Page 12 of The Spy Wore Silk (Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Extraordinary Young Ladies #1)

Chapter Twelve

T he first test had gone quite well, thought Siena as she sat down at her dressing table the following morning. She had made several important discoveries. After studying the sonnets, she had definitely ruled out Fitzwilliam as the man she was seeking. Letterforms could of course be disguised, but the men didn’t know she had a sample of the traitor’s handwriting. The baron was left-handed, and as such could not have penned the traitorous letter uncovered by Chertwell’s men.

After careful consideration, she had chosen Winthrop as the winner of the first challenge. The dossiers had suggested that he was the most dull-witted of the group, so she decided he would be the easiest of the remaining members to eliminate as a suspect. Crossing another name off her list this early in the game would be a great advantage.

So far, luck was running in her favor. As his reward, she had arranged to meet him in the Persian Room for a private reading of erotic poetry. During their hour together, Winthrop revealed his imagination to be just as unimpressive as his appearance. Though he had made a show of ogling her breasts and bragging of his amorous conquests, most of his attention had been focused on polishing off a bottle of the duke’s aged brandy. Along with one of port.

The minutes had ticked by with excruciating slowness, but by the time he staggered away, she was even more certain that her first instincts about him were correct. And this morning, she had a chance to confirm those impressions. Winthrop was one of the first bidders scheduled for the requisite private interview with the duke. His secretary had warned them all that the meeting would last over an hour . . .

An hour should be more than enough time to search through his personal belongings.

Lifting her skirts, Siena strapped her knife in place, then stepped out into the deserted hallway. Rose had discovered the door to a back stairway hidden in the heavy paneling. It led down to the floor below, where the gentlemen of The Gilded Page Club were quartered. Seeing as Stoneleigh had arranged a special showing of the duke’s gun collection for the other men, it should prove easy enough to slip unseen into Winthrop’s rooms. Even if she were spotted by one of the servants, the presence of a wealthy widow dallying near the male guests would only provoke a few ribald chuckles.

Her decorative hairpin, a special design forged of stiff steel, made quick work of the ancient lock. Noiselessly sliding the bolt back in place, she turned and moved to the dressing room first, deciding on a quick search through the gentleman’s clothing before tackling the desk. Riffling through his waistcoats, she came up empty. The coat pockets yielded nothing, save for a rather hefty bill from a wine shop on Jermyn Street. After feeling through his trousers and finding no hidden pockets or papers, she returned to the bedchamber.

The contents of Winthrop’s valise were equally innocuous. But on opening his letter case, Siena hit upon a more interesting discovery. Tucked under a letter from his sister were several beribboned condoms, a recipe for a poultice guaranteed to enlarge a fellow’s manhood and a pamphlet on sexual positions. She allowed a small smile. So far the only thing suspect about Winthrop was the working order of his male member. The last sheet of paper was further evidence as to its precarious position. It was a detailed receipt for a stay at Dr. Erector’s Health Spa for Discerning Gentlemen, located near York.

But it was not the treatments listed that drew Siena’s eye. It was the dates—they matched the time when the third of the government documents had been stolen. Lynsley’s agents had also been able to pin down the week in which the rare copy of ‘Paradise Lost’ had gone missing from The Gilded Page Club townhouse.

She carefully replaced the items and closed the case. Winthrop was not her man. That left four. Checking to make sure she had left no sign of her visit, she slipped out of his room and jingled the lock back in place.

“Well, well, what have we here?”

For a big man, Bantrock moved with surprising stealth.

“My dear Lady Blackdove, you seem to have strayed from your nest.”

“Indeed.” Siena toyed with the topknot of her curls, casually sliding the hairpin into the twist of ribbon. “I had a question for Lord Winthrop and thought I might find him here before nuncheon. But he does not appear to be in.”

“I am sure I can satisfy any demand you have.” The Irish lord caught hold of her wrist. “Why not step inside my room and let me display my expertise.”

“Maybe later, sir. At the moment, my first order of business lies with Lord Winthrop.”

His grip tightened. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

“A tempting offer, but?—”

A rumble of laughter punctuated the sound of steps approaching.

Taking advantage of Bantrock’s momentary distraction, she pulled free and hurried through the double doors of the connecting corridor before he could follow.

Slowing to a more leisurely pace, Siena found herself in the section of the Castle that housed the main display rooms. Not wishing to risk another encounter with the Irish lord by returning to her room, she decided to linger a bit and explore. Each portal was marked with an ornate brass plate proclaiming the treasures within. The New World Room held brightly painted Aztec pottery . . . the Calligraphy Room held intricate Arabic manuscripts . . . The Renaissance Room held masterpieces from Florence and Siena . . .

On impulse, she stepped inside and was immediately enveloped in a pale, pearlescent light, despite the overcast skies. Looking up, she saw its source. An expanse of Palladian windows, arcing to cathedral heights, filled the far wall, their graceful proportions aligned to a northern exposure. The perfect artist’s light, she recalled from her reading. Cool and pure.

Her gaze returned to the row of gilded frames hung above the glass front cabinets. Michelangelo, Botticelli, Da Vinci . She was familiar with all the famous names of the period from her art classes at the Academy, but the opportunities to view actual examples of their work had been very rare.

Recalling the erotic engravings of Raphael, she allowed an ironic smile. Oddly enough, he was one of her favorites. According to her lessons, he was reputed to be quite a lady’s man. Sensual, as well as sensitive, reveling in feminine beauty, whether it be a Madonna, a pagan diety or a lover. His drawings certainly showed a masterly touch for the female form.

But no black and white line work could match the power of the colors that now met her eye. She never ceased to be amazed at how such mundane materials—pigment, linseed oil, turpentine—could be so magically transformed. Powdered clays and finely ground semi-precious stones had no emotion of their own. It was the artist’s hand that gave them spirit, laughter, love.

Life.

Her breath caught in her throat. She was well-schooled in the art of war, a skilled practitioner of darkness, of death. Perhaps that was why she found the world of light and color so wondrously intriguing.

Seeing a copy of Vasari’s “Lives of the Artists” on one of the bookstands, Siena opened it to the chapter on Raphael and began reading.

“A connoisseur of Quattrocentro art?” Kirtland’s voice suddenly cut through her reveries. His shadow fell across the page as he leaned a shoulder to the molding. “Another skill in your arsenal of talents?” Strangely enough, his tone was more teasing than taunting, and his mouth was curled up at the corners.

Siena smiled in return. “An appreciation of beauty is not reserved for the sole pleasure of the privileged few who possess wealth and rank.” As she spoke, she couldn’t help admiring his muscular frame. His aura of masculine vitality was undeniable—Raphael’s handsome archangels suddenly paled in comparison.

He moved closer and waggled a brow, as if daring her to go on.

“Indeed, many of the greatest works of art were meant for the masses,” she said slowly, trying to ignore the sinuous curling of his long hair or the sculpted lines of his broad shoulders. “Churches commissioned frescoes or alter screens to inspire and to teach. The vast majority of people could not read, and such pictures were how they learned the stories of the Bible.”

“So, you have studied art, as well as fencing.” As the earl gave a slight bow, his coat brushed against her skirts.

Oddly enough, the fleeting touch aroused a lick of heat along her spine. Her nerves must still be on edge from her encounter with Bantrock. How else to explain being so acutely aware of his closeness?

“And you appear well taught,” he finished.

“I know a little. But I am no match for you in that subject, I am sure,” replied Siena. Kirtland’s skills with a sword were clear enough. Here was a chance to probe into a different facet of his character. She must not allow herself to be distracted. “As a matter of fact, I was just puzzling over a term in this book that I don’t understand. Might you explain what ‘chiaroscuro’ means?”

“It is a term for light and dark. A style of accentuating contrast for dramatic effect.” The earl took her hand and set it in the crook of his arm. “Come, let me show you.”

Was it her imagination, or did he deliberately draw out the intimacy of the moment? Siena shook off yet another strange little shiver.

He turned and led her to a small portrait of a young woman. “Do you see how Da Vinci has chosen an angle of light to create strong highlights and shadows?”

She studied the face, half in sun, half in shade. “It adds an emotional depth, does it not?”

He gave an encouraging nod. “Yes. Well said.”

Was Kirtland actually going out of his way to be engaging? Siena took a moment to steady her breath before going on. “So an artist doesn’t just paint what he sees. He uses his mind’s eye to envision an idea, and then draws on his physical skills to create it on canvas?”

A playful expression tugged at his lips. “Artists, like swordsmen, have a great many tricks of the trade. For example, the use of perspective was one of the revolutionary innovations of the Renaissance.” He gestured to a Madonna and Child, with a trio of adoring Magi in the foreground. “As was composition. A triangular design was a favorite device in guiding the viewer’s eye to the focal point.’

Intrigued, she put aside her musing on the earl long enough to study the design. “I never realized how many subtle elements came into play.”

As the earl warmed to the subject, his features softened. Tracing a fingertip over the painted folds of ivory linen, his touch was gentle as a caress. She wondered how she had ever thought him a hard, forbidding man.

“A great many subtleties are involved,” he explained. “As the finest pigments came from Tuscan soil, the painters of Florence and Siena were especially skilled in capturing the nuances of color.”

A flutter of longing stirred inside her. What inexplicable yearning had taken hold of her senses? It was bad enough to be thinking about how the earl’s hands would feel on her face, but now she was suddenly imagining what it would be like to experience the beauty of her namesake city. To learn more about art, poetry and the splendor of sunlight.

“Have you ever been there,” she asked. “To Siena, I mean?”

“Yes, as a young man I traveled through all of Italy.”

“What is it like?” she asked. It was, after all, her duty to learn more about the earl’s love of art.

Kirtland hesitated, and in that instant she saw her own longing reflected in his eyes. “It is, in a word, magical. Its treasures are perhaps overshadowed by the brilliance of Florentine art,” he began. “Yet there is a raw energy to Siena that is unique.”

It was the first time the earl had ever spoken so freely to her. She found herself hoping he would go on.

“Set on three hills, the city rises out of the surrounding olive groves and vineyards. Inside its walls, the cobbled streets are steep and narrow. The Piazza del Campo lies at its heart, while other landmarks include the Duomo, a magnificent cathedral of green and white marble, with works of art by Donatella and Pisana.”

Green and white—like his eyes. Alight with a passion for his subject, they held her gaze.

“And of course there is the annual Palio delle Contrade , a wild horse race dating from medieval times that runs through the twisting byways of the city. Slashing hooves, flying elbows, daredevil riders jockeying for victory as the bells of Torre del Mangia ring out and the crowds scream for blood.” His smile revealed that beneath the usual sardonic set of his features was a dry sense of humor. “You would be quite at home there.”

As he turned, his fingertips brushed lightly against her wrist, and Siena felt her heart begin to gallop. Reminded that she was dangerously close to forgetting her mission, she forced her thoughts back to the job of seducing the earl into wanting a more intimate acquaintance. “You describe it very well, sir.”

“Words do not do it justice.”

“On the contrary. You are an excellent teacher. Perhaps you would consent to another lesson sometime soon.”

“Speaking of which, where did you study?”

“A small academy for girls. You would not have heard of it.”

“Was it near London, or in some distant shire?” pressed Kirtland

She looked away. “I cannot imagine that where a courtesan received her training would be of any real interest to you.”

“I can’t help but be curious.” He leaned back against the display case and suddenly his shoulder was touching hers.

Damn the man . He had no idea how the feel of his body against hers was affecting her equilibrium. Or did he?

“By your cultured tone,” he went on. “I would guess you were not bred for your current profession.”

A laugh escaped from her lips. “No, I was not.”

“A family misfortune?” His voice was even, but his brow betrayed a furrow.

Thrust and parry . Seeing she had piqued his interest, Siena decided it was time to withdraw. Da Rimini believed that the first round of a fencing match should combine advances and retreats, especially against a skilled opponent. The earl had caught her off guard with his unexpected moves, but she must now get a grip on her emotions and shift the balance back in her favor.

Before Kirtland could ask any more questions, she turned quickly and moved for the door. “If you will excuse me now, I must go change for nuncheon.”

Kirtland watched the provocative sway of her hips. With her willowy height and sinuous grace, she reminded him of a rapier forged of the finest Toldeo steel. Beautiful but deadly. He could not help thinking of her in terms of martial metaphors, even though this last exchange had signaled a truce of sorts.

In truth, it had been awfully easy to put his new strategy into play. Too easy. The Black Dove’s sharp intelligence—a beguiling counterpoint to her expert sword skills—made her infinitely intriguing. Beneath the cynical smiles and gaudy gowns there seemed to be more than a scheming courtesan.

The earl found himself conflicted. He wished to think of her in terms of black and white, but the Dove defied such simple outlines. As this interlude had illustrated, she was far too complex, a contradiction in character. His gaze moved from the Botticelli Madonna to the Raphael portrait of Imperia, the most famous Roman courtesan of her day.

Innocence and experience.

Heaven and hell.

Kirtland caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the gilded wall sconce. Was there a devilish flickering of desire?

He turned away quickly, reminding himself that he had come to Marquand Castle seeking a treasure crafted of vellum and ink, not some chimerical Valkyrie, capable of stirring flesh and blood longings. He must have a care that a more intimate acquaintance with her did not become a two-edged sword. Her body was a powerful weapon in itself. Even now he could feel the heat of her lovely flesh imprinted on his hands. Somehow the slow burn had seeped to the rest of his limbs, leaving a trail of singed nerves. Which was even more reason why he must discover for whom she was fighting.

“Stealing a march on the rest of us?”

Kirtland met Leveritt’s slitted gaze with a grimace. “I assure you, I did not go out of my way to encounter the Black Dove.”

The other man perched a hip on the edge of the book stand. “So you have not changed your mind about playing the lady’s game in earnest?”

“I have come here to compete for far higher stakes than her favors,” he replied.

Leveritt gave a bark of laughter. “In that we are agreed, Kirtland. The ladybird is the least of the prizes here at Marquand Castle.”

“Yet you seemed equally as enthusiastic as the others in accepting her challenge.”

Leveritt carefully pinched the crease of his trousers to a knife-sharp edge. He was dressed with his usual sartorial elegance, but still took a moment to fuss with his waistcoat buttons and gold watch chain before murmuring, “As she said at our very first encounter, her presence here provides a provocative distraction.”

Hearing his own sentiments repeated aloud gave the earl pause for thought. He had never considered Leveritt the sharpest of the club members. Perhaps he ought to reconsider his assessment. In answer, however, he merely gave a noncommittal shrug.

Shifting his stance, Kirtland saw that Jadwin had entered the room and was watching them with a wariness that seemed a touch too intense.

Bloody hell , he thought in some exasperation. The Gilded Page members had become like squabbling schoolboys, each worrying that the others might be conspiring with one another to keep some sweetmeats all to themselves.

“A game of billiards?” suggested Jadwin as he ran a finger along a row of leatherbound folios. Beneath his smile he looked somewhat sullen. “Unless, of course, I am interrupting a private conversation.”

The earl quickly agreed, wishing to placate any suspicions. Leveritt, too, accepted the invitation.

The three of them found the table deserted.

“Shall I break?” Jadwin set the ivory balls in place upon the felt and chalked his cue.

Ironically, Kirtland found his gaze locked on the perfect triangle, a colorful reminder of his recent conversation. Then, with a sudden crack, sharp as a gunshot, the balls scattered, a kaleidoscope blur of skittering colors and random angles. He had always scoffed at the idea of omens, yet the sight had a strangely unsettling effect on him.

Everything about the cursed trip to Marquand Castle seemed to be taking on a strange spin.

From high atop the crenellated battlements, Siena could see out over the rolling parkland to the Greek folly on the far side of the lake. On either side, the moors rose steeply from its shores, prickly with gorse and thorn. She shaded her eyes to the slanting sun, trying to make out any trail through the rocky outcroppings and windblown trees, but the tangle looked impenetrable. A ride out would allow for a more careful survey of the surroundings.

For now, however, she was looking to map out a detailed diagram of the castle and its bewildering maze of twists and turns for one of her future challenges. The scheduled activities for the afternoon had provided a perfect opportunity. The gentlemen were all out hunting, while the four ladies of the duke’s family and Count Sundstrom’s wife, the only other female guest, had taken a trip into the neighboring town. Siena had declined the invitation, leaving her free to roam as she pleased.

After the challenges of the morning, she was looking forward to an interlude of solitude.

She and Rose had already studied the layout of East Wing but she had not yet had a chance to explore the Central Tower. The dark, spiral staircase that had brought her to the heights of the structure also appeared to descend into the bowels of the cellars. It would be worth a look around its depths for any secret chambers or hidden passageways. One never knew when such knowledge might come in handy.

Still, Siena tarried for a moment, watching the circling of a lone hawk. So near and yet so far. She was making headway, but that was not good enough. Time was of the essence. She had to find a way to intensify her efforts.

But impatient as she was, she knew that the tedious task of reconnoitering the castle was important. Rose had noted the details of the kitchens and servant quarters, while Oban had reported on the layout of the stables and paddocks. She meant to leave nothing to chance.

A last tilt of her cheeks to the warmth of the sun, and then it was back to duty. Drawing the door closed behind her, Siena refastened the bolts and started down the steps, making a mental note of the number between each floor. She was nearly back down to ground level when from out of the shadows loomed a figure, dark save for a crowning flicker of flame red hair.

Bantrock?

“Ah, once again I find the lovely Lady Blackdove hovering where she should not be.”