Page 18 of The Spy Wore Silk (Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Extraordinary Young Ladies #1)

Chapter Eighteen

K irtland helped Siena down from the open carriage. A cool silence had cloaked the drive back to the castle. If she had heard his last words, she had chosen to ignore them.

“Thank you, Lord Kirtland,” she said as he took her wrap and handed it to the porter. Her tone was even chillier than the night air, the note of dismissal unmistakable. “And good night.”

He followed her across the entrance hall. “It’s still early. You are sure you would not care for a stroll to the conservatory?” He knew her answer would be no. Indeed, he was counting on it. “We were having such an interesting conversation at the hunting lodge. I was hoping we might pick up where we left off.”

Her mouth thinned at the half-mocking edge to his voice. “I think we have had enough intimate contact for the evening.” A piano sonata drifted out from the Music Room. “I prefer to take tea with the other guests and listen to the Mozart recital.” She took another step, then paused. “And you?”

The earl slanted a look at the main stairs, then gave a nonchalant shrug. “In that case, I think I shall join the other gentlemen for port and billiards.” Without a backward glance, he walked down the corridor and entered the Game Room. But he lingered in the haze of cigar smoke and male laughter only long enough to ensure that the Black Dove had time to settle down with a cup of Oolong.

She thought to brush him off so easily? He flexed his fingers and allowed a grim smile. The lady was indeed skilled at fighting. But so was he. And she was not the only one who possessed some underhanded tricks. During the drive back to the castle, he had decided that the time had come to strip off his scruples and use a few of them. If she would not reveal any information about her true identity, he would search her rooms. There had to be some clue of a personal nature, some telltale hint that would betray her real reasons for being at Marquand Castle.

Perhaps he should not care so passionately. He had been disappointed and disillusioned in the past. Yet he could not help feeling more and more certain that she wielded her strength for something more lofty than personal greed. Her words on fighting—spoken with such a heartfelt edge—had resonated with the courage of her convictions.

Or so he wished to believe. But there was still a whisper of doubt.

Retracing his steps, the earl angled a peek through the Music Room doors. So far, so good. The Dove was sitting on the sofa, conversing with the plump Swedish countess from Stockholm.

Hurrying up a back stairway, he made his way to the second floor of the East Wing. The hallway was deserted, with only a single sconce lit near the door to her chambers. Kirtland tested the latch, not at all surprised to find the lock firmly in place. It was, however, an ancient model, not one of the complex military mechanisms that had guarded her London residence. A flick of his penknife coaxed the bolt free.

The scent of verbena hung in the air, along with the earthier, exotic spice he had come to identify as uniquely her own. Once he had lit the branch of candles by the doorway, he looked to the dressing table and saw only a single perfume bottle, a simple set of wooden brushes, several small bottles of cosmetics and a box of hair ornaments—all arranged in parade ground precision. A rather Spartan array for a lady of her profession. Indeed, there were very few of the frilly feminine touches that were usually found in a courtesan’s boudoir.

He picked up one of the hairpins and twirled it between his fingers, curious to discover that the shaft was steel, and stiff as a rapier. Setting it aside, he moved to the escritoire. Ink, paper, the poems from her first challenge . . . Lud, had Winthrop really penned such painfully prosaic rhymes?

But no personal papers. Not a letter, not a card from a Bond Street shop, not a dressmaker’s receipt. He checked the drawers and beneath the blotter to make sure he had not overlooked anything. Nothing. It was as if she had not existed before her recent appearance in London.

A search of her dressing room only underscored the impression. All the elegant dresses were new, as were the assortment of petticoats and undergarments. Only a pair of well-worm riding boots and the dark breeches and shirt looked to have had much use.

Frowning, the earl returned to the bedchamber. Rather than shed any light on the Black Dove, his clandestine foray had only deepened the aura of mystery surrounding her. He leaned against the carved bedpost and made another slow sweep of the room with his gaze. What the devil was he missing? His eyes fell to the crisp folds of the counterpane, the plumped pillows. More out of frustration than expectation of finding anything, he thumped a fist to the eiderdown and turned down the sheets.

“Bloody hell.” Hating to retreat empty-handed, he got down on his hands and knees for one last look under the bedskirts.

If not for the wink of light off the brass catch, he might have missed the slim black box. It was heavier than it looked, and took a moment to maneuver out to the center of the rug. Several tries at forcing the lock proved futile. It was a far more sophisticated design than the duke’s old latches, but he was not about to be defeated by a few bits of metal.

Suddenly recalling the steel hairpin, he plucked it from the pile and set to work. His reconnaissance missions with the Spanish partisans had given him experience in such shadowy skills. On the third try, his efforts were rewarded. With a soft snick, the lid popped open a fraction.

Kirtland moved the candles closer and folded back the velvet cloth.

The cavalry saber and brace of pistols he had seen before. It was the rest of the weaponry that caused the breath to catch in his throat. Needle thin stilettos, crescent curved jambiyas , wide bladed daggers—there were at least half a dozen different knives of various shapes and sizes. Not to speak of the more exotic implements. Razored throwing stars that he recognized as Indian in design, a hollow wooden pipe with several tiny arrows, and a selection of glass vials containing colored powders. He didn’t dare hazard a guess as to what they were for.

As he sat back on his haunches, one other item caught his eye. Lifting the sheath from the case, he slid the poniard out from the leather. It was perfectly balanced, with a distinctive crosshatched hilt that fit snugly in his palm.

“Bloody hell,” he breathed, after holding it up to the moonlight and examining the tiny initials etched on the base of the blade.

Returning the sheath to the box, the earl closed it and shoved it back beneath the bed. The poniard he kept in his hand.

Then he sat down to wait.

Siena joined in the polite applause. The duke had arranged for a noted Viennese musician to play for the guests, and the man was superb. However, as he paused to change his sheet music for the next set of sonatas, she quietly excused herself and slipped into the hallway.

The noise from the Game Room had grown louder, the crack of the billiard balls punctuated by the chink of glasses and rumble of laughter. She strolled closer, hoping the door was open enough to see inside.

Damn. There was no more than a crack, and that was clouded with smoke. But as she turned, Fitzwilliam came out, staggering slightly, but looking to be in a jovial mood. “Er, thought I’d get a breath of fresh air,” he slurred, tapping a bit of ash from his cheroot. “The terrace . . .”

Siena pointed him in the right direction. “Is Lord Kirtland still playing?” she added casually.

“Kirtland?” Fitzwilliam’s brow furrowed, then his expression smoothed to a smile. “Yes, yes. Just saw him there in the corner.”

She watched the baron pass through to the garden entrance hall before continuing on to the side corridor and making her way back to the East Wing. Aware that Kirtland was not wont to linger too long with the other gentlemen, she knew she would have to hurry. Even so, it was a calculated risk. She would have to trust her luck.

Trust.

The word pricked at her conscience. The truth was, she wanted to trust the earl. From the very beginning, she had viewed his austerity, his refusal to compromise his principles, in a favorable light, rather than shadowed in suspicion. But perhaps she had gone too far in allowing feelings rather than facts to affect her judgment.

That was a cardinal mistake for any soldier.

Siena slowed, her stride no longer so sure. Her mission was clear, but was she fighting her own desire as well as the unknown enemy? Her heart wanted very much to believe that Kirtland was innocent, while her head warned that she must keep on the attack.

She drew to a halt at the archway, her shoulders pressing back against the molding as she looked down the row of doors. Behind one of them was a traitor. Did she have the mettle to match his strength and cunning? He was a master of deception.

But she was a Merlin.

Steeling her spine, Siena was just about to cross over to the earl’s quarters when the sound of footsteps caused her to freeze. The notes of a Mozart melody echoed off the walls as the gentleman’s whistling grew louder. A key rattled in the doorlock. Venturing a quick peek, Siena saw Orlov enter his rooms, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Sometimes the best plan of attack is to retreat, Volpina .

Siena edged back the way she had come. It was too risky to try a search of Kirtland’s quarters. She would have to find another time or another way to know for sure whether he was friend or foe.

There was no need for stealth once she reached the main staircase. Still brooding over the earl, she hurried to the next floor, anxious for a safe haven in which to regroup her thoughts. Given the recent turn of events, she could not afford the slightest slip of her guard. She had been careless and clumsy earlier in the day. On the fencing field, Da Rimini would be exhorting her to keep her weapon raised, her wrist firm?—

It took her only a second to realize that the door had opened at the first touch, but by that time it was too late. A hand had yanked her inside and slammed it shut behind her.

The room was dark, save for a sliver of moonlight. But she instantly knew who had hold of her. His touch was by now intimately familiar.

She made no attempt to struggle.

“Have a seat, Madame Dove. The bed would be the most appropriate place, would it not?”

Siena turned slowly. The sight of her own poniard hovering just inches from her face was a shock, but she sought to cover her confusion with a verbal parry. “If you are in an amorous mood, Lord Kirtland, perhaps you ought to try flashing another sort of blade.”

His laugh had no trace of humor. “My mood at the moment would not be described as amorous.”

“No? Then perhaps you would explain why you are here.”

“With pleasure.”

The earl waited until she obeyed his command before he went on. “You seem quite fond of games, so let us play one now. A guessing game.” With slow, deliberate steps, he took up a position directly in front of her. “Here’s the question—why does a mysterious beauty suddenly appear in London and offer herself to a group of wealthy book collectors.”

“Lord Kirtland?—”

He silenced her with a curt wave. “Let me finish. You have not yet heard the key clues. Though she claims to be a courtesan, she is in possession of military equipment that is issued to only the most elite cavalry regiments. And she is highly trained in its use. Indeed, she has learned how to handle a sword from none other than Allegretto Da Rimini, a renowned rascal, but one of the best blades in all of Europe.” The earl saw her fingers fist in the counterpane. “Not to mention that her townhouse in London is secured by a specialized locking system unavailable to most civilians.”

“And then there is this . . .” Kirtland pressed the point of the poniard to her breast. “A perfectly balanced throwing knife crafted by Artemis Chandler. As far as I know, only a select group of military men are privy to his expertise.” His litany finished, he allowed a flash of teeth. “Now you may speak.”

Siena regarded him with a tight-lipped stare.

“You don’t care to hazard an answer? Then let me make a guess.” The blade slowly cut through the top lace of her bodice. “On the basis of the official arsenal, I would say you are working for the British government.”

“That is absurd.” Her voice was a touch more brittle than usual.

“At first blush,” he agreed. ”Yet I ask myself, who else would know of secret military suppliers?”

Once again he was met by silence. She looked as though she didn’t trust herself to speak.

“If you are not working for our side, then a logical surmise is French intelligence.” A second silk lace yielded to the blade. “So perhaps you are an agent of Bonaparte, sent to assassinate someone here. But The Gilded Page Club hardly poses a threat to the French. Nor does the guest list include any government official. So that seems unlikely.”

Her bodice had slipped low enough to reveal the black tattoo. Kirtland stared for a moment before going on. “Another possibility is that you have come to steal a critical document. The Psalters? I would not think so. So that begs the question of whether the duke holds some other secrets that might be valuable to the Emperor?”

“I am no traitor,” she shot back. “Are you?”

“No.” He moved the sharpened steel up so that it was kissing her neck. “But it is not my actions that are under discussion, it is yours.”

“You are mad. Or mayhap someone has spiked your wine with tincture of opium.” Unlike her swordthrusts, her denial did not ring quite true.

“Am I? My head may be spinning, but only from the flurry of your lies. It’s high time you told me what your real mission is, paloma .”

For an instant there was a flicker in her eyes—something akin to longing? Then her lashes lowered and she tilted her chin, causing the blade to prick the flesh. “Am I to be subjected to the Inquisition?”

“I shall forgo thumbscrews or the Iron Maiden.” Threats were not the way to wrest information from her, he reminded himself. He pulled back, anger now fueled by a different heat. I’ve other ways of seeking to plumb the depths of your secrets.”

“The red hot poker?”

The earl could not help the curl of his lips. Any other female would be using tears as a weapon, not irony.

“I don’t deny that you arouse a hellfire flame in me,” he answered slowly. “I am not sure whether I want to shake you until your teeth rattle, or . . .” He lowered his mouth to within a hair’s breath of hers. “Or kiss you until you cry for mercy.”

Her lips parted, showing the pink point of her tongue.

“Were I marching into battle against the enemy, I would call it bloodlust.” His voice turned raspy. Like metal against metal. “But this—I am at a loss as to what to call it.”

“As am I,” whispered Siena. Deflecting the razored steel, she touched his collar and slowly loosened the knot of his cravat. Her hand slid inside his shirt.

Kirtland felt as if his flesh was on fire. Seduction was indeed a dangerous game. He had started out with the intention of teasing the truth out of her, only to find his own weapon being turned against him.

Mano a mano? Sexual tension added a potent heat to the match of wills. It was now threatening to explode.

He caught her wrist. “You are as skilled at distraction as you are at dueling, my dear Dove. But this time, I mean to get to the heart of your deceptions.” His voice was perilously close to cracking. “By God, no more lies! Tell me the truth about what you are after.”

She answered with equal heat. “You ask me to trust you, Lord Kirtland? Give me one reason why I should.”

“Because . . .” He drew in a harsh breath, then ever so softly feathered his lips along the slant of her cheekbone. “Because I want to believe you are innocent of any evil intentions.”

“H-how can I be sure that you are not the dastard I seek? All I know for certain is that he is clever, cunning and ruthless. You are said to be all that. And your history gives me no reason to doubt it.”

In answer, the earl moved her hand to his heart. “You have nothing to fear from me. I swear on my honor.”

For a flickering moment her lashes hid her eyes. “I cannot risk a betrayal. And not just for my own sake.”

“I have never betrayed anyone,” he said, wondering what she meant. “Not myself, not my friends, not?—”

“Not your country?”

A tiny muscle twitched at his jaw. “No. Why would you ask?”

“The rumors?—”

“The rumors be damned.” Cupping her chin, Kirtland forced her gaze to meet his.

The martial light in her eyes was unyielding. “You are a soldier, sir. Would you betray the rules of engagement when caught behind enemy lines?”

At daggers drawn. The hilt of the poinard pressed into his palm. If ever they were to end this duel, one of them must be the first to yield. He had asked her to trust his word. Was he willing to make the same leap of faith?

There were only inches separating them . . .

Slowly lowering his mouth, Kirtland took her lips in a long, lush kiss. Perhaps she was right—he was behaving like a man possessed by madness. But all of a sudden he didn’t care. Fighting his own doubts no longer seemed so important. The only battle that mattered was to win her belief in his honor. Even if it meant making himself vulnerable.

“I am not your enemy, paloma ,” he whispered, after lifting his lips from hers. “But I have no proof to offer except my oath of honor.”

She broke away to trace the line of his jaw, her hand, blessedly cool against his flesh. “James.” Her voice was like liquid fire.

An entire army could not have held him back from once again closing the distance between them. So close, so close. The scent of her was all around him, the sweetness of verbena now musky with an earthier spice. Somehow, he found enough breath to groan.

Naked desire. The gleam in Kirtland’s eyes lit a wicked fire inside her. But it was nothing compared to the sensation aroused by the feel of his mouth on her cheeks, her throat, her brow.

Siena cried out, wondrous of what had taken hold of her. Somehow her strategy of seduction was spiraling out of control. What fire consumed her own flesh, she could not say in words. She kissed him full on the mouth, teasing his tongue to twine with hers. The lush curling of his caresses sent spiraling shivers to her core. So fierce and yet so tender. She was reminded yet again that he was a warrior, a man who, like her, understood both triumph and pain.

She had come to think of them as evenly matched. But all of sudden she realized that it was not quite so. From the first clash of hands, Kirtland had taken hold of her, overpowering her guard. Oh, how she had fallen—spinning, twisting, head over heels. And yet she felt safe in his arms. How to describe the sensation?

Love.

The word took shape from the shadows. All her martial skills and mental strengths were no defense against the elemental force of love. As for trust . . .

Principle or passion. Whose side was she on?

In the next moment she must make a choice.

As the question cried out for an answer, it was joined by an echo from Kirtland’s earlier interrogation. If you are not working for our side, then a logical surmise is French intelligence. In the heat of the moment, he had spoken with a righteous anger.

Our side.

Were those words strong enough proof of the earl’s innocence? Perhaps not for Lynsley’s liking. But Siena was suddenly so certain she could trust her intuition that she was willing to stake her life on it. Kirtland had taken the first leap of faith, allowing his belief in her innocence to overpower all his suspicions. She was willing to meet him halfway.

But what about her mission, her country? More than her own life was at risk.

With a muffled groan, Kirtland cut through the last of her lingering defenses. He lifted her skirts, his touch gentle yet urgent as he eased off her drawers. In the next moment, she heard his breeches fall to the carpet . . .

No more thoughts. It was one of Da Rimini’s first rules of engagement. Once you have committed to a strategy, Volpina, you must believe in yourself.

Siena arched into his thrust. If she was wrong, she would face the consequences.

Rising, falling, their bodies quickly found a perfect rhythm together, moving with the animal grace of two skilled fencers. A duel of desire. She had never felt so gloriously alive.

Heat was spiraling through her legs, seeking some sort of escape. Trembling, she clung to him. “What is happening?” she cried in wonder. “I fear I am falling?—”

He covered her mouth with a bruising kiss. “Trust me, paloma . I won’t let you go.”

Trust. She yielded to his need, and hers. “Hold me, James. Steel me with your strength.”

Her whispered urging spurred him to quicken his strokes. Faster, faster, his thrusts drove her to the very edge of reason. And then she was over it, her cries like crackling crystal as her senses shattered in a myriad of sparkling shards.

Kirtland’s primal groan echoed in her ear as his body held rigid for one last instant, then shuddered and softened against her spent limbs.

Though the soft coverlet lay beneath her, Siena felt as if she were floating on some sun-kissed current of air. Weightless. Careless. Light as a feather. Pressing her lips to the earl’s shoulder, she tasted the sweetness of his salty heat and wished that she might not come back down to earth for a long, long time.