The Scarlet Spy (22 page)

Osborne kept surprising her. But much as the idea was intriguing, she forced a shake of her head. “The golden Lord Osborne seized by Bow Street Runners for robbing the mansions of Mayfair? Think what a scandal such headlines would stir.”

He shrugged. “I would not be around to read them. I would be on a transport ship to Botany Bay.”

“It’s no joking matter,” she said, seeing the tiny twitch of his mouth. “I am deadly serious.”

“As am I.” He laced his hands behind his head. “Think of it—I am intimately acquainted with the
ton.
I know their habits, their homes, and in the case of some, their most intimate hiding places.”

“Don’t be daft.” Sofia watched the play of rain-washed light, pale and pearlescent, limn his profile. Its softness seemed to bring out the subtle strength of his features. He was no longer just a handsome face, a smoothly sculpted Adonis, perfectly polished but devoid of real character.

She forced her eyes away. “Why would you hazard your reputation for a share of ill-gotten gains? You have no need of money.”

Osborne leaned in closer. “Oh, something tells me you are not doing this simply for money, Sofia.”

“W-what makes you say that?”

“I consider myself a good judge of character.” A flicker of moonlight glinted off his lashes. “It is not greed that that makes you so passionate about your pursuit.”

“My reasons are mine alone.” His probings were coming far too close for comfort. She must find a way to deflect him. “You haven’t thought about the risks.”

“You think me too devoted to my creature comforts to chance a bit of danger? Too settled in my drawing-room manners?” His voice had a rasp of roughness to it.

“I am not questioning your courage, Osborne.” Sofia sighed. “Merely your sanity. You would be a bloody fool to involve yourself in this affair.”

He turned slightly, fixing her with a storm-blue stare. “I already am.” His tangled locks shadowed his expression. “It is Osborne now? That seems rather distant, seeing the intimacies we have shared.”

The space between their bodies was mere inches, but Sofia knew that there was a chasm he could not be allowed to cross. Duty demanded she keep him from coming too close. “That was … nothing personal. As you said, the heat of battle does strange things to the blood.”

“Nothing personal?” he repeated. “So I was merely a convenient means of cooling your fire?” His face froze in a sardonic smile. “Dear me, I feel you have taken unfair advantage of me, Contessa.”

Sofia felt a dull heat flush her cheeks. “Th-that’s not precisely what I meant.”

“What, precisely,
did
you mean? For I confess, I am having trouble discerning your true sentiments from all the tangle of lies.”

“I work alone.” She shivered, suddenly aware of being naked beneath his gaze. Groping among the discarded clothing, she found her chemise and clutched it to her breast. “Let us leave it at that.”

Osborne caught her wrist. “I don’t intend to be dismissed so easily. You promised some answers, and I mean to hold you to that.”

She tried to break away, but he held fast. “That black bird on your breast—what the devil does it signify? Are you part of some secret army? Some force of … of …”

“Of trained killers?” Sofia finished his faltering words with a scoff. “Good Lord, Osborne, perhaps you should turn your hand to writing novels. You have a lurid enough imagination for the job.” Seeing his anger flicker to uncertainty, she went on the offensive. “What will you accuse me of next—being a foreign assassin sent to cut Prinny’s throat?”

He had the grace to flush.

“Now please let me go.” The rattle of a coal scuttle in the main corridor punctuated her demand.

His grip fell away. “You are sharp as steel—that is for sure, Sofia. Again I shall retreat, so as not to sully your name. But don’t be so sure you have seen the true test of my mettle.”

Ignoring the raised eyebrows of document clerks, Osborne stormed through the copyroom and turned into Lynsley’s office.

This time, the secretary managed to intercept him in the anteroom. “His Lordship is not available,” said the young man, moving with great agility to block the path to the closed door.

Osborne stopped just short of bowling him over. “Is he away, or is he simply refusing to see me?”

The answer was fittingly evasive. “The marquess is not at his desk.”

He glared at the young man, who did not flinch. “Tell him I called,” he said, deciding that it was unfair to vent his spleen on someone who was simply doing his job. Tossing his card on the side table, he added, “It is a most urgent matter.”

“I will give His Lordship the message when he returns.”

“Let us hope he is not on a slow boat to China,” muttered Osborne under his breath.

The secretary kept a straight face. “I think I can safely say that the marquess is not currently engaged in any diplomatic dealings with the Forbidden City.”

“But of course you are not allowed to tell me his whereabouts.”

The young man gathered up an armload of files. “Is there anything else I can assist you with, Lord Osborne?”

“Good day,” he growled.

Quitting the warrens of Whitehall, he made his way to White’s. But several glasses of the club’s best brandy did nothing to quench the fire in his belly. Indeed, his anger had risen from a slow simmer to a point perilously close to a boil.

Explosive
might be a more apt description, he fumed as he took another gulp of the spirits. It was ironic, seeing as he was known for his calm demeanor, his dispassionate view of the Polite World. However, he was anything but detached these days.

What had prompted the odd offer of helping the contessa? She was right. It was absurd to think of him as a cracksman—though in truth he did know a number of flash houses, where stolen merchandise was fenced, on account of having friends among the lower circles of Society as well as at the top.

Why did he care so passionately about Sofia? It was hard to explain, even to himself. She had an unwavering courage and a sense of conviction he found immensely admirable. Opposed to his own recent sense of aimlessness. Of drifting, with no real purpose besides casual amusement to his life.

Shifting uncomfortably in the reading room armchair, Osborne tried to concentrate on the latest war dispatches from the Eastern front. Finally, he tossed back the last swallow of his drink and slapped down the newspaper.

“Aye, the news is grim enough to drive a man to strong drink.” Colonel Edwards, an adjutant on General Burrand’s staff, looked up from his magazine. “Kutusov appears to be as spineless as the rest of the Russian officers. Bonaparte is now taking supper in the Kremlin. In another month, he’ll be skating on the canals of St. Petersburg.”

His own mood was on thin ice, so Osborne simply nodded, hoping to avoid a lengthy discussion on military tactics.

“What the Tsar needs is some officers who are unafraid to match wits with the Little Corsican.”

“True.” Osborne silently signaled to the porter for his gloves and walking stick.

“Someone with the boldness and bravery of, say, your friend Lord Kirtland.” Edwards pursed his lips. “Has he returned yet from his wedding trip to Italy? I have some reports from the Peninsula that I wouldn’t mind asking him to read over.”

“No, he has not.” He was halfway out of his chair but sat back down. “Tell me, Edwards, do you recall the name of Kirtland’s bride?” He had been in Scotland at the time of his friend’s sudden wedding and knew precious little about any of the details. Kirtland was a very private man to begin with, and his letters were even less revealing. The only message the earl had left before departing for the Continent had been a maddeningly short missive dropped off at Osborne’s residence—
Married. Will explain when I return from Italy.

“Er …” The colonel tapped at his chin. “Some city name … ah, yes, Siena, it was.”

Siena.
Osborne nodded. “Family name?”

“Haven’t a clue. Don’t think it was ever mentioned.”

“No matter.” This time, he rose in earnest. “One last thing, I’ve been given a message to pass on to Lord Lynsley. I don’t see him here tonight. Any idea where he resides? The family town house on Grosvenor Square does not look to be in use.”

The colonel slanted a look around before answering. “The marquess prefers quieter quarters while in London. I know you’ve been working with Fenimore on the Prussian problem, so I daresay you can be trusted with the information.” Lowering his voice even more, he murmured an address on a quiet side street off Dorset Square.

“Thank you.”

A short while later, Osborne shouldered past the startled footman. “I don’t care if he’s taking tea with the Prince Regent or sleeping with the Queen of Sheba, tell Lynsley I want to see him.” He tossed his hat on the sideboard. “NOW.”

“No need to shout, Osborne.” The marquess appeared at the head of the stairs. “Do come up.”

Osborne shrugged out of his overcoat and took the carpeted treads two at a time.

Lynsley ushered him into a small study.

The room had a comfortable coziness to it. A large pearwood desk was piled high with books and official-looking document cases, but the silver penholder was a dragon, which looked rather whimsical with the ebony shafts bristling from its jaws. The same juxtaposition was evident in the mahogany bookcases lining the walls. Softening the hard-edged planes was an eclectic mix of mementos from faraway places—Cossack daggers, Saracen jambiyas, African masks, Etruscan artifacts. The sideboard held an assortment of ruby ports and tawny sherries, their rich colors mellowed by the glow of the fire blazing in the hearth.

The marquess mirrored the informality of the room. His collar was open, his shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows, his feet encased in Moroccan slippers. Stepping over the sheaf of documents that lay on the carpet, he resumed his place in one of the leather armchairs by the fire and gestured for Osborne to do the same.

“Help yourself to a glass of spirits.” Lynsley’s voice betrayed no surprise or surliness at having his private retreat invaded.

Did nothing disturb the dratted fellow’s sangfroid?

“No. Thank you.” Osborne remained on his feet.

“Is something amiss?” To his irritation, the marquess picked up a packet of notes and began perusing the pages.

“Other than the fact that the contessa is a jewel thief?” he shot back sarcastically. “And nearly had her throat cut by four footpads last night?”

The marquess didn’t look up. “As I told you before, the contessa is an independent lady. She is not subject to your censure or mine. If I were you, I would not involve myself in her private life. It seems that she can take care of herself.”

“Don’t patronize me. I’m not some snotty-nosed schoolboy.” Osborne stalked to the fire and set a boot on the brass fender. “I’ll not be fobbed off with a little lecture and sent on my way.”

“Then let me phrase it a bit differently,” said Lynsley. “You have done what I asked. Now please leave the lady alone.”

“I’m bloody tired of being used by you—and by her.” He was now perilously close to shouting. “I want some answers, Lynsley.”

A sigh. “What are your questions?”

“Tell me all about a group of women who bear a small tattoo of a black hawk above their left breast. Who are they?”

Lynsley set aside his papers and took a long sip of his sherry.

Osborne’s temper, already frayed to a thread, suddenly snapped. He fisted a small jade carving from the mantel and flung it at the empty chair. “Goddamn it, man, do they work for you?”

“Sit down, Osborne.” The marquess was no longer looking so affable.

The jut of his jaw hardened, but after drawing a deep breath, Osborne did as he was told.

“And please remove my Buddha from beneath your arse,” added Lynsley. “It’s a rare Ming Dynasty piece, and aside from its monetary worth, it has a certain sentimental value.”

Osborne rather sheepishly placed the statue on the lamp table by his elbow.

“Dare I hope that a touch of the Great One’s calmness has rubbed off?” added the marquess.

He folded his hands in his lap. “I am ready to be enlightened.”

A flash of amusement lit in Lynsley’s eyes, but he turned, and his face was quickly wreathed in shadows. “I regret that I am not at liberty to reveal more than a glimmer. Indeed, I would ask that you be satisfied with my word that it is a matter of grave importance that you leave Lady Sofia alone.”

The dismissal, though somewhat softened, still struck a raw nerve. “So you think me a superficial fribble, a cabbage-headed coxcomb who can’t be trusted with a secret?”

“On the contrary, your intelligence and discretion were the reasons I asked for your help in the first place.” Lynsley paused. “As was your ability to avoid emotional attachments.”

Osborne shifted uncomfortably in his chair, aware that a slight flush was staining his cheeks.

“I am aware of the work you do with Major Fenimore,” went on the marquess. “He speaks highly of your logic and your analytical powers.”

“Then why must I be kept in the dark?”

“Touché.” Steepling his fingers, Lynsley touched the point to his chin. “But first, I have a question of my own—how did you learn about the tattooed ladies?”

“There was a rumor running through general staff headquarters about a secret cadre of women warriors. We all dismissed it as a wild flight of fancy, a figment of a foxed imagination.” Osborne made a face. “But then, when Kirtland mentioned a mysterious courtesan bearing a winged mark, I began to wonder if there might be some truth to the talk. You were investigating him at the time. And now, the fact that Lady Sofia has the same sort of tattoo seems to be more than mere coincidence.”

Lynsley pursed his lips and sighed. “I won’t ask how you came to see such a mark.”

“Her dress was torn during the attack.”

“Ah.” The marquess rose and moved to the hearth, where he carefully put the Buddha back in its place. “Lady Sofia is in a difficult position here in London. Any distractions could put her in danger.”

“Such as me?” said Osborne softly. He imagined that Lynsley would consider a bout of passionate lovemaking to qualify as “distracting.”