Page 4 of The Spy Wore Silk (Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Extraordinary Young Ladies #1)

Chapter Four

“ R avishing.”

“Exquisite. Absolutely exquisite”

The formal meeting of The Gilded Page Club had not yet been called to order, and as they waited for the others to arrive, Fitzwilliam, Dunster and Winthrop were perusing some offerings from a Bond Street dealer in rare books.

Kirtland had come early to club townhouse and was engaged in studying a 17 th century Spanish bible. However, on hearing the comments, he put it away and joined the other three club members at the main display table.

“It’s a handsome enough engraving,” muttered the earl as he leaned in for a closer scrutiny. “But the letterform and the detailing of the decorative acanthus leaves are hardly out of the ordinary.”

“And those breasts . . .” Baron Fitzwilliam paid him no heed. “Luscious as perfectly ripe melons.”

Breasts ? Kirtland squinted and tilted his head. Either his eyesight or his hearing was sadly askew for the shape remained naught but a simple ‘T.’

“Drool all you want, Fitz.” The Marquess of Dunster was quick with a jeer.

“I doubt you’ll be offered a taste.”

The earl cast a sidelong glance at the trio and suddenly realized no other eyes were focused on the printed page. “What the devil are you talking about, Dunster?”

“The newest highflyer in Town.”

“Caused quite a flap on her first appearance in Hyde Park yesterday,” added Fitzwilliam with a casual flutter of his hands. Unlike the others, he was dressed informally, the loose cut of his jacket reflecting the style currently in vogue with the artistic set. As if to emphasize the slightly raffish image, he wore his wavy auburn hair long and brushed straight back from his forehead.

“With feathers like that, is it any wonder?” Dunster’s smirk revealed a gleam of white teeth. “I’ve never seen such transparent silk.”

Like a wolf ready to devour some tasty morsel, thought Kirtland. Which was fitting, seeing as the marquess had a reputation for chasing after female flesh as well as rare books. Given his wealth and his classical good looks, it was likely he did not have to break much of a sweat. With his artfully tousled blond curls brushed to a brilliant shine and a smooth smile that looked to be sculpted of marble, he exuded the arrogance of an Adonis.

“Silk?” leered Lord Winthrop. In contrast to Dunster, he was short and stout, with a dark, pointed beard which gave him the look of a dissolute satyr. “From where I was standing, it did not appear there was much of any fabric—transparent or otherwise—obscuring that delectable décolletage.”

“Let us pray she didn’t take a chill.”

“I would warm her up soon enough,” sniggered Winthrop.

“ You ?” drawled Fitzwilliam. “I, on the other hand, have?—”

“Have even less to offer the likes of the Black Dove,” retorted Winthrop. “From what your current mistress says your male organ is not up to playing a lengthy tune.”

“If you gentlemen wish to dissect the fine points of anatomy, go attend a lecture at Royal Medical College,” snapped the earl. “Otherwise, do you mind if we focus our attention on the subject of typography?”

The lewd laughter gave way to a stiff silence.

“Lud, Kirtland, one would think the only substance flowing through your veins is piss and printer’s ink . . .” Winthrop bit back the rest of his retort, and as he turned from the candlelight, the earl caught a flicker of fear on his face.

His teeth set on edge. It was true that he had a rather volatile temper. But like the other facets of his character, it appeared to have been blown all out of proportion by the tattlemongers.

A second glance showed that the others were also eyeing him uncertainly.

Did they think him a threat? The truth was, even after two years of belonging to the Club, he knew very little about his fellow members, save that like himself, they all possessed great wealth, an august pedigree and an interest in rare books.

Was Dunster really a rake who had bedded half the married ladies of the ton ? There appeared to be an underlying conceit to his finely chiseled features, but the earl knew well enough that the glare of notoriety could distort the view.

And what of Fitzwilliam ? A crack whipster and marksman, he was also said to pen soulful poetry. But that, too, the earl knew only from hearsay.

Winthrop, an acquaintance from university days, was not quite as much of a blank page. Kirtland had witnessed firsthand the other man’s talent for historical research and architectural sketching. As well as his taste for tavern wenches. Still, he could hardly claim to be friends with the fellow.

The fact was, the earl knew more about the ancient philosophers than he did about his contemporaries.

He looked away. Though only a few feet separated him from the others, it felt like they were worlds apart. The fault was his own. He had never found it easy to be part of the ribald camaraderie that most gentlemen favored. Drinking, gaming, ogling the latest opera dancers—all the pursuits that passed for privileged pleasure left him bored to perdition.

Still, they did share a common interest in the art of books. Recalling Osborne’s oblique warning on the dangers of isolation, the earl decided that he ought to make more of an effort to fit in.

He forced the grim set of his lips to relax. “I still have a bit of blood running through my veins, Winthrop. However, I don’t quite see what all this fuss is about. There are flocks of lovely females whose favors are for sale.”

“Ah, but this one is a bird of a different feather,” assured Dunster. Seeing Kirtland’ arch a skeptical brow, he hastened to add, “You ought to have seen her handle the whip and ribbons. Threaded a team of blooded stallions through the crowded park without blinking an eye.”

“With a touch like that, imagine her prowess when mounted on a single steed,” murmured Fitzwilliam.

“Hah!” Winthrop snorted. “Your imagination is as close as you will come to those graceful fingers and long, lithe legs.”

“Never seen anything quite like her,” said Dunster “Just ask the others when they arrive if she isn’t some unique species. Decked out in those flashy baubles and bright silks, she looked like some exotic Bird of Paradise.”

“Sent down from the heavens,” sighed the baron.

“You are exaggerating her charms,” muttered Kirtland. “I saw her from afar, and while there is no denying she cut a colorful dash, there are other brazen beauties who are just as ripe for plucking.”

“It’s not just her stunning looks that set the Black Dove apart. It’s her announcement.”

The earl couldn’t help himself. “What announcement?”

“How she intends to choose a protector.”

“It usually works the other way around,” he said dryly.

“Not in this case,” replied Dunster. “She has let it be known that she will assess the gentlemen who qualify for consideration, and make known a short list of finalists for her favors. The lucky devils will then be subject to a personal interview before she makes her decision.”

The earl’s skepticism winged to new heights. “The ladybird may be in for a rude surprise. I would be willing to wager that money is more seductive than a pair of shapely thighs.”

Dunster stroked his chin. “You think she will renege on her promise and surrender to the highest bidder?”

His lips curled in a sardonic smile. “How many females do you know who value principle over greed.”

The marquess gave a bark of laughter. “Damn, but you have a point, Kirtland. Perhaps I shall make an offer—that is, unless you are planning on taking the lady under your own wing.”

“I doubt she would be worth the price.” On the far wall, flickering shadows danced across a painting of a reclining nude. Her voluptuous smile played hide and seek with his gaze, beckoning for an instant, then disappearing in a wink of darkness. As the earl’s eyes slid down over the fleshy curves, ripe with the promise of pleasure, his own expression compressed to a cold, hard line. A woman who might touch more than fleeting physical need? It was naught but illusion.

“There are any number of beautiful females who can offer physical pleasure at far less of a cost,” he finished.

Before any of the other could frame a reply, the door opened to admit the last two members of The Gilded Page Club.

“Forgive our tardiness.” Viscount Leveritt, the eldest of the group, headed straight for the tray of spirits on the sideboard. A connoisseur of fine brandy as well as Dürer woodcuts, he quickly poured himself a glass. But rather than savoring it in his usual manner, he tossed it back in one gulp. “However, I assure you that the announcement we bring will more than make up for the delay.”

Lord Jadwin’s normally placid features were also flushed with excitement. “Indeed, indeed. Just wait until you hear the news!”

“What? Has the Black Dove settled on a love nest?” quipped Dunster.

Looking momentarily befuddled, the viscount smoothed at the intricate knot of his cravat. It was rare to see him with so much as a fold out of place, for he was a stylish dresser who paid meticulous attention to detail. “I don’t recall any ornithological prints being on the agenda for this evening?”

“Dunster is referring to a bird in the flesh,” said the earl.

“Oh—the new slut.” Leveritt dismissed her with an offhand wave. “There are plenty more where she came from.”

Kirtland felt a certain smugness at hearing his own sentiments echoed aloud.

“But there are only two St. Sebastian Psalters in all of England. And we have just learned that the rumors are true! The Duke of Marquand has decided to sell them at a special private auction.”

A slow, spiraling heat spread through the earl’s limbs. The mention of fleshly treasures had left him cold, but he had lusted after those manuscripts for ages. Pressing his fingertips together he could almost feel the smoothness of the ancient vellum, infinitely more enticing than any courtesan’s flesh. And even the most alluring topaz eyes would pale in comparison to the jewel bright tones of the painted colors. Females would come and go, while the art inspired by eternal love and devotion endured.

Love. Thank god he had not fallen under that spell. He would save his caresses for the painted page.

“You have not yet heard the best of it.” Jadwin, eager to share in the announcement, edged in. “Only a very small, very select group of collectors are being permitted to bid.” He paused. “But after several bottles of White’s best port, the duke’s representative agreed that the members of The Gilded Page are among those with the money and the expertise to appreciate such treasures. We were able to secure an invitation for all six of us to Marquand Castle for the sale.”

“There is to be a house party, a fortnight in the wilds of Devon,” added Leveritt. “The duke insists on becoming acquainted with the prospective buyers, and each one will have to submit to a private interview. It seems he has become a trifle eccentric in his old age and wishes to ensure that his books are going to suitable home.”

“Bloody hell, we are looking to make a business transaction, not a betrothal,” grumbled Winthrop.

“What’s the difference?”

Dunster’s sardonic quip elicited a rumble of laughter. “Such a special opportunity calls for a toast, don’t you think?”

He raised his drink. Light winked off the cut crystal, yet to Kirtland the glint in his eye had the sharper intensity. “May the best man win.”

“As long as that man is me.” Winthrop said it lightly, yet the hard line of his jaw spoke volumes as to the strength of the sentiment.

The laughter died away quickly as the gentlemen drank.

Through the swirl of his brandy, the earl saw the others angling glances around the room. His hand tightened, the faceted glass prickling against his palm. Each member had his own reasons, his own passions for wanting to possess such a prize. They were all smiles now, but hidden in all the polish and sparkle of civility, most serious collectors had a darker side. Obsession could lead to cutthroat competition.

War. Though he gave a wry grimace as the spirits touched his tongue, Kirtland knew a battle of wits was brewing, with the strategies and tactics of actual combat likely to come into play. From now on, he could not afford to let his guard slip. Not if he wished to have any chance at victory.

“Seeing as the hour grows late, perhaps we ought to proceed with the agenda for this evening’s meeting.” It was Leveritt who moved to break the awkwardness of the moment. “I shall have Rusher bring in the folio of Raphael’s engravings that my agent discovered in Florence. You are in for a real treat, gentlemen. Few people are aware of the artist’s erotic work. Even fewer have seen an example.”

The murmurs grew a trifle less muted as the members took their seats around the table. Rusher, the townhouse butler, entered the room a few moments later, wearing his usual gold braided livery and pompous smile. He made a show of unfolding a black velvet tablecloth and placing the leather case atop it before taking his leave with a low bow.

Kirtland closed the book on letterforms. Though he did not usually take an interest in viewing graphic sex, he was mildly curious to see how a man of Raphael’s talent would handle the subject.

Leveritt untied the ribbons and slid out the first of the unbound prints. “The series depicts the Goddess Diana being ensnared by a passion for a handsome satyr. Here we have the Huntress, resplendid in?—”

Without so much as a warning knock, the door swung open.

“Damnation, Rusher, you know the club rules! We are never to be interrupted in the middle of?—”

This time it was shock rather than anger that cut short his words.

“Yes, it is terribly naughty of me to intrude.” Limned in the light of the hallway sconces, the silhouette appeared more spectral than human. But the sultry voice was clearly female. As were the hands that sketched a sinuous salute. “But then, I have never paid much attention to rules.”

Kirtland watched as the lady peeled off a pair of elbow length black gloves and let them fall to the floor. The soft whoosh of leather was echoed by a collective intake of breath. A voluminous cloak hid her face and figure, but as she glided across the carpet, a pair of golden slippers flashed from beneath the flounced hem, leaving a trail of sparks in their wake.

“I trust you won’t mind if I join you for a short interlude.”

“Er . . .” Leveritt appeared to be having great difficulty in recovering his voice.

Seeing no one else capable of speech, the earl took it upon himself to assume charge of the situation. “I fear you have stumbled into the wrong gathering, madam. This is a private meeting of book collectors.”

“Oh, there is no mistake, sir.” She turned to face him. As if lit by an inner fire, two glittering amber orbs peered out from the hooded shadows. Her gaze held his for only an instant before moving on to the Raphael print.

There was something about that fleeting look that sparked the oddest sensation. A flash of recognition? His palms prickled as her fingers smoothed at the dark wool of her cloak. It was, of course, absurd to imagine he had seen those eyes, those hands before.

“This is The Gilded Page Club, is it not?”

Kirtland nodded.

“Then I have come to the right place.” A toss of her head threw back the folds of fabric, revealing an artfully arranged tumble of raven curls, crowned with a delicate circlet of laurel leaves.

Even the earl felt the air leach from his lungs. The styling was an identical match to the engraving, lying in front of Leveritt, right down to the last hair.

“I’ll be damned,” murmured Dunster.

“Come, sir,” said the lady. “Don’t tell me you are concerned with the state of your soul when the pleasures of the flesh are at hand.”

The earl was not the only one who suddenly recognized the daring driver of the phaeton.

“W—What brings the Black Dove to our townhouse?” asked Winthrop in a hoarse whisper.

“A proposition,” she answered, loosening the strings at her neck. “A mutual love of things that glitter, shall we say.” The cloak parted, showing a gold chain and a jeweled pendant shaped in the form of a stag. As in the picture, they were nestled between two perfectly shaped breasts strategically covered by an artful arrangement of silk oak leaves.

Kirtland considered himself a connoisseur of ideal beauty. And in his experience there was usually no comparison between art and reality. Now, however, when forced to match paper against flesh, he had to admit that the lady put inspiration to blush. She was magnificent.

Absolutely magnificent.

He had precious little time to admire the view. The Black Dove spun back in a blur of steps, capes flaring out from her shoulders. The trailing flounces flew up, offering a tantalizing glimpse of alabaster leg, then fell back to earth as she went perfectly still.

Someone groaned.

Silence swallowed the sound. Not a muscle twitched, not a paper stirred.

Her arms slowly spread, and with a theatrical flourish she flung the garment into the earl’s lap. With the same sweeping gesture, she loosened the weapons tied at her waist.

Striking the same statuesque pose as Raphael’s Diana, the Black Dove then nocked a small gilded arrow in her Cupid’s bow and aimed it heavenward. The string stretched taut, wood and cording forming the outline of a heart.

The air seemed suddenly alive with a pounding pulse. Kirtland was vaguely aware of an echo in his ears. Like cannon fire, it seemed to thunder a warning of impending doom. Yet like the others, he stood mesmerized by the sight.

The courtesan’s resemblance to the engraving was uncanny. Every detail of her dress was an exact replica of the original. Slung low on her left hip, a slim quiver hung from a tasseled silk cord that was knotted at her waist. A pair of serpentine gold bracelets encircled each arm from wrist to elbow, the flashing fangs studded with tiny diamonds. Aside from the wealth of weaponry and another fluttering of silk oak leaves hiding her upper thighs and derriere, the Black Dove was as naked as a newborn babe.

She held fast to the moment, allowing the full impact of her scandalous state to strike home. Then, arching her back, she let fly with her missile. Like a bolt of lightening, it struck a glancing blow to the chandelier before ricocheting off the ceiling rosette.

No one in the room paid the least attention to the shower of plaster and splintered glass that fell upon the table. Not even Leveritt flinched as the barbed steel came perilously close to piercing his priceless art.

She cocked a smile, looking supremely sure of her spellbinding effect on every male present. Her limbs, now relaxed in a supple splendor, glistened with sun-kissed glow. Perfumed oil highlighted the allure—jasmine and some earthier scent the earl could not identify. Not that his cognitive powers were functioning with any clarity, he thought wryly. He, too, was staring like a puerile schoolboy. And much as he wished to express a stern disapproval of such wanton debauchery, a part of him had the urge to applaud such outrageous daring. It was a rare female who possessed the courage or the cleverness . . .

His jaw tightened. Impossible.

He forced his eyes up from her half-hidden breasts to study her face. The night had been dark and his midnight Valkyrie’s features had been obscured by a squalling storm and their tempestuous struggles. Still, he could have sworn that there was something hauntingly familiar about the pliant curves of the painted lips, the tilt of her chin.

Or perhaps he had been away from feminine company for so long that all women were beginning to look alike.

Damn. Kirtland wasn’t sure whether to laugh or groan as he fought down a sudden, unwilling flare of desire. He would have to see about engaging a new mistress, and soon. But not this one. No matter that she sparked an inexplicably potent attraction.

His own conflicting feelings were overshadowed by the courtesan’s next move.

“So, gentlemen, are you interested in hearing what I have to offer?”

Setting aside her bow, Siena placed a hand on her hip. The air fairly crackled with anticipation, and for an instant she understood what Mrs. Siddons felt like on the stage of the Theatre Royal. There was a powerful thrill to having an audience riveted on every nuance of expression.

A tiny twitch quivered on her lips. Though in this case, the gentlemen were looking somewhat lower than her face.

She held the pose a touch longer, using the silence to survey the surroundings. After reviewing the dossiers, and following up on several contacts suggested in Lynsley’s notes, she had learned all the details of this evening’s club meeting. Rumors of the upcoming sale of the Psalters had also reached her ears, and she had acted on instinct.

“By all means, yes.” It was either Fitzwilliam or Winthrop who finally managed to croak a reply.

“I was hoping as much.” With a slow, swaying step, she paraded in front of the table, giving the company a full display of her charms. Her early life on the streets had taught her not to be self-conscious or ashamed of her body—a lesson that suited the Academy’s purpose quite well. “You six are accorded to be the very cream of London Society—gentlemen of title, taste and wealth.”

“Precisely.” Dunster leaned a little closer to the candelabra, no doubt aware that the light gave his patrician profile a golden gleam.

“As I am determined to settle for no less in my choice of protector, I have decided to simplify the selection process. Why waste precious time looking elsewhere when all that I require is here in this room?”

“W—why, indeed?” stuttered Jadwin.

“How do you know that?” The black-haired gentleman was the only one not grinning from ear to ear. The Earl of Kirtland . He wore an inscrutable expression, the hard-edged planes of his face revealing little save for an aura of chiseled strength to his features.

And yet, the austere aloofness was at odds with the intensity of his gaze.

“I have my sources,” she replied.

His eyes narrowed.

“And quite accurate they are.” Dunster was quick to offer assurance. With golden hair crowning the smooth symmetry of his features, he was more conventionally handsome than the dark earl. But a certain slyness to the curve of his mouth gave his smile a predatory pinch. “You won’t be disappointed.”

“Not at all,” chorused the others. Save for one.

Siena shifted her stance, angling her hips to an even more suggestive thrust. “I have every expectation of being completely satisfied.”

It was the earl who cut to the chase. “You have yet to explain how you mean to make a choice.”

“It’s actually quite simple. You gentlemen all mean to travel to Marquand Castle for the sale of some moldering manuscripts. Allow me to accompany you, and to devise a series of private entertainments for the fortnight.” She pursed her lips to a provocative pout. “ Surely you will require more animated company than paper and ink to keep you amused.”

“Games?” The earl made no attempt to temper his disdain.

“They shall be slightly more sophisticated than Pin the Tail on the Donkey, milord.” Siena gave a feline stretch and a cat in the cream pot smile. “As will be the prize,” she purred.

Kirtland looked as if he had swallowed a mouthful of nails. “Let me hazard a guess.”

The others reacted with a good deal more enthusiasm. “I am certainly up for the challenge,“ leered Fitzwilliam. “What say you, gentleman, to adding an extra dimension to the competition?”

“Two birds with one stone, as it were,” murmured Siena.

Lusty laughter greeted her quip, the flickering of the candle flames accentuating the glint of teeth. Hungry. They were all smiles now, but already a look of speculative greed was beginning to shade their expressions. These were men used to having their every desire gratified. Men who didn’t like to lose at anything. Driven by greed, by pride, by . . . what other powerful emotion?

It was up to her to discover the answer.

Lowering her lashes, she angled a look at Kirtland. He sat solemn, silent, watching the other members with a Sphinx-like stare. What would it take to chip away at the stony facade? To find some fissure, some crack in that unblinking composure? For even solid rock had a weakness. It was simply a matter of hitting the right spot.

He turned slightly, seeming to sense her scrutiny. Despite the warmth of the fire, goosebumps prickled the length of her spine. As if a swirl of wind, lick of rain and brandied kiss were trailing over her flesh. Siena suddenly felt . . . more than naked under his gaze.

She covered her shiver with a slow, sauntering spin around the table. It was merely a quirk of light that made the earl seem familiar. She looked again but found it impossible to judge the true shape of his mouth, distorted as it was by a grim clench. The midnight stranger had not been so hard, so hostile.

“So, do I take it we have an agreement?” she demanded.

“No.” Kirtland’s growl was the lone voice of dissent.

“Afraid you are not up to the challenge, Major?” Siena countered, reaching out to brush a caress to his cheek. “You may have been stripped of your commission, but I would venture to guess that you’re the type of man who keeps his saber well honed.”

If looks could kill. Turning quickly from his daggered gaze, she silenced the lewd laughter with a wave. “Your decision, gentlemen?”

“Let us take a formal vote. Who is opposed to the idea?” asked Dunster.

The earl’s lone voice had no echo.

“There is just one other thing—it must be all or nothing,” she said. “If one of you chooses not to play along, I am afraid I shall have to withdraw my offer.”

As she had hoped, a groan rose from the others.

“Damnation, Kirtland,” said Winthrop. “I pray you don’t break ranks with us now.”

She held her breath, wondering if the bluff would work.

The earl hesitated, clearly reluctant to commit himself to the fray. “How do you intend to obtain an invitation to Marquand Castle? It is not quite the same as seeking admittance to the Cypriot’s Ball.”

“You may leave that to me, sir. As I said before, I have resources here in Town.” She had no doubt that Lynsley’s contact could somehow arrange things with the duke.

He glanced at his fellow members. “Very well. If you show up at the duke’s auction, I shall consider it my duty to play along.”

“So you concede defeat, Lord Kirtland?”

She watched the earl fold his arms across his chest, the black cloth of his coat stretching slightly from the rippling of hidden muscle. The sardonic smile curled tighter.

“Perhaps for now, madam. But according to you, the real game has yet to begin.”