The Scarlet Spy (5 page)

Osborne waited until they both were settled back against the squabs before asking, “I confess to being curious, Lynsley. Why me?”

The marquess took a moment to answer. “London can be daunting for one unfamiliar with its manners and cliques. You move with ease through all the circles within circles of Society, while a stranger would likely find it hard to navigate through the hidden shoals and currents. I am hoping that your charm and your connections will help smooth the way for Lady Sofia.”

Sofia.
It was a pretty name.

“Your own stature in Society would surely guarantee invitations to any soiree worth attending,” observed Osborne.

“My current duties will not permit me to spend much time in Society during the next few months. The contessa cannot appear unescorted without giving rise to unpleasant gossip.”

“I fear you may be overestimating my influence in Society. I am sure you know others with more power and prestige. After all, I’m only a mere younger son of a marquess.”

“That is true. But power and prestige tend to create enemies.” The marquess slanted a sidelong glance at him. “From what I hear, you have none to speak of.”

Osborne felt himself color slightly. Though Lynsley was by no means an elderly gentleman—the marquess’s age appeared to be just a shade over forty—he felt a bit like a grubby schoolboy being examined by a demanding schoolmaster.

“I see. So, then, tell me a bit about the lady,” he said, anxious to change the subject.

“As I mentioned before, she is the widow of an Italian count,” answered Lynsley. “Her father was, however, English, and she is anxious to spend some time in the country of her heritage.”

Osborne frowned slightly. “Why aren’t her relatives handling her introduction into Society?”

Lynsley didn’t hesitate a fraction. “Her father was estranged from his family. She has never had any contact with them and has no desire to attempt a reconciliation.”

“And how, may I ask, are you acquainted with the lady?”

Again, the marquess’s response came without a hitch. “I have known the young lady since she was a child. My diplomatic travels have allowed me to keep in contact over the years, and, indeed, I recommended the school she attended. It was natural that she looked to me for advice.”

The explanation was perfectly reasonable, yet Osborne could not help feeling an odd prickling along his spine. His closest friend, the Earl of Kirtland, had briefly crossed paths with Lynsley eight months ago, only to be caught up in a swirl of mystery and murder at a remote Devonshire castle. Not to speak of the strangest rumors regarding a tattooed woman …

Damn Kirtland for being so tight-lipped about his experience.
And his new bride. The couple had left soon after their marriage to make the Grand Tour of Italy, so he could not press the earl for more details. There were a great many questions he would have liked to ask.

But seeing the faintly quizzical curl of Lynsley’s mouth, he set aside his musings. “Ah, that explains the connection,” he said politely. Crossing his legs, he went on. “As you mentioned before that she was attractive, I assume that she doesn’t have a squint or a limp to impede her acceptance into Society. You know the tabbies can be quick to seize on a weakness, and their teeth are unmercifully sharp. It is not that I would refuse to help, I simply would like to be warned in advance.”

“I assure you, Lady Sofia’s physical appearance leaves nothing to be desired. Nor do her manners. She is poised, polished, and well-educated.” Lynsley’s smile grew a touch more pronounced. “She can converse on art, music, and literature in several languages, she plays the pianoforte with exceptional skill, and she is a picture of grace on the dance floor.”

“She sounds like a paragon of perfection,” replied Osborne. “A patterncard of propriety. Everything should go smoothly as silk. Indeed, I cannot imagine what could stand in our way.”

“Let me have one last look, milady.”

Sofia turned slowly, her skirts brushing lightly over the Axminster carpet.

“Very good.” Her lady’s maid gave a gruff nod. “Let me just add another hairpin to your topknot, and then we are done.”

“You are very skilled with your hands, Rose.” Sofia watched in the looking glass as the agile fingers gave a deft twist to the curls. “You appear to have a good deal of practice in dressing a lady.”

“Yes, madam.” Rose smoothed a hair ribbon and stepped back from the dressing table.

“Have you worked with Lord Lynsley before?”

“Yes, madam.”

Sofia did not try to prolong the conversation. Like all the servants staffing the London town house, Rose was highly efficient at performing her duties but seemed to have little inclination for discussing anything of a personal nature.

A tacit reminder that they were not here to become friends.

“Thank you,” she murmured, observing the final effect with a wry smile. “I don’t even recognize myself.”

“I daresay you will have all the gentlemen asking for an introduction, once you begin appearing in public.”

Sofia was unsure how much Rose knew about her mission. Quite a lot, she would guess, seeing as the maid had not batted an eye on seeing a case of swords and assorted weaponry among the bandboxes and dress trunks.

“Will you be going out tonight, milady?”

“I—I am not sure.” Sofia moved to the windows and peered down to the street below. It was still strange to see the parade of fashionable carriages and phaetons rolling by, rather than the spartan training fields and bridle paths of the Academy. The noise, the dirt, the gallimaufry of colors—it was all a bit overwhelming.

“I shall lay out the emerald silk with the ruched bodice. The color will set off your eyes very nicely.” Rose tapped her chin. “And the pearls, rather than any fancier jewels. I believe the marquess wishes the first impression to be one of understated elegance.”

Understated?
Sofia regarded the gold and ruby ring on her finger. Lynsley had provided a king’s ransom in jewelry to go along with the trunkfuls of stylish clothing. She had never seen such a rich assortment of costly gems. A single earbob would have fed and clothed her and her ragtag urchin friends for several years in the stews.

The marquess had also provided ready blunt—a good deal of it, according to the accounting of the majordomo in charge of her town house. Her orders were to spend it freely in the shops along Bond Street. It was her wealth as well as her looks that would attract the attention of the Scarlet Knights. Their sort of pleasure did not come cheap.

Neither did the vast assortment of sumptuous ballgowns and elegant day dresses. Sofia looked longingly at the dressing room where her breeches and boots lay tucked away in a bandbox.
Curse corsets and petticoats.
Such feminine finery felt terribly constricting after the freedom of her academy uniform.

“The ivory gloves and fringed India shawl …” Rose was surveying the armoire full of accessories. “And the sea-green reticule, to match the silk flowers I will thread through your hair.”

A knock at the door interrupted the maid’s murmuring. “Lord Lynsley has arrived,” announced the footman. “He and his companion are waiting in the drawing room.”

Sofia felt a flutter of nerves.
Had she mastered the mannerisms of a real lady?
Or would a stranger see her for what she was—a nameless urchin, a nobody?

Steeling her spine, she reminded herself that she was no longer a frightened little orphan, alone in the streets. She was a Merlin. And Merlins were meant to fly.

“This way, madam.” The footman inclined a bow before leading the way down the curved staircase.

“Ah, Contessa.” The marquess turned from his study of the Canaletto painting above the side table and came to meet her. “How delightful to see you in London. I trust your journey was not too arduous?”

“Not at all, thanks to all your arrangements.” Sofia extended a hand for Lynsley to lift to his lips. “You are too kind, my dear sir. I should have been quite lost without you.”

“It is always a pleasure to be of assistance to you, Lady Sofia.” Smiling, the marquess kept hold of her fingers. “I had, of course, also planned on providing the proper entrée into London Society. But alas, my duties at the ministry are going to require a great deal of my time over the next few weeks, and I may be called on to do some traveling.” He looked to his companion, a fair-haired gentleman who had remained standing by the gilt-framed canvas. “So I have enlisted a friend to help guide you through all the subtleties of the
beau monde.
Allow me to introduce Lord Deverill Osborne.”

“Buongiorno,
Lord Osborne,” she murmured as the gentleman stepped forward and bowed.

“Osborne, let me present the Contessa Sofia Constanza Bingham della Silveri.”

“Is a mouthful, no?” she said, regarding him through a fringe of lowered lashes.

“The sound is like honey on the tongue—a sweetness to savor,” he replied smoothly as his lips grazed her glove. “It is a pleasure indeed to make your acquaintance, Contessa. I am greatly honored that Lord Lynsley thinks I may be of assistance to you.”

“La, and they say that Italian men are the masters of flowery compliments.”
Did the touch of a foreign accent sound a little too forced?
“Lynsley, you did not warn me that the English reputation for reserve has been greatly exaggerated.”

“It appears that no words could exaggerate the beauty of Italian women,” said Osborne.

Talk about a honeyed tongue.
No wonder Lynsley’s dossier on Lord Osborne indicated he was a great favorite with the
ton.
Allowing just a hint of a smile to play on her mouth, Sofia angled her gaze to meet his.

She found herself looking into a pair of luminous aquamarine eyes, their color as cool and clear as the painted ocean behind him. The dappled light from the bowfront windows seemed to add a shimmering warmth. And yet beneath the surface, there were hints of an intriguing depth, a darker intensity to his air of sunny charm.

A sudden shiver of awareness washed over her. Confused, she quickly looked away.

“Are all your friends so dashing, Lynsley?” Sofia touched the marquess’s sleeve. “I confess, I have been extremely nervous about venturing into English Society—”

“Don’t be,” murmured Osborne.

“Yes, my dear, I am sure you have nothing to worry about,” assured Lynsley.

“But there are still so very many things I do not know about the customs and the correct way things are done.”

“I’m sure it is not so different from what you are used to,” replied Osborne.

Hah!

Sofia allowed a wry twitch of her mouth. “Oh, I fear there is much I must get used to.” Taking up a silver bell from the escritoire, she rang for a servant. “Beginning with the offer of tea and cakes to any caller. Is that not right, Lynsley?”

“Correct, my dear.” The marquess smiled.

“There, you see! I have already been rude.” Appearing a bit nervous was proving easier than she imagined. “Please come have a seat on the sofa, gentlemen.”

Moving with a lithe grace, Osborne crossed the carpet. He was slender and sleek as a cat, with a narrow waist and long legs—not at all an overpowering impression at first glance. But Sofia imagined that the lack of bulging muscle and broad shoulders was not what most people noticed first about Lord Deverill Osborne.

Framed by an artful tumble of long, fair hair, his face was the very portrait of classical male beauty. The fine-boned features, chiseled to the smoothness of Carrara marble, possessed a perfect symmetry—wide oval eyes, sculpted cheekbones, and a straight nose. The shapely, sensuous curl of his mouth might have been considered effeminate, save for a certain hint of steel beneath its pliant curves.

Hard and soft.
A man of contrasts and contradictions.

No wonder women found him fascinating.

Sofia forced her gaze away, surprised to feel a faint heat stealing up to her cheeks.

“I do hope you will not think me impertinent, Contessa, but I took the liberty of bringing you a welcoming gift.” Osborne walked past the sofa to retrieve a small package from the sideboard. “A lady is not usually supposed to accept presents from a strange gentleman, but in this case, I hope we may be allowed to bend the rules.”

Sofia hesitated, but seeing Lynsley nod, she slowly slipped off the wrapping paper to reveal a leatherbound book.
“A Guide to London and Its Sights.”
She read aloud the title stamped upon the cover. “Why, how very thoughtful, Lord Osborne. Thank you.”

“I hope you will allow me to show you a great many of them,” he replied with a smile. “Though I imagine I will quickly have competition for the privilege of serving as your escort.”

“Speaking of which …” The marquess waited for the parlor maid to set down the tea tray before going on. “Are you planning to attend Lady Jersey’s ball tonight, Osborne?”

“Silence would never let me hear the end of it were I not to appear.” He turned to Sofia, his smile taking on a more pronounced curl. “Sally Jersey is the undisputed queen of London Society. Many think her cold and haughty, but I have always found her to enjoy a good joke—almost as much as she enjoys talking. Which, by the by, explains her nickname of ‘Silence.’ ”

“I, too, have an invitation,” continued the marquess. “I planned on taking Lady Sofia and thought that it would be the perfect opportunity for you to begin her introductions to the
ton.”

“Indeed. The other six Patronesses of Almack’s are all sure to be there as well.” Osborne once again fixed Sofia with a flash of pearly teeth. “As the self-appointed arbiters of style and propriety, they are a force to be reckoned with. Lady Sefton is the most easygoing of the group, while Mrs. Drummond-Burrell is the highest stickler—”

Sofia’s face must have betrayed her dismay, for he stopped with a short laugh. “I will not overwhelm you with such meaningless descriptions. You will soon have faces to put with all the names, for Lady Jersey’s entertainments are always a crush.”

“It
does
sound rather intimidating. I am used to being somewhat of a recluse.”