opium den. It would not be too hard to find.

“I will inform him, if necessary,” said the maid. “Do stop fidgeting, milady. As it is, we have our work cut out for us to have you ready to leave at eight.”

“Forgive me, Rose. I find it hard to sit still, now that the time for action is finally near.”

“I understand.” Osborne heard the click of metal on metal. “You are taking your pistol, I presume?”

“Along with several blades,” said Sofia. “I shall have a choice of weapons at my fingertips . . .”

Having heard enough, Osborne started to inch away from the mullioned glass.

“What was that?” Sofia’s voice rose a notch. “I heard something stirring outside.”

“A dove, no doubt,” said Rose. “Don’t move—I’m using the forged steel hairpins, in case you have need to pick a lock.”

“I’ve my key,” quipped Sofia. “Let us hope it will open the way to shutting down this evil operation.”

Osborne heard no more as he made his way to the far end of the building before slipping back down to earth. He had now a time and a place. Come hell or high water, Sofia was not going into the night alone.

“How very interesting.” Sofia regarded the arched door. Screened from the main room of the opium den by a line of potted palms, the oiled teakwood was an intricately carved panel of eye-popping erotic scenes. Men with ruby-tipped phalluses. Women with pink diamonds between their legs. Sexual positions that must have required years of yoga training. . . .

“It’s designed to put everyone in the mood for what pleasures lie inside,” leered Sforza.

“The patrons seem to need little added encouragement to enjoy themselves,” observed Sofia. Squinting through the haze of smoke and fizzled light, she saw that a goodly number of gentlemen were already occupying the velvet cushioned banquettes. Scrims of colored silks hung from the ceiling, their sinuous shapes dancing in the flickering flames of brass braziers and latticed lanterns. “Do you turn a good profit? ”

Sforza snickered. “They pay an arm and a leg for admittance.”

Those were not the only appendages involved, noted Sofia. The barmaids serving drinks were all naked as newborns, and some of the men had already followed suit.

“The place makes an obscene amount of money—like all our ventures,” went on the Italian. “Our leader is a genius when it comes to?—”

“Upstairs is by invitation only,” interruptedDe Winton, signaling the hulking porter to undo the latch. “For special guests. We have our own private room. Come, let us show you. The others will be along shortly.”

Sofia stepped into the dark stairwell. Inside her glove, the gold key pressed hard against her palm. What did it unlock? She still didn’t have a clue, and would have to go on very carefully. A stumble at this stage of the game could put the whole mission in jeopardy.

“Turn to the left at the top of the stairs.” De Winton’s voice had an otherworldly quality to it. Was the potent perfume and exotic incense already affecting her head? Sofia covered her nose and tried to draw in a breath of fresh air.

The stairwell opened up to a large octagonal entrance hall. A velvet curtain cloaked each of the corners, but from the sounds of gurgled laughter floating through the air, she guessed that there were a number of pleasure rooms hidden behind the draperies.

“In here.” De Winton beckoned for her to pass through the folds of shimmering scarlet.

Candlelight cast a reddish glow over the tasseled floor cushions and thick Persian carpets. A glance around showed that the walls were hung with iridescent silks in jeweltone shades of topaz and amethyst. A matching pair of gilded wood screens angled out from the back corners, and set in the very center of the room was a low divan, covered in a sumptuous Moroccan leather.

A pleasure palace, indeed , thought Sofia, half expecting a genie to pop out of the ornate oil lamp hanging overhead.

“Here is your change of clothing.” De Winton handed her a set of folded garments. “You may change behind the far screen, while we use this one.”

Sofia stared down at the gauzy garments in dismay. Damn. She doubted the flimsy material would hide her weapons.

“Yes, relax and get comfortable, contessa,” added Sforza. “We want to make sure you enjoy your experience with us.”

She would have to change plans along with her attire. A wry twist came to her lips as she shook out the set of harem pantaloons and sleeveless blouson. It looked as if she would have no choice but to fight with her bare hands if it came down to a struggle. Given the sheerness of the silk, she might as well be donning nothing at all.

Smoothing the folds into some semblance of modesty, she stepped out from behind the shelter of the screen, leaving her own clothing and weapons wrapped together in a neat roll.

“You looking ravishing, contessa” said Sforza, with a broad wink at De Winton. Both men had slipped into flowing Bedouin robes tied at the waist with a scarlet sash.

“Good enough to eat,” he agreed. “Have a seat. I’ll call for the refreshments to be brought in.” He punctuated his words with a loud clap. “Gulmesh!”

Sofia eyed the empty cushions as she sat down. “Should we not wait for the others?”

De Winton waved off the question. “There’s been a delay. We are to start without them.”

“They will be coming, won’t they?” she probed. “My friends in Venice speak so highly of your organization. I am anxious to meet everyone. Especially the man in charge.”

Sforza laughed. “What makes you think our head is a man? A clever little hussy like you is proof enough that females can possess the cunning of a Machiavelli.”

Sofia felt her mouth go a bit dry. Was he merely playing games with her? Or was there a possibility she had missed a key clue? Feeling their eyes upon her, she covered her confusion with a show of bravado. “Of course we are clever and cunning—we have to be, in order to get anywhere in a man’s world.”

“A toast to the feminine mind.” De Winton uncorked one of the bottles that the servant had brought in. “You must try our special blend of brandy and cognac.” A splash of amber spirits filled her glass.

“I brought along a rare vintage from Tuscany,” said Sforza. “Have a taste, Adam and tell me what you think.” He poured two portions of the red wine. “ Cin cin .”

The fortified brandy was cloyingly sweet. Sofia choked down a swallow as she regrouped her thoughts. “Let me take a guess. Lady Guilford seems to possess some talent.”

“Only in the boudoir. Her mind is not nearly as dexterous as her hands,” replied Sforza. “Guess again.”

Before she could speak, the servant reappeared, this time bearing a tray of Oriental water pipes. The inlaid brass took on a coppery glow in the lamplight, and the coiled hoses, with their carved amber mouthpieces, looked like cobras rising out of the shadows.

With a slow flourish, De Winton reached into his robes and withdrew three gold boxes. “You are, of course, familiar with the ritual from Venice. Each of the keys unlocks an individual box, and inside it is a share of the monthly profits, divided according to how many shares each member owns.” He set them on the divan. “But seeing as this is your first meeting, and your share of the London operations has yet to be worked out, we decided to prepare a special treat for you. An initiation, if you will, into our Society.”

“It is an honor to be admitted to your company,” murmured Sofia, trying to think of a way to keep the guessing game alive. “But?—”

De Winton pushed one of the boxes her way. “But of course, you must show us that your key fits, and is not a well-made fake. There is only one craftsman who knows the secret of cutting in the correct grooves to open the locking mechanisms.”

Holding her breath, Sofia inserted her key and gave it a turn.

Snick .

The lid popped open. Inside, lying on a bed of rose petals, was a sticky substance rolled in the rough shape of a ball. Its color was a deep cinnamon, speckled with poppy red flecks.

“Opium of the highest grade,” said De Winton softly. “Mixed with our little secret additions to give it an added punch.”

“Let me show you how to use it.” Sforza took up the razor-sharp knife from the tray and shaved off a few thick curls into the bowl of her pipe. Next to it was a small bowl filled with glowing coals. “You take the tongs and hold a coal like so.”

De Winton polished the pipe’s mouthpiece on his sleeve, then handed it to her. “Abracadabra. Now, you simply take a puff of pleasure.”

With a languid laugh, Sofia drew in a mouthful of the pungent smoke, trying to use her yoga training to inhale as little of it as possible. Concentration. Control. She must keep her wits about her.

“Sweet,” she said, expelling her breath with a soft sigh. “Won’t you join me in a taste?”

Both men had already fired up their own pipes. “No, your portion is a very rare and costly blend.” It was De Winton who answered. “It’s for you to savor, compliments of our leader.”

Ah, finally the chance to turn the tables in her favor. Reaching across the divan, Sofia teased a caress to De Winton’s hand. “My dear Adam, I am beginning to fear that I have fallen out of your good graces. Have you decided to favor your mystery lady over me?” She pursed a provocative pout. “Tell me the name of my rival, so that I may know whose charms I must compete with.”

“You still haven’t figured it out?”

The opium had to be a powerful narcotic, for even with exercising extreme care, Sofia felt a wave of dizziness wash over her. “Give me another hint,” she coaxed.

Perhaps it was the sweetness of the perfumed smoke, but the only female that came to mind was the young widow. Serena Sommers? Surely not. Despite her slightly naughty parties, Serena had a certain air of innocence about her. A daughter of privilege, she had been pampered, protected all of her life. The idea of her as the mastermind of a criminal organization seemed crazy.

“I’ll do more than that,” said De Winton. The candles flickered in a sudden swirl of air, setting off a strange flare in his gaze.

No doubt her own eyes looked filled with fire.

“We owe this all to Lady Serena Sommers,” he went on.

“I confess, I wouldn’t have guessed her capable of putting together such a complex organization,” answered Sofia. “I see I underestimated her.”

“Many people do.” Through a puff of smoke gleamed a pearly flash of teeth. “She looks so dainty and demure, doesn’t she? But then, we all know that looks can be deceiving.”

“Indeed,” she agreed, ignoring the veiled innuendo of De Winton’s words. When in doubt, it was best to brazen out any suspicions. “Most people see Roxbury as a glorified clerk, and Andover as a mere shopkeeper, but they obviously have brains and a bold imagination. Concord has connections with influential politicians, while Neville has made friends with many of the wealthy peers in Town. And with your Italian friends supplying the ships and the banking connections . . .”

“So you figured that out for yourself?” said De Winton. “I commend you, contessa. You are very clever, too.”

His answer was final confirmation of her surmises. She now knew all the names for sure. The hard part was over. From here, it was simply a matter of getting back to Lynsley, as soon as she found an excuse to absent herself.

If only she didn’t feel so lethargic . . .

“Yesshhh. I hope to play a large role in your future p-plansshh.” Sofia realized she was slurring.

“We’ll see.” De Winton added more of the special opium to her pipe and fanned its burn to a red hot glow.

“I . . . I . . .” she stuttered. Her words dissolved in a fit of giggles. Somehow the inability to speak seemed funny. The room began to spin. Things were suddenly blurry . . .

The last thing Sofia heard as she slumped to the floor was De Winton’s throaty laughter joining with hers.