The Scarlet Spy (17 page)

Damn.
He would definitely have to do something about arranging a new mistress. And soon. The sense of frustration was threatening to explode.

He was just about to turn in search of the cigar box when his gaze fell on a brass-rimmed dartboard hanging on the wall, its surface intricately painted in a series of concentric circles. As he moved closer, he saw that they were further divided into quadrants of varying widths and colors.

On impulse, Osborne plucked the trio of feathered darts from the cork. Stepping back as far as the gaming table allowed, he tossed them in quick succession at the target.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

Each hit just outside the small bull’s-eye.

“Not bad.”

Osborne whirled around to find Sofia framed in the doorway.

“I suppose you think you could do better,” he snapped.

“Without a doubt.”

Don’t react,
said his brain. It could only lead to another quarrel. Or worse. But the curl of her lip, supremely sensuous in its claim, silenced reason.

“Care to test that assumption?” he challenged.

She walked into the room, her silken skirts whispering against the soft Persian carpet. Stopping before the game table, she slowly stripped the elbow-length gloves from her arms.

The leather slapped softly against the waxed wood.

Osborne swallowed hard, aware his throat had gone a bit dry. If she was trying to distract him, she was doing a damn good job of it.

Next came her shawl, leaving her shoulders bare. “What are the rules of engagement?”

“Fire at will,” he said, flexing his right fist. Indicating a medallion on the carpet, he added, “And you must stand there. No foul allowed.”

She rubbed her palms together. “Sounds simple enough.”

He retrieved the darts and handed them over with a mocking bow. “Ladies first.”

One by one, Sofia tested their balance on her two forefingers.

“You hold them point first,” he said with deliberate sarcasm. “In case you were wondering.”

“You don’t say?” All of a sudden, she tossed one straight up, plucked it out of midair, and in the same smooth motion flung it at the board. The point bit into the outer edge of center circle.

“Beginner’s luck,” he growled.

She shrugged and threw the next two with equal precision.

Osborne removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves.

Several French soldiers lay dead in the dusty plains of Spain on account of his prowess with a throwing knife. He was not about to be bested by a show of circus tricks.

Sofia went to the cabinet and dusted off a second set of darts. She placed them on the table and set a hand on her hip. “Your turn, sir.”

Stepping to the line, he gauged the distance to the target with a little more care this time around. She had been right to test the heft of the darts as well. He fingered the brass grips, smoothed the tailfeathers.

“You are stalling,” she muttered.

“A seasoned soldier always studies the field of battle before making the first charge.” His eyes were still on her as he launched the darts in rapid-fire succession at the target.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

From that distance, it was impossible to see who had won. Sofia picked up the candlestick and moved closer. He followed.

“It appears the round is yours.” Her nose was nearly touching the cork. “By a hair.”

Caught up in a simple topknot, her curls spilled in soft ringlets to the ridge of her shoulders. Black velvet kissing white satin. Why was it that metaphors of dark and light always seemed to come to mind?
Sofia of Sparks. Sofia of Shadows.

He inhaled a breath, the mysterious scent of her perfume sweetening the masculine traces of cigars and cognac. “Yours are close. But not close enough.”

“I think it’s only fair you allow me a rematch,” she declared. “One where I set the parameters.”

“Very well.” Osborne allowed himself a well-deserved smile. Having drawn first blood, as it were, the advantage lay with him. He could afford to be generous. Besides, a gentleman could hardly say no to a lady’s request.

A gentleman could, however, in good conscience employ a bit of teasing to rattle her composure. “If you are quite sure you wish to subject yourself to such a trial. The ability to perform under pressure is an art in itself. I know many men whose hands begin to tremble when put on the line.”

“As always, an eloquent warning, Lord Osborne.” Sofia rolled her shoulders—a movement that caused her bosom to rise and fall beneath the snug silk. “But I’ll take my chances.”

Damn the minx.
His palms prickled and began to perspire.

She was facing the unlit hearth, her back to the target. Setting her hip to the game table, she cleared a bit more space. “Let us add some distance to the toss. We will start from here.” Her slipper indicated a swirl of indigo on the carpet. “Winner goes first.”

Spinning the first dart between his fingers, Osborne stepped to the spot and assumed his stance. A few paltry yards were nothing. He was about to take aim when she interrupted. “Wait. I haven’t finished spelling out the rules.”

He straightened.

“You must remain facing the mantel, like so.” Her body was squared to the carved marble. “And then throw over your left shoulder.”

“Without looking at the target?”

“Correct.”

“That’s hardly fair,” he murmured. Seeing her lips creep up at the corners, he quickly continued. “For you, I mean. I served as an officer in the Peninsular War, Lady Sofia. We soldiers spent hours in the practice of throwing a knife. Our lives depended on such prowess.”

The candlelight caught the flicker of her ebony lashes. For an instant, they hid her eyes.

“I thought it only sporting to warn you,” he continued. “I wouldn’t want to win by foul means, so feel free to choose another position.” Osborne couldn’t help savoring the moment. “Or to surrender. Be assured, there is no dishonor in conceding the field to a superior opponent.”

Her expression remained inscrutable. “As I said, sir. I’ll take my chances.”

“Very well.” He resumed his position, adding an extra flex to his knees as he glanced at the target over his shoulder. The dart’s tip nicked the cork near dead center but didn’t hold and fell to the floor.

“Sorry.” Sofia smiled. “Doesn’t count.”

“Blast,” he muttered. “A bit out of practice,” Altering his stance, he made his second throw. This one stuck, but in the outer ring.

“Hmmm. I think you’ll have to do better than that, sir.”

“You do? Hah! We’ll soon see your prowess on the line.” Irked by her teasing, Osborne rushed his last try. The needled steel struck home, but only within the middle ring. Not an overpowering display of skill. However, he doubted she could top it.

“Now it’s your turn.” He perched a hip on the edge of the table and folded his arms across his chest.

Sofia smoothed her skirts, her lithe hands skimming the curve of her derriere. He turned his gaze to the target with an inward smile. In warfare, timing was everything. Her diversion was a touch too late.

“Clothing a tad too tight?” he asked. “Whalebone stays must be deucedly uncomfortable.”

“I wouldn’t know,” she shot back. “I don’t wear a corset.”

“Ah.” Osborne couldn’t resist the opening. “What
do
you wear beneath that lovely gown?”

“State secret. I could tell you, sir. But then I would have to kill you.” As she spoke, she whipped her hand across her body. The dart flew over her shoulder, as straight as a hawk honing in on its prey.

Bloody hell.
Osborne could not quite believe his eyes. The quivering point had hit smack in the center of the bull’s-eye.

“This round appears mine.” She tossed the two other tiny missiles on the table. “No need for these.”

“How the devil did you do that?” he blurted out.

“We had archery classes in school.”

Osborne made a face. “It sounds as if Italian classes for young ladies are far more permissive than those here in England.”

“To be sure, we were not taught a traditional course of study,” answered Sofia.

He suddenly found himself curious to know more about her upbringing. Lynsley had mentioned the hell-for-leather riding instructor. What other martial skills did she possess? “It sounds unusual. What else were you taught?”

“Oh, hand-to-hand combat. Our headmistress believed that a lady should know how to defend herself.”

Osborne went to the sideboard and poured himself a drink. “Now I know you are bamming me. Archery? Hand-to-hand combat? Next you will be telling me you studied ballistics and marksmanship.”

“I am a crack shot,” she replied with just the tiniest hint of a smile.

“Then you won’t object to a third round. To break the tie.”

“I’m game. Name your challenge, sir.”

“Care to make the competition even more interesting?” he asked after a moment of hesitation.

Sofia watched him draw in a mouthful of his whisky. The cut crystal cast a fire-gold pattern of winking light across his face. Like diamonds, sharp-edged and alight with a brilliant glitter. “What do you have in mind?” she asked.

“A wager.” He refilled his drink from one of the decanters.

How many glasses of spirits had he drunk? One? Two? Enough to bring a dangerous glint to his eye. “Perhaps we should simply call it a draw, Lord Osborne.”

“Afraid of losing? Surely a lady who rides like a hellfire hussar is not about to shy away from a hurdle simply because it’s a touch higher than any she’s tried before?”

She smoothed at the folds of her skirts. “I have nothing to prove.”

“No.” His voice dropped to a husky murmur. “But where’s your sense of daring now, Lady Sofia?”

“Why is it you feel so compelled to raise the stakes, sir?” she countered.

“All men like to gamble,” he replied. “Didn’t they teach you that in your fancy school?”

Sofia shook her head.

“They should have.” Osborne approached with a slow, stalking step. “After all, whatever the curriculum, those expensive academies are simply preparing you young ladies for matrimony. You should not be innocent of men’s baser urges.”

Up close, his gold-tipped lashes seemed alight with sparks. The rest of his face was shaded in shadows. She drew a small breath, trying to ignore the spicy scent of his cologne. “Trust me, sir, we were taught enough about the realities of life.”

“Indeed?” Osborne laughed softly. “Then I assume that one of the first lessons was that the prospect of risk and reward adds a certain edge to any endeavor.”

“Rather, our instructors trained us to react with reason rather than emotion when faced with a challenge,” replied Sofia.

“What a pity.” He took another swallow of spirits. “I was looking forward to the duel. But then, I should have suspected that a lady would only go so far before retreating behind the skirts of maidenly excuses.”

Sofia knew he was simply baiting her. She had proved her point. Her fencing instructor had often said that knowing when to withdraw was as important as knowing when to engage.
Risk and reward.

“I was going to let you retreat with your dignity intact, Lord Osborne,” she answered. “But if you insist—name the stakes.”

“The loser must pay a forfeit,” he replied.

“Of what?”

“Oh, as to that.” He drew out his words. “The winner may name what he wants.”

“Or she,” countered Sofia. “And the game?”

“Alternate shots, each from a different position in the room.” A grin curled the corners of his mouth. “We’ll pick the spots as we go along. The winner of each toss shall make the choice.” He retrieved the darts from the board, along with a wooden case from the bookshelf. Inside it were four more of the feathered missiles. “We’ll each take five. That should ensure that the match does not end in a draw.” Light winked off the steel as he separated the weapons into two piles. “By virtue of your last victory, you may call the first shot.”

Sofia looked around. Spotting the heavy brass fender around the hearth, she fisted her darts and marched to its far edge. “Very well. We’ll shoot from here—balanced on one foot atop the rail.” She kicked off a slipper and set her silk-clad toes on the polished metal. “Shoes are optional.”

Her throw hit home close to dead center.

“You are good,” he said grudgingly as she slipped her footwear back on. He stepped up to the bar and whipped a sidearm toss at the target.

His dart kissed up against hers.

“So are you.” Sofia grinned back at him. “Your call, sir.”

They traded shots, each winning one.

On her next choice, Sofia turned around and slowly untied his cravat, pulling the length of snowy linen free of his shirtpoints. “This one we’ll do blindfolded.” She looped it around her eyes and was at once intimately aware of the lingering scent of his shaving soap and bay rum cologne. For an instant, she felt a little dizzy but managed to keep her equilibrium and make a decent strike in the middle circle.

“You have left me an opening, Contessa.” Osborne reached out, his fingers grazing her flesh as he unknotted the cloth. “I shall have to see if I can take advantage of it.” He cracked his knuckles, then let fly. But his dart only hit the band of blue as well.

“Still tied,” she murmured.

“This way.” As the choice was his, Osborne drew her to the far corner of the room.

There wasn’t much space to maneuver, and the carved molding forced them shoulder to shoulder. Sofia could feel the heat from his thigh. His profile showed a spark in his eye as well.

Osborne was right.
Risk did add a frisson of fire to a competition.

She felt the blood thrumming through her veins. Her fingertips were tingling.

“Last shot. To decide the winner.” His lips were tantalizingly close to her cheek. His breath was redolent of whisky. Sharp, sweet.

She turned, just enough to gulp in a bit of fresh air. “You have the honors, sir.”

His laugh was light as a feather against her skin. “There is nothing honorable about me right now. Indeed, if we were caught in this compromising position, I would be called a cad. Or worse.”

“A widow—” she began.