The Scarlet Spy (26 page)

“Lord Lynsley is anxious to have this mission resolved as soon as possible,” she replied obliquely, unwilling to admit to any weakness of body or spirit. Rose was likely asked to report on any wavering.

“He wants every mission completed without delay. But not at the risk of an agent pushing herself too hard. That is how mistakes are made. Perhaps you ought to delay your outings for a day or two—”

“No.” Sofia shook her head. “I dare not put off Lord De Winton. In many ways, he holds the key to my success.” She did not elaborate. Nor did Rose expect her to do so. “I must whet his appetite, make him think that he is close to tasting my charms.”

“Then let us ensure that you are a feast for the eyes.” The maid made a few adjustments to the tumble of curls, then chose the shako and set it at a jaunty angle.

The curling ostrich feathers kissed Sofia’s cheek, creating a look that was both saucy and seductive. “You are a magician,” she murmured as Rose added a touch of color to her lips.

Would that she could work her own magic on De Winton. Putting aside her other thoughts, she made herself concentrate on the task at hand. It was imperative that she coax her way back into his good graces. The coming meeting with the keyholders could unlock the last little secret of the clandestine consortium. Armed with the names of the principals and the lists she had discovered in the antiquities, Lynsley would be in a position to shut down the operation and bring the miscreants to justice.

All she needed was to learn the identity of the leader.

Rose arranged a lush pink Kashmir shawl over the shoulders of her azure carriage dress. “There—that ought to make the man’s mouth water.”

“The trick will be to stay just out of reach of his teeth,” murmured Sofia.

“Trust in yourself, milady, and you will be more than a match for any predator,” said her maid.

“Right.” Sofia hefted her velvet reticule as if it were a weapon. “Time to go.”

“Her ladyship is not at home, milord.”

Aware of Sofia’s afternoon date with a mantua maker, Osborne was ready for the butler’s response. “Yes, she did mention she had an earlier appointment in Bond Street.” He made a show of consulting his pocketwatch. “Ah, it appears I’m a touch early. I’ll wait, if you don’t mind.”

The man blinked but slowly stepped aside and gestured for him to enter the town house. “Very good, sir.”

“The parlor will be fine.” Osborne started across the marble tiles before the butler could direct him to the drawing room. “The lady and I do not stand on ceremony.”

“A glass of port or sherry, sir?” asked the man, following on his heels. “Or tea?”

Osborne picked up a book on Roman antiquities and began thumbing through the pages. “No, thank you. Her Ladyship has been asking for my opinion of these engravings, so I’ll just take a seat and have a quiet study until she returns.”

Taking the hint, the butler nodded gravely and drew the door silently shut behind him.

Osborne waited for several minutes before setting the volume aside and easing the latch open. The hall was deserted, and through the curve of carved balusters, the stairs looked clear as well. He slipped out and hurried up the carpeted treads. From casual conversation, he knew that Sofia’s bedchamber was at the back of the town house, overlooking the garden. At this time of day, the tweenies would be done with their charwork.

As for her lady’s maid …

Luck remained on his side. The quarters were empty. He would, however, have to work quickly to avoid the embarrassment of being caught in her rooms. His lips thinned to a wry grimace. He could claim an amorous assignation, which might satisfy a servant. The lady, however, was more likely to throw a punch to his jaw than invite him to slide between her sheets.

He cast a long look at the carved tester bed. Beneath the eiderdown coverlet and plump pillows was a tantalizing peek of creamy white linen, the delicate scalloped edges threaded with gossamer silk.

Tempting though it was to imagine Sofia’s long limbs stretched out among the folds, the rattle of a coal scuttle reminded him he had no time to waste in idle daydreams.

He was, after all, a man on a mission.

Moving on to the escritoire by the window, he checked the blotter and her lettercase, then opened the top drawer and began a methodical search of its contents.
How strange,
he thought after riffling through the last little compartment. No passionate billet-doux, no miniature of her late husband, no diary, no … nothing. For a lady who had friends and family abroad, she had no correspondence, no estate documents, no mementos from home.

It was as if her previous life had not existed.

Frowning, he circled around to the dressing tables. Other than a pair of scent bottles and a plain hairbrush and comb, the top was bare of the copious pots and potions he was used to seeing in a lady’s boudoir.
Simple, spartan.
A pin box and two leather jewel cases sat aligned in military precision along the edge of the gilt wood.

Osborne opened the first case. Glittering emeralds, rich rubies, lustrous pearls—it was no surprise that a contessa possessed a wealth of expensive necklaces and bracelets. Carefully smoothing the velvet flaps back in place, he refastened the clasp.

The second box held an equally impressive selection of earbobs and jeweled pendants. He was just about to close the lid when his hand brushed up against a small gold locket, half-hidden under a diamond-studded Maltese cross. The plain case, its worn surface nicked with age, looked very out of place among the sparkling baubles.

Curious, he clicked the cover open.

It might have been Sofia staring out at him, save that the painted features were a touch softer, a shade sadder.

Again, there was nothing terribly unusual in the fact that a young lady kept an heirloom locket with her mother’s portrait tucked away among her valuables.

And yet …

Osborne sat back heavily on the chinoise chair. He had an excellent eye for art, and there was something about the faded image that drew a whisper from the depth of his throat.

“Bloody hell.”

Fisting the filigree chain, he tucked the locket into his waistcoat pocket and quickly straightened up the tabletop. He had only a short walk to follow up on his hunch.

“You are looking very lovely, Contessa,” said De Winton as he handed Sofia up to the seat of his high-perch phaeton.

“How very kind of you to say so. I was afraid you might be angry over my little indiscretion the other night.” She deliberately settled her leg against his. “Osborne had been hounding me for some time. He wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

A flick of the whip set the horses into a brisk trot. “You did not look to be protesting too loudly,” he replied.

“Oh, come now, Adam. I never pretended to be a nun. And I don’t imagine that
you
are a monk.”

His mouth relaxed slightly. “Hardly. A life of pious celibacy would not be at all to my taste.”

“Exactly,” teased Sofia. It required all of her mental discipline to play the role of jaded flirt. The man was a depraved dastard, a party to murder and fraud all because of personal greed. She would much rather have thrashed him to within an inch of his life.

Instead, she held her outrage in check, knowing that by fighting deception with deception she could help bring all the miscreants to justice. “And speaking of taste, it is far more fun to sample a variety of treats, don’t you think, rather than stick to a steady diet of the same thing day after day?”

De Winton laughed at the innuendo. “Seeing as you had been absent from several parties, I thought that perhaps your appetite was satisfied by sweetness and sunshine.”

“It was merely embarrassment that kept me away. I was afraid I had given you the wrong impression.”

“You might have saved the first bite for me.” He eyed her with a wolfish leer. “So, you are still interested in finding out what special pleasures your key gives entrée to here in London?”

“Oh, yes.” Sofia leaned in, close enough for her feathers to tickle his jaw. There was a softness to its shape—the pale skin reminded her of the underbelly of a cod—and the scent of his cologne had a decadent sweetness that nearly made her gag. “Very much so.”

Maneuvering his team through a tight turn, De Winton seemed to be taking a malicious satisfaction in drawing out the silence.

Did he wish for her to beg?
Some men found it exhilarating to wield such power over a woman.

Summoning all her strength, Sofia edged her body a touch closer to his. The fight was no longer just a matter of principle. It was now personal. Among the victims of De Winton’s crimes could well have been her own cousin. She would consort with the devil himself to see justice done.

“Do say I am forgiven, Adam,” she pleaded. “I am simply dying to know what you and your friends do behind locked doors.”

“Osborne won’t be invited.” His flash of teeth was likely meant as a smile. “Is that a problem?”

“None whatsoever,” she said.

“Good. The meeting is not yet set. I will let you know in a day or two when and where.”

“I can hardly wait.” Sofia stroked the folds of her skirts as she gave him a coy look. “Will I have a good time?”

De Winton laughed. “I promise it will be an experience that you won’t soon forget.”

The Duke of Sterling was at home, and in response to Osborne’s calling card, he sent a servant to escort him to the library.

“Thank you for giving me reason to set aside my steward’s report.” Sterling removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I trust him to make the decision about sowing wheat or rye, but the fellow’s feelings are hurt if I don’t read over his reasonings.”

“Duty is often tedious,” murmured Osborne politely.

The duke sighed. “Yes. I confess that I find much more pleasure in translating Cicero than the current technical data on farming. But I’m sure you did not come here for a lecture on ancient Rome.”

“Actually, I did.” Osborne was quick to smile. “I was wondering if I might see the display of Roman coins in your South Gallery. Lady Hentman asked me for some ideas for a decorative frieze in her morning room, and I was thinking of suggesting a motif of classical portraits.”

“I am always delighted to show my collection to someone who appreciates art.” Sterling rose. “Come this way.”

As Osborne remembered, the glass case was filled with burnished bronzes and gleaming golds. He took his time over the display, pretending to study the nuances of the different faces. “Magnificent,” he finally murmured. “Would you mind if I made a few quick sketches?”

“Why, not at all, not at all,” replied the duke.

“The thing is, I seem to have forgotten my copybook.” Osborne gave an apologetic smile. “Might I trouble you for pencil and paper?”

As he had hoped, Sterling waved off the problem. “It’s no trouble. There are writing supplies in the desk next door. I shall just be a moment.”

As soon as the duke was out of view, Osborne hurried over to the wall of family portraits. Stopping before the gilt-framed canvas of the duke’s daughter, he drew out the locket and thumbed the case open. Just as he suspected, the miniature was an exact copy of the painting.

His breath caught in his throat. Seeing the larger image, Osborne was struck by the subtle resemblances to Sofia. The same winged brows, the same slant of the cheekbones, the same determined set of the mouth. Rather than shed any light on the subject, the painting only deepened the mystery surrounding her and Lynsley’s strange request.

If Sofia was the duke’s granddaughter, why was there a secrecy surrounding the family connection? And even more puzzling, what was she doing stealing valuables from the
ton?

The more he thought about it, the more it made no sense at all. And he doubted that the marquess would answer any questions …

“Good God, where did you get that?” For a large man, Sterling was surprisingly light on his feet.

Osborne made no effort to prevent the duke from snatching up the locket. “I am very sorry, Your Grace. But at the moment, I am not at liberty to say.”

Sterling fingered the worn case, then traced the delicate brushstrokes with a trembling hand. “I had this made as a keepsake for Elizabeth on her eighteenth birthday.” A tear rolled down his cheek.

“I thought I recognized the face,” said Osborne softly. “And so I borrowed it from the owner to see if my hunch was correct.”

“Please tell your acquaintance that I will pay any price to have it, especially if I can learn how it was obtained.” Sterling wiped at his cheek. “I was estranged from my daughter, you know. On account of her eloping with a man I considered beneath her. How I paid for my pride and my prejudice! It took months for me to learn of her death.” His voice turned ragged. “It was an epidemic of influenza, which also struck down her husband and newborn child. By the time I journeyed to their village, all mementos of her had disappeared from the cottage where they lived.”

So, the duke didn’t know about Sofia?

“The current owner is not offering it for sale, Your Grace,” replied Osborne. “I’m afraid I must take it back. But now that I know its provenance for sure, I promise to see what I can do to reunite you with your lost … heirloom.”

Sterling let the filigree chain slide slowly through his fingers. “You have always struck me as an honorable man, Osborne. I will trust you to keep your word.”

Sofia untied the strings of her bonnet and tossed it on the entrance table. Shopping was more tiring than fencing drills, but at least the appointment on Bond Street had allowed her to cut short her ride with De Winton.

Things had gone well enough with the Scarlet Knight, she decided, though his touch now made her skin crawl. Compared to Osborne …

No, she would not allow her thoughts to go there.
Thankfully, De Winton had made no effort to offer his escort to the mantua maker.
Out of sight, out of mind.

Shrugging off her shawl, Sofia entered the side parlor. She had been neglecting her study on ancient Rome, and if she was to keep up appearances for the duke, she ought to finish reading—