The Scarlet Spy (16 page)

They rode out of the trees and close to the water’s edge. Sunlight shimmered off the flat calm, its brilliance nearly blinding.

“Well, then … There is to be another party early next week.” Was she testing his daring? “At Lord Concord’s house.”

“Is that an invitation?”

“Would you care to come?” she countered. Coy, but not cloyingly so.

“Very much so.”

Lady Serena smiled. “I will let you know the time and direction.” A light pressure on her reins turned the mare back toward the Cumberland gate. “I read the first of Repton’s essays on nature, and I am curious as to your opinion on the subject …”

The door to Andover’s antique shop was polished to the patina of aged sherry. It swung open at the touch of Marco’s gloved hand, setting off a melodious chiming of bells.

“Tibetan,” he murmured, glancing up at the cluster of carved silver. “Very old, very valuable.”

“The same can be said about everything here,” said Sofia dryly.

The main gallery was a long, narrow space paneled in dark wood. The multitude of nooks and wall niches were crammed with all manner of exotic treasures. They looked to be mostly Eastern in origin—Ottoman, Persian, Mogul, Chinese. Brass figurines, exquisite porcelains, colorful carpets, gold and silver jewelry glittering with precious stones. And, as Marco had remarked, everything looked extremely ancient and extremely costly. It was as if one of the legendary Silk Road caravans had by some mysterious magic transported its booty from the Khyber Pass to the middle of London.

“Speaking of which,” she said after making her survey, “how do you know that the bells are Tibetan?”

“I am an art instructor, remember?”

“And pigs may fly.”

The whisper drew a low snort from Marco.
“Porca—”
he began, but the sound of a door opening silenced his retort.

Sofia edged a step sideways in time to see the shop owner come out of a side room, accompanied by another gentleman she had never seen before. Blocked by a life-size statue of Buddha, Andover did not spot the two of them until Marco called out a greeting.

“Ciao,
Signor.”

He seemed surprised—and, to her eye, a little nervous—at finding them inside his gallery, but he quickly assumed an ingratiating smile. “Lady Sofia. Lord della Ghiradelli. What an unexpected pleasure.”

“We had the afternoon free and thought we would come have a look around. If you don’t mind, that is.” Marco was already inspecting a small bronze statue of Shiva, the Indian destroyer god. “Or would you prefer that we make an appointment?”

“Not at all, not at all. Please, make yourselves at home. My assistant is running an errand, but I will be with you in just a moment.” He did not look inclined to introduce his companion. However, the man took matters into his own hands.

“Don’t rush me away, my dear Andover. Granted, you’ve shown me a number of the rare treasures reserved for your special clients, but none are half so lovely as the Contessa della Silveri.” He bowed low over Sofia’s hand. “Allow me to make your acquaintance, milady. I have heard much about you.”

“Mr. Stanton Roxbury, Lady Sofia,” said Andover.

Again, Sofia had the impression that he was reluctant to perform the social niceties.

“Are you an avid collector, Mr. Roxbury?” she asked after he finished his string of effusive compliments.

“I make the occasional purchase,” he replied. “Alas, a gentleman in my humble position cannot afford more than that.”

Raising his ribboned quizzing glass, Marco subjected the man to an ogling scrutiny. Magnified by the gold-rimmed lens, his eye appeared as large as a cricket ball. “And pray, sir, what position is that?”

No wonder Osborne had looked tempted to bat the Italian’s ballocks through a wicket, thought Sofia. Marco could be insufferably obnoxious without exerting much effort.

“I am employed by the Ministry of War.”

Mention of Whitehall snapped her senses into full alert. “How very impressive, sir, given England’s importance in defending the world from Napoleon’s onslaught.”

Roxbury’s chest immediately swelled.
So, the man had an inflated sense of his own worth,
she thought. The added bulk did not quite hide the fact that his large body was going to seed. His face was still handsome enough, despite a weak chin and florid complexion. But another few years of excess food and drink and he would be fat as the Prince Regent.

Oblivious of her critical eye, he preened like a peacock.

“As Associate Minister for Military Transport, I do play a rather significant role in seeing that our armies are supplied with ordnance and supplies in all the far-flung corners of the globe.”

“Bravo.” Marco contrived to look extremely bored by the mention of war.

“Is not Lord Lynsley your sponsor in London Society, milady?” asked the minister, as her friend wandered away to inspect a display of Persian jambiyahs from the time of the First Crusade.

“He was an acquaintance of my father, from a long time ago.” Sofia thought it wise to distance herself from any real relationship with the marquess. “And, yes, he was kind enough to arrange my entrée into the
ton.
But I’ve only met him on several occasions since arriving in Town. His work does not permit him much time for entertainment, or so he claims.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “In truth, he strikes me as rather … dull.”

“Dull as dishwater.” Roxbury gave a sharp laugh. “His Lordship is always so very sober and straightlaced. And by all accounts, a stickler for detail. Thank God my department has very little contact with his.”

“How fortunate for you,” she replied.

“Indeed, indeed.” As a Damascene clock struck the hour, Roxbury’s smile faded. “Alas, duty does demand that I return to the Ministry. No matter that your company is far more alluring than a desk full of documents.”

“We must not keep you from your work.” Sofia favored him with a flutter of lashes as he passed by. “Perhaps we will meet again soon.”

“Oh, I shall make sure that Andover arranges a social engagement without delay.”

The gallery owner escorted Roxbury to the front door, where they exchanged a few private words before the minister hurried off after a passing hackney.

“Do forgive me,” said Andover as he rejoined them.

“Rather it is for us to apologize, for barging in unannounced,” said Sofia.

“You are, of course, welcome anytime.” Seeing Marco casually hold a piece of Ming Dynasty porcelain up to the light, he added, “May I show you anything in particular, milord?”

“Just looking.” After spinning the bowl on the tip of his finger, Marco put it back in its place.

“This is quite fascinating.” She chose a Byzantine brooch at random. “What lovely filigree work, and the stones look to be of excellent quality.” After studying the lapis and carnelian inlays a bit longer, she asked, “Have you any others?”

Andover found another on a nearby shelf. “These are the only two I have at the moment.”

“I don’t like the colors.” She made a moue of disappointment. “You are sure that you do not have one in the private rooms reserved for your special clients?”

“Roxbury was jesting, milady. I assure you that everything I have is out on display.”

“The two of you
were
locked away—”

“In a storage room, Lady Sofia,” said Andover quickly. “I was merely showing him a sketch of an icon that I sold to Lord Hillhouse last month.”

She surrendered with a pout and a sigh. “Oh, very well. Then let me have a look at some of the other jewelry.”

“I have a very nice selection of Persian pendants just over here. The shades of turquoise are sublime.”

Seeing Marco edge around a group of terra-cotta Chinese warriors and signal her to keep Andover occupied, Sofia quickly accepted the offer. “I’ll have a look. And then I would also like to see that jade dragon by the set of Turkish scimitars.”

“Of course, milady.” Andover still appeared a bit edgy as he opened the display case and took out a velvet-covered tray of ornaments.

She took her time in examining each piece, which was not difficult. They were, as promised, exceptionally beautiful, the rich blue stones complemented by the superb craftsmanship of the carved goldwork. “Where on earth do you find such magnificent treasures? Have you discovered Aladdin’s secret cave? Or a genie in a brass lamp who conjures a wealth of riches out of smoke and fire?”

“A flying carpet appears every full moon, loaded with every imaginable prize from the Orient,” said Andover, matching her tone of light teasing.

The bells rang out, amplifying her peal of laughter. Looking up, Sofia saw a young man enter the shop, two large packages wrapped in oilskin in his arms. He looked about to speak, but then seeing there was a customer, he ducked his head and quickly slipped into the far aisle. Hurried footsteps echoed in the momentary silence, heading for the far end of the gallery.

A flutter of coattails, and she saw him disappear behind a door set into the paneling.

“My clerk,” said Andover, eyeing the clock. “He is late.”

“Anything interesting?” she teased.

“Packing supplies,” came the curt reply.

Twine and pasteboard seemed an unlikely source of agitation. But perhaps he had an important purchase waiting to be delivered. Sofia dropped the subject and asked him to explain the artistic style of a hammered gold disc set with amethysts.

All smiles again, Andover was quick to reply.

She browsed through a few more trays of jewelry before picking out a simple aquamarine ring for purchase. Marco should have had time to check inside the private room by now.

“A lovely choice,” said Andover, then added the price.

She nearly choked, but Marco didn’t bat an eye as he sauntered around the corner of the shelves. “Send the bill around to my hotel, signor,” he announced. An airy wave cut short her protest. “A belated birthday gift,
bella.”

“Grazie,”
she stammered.

Andover’s mouth curled to a scimitar smile. “A bauble is the best way to a lady’s heart, milord.” His tone implied a rather different part of a female’s anatomy.

“Si, si.”
Marco winked. “I hope to be a regular customer. So save a selection of your prime pieces.”

Both men exchanged knowing looks.

Out on the street, Sofia drew in a deep breath and muttered, “Bloody hell, that amount of blunt would feed and clothe an army of orphans for a year in St. Giles.”

“Si.”
Her friend was no longer leering. “But the money is also being spent for a good cause,
bella.”

“Assuming Lord Lynsley does not succumb to a fit of apoplexy when he sees the bill.”

“He can afford it. As can I.”

His soft words reminded Sofia once again how little she really knew about the Italian. Save that beneath the braggadocio and blatant flirtations, he was a stalwart friend.

“Don’t look so blue-deviled,” said Marco after slanting a sidelong look at her face. “Or are you wishing you had chosen the set of diamond earbobs?”

“Don’t be daft,” she muttered, not about to admit she had picked the ring because its color was the exact shade of Deverill Osborne’s eyes. “What about the private room?”

“Locked,” he replied.

There was nothing suspicious about that. Records and receipts would naturally be guarded.

“But I will, of course, need more trinkets for my many mistresses.” He took her arm and started down the street.

“Don’t fritter away the family jewels all in one place.”

Grinning, Marco waggled his brows. “The della Ghiradelli fortune is enormous.”

She laughed in spite of her vague sense of unease. “I shall take your word for it. And as you say, I suppose the money was well spent. From what we saw just now, I think that both Mr. Andover and Mr. Roxbury are worth further scrutiny.”

As they strolled past the other fancy shops along Bond Street, Sofia could not quite shake off the sense that there was something strange about the gallery. It had a cold, creepy feel to it …

Lud, she must not start acting like a heroine in a novel, imagining mad monks or a cabal of killers lurking among the antique treasures.

“Hopefully they will be among the guests at the upcoming party that De Winton mentioned.” She needed something more substantial than feelings to act upon. “But no matter who is there, it’s time to start seeing through the haze of smoke and lies.”

In contrast to the previous night’s risque revelries, the Harpworth soiree promised to be a staid affair.
Too staid,
thought Osborne with an inward grimace. Though the evening’s program of violin and cello concertos had barely begun, the music was already beginning to grate on his ear.

Seeing that Sofia had chosen a seat between Miss Pennington-Pryce and the dowager Countess of Kenshire without so much as a look in his direction, he slipped from his place in the back of the room and into the corridor. Several other gentlemen were milling about, clearly bored by the proceedings. Lady Harpworth’s musicales were noted for their lengthy recitals. But as her husband was noted for the quality of his cellars, the evenings always drew a crowd.

When one of the men suggested the refreshment room, the others were quick to follow. Osborne, however, hung back and then headed the opposite way. Another turn brought him to a darkened stretch of corridor at the back of the town house. The trilling of the violins had faded to a faint buzz, and grateful for an interlude of silence, he loosened his cravat and peeked into the first room he came to. It was a study—a masculine one by the look of the chess sets and backgammon boards on the worktable. Several comfortable armchairs flanked the hearth, and an excellent selection of brandies and ports lined the sideboard.

Osborne struck a flint and lit a brace of candles. The scent of tobacco and leather was in the air. It seemed unlikely that anyone would mind if he enjoyed a cheroot in peace and quiet.

Sofia was having an unnerving effect on him, despite his determination to ignore her. Clasping his hands behind his back, he started to wander the perimeter of the room, looking at the sporting prints while trying to dispel the thrum of restless energy that was tingling through his body.