The Spy Wore Silk

CHAPTER ONE

Steel clashed against steel, the blades flashing like quicksilver fire in the afternoon sun.

But this time, there would be no errant sparks, no flare of flames. This time, the wolf-faced Italian would not goad an explosion of temper—

“Porca miseria!” Spinning with deceptive quickness, Il Lupino punctuated his curse with a flurry of lightning slashes that sent the opposing saber clattering to the courtyard cobbles. “Non, non, non—is all wrong!” he snarled. “You must slide to the left, then counter with a punta sopramano.”

Damn.

“And your thrusts must be deeper and faster, Volpina. Like so . . . “ The Italian’s swordpoint cut through the air with a lethal whisper. Soft but deadly.

“Grazie.” Volpina watched its sinuous dance.

“Like a man making love to a beautiful woman.” Finishing with a flourish, he raised his weapon to the en garde position. “Now try it again—this time with more passion.” A smile flashed, the crescent curve a mocking reflection of the hard-edged steel. He was being deliberately provocative. “Unless, of course, you are too tired to continue.”

“Not bloody likely.”

As intended, the challenge prickled, like daggers dancing on tender flesh. For an instant, anger blazed, sparked by wounded pride. But then, Volpina recalled the master’s own words.
Fight fire with fire.

Snatching up the fallen saber, Volpina crossed swords for only an instant before lashing out with a furious lunge that drove Il Lupino back to the edge of the chalked circle.

The Italian parried the attack with ease, but as he set his stance and angled his blade to block the next blow, Volpina suddenly whirled around and drove a knee into his groin.

Woof. Il Lupino doubled over, then dropped to the ground with a leaden thud.

Silence descended over the courtyard, save for the twitching scrape of leather against stone.

“Bella! Bella!” After several moments, the Italian recovered enough of his breath to speak.
“Magnifico, in fact.”

Pushing the steel away from his throat, he uncurled his legs and managed to sit up.

Several of the onlookers winced in sympathy, while one or two bit back a titter of laughter.

“Machiavelli would be proud of you.” A note of humor blunted the rasp of pain. “A lady should never fight fair.”

“No hard feelings, Signor Da Rimini?” The dark-haired beauty known only as Siena set a gloved hand on her hip and shook the sweat from her brow. Fire still tingled through her tensed muscles, but its burn curled the corners of her mouth into a small smile. Finally, she had bested the wily wolf at his own game.

“On the contrary. It gives me great pleasure to see one of my pupils begin to master the art of war.” For an instant his grin appeared to angle to a more serious tilt. “It seems you have been born with natural talent, Signorina Siena. My job is to hone it to a fine edge.”

Siena stared down at her sword. Her real identity had long since been lost in the stews of St. Giles. But like all the students at Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Select Young Ladies, she had been given a new name on entering its world, one chosen at random from the ornate globe in the headmistress’s office.

A new name for a new life. A new meaning for the savage skills learned in the primitive school of the slums. Once inside the ivied walls, she had been determined to never look back at the twisted alleyways of her past.

“Now girls, pay close attention to my words and not my manly thighs.“ Her musings were cut short as Da Rimini resumed his cocky drawl. “Signorina Siena has just given us a perfect demonstration of why it is important to keep a cool head in the heat of battle. The point is, all of you will need to rely on wits and imagination, rather than size and strength, to prevail over an opponent. As you have witnessed, brains can be a more potent weapon than brawn.”
Siena reached down and helped him to his feet.

“Fire and ice,” he murmured. “Once again I commend you, signorina. Now that you are learning to fight with your head as well as your heart, you present a deadly challenge. God help the enemy.”

A shiver ran down her spine, hot and yet cold. Was she ready to test her mettle in the real world?

In the distance a bell chimed the hour. “The lesson is over for today, girls,” announced Da Rimini.

Siena stripped off her padded doublet and shook out the knot of curls coiled at her neck. Tall, slim-hipped and lithe as a rapier, she could pass for a boy in her fencing gear. But the thin linen shirt, dampened from her exertions, revealed curves that were decided womanly.

Da Rimini gave an appreciative leer as he watched the raven tresses spill over her shoulders. “On the morrow I teach you how to execute the botta dritta, eh?”

“Assuming you have the ballocks to step back onto the field of battle,” quipped the student known as Shannon. The class wit, she was always quick to unsheathe a sharp tongue. Sometimes too quick. Her penchant for challenging authority had recently provoked a disciplinary warning. A second might result in expulsion.

“Nonnie,” cautioned Siena, hoping to keep her roommate out of trouble.

“Like my sword, my cojones are made of steel, Signorina Shannon.” The Italian waggled a brow, his slitted eyes still aimed at Siena. “Indeed, all my equipment is honed to a fighting edge. As the lovely Volpina would quickly discover, if only she would accept my offer of more intimate instruction in the nuances of hand-to-hand combat.”

Ignoring his lascivious looks, Siena handed her gear to a first year student, and gathered up her books. “Come, Shannon, we had better hurry and change, else we will be late for our next class.”
Her friend, however, could not resist a parting retort. “Indeed, Signor? I heard your equipment was in danger of growing dull with disuse.” Exaggerating a flourish, she tossed Il Lupino a scrap of chamois. “But if it needs a bit of polishing, you will have to do it for yourself.”

With his laughter ringing in their ears, the two of them cut across the fencing yard to the graveled garden path Siena slanted a sidelong glance at her friend as they rounded the tall privet hedge. Shannon had the same willowy height, the same loping stride—and the same stubborn set of the chin. Indeed, they might have been taken for twins, save that her friend’s hair was the color of autumn wheat and cut several inches shorter.

“You are lucky. Da Rimini was in one of his better humors today,” she said. “But he’s unpredictable. The next time you try to pick a fight with him, it may not go so well.”

Shannon shrugged off the advice. “The lecherous old goat. His nickname ought to be the Snake instead of the Wolf. Only yesterday he tried to slide his hand up my skirts as I was cleaning my pistol in the armory.” She made a face. “Why the headmistress hasn’t given him the boot ages ago is still a mystery to me.”

“Because despite his alleycat manners and advancing age, he is extremely good at what he does,” answered Siena. “I doubt there is a more skilled fencing master in all of England.”

“As long as he keeps his sword to himself—”

“Rumor has it he was forced to flee Milano over some incident involving a blade.” The student known as Valencia, who shared their spartan dormitory quarters, caught up with them in time to hear the last exchange. Falling in step beside Shannon, she added a wink. “As well as a contessa and a cardinal. And for Italians to express outrage, it must have been shockingly scandalous.”

“It isn’t as if this is an ordinary institution of higher education. Nobody here at the Academy—including ourselves—is remotely respectable.” Siena flashed a sardonic smile. All of them were orphans, who had been left to fend for themselves in the slums of London. Alone and homeless, they had quickly learned the cardinal rule of the rookeries—only the strongest survived. Not that she cared to recall those early days, save to remind herself that she was tough enough to stand up to any challenge.

She darted another glance at her companions. The three of them were more like sisters than school friends. Shared adversity was, perhaps, a stronger bond than blood.
Unperturbed by the oblique reminder of their desperate past, Shannon laughed. “You have a point. How many schools for females include a Negro boxer, a convicted cardsharp and a former courtesan to King Carlos of Spain among its instructors?”

“You neglected to mention the Indian fakir,” said Valencia.

“Fakir?”

“An expert in disciplining both the body and mind. He must be bloody good at it too, for he arrived this morning in a spitting sleet, wearing naught but a saffron loincloth and two blood red rubies in his earlobes.”

“We are already doing an hour of yoga a day.” Spinning to a halt, Shannon bent over and touched her forehead to her toes. “Lud, what will Mrs. Merlin think of next?”

“Since you asked, a Turkish belly dancer is coming next term to teach a special class in the art of seduction.” Siena set aside her momentary melancholy and forced herself to join in the banter. She was one of the lucky ones, she reminded herself. If Lord Lynsley had not witnessed her beating off three boys twice her size to protect the gold watch she had just stolen, she would likely still be eking out an existence as a thief. Or perhaps a whore.

Valencia shimmied her hips. “I don’t mind surrendering my virtue in the name of England, just as long as they don’t expect me to bed the Prince Regent. I draw the line at sleeping with a man who wears a corset.”

“There are no lines, Valencia. Not here, not in our world.” Siena turned abruptly and resumed walking toward the quadrangle of Georgian brick buildings that housed the classrooms and dormitories. “We’ll do whatever they ask of us, whether it be slitting a man’s throat or seducing the Prince of Darkness.”

Pressing the tips of his well-tended fingers together, the Marquess of Lynsley looked out the window of his ministry office. A freezing rain pelted against the glass, and the sudden storm, which had blown in out of nowhere, showed little sign of relenting. Clouds hung heavy over the spires of Westminster, the swirling mists turning more leaden by the moment.

Darker still was the news staring him in the face. He lowered his gaze back to the dispatch on his desk. “The devil take it,” he muttered, smoothing at the creases in the travelworn paper. But nothing could take the edge off his anxiety.

“I would gladly return it to Lucifer if I could, sir.” Major Chertwell essayed a grim smile. As the officer in charge of coordinating military intelligence with their Russian allies, he had long since learned that a sense of humor, however black, was an essential weapon for survival. “But the damn fellow seems to have gone to ground, leaving us with this hellish problem.”

“Hellish indeed.” Lynsley rose. He crossed the carpet and pressed his palm to the mullioned glass. A chill seeped through his skin, and despite the layers of tailored finery, he couldn’t repress a shudder. “A traitor? One of our own?”

“The evidence seems incontrovertible, my lord. Only someone who moves within the highest circle of Society would have access to such information.”

“Tell me again what you know.”

“Our agent in Berlin has penetrated Napoleon’s Eastern spy network. For nearly a year, he has been aware that highly sensitive information was coming out of the very heart of London. Sometimes it was actual government documents, sometimes a summary of troop movements, or secret meetings with England’s allies. At first it was only a trickle, then the flow became truly alarming. But it wasn’t until recently that he discovered how the information was being smuggled out of the country.” Chertwell withdrew a small leatherbound book from his pocket and placed it beside the letter. “That our agent discovered the document hidden in here further confirms our suspicions.“ He ran a thumb over the gilt spine. “The volume is a rare early edition of Milton’s Paradise Lost. My source assures me that there are but a handful of gentlemen here in Town who have the means and opportunity to lay hands on such a treasure.”

“Your argument appears compelling.” Lynsley let out his breath in a long sigh. A sigh slipped from his lips. “So our enemy is likely rich and titled?”

Chertwell covered the incriminating paper with a note of his own. “I have made a list of the possibilities, sir.”

After a last glance at the mizzled shadows, the marquess returned to read over the names. “Bloody hell.” He spent another few moments contemplating the list. “You realize the implications of investigating the private affairs of these men?”

The major looked equally grave. “Yes, sir. You have made it clear that this is an extremely delicate situation.“

“And extremely dangerous. The dilemma is, we are damned if we do and damned if we don’t,” mused Lynsley as he perched a hip on the corner of his desk.

At first glance, he would not stand out in a crowd. Over the years he had learned a number of subtle mannerisms to appear shorter and slighter than his true height. As for his features, they were well-cut, but a self-deprecating smile softened their patrician edge. His hair, now beginning to turn silver at the temples, was neither long nor short, and its mouse brown hue was echoed in the somber earth tones of his clothing. Many people thought him a bland, rather boring bureaucrat. A fact which suited him perfectly.

His official title—Minister to the Secretary of State for War—was a deliberately vague cover for his true responsibilities. Charged with countering espionage and intrigue, he dealt with the most dangerous and diabolical threats to England’s sovereignty. And while he preferred to work with only a small group of trusted associates, events had unfolded in such a way that he had no choice but to take the major into his confidences.

Lynsley reluctantly went on with his explanation. “If word slips out that we have allowed such treason to take place under our nose, the resulting scandal could topple the government.”
“Yes, sir. It will have to be handled with utmost discretion. Even then, it will take a miracle to pull it off without setting off a display of pyrotechnics in Parliament that would put Vauxhall to blush.“

“A miracle.” Lynsley drummed an urgent tattoo upon the leather blotter, as if summoning spirits from the netherworld.

“A miracle.” The major’s echo had an even more doleful ring. “Or a hero from Arthurian legend.”
”Merlin,” whispered the marquess.

Chertwell gave a half-hearted laugh. “Abracadabra. The heart of Galahad. The steel of Excaliber.”

A moment later, the marquess rang for his secretary. “Collins, have my carriage brought around immediately.” Tucking the list of suspects into his waistcoat, he turned for the door. “Don’t just stand there, Chertwell, we haven’t any time to lose.”

The major cleared his throat. “W—where are we going, sir?”

For the first time that afternoon Lynsley actually smiled. “To take tea with Mrs. Merlin.”
“Who the devil—“

“A little old lady who works magic.”

 

“Damnation, this door latch still sticks like the devil.”

“Language, girls! Language!” Dressed in dull shades of bark and brown, Miss Clemens, their house prefect, would have been indistinguishable from the woodwork if not for her stentorian shout. “No cursing! You know the rules. Inside these walls you will behave as refined young ladies. Now hurry along—gracefully, mind you, gracefully—and change, or you will be late for Mrs. Twining’s lecture on ballroom etiquette.

Siena smiled, for in spite of the spinster’s drab appearance, she was not really such a stick in the mud. Many a midnight raid on the kitchens had gone unpunished, and on occasion, the spoils of victory had been washed down with a bottle of Clemmie’s excellent champagne.

“Refined my arse,” muttered Shannon, much to the amusement of the others. “It would take a sledge hammer and chisel to sculpt me into any semblance of a drawing room miss.”

“Appearance is not the problem.” Valencia regarded her friend’s Valkyrie figure and shook her head. “Lud, I’d kill to have your bosom. It’s a question of attitude. If you would put your mind to it—“

“Need I remind you again?” warned Miss Clemens. “One more infraction for tardiness and the three of you will be mucking out the stables for a month.”

“Hell, I would rather concentrate on riding and rapiers than on the proper way to curtsy to a duke,” groused Shannon as the three of them took the stairs two at a time and raced to their room.

“As would I.” Siena slipped out of her shirt and breeches. “But to be effective, we must be well-schooled in the more subtle forms of warfare.”

“Easy for you to say,” shot back Shannon. “You seem to have a natural talent in the classroom as well as on the fencing field.” She made a face. “Lud, you even excel in art history.”

“I find the subject interesting, don’t you?”

Shannon shook her head. “Not unless the paintings portray some of the more esoteric uniforms or weaponry of the period.”

“La, Nonnie is right, Siena. You should have been to the manor born,” teased Valencia. “A fine lady, with nothing better to do all day than dabble in watercolors and collect priceless paintings.”

“Ha—in another moment you’ll be collecting my boot up your backside,” retorted Siena. She turned quickly, using a laugh to mask the fact that the barb had struck a sensitive nerve. As she reached for her chemise, she caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the looking glass. Cheekbones sharp as sabers, lashes dark as gunpowder, gaze guarded as the Tower Jewels. Fighting had become second nature. And she was good at it.

But Shannon was right—a number of subjects seemed to come naturally to her, especially art. She liked the way it challenged her to think and to see things from a different perspective. Was it a weakness to appreciate such things? At times she wondered. But she was not about to admit it aloud. A Merlin was not meant to let down her defenses, not even for a moment.

A shadow fell across her face. Storm clouds were scudding in from the sea, obscuring the sun, and already the echo of thunder rumbled through the school courtyards. Light and dark. At times, she couldn’t help recalling odd flashes of her life before the Academy. An old prostitute had once given her a brightly colored penny print. Oh, how she had guarded that scrap of paper.
Drawing on her yoga training, Siena took a deep breath and shrugged off such strange musings. After all, Da Rimini had drummed into her that thinking too much could be dangerous . . .

“For pity’s sake, Siena, stop woolgathering,” chided Valencia. “Unless you wish for us to be shoveling manure for the next few weeks.”

Her friends were already dressed and sorting through their hair ribbons for the finishing touches to their toilette.

“And you know how La Grande Dame dislikes getting her hands dirty,” drawled Shannon as she mimicked a ballroom twirl.

“Merde! “ A crumpled kidskin glove flew across the room. “Just because I like silks as much as saddles doesn’t mean I can’t whip you in a match of riding skills. Just name your stakes.”

Shannon speared the fuchsia missile with a hairpin and tossed it back. “Ha—a challenge? What sort of race do you have in mind?”

“Stubble the horseplay.” Siena grabbed for her indigo gown. “Has anyone seen my India shawl, or has it wound its way back to Bombay?”

Her friends were too sharp to miss the slight edge to her voice. They exchanged puzzled looks.
“Is something wrong?” asked Valencia, as she pulled the missing item from beneath a pair of muddied riding boots. “You seem in a strange mood.”

Shannon nodded. “If I had just flattened Il Lupino, I’d be crowing from atop the highest chimneypot.”

“I fear . . .” Her friends would likely laugh to hear what she had been thinking. “I fear I can’t explain it.”

“Fear?” scoffed Shannon. “Ha, you are the most fearless of us all.”

Valencia said nothing, but fixed her with a searching stare.

“Forget it,” she muttered, suddenly feeling foolish for even hinting there might be a chink in her armor. The training of the Academy only echoed the lessons of the alleyways—never show any vulnerability.

The tread of Miss Clement’s half boots suddenly interrupted the exchange. Siena swore under her breath, sure that a stern scolding was in order, along with the threatened detention.
But the prefect appeared oddly distracted. She shooed Valencia and Shannon out of the room with a vague wave. “Be off, you two. As for Siena. . .” A hesitation hung in the air. “You need not hurry. Mrs. Merlin has excused you from your next class. She wishes to see you in her office as soon as you have changed into your new emerald green ball gown. Withers will be here in a moment to dress your hair.“

Siena turned, her eyes narrowing at the news. “Why?”

Miss Clemens lifted her bony shoulders. “I am not privy to that information. But I expect you will find out soon enough.”

Was it her imagination or did the words indicate that the time had come?

“York says she spotted a fancy carriage pulling up to Mrs. Merlin’s private entrance not ten minutes ago,” added the prefect. “Two gentlemen got out.”

Daggerpoints danced down her spine. Her palms began to tingle. Fear. The friendly banter echoed in her ears. Her only real fear was that the school directors might decide she wasn’t sharp enough for a real mission. The gentleman with the ice blue eyes would, as was his wont, be kindly, but firm. Only the very best measured up to the Academy’s stringent standards for the Master Class. Those who did not make the grade were directed into less demanding programs, ones that trained them for other useful duties. Innkeepers, lady’s maids . . .

Siena’s hands clenched, and then her chin rose. A challenge? She would rise to the occasion and prove herself. She was one of Merlin’s Maidens.

And Merlins were meant to fly.

CHAPTER TWO

“Street orphans!” Chertwell choked on his tea.

“Kindly remember you are sworn to silence,” Lynsley helped himself to another biscuit.
The major uttered an oath.

“Need I also remind you that a lady is present?”

Chertwell’s face turned nearly as red as his regimentals. “Your pardon, madam,” he said stiffly. “I meant no offense to you or your pupils, but I feel dutybound to voice an objection to this . . . joke?“

His hopeful look was snuffed out by the headmistress’s brisk reply. “Lord Lynsley is quite serious. As am I.” Mrs. Merlin was a frail, feather-thin widow with a cap of dove gray curls framing her narrow face. Age had softened her features and blunted the poke of her prominent nose, but behind the oversized spectacles, her silvery eyes gleamed with a hawkish intensity. “Won’t you try a strawberry tart, young man? They are quite delicious.”

“I don’t want a damn tart! I want an explanation!” Sputtering, the major shot an accusing look at Lynsley. “England is in imminent peril while we are sitting here having a tea party!”

“Dear me, Thomas, is the major subject to megrims?” Mrs. Merlin darted a looked at Lynsley. “Shall I fetch a vial of vinaigrette?”

Chertwell ‘s jaw dropped a touch, then snapped shut. His silence did not preclude a pronounced scowl.

“Excellent. I see we may forgo the hartshorn and apply instead a healthy dose of reason to the problem.” Moving with a ruthless efficiency that belied the sweet smile, Mrs. Merlin set aside her teacup and snapped open a document case. A quick rap squared the sheaf of papers within.

“But before we get down to business, perhaps you ought to finish your explanation.”

“Thank you, Charlotte. As always, a meeting with you is an educational experience.” Lynsley settled back against sofa pillows. The lines deepened at the corners of his eyes, turning his gaze more shadowed. “As I was saying, Chertwell, the students of Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Select Young Ladies are hand-picked from the legion of orphans who roam the stews of London. There are, I regret to say, a great many to choose from.” He stared into his tea. “I select all of them myself. I look for signs of courage and cleverness. And looks. Beauty can be a weapon in itself.”
“Let me get this straight.” Through gritted teeth, the major managed a mutter. ”You take in a rag-tag rabble of female urchins and mold them into a special fighting force?”

The marquess allowed a faint smile. “England’s ultimate secret weapon.”

“God save the King.” A stern look from the school’s headmistress caused Chertwell to swallow any further sarcasm.

Lynsley continued as if uninterrupted. “I convinced the government to give us this old estate, which had been used as cavalry pastures. I pay the operating expenses out of my own pocket, and Mrs. Merlin oversees all the day-to-day duties. The idea was inspired by a book I read on Hasan-I-Sabah, a Muslim caliph who raised a secret society of warriors at his mountain citadels. His men were known for their deadly skills and fanatic loyalty. The caliph used them only in times of dire danger to his rule. And legend has it they never failed on a mission. The very name Hashishim—or Assassins—was enough to strike terror in the heart of the Master’s enemy.”

“Assassins?” Chertwell blinked. “Surely you don’t mean to imply that these girls . . . “

“Are trained to kill.’ Mrs. Merlin brushed a bit of powdered sugar from her lip. “But of course.”

“Merlin’s maidens receive expert instruction in a number of disciplines,” explained Lynsley.
“Use of weapons is only part of the curriculum. They also are taught all the social graces—proper speech, proper manners, polished skills at music, art and dancing—so that, if need be, they may move in the highest circles of Society.”

“Indeed, our girls follow a course of study much the same as that at any other school for highborn young ladies of the ton,” added Mrs. Merlin. Surrounded by cheery chintz florals and delicate Sevres china, the elderly lady looked the very picture of prim propriety. Save for the tip of the poniard that slipped from her cuff as she consulted one of the documents. “The emphasis is on violence as a last resort.”

“It sounds . . .” The major shifted his seat on the sofa. “I would say ‘absurd’, but I fear you would fillet my liver with that blade.”

Mrs. Merlin smoothed the sprigged muslin over the razored steel. “I assure you, major, our students are carefully screened, and once they are here, they are subject to rigorous training and constant testing. Those who fail to make the grade are sent off to be taught a more suitable profession.” As she pushed her spectacles back to the bridge of her nose, a gleam of candlelight winked off the lenses. Under less serious circumstances, it might have been seen as a twinkle. “You see, major, unlike in the military, wealth or rank cannot buy you a place in our Academy. Merlin’s Maidens win their badge of honor by merit alone.”

Chertwell thought for a moment. “Why girls?”

“An astute question.” Lynsley gazed up at the painting above the mantel, a depiction of Bodicea, the ancient English Warrior Queen, in full regalia. “Because females have far more flexibility when it comes down to devising strategy and tactics. They can learn to master the martial arts as well as any man, whereas men cannot perform certain feminine disciplines. They will always find certain doors closed to them.”

“Clever,” conceded the major. “I can see where sex can indeed be a more effective weapon than steel.” He tapped at his chin. “However abstract theory is one thing, and practical application is quite another. Have you ever employed these Hellion Heroes in an actual mission?"

“Arthur Wellesley would not be alive today if one of the leaders of the Mahratta uprising in India had not suffered an untimely demise during a tiger hunt—an arrow to the throat, I believe . . .” Lynsley proceeded to rattle off several other names and places.

“God save the King.” This time the major’s murmur held a note of awe rather than sarcasm.

Mrs. Merlin moved the tea tray to one of the Chinoise side tables. “Having reviewed your requirements, I have selected the student I think is most qualified for the job.”

“Who?”

“Siena.”

He steepled his fingers and appeared to be contemplating his watch chain. Several moments passed before he spoke. “An interesting choice.”

“The nature of the assignment is extraordinarily complex,” replied the headmistress. “The agent we choose will require a depth of character to match up against the gentlemen you wish to have investigated.”

“Indeed. I agree that she is one of our best students.” Lynsley twisted at one of the fobs. “Yet I confess there are parts of her that remain a mystery to me.”

“Beneath the steel, there is a sensitive side of her nature—which only adds to her allure. And not only is she skilled in all forms of weaponry, but her knowledge of art will prove useful in this case.” Mrs. Merlin held his gaze. “I feel confident in the choice. But no doubt the two of you will wish to conduct your own interview. Shall we call her in?”

The slide of silk was smooth, sensuous against her skin as she rose from the straight back chair. Siena straightened the ruched bodice, her fingers lingering on the row of seed pearls that highlighted the plunging neckline. A handful would have fed her for a year in St. Giles. But here they were insignificant baubles, tiny specks on a sea of gold-threaded emerald splendor. The gown was a sinfully expensive extravagance, cut snugly in the bosom and hips, with waves of ivory sarscenet lace frothing down to the gold-fringed hem.

It was more fitting for a fairy tale princess than a penniless urchin, a fact that Siena had been quick to point out. But Mrs. Merlin had simply flashed her cat-in-the-cream-pot smile as she added the expense to the school accountings. That appearances could be deceiving was an integral lesson to learn, she had counseled.

Siena’s lips quirked. The elderly headmistress was living proof of the old adage—she could still blast a hole through a guinea at thirty paces, though she needed her spectacles to do so.

As her own gaze took in the familiar details of the small waiting room, Siena couldn’t help recalling her first meeting with Mrs. Merlin. She had been dressed in rags, rather than riches, and her skinny little limbs had been covered with mud and bruises. Frightened out of her wits by the strange new surroundings, she had responded to the headmistress’s first gentle words with a gutter curse.

Instead of a slap or a punch, she had been offered a strawberry tart and tea. It was her first taste of true kindness. And true patience. Gaining the trust of a streetwise urchin was no easy task. Siena had found it hard to believe that a real bed, clean clothes and regular meals were anything other than cruel tricks, designed to soften her up for the kill.

Old habits died hard. Even now, she knew a small part of her remained wary, watchful.
“They are ready for you,” whispered the secretary.

Discipline. Duty. Desire.

Marshalling her wayward thoughts, Siena gathered her skirts and glided gracefully through the doorway.

“How delightful that you could join us, my dear.” Ever the gracious hostess, Mrs. Merlin indicated her guests. “You are, I believe, acquainted with Lord Lynsley.”

She performed a perfect curtsey and allowed the gentleman to lift her hand to his lips. “It is a great pleasure to see you again, my lord.”

“The pleasure is mine, Miss Siena. I trust your studies are going well.”

“Very well, thank you.” Dropping her gaze in maidenly modesty, she answered with the requisite small talk. Yet beneath the flutter of her lashes, she remained alert. This was, she knew, a test of her skills. A test she was determined not to fail. “The weather, however has been quite wretched of late, has it not?”

After exchanging a few more pleasantries on the subject, the marquess indicated his companion. “Allow me to introduce Major Chertwell, who is on leave from his posting in Prussia.”

The officer was staring at her with an expression of frozen horror. Like a mouse facing a cobra, she thought. She must charm him into thinking she would not bite.

A melting look. An arch of admiration. A caress of her fan. The famed Spanish courtesan known as La Paloma had taught the Academy students any number of tricks for putting a gentleman at ease. “That sounds frightfully important, sir,” said Siena. “Are you attached to the diplomatic corps or the army?” Not a trace of the guttersnipe was evident in her cultured tone. She could converse in French, if need be, or fall back into the rough patter of the stews.

“Er. . . neither.”

“Major Chertwell serves as a liaison between the two,” murmured Lynsley.

Feigning flattery was the first order of drawing room decorum. Followed by a subtle flirtation. Siena gave an inward sigh. She did not envy the highborn daughters of the ton. It took a great deal of effort to sound so egregiously silly.

And training.

Her efforts were quickly rewarded—as La Paloma had promised, men were very predictable. Encouraged by several more questions and sultry smiles, Chertwell relaxed enough to carry on a coherent conversation.

Mrs. Merlin allowed the interlude to go on for some minutes before suggesting some music. “I know Lord Lynsley is quite fond of the pianoforte. I am sure he would be pleased to hear you play.”

Siena seated herself at the instrument. “Have you a favorite piece, my lord?”
“I leave it to you to choose.”

She thought for a moment. Ebony and ivory. Light and dark. She must coax them into perfect harmony. Placing her fingers upon the keys, she began a difficult Mozart sonata. The notes flowed softly at first, then crested to a skilled crescendo. Without missing a beat, she played through the entire score. It was, she knew, a flawless performance.

“Bravo.” The marquess’s soft clap sent a trilling shiver to the tips of her fingers.

So close and yet so far. Had she been convincing? She had seen the shadow of doubt in Lord Lynsley’s eyes as she entered the room. He had the most penetrating gaze she had ever encountered, like pale blue slivers of ice. Sometimes she felt he saw her more clearly than she saw herself.

Lynsley turned to his companion and arched a brow. “Do you wish to ask Miss Siena about her other accomplishments? Dancing? Whist?”

“Er, no. She appears a paragon of propriety in the drawing room.”

“In that case, run along and change into less formal attire, Siena.” As her student left the room, Mrs. Merlin added, ”I have asked Da Rimini to meet us in the armory. A short exhibition of fencing and shooting should serve to answer any further questions.”


A half hour later, a rather white-faced Chertwell pressed a handkerchief to his perspiring brow.
“Convinced?”

“Er, yes. I shall take your word that the young lady can handle a horse with equal expertise.”

Lynsley repressed a grin. “She rides like a bat flying out of hell.”

“Then let us pray she can catch up to the devil in Town—”

“The Merlins will chase Lucifer to Cathay and back, if that is what is asked of us.” Siena, still clad in buckskins and boots, strode into the study. Perching a hip on the corner of the headmistress’s desk, she peeled off her fencing gauntlet and dropped it onto the polished oak. “Or, if you prefer, into the heart of the unknown.”

“London is far enough,” replied Lynsley dryly.

She decided to dare a direct challenge. “So—do I get the assignment?”

The silence seemed to stretch on forever.

“Here are your orders.” Lynsley slowly withdrew an oilskin packet from his pocket. It was sealed with a black wafer bearing the sign of a soaring hawk. “You are to leave immediately and proceed to the address noted on the first page. You will find clothing, money, and several trustworthy servants waiting for you. From there . . .”

He drew a breath. “Most of the details are spelled out, and I will fill you in on the rest as I walk you out to the stables. A messenger will visit within a day or two to supply you with complete dossiers on the suspects. After that, you understand that . . . “

“That neither you nor the government can acknowledge any connection between us.”

“Precisely, Siena. You will be entirely on your own.”

“I know the rules, sir.”

“I have had your things packed as we speak,” said Mrs. Merlin. “The saddlebags are waiting outside the door, along with your weapons.”

A spasm of surprise crossed Siena’s face. “I—I had thought I might make a quick return to my room, to take leave of my friends.”

“It’s best to be off without delay.” The headmistress gave her arm a gentle pat. “I shall pass on your farewell.”

She quickly smoothed the disappointment from her features. It would not do to fall flat on her face in the first minute of the assignment. “Yes. Of course.”

“Good luck.” Chertwell hesitated before inclining a small bow. “And Godspeed.”

“We are trained to depend on our own skills, sir, rather than serendipitous fortune,” she replied with a show of bravado. “But it does not hurt that Luck is a Lady.”

To herself she added a more solemn vow. I will prove to Lord Lynsley that I have earned my wings.

The moon, a shivering sliver of pale crescent light, ducked in and out of scudding clouds.
Julian Henning, the Earl of Kirtland cocked a brow at the stormy skies. Even the heavens have something to hide, he thought with a self-mocking shrug. Drawing to a halt, he peered into the gloom ahead. A windswept rain lashed at the trees, the swirling gusts tugging at his caped cloak and wide brimmed hat.

It was a hellish night to be out—a sentiment echoed by his stallion’s impatient whinny.

“Sorry, Hades. I take it you would prefer a dry stall and bucket of oats.” He, too, ought to be lounging before a roaring fire, a book of fine poetry in one hand, a glass of aged brandy within easy reach. But he had grown moody, restless with the creature comforts of Henning Hall, his ancestral manor house. Tomorrow at first light he would be traveling to his townhouse in London, and despite the foul weather he had felt a sudden need to savor the space and solitude of his estate lands. Town life was crowded, confining.

Or perhaps it was some darker inner urge that had driven him outdoors. A black humor was an all too familiar companion these days.

“We’ll ride on to the bridge and then turn back.” Wrapping the reins around a sodden fist, the earl urged his mount forward. The thud of hooves was muffled by the wet earth. Fog blurred the gorse and thorns into spiky shadows, their swaying forms faintly threatening in the haze.

The path narrowed as it threaded through a copse of oaks. As the last flicker of stars was swallowed in the mists, Kirtland was forced to rely on memory rather than sight to make his way among the trees.

“Bloody hell.” A branch slapped at his cheek. “Only a madman would be out in this weather,” he muttered. A madman or a desperate man. Which was he? Adding a low oath, the earl cut through the last leafy tangle and broke onto open ground.

He was neither, he assured himself. An outcast, perhaps. But he didn’t give a damn for the opinion of Society. In the drawing rooms of London, rumor and innuendo swirled around his name, dark and muddled as this storm-tossed night. Obscuring the true shape of things.

A mizzle of moonlight filtered through the clouds, catching the sardonic curl of his smile. Money smoothed the rough edges. As did an august title. So despite the whispers, there were few who dared give him a direct cut. It was his own choice to avoid the frivolous spin of the ballrooms and—

The crack was as loud as cannonfire.

“Damn.” Kirtland pulled back on the reins, steadying his stallion’s spooked steps. Up ahead, the ghostly outline of the bridge came into view, the remains of the snapped timber jutting up from the roiling currents. The crossing was often used as a shortcut to the London road, but now it was a treacherous trap—anyone approaching from the other side would not see the danger.

At first light, he would have his bailiff ride out to rope off the area and make the repairs.

As he turned for home, the earl caught sight of a movement on the opposite bank. Surely no one else was driven by demons to be out on a night like this. He looked again, thinking perhaps he had only imagined the black blur. But an instant later, a horse and rider came out of the mists at full gallop.

“Beware!” shouted Kirtland as they hit the first planks. “The bridge is about to collapse!”
Even as he cried out, he knew it was too late. The remaining piling sagged, then split with a shuddering snap.

The earl spurred forward to the water’s edge, on the off chance the stranger survived the plunge. The odds were heavily against it, but he could at least stand ready to help him escape from the surging waters.

But to his amazement, the rider managed to control the skidding stallion, straighten its head and urge the lathered beast into an arching leap. Hooves flying, cloak flapping, they hung for a moment in midair, a dark-winged shape silhouetted against the mist. Then suddenly they were on solid ground, fighting for balance on the steep bank.

Bloody hell. Kirtland could scarcely believe his eyes. An experienced cavalry officer, he was well aware that only a horseman of iron strength and nerve could have pulled off such a feat—
Just then, a length of the splintered timber snagged the stranger’s boot, threatening to tumble horse and rider onto the rocks below. The earl reacted in a flash. Swooping dangerously close to the river’s edge, he kicked the shard free. “Give me your hand!” he called, hoping to be heard above the roar of the water.

The stranger grabbed hold of Kirtland’s outstretched arm and the earl angled his stallion for higher ground. Linked together by their riders, the two horses scrabbled to firmer footing.
Aware of his own pounding heart, Kirtland ventured a sidelong glance at his companion. The oilskin hat was tilted askew, and woolen muffler had come half undone, but the fine-boned features betrayed nary a twitch of fear. Indeed, unless he was much mistaken, it was annoyance that blazed in the narrowed gaze.

“Let go of me!”

There was no mistaking the voice. The rider was not a man but a boy—and a downy one at that.
“Now hold on a moment, lad.” Irked at the curt command, he held fast as their horses slowed to an easy trot. “Common courtesy calls for a more civil remark than that.”
“To hell with courtesy. I’m in a hurry.”

“A date with the devil?” he shot back. “If I hadn’t happened along, you would have been crossing the River Styx rather than the River Thames—”

As the clouds parted for a moment, the brief flicker of light caught the boy full in the face. He was a she.

“I’ll be damned.”

The hand gripping his gave a sudden wrenching twist that nearly spilled him to the ground. Kirtland, however, knew a few tricks of his own from the brutal battlefields of Portugal. Kicking free of one stirrup, he let himself drop low, then suddenly straightened his other leg, catching the young lady off guard.

The momentum of his move yanked her from her own mount. As she fell awkwardly across her saddle onto his, the earl caught a glimpse of the brace of pistols and a Hussar’s saber hanging from her horse. “What is a young lady doing out at this hour, armed to the teeth with cavalry equipment?”

Her answer was a fist aimed at his jaw. He jerked back in the nick of time. The blow glanced off his shoulder. She was now facing him, fighting for balance.

“Damnation! That is rough thanks for having saved your wretched neck.” Her muffler had fallen away and in truth, it looked to be a rather lovely neck, smooth and creamy as alabaster.

“Consider yourself fortunate that I do not break your arm.” She twisted, trying to break his grip, and her spurs grazed his stallion’s flanks. Hooves kicked at the ground, setting up a swirl of fallen leaves.

“Why, you hellion.”

His shout froze her for an instant, giving him just enough time to pin her arms behind her back. She had lost her hat in the first throes of the struggle, but a black silk scarf, tied in pirate fashion, still covered her hair and brow. Its midnight hue accentuated the golden glare of her eyes. She was mad as wet cat.

A panther, sleek and sinuous in its fury.

The earl trapped her against his chest. Still, it took all of his considerable strength to keep her from breaking his grip. “You owe me more than a slap, my little spitfire.” His stallion whinnied and reared, rocking them back in the saddle. He could her feel the curves of her breasts and the press of her buckskinned bottom as he pulled her astride his thighs. A strange lick of heat flared around the edges of his anger. She was all leg and lithe muscle. So unlike any female he had ever encountered before. Intrigued, he drew her closer.

“Son of a bitch—“

Kirtland drew in a sharp breath, then laughed softly. “Actually, my mother was a whore. But she was clever enough to coax my father into marriage.”

She didn’t blink. “Bastard or not, let me go.” Freeing an arm, she let fly with an elbow, driving the air from his lungs.

His temper, already frayed, was now perilously close to snapping. He had risked life and limb, and by god, he was going to wring a civil thanks from the hellion. As well as an explanation for this mad escapade.

He recaptured her arm and hardened his grip. “Not so fast.”

Biting back a grunt of pain, she countered with a twist that nearly cracked the bones of her wrist.
Feeling somewhat ashamed of using brute force on a female, however strong, Kirtland drew her closer, the stubbling of his whiskered jaw scraping against her cheek. “Pax. I mean you no harm.” Fisting at damp linen and wet wool, he molded her curves to his chest. Through the layers of fabric he felt the thud of her heart pounding against his pulse.

She shivered, then drew back, her eyes unreadable in the squalling rain. “A gentleman of honor?” Her words were half mocking.

“You have nothing to fear from me.”

“Trust me, I don’t fear any man.”

For an instant, they both were very still, as if seized by some strange alchemy. Kirtland thought he detected a glimmer of his own grudging admiration reflected in her gaze. Strength against strength. Neither yielding an inch.

“Nor devils nor dragons, I imagine.”

Her mouth twitched in amusement. “However, I suppose you do deserve a thanks for your heroics.”

“You are welcome.” Without quite knowing why, he tilted her chin and kissed her. Her lips were soft, lush, the pliant curves so at odds with the rest of her body. She tasted of jasmine and salt. Of wild honey. Of fiery desire . . .

She, too, appeared gripped by the same sensuous spell that held him in thrall. A slave to some mysterious force. Her hands, now free, slid toward his throat, but only to curl in the tangle of his rain-soaked locks.

Groaning, he deepened his embrace.

“Who the devil are you?” he rasped, when finally he lifted his mouth from hers.

The breath of air broke the enchantment.

“No one you will ever see again.”

Before he could respond, she twisted free. Suddenly all was a blur, with her body appearing to bend at an impossible angle as she arced into a back flip and slid down off his stallion’s rump. He whipped around just in time to see her vault onto her own horse and gallop off.

A druid? A wood nymph? A figment of his own benighted thoughts?

Kirtland rubbed at his eyes, uncertain of anything save for the ethereal sweetness lingering on his lips. He continued staring into the mist until the shadowy tendrils had long since ceased to swirl. Then, shaking off the numbing chill, the earl turned for Henning Hall.

Perhaps it was best he was leaving the country for the city at first light. Isolation was definitely having an unnerving effect on his state of mind.