Page 9 of The Spy Wore Silk (Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Extraordinary Young Ladies #1)

Chapter Nine

“ W elcome.” Age and arthritic joints now confined him to a Bath chair, and his voice seemed a bit fragile as well. “I am pleased that you all accepted the rigors of a journey to the Devonshire moors.” He waited for his servants to roll him up onto a low dais discreetly disguised with garlands of ivy before going on. “Unfortunately, my condition makes it difficult for me to travel these days. I do hope you will think the discomfort worthwhile.”

Polite laughter greeted the self-deprecating remarks. Someone lifted a glass in toast. “Hear, hear.”

The duke cleared his throat. “I am sure you are all eager to hear more concerning the auction of my Psalters. First and foremost, I imagine you are wondering why I have invited you here for a fortnight.” He paused, a slight twinkle coming to his crinkled eyes. “A prerogative of age. I like a party, and so few of my friends are still alive . . .” Once the chuckles had died down, he continued. “On a more serious note, my books have been a great love of my life. But as my heir does not share my feelings, I have, with his blessings, decided to see that a select group of my treasures go to a collector who will appreciate their beauty.”

Siena watched as a solemn, middle-aged man dressed in black helped Marquand lift a glass of water to his lips. It appeared as if his physical infirmities did not allow his body to keep pace with his lively mind. Still, it was evident why the Duke was renowned as the most erudite art connoisseur in the realm. No wonder other collectors saw this auction as a golden opportunity.

“Call it the whim of a foolish old man, but a dukedom does allow me the privilege of eccentricity. So, the two weeks afford me the chance to conduct a private interview with each prospective buyer in order to ensure that all are worthy candidates to possess my Psalters. A younger man would no doubt accomplish the task in a far shorter time, but be that as it may. Be advised—some of you may find yourselves excluded from the actual bidding.”

A fit of coughing forced him to interrupt his explanation. “Forgive me, my strength seems to be waning. I shall leave it to Stoneleigh, my personal secretary, to finish the rest of the explanations. As you all shall have a good deal of leisure time, I have asked him to arrange a number of daily activities and excursions for your pleasure. You are, of course, free to do exactly as you choose. I should like for you to treat the Castle as if it were your own home for the coming fortnight. Should you have any specific wishes, you have only to ask him to make the arrangements.”

After accepting another drink of water from his secretary, the duke signaled for the liveried footman to roll his chair toward the door.

Stoneleigh took his place, speaking in a clipped tone about the dining hours and the variety of daily activities that would be available. A schedule, he explained, would be posted each morning in the breakfast room. His little speech ended with a shake of the silver bell, summoning them to the welcoming banquet.

Fitzwilliam was quick to offer Siena his escort to the dining room, a move that drew scowls from some of the other club members. “Are you perchance, an early riser, madam?” he inquired?

“I am quite flexible when it comes to bedtime habits,” replied Siena with a flutter of her fan. “Why?”

“Instead of viewing the gardens in mid-afternoon, I thought you might like to see them before breakfast, when the light is still pale and pure as a virgin’s breast.”

“Is that a line from one of your sonnets, sir?”

“Not yet. But I am sure you will inspire me to write an ode.”

“Not to virginity,” she said dryly. “Very well. I shall meet you at nine on the upper terrace.” So far, so good , she thought as they separated to take their assigned places at the banquet table. Now that she had the gentlemen all under one roof, it was time for the games to begin in earnest.

A banked fire glowed in the hearth and the soft crackling of its coals was a welcome respite from all the clinking crystal and male laughter.

Kirtland paused on the threshold and pressed his fingertips to his temples as he surveyed the study. It was one of a number of Tower rooms that displayed the duke’s vast collection of artistic treasures, and its quiet splendor offered a refuge from the smoky revelries of his fellow collectors. The banquet had stretched on interminably, serving up course after course of rich foods and banal conversation. The combination had left a bad taste in his mouth, and when finally the few ladies present had withdrawn, leaving the men to their port and cheroots, he had excused himself as well.

Was he, as Osborne had hinted, in danger of becoming a hermit? The earl admitted that he did not suffer fools gladly, and the trouble was, so few people were truly interesting. Most cared for naught but feasting on the latest gossip. He caught a number of furtive glances directed his way during the meal. No doubt his presence—and past scandal—were providing a juicy tidbit to gnaw on.

Swearing silently, he looked to the sideboard, where the candles spilled a mellow light over a tray of decanters—ruby ports, tawny sherries, fiery brandies. Deciding he needed a drink, he was halfway across the carpet before he realized he was not alone.

Though the alcove was deep in shadow, Kirtland had no trouble recognizing who was studying the set of engravings hung on the wall. Bloody hell. He had assumed that the Black Dove had retreated to her own chambers for the evening.

But apparently not.

He thought for a moment about backing off and finding another room in which to seek sanctuary, but pride pushed him on. He would be damned if he let the woman force him to retreat.

As he approached, the earl saw that the plates were from an Italian Renaissance manual of fencing. “Have you an interest in swordplay? I was under the impression that females couldn’t care less about the martial arts.”

She turned, but in the flickering light her expression was unreadable. “I know a thing or two about the subject. I have often observed some friends exercising their skills.”

Tired and irritated at having his interlude of solitude spoiled, Kirtland replied with an edge of sarcasm. “There is a big difference between observation and actual practice.”

Her bare shoulders lifted in a careless shrug as she turned back to the prints. “Perhaps. But anyone with a rudimentary knowledge of the discipline can see that the artist has the grip wrong in the first figure.”

The earl laughed—then looked a bit closer. She was right, but in his present mood he was loath to admit it. A pair of ancient rapiers framed the row of prints. On impulse, he took one down and offered her the hilt. “Care to show me the correct way?”

Her gloved hand closed unerringly around the chaised silver, the lead finger wrapping around the quillons and ricasso in a style that ensured superb control of the blade. Without hesitation, she cut a perfect arrebatar through the air, ending with a flourish.

He took down the other weapon and crossed swords with her. The blades kissed with a soft snick .

“En garde,” he murmured. “Let us see how well you move through a botta dritta .”

The Black Dove flashed a smile. “Whenever you are ready.”

The slivers of steel danced through the shadows as she matched him stroke for stroke, parrying each angle of attack with deft precision.

“ Punta sopramano ,” she countered.

Their positions reversed, with Kirtland performing the defensive maneuvers. They moved noiselessly across the carpet, at times so close his thigh brushed hers. He was intimately aware of the strength in her wrist, the lithe curve of muscle running up her bare arm.

“Your friend must be an excellent teacher.” He angled a slow lunge. She deflected it past her cheek. Their faces were now mere inches apart. Kirtland saw that her eyes were even more luminous than he had imagined—a rich amber gold that once again sent a stab of recognition through him.

No. It was the surfeit of champagne playing tricks with his mind. Distracted, he nearly allowed her weapon to slip under his guard.

“He is . . . very good.” Siena spun at half speed through a flawless sopra il braccio .

“But not as good as you?”

Was it merely a quirk of light, or did she flash a challenging wink along with a stocatta lunga . “Not many men are.”

“A pity this is not the place to question such a bold assertion,” he whispered. “I should like to test your true mettle.“

Their gazes locked, like steel on steel.

“Indeed, there is not the proper space for a full range of maneuvers.”

He suddenly spun a step closer. Those cheekbones, that mouth.

Her lips parted in a sliver of a smile.

There was no mistaking the truth now. “You!”

She cut a quick salute. “Yes, our paths cross once again.”

“Who the devil are you? he rasped. “And this time I demand more than a show of acrobatics for an answer.”

Her blade blocked his path. “I don’t answer to you, Lord Kirtland, or to anyone here, save myself.”

“You—”

The sound of footsteps, punctuated by shouts of drunken laughter, echoed in the hallway. In a few minutes they would no longer be alone.

“You haven’t heard the last word on this, madam.” Unwilling to be caught up in a fresh round of gossip, the earl broke away and hung the rapier back on the wall. “The duel is not yet done,” he warned as he paused in the doorway. “And next time don’t count on the rules of engagement being skewed in your favor.”

Had she made a reckless mistake?

Tightening the sash of her wrapper, Siena moved to her bedchamber window and stared out at the sloping lawns and topiary trees. The scudding moonlight cut like quicksilver blades through the budding branches, a sharp reminder that this hide and seek charade was a dangerous game to play.

Too on edge to return to her quarters after the banquet, she had sought one of the smaller display rooms, curious to see some of the duke’s treasured books and prints. The appeal of having such beauty and knowledge at one’s fingertips was so alluring that she had been tempted to reach out and touch the copperplate engravings when the earl had entered the room. Fencing had been the last thing on her mind, but as Il Lupino had often said, sometimes it was necessary to improvise.

Hilt in hand, she felt confident of her abilities. But in the heat of battle, had she gone too far?

Revealing her identity to Kirtland this early in the game was a bold gambit. Perhaps too bold. Given the way he shunned her presence, he might not have made the connection on his own.

On the other hand, she reasoned, it had been necessary to do something striking to keep him from staying at arm’s length. She needed to be close to him—and to all of the suspects—if she had any hope of learning their secrets.

Well, there was no question she had gotten Kirtland’s attention.

Her palms prickled, recalling the sweet smoothness of steel in her hand and the matching grace of his movements. Elegant, effortless. The man was a master of the sword as well as the saddle. Clashing at quarter speed, their skills were equal. In a real duel, she wondered who would come out on top.

As for their war of words . . .

So far their encounters had all been marked by conflict, with neither of them giving ground. Siena thought for a moment. One of Da Rimini’s rules was to keep the enemy off balance. So perhaps it was time to switch tactics. Could Kirtland be seduced into lowering his guard? She sensed that he was not impervious to desire. His kiss, however fleeting, had revealed an unexpected passion. An oddly vulnerable need.

A tiny spark flared as she ran a fingertip over her lip, but she quickly extinguished it with a low oath. Her decision was based purely on pragmatism, not on her own strange reaction to his intimate touch. Given his military background and experience in clandestine intelligence, the earl was the most obvious suspect. It would test all of her cunning and cleverness to cut through his defenses.

However intriguing that individual challenge, she pushed it aside for the moment. She had another, more immediate test looming.

Seating herself at the escritoire, Siena slid a fresh sheet of foolscap upon the blotter and uncapped the inkwell. The slim shaft of ebony did not feel quite so solid in her hand as a length of steel, despite the old adage that Mrs. Merlin was so fond of repeating. The pen is mightier than the sword. These gentlemen had lived all their lives in a world of nuanced language and oblique meanings. A world where a word, a phrase, could shift the balance of power as surely as armies. It was, after all, a letter that had set all these forces in motion.

Including herself.

In contrast, her own early lessons in life had been grounded in the fact that physical force dominated all else. At an early age, she had quickly realized that the only way to beat brute strength was through quickness, cunning and an absolute refusal to knuckle under to fear, no matter how scared she was inside. She suffered her share of blows, yet had somehow managed to best the bullies who would have sold her services to a tavern or brothel. But was an orphan—a street urchin with no family, no erudite education, no fancy home like Marquand Castle—a match for these highborn scions of privilege?

For the first dozen years of her life, her bed had been the dirt floor of a gin shop cellar, shared with a pack of other children, and her food had been scraps scavenged from the alleys. The Academy had polished her perception of the world outside the slums of St. Giles.

But now that understanding would be put to the test.

The nib hovered over the pristine white paper. The Gilded Page Club members were primed for the first game to be handed out in the morning. It must be a provocative one, a task that would appeal to their own desires while revealing more than they might realize.

The candles guttered as the night breeze found the cracks in the casement, and with it came the reminder of a recent evening, a fire blazing in the hearth, a gentleman reading, a dog-eared page . . .

Strangely enough, it was the earl who served as inspiration for the first test of wits.

Smiling, Siena began to write.