Page 23 of The Spy Wore Silk (Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Extraordinary Young Ladies #1)

Chapter Twenty-Three

K irtland doubled back through the gallery corridor, pausing every few steps to check for footfalls behind him. Feigning puzzlement at the first of Siena’s riddles, he had been the last to leave the Hunt Room, and from there, it had been easy enough to drop away from the rest of the group as they hurried for the attic storerooms. Still, he could not shake off a feeling of unease. An unseen threat shadowing his steps.

Taking cover in the doorway of the Renaissance Room, he checked again for any sign that he was being followed. Silence. Not a scuff or a flutter of movement, save for the noiseless flicker of the wall sconces. And yet, the hairs on the nape of his neck stirred a prickling warning.

He forced a measured breath. The rasp of his nerves was no doubt due to rust. He was out of practice—that was all. And in the past, his fears had been for himself and his battle hardened troops, not a lone young female. That she was trained to take care of herself did not still the thud of his heart. She was in danger, and his instinct was to rush to her rescue, no matter that their strategy demanded that he guard the flanks.

Damn . Despite Osborne’s teasings, he had never thought of himself as a parfait knight in a chanson de geste . He had too many chinks in his armor. Yet armed with naught but his heart, he would gladly joust dragons, demons or the devil himself to keep Siena safe from harm.

All the more reason to locate Orlov, he reminded himself. And quickly. Her change in strategy had made a search of the Russian’s rooms less important than finding the man himself. Knowing Orlov was in the habit of lingering over port and cigars, Kirtland decided to head for the small studies on the floor below. Wherever he was, the Russian was soon to acquire a companion. A shadow to his every move.

Quickening his stride, the earl slipped down one flight through the servant stairwell and picked his way past a row of decorative plinths. The first few rooms were dark, deserted. He came abreast of the Coin Room and finding the fire banked and the candles extinguished, turned for the East Hall. A move which would bring him closer to the Russian’s quarters. And to Siena.

“Looking for something?”

The sudden sound froze Kirtland in his tracks. “A drink,” he replied.

Orlov, his brows a golden gleam of mock surprise, clucked in dismay. “Have the duke’s servants let all the decanters go dry at the same time? How shockingly lax. But then, it is so difficult to come by good help these days.”

“I find myself in the mood for something other than brandy or port.”

“Indeed? Have you ever tasted Russian vodka?”

“No.” The earl kept his voice deliberately neutral.

“I have a bottle in my room. Would you care to try it?” An invitation, or a challenge? “I warn you though, it is an acquired taste.”

“Like you?”

Orlov laughed softly. “You are not the first to imply that I am best enjoyed in small doses.”

The man did possess a dry sense of humor, admitted the earl. To go along with his insolent arrogance.

“The same might be said for you, Lord Kirtland,” continued the Russian. “But despite our apparent distaste for one another, why don’t we put aside our differences for the moment and have a friendly chat. Who knows, perhaps we will come to some sort of meeting of the minds.”

“Perhaps.” Kirtland nodded his agreement. “Very well. Let us raise a toast. To the hope of continued good will between our two countries, if nothing else.” Not that he trusted the man’s sudden civility for an instant. But the opportunity gave him a perfect excuse for being close at hand to the rooms of Leveritt and Jadwin in case Siena ran into any trouble.

“Just so. A spirit of international cooperation between St. Petersburg and London.”

However silkily the Russian dressed his words, they had a hint of menace to them. What did Orlov really want, other than a handsome sum for his services? Until Kirtland knew the answer, he must assume the worst.

He would be vigilant if the other man tried any tricks.

They walked in silence, the slide of Russian’s velvet slippers matching the whisper of the earl’s soft-soled evening shoes. Like a panther and a lion, thought Kirtland. Prowling through a gilded jungle.

It was not until they had entered the East Wing that Orlov started up again with his usual small talk. “How strange that you have chosen not to compete for the pleasure of buying the Dove’s services. Or mayhap . . .” He stretched the pause out for several steps. “You have other arrangements with her. Mayhap you are getting them for free.”

“I am not sure why my decisions should be of any interest to you, Mr. Orlov.”

“We are engaged in our own competition, are we not? Your choices may affect my own strategies. Rather like on a battlefield.”

As if he needed any reminder that he was treading on dangerous ground.

They turned into the corridor, and the earl could not keep from tensing every muscle. The Russian kept pattering on with his sly innuendoes, but Kirtland was only paying them half a mind. Most of his attention was focused on the closed doors, and what might be taking place behind them. There was no need to be so on edge, he assured himself. It was far too early for any of the club members to be returning from the hunt.

A click of the latch and Orlov entered his rooms. “Wait here, I’ll light a taper for the candelabra.” He returned, the single flame in one hand, a bottle in the other. “The glasses are on the sideboard.”

Kirtland took a step, then hesitated.

“ Za Zdorovie ,“ announced the Russian, lifting his arms in some impatience. “That is, unless you are having second thoughts about trusting my hospitality. I assure you, the drink is not drugged.”

Still thinking of Siena and her dangerous games, Kirtland darted one last glance to the hallway. Was there a shifting of the shadows? His eye was off the Russian for hardly more than a heartbeat.

Just long enough for the heavy glass to come crashing down upon his head. As he slipped into blackness, he heard Orlov add, “But the bottle has rather nasty side effects.”

Leveritt’s door was locked, but Siena had anticipated as much. The ancient iron was no match for the blade of her pick. The door opened and closed so quickly it appeared naught but a stirring of the hallway shadows. As a precaution, she took a moment to throw the tumbler back in place.

His room was inordinately neat, the brushes on the dressing table perfectly aligned, the bottles of Macassar oil and cologne in a straight row, the dressing gown already laid out in precise folds upon the bed. Siena smoothed a hand over the paisley silk, then moved to the dressing room. Elegant coats of the softest superfine wool hung paired with tailored waistcoats of costly brocades. Pantaloons, trousers, formal breeches—all bespoke an exquisite sense of style. Her gaze fell to the buttery soft leather boots and embroidered slippers. Apparently no expense had been spared on achieving such sartorial splendor. Leveritt was a gentleman who did not overlook details.

Next she checked the bureau drawers. Scented shirts, starched cravats, silk stockings. Everything in exact order.

Not a hair out of place.

Siena paused for a moment, slightly puzzled as to why this perfection was stirring a prickling at the back of her neck. Then, acting on instinct, she turned to the desk.

Surely it couldn’t be quite that simple. And yet, a methodical mind might well stick to its ordered routine. As Il Lupino had constantly reminded her, an enemy’s strength could often be turned into his ultimate weakness. Opening the lettercase, she found only a correspondence from Leveritt’s banker and a bill from an antique dealer on Bond Street. The contents of a notebook proved equally bland. Several scribblings regarding a recent art exhibit, a sketch for a silver epergne, a reminder of an upcoming auction of Italian paintings. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Pressing her eyes shut, Siena focused her thoughts on all she had read of the men, the mission. What was it that tied all the elements together?

The answer seemed so obvious as to be absurd.

Books.

Turning slowly, almost casually, she moved to the bedside table. The book was, ironically enough, a thick tome on Russian religious icons, lavishly illustrated with hand-tinted engravings. Its binding fell open to reveal a folded paper, nestled between a grim-faced St. Sergius and an unsmiling Madonna and Child.

God in heaven . Siena ran a finger over the broken wax seal, tracing enough of the double-headed Imperial eagle to know she had at long last found what she had come for.

Her elation had little time to take wing, for as she lifted the document from its hiding place, hurried footsteps sounded in the hallway and a key rattled in the lock.

Siena shoved the paper inside her shirt and bolted for the open window. The thin ledge provided a precarious perch, but balanced on her bare toes, she began inching as fast as she dared toward the decorative arch. Another few feet and she could climb to cover?—

Damn. Up ahead flashed a glimmer of fair hair. Like a bad penny, the Russian kept turning up where he was least wanted. A swirl of smoke explained his presence at the open casement. But where was Kirtland? Her foot slipped as she shifted her stance. Steady , she warned herself. The earl had come unscathed through a brutal war. He knew how to take care of himself. Still, she could not keep from wondering if he was close. If he was safe.

Her mind clouded with questions, she nearly missed the tiny flare of orange as Orlov tossed away the butt of his cheroot and flexed his shoulders. In another instant he would turn her way.

She could not go forward, she could not go back. The only choice was the mullioned glass at her shoulder. Jadwin’s room . The latch gave way to her hip and she rolled silently onto the carpet. For a moment she lay still, honing her senses to a fighting edge. Victory was so close. She must not allow it to be snatched away at the last moment. Keep your mind and your eye on the opponent’s blade until it is lying in the dust, Volpina! Desperation gives men an added strength. She must use Da Rimini’s words to steel her own nerve for the final flurry.

Her fingers pressed to her left breast. She would draw courage from not only the hawk, but from something deeper within herself. Love. She had come to understand that it was not a weakness but a strength.

Stilling the racing of her heart, Siena angled a glance around the room. Jadwin’s trunk was unlocked, his portmanteau propped open against a chair, offering a tantalizing peek at a jumble of papers. But there seemed little point in snooping through his personal effects. Whatever his faults, she decided to let them remain private. Her mission was to unmask a traitor, and the proof of perfidy was in her possession.

Her hand was on the door latch when it suddenly rattled in her grasp.

“The devil take it . . .”

Siena fell back, narrowly avoiding a blow from the door.

Jadwin stared in shock at her black shirt and trousers. “W—what game is this?”

There was nothing to do but brazen it out.

She arched a leg and gave a sultry look. “Take a guess, sir.” She toyed with the top fastening of her shirt. “I had a feeling that you would have no trouble with the riddles.” It was odd that both he and Leveritt had returned sooner than she expected, but perhaps Rose had not reckoned with the linguistic talents of the Club members. They were, after all, particularly skilled with words. “Did I make them too easy?”

“No—that is, I felt a trifle unwell and decided to come lie down.”

Her palm slid suggestively over the curve of her breast. “I am sure I can cure any malady that ails you.”

He grabbed for her hand. “I fear I must?—”

His fingers snagged in the silk, ripping loose a button. The dispatch fell to the floor.

Before she could react, Jadwin picked it up. “What’s this?” he stammered, staring at the red wax seal as if it were a pool of blood.

“Nothing,” she assured him. ”A billet doux I found under my door.” Plucking the folded document from his grasp, Siena covered her concern with a quick laugh. “You don’t want to read it. The prose is quite embarrassing. Why, I am sure the fellow who penned it is already regretting his folly of putting pen to paper.” The crackle mimicked her own inward warnings as she wedged it into the hidden pocket of her trousers. Keep your concentration as sharp as your blade, Volpina! She had let her mind wander, her step slow a fraction.

“Pour us a drink.” She turned, taking care to expose a goodly amount of cleavage.

Jadwin paled, and his hands were shaking as he turned for the decanter.

A sip, a smile, and she would think of some excuse to slip out for a moment?—

He suddenly whipped around, a small pistol in his hand. “Give it to me.”

“What?”

His voice rose. “Now! Or I’ll blow a bloody hole through your heart!”

“No need for violence, sir,” she soothed. “There must be some misunderstanding, sir. I?—”

The latch clicked and Leveritt entered. “There is no misunderstanding,” he said, closing the door behind him. “Well done, Johnny. You were right to move so quickly.”

Both men?

She felt a bit lightheaded. Two traitors, not one. Of all the possibilities she had considered, this one had never entered her head.

“I don’t know how you stumbled onto our secret,” continued Leveritt. “But if you think to blackmail us, you are far too late in the game. We have grown sick and tired of it all.”

“The lies, the pretenses,” growled Jadwin. Sweat had curled the tips of his shirtpoints. “But in another few days, we will be safe.”

“But why?” asked Siena. “Why commit treason? Gentlemen such as yourselves have everything.”

Smiling, Jadwin touched his friend’s arm with an easy intimacy. “I should think it would be obvious.”

Realization suddenly dawned on her. “For that you would betray your country?”

“Why not?” countered Leveritt. “Our country despises our sort. They would put a noose around our necks if the truth were known.”

“This last delivery is our ticket to freedom.” In the glow of moonlight, Jadwin’s face appeared white as chiseled marble. Bloodless. “Our contact in France will pay a King’s ransom for it, seeing as the Emperor will be able to use it to break Russia’s alliance with England.”

In spite of the initial shock, her training quickly took over and Siena kept probing for information. “If it is so valuable, I wonder that you tarried here.”

“Art has always been our passion, and the Psalters are a treasure worth taking considerable risk to possess,” he replied.

“Indeed, this fortnight’s delay only adds to the price we will get for the dispatch. Napoleon is champing at the bit to have it.” Leveritt looked immensely pleased with himself, and the opportunity to display his cleverness. “And the beauty is, once we outbid the others for the Psalters, they will cost us no more than a small deposit, for the duke will trust our bankers to complete the transaction once we have returned to Town.”

Jadwin, too, seemed eager to expound on their cunning. “Rather than return to London, we will be off to the coast and a fast cutter to Le Havre. And from there, perhaps Sicily or Greece. Wherever men of a sensitive nature can enjoy art and life without censure.”

“If one is discreet here,” she began.

“What do you know of discretion!” Leveritt’s slightly effeminate mouth pursed in a petulant pout. His tone turned ugly. “A woman who prances around naked, inviting men to fight over the privilege of rutting between her legs. Your wicked ways are applauded and overlooked with a wink of an eye by the ton . You offer your flesh for money, not love, and earn a pretty penny for your lewdness. It’s bloody unfair.”

“Unfair?” In some ways she could understand their dilemma. She, of all people, knew how primitive instinct could turn savage. No matter whether they were highborn or lowborn, men were quick to attack those who were weak or different. But it galled her to hear such self-pity from men of wealth and title. “It is you, who had the good fortune to be born to a life of privilege, who don’t know what you are talking about. Given your advantages in life, you could have come up with an alternative to treason.”

“You sound like a sniveling Methodist,” snarled Leveritt. “How dare you preach at us. You don’t understand a thing about being different.”

There was little point in correcting his conceit. She must instead find a way to use it as a weapon, seeing it was the only one at hand. “I don’t suppose I do.” Bowing her head, Siena hoped to appear suitably chastised. “Clearly your intellect sets the two of you apart. I would guess, by finding the government dispatch hidden in a book bearing The Gilded Page Club bookplate, that you passed on your information using such rare volumes.”

“You are a smart little slut. Too smart by half.”

“Not really. I would never have been clever enough to conceal my dealings with the enemy from the other members.”

“Bah. It was easy enough,” he answered. “Dunster was far too busy with his womanizing to notice aught but his own reflection in the glass. And the others, they, too, were wrapped up in their own interests. Kirtland was the most worrisome of the lot. His intellect and his military training made him dangerous. But given his own problems with authority and his increasing absence from London, we figured it a safe bet that he would not notice anything amiss.”

“As for you . . .” The snout of Jadwin’s gun pressed up against her chest. “How did you come to discover the truth?”

“Mere chance,” she bluffed. “I always search the rooms of the gentlemen I choose as my marks. The risk is usually worth the reward.”

“So we are not the first who you have targeted for blackmail?” A harsh laugh. “Be assured we are the last.”

Leveritt smiled grimly. “The Black Dove will not be flying away from this particular encounter. In fact, you have made it inordinately easy for us to deal with the matter.”

So she had, thought Siena, cursing her naivete for not having interpreted the subtle signs correctly. She had been right to sense something odd about them, but dead wrong as to the reason why.

“Exactly.” Jadwin seemed to be savoring the scenario, as he would a fine wine. ”I heard a noise, I saw an intruder slip in through my window. Bang!” He blew a whiff of imaginary smoke from his fingertip. “Who could blame me for protecting myself?”

“Before you do so, I am curious. How were you drawn into treason?”

The two gentlemen exchanged looks. “I suppose there is no harm in telling it.” Leveritt’s shrug held not a twitch of remorse. “During the Peace of Amiens, we journeyed to Paris, to partake of its legendary pleasures. There was a party in St. Germain. Champagne. Girls. Boys. Anything our hearts desired. Our host, an old friend of Paul Barras and Josephine de Beaharnaise, was very continental about such things. Chacun a son gout was how he put it.”

Each to his own taste. “How very accommodating,” said Siena aloud.

“Yes, we thought so, too,” replied Jadwin, missing the note of irony in her tone. “The fun went on for several days, with our new French friend taking us from one grand hotel to another, each offering more outrageous entertainments. When we finally had to take our leave, the three of us had formed a true bond that went deeper than mere nationality.”

“Or so we thought, until last year, when a man approached us outside the townhouse of The Gilded Page Club.” Despite his seeming nonchalance, Leveritt had paled, and a sheen of sweat glistened upon his brow. “At first, the information he demanded did not seem so very bad. A question of which regiments were being sent where, along with their numbers and their commanders. It was easy enough to come by through conversation at White’s.”

“Then the demands grew greater.” Jadwin took over for his friend’s flagging nerve. “We had no choice but to go along with them. He had incriminating letters that would have ruined us.”

Siena longed to slap the sulky smugness from his face. Instead she merely said, “Yes, you did have a choice. You could have done what you are doing now. As you said, there are many parts of the world where the moral strictures of society are not so rigid. You could have made a new life, free from fear or censure.”

“And give up the glittering social life of London? Sacrifice all the comforts of our clubs, our rank, our fortunes?” Leveritt’s laugh held a hint of hysteria. “Not until we had accumulated enough ready blunt to live in the manner to which we had been born.” Suddenly seeming to tire of explanations, he mimed squeezing off a shot. “But enough talk. Go head, John. Pull the trigger.”

Jadwin cocked the hammer, then slowly lowered his sights. “Wait,” he murmured. “A shooting, no matter how justified, will bring a magistrate here, nosing around, asking questions, bringing unwanted attention to us. I have a better idea. Let us put a gold watch and some other valuables in her pockets—a set of diamond shirt studs, a few gold fobs that we need not admit are ours. Then we’ll take her up to the battlements. It’s a long fall down from there.” The gun barrel traced a spiraling curl through the air. “And the beauty is, everyone will think her a common thief as well as a slut. There will no connection to us.”

A grin eased the tautness of Leveritt’s features. “That is one of the things I like so much about you, Johnny. You do have a delightfully diabolical mind.”

“Which is why you must not worry so, my dear Randall. I have told you, they are not nearly clever enough to catch us.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Siena saw the butt of the pistol rise. She angled her head just enough to blunt the full force of the blow. Letting out a low groan, she crumpled to the floor. For the moment it was wiser to feign unconsciousness. They were confident, contemptuous. An attitude which led to carelessness.

She would marshal her strength and be ready to strike back when the moment was right.

“I have a few things in my dressing case that will suit the purpose,” called Jadwin. “It’s there, on my bureau.”

It took considerable willpower to lie limp as Leveritt yanked the hard-won dispatch from her pocket and shoved the trinkets in its place. The brush of his hand made her skin crawl.

“Fetch a cloak,” added Jadwin. “If we run into anyone on the way, we can say Winthrop is four sheets to the wind and needs a breath of fresh air to clear his head.”

“Dead drunk.” Leveritt laughed. “I like the irony of it. Here, let us splash some spirits over her for good measure.” The cloying scent of port soaked through her tangled curls.

“Now lift her.”

“Plaguey female,” huffed his partner. “She’s heavier than she looks.”

“Her fall will be that much swifter,” assured Jadwin. ”Hurry. We need to get her though this corridor before any of the others return. From the entryway, there is a short cut to the to main tower. Once we reach the spiral stairwell that leads to battlements, we should be safe enough.”

Stiff with cold and fatigue from hours in the saddle, Shannon stumbled down from the hillock where she had hidden her horse. The thorny gorse tore at her sleeve, leaving a trail of scratches across her arm. Steady, she warned herself. She had managed to come this far without mishap. But now, with every step, the way grew more dangerous.

Cutting through a walled orchard, she paused to survey the castle up ahead. The crenellated crest rose out of the fog, a somber outline of slate and shadows. Shannon lowered her gaze, noting that the only flicker of light appeared in the second floor windows of the central tower. The two wings were dark, deep in repose.

She would have liked to study the details a bit longer, but a muffled bark sent her loping along the privet hedge that bordered the drive. She had spotted the watchman earlier, patrolling the outer grounds with two great mastiffs. His rounds seemed to follow a regular pattern. Her breach of the castle defenses would have to come from the rear.

The fanciful expanse of glass, pearly white against the dark stones immediately caught her eye. Ducking in closer, Shannon crept along the perimeter of the conservatory until she came to a set of brass-framed doors. In a matter of moments she was inside, the soft snick of metal leaving no trace of her entry.

Cutting quickly through the greenery, she slowed to a stealthier pace as she came to a darkened hallway. Where to look for Siena? The castle offered a maze of possibilities. But one errant move . . .

Giving sharp echo to her own mental warnings, a door swung open and a maid, staggering under the weight of a silver tea service, crossed through the corridor up ahead. Shannon waited a moment, then followed. Another door, this one painted sage green, fell closed.

Her manual on martial arts was far more familiar than the primer on Society etiquette, but Shannon forced herself to recall what she had been taught about the workings of a titled household. The list of guests and their appointed quarters would be among the schedules and menus held by the housekeeper. Along with the butler, the woman would have a small room of her own, located somewhere near the pantries . . .

A short while later, armed with a suite name and a rough sketch of the castle floorplan, Shannon set out in search of Siena’s quarters. Given the late hour and the dim glow of the few lamps left burning, she decided to risk traversing the main rooms rather than navigate a more circuitous route through the servant passageways. She padded down a long corridor, ascended a set of stairs, then crossed an octagonal entry hall and entered what the map called the “Little” Ballroom.

There was no worry that her steps might echo through the cavernous space. The thickness of the Turkey carpet, soft as velvet underfoot, could have muffled the tread of an elephant. Still, she had to take care not to trip as she stared up at the magnificent carved ceilings and gilt framed oil paintings that graced the colonnaded walls.

A bit breathless, she hurried up the main circular staircase, her hand barely touching the Rococo railings.

Another darkened hall, another sharp turn, and she found herself peering through the portico of the sculpture gallery. In the low light, the multitude of shapes took on an eerie life of their own—headless Roman antiquities at play with naked Greek gods, writhing Renaissance serpents ready to strike at terra cotta Chinese warriors. Silent sentinels of centuries past.

Halfway through the room, Shannon heard a whisper. She froze as a flicker of movement caught her eye. A pair of men—there was no mistaking the flesh and blood forms that materialized from between the inanimate statues. Their profiles did not pale in comparison to the smooth marble gods. Dark and light angels. Lucifer and Gabriel ? Not only were they opposed in looks, but in words. For as they came closer, it became clear they were in the midst of a heated argument.

“You are wasting your time. I don’t have it.”

“So you say. But I’m not convinced.”

Shannon saw the glint of a knife pressed to the throat of the dark-haired gentleman. He did not flinch. “Kill me and be damned about it. But I tell you again, the lady is innocent of any betrayal. If you harm her, I’ll crawl back from the bowels of hell and tear out your heart.”

“A touching speech. So you are actually in love with the lady? I would not have expected a man of your hard nature to be capable of softer sentiment. A pity it will come to naught. I don’t believe in love. Or avenging spirits, whether they come from heaven or hell.” The blond god tightened his grip on his prisoner’s arm and turned him roughly toward the far wall, where an arched alcove led off from the main gallery. “So save your breath. You are going to need it.”

Though the quarrel looked to be taking a deadly turn, Shannon didn’t dare interfere. Whatever the dispute, it was obviously personal. Slipping her own knife from its sheath, she hid behind a winged Venus and waited for them to pass. Still, she felt a twinge of regret that the dark-haired gentleman appeared to be marching to his doom. Chiseled into his angled features and imposing height was a certain strength of character, evident even in the gloom. An intangible aura that commanded respect. It was hard not to admire a man who faced death without the slightest frisson of fear.

As for the fair-haired gentleman, he had a swagger that set her teeth on edge. Apollo, with an arrogance to match.

He suddenly whipped around, as if aware of another presence.

She held her breath as his gaze locked with the marble eyes overhead. Though he passed over her, unseeing, the glint of aquamarine ice sent a shiver through her sword hand.

“Your misdeeds already beginning to haunt you, Orlov?” There was an edge of ironic humor to the dark-haired gentleman’s voice.

A low laugh. “You know, under different circumstances, I could almost come to like you. However, business is business.”

Shannon watched the two of them disappear in the shadows of alcove. The clank of a key was followed by the rasp of rusty hinges. Then silence.

She could not afford more than a passing moment of sympathy for the stranger. Not with Siena’s life on the line. Once she was certain they were gone, she slipped from her hiding place and hurried into the East Wing.