Page 8 of The Spy Wore Silk (Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Extraordinary Young Ladies #1)
Chapter Eight
“ T his promises to be a memorable interlude, does it not, gentlemen?” Smoothing a last preening touch to his hair, Dunster paused at the threshold of the drawing room and turned to the other club members. “Shall we go in?”
The six of them had agreed to meet upstairs and come down together. Though Kirtland would have preferred to make his own plans, he considered himself pledged to be part of the group.
Taking the lead, Dunster chose a spot by the arched windows, which afforded an excellent view of all the formalities. A footman brought champagne and the marquess, resplendid in a claret-colored evening jacket and gold threaded waistcoat, quickly proposed a toast.
“To the coming competition.” He smiled, the flash of teeth mirroring the hard-edged glint of his glass. “Those who think that the appreciation of art is a dull subject have never experienced the thrill of having their fingers a hair’s breath away from possessing perfection.”
An air of anticipation, heady as the scent of the magnificent hothouse roses, swirled through the duke’s drawing room as the other guests began to make their entrance. To the earl, it appeared to sharpen the shimmering light from the crystal chandeliers and deepen the jewel tone colors of the rich furnishings. Even the gilt frames of the paintings seemed to reflect the glitter of each individual’s desire.
“Aye, it’s anything but academic,” agreed Leveritt after a long sip of the sparkling wine. Unlike Dunster, the viscount had dressed in muted shades of grey for the occasion, relying on subtle touches, like the unusual knot of his cravat and the cut of his lapels, to distinguish himself from the others.
Kirtland repressed a sardonic smile. In a competition of style, Leveritt’s understated elegance won hands down.
Jadwin, who was standing in the viscount’s shadow, surveyed the surroundings. “Speaking of academics, I see Lord Brewster has come down from Oxford. Given his fortune and his scholarship, he must be considered a serious contender.”
The marquess dismissed the idea with a brusque wave. “I assure you, he is no match for me.”
“Don’t let your palms get too itchy, Dunster. You are not the only one imagining your hands caressing a sublime beauty.” Fitzwilliam had his gaze locked on the entrance to the drawing room, watching like a hawk for the first flutter of the Dove. “By the by, does anyone know whether our luscious ladybird has arrived?”
The earl wrenched his eyes away from the doorway, unwilling to be seen staring. Swearing silently, he edged a step away from the other club members, trying to distance himself from the lewd talk of her charms. But the subject seemed to take on a life of its own.
“Yes, she has. Just after nuncheon,” offered Winthrop. His thick fingers, which rarely seemed still, twitched his beard to a sharper point. “According to my valet, the footmen have been speaking of nothing else all afternoon. Had them tripping over their boots to show her the way around the east wing, and the most direct route to the conservatory at the far end of the gardens.”
“Where the duke’s nephew invited her to pick her choice of flowers for her evening coiffure.”
“That’s gilding the lily,” quipped Fitzwilliam. “She needs no adornment to highlight her charms.”
“Indeed. I, for one, would say she looks better plucked than decked out in all her fancy feathers.” Dunster’s teeth seemed to have a predatory gleam. For some unaccountable reason, Kirtland felt the urge to knock them down the marquess’s throat.
“Those perfect breast, those shapely hips,” continued the marquess. “Just aching for a man’s caress.”
“It seems to be you who is throbbing for release, Dunster,” replied Fitzwilliam.
“No doubt he’s hard up for a female’s touch.” Winthrop ran his thumb along the lip of his wine glass. “Not that I wouldn’t mind finding my own manhood in her velvety grasp.”
“Or buried deep within her petals . . .”
“Are you gentlemen talking of flora and fauna rather than parchment and pigment?” From behind them, a stranger’s voice interrupted the conversation. “I cannot say I’m sorry to see my fellow competitors are so easily distracted.”
The earl turned and immediately recognized Orlov. Despite the other man’s slight smirk, he found himself welcoming the intrusion.
“Might I be so bold as to introduce myself?” The Russian bowed to the group with a low, sweeping flourish. The gesture seemed deliberately flashy—like his attire. Tonight he was dressed in an azure blue velvet evening coat, matched with buff pantaloons and a wide striped silk waistcoat of ivory and chartreuse. To top it off, he had knotted a length of gauzy paisley silk at his collar instead of a starched cravat. “I have heard much about the gentlemen of The Gilded Page Club.”
“Who the devil is this jackanape,” muttered Dunster under his breath.
The Russian’s smile stretched a touch wider. “I am Alexandr Orlov, visiting from St. Petersburg.”
Kirtland and the other club members had no choice but to respond. However, both Leveritt and Jadwin ignored the Russian’s outstretched hand.
“I take it you are interested in rare books, Mr. Orlov.” Winthrop was the first to break the cool silence that followed the individual introductions.
“Not really. I am merely representing the interests of, shall we say, a friend.” The Russian flicked a mote of dust from his sleeve. “My duty is simply to ensure that the Psalters do not fall into the wrong hands.”
“You are not the only one intent on taking home the prize,” said Dunster.
“I imagined as much.” Orlov’s hair was loose tonight and a toss of his head set the golden locks to dancing along the ridge of his shoulders. “We wouldn’t all be here if the prize were not worth fighting for.” Kirtland caught a slight narrowing of the Russian’s eyes as the man turned to him. Like slivers of arctic ice. The look—at odds with the oiled charm—melted in an instant. “Wouldn’t you agree, Lord Kirtland?” he asked with exaggerated innocence “As a former military man, you are the most experienced among us in the art—and the betrayals—of war.”
The earl saw his fellow club members stiffen at the allusion to his disgrace, but his own reaction was one of mild amusement. If the Russian’s tactics were to get under his skin, the fellow would have to employ a less cow-handed attack. “I may no longer hold any army rank, but I trust that my battle skills have not grown too dull from disuse.”
Orlov acknowledged the riposte with an ironic salute. “A bit of friendly competition always serves to sharpen the senses. I look forward to a spirited duel of wits.”
“Damned impertinent fellow,” muttered Winthrop as the Russian moved off to fetch a fresh glass of champagne. “I wonder that Marquand’s man of affairs allowed him to join our company.”
“His friend must be someone of great influence, to have garnered an invitation for a surrogate to be part of the proceedings.” Leveritt frowned. “At least the coxcomb’s English seems polished enough, even if the same cannot be said for his manners.”
“His mother is from Yorkshire,” Kirtland saw no reason not to share what little he knew of the man.
“You know him?” asked Dunster, his look of irritation suddenly giving way to an air of alertness.
“Only by reputation. I heard a few things about him before I left Town ”
“So did I.” Jadwin looked a bit smug. “And even if what they say is only half true, Dunster, you may find yourself with a rival for the title of Master of the Mayfair boudoirs.”
The marquess did not join in the laughter.
Kirtland noted the tautness around Dunster’s mouth. Something had put the man on edge, whether it was the Russian’s deliberate insouciance or Jadwin’s veiled barb. It was not the first time that the earl had sensed a friction between the two club members. One that went deeper than friendly bantering. As for Orlov, he was undecided on whether to think of the Russian as a puffed-up jackanape or someone more subtlely sinister.
But further musings on the other gentlemen present were suddenly overshadowed by the entrance of the Black Dove.
She had chosen a crimson gown, a sleek, high waisted Grecian design that was cut to accentuate her willowy height. In concession to ducal propriety, the bodice was less scandalously revealing than her usual garb. Yet there was no question that every male eye in the room was on her magnificent bosom, whose alabaster curves were teasingly evident above the pleated ruffles of red.
Including his own.
She moved through the crowd of gentlemen, a tongue of fire licking up around coal black embers. Much as he wished to ignore her, his gaze was drawn to her incendiary presence. Like a moth to a flame.
Turning on his heel, Kirtland sought to distract himself with a swallow of the sparkling wine. And yet, even then he could not seem to escape her allure. He heard the soft rustle of silk, and a moment later a cloud of ethereal scent enveloped his senses. A lemony verbena spiced with lusher hints of cinnamon and cloves. Light and dark. Unlike the cloying scents usually favored by women of her profession, it was a mysterious blend. One that left much to the imagination.
Damn. He forced himself to think of the smoothness of flesh-colored vellum, the scent of rich leather, the feel of corded spines and the soft sheen of gilded letters. Books should be far more seductive than a fancy trollop.
“Damn.” It was Dunster who uttered the oath aloud. “It looks as though that bastard Orlov is introducing himself to the Dove. He may have carte blanche to bid on our books, but I’ve no intention of allowing him to insinuate himself into our own private competition.”
“It is the ladybird who has the last word on that.” The earl did not bother to watch the performance.
“Her proposal included only us.”
“It was not exactly a binding legal contract,” sneered Leveritt. “What do you plan to do—sue her for breach of promise?”
“There are other ways of making her pay,” muttered the marquess darkly.
By deliberate design, Siena did not approach the members of The Gilded Page Club directly. It had been a week since she had appeared at their meeting. Let them watch her flirt a bit, she thought. Hovering just out of reach would rekindle the flames of desire.
And so, she did not object when the tall, golden-haired gentleman boldly moved in to block her path.
“You must be the magnificent Madame Blackdove that everyone is talking about. Allow me the liberty of introducing myself—Alexandr Orlov.”
As he murmured his name, the Russian turned her gloved hand palm up and placed a kiss on her bare wrist. Siena repressed a shiver. His lips, though full and firm, were cold. As were his eyes.
“This is, to be sure, an exciting moment,” he finished.
She had been taught about men like Alexandr Orlov. They were the sort who looked to turn any situation to their advantage. “Good evening, sir,” she replied coolly. “Indeed, it is, for we are about to hear the duke explain the details of the coming auction.”
“You already have an unfair advantage, milady. I fear I shall have trouble concentrating on mere words,” he murmured.
“I advise you to pay close attention. Otherwise you might risk your chance of winning the Psalters.”
Orlov placed a hand on his heart. “Until now, I would have said that the prayer books were the finest treasures in Marquand Castle. However . . .” His voice trailed off in a sigh.
Did he hope to charm his way into her bed? If so, he faced an impossible climb.
“However,” he repeated, “I may have to revise my thinking.” His fingers caught the tassels of her fan and slowly smoothed the fringed silk.
Slanting a sidelong glance at the members of The Gilded Page Club, Siena saw a stirring of impatience within their ranks. It was time to move on.
“Thank you, Mr. Orlov.” Siena brusquely put an end to his attentions. “No matter how often we hear a compliment, those of our sex always appreciate being noticed. But now, if you will excuse me, I see some acquaintances I must greet.”
The Russian accepted the set-down with a show of good grace. “What fortunate gentlemen. Perhaps we will have an opportunity to get to know each other better during the coming days.”
“Are you a wealthy man, sir?”
“Alas, unlike you, Lady Blackdove, I haven’t a feather to fly with.”
“Then let us be frank, sir.” She dropped her voice to a discreet whisper. “We will not be forming a more intimate acquaintance.”
He cocked a sardonic smile. “Is money all that matters to you?”
“But of course.”
“And yet, it is said that money is the root of all evil.”
“And you are implying that your root will do me some good?” She tapped her fan to his cheek. “I think not, sir.”
He laughed softly.
“As for those who malign the power of money, they are the ones who have never gone without it.”
Orlov stepped aside, but not before leaving her with a parting shot. “There are some things in life even more powerful than greed, madam.”
Like lust?
Surrounded by hungry eyes and wolfish smiles, she was inclined to agree.
Leaving the Russian behind, Siena moved on to where The Gilded Page Club had gathered. “Good evening, gentlemen.” With a silky whisper of her skirts, she glided to a position in the center of their circle. “I am gratified to see that no last minute obstacle prevented any of us from making the journey.”
Kirtland edged back, his face falling into the shadows of a decorative urn.
“Seeing as we did not meet each other formally during our initial encounter, shall we begin this evening on a more proper note?” She fluttered her lashes, fanning the recollection of her wanton near-nakedness. “For this fortnight, you may call me Lady Blackdove. The winner of our private competition will naturally be granted the use of a more intimate name.”
One by one, the gentlemen introduced themselves.
Fitzwilliam . . . Jadwin . . . Leveritt. Each dossier began to take life as a face, a touch.
“ Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament . . .” Baron Fitzwilliam had brushed his long, curling hair to the gleam of burnished copper. His way with words was equally polished as he flashed an easy smile. “Shakespeare would have waxed even more poetic had he witnessed your entrance. Your gown is stunning.” He paused just a fraction. “Though its beauty cannot quite measure up your own natural splendors.”
Siena acknowledged the compliment with a coy flutter of her fan before moving on. The gentleman had a clever tongue. But did the outward charm disguise an inner anger?”
Leveritt and Jadwin murmured no more than their names, unwilling—or unable— to match the baron’s way with words.
“The gown is indeed ravishing.” When it came to his turn, the Marquess of Dunster held her hand a touch too long after raising it to his lips. “I saw that mongrel Orlov sniffing around your skirts. I should be happy to kick some manners into him.”
“La, I am sure that violence won’t be necessary.” Siena gave a mock shudder. “You gentlemen seem to find blood sports appealing, but I can think of far more enjoyable activities to satisfy such primal urges.”
“As can I.” Winthrop took hold of the opportunity to make his own obeisances. After bowing low over her glove, he wasted no time in asking, “When will we learn more of the games you have planned for the coming days?”
Speaking of dogs, thought Siena. For all their tailored elegance, the members of The Gilded Page Club reminded her of a pack of curs fighting over a bone. All save Kirtland. The earl did not allow his lips to stray anywhere near her.
“I shall hand out the first of the challenges tomorrow morning at breakfast. At which time I shall explain in more detail how the competition will be conducted,” she answered. “Shall we meet at ten?”
Dunster licked his chops. “I can’t think of a more delectable way to start the day.”
The others chimed in with equal enthusiasm. Siena kept up a flirtatious banter, trying not to sneak a look at the earl. She already knew his expression was black and brooding as a midnight storm. She could guess at the surface reasons, but she could not yet fathom the full depth of his character. What secrets lay hidden inside that forbidding figure? He was a conundrum, a contradiction. The papers had revealed one side of the man while his fleeting kiss had revealed quite another.
Was James Winchester capable of betrayal? Or was it her own heart that was playing her false?
The quickening beat in her chest seemed to drum a warning not to let her attention tarry on Kirtland alone. There were five other men whose most intimate thoughts she must strip bare.
The florid flatteries told her nothing useful. As they all paused to accept another round of drinks, Siena adroitly changed the subject.
“In addition to the first game in the morning, I would like to schedule a short, private meeting with each of you in the afternoon.” It was, she knew, an aggressive gambit to try an early attack from two angles. But she had learned from Il Lupino that a quick start could often put an opponent enough off-balance to reveal a telling weakness. “Seeing as you are all accorded to be discerning connoisseurs of art as well as flesh, I should like for each of you to acquaint me with some specific treasure of Marquand Castle. Count on a half hour each. It will give us a chance to converse on a more intimate footing.”
“An excellent idea.” Looking smug, Jadwin took the lead and was quick to rattle off a brief history of the house. “The conservatory was designed by the same man who created Prinny’s Pavilion in Brighton. The height and circumference of the glass cupolas are an engineering marvel,” he added. “I should be delighted to show you around the structure and point out its most salient features.”
Siena smiled. “Excellent. Shall we meet at three?”
Leveritt invited her to view the portrait gallery, and Winthrop offered his expertise on the medieval tapestries. Dunster chose the collection of Rembrandt etchings while Fitzwilliam suggested a tour of the formal gardens designed by Capability Brown.
Feeling rather flushed with the success of her first thrust—and a second glass of the duke’s excellent champagne—Siena was emboldened to confront the earl. He alone had made no offer.
“Have you no field of expertise you wish to share, Lord Kirtland? No passionate interest?”
“You appear to be having no trouble in keeping yourself occupied while you are here, madam.”
“But I should like to hear your opinion on some facet of art.”
His brow arched upward. “Why?”
His question took her by surprise, but she quickly regained her balance and replied coolly. “Because I wish to get to know those who are in the running for my favors.”
“I will not be breaking into a sweat anytime soon. I don’t run. Nor do I jump through hoops.”
“That is hardly a gentlemanly reply.”
His sardonic sneer—a look she was beginning to recognize all too well—curled to new heights. ”Seeing as your sources seem quite well-informed as to our personal peccadilloes, that should not come as any shock.”
Did the man ever smile at people? Or was it just his animals that were favored with a flash of real warmth. Siena stared at the hardness of his mouth before countering, “What is surprising is your reluctance to accept a challenge from a female. What are you afraid of?”
His face remained absolutely impassive but a strange spark of light turned his emerald eyes to pools of molten jade.
The earl did not lack passion—she knew that already. He merely kept it well–hidden. Along with what else? That was her job to discover. ”Your Spanish allies would call it mano a mano .”
“My Spanish allies would also say you possessed iron cojones , madam. I would agree with them, save for that I have seen evidence to the contrary.”
A soft laugh slipped from her lips. “Touché, sir.”
For an instant, the earl’s expression betrayed a twitch of amusement. It was quickly obscured by the wink of cut crystal as he raised his glass in mock salute. “As you see, madam, a match between us would hardly be fair.” With that, he turned on his heel and walked off.
Siena had little time to contemplate the skirmish, for a bell chimed, announcing that the Duke of Marquand had entered the room.