Page 7 of The Spy Wore Silk (Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Extraordinary Young Ladies #1)

Chapter Seven

“ W hen do you leave for Marquand Castle?”

“On the morrow,” growled the earl. Osborne’s suggestion of a rousing gallop in the park had seemed like a good idea an hour earlier. But rather than clear his thoughts, the vigorous exercise had only exacerbated his foul mood.

“You don’t sound like a man about to set off in quest of his eternal amour .” Osborne slowed his mount to a walk. “I would have expected a tad more enthusiasm. After all, the journey has all the makings of an epic adventure—trial by combat, romance?—”

Kirtland silenced him with an oath. He had not slept well at all, and his head felt as if a blade was boring into his skull “Stubble the sarcasm if you don’t mind. I am no knight errant, playing a part in some medieval chanson de geste .”

“You are storming a castle. And while there may be no fire-breathing dragon guarding its walls, you will be facing off against a shadowy foreigner who seems equally intent on winning the prize.”

The earl jerked back on his reins. “What the devil do you mean?”

His friend gave a long-suffering sigh. “If you would show your phiz at White’s on occasion, you would discover that books are not the only sources of valuable information. Last night I happened to hear that a Russian has recently arrived in Town, and he has made no secret of the fact that he has been sent by a private collector to bid for your precious Psalters.”

“Who?”

Osborne shrugged. “Haven’t a clue as to the identity of the collector. But the agent is a gentleman by the name of Alexandr Orlov. Or at least he claims to be a gentleman. No one in Town knows much about him, save that his mother is rumored to be English and his father a minor member of the Russian gentry. Orlov himself is said to spend most of his time carousing with a rakehell crowd of officers from the Tsar’s Imperial Guards.”

Kirtland frowned, the curl of his lip turning into a wince as his stallion shied away from the snap of a lady’s parasol. “There is something damn peculiar about this auction,” he muttered. “Something . . .” He let his voice trail off, unsure of the exact word he wished to choose.

“Sinister?” suggested Osborne with a slight chuckle. “Really now, you—” His brow arched as the scudding sun hit the earl full in the face, bringing to light the deep shadows beneath his eyes and the tautness etched at the corners of his mouth. “You look like hell.”

“I had a fitful night,” he replied. “Strange dreams.” He did not elaborate on the subject, knowing his friend would laugh even harder at the weird stirrings of his imagination. The sensation of being observed by unseen eyes had been unsettling, to say the least. The breeze from the open windows had crept in like cool caress, raising a prickling of goosebumps along his flesh.

“Dreams?” His friend’s expression took a more quizzical cant as they crossed into the shadows of the stately linden trees lining one side of the bridle path “It’s not like you to fall prey to flights of fancy. Next you are going to say you saw evil spirits lurking . . . Ah, speak of the devil.”

The earl followed Osborne’s gaze to the swath of turf bordering the Serpentine. A lone rider spurred to a canter as he rounded the stone embankment, his fluid movements matching the stallion’s powerful stride. His azure coat and buff breeches seemed purposely chosen to set off the mane of golden hair tied back from his face. Contrary to fashion, he was hatless, with only the thick, sky blue velvet ribbon as a concession to propriety.

“That’s Orlov,” murmured Osborne. “Flashy cove, isn’t he?”

Kirtland didn’t answer until the Russian was lost to sight among the snaking turns of the shimmering waters. “Sometimes where there is flash, there is fire. He rides like a man with experience in the saddle.”

“You judge him to be more than a mere popinjay?”

“Only a fool underestimates the enemy before taking full measure of his strengths and weaknesses.”

“A wise strategy.” A gust of wind tugged at the brim of Osborne’s high crown beaver hat, and for a moment, the ruffling of fair hair obscured his profile. “I trust you will display equal intelligence in regard to Lord Lynsley. I have been thinking . . . we must come up with a discreet way to let him know there is no need to poke around in your affairs?—”

“To hell with Lynsley,” muttered the earl. “He can poke his head up his arse for all I care.”

“Is there a particular reason you are in such a black humor?

“Aside from you and your insufferable chatter?” he shot back. “Let us drop this absurd discussion of castles and dragons.”

Osborne’s expression clouded. “I have only been trying to tease you out of a sulk. Not to speak of doing my best to keep you out of trouble.” His spine stiffened, and moving without his usual grace, he turned his horse toward the South Gate. “Damn it, James. I am your friend, so stop treating me like the enemy. I’m just trying to help. God knows, you have pulled my irons out of the fire on countless occasions in the past.”

Kirtland felt a sudden stab of guilt. The ton did not always give Osborne the credit he deserved for the courage of his convictions. It was easy to mistake the breezy banter for a lack of real substance. But he, of all people, should know better. Their very first encounter at Eton had come when Osborne—the smallest of all the other new boys—had been the only one brave enough to join him in standing up to a bullying prefect. They had both suffered a beating. But while the bruises were soon gone, the bond forged in battle remained a lasting one. Since then, the two of them had weathered countless school pranks and grueling military campaigns together.

And when he had suffered through the darkest moments in his life, Osborne had stood by him, heedless of the cost to his own reputation in Society.

“My apologies, Dev,” he said softly. “I have been acting like an ass.”

Osborne relaxed in the saddle and grinned. “Yes, you have. But you are forgiven.”

They rode for a few minutes in silence, and Kirtland was grateful for the unspoken understanding between them that required no further words.

“I appreciate your concern,” he went on, once they had passed by an abigail walking a pair of yapping pugs. “Truly I do. But it’s hard to view Lynsley as a threat. He sits in some cubbyhole in Whitehall and files meaningless reports. Besides, I have done nothing to warrant his attention. Let him ask questions and write up some prosy document.” The earl frowned. “I’m more concerned about this fellow Orlov.”

“Heed your own words about jumping to conclusions, James. Lynsley is no mere bureaucrat, whose skills are confined to shuffling papers. His official title is deceptively boring. As is his outward affability and unruffled demeanor. But I have heard stories from a reliable source that would make your hair stand on end.”

A foreboding needled at the nape of Kirtland’s neck.

“You remember Nelson’s bombardment of Copenhagen in ’01, and how the leading ships were in peril until the Trekroner battery was silenced?” Osborne spurred forward to a more private spot on the bridle trail. “Well, Lynsley was serving a temporary post as embassy secretary at the time. And though he was a member of Lord Gervin’s diplomatic mission to Sicily three years later, he did not return to England with the rest of the group. It wasn’t until the official announcement of the prince’s assassination—and Sir John Moreton’s murder—was made public that he reappeared in London. Word from my source is that Lynsley was also left for dead in the back alleys of Naples, but somehow managed to survive.”

“”Well, well.” Kirtland wasn’t sure what to make of the revelations. “It appears the marquess is more interesting than he looks.”

“Quite. And it’s not just his past that makes one curious. His current doings are all very hush-hush.”

“For someone who seems to spend most of his time in ballrooms and boudoirs of Mayfair, you appear remarkably well-informed on confidential government matters.”

“I am not quite such an indolent idler as that.” Osborne gave a flick of his crop. “Although I, like you, have sold out my army commission, I spend some hours each week reading over reports from abroad for a friend on Burrand’s general staff.”

The unexpected announcement caught the earl off guard. “I am glad to hear you are using your head as more than a target for Gentleman Jackson’s fists.” he replied, though the news also struck a raw nerve. Knowing that the situation in Eastern Europe was a powder keg ready to explode, he, too, would have liked to offer his services to military intelligence.

But the chances of that ever happening were as likely as St. Peter inviting Lucifer inside the Pearly Gates to take tea, he reminded himself.

“Seeing as you are privy to state secrets, any further idea of why Lynsley was asking about me?”

“Not yet, but I am working on it. In the meantime, try not to do anything that might antagonize the marquess.”

“ I did not go out of my way to draw his attention in the first place,” he said stiffly.

Osborne rolled his eyes. “Perhaps it’s a good thing you are leaving Town for a time. Out of sight, out of mind.”

A heavy mist swirled through the moors surrounding Marquand Castle, muddling the nascent greens and yellows to hazy shades of grey. It looked rather stark and forbidding, despite the tantalizing hint of spring. Rather like the Earl of Kirtland . . .

Stop thinking of the man. As Siena looked out the window of her quarters, she warned herself not concentrate all her attention on James Winchester. There were the other suspects to consider, though the nocturnal visit to each of their residences had left her as much in the dark as before. Indeed, even after a last, meticulous review of the information before consigning the dossiers to the fire, she felt no closer to finding a telltale clue.

The traitor had eluded the snare of pen and ink. She would have to catch him in the flesh.

Mindful that every moment mattered, Siena moved away from the casement and unlocked her personal travelling case. Rose had hung up the gowns and unpacked the other clothing, but as there were still several hours until the formalities commenced in the drawing room, her maid had retreated to the attic quarters assigned to the visiting servants. No doubt she would be mapping out an exit route and inquiring about the routines of the Castle—the number of servants, the time of the meals, the location of the guest rooms. Anything that might prove useful in planning the next move.

Rose was proving not only useful but also invaluable. Her skills with a needle and curling iron were matched by a sharp eye and an unflappable demeanor. Steady as a rock, she functioned with a precise efficiency that ran like clockwork. If she offered little in the way of casual conversation, her pragmatism was reassuring if anything went wrong.

Not that Siena meant to rely on anyone else in a pinch. Unfolding the cloth from around her private arsenal, she ran an oiled rag over her sword blade, checking that the arduous carriage ride had left no nicks on the steel. The case would remain locked to the prying eyes of the duke’s servants. Lud, what a gabble of gossip the sight of the assorted weapons would provoke, for along with knives and pistols, she had included a few more exotic implements. They would only appear under extreme circumstances, but as an everyday precaution, she would go nowhere without a small knife strapped to her leg.

The case also held other tricks of the trade. Colorful Italian tarot cards, sleeping potions, painted masks—all the things she would need to play her deadly games with the gentlemen of The Gilded Page Club. There were also a few more lethal concoctions, enclosed in a smaller box. The thought of using them made her skin crawl. It was one thing to kill an enemy with a straightforward sword thrust or shot. But to tip a powdered poison into a drink . . .

However, orders were orders. If it came to that, she wouldn’t hesitate.

Lynsley’s contact had proved highly efficient in finding the supplies. He had also taken care of arranging the invitation to the auction. She imagined it had taken some skillful maneuvering, but the name of ‘Lady Blackdove’ now graced the ducal guest list.

A lady. Siena nearly laughed at the irony of an urchin from the slums impersonating a refined female of noble birth. Her training would allow her to play the role faultlessly. But at the same time, she was keenly aware of being an imposter. Who was she? She knew nothing of her past, her parents.

You are what you make of yourself, Volpina.

Da Rimini had often challenged her with such taunts when she had thought herself too exhausted to lift her sword. There was some wisdom to his words. The past was the past—she must focus on the present.

Satisfied that all was in perfect readiness, Siena hid the key in the sheath of her knife. Like Rose, she meant to make a preliminary reconnaissance of Marquand Castle before the formal welcoming ceremony that evening. They had timed their travels to be among the earliest arrivals at the duke’s estate. And from all outward appearances, eccentricity must run in the family.

The rambling structure looked to be an architectural oddity, with elements that reflected a hodgepodge of centuries and sensibilities. A central tower of weathered stone rose to a crenellated crown—no doubt the remnants of an ancient fortress that had inspired the original name. Attached to each side was an L-shaped wing, with blackened Tudor timbers and whitewashed stucco becoming a sprawl of Georgian brick as it turned the corner. The longer length of each side faced an interior maze of terraced gardens. At the far end of the greenery was a massive conservatory, an improbable pagoda of turreted glass that connected the two wings.

A flight of fancy if ever there was one, reflected Siena. She had made a rough sketch based on the first, fleeting view. But the sooner the details were added, the better.

She sat at the desk and began making a few notes on her own situation. The butler had, after hushed consultation with an elderly major domo, assigned her to quarters on the second floor of the East Wing, overlooking the winding gravel drive. The rest of the rooms along her corridor looked to be deserted.

Was her isolation designed to protect her from the advances of the men, or the other way around? Her lips pursed. In either case, the privacy suited her purposes quite well. She planned to be moving about during the night and wished to avoid any awkward encounters with amorous guests. And while she would have preferred windows looking out over the gardens . . .

The thud of hooves drew her eye from the paper. Siena rose from her chair, angling for a clearer view of the oncoming rider. Who, she wondered, had chosen to forego the relative comforts of a closed carriage in order to gallop across the wild moors?

An answer was not long in taking shape. Cutting through a row of ghostly apple trees, a hard-charging stallion suddenly broke free of the fog. Flanks glistening, mane whipping in the wind, the black beast cleared the orchard fence without breaking stride and crossed the back lawns at a pounding pace.

Had the magic of Devon’s druids conjured up a mythical centaur from the swirling vapor? Nose pressed to the windowpane, Siena stood mesmerized by the animal grace of the apparition. So matched were the movements of horse and rider that it took her a moment to distinguish between the two.

“Bloody, bloody hell.” The glass was like ice against her flesh. And then like fire.

It was some darker, devilish alchemy at play. For as the figure came into focus, all her previous doubts were put to flight. There was no mistaking the magnificent mount or the powerful thighs astride the hard saddle. No denying the terrible truth.

Her midnight stranger and the Earl of Kirtland were one and the same gentleman.

With a flick of his gloved hands, Kirtland slowed the stallion to a walk. His breath formed fine clouds of vapor, pale against the stubbling of whiskers shadowing his jaw, and the flapping shoulder capes of his oilskin cloak further obscured his face. Not that she needed any nuance of expression to identify the earl. The arrogant tilt of his nose, the sensuality of his mouth, the chiseled contours of his body were already branded upon her consciousness.

He looked up, raindrops clinging to his dark lashes. But nothing could water down the intensity of that hooded gaze.

Siena spun away from the window, hoping he hadn’t seen her staring. Recalling the earl’s family crest, she rubbed at her own indelible marking. Two birds of a feather? Solitary raptors circling in wary speculation, wondering if the other was fair game.

The hunt would begin in earnest this evening, when all the guests were expected to gather in the drawing room at the stroke of seven. Along with her suspects, ten other gentlemen had been invited to bid for the Psalters. She had no reason to view any of them as a threat. Indeed, they might even prove unwitting allies in flushing out her prey, for the man she sought was governed by primal passions—whether they be anger, revenge, greed. Or jealousy.

Adding herself and various Marquand family members present, the assembled group would number an even two dozen.

Following a formal welcome from the duke himself, his secretaries were to pass out a detailed schedule for the days preceding the auction. A variety of amusements had been planned. Somewhere between the riding and shooting, the eating and drinking, the betting and bluffing, she would have to pencil in trapping a dangerous traitor.

The odds were still stacked against her, but the game was only just heating up.