The Scarlet Spy (25 page)

As for the story of how she had come to the run-down bawdy house, Sofia had no idea of how much was fact and how much was fiction. Sally Edwards, the lightskirt in question, had a romantic streak, as evidenced by her taking responsibility for a child, despite the hardships of her profession.

Sally had always claimed that her sister Mary had arrived one night, bearing a baby and a tale straight out of a penny-sheet novel. Her employers—a highborn young couple cast out by their families for eloping—had succumbed to a sudden epidemic of influenza. On her deathbed, the mother had passed the locket to Mary, along with a name. But as chance would have it, Mary had sickened, too, and by the time she had made her way to the alleyways of St. Giles, she was too ill, too rambling to recall what it was.

Sally’s sister had not survived the night, but the story had taken on a life of its own. Sofia felt her lips quirk up at the corners. The other lightskirts had all called her “Princess” and loved to talk about how someday a handsome prince would ride up to rescue her from the sordid streets of the slums.

Sofia sighed. Perhaps she really
was
a highborn lady. And perhaps the prostitute had merely woven a fanciful fairy tale around a locket she had found in the muck.

The truth might never be known. She, of all people, knew how elusive absolutes could be. Her training had taught that often one had to be pragmatic and accept that life was not always so clearly defined.

Her two roommates had been tough enough never to brood over their unknown bloodlines. Maybe because they had never possessed any tantalizing link to their past. Sofia wasn’t sure whether her talisman was a blessing or a curse. Sometimes the painted portrait only mirrored the sense of elemental loss and pain she felt at having been abandoned—not once, but twice. Sally Edwards had been a kind yet casual guardian. When the chance arose to retire and return to her native Yorkshire, the lightskirt had been frank about the fact that a child could not fit into such a future.

Well, she was just as tough as her fellow Merlins. She had survived by making herself strong in both body and spirit.

Snapping the gold case shut, Sofia carefully coiled the chain and tucked the locket back into her jewel case. She could not afford to become entangled in personal questions when there were so many other conundrums and conjectures to sort out.

Don’t think of the past or the future.
Only the present.

Tomorrow would certainly test her skills. After reading over the paper discovered in Lord Robert’s antique, she had decided to break the normal chain of communication and request a face-to-face meeting with Lord Lynsley. He would not take the change lightly—her instincts had better be right about the urgency of the matter.

But however intimidating, the marquess was not her most formidable challenge. Later in the day, she was also due to promenade in the park with De Winton. So, rather than expend her strength fretting over her heritage, she must harden her heart and sharpen her steel for the coming confrontations. The duke was wrong—she was a woman
and
a warrior.

And as a well-trained soldier, she knew it was best to fight one battle at a time.

“I can’t tell you more than that.”

“Can’t or won’t?” snapped Osborne, who was growing tired of being held at arm’s length by everyone around him.

Porter made a face. “Don’t bite my head off. I am as much in the dark as you are about what really happened in the alleyway. Our operative swears it was a lady who appeared out of nowhere to save his life. A lady who looked like an angel and fought like a devil.”

The description certainly sounded familiar.

“But you know Whitehall,” continued the captain. “Everyone in that warren of weasels seems to keep his activities a closely guarded secret, even from the other departments. You would think that General Burrand’s staff was the enemy, the way they withhold vital information from us.”

“I know exactly how you feel,” murmured Osborne. “Though I suppose that intelligence is a tricky business. They must be careful about who knows what.”

“What they should be careful about is sticking their heads too far up their arses,” replied Porter with some sarcasm. “By the by, you have not yet said exactly why Lord Lynsley sent you to ask about Antwerp.”

“Something to do with smuggling and a foreign princess in distress, I believe,” replied Osborne, the half-lies slipping smoothly from his tongue. He flashed a self-deprecating smile. “But then, I’m just the errand boy. He doesn’t tell me much.”

Porter gave a bark of laughter. “To hell with him, then.” The rattle and roll of the dice grew more rapid. The captain flexed his fingers, clearly itching to rejoin the game. “Care to stay and try your hand? Maybe Lady Luck will treat you better.”

“Perhaps some other time. I have a few more inquiries I wish to make.” Osborne turned to go. “Just one last question. Did your operative happen to mention whether his guardian angel had a tattoo of a hawk in flight above her left breast?”

Through the scrim of cigar smoke, he saw the captain’s eyes widen.

“Bloody hell, no. And trust me, I would not soon forget
that
bit of information.” Porter fingered his chin. “But come to think of it, I once heard a rumor …” His words trailed off.

“No doubt it’s just that—a rumor,” said Osborne after it became obvious that the captain had nothing more to add. “Thank you for your time. Good luck in your games.”

Suddenly weary of chasing in circles, he returned to the waiting hackney and gave the orders to return home. He had learned precious little from the experts.

Come morning, he would have to come up with a new strategy.

Rose tapped lightly on the door. “He is here and waiting in the kitchen, madam.”

Sofia turned away from the window, leaving a palm print on the misty mullioned glass. Fog still shrouded the garden, silver gray in the cold dawn light. Lord Lynsley must have risen well before sunrise to make such an early meeting. He would expect a compelling reason as to why.

Had emotion clouded her judgment?
She took a deep breath and marshaled her thoughts before hurrying downstairs. Duty was not always sharply defined. Hazed by ever-shifting shadows, the lines often blurred.

It took her a moment to recognize the marquess. In contrast to his usual sartorial elegance, Lynsley was clad in tattered moleskin and soot-streaked canvas. He appeared every inch the coalmonger come to collect the monthly bill—right down to the filthy rags he was unwrapping from around his fingertips.

She didn’t care to speculate what substances were embedded beneath his normally pristine nails.

“Sorry to put you to such trouble, sir,” began Sofia, then stopped short with a strangled cough. “Er, on second thought, maybe I should keep my distance—and not simply because I am in awe of your air of lordly authority.” She sniffed again. “What
is
that disgusting smell?”

“You do not find L’eau de Rotten Cabbage to your taste?” said Lynsley with a straight face. “It has taken my valet considerable effort to perfume my person with such a distinctive scent.”

Suddenly worried that he might think her remark impertinent, Sofia stammered another apology. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean—”

“No apology is necessary. I am not so starchy that I can’t be tweaked by my agents in the field,” he went on. “You are quite right—the smell is disgusting. But it encourages my fellow pedestrians to hurry by without a passing glance.”

“Yes, sir—no, sir,” she mumbled. Despite his self-deprecating smile, it was hard to view the marquess as anything other than a commanding presence. Though he no longer took an active role in clandestine missions, the stories of his youthful exploits had become the stuff of legend at the Academy.

“At ease, Sofia. You are a full-fledged Merlin, and as such, there is no need to stand on ceremony.” He gestured for her to sit down at the worktable. The cook and the kitchen maid had withdrawn to the scullery, giving them plenty of privacy. “I presume from Rose’s message that you have something urgent to pass on.”

“Yes, sir.” This time she said it with more authority. Determined to show herself worthy of his assessment, Sofia quickly passed over the paper she had discovered in Lord Robert’s antique and launched into her well-rehearsed explanation for the meeting. “I would have sent this along through the usual channel, but given your schedule at Whitehall, I feared you might not receive it in time. You see, though it’s mostly in code, there appears to be a date.” She pointed out the penciled numerals. “Which is the day after the morrow. It may be some sort of delivery or shipment, so I decided that you would want to know about it as soon as possible.”

The marquess studied the writing for what seemed like an age.

Perhaps she had overreacted. In which case, Lynsley would have good reason to regret his choice of agents.

Looking up, Lynsley slowly tucked the paper inside his coat. “Good thinking.”

She released a pent-up breath.

“The code seems to be based on a Vigenère Square rather than a Caesar shift,” he continued. “Still, it should be rather simple to break. Our official cryptographer is away from London at the moment, but I work informally with a small circle of very learned ladies—including a real Italian contessa, by the by—who are very good at this sort of thing. They will have it transcribed in a matter of hours.”

Encouraged by his praise, Sofia ventured a question. “Any luck with uncovering incriminating evidence against the list of suppliers I found in the snuffbox?”

“Not as yet,” responded marquess. “But based on what you have discovered so far, we have been able to trace just how far their web of corruption has spread.” The lines etched around his ice-blue eyes grew more pronounced. “From phantom shipments of woolen blankets to faulty munitions and spoiled beef, this group is making obscene profits by providing our military with substandard or nonexistent essentials. Your work has been invaluable in providing specific names, both of the key conspirators and the companies they do business with. I have no doubt that it is simply a matter of time before we have the proof we need to make them pay for their perfidy.”

“I know that learning the identity of the ringleader is imperative to putting a stop to the conspiracy, sir,” said Sofia. “And I have reason to think I shall have it for you very soon.”

“It would be a great help to know who is the head of the operation,” he agreed. “But not at any cost, Sofia. These men are extremely clever—and extremely ruthless. Be very careful how you go on from here. I would rather you didn’t take any undue risk to learn the information.”

“Don’t worry, sir. Unlike my former roommates, I am ruled by reason and restraint. I won’t do anything rash.”

Lynsley fixed her with a pensive stare.

Sofia couldn’t help wondering what he saw. A Merlin who could not quite match the fight and fire of her comrades?

His fingers drummed softly upon the scarred wood for several long moments before he went on. “And then there is the matter of Osborne.”

The sudden shift in subject took her by surprise. Still, she managed to keep her composure. “Yes?”

Again there was a pause. “What are your impressions of the man?”

Lynsley was asking
her?

She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Was this some sort of test? Did the marquess expect her to confess her tryst? A glance at his profile revealed naught but a lopsided streak of grease across his cheekbone. He was a master of hiding his emotions—a skill she decided to emulate.

As he had reminded her, she was not a callow schoolgirl anymore but an agent who had been given the responsibility of making life-and-death decisions in the field. She wouldn’t lie. But nor would she volunteer her methods.

“I would say he is a man of honor and integrity,” she answered.

“Trustworthy?”

Her gaze locked with his. “Beyond a doubt.”

“Yes, I had come to the same conclusion before I enlisted his help.” Lynsley rubbed at his unshaven jaw. “It isn’t often that I call in an outsider to be part of a Merlin’s mission, but in this case, the situation was unique.” A wry sigh punctuated the sound of the kettle boiling on the stove. “However, it seems I underestimated Osborne’s tenacity. And his personal passions.”

A flush started to steal over her cheeks. “Osborne’s actions are not really personal, sir. He has a stubborn notion of chivalry, though I’ve assured him that I am capable of looking out for myself.”

“So I have noticed,” murmured Lynsley. “My ears are still blistered from the peal he rang over my head.”

To her chagrin, her skin grew warmer. “If you are wondering whether he will be a distraction, don’t worry. I can deal with both Osborne and the Scarlet Knights.”

“I’m not questioning your competence, Sofia. But a wise general knows that fighting on two fronts is always a risky division of resources.” He tapped his fingertips together.

“I would, of course, greatly prefer to keep this mission a secret between ourselves. But given how much Osborne knows already, and how much damage could be caused by misunderstandings, I leave the decision of what to tell him to you, Sofia.”

“I … I will do my best to make the right decision, sir.”

No amount of street grime could dull the intensity of Lynsley’s sapphirine gaze. “I am counting on it.” He rose and reached for his hat. “Now, if that’s all, I shall return home for breakfast.” A drizzle of coal dust and decayed cabbage fell from its brim. “And a bath.”

As the hour for her ride with De Winton drew closer, Sofia was still brooding over the early morning meeting. There were a number of unanswered questions …

Rose added a last hairpin and stepped back. “Shall you wear the shako or the chip straw bonnet with the emerald ribbon?”

“You go ahead and choose,” she replied, averting her gaze from the looking glass. Lynsley’s trust was both flattering and frightening. Decisions, decisions—she couldn’t afford to make the tiniest error in judgment.

The maid eyed her with some concern. “Did you not sleep well, milady? You are looking a trifle peaked.”