The Scarlet Spy (23 page)

“Such as you.”

“I see.” Though in fact, so many things were spinning in his head that nothing appeared in very sharp focus. Pressing his fingertips to his brow, he tried to bring some order to his thoughts. A myriad of questions were flying around, but somehow the first was the most basic. “Is Sofia Constanza Bingham della Silveri her real name?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Does she work for you?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“In other words, you can’t tell me aught but to mind my own bloody business.”

Lynsley cracked a smile. “Correct.”

Osborne thought for a moment. “Why can’t I help?”

“She prefers to work alone.”

He didn’t really expect any other answer. Still, the rebuff rankled. “Well, if I had not been around last night, you might have had a dead bird on your hands.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it. For all her pretty feathers, the lady has a formidable set of talons.”

“A regal raptor, a huntress,” he murmured. “Which begs the question of what she is after.” They regarded each other in silence for some seconds before Osborne rose. “But as it’s clear I’ll get no further answers, I won’t take up any more of your time.”

He was at the door when the marquess called softly. “So, what do you intend to do?”

Osborne’s gaze fell on the jade Buddha, whose serene stare seemed to mock his own inner turmoil. “Sorry, Lynsley. I can’t tell you that.”

Sofia stifled a yawn and tried to pay attention to the visiting professor from the University of Rome, an expert on classical architecture. Lady Wilberton had arranged the special soiree—a scholarly lecture, followed by an early evening supper—at the last moment. And though Sofia would have preferred an evening of rest after the tempestuous events of the last twenty-four hours, she had accepted the invitation after learning that the Duke of Sterling would also be present.

She had grabbed a few hours of sleep during the afternoon after writing up an urgent report for both Lynsley and Marco. With the information in hand, the marquess could set his agents to investigating the companies mentioned in the snuffbox list, while Marco could take a closer look at their warehouses.

As for her own efforts to further the mission, she had sent off a scented missive to De Winton, begging forgiveness for her behavior. Hopefully the man was as susceptible to flattery as she imagined he was. The appeal to his vanity ought to get her back in his good graces—she had all but begged him to take her for a drive in the park at his convenience.

In person, Sofia meant to press her desire to attend the next meeting of the keyholders. She did not intend to take no for an answer. Though now, more than ever, the thought of him touching her intimately sent a shiver of revulsion spiraling through her core.

As opposed to the memory of Osborne’s caresses, which brought a rush of color to her cheeks.

“It
is
rather warm in here,” murmured Miss Pennington-Pryce with a wave of her fan. “Let us hope the professor does not go on to discuss the reign of Marcus Aurelius.”

Sofia smiled, but the flutter of a breeze stirred yet another warning in her head. She must use all of her considerable training in mental discipline to keep her mind on her mission, not on Osborne. Or what had occurred between them last night.

Focus.
The Academy yoga instructor had taught her the art of channeling her energy to a single purpose.

Her gaze sought Sterling, who was seated in the front row of chairs, next to the hostess. The duke was the reason she was here. She was hoping that he might help her follow up on a hunch that had occurred to her earlier that afternoon.

“And with that,” announced the professor, “I shall conclude my thoughts on the design principles handed down to us by the ancient Romans. If anyone has questions, I shall be happy to answer them—”

“Over refreshments,” finished Lady Wilberton in a stentorian voice that would have done Caesar proud. “I am sure you would welcome some tea or sherry. As would the audience.”

“Thank goodness.” Miss Pennington-Pryce rose and, before Sofia could demur, linked arms and led the way to the main drawing room, where a cold collation and a selection of beverages had been laid out for the guests.

“I must say, I do not agree with his assessment of the Coliseum’s proportions,” continued Miss Pennington-Pryce. “I have studied the measurements made by Brighton on his visit in 1763 and have my own ideas on the matter.”

“I’m sure the professor would be delighted to hear them,” said Sofia as she nibbled on a bit of shaved ham.

Thus encouraged, the spinster headed off with a determined step toward the tea table, leaving Sofia free to begin making her way across the room. Sterling was standing by the display of architectural engravings, having what looked to be a spirited discussion with Reverand Tilden.

Sofia was slowed by the demand to exchange pleasantries with several of her new acquaintances. She turned away from Sir Pierson to find the duke looking at her rather oddly.

Catching her gaze, he made a wry face and came to bow over her hand. “Do forgive me for staring. It’s just that … well, you remind me of someone.”

Sofia felt a bit guilty on regarding his pinched expression. Was she stirring up memories of old conflicts, old regrets? “I do hope it is not an unpleasant recollection,” she said gently. The last thing she wished was to cause him pain. But duty was duty.

As Sterling looked away, she thought she detected a slight sag of his shoulders. His voice was suspiciously muffled. “No, no. Not at all.”

It was, of course, absurd for a nameless orphan to feel a welling of sympathy for a wealthy duke. He had every luxury, every privilege that money could buy, while she had nothing but her wits, her weapons, and her will to complete her mission.

And yet, she did.

But aware that personal musing must yield to pragmatism, she placed her hand in the crook of his arm. “Might we take a stroll to a less crowded corner of the room?” she asked. Loath though she was to speak of his grandson, she had several important queries concerning Lord Robert’s last days. Only the duke might have the information she sought.

“You had mentioned that you would be willing to answer any questions I might have,” she began.

His lined face wreathed in a kindly smile. “With pleasure, Contessa.”

She repressed a sigh, knowing it would be anything but pleasurable. “I was wondering whether you know anything about an antique shop on Bond Street, owned by a Mr. Andover.” No mention of it had appeared in the young man’s diary, but she was acting on intuition. “Was it, perchance, a place that your grandson frequented?”

He fixed her with a searching look. “Why do you ask?”

Sofia had anticipated his reaction. Coming from a veritable stranger, the interest in the young man’s personal habits must appear odd at best. The reply she gave must be compelling—something that would strike a chord with his desire for justice, yet not give away too much.

Truth and lies.
Osborne seemed to think she was good at twining the two.

Sofia hoped he was right.

Drawing the duke deeper into the privacy of an alcoved display of Roman artifacts, she allowed a small sigh. “I had a friend—a good friend—in Venice who also died of drugs while in the company of several Englishmen.” She hesitated, then dropped her voice to a whisper. “I know this may sound melodramatic, but I have reason to suspect foul play.”

The duke paled. “Does Lord Lynsley know of your concern?”

“Yes, he does,” she admitted.

He took down one of the leatherbound books and pretended to study the pages. “Don’t you think you should leave the matter to him?”

Sofia was ready for the objection. “His government duties are most pressing at the moment, leaving him little time to pursue any leads. And besides, he cannot take any official action unless there is solid evidence of a crime.”

“Your courage is commendable, Contessa. But have you any idea how dangerous it might be for you to go around asking questions? A lady ought not take such risks.”

“I assure you, sir, I have no intention of taking any risks. All I want to do is gather a few facts before going back to the marquess.”

Sterling thought for a moment before asking, “What about Lord Osborne? Have you spoken to him about this?”

The question was one she didn’t expect. “N-no.” Drawing a quick breath, she added, “Why would I?”

“I am aware that many people consider him naught but a charming fribble, but I’ve heard from those I trust that he’s a good man in a pinch. A fellow who has substance as well as style.”

“As you say, sir, it is best to keep this quiet. The fewer people who are aware of my suspicions, the better. There is really no need to involve Lord Osborne.”

“I suppose you are right,” muttered Sterling, but he did not look entirely convinced.

Seeing he was about to speak again, Sofia raised her eyes, knowing full well that the nearby candelabra would reflect the beads of moisture clinging to her lashes. Given the recent events, it was not all that difficult to summon a show of emotion. “Please, Your Grace. I would be very grateful for your help.”

The duke coughed and hemmed. “Dash it all, please don’t cry, Lady Sofia. Of course I want to help. But not if there’s a chance you could be hurt.”

“I won’t do anything rash,” she promised. She rather doubted the duke would agree with her definition of the word, but that was splitting hairs.

He hesitated, but a last little flutter moved him to speech. “I have your pledge to be discreet?”

She crossed her heart.

“Very well, then.” He expelled a breath. “In fact, Robert seemed to have taken a special interest in Andover’s gallery during the weeks before his death. And though he had never really expressed interest in Eastern artifacts before, he mentioned making several expensive purchases. A brass statue of some elephant-headed god from India and a Byzantine icon, painted on wood, of St. George and the Dragon.”

“Do you still have the items?” asked Sofia.

He nodded.

“Might I come around to see them on the morrow?”

“Yes. If you think it would be of help.”

“I do,” she replied.

Osborne sealed the letter and tossed it onto the post tray. It was likely a waste of ink. Heaven only knew if or when it would ever reach Italy and find its way into the hands of Lord Kirtland.

Damn Julian.
Once again he cursed his friend for being so bloody laconic. One would think a man would have more to say about his nuptials than a few laconic lines. He would wax poetic about his bride, detailing her looks, her charms. Everything about her.

All Osborne knew about the new Countess of Kirtland was that her given name was Siena. He wasn’t even sure if she was the sultry courtesan who had sported the tattoo of a hawk above her left breast. Aside from the newlyweds, only Lynsley might know for sure. And the marquess had made it clear that he was not going to be forthcoming with
that
bit of information.

If he was to unlock the secrets of this mystery, he would have to do it on his own.

Staring at the banked coals, Osborne picked up his penknife and spun it in his fingers. His friend Kirtland was a decorated war hero, an expert in military intelligence. Whatever intrigue he had been caught up in, the earl had managed to work it out for himself.

His grip tightened on the sliver of steel. In truth, he had laughed off Julian’s initial suspicions. Now, the feeling of dueling with naught but specters and shadows was not nearly so humorous.

Bloody hell.
Though he might not be as experienced as Kirtland in the art of clandestine activities, he could make a stab at learning what the contessa was up to. She and Lynsley might think him a lackwit, but he had no intention of playing the fool. For the moment, he would heed the marquess’s warning and appear to keep his distance. In truth, he would simply slip into the shadows.

It was not merely a matter of pride, but also of personal honor. Lady Sofia might insist that their lovemaking had changed nothing between them. But the look in her eyes during that fleeting intimacy, the thrumming need in every fiber of her body, had belied her words.
Trust.
She had trusted in him, a fact that caused his throat to constrict. He was not vain enough to imagine she had fallen head over heels in love with him. And yet, she must feel something, if only the mysterious force that seemed to draw them together from the very first.

He felt it too. How to describe the powerful attraction? His gaze skimmed over the orderly rows of leatherbound books on the shelves. It seemed to elude both prose and poetry. Was that love—a jumble of conflicting, confounding emotions? Having no experience in aught but lighthearted dalliances, he didn’t dare hazard a guess.

All he knew was that he couldn’t just walk away, leaving Lady Sofia—or whoever she was—to face danger on her own. Her courage and convictions were unquestioned, but he had rigid notions of honor as well.

Up to now, she had dictated the rules of engagement. It was time for him to take matters into his own hands.

Tossing the knife back on the blotter, Osborne took up his hat and walking stick and turned for the door.

Growing more impatient by the hour, Sofia passed much of the morning watching the clock, silently cursing the silly strictures of Society that prevented her from paying a call on Sterling until well after noon. The waiting set her nerves on edge, more so as she was forced to mull over her machinations of the previous evening. She did not like deceiving the duke, but she simply could not reveal her real identity or her real mission. With luck, Lynsley would be able to tell him the truth at some point in the future.

For now, he would have to be kept in the dark.

Like Osborne.

She drew her shawl a bit tighter around her shoulders. She had been relieved when he had made no objection to her note canceling their engagements for the rest of the week. The Antiquity lecture, a poetry reading at the Literary Ladies Club, a meeting with her mantua maker—the list of excuses was all perfectly legitimate. Yet a small part of her was disappointed that he had accepted the rebuff without argument.