Page 22 of The Scarlet Spy (Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Extraordinary Young Ladies #3)

Chapter Twenty-Two

O sborne reined the lathered horses to halt outside the red brick townhouse. Not a flicker of light shone at any of the windows. Was he too late ? De Winton and his henchmen would have had plenty of time to make their murderous way from Southwark to Mayfair.

His hands fisted as he slipped down from the driver’s box and edged through the open entrance gate. He had not thought to ask for a weapon at the Rake’s Retreat. He would have to rely on stealth and speed rather than steel.

So far, there was no sign of the Scarlet Knights.

Making his way around to the back of the house, Osborne found the gap in the boxwood bushes and crept across the garden terrace to the stretch of mullioned doors. They were all locked, but after wrapping his hand in his handkerchief, he punched out one of the windowpanes and drew back the bolt.

Still no sign of life. The crackle of broken glass did not appear to have roused any of thehousehold. After waiting a fraction longer, Osborne stepped over the shards and crossed through the Garden Room into the corridor. He turned into the entrance hall and was about to start up the staircase when a metallic click sounded right behind him.

“Stop where you are.”

He froze in his tracks. Given the darkness, and the upturned collar of the caped driving coat, it was no wonder the lady did not recognize him.

“Now turn slowly. And be warned—one false move and I’ll blow a hole through your heart.”

He did as she ordered. “Please hold your fire, Serena.”

“ Deverill ?”

Relief flooded through him on seeing her unharmed. “In the flesh,” he quipped, a crooked smile coming to his lips.

Her pistol was still aimed at his chest. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to warn you. I don’t mean to alarm you, but you are in grave danger.”

“Danger?” she repeated.

“Yes, I . . .” Osborne hesitated, unsure of how to explain the web of intrigue that had caught both of them in its design. “The story is a long one, and we haven’t much time. Please trust me when I tell you that De Winton and his friends are spawns of Satan. They tried to murder the contessa earlier this evening, and as we speak, they may be on the way here.”

Serena’s face looked ghostly pale in the light of her lone candle. “Lady della Silveri?—”

“Is safe for the moment,” he said quickly. “I have her hidden in an exclusive bordello near De Winton’s Puff of Paradise.”

“Forgive me, but what you are saying defies the imagination.”

“I know, I know.” Aware that his disheveled appearance was not helping to inspire much confidence, he tucked his hands into his pocket. Despite the handkerchief, he had cut himself on the jagged glass. The sight of blood might frighten her into pulling the trigger. “However, I assure you that it’s all true.”

“Those are very serious allegations, Deverill.” She bit at her lower lip, “I’m sorry. But before I can believe you, I’ll have to hear more of what proof you have.”

“I can’t say I blame you.” He darted a look out the rosette window. The street still looked to be deserted. But for how long? By now, De Winton and Sforza must have discovered that Sofia was not lying dead in one of the opium den’s boudoirs. “However, might I suggest that we find a more secure spot?”

“Let us go up to my private study.” Lady Serena gestured for him to continue up the stairs. “The door is quite thick and the lock is sturdy.”

He waited until she had lit the colza lamp on her desk before speaking again. “Serena, I am not drunk or deranged. Adam De Winton has reason to be seeking my demise—and yours.”

“Why?” She was maintaining a remarkably cool composure considering the circumstances.

“Because we both know too much about his activities here in Town.” The pistol was still pointed at him, but he couldn’t fault her for being cautious.

“He is not the only gentleman to dabble in drugs,” she replied. “I can’t see him trying to kill any of us over a bit of opium.”

“Be assured, it’s far more than a bit. But even so, that’s the least of his wrongdoings. His real operations involve a complex web of corruption and collusion that stretches from London to Bombay. You see, by substituting inferior goods, or faking phantom shipments to our armies abroad, he and his friends make an obscene profit on a number of large military contracts. That our soldiers go into battle with gunpowder that won’t fire or boots that fall apart in the dead of winter doesn’t bother him in the least.”

“H—how did you discover all this.”

“I didn’t,” he admitted. “It was Lady della Silveri who opened my eyes to what was going on.”

Serena frowned slightly. “How and why did she come to have an interest in De Winton’s affairs?” she mused.

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I am not at liberty to reveal the lady’s secrets. Suffice it to say, there is more to her than meets the eye.” He allowed a fleeting smile. “Indeed, her courage and cleverness are even more striking than her beauty.”

A spark of emotion seemed to flare in Serena’s eyes. Jealousy? He recalled with some guilt how his flirtations with her had become rather heated of late. Perhaps she had mistaken his attentions for a deeper, more serious sentiment on his part.

Or perhaps he had merely mistaken the flicker of lamplight on her golden lashes. For when she replied, her voice held no hint of hurt feelings. “So it seems. I take it she has proof of all this? Otherwise it will be only her word against De Winton’s. And as you point out, he has a number of influential friends.”

“So does Sofia,” he answered. “But yes, she has enough incriminating evidence to send certain men to the gallows. And once the evidence is turned over to the authorities, I’m sure the miscreants will quickly finger the leader of the group.”

“She has not yet handed over the proof?” Serena moved to the window and peeked out through the draperies.

“I was just on my way to alert her . . . contact in the government. However I thought it vital to stop here first and warn you.”

“How fortunate I am that you are a true gentleman.” But rather than reassure her, his words seemed to make her more on edge. He saw her grip tighten on the pistol. “Who else have the two of you discovered to be working with De Winton?”

“I’m afraid a number of your friends are part of the sordid scheme. Andover, Roxbury, and Concord for sure. Others will undoubtedly be implicated by the documents.” He flashed an encouraging smile. “Don’t worry—they all will get the punishment they deserve.”

A noise from downstairs caused her to start.

“Damn.” Osborne went very still. It sounded as if someone were rattling the front door. “Can you see anything outside?”

Serena took another look. “Yes,” she replied flatly. “A carriage. It looks to be De Winton’s.”

He spun around for the door. “I’ll go down and tell him that the game is over. He has no reason to do you harm. Let me have your pistol. Then lock the door?—”

“Sit down, Deverill.”

He turned to find that Serena was once again drawing a bead on his chest. “I know how confusing this all must be,” he exclaimed. “But you are making a terrible mistake. I swear, De Winton is the dangerous dastard, not me.”

Light glinted off the gun barrel as she took a step toward him. But the look of anger in her eyes was even more lethal as she suddenly swung the butt at his head.

Stunned by the blow, Osborne fell to the carpet.

“Adam.” she called. “Up here.”

He was dimly aware of more than one set of footsteps on the stairs.

Sure enough, De Winton was not alone.

“What’s this sodding little prick doing here?” demanded Sforza. “The de Silveri bitch would be dead now if he hadn’t interfered with our plans. He’s ruined everything!”

“Calm down, Lorenzo,” commanded Serena. “All is not lost quite yet.”

De Winton said nothing, but as Osborne raised his head, a vicious kick caught him flush on the jaw.

“Control yourself too, Adam. There is still a chance that we can emerge from this unscathed, but we will have to work quickly.” She set down her pistol and opened the top drawer of her curio cabinet. “Get him up and into that chair.” A wave of her hand indicated the slat back desk chair rather than one of the leather armchairs.

“Why not just kill him on the spot,” asked De Winton.

She tossed him a length of cording. “Because he knows where the contessa is right now. We find her, and we find the papers she’s stolen from Concord’s study. Apparently she’s not yet turned any evidence over to the authorities.” Lady Serena untied the fastenings around a slim roll of black velvet. “So, we may still be in business, gentlemen.”

Though his face was still half numb from the force of De Winton’skick, Osborne managed a curl of his lip. “Hell will freeze over before I tell you anything about Sofia’s whereabouts.”

“Oh, you will talk far before that time comes, Osborne.” She unrolled the cloth to reveal a set of exotic scalpels, each tucked into its own thin pocket. “And then you shall scream. And then you will beg for a bullet to the brain, to put you out of your misery.”

At Sofia’s signal, Harkness drew his team to a halt in the shadows. “Trouble?” he asked, when she returned from a quick look down the street.

“It appears that Deverill is not the only visitor to the lady’s townhouse,” she whispered. “I’m going in. You must go straight on to Lord Lynsley’s residence—not the family mansion on Grosvenor Square, but his private abode.” She gave the direction. “Tell him about this place, and the Puff of Paradise. He will know what to do.”

Harkness shook his head. “I can’t allow a lady to take all the risks, while I trot off to get help,” he murmured. “Code of honor, and all that.”

“I’m trained for this sort of thing, Mr. Harkness.”

He looked doubtful. “With all due respect, milady, I can’t imagine what sort of training would give you an edge over any man in a fight.”

There was no time to argue the fine points of noblesse oblige . “See the sign on the door across the street?”

“Yes, but?—”

She whipped out the knife that Mistress Mavis had given her and sent it flying through the air. “How about that sort of training, Mr. Harkness?” she said as its point hit smack in the center of the lettering. “Unless you can do better, be on your way.”

He hesitated, but only for an instant. “Godspeed, Lady della Silveri.”

“And you,” she murmured, before moving quickly across the cobblestone to retrieve her weapon. A last look around showed the phaeton disappearing into the mists.

She was on her own.

Keeping close to the low wall lining the street, she made her way to Serena’s residence. De Winton’s carriage had drawn to a halt by the iron gates andthe coachman sat slouched on his perch, his collar turned up to ward off the rising breeze. It took only a moment to render him unconscious. After trussing his hands with the lash of his whip, Sofia turned her attention to the entrance.

The front door was slightly ajar. No light shone through the crack. Like the rest of the townhouse, the entrance hall was dark as a tomb. Quelling the urge to draw her steel and plunge ahead, she forced herself to make a more measured approach. The Academy fencing master had often counseled that the probing for a weakness was often a far more effective way to gain a victory than trying to overpower an enemy with a slashing assault.

Ducking through the boxwood plantings, Sofia flattened herself to the brick and inched to the edge of the casement windows. From there, she angled a look inside. Nothing. She gave it another minute, watching for any shift of darkness within the darkness. Her patience was rewarded—a wink of movement caught her eye just as she was about to turn away.

The man’s black beard and dusky skin made his face nearly invisible in the dappling of moonlight. His tunic and pantaloons were a deep indigo as well, which blended into the midnight shadows. It was the flicker of metal in his pointed turban that gave his presence away. Squinting, Sofia could just make out hisshape. He was well over six feet tall and broad as a Brahmin bull. How Serena had come to have a Sikh from the Punjab in her employ was no doubt a question that would greatly interest Lord Lynsley.

But right now her only concern was putting him out of action. No small feat, seeing that his sect was one of the most feared group of warriors in all of Asia.

Think. Sofia didn’t need the quickening thud of her heart to remind her that Osborne’s life depended on her strategy. She wouldn’t get a second chance.

The man shifted his stance and blew out his breath. He looked to be growing bored, and a bit restless . Turn the enemy’s strength into a weakness . It was one of her fencing master’s favorite exhortations. She drew in a calming breath and moved for the side of the house, giving thanks that her Academy instructors included not only the best blade in all of Europe but an Indian guru and Chinese tai chi expert.

Each discipline taught that flexibility, both physical and mental, was a weapon unto itself.

Locating the broken window latch on the parlor window—a detail she recalled from her earlier visit—Sofia slipped inside the room. She, too, had the advantage of clothing that helped mask her presence. Rosie dug up a pair of slim black trousers abandoned by an Eton prefect while Fanny had located a pleated silk shirt left by a Prussian count who fancied himself the Lord of Midnight. Black satin slippers, courtesy of Mistress Mavis, allowed her to move noiselessly over the parquet floor of the corridor.

“Arrumph.” The Sikh warrior shifted his weight and stretched. Hanging from his sash was a kirpan , the deadly sharp curved sword worn by all members of his sect.

The man was a walking arsenal, thought Sofia as she took cover in a recessed nook beneath the curved staircase. In hand-to-hand combat, the odds were not in her favor. But head-to-head . . .

The door behind her came slightly ajar, revealing a small storage closet used for coal and the cast iron scuttles. Stepping inside, she took up a tiny sliver and tossed it on to the polished wood.

For a big man, the Sikh moved quickly and quietly. Rounding the corner, knife in hand, he surveyed the empty stretch of space.

She rattled the iron and gave a tiny growl.

“Harrumph.” He had to bend low to stick his head inside the cramped space.

Whooomph. The layers of his headcloth somewhat muffled the crack of metal against bone. A moment later, an echoing thud sounded as his bearded chin hit the sooty floor.

Sofia paused just long enough to pluck the quoits from his turban and lock the latch, then raced for the stairs.

Lady Serena touched her thumb to the edge of the first blade, a crescent sliver of steel topping a thin brass rod. The others laid out on the desk were equally unusual in shape, and all were decorated with intricate patterns of gold damascene.

“Have you ever seen a set of knives like these?” she asked, holding one of them uncomfortably close to Osborne’s eyes. “They are used by the Sikh Akali sect, who are famous throughout India as religious fanatics and fearless fighters, to extract information from their enemies.”

“Thank you for the anthropology lecture. But if you feel compelled to demonstrate one of Andover’s little trinkets, I would rather see a demonstration of the techniques used to create his collection of Persian painted books.”

She slapped him hard with the back of her hand, the faceted diamond ring raising a welt across his cheek. “Don’t make this hard on yourself, my dear Deverill.” Her voice was chillingly calm. “Tell me where she is now, and I’ll promise to make your death a painless one.”

Osborne swallowed hard, the sharp sting of bile mingling with the taste of his own blood. He was not ashamed to admit his hands were shaking his and shirt nearly soaked through with sweat. As he had told Sofia, he was no storybook hero, impervious to fear or pain. Harkness knew his intentions, but he would be long dead before his friend figured out that anything had gone wrong.

Things were not looking good.

As if reading his thoughts, Lady Serena gave a light laugh. “I wouldn’t count on anyone riding to your rescue. Even if you left word on where you were going, an Akali warrior came along with our friends and is now stationed downstairs to greet any uninvited guests.”

“He is quite a sight. All of the sect members wear a towering turban of indigo cloth, decorated with quoits of all different sizes,” said De Winton.

Sforza drew a finger down the center of his chest “The better to gut an opponent.”

“Yes, I would rather like to see someone try to slip by Arjun’s guard,” snickered De Winton. “I saw him practicing his throwing technique the other day. He could split a man’s skull in two at thirty paces.”

Osborne felt sickened by their callous depravity. Suffering was a subject of mirth. Death was a matter of entertainment. Thinking of all the brave men who had died on account of the group’s greed renewed his fighting spirit. He would go to the grave with Sofia’s secrets.

“Indeed he could.” Sforza rubbed his hands together. “I would guess that Serena will be equally skillful in her own way.”

“Make sure the curtain is drawn,” she ordered.

Sforza wiped the leer from his face and hurried to do her bidding.

Bloody hell . Osborne swore a silent oath. Had his legs been free, he would have kicked himself. It had certainly taken him long enough to see the obvious—the leader of the cabal was not a he but a she .

“Very clever,” he murmured. “I don’t know why I didn’t catch on any earlier.”

“Because you are, like most men, blinded by your pride and your prejudices.” Flexing her wrist, she cut through the front of his shirt with a silky slash. “You cannot conceive of a female having the brains or the boldness to oversee a business operation like this one.”

She was right, of course, admitted Osborne. Though he, of all people, ought to have had an inkling of just how capable a woman could be in a man’s world.

“Your talents are indeed extraordinary,” he said aloud.

Lady Serena looked pleased by the compliment. Perhaps he could use her own pride and vanity to his advantage.

“How did you come up with the idea?” he asked.

The blade stilled just above his bare chest. “My husband was asked by a friend to invest in a shipment of opium,” she replied. “A very small deal, though it proved profitable enough. I pointed out the potential of the business but Freddie was too stupid to understand the opportunities that were opening up, what with Napoleon marching through Europe and the Mahratti fomenting trouble with the East India Company’s trade.”

“As I said, very clever,” murmured Osborne. “So you convinced him to let you do all the thinking?”

Her laugh was devoid of emotion. “In a manner of speaking. You see, his drinking and gambling soon became a liability. His partners didn’t want to deal with an unreliable investor. So, as with any liability, I took steps to eliminate the problem.”

Osborne blinked. Good Lord, the lady was even more cold-blooded than he imagined. “Let me guess,” he said softly. “An overdose of opium?”

“Freddie’s excesses were well-known. No one was surprised when his heart simply could not keep pace with his depravities.”

“His partners were willing to accept a female?”

“Unlike Freddie, I recognized genius when I saw it,” said De Winton. “I had no objections to letting a lady give the orders. After all, one of England’s greatest monarchs was a woman. And Serena quickly proved she deserved the power.”

De Winton would have taken orders from a snake if there was any profit in it, thought Osborne.

“ Si. And as we Italians have a long tradition of females wielding their influence in business and politics, I was happy to go along with the arrangement” added Sforza with a shrug.

“Enough of the history lesson.” Serena’s tone was once again brusque and all business. The knife pressed lightly against his flesh. “Where is the contessa?”

“Just out of curiosity—what made you choose to become friendly with me?” he asked, stalling for time.

“Because with your connections in Society, you could have been extremely useful in opening up new doors. People like and respect you, Deverill. I could have made you very rich, had you been willing to bend your prudish principles just a bit.” She made a face. “Most men are seduced by greed. Or sex. You proved to be an exception. A pity, really. We could have made a lovely couple.”

The idea of any intimacy with her made his skin crawl.

His face must have betrayed his disgust for her expression suddenly hardened. “You favored that slut Sofia della Silveri over me. A bad investment, as you see now. But I shall give you one more chance to recoup some of your losses. Where is she?”

Osborne closed his eyes.

“My dear Deverill.” He felt her fingertip caress the line of his jaw. “We can make this easy. You can have pleasure . . .” Her mouth touched his, her tongue teasing over his lower lip. “Or pain.”

The scalpel bit into his flesh, cutting a razor thin gash above his right breast. He clenched his teeth to keep from crying out.

She flicked a drop of blood from the steel tip. “Where is Lady della Silveri? I won’t ask again nicely.”

“Sorry.” Osborne mustered a smile. “A gentleman never discusses a lady in public. It’s a matter of honor, you know.”

“You won’t be speaking so glibly when she reaches your testicles,” said De Winton.

“And you won’t be sneering so smugly when the Crown’s hangman knots the noose around your neck,” he retorted.

The reply earned him another cut. Damn. The pain was not so bad now, but he had no illusions about how quickly that would change. During his time in Portugal, he had seen the partisans torture an informant. He still had nightmares in which he heard the man’s screams.

“This is your last chance, Deverill. Don’t play the hero,” said Serena. “You think the contessa would sacrifice herself for you?” The sharpened blade kissed up against his throat. “Where is she? Speak up now, or I promise you will regret it.”

Strange, but his only regret was that he had never told Sofia that he loved her. He wished he had spoken from the heart, had expressed his admiration for her courage, her compassion, her convictions. His magnificent Merlin. Just thinking of her gave wings to his sinking spirit. His own sun might be setting, but she would live to see another day.

Brightened by the thought, he mustered a laugh. “Go to hell.”

“Very well. If that is your answer, we will get down to business. First, I am going to flay a strip of skin from?—”

“I think not.”

Osborne’s eyes flew open.

“Step away from the chair, Serena.” Sofia stood framed in the doorway, pistol in hand. “There is no need to ask Lord Osborne any more questions about my whereabouts. As you see, I’m right here.”