Page 22 of The Spy Wore Silk (Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Extraordinary Young Ladies #1)

Chapter Twenty-Two

K irtland was right. There was no time to lose.

Siena stared out her bedroom window. The rain had finally given way to scudding sunlight and the mist had receded, leaving the moors sparkling with a hard-edged clarity. In contrast, the clouds within the castle were growing more ominous.

Dunster had departed at dawn, leaving a message for the others that an urgent matter called him back to Town. The explanation had raised no overt comment, but at breakfast, the tension was palpable among the remaining Club members. Winthrop had even suggested that the games were becoming too much of a distraction from the auction.

She had agreed to consider changing the rules. Her masquerade was wearing thin. Orlov, she knew, already saw through the low cut bodices and transparent silks. Whether anyone else suspected that the Black Dove was not what she seemed was . . . uncertain.

Rose opened the armoire. “What dress shall you be needing for the afternoon?”

“My riding habit, please,” she replied, hoping a good gallop would help clear her head for the challenge ahead. At breakfast she had pronounced Fitzwilliam the winner of the previous night’s challenge, with the prize being a ride out to the romantic ruins of a medieval abbey. Although he was no longer a suspect, she had wanted the time to consider how to deal with the two remaining suspects.

Leveritt and Jadwin. One of them had to be the traitor. And she was almost certain as to which one it was. Something the older gentleman had said during the fortune telling session had sparked yet another question, but she needed to work out an exact strategy for confirming her suspicions.

Or dealing with the alternative. Either way, by the end of the night, the enemy would be unmasked.

“You anticipate trouble?” Rose looked up, alerted by the click of the lock on the weapons case.

“It’s best to be prepared.” Siena answered evasively as she opened the lid. She was not sure how much her maid knew of what took place during the games. Or how much Rose guessed. She herself had said nothing about Orlov’s bullet or Dunster’s attack.

Or Kirtland’s lovemaking.

Her fingers tightened on the hilt of her poniard, matching the clench of her body. The thought of his touch sent a dagger of desire through her.

“A wise strategy when one isn’t sure who the enemy is.” Was there a hint of warning in Rose’s tone?

Siena slipped the extra blade into her reticule, then put away the case. “Speaking of strategy, I’ve decided to change the timing of the next game.” Making a spur of the moment decision, she went on, “Instead of tomorrow, it will take place tonight.”

“Which one do you have in mind?”

“The treasure hunt. We need to map out a route through the castle, one that will keep the men busy for at least an hour. Perhaps you can take a look around some of the more out-of-the-way areas and decide which ones might suit our needs.”

Rose nodded. “I already have some ideas.”

“I will be back in several hours, and we can work out the final details.” She would make the announcement when the gentlemen gathered for drinks before supper. Even if the enemy was suspicious of her role here, the sudden change in plan might throw him off balance. “Just keep them far away from their own quarters.”

Kirtland shaded his eyes from the sun. From the shelter of the rock outcropping, he had a clear line of sight across to the abbey ruins. Siena had ruled out Fitzwilliam as the traitor, but he wasn’t taking any chances. None of the members of The Gilded Page Club had seemed particularly threatening before now. Yet one was a dangerous traitor.

He had been forced to look at everyone—including himself—in a whole new light.

At the sound of hooves thudding over the wet ground, he checked the priming of his pistol and peeked down from his eyrie to see Siena and Fitzwilliam dismount. Even from afar, she drew his gaze. Like a moth to a flame. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

Despite all their differences, they were, at heart, kindred spirits. Both of them had been indelibly marked by the hardships of life, he with the scars of an enemy saber and she with a secret tattoo. They wore them as badges of honor, outward signs of a commitment to duty, to principle. He was born a peer, she a pauper, and yet some unknown alchemy, more magic than science, had bonded them together in defiance of all textbook logic.

How to explain a flash of lightning or a clap of thunder?

Or the feeling of profound peace he had experienced in her arms, despite the storm raging all around them.

Kirtland pressed back against the jagged stone, feeling a warring of desire and regret. Now that he knew she was not really a courtesan, he would not treat her as one. She might not be a real lady . . . but that was a distinction about which he didn’t care. She had earned his respect.

And far more .

A sudden glint of sun on steel drew his attention from Siena and her escort to the trail leading up from the lake. It took a moment for his eye to focus on the approaching rider.

Orlov.

Deciding that the Russian was far more of a threat than Fitzwilliam, the earl hurried to mount his stallion. Cutting through the copse of pines, he cantered to the crest of the hill and picked out a path through the gorse and granite that led down into the wooded ravine.

“Out hunting?” Kirtland waited until the other man came abreast of the trees before spurring forward to join him. The trail was narrow, forcing them close enough that their boots brushed.

The Russian didn’t bat an eye. “I thought I might shoot some birds, if the opportunity arose.“

“It won’t.” Kirtland let the pause linger before adding, “Out of season, you see.”

“You did not ask which species I was considering.”

“It doesn’t matter,” answered the earl.

“It appears we have different customs on the Continent.”

“So it does. But as you are in England, I would advise you not to risk breaking the rules.”

“Then perhaps I’ll set my sights on g bigger game,” said Orlov blandly.

They rode on in silence. The terrain flattened, yet still the earl clung like a nettle to the Russian’s side until they reached a fork in the trail. After a small hesitation, Orlov reined his mount toward the south fields, away from Siena.

Satisfied that he no longer posed any immediate threat to her, Kirtland touched the brim of his hat. “Good hunting. But have a care. The weather looks to be turning, and the moors of Devon can be dangerous for those unfamiliar with the territory.”

Orlov turned in his saddle. “Be assured, Lord Kirtland, I have hunted in far more treacherous environs than these.”

Suddenly tiring of all the feints and probes, the earl decided to bare his steel. “Whatever it is you are after, I don’t intend to let you have it.”

“Then perhaps I shall have to take it by force.”

“You may try.”

They glared at each other, both unyielding, until the Russian flashed a mocking salute. “How sporting of you to offer a warning, Kirtland. I would not have expected it. A lofty set of scruples is not rumored to be one of your strong suits.”

“Perhaps you have had an ear cocked in the wrong direction.”

There was a momentary ripple in the flat blue gaze. Satisfied that he had made his point, Kirtland spurred his stallion into a brisk canter. Not that he had won any great advantage from the engagement. Orlov’s reasons for shadowing Siena were still as mysterious as ever.

Friend or foe?

Or something in between?

The earl slowed to negotiate a tricky turn. Could there be any grey area when it came to treachery? He wondered. Though he had not voiced his thoughts to her, Kirtland was now of the opinion that Orlov’s shot had been fired as a warning, not a death warrant. In analyzing the incident, he had decided that the shot had been aimed high enough over their heads to be a deliberate miss.

Why?

Swearing under his breath, Kirtland wished once again that he, like Osborne, had been asked to lend his expertise to military intelligence. In mulling over the few bits of information his friend had told him about Orlov, he had come up with even more questions about the Russian’s motives. However, to find answers, he would have to do his own reconnaissance. A search of Orlov’s rooms was in order, but he would have to be very careful. The man’s movements were unpredictable.

As was everything about the gathering at Marquand Castle.

The Psalters be damned. Come hell or high water, the earl decided he must spirit Siena away from its walls as soon as possible. Even if that meant taking matters into his own hands.

The light from the drawing room chandeliers seemed a bit more subdued than on previous evenings. As did the colors of the floral arrangement and the tone of the voices. Even the clink of crystal seemed muted as the guests gathered for the daily ritual of drinks before supper. The duke’s relatives seated themselves on the velvet sofas by the hearth, while the others competitors broke off into several small circles of their own. The remaining members of The Gilded Page Club stood on their own in front of the mullioned windows.

“I have a surprise for you, gentlemen,” announced Siena as she joined them.

Fitzgerald raised his glass and composed a quick rhyme. “Dare we hope the Dove has chosen a nest. And is now willing to spread her wings to the best?—”

“With such puling poetry, you have not a chance of warming your cockles beneath a blanket of downy softness,” said Winthrop.

“As if your words would coax a crow into your bed?—”

“Don’t jump to conclusions just yet.” Siena cut off the jibes before they could turn too ugly. “What I meant was, I have decided to change the rules.”

The four gentlemen around her exchanged speculative looks. Kirtland alone appeared more interested in the conversation taking place in one of the alcoves.

“What say you to one final challenge?” She had not yet told the earl of her idea and hoped he would not raise any objection. “To take place tonight. Winner take all.”

“An excellent suggestion.” To her surprise, it was Kirtland who voiced first approval. “Why wait any longer?”

Fitzwilliam seconded the sentiment. “Aye, it’s high time to come to the point.”

Winthrop’s snigger quickly took on a more speculative edge. “Let us hear what you have in mind before we come to any agreement.”

“Fair enough.” Siena indicated the bejeweled pendant nestled between her cleavage. “You see this golden dove? By midnight it will be resting in a different place. You will all receive a set of riddles at that time. Each one you solve will lead you a step closer to its hiding place. The first man to return to the Map Room with it will come away with two birds in hand.”

“So this time, the winner will not be open to interpretation?” asked Leveritt.

“No,” agreed Siena. “The outcome will leave no doubt as to who stands out from the others.”

Jadwin had remained silent up until that moment, but on hearing the others murmur their assent, he shrugged. “Well, if even Kirtland is on the same page this time, who am I to object?”

Siena signaled for more champagne to be served all round. “Then we are all in agreement. We will gather in the Hunt Room at midnight. There you will receive your set of riddles and the final instructions. Dress for a stalk, gentlemen. Although the trail will not lead outdoors, there will be a number of thorny obstacles to overcome before reaching the prize.”

“And you, madam, should come attired for a tumble,” suggested Winthrop with a wink. “After putting us through a merry chase, I am sure the winner will not wish to waste any time in claiming victory.”

“Good things come to those who wait,” she replied.

“So they say. But when the moment is right, one must be ready to seize it.” Kirtland’s words were cryptic, like the crescent curve that had come to his lips. What message, if any, did he mean to convey?

She had not long to ponder the question, for as the footman came over to refill their glasses, he contrived to murmur in her ear. “The Weapon Room. At eleven.”

His whisper stirred a flutter of her lashes, a silent assent. Strange how she knew he would sense its meaning. A look, a gesture—there was an understanding between them that went beyond words. Their bodies were in tune. Even now, she did not need to look around to know he had moved a half dozen paces to her right, his shoulders squared to the marble hearth.

A moment later he was gone, drawn away to converse with the duke’s secretary at the far end of the room.

Siena turned slightly, letting her gaze linger on the spot he had just vacated before looking to the open french doors. Torches were lit along the terrace and several of the gentlemen had stepped out to enjoy a smoke in the lingering twilight. The carved balusters had mellowed to the color of amber honey, and she suddenly felt the need to seek a sliver of solitude.

She slipped from the room and found a spot at the railing, far from the rumblings of male laughter. Like distant thunder that presaged a storm, it stirred a thrumming awareness that her mission was drawing to a head. The very air seemed charged with the crackle of coming lightning. Drawing a steadying breath, she sought to channel its force deep within her.

Her hands pressed hard against the weathered stone. The flex of muscle rippled through her limbs, in perfect harmony with balance and focus. She trusted her body, her physical training. If it came down to a test of strength or stamina, she was a match for any man.

As for a battle of wills? Siena stared out at the purpling moors. Her belief in the principles of the Academy was unflinching as well. She would fight to the death to defend them.

Never hesitate, Volpina. When the time comes to thrust the blade home, you must think of nothing else. Da Rimini had taught her well.

Her arm was poised, her steel was honed. The only possible weakness was her heart. She had let emotion come into play, stirring feelings that had no place in a warrior’s world. Distractions could prove deadly.

And love was perhaps the most dangerous of them all.

Love.

It was a two-edged sword. She loved her profession and all the noble ideals espoused by Lord Lynsley. But James Winchester had made her realize that love was more than an abstraction. He embodied all that she held dear—strength, honor, compassion. He had also awakened her to other elemental passions. The pleasures of lovemaking, the nuances of art, the power of poetry.

As a lone child in the slums, she had seen men as threatening brutes. As a student at the Academy, she had learned to view them in a more admirable light. They were teachers, disciplinarians, leaders who set an honorable example. They had molded her mind and her body. But until now, she had never imagined a man could be trusted with her heart.

Duty and desire. If only . . .

Siena thrust such musing aside. There was still a battle to fight before she tried to sort out her inner conflicts. It wasn’t as if the earl had asked her to choose between her world and his. Their alliance was only temporary.

“Your face is far too lovely to be wearing such a pensive frown.” Fitzwilliam, bearing a fresh bottle of champagne, perched a hip on the stone balustrade and refilled her drink.

Sentiment gave way to a steely smile as Siena turned.

“Come, let us toast to the striking sunset. And the coming dawn. By tomorrow, you will have settled on your new protector. I should think that the prospect would be a pleasing one, for no matter whom you choose, you have a good deal to gain.”

And a good deal to lose.

She raised the glass to her lips. “To the new day.”

Would that she and Kirtland lived to see it.

The surrounding steel of the Weapons Room—centuries of razored blades, hammered shields and daggered points—gave the clock chimes an added edge. Her nerves already sharp with worry, Siena moved deeper into the recess between the display cabinets. Row upon row of Roman knives lay upon pristine velvet.

She forced her eyes away.

The earl entered, his dark evening dress blending in with the night shadows. A glance around and he came to her with a silent, stalking step. His features, chiseled to a harsher angle by the reflected light, betrayed his own tension. He said nothing as he slipped into the narrow space beside her, his mouth set in a hard line.

And then suddenly his lips were upon hers, softening for just an instant into a searing kiss, before resuming their martial slant.

“This change in strategy—what have you planned?” he asked.

“The treasure hunt will allow me to search Leveritt’s room first, then move on to Jadwin’s if need be.” Somehow she managed a show of composure despite the fluttering of her heart. “Rose and I have routed the trail through the far reaches of the attics. The riddles should keep them occupied for well over an hour.”

“Give yourself no more than half an hour,” he replied. “After that, the risk grows too great.”

“The timing should be no problem.” She sketched out the logistics, and though his frown deepened, Kirtland raised no objection until she had finished.

“I cannot say I like what you are proposing. There are too many things that may go wrong.”

“No battle plan is foolproof. If need be, I will improvise.”

“I will drop out of the hunt and come back to keep track of Orlov. He poses as great a threat as the others.” He touched her arm. “Promise me you will stay away from his quarters.”

“I am not so rash as to walk straight into the lion’s den.”

“Knowing your unflinching courage, I would not put it past you to charge straight through the gates of hell.”

“Only if Lucifer stands between me and the paper I have been sent to recover.” She wished to say more, but to speak now of personal matters might weaken her resolve.

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, Kirtland looked on the verge of voicing a more vehement protest. But then, he seemed held back by the same reticence that gripped her. “Be careful, Siena.” A low murmur and a last light brush of his lips to her forehead were all he allowed before disappearing back into the shadows.

“And you, James,” she whispered into the darkness.