The Scarlet Spy (2 page)

“It’s past noon.” His gaze had cleared enough to make out the hands on the ormolu clock.

“Then stay until the morrow. Think of all the sinful things we can do before the next dawn.” The courtesan lowered her voice to a smoky murmur. “Have you any idea how many naughty ways there are to use an ostrich plume?”

“I’ve no doubt a ladybird of your talent can exercise a great deal of creativity.” He laughed softly as her fingers glided over his cock. Like the rest of her, they were supple, shapely, sensuous … and a little too grasping of late. “But I fear I have quite exhausted my own capacity for pleasure, sweeting.”

“With a little rest and a little champagne, I am sure I can coax a little more life into you.”

“I’ve had enough to drink.” Osborne tugged his shirt out from beneath the rumpled counterpane. His trousers had suffered a similar fate. “In any case, I must go. I am engaged to meet Lord Harkness at Tattersall’s, and it looks as if I will have to make a stop at my town house for a change of clothing.” He drew in a deep breath.
And a bath.

“Will you return tonight?”

He shook his head. “Sorry, but I promised to attend Lady Haverton’s ball.”

His
cher amie’s
lips pursed to a pout. “I don’t intend to be a ladybird forever, Deverill. Marriage would make me a respectable lady, and then I could accompany you to the glittering ballrooms of Mayfair.” In the sliver of sunlight coming through the draperies, her eyes took on a mercenary gleam. “Just think of it—we could drink and dance until dawn, and you could awake every afternoon with me by your side.”

Marriage?

He repressed a shudder. It was time to think of giving La Belle Collette her congé. She had lasted longer than most of his mistresses. Perhaps because it had seemed too great an effort to look for a replacement.

“Come, sweeting, you are a woman of the world.” He found his shoes under the bed and slipped them on. “Let us be frank. Our arrangement is one of mutual convenience. It will not culminate in a walk down the aisle of St. George’s on Hanover Square.”

“But you find me
tres
amusing,
non?”

“No. Not when you start to sound like a shrew.” He looped his limp cravat over his collar, somehow feeling as if a noose were tightening around his neck. The air was suddenly cloying, and his head was beginning to ache abominably. “Wheedling and whining does not become you.”

“Why, you ungrateful, uncaring man! After all I’ve done to please you—how
dare
you accuse me of wheedling!” Her voice was now more of a screech than a whine.

Osborne had heard quite enough. He turned to retrieve his coat, ducking just in time to avoid the Sevres figurine she hurled at his head. Picking his way through the shards of porcelain, he paused just long enough to toss a fistful of banknotes onto her dressing table.

“Choose a parting gift at Rundell and James,” he said quietly before shutting the door on a string of French invectives.

Lud, the ladybird’s language would put a bloody pirate to blush.
She was no longer speaking of what she would do with a feather. The muffled shrieks were more of a blow-by-blow description of how she would sauté his testicles in garlic and olive oil.

He supposed he should count himself fortunate to have escaped with his limbs, if not his dignity, intact. Running a hand through his tangled hair, he sighed and finished tucking in his shirttails. In the past, he would have found the scene highly diverting. Now it was merely … depressing.

Stepping out to the street, Osborne flagged down a passing hackney and settled back against the squabs for the ride back to Grosvenor Square. He was weary to the bone, and not just from a night of torrid sex. The truth was, his rakish life was becoming tiresome.
Was he growing old?
Or merely jaded? Everything seemed to come easily to him.

Too easily, perhaps. He feared he was in danger of becoming careless, contemptuous of everything around him. It was hard to value the things that required little effort to possess. Osborne sighed. Having breezed through his studies at Oxford with the highest academic honors, he ought to be smart enough to figure out the cause of his malaise. But somehow it defied all logic. By any rational measure, he had everything a man could want. Yet something essential seemed missing.

Catching a glimpse of himself in the windowpane, he stared for a moment at the smudged glass. Fair hair, blue eyes, classically chiseled features that many ladies were wont to describe as angelic. He knew he was a great favorite of the
ton,
a sought-after guest at any entertainment. His face was considered highly attractive, his conversation highly amusing, and his manner highly engaging, to both men and women alike. Such qualities, coupled with a perfect pedigree, opened any door in Polite Society.

Handsome. Witty. Charming.
Whispering the words aloud left a stale taste in his mouth. It all sounded so shallow. Skin deep, rather than having any real substance.

The vision suddenly dissolved in the pelter of a passing rain shower. What was the true reflection of who he was?

Closing his eyes, Osborne pressed his fingertips to his temples and thought about how he was spending his time. At the moment, the few hours a week that he spent reviewing military documents for Army Intelligence was the most rewarding part of his life. The challenge kept boredom at bay. Perhaps his friend on Burrand’s general staff could be persuaded to give him more work.

The idea helped him shake off his melancholy musing. There was a good chance he would encounter Major Fenimore at the ball this evening. If not, he could always stop by White’s on the way home.

“This is a rather unusual situation.” Mrs. Merlin took a moment to pour a cup of tea before opening her notebook.

“That is one way of putting it.” Lynsley went to stand by the hearth. But despite the blazing fire, he could not dispel the chill in his blood. “The duke approached me on a purely personal basis. We have known each other for years, and though he has no notion of my true duties at Whitehall, he thought that I might be able to advise him off the record on what he should do.”

“At first blush, the death of his grandson from an overdose of opium appears to be a personal tragedy and not a matter of government concern.”

The marquess nodded. “I thought the same thing, despite Sterling’s insistence that the young man had discovered some sinister forces at work here in London.”

“Grief can stir up strange imaginings,” said the headmistress softly as she began jotting a few notes. With her mild manners and ruffled silks, she presented a picture of matronly propriety—save for the point of a razor-sharp poniard peeking out from beneath her cuff.

“Indeed,” agreed Lynsley. “Still, I made a few informal inquiries, thinking that if I found any evidence of foul play, I could ease a bit of his pain by helping to bring the miscreants to justice.”

Mrs. Merlin’s pen hovered over the page. “And?”

He blew out his breath. “And I fear there may be some truth to his accusations.” Coals crackled in the hearth as he contemplated the flare of flames. “There is an old adage—where there is smoke, there is fire. In this case, a visit to several opium dens favored by the
ton
turned up some very unsettling information. Lord Robert Woolsey was not the first gentleman to die under suspicious circumstances. Seven have perished over the past six months, including a diplomat from Antwerp and an envoy from Venice.”

“Unsettling indeed, but still not something that your branch of the government has any authority to handle. It seems more a matter for the local magistrates than our Merlins.” She paused for a fraction. “However, if this were simply a sordid story of drugs and debauchery, you would not be here telling it.” A tiny smile momentarily softened the pinch of her mouth. “Much as I enjoy your company for tea, Thomas, I am aware that you do not waste your time in social calls.”

“You are right—there is a deeper, darker mystery here,” answered the marquess. “A web of intrigue that seems to spread from the slums of St. Giles to the mansions of Mayfair. God only knows where it goes from there.” Lynsley heaved a sigh. “Opium is only a small part of the mix. My informants have heard rumors of a sophisticated scheme of embezzlement, one that somehow siphons money from legitimate government contracts to a private consortium. Some shipments are diverted and sold for personal gain, while others are made with inferior materials, and the difference is simply pocketed as profit.”

There was a small silence as he pressed his palms to the marble mantel. “Unfortunately, I have no other details as to what specifically is involved. But if it is true, essential services and military supplies are being compromised while a small circle of conspirators make a fortune.”

“That certainly casts a different light on the duke’s personal tragedy.” Mrs. Merlin set aside her teacup. “If it is true.”

“We can’t afford not to follow the thread and see where it leads,” he replied. “If there are high government officials tainted by corruption, it could have disastrous repercussions for the country. A scandal at this point in time would seriously weaken our efforts to stop Napoleon’s march eastward.”

“Yet you seem reluctant to act.”

“It is never easy to send one of our students into danger. Especially when the enemy is naught but a swirl of smoke and shadow.”

“Of course it’s not easy, Thomas,” replied Mrs. Merlin. “Keeping England safe from all its enemies is a difficult, dirty business. That is why the Academy exists.” Seeing his fingers tighten on the polished stone, she added, “If it’s any consolation, the girls understand the risks and accept the challenge. They believe as strongly as we do that our freedoms are worth fighting for.”

“An eloquent speech, as usual. So you think I should have a clear conscience?” The marquess glanced up at the gilt-framed portrait of Sir Francis Walsingham, but the stern features of England’s first spymaster offered little in the way of sympathy. “Even though I am considering putting one of our Merlins into a nest of vipers with little to go on save for rumor and innuendo?”

“If you are asking for a second opinion, I would say you have no choice but to do so. I take it you do not feel it is a case that can be handled through any normal channels of investigation at Whitehall.”

He shook his head. “Given the sensitive nature of the charges, I do not trust involving any of the other departments.”

Mrs. Merlin opened one of the document cases on her desk and took out a sheaf of papers. “One of our operatives working on the East India docks recently submitted a report on the trafficking of illegal goods from India and China. It should provide some useful leads. Indeed, one item already comes to mind. There is a new source, as yet unidentified, of extremely potent opium coming in from the East. At the same time, the Levant Company has suffered the loss of a number of shipments, which has driven up the price.”

Lynsley frowned. “I shall have one of my men take a closer look at the activity around Mincing Lane, as well as attend the next fortnightly auction at Garraway’s Coffee House.” He thought for a moment. “I shall also send a sample of the narcotic found next to Lord Robert’s body to Lady Sheffield for analysis. She may be able to identify its place of origin.”

“Lady Sheffield?” Mrs. Merlin’s brow furrowed. “Isn’t she the one who was recently accused of poisoning her husband?”

“Malicious gossip,” replied Lynsley. “The earl was a brute who drank himself to death. As for the lady, she is a serious scholar, a highly respected member of the Scientific Society, and a brilliant chemist. I’ve used her before, and her work is impeccable.”

“I should have guessed the truth. The
ton
is always quick to attack a female of imagination and intelligence.” The headmistress reached for a fresh sheet of foolscap. “Those investigations should turn up some answers. As for the duke’s suspicions, did he give you any clue of what we are looking for?”

“There isn’t much to go on,” replied Lynsley, pursing his mouth. “Based on a diary found in the young man’s rooms, Sterling believes his grandson was investigating a group of gentlemen who call themselves the Scarlet Knights—on account of their red waistcoats and wild carousing from dusk to dawn.”

“I’ve heard rumors of their revelries.” Mrs. Merlin tapped the pen to the tip of her chin. “Drinking, gambling, and raising hell in the less savory parts of the city is not uncommon behavior for blades of the
ton,
but the Knights are said to carry excess to the extreme.”

Lynsley turned from the fire and clasped his hands behind his back. “It would all seem juvenile, if not for the people involved. Lord De Winton is said to be one of its regulars, as are several foreign noblemen. Their names are noted with red ink in Lord Robert’s diary.” He withdrew a small object from his coat pocket and placed it on the leather blotter. “This was found as well.”

The headmistress picked up the gold key and carefully studied the blood-red enameled poppy crowning its end. “What is it for?”

Lynsley’s lips thinned to a grim line. “That is what we need to discover. Unfortunately, Lord Robert left no hint of its significance in his writings. But I have a strong feeling that it will unlock the secrets we seek.”

“If we put it in the right hands.”

“Yes. The right hands.” The marquess’s voice was barely audible over the hiss of the glowing embers.

The headmistress took a moment to sharpen her quill. “I think it’s time we summon Sofia.”

Brushing the grains of gunpowder from her buckskins, Sofia took a seat on the wooden bench outside the headmistress’s private office. With its dark wainscoting and stone floor, the foyer offered few frills to soften a student’s anxiety. A summons to report to the headmistress was never a purely social call. It usually signaled serious school infractions—discipline, detention, demerits. Or dismissal for failing to meet the rigorous standards of performance.

Sofia drew a deep breath and touched the tattoo above her left breast. Only a very few students ever made it to the Master Class and received the small black badge of a hawk that marked them as true Merlins. The rest were assigned to less demanding duties, serving as the eyes and ears of England around the globe.