The Scarlet Spy

CHAPTER ONE

Candlelight kissed the cut crystal, the firegold sparks dancing in time to the Viennese waltz. The whisper of silk swirled with the scent of roses and jasmine. A lady’s laugh, light and lush as the pearls at her throat, twined with the trilling notes of the violins.

“Place your hand a bit lower.” Her partner, a dark-haired gentleman with angelic eyes and the devil’s own smile, slid her gloved fingers to his hip. “Si, si. Now, if only I could ask you to dip into my trousers, bella.”

She stifled a laugh as the spinning steps of the dance drew them closer. “Naughty man. I—”

“Non, non, NON!” The dancing master rapped his ebony stick against the pianoforte. “That was clumsy as an ox—I saw your hand slip into his coat pocket.”

“Sorry.” The student known only as Sofia ducked her head in contrition.

“Try again.” Thwack. “And you, Marco, stop distracting her with your lovemaking.”

“Ah, but I cannot help it.” Marco’s lips twitched. “We Italians have a weakness for heavenly beauty, and Signorina is a work of art, an ethereal Venus in velvet. Botticelli himself could not —”

Another sharp smack cut off the florid reply. “If you can’t keep your lively appreciation from straying to Sofia’s arse, you will be spending the rest of the class time scrubbing the stables.”

“These hands were not made for mucking manure,” he murmured with a waggle of his well-shaped brow.

“Zees class is not a joke, Monsieur Musto! Sofia must master not only the nuances of ballroom etiquette but the fine points of picking a gentleman’s pocket. The success of a mission may depend on it.’

“It’s my fault, Monsieur Lemieux.” Sofia spoke up quickly. “I fear I’m far more comfortable dressed in buckskins and boots than satin and slippers. And my grip is far more used to taking hold of a sword than a sliver of gold.”

“Would that you’d take hold of my sword, bella,” whispered Marco.

“Put a cork in it.” She punctuated the warning with a discreet kick to his shin. “You’re going to land us both in deep suds.”

Marco composed his expression to a semblance of seriousness. “Prego, bella. I don’t want you to suffer for my sins.”

“Which lord knows are legion,” she muttered as the music struck up again. “Do try to behave, Marco. A black mark on my record is no laughing matter. I can’t chance a failing grade.”

Discipline. Duty. Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Select Young Ladies held its students to a higher standard than most schools. But then, its mission was not to polish the highborn daughters of the ton into Diamonds of the First Water. Rather it was to mold a ragtag group of orphans—all handpicked from the slums of London for their courage and cleverness—into a secret force of women warriors. Dancing and drawing room manners were part of the curriculum. But so were fencing, shooting and riding—not to mention the more esoteric arts of war and seduction. And the lessons learned within its classrooms could mean the difference between life and death.

“Attendez-vous, musicians. The violins and ‘cellos will begin at the last stanza.”

Sofia forced herself to relax. The subtle sleight of hand depended on perfect timing. A twirl, a spin . . .

This time around, her fingers slipped in and out of Marco’s coat without stirring a thread. As the melody rose to a final crescendo, she held the gold pocketwatch aloft.

The dancing instructor—a former jewel thief whose exploits had been the toast of Paris until the Terror cut short his career—gave a grudging nod of approval. “Better. But there is still room for improvement.”

“That is all we have time for today.” Mrs. Merlin, the elderly headmistress of the Academy rose from her chair. “However, I’ve scheduled a double session for tomorrow. It’s even more important that a document or letter can be removed from a gentleman’s coat without anyone being the wiser.” Dressed in dove grey silks that matched the silvery hue of her hair, she looked frail as a feather in the swaying shadows of the potted palms. But the glint from behind her spectacles was still sharp as steel as she surveyed the school ballroom.

Sofia slanted a look around as well. From its polished parquet dance floor to its ornate Adam ceiling, every detail was designed to replicate the splendor of a Mayfair mansion. The headmistress was a firm believer in having her students practice their skills under real life conditions. Were a rose petal or a velvet swag out of place, it would not escape the lady’s eye.

Seemingly satisfied, Mrs. Merlin’s gaze turned from the decorative urns flanking the entrance. “It appears you are making good progress, Sofia. You may take a short recess before your next class.”

Good. But was it good enough?  Sofia bit back a sigh.

“I’ve ordered refreshments to be served. Do sample the champagne. You ought to become familiar with its taste and how it affects your head.” As the headmistress stepped away to confer with the dancing master, a servant approached with a tray of drinks.

“I must say, I am having a hard time deciding which is my favorite extracurricular activity—dancing or art.” Giovanni Marco Musto’s official duties at the Academy were to serve as assistant riding and fencing instructor. However the mercenary from Milan—who preferred Marco to his other moniker—was often called upon to serve as a model for the advanced drawing class, a position he enjoyed with shameless delight, seeing as it called for posing in the nude. With his dark eyes, sensual mouth and sable locks that curled in Renaissance ringlets around his collar, he was a picture of masculine beauty.

And well he knew it.

“I would rather be practicing my skills with a saber,” muttered Sofia  under her breath.

“Si?” Marco cocked his head. “But you have a natural knack for more subtle forms of attack.”

“I’ve had enough practice.” She forced a sardonic smile, though the memory of her early life was not something she cared to recall. “Stealing is one of the basic skills for survival when you are living on the streets. You don’t last very long if you aren’t good at it.”

Despite his exaggerated preening and ribald banter, he was sensitive enough not to miss the tautness in her voice. “There is nothing shameful about staying alive, bella,” he replied softly. “And Signora Merlin obviously feels those early lessons can be put to good use.”

“I would rather be working on more martial skills.” 

“All work and no play makes for a dull existence, bella.” His swagger returning in the blink of an eye, Marco thrust a glass of champagne into her hands and drew her to the far corner of the ballroom. “Come, let us drink up. After all, part of your education in the ways of Polite Society is to learn an appreciation for fine wine.”

“I can’t help but wonder why all this is a necessary part of my training.  Merlins are meant to fight.” Sofia waited until she was sheltered behind one of the marble columns before making a face. “Blades and bullets are far more important subjects to master.”

“Beauty can also be a deadly weapon.” The Italian grinned as he raised the crystal coupe to his lips. “Indeed, its effect on men can be lethal.”

“I’m not looking to slay hearts,” she replied somewhat snappishly. Marco’s teasing was usually amusing. But of late, her mood had been a bit blue-deviled, though she couldn’t put a finger on why. Save for the small stumble on the dance floor, she was earning top honors in all of her other studies. And yet, loath though she was to admit it, the daily routine had grown a bit dull. “Unlike you, I try to think of more than pleasuring my flesh.”

“Well, your thoughts do not appear to be making you very happy. If you would come to my bed tonight, I would tease that scowl into a smile.”

Sofia laughed in spite of herself.

“Va bene—that’s better.” He cocked his head. “Is something bothering you, bella?”

“No,” she lied. “It’s just that Siena and Shannon never had to polish their ballroom skills to this extent.”

She looked away and smoothed at her skirts, trying not to think too much of her former roommates. The three of them had become close as sisters during their years at the Academy. Shared adversity was perhaps a more binding tie than blood. They had all managed to survive the savage slums without family, without friends. Without names. On first entering the Academy, all students were placed before an ornate globe, and as it spun they chose a moniker from the swirl of gold lettering. A new name for a new life. Siena. Shannon. Sofia. 

And now, suddenly, her comrades were gone. Within the last eight months, they had both been given difficult, dangerous assignments. Not only had they passed with flying colors, but they also had moved on to new lives and new responsibilities in the world outside the Academy walls.

Leaving her as the only one of the tightknit trio who had not been called upon to test her wings in a real mission.

Sofia fought down a stab of self-pity. She could not help feeling a little lonely, a little lost. Of the three friends, she had always been the voice of reason and restraint, reining in her more reckless roommmates to keep them out of disciplinary trouble. Did her superiors think she lacked the mettle to be a Merlin?

Seeing Marco’s eyes narrow in concern, she quickly swallowed her doubts with a tiny sip of champagne. “Their victories depended on swashbuckling feats of daring, rather than picking a gentleman’s pocket while dancing a waltz,” she went on. “My swordplay may not be quite as sharp as theirs, but my riding and shooting skills are bang up to the mark. I daresay I can hold my own in a fight against any opponent.” A hint of heat, at odds with her usual cool composure, crept into her voice. “Yet of late, it seems I’ve been relegated to nothing but drawing room duties.”

“Each Merlin is called to undertake a different sort of mission, Sofia.”
As if by magic, the Marquess of Lynsley appeared in the one of the archways of the alcoves. Dressed in somber shades of charcoal and grey, he was nearly invisible in the darkness—a choice that was no doubt deliberate, for the marquess spent much of his time in the world of shadows.

“One that is matched to her unique talents,” he continued. “Not every enemy can be fought with steel or gunpowder. You have a natural grace and elegance, which are far harder to learn than fencing or marksmanship. Such qualities will allow you move within the highest circles of Society without drawing undue attention.”

She felt her heart flutter. “Does that mean you have something specific in mind, sir?” Not only was Lord Lynsley the founding father and leading benefactor of the Academy, but he was also the commander-in-chief of the elite force of women warriors who trained within its walls. It was he who personally picked each child and offered her a place at the school. And it was he who decided which member of the Master Class was ready to fight against England’s enemies.

“Perhaps.” It was hard to read his face in the flickering light. “Much as I enjoy Mrs. Merlin’s excellent strawberry tarts, I did not journey here from London simply for tea and cakes.”
 
“Must you leave so soon, my dear, delightful Devil?”

Lord Deverill Osborne untangled his legs from the satin sheets and sat up. Squinting, he tried to bring the hazy shapes on the gilt dressing table into focus. Was that a third bottle of brandy? Or merely a crystal flask of Collette’s expensive French perfume. Judging by the overlush scent clinging to both the bedclothes and his person, it was likely to be as empty as the glass of spirits that had fallen to the carpet.

“It’s past noon.” His gaze had cleared enough to make out the hands on the ormulu clock.

“Then stay until the morrow. Think of all the sinful things we can do before the next dawn.” The courtesan lowered her voice to a smoky murmur. “Have you any idea how many naughty ways there are to use an ostrich plume?”

“I’ve no doubt a ladybird of your talent can exercise a great deal of creativity.” He laughed softly as her fingers glided over his cock. Like the rest of her, they were supple, shapely, sensuous . . . and a little too grasping of late. “But I fear I have quite exhausted my own capacity for pleasure, sweeting.”

“With a little rest and a little champagne, I am sure I can coax a little more life into you.”

“I’ve had enough to drink.” Osborne tugged his shirt out from beneath the rumpled counterpane. His trousers had suffered a similar fate. “In any case, I must go. I am engaged to meet Lord Harkness at Tattersall’s, and it looks as if I will have to make a stop at my townhouse for a change of clothing.” He drew in a deep breath. And a bath.

“Will you return tonight?”

He shook his head. “Sorry, but I promised to attend Lady Haverton’s ball.”

His cher amie’s lips pursed to a pout. “I don’t intend to be a ladybird forever, Deverill. Marriage would make me a respectable lady, and then I could accompany you to the glittering ballrooms of Mayfair.” In the sliver of sunlight coming through the draperies, her eyes took on a mercenary gleam. “Just think of it—we could drink and dance until dawn, and you could awake every afternoon with me by your side.”

Marriage?

He repressed a shudder. It was time to think of giving La Belle Collette her conge. She had lasted longer than most of his mistresses. Perhaps because it had seemed too great an effort to look for a replacement.

“Come, sweeting, you are a woman of the world.” He found his shoes under the bed and slipped them on. “Let us be frank. Our arrangement is one of mutual convenience. It will not culminate in a walk down the aisle of St. George’s on Hanover Square.”

“But you find me tres amusing, non?”  

“No. Not when you to start to sound like a shrew.” He looped his limp cravat over his collar, somehow feeling like a noose was tightening around his neck. The air was suddenly cloying and his head was beginning to ache abominably. “Wheedling and whining does not become you.”

“Why, you ungrateful, uncaring man! After all I’ve done to please you—how dare you accuse me of wheedling!” Her voice was now more of a screech than a whine.

He had heard quite enough. Osborne turned to retrieve his coat, ducking just in time to avoid the Sevres figurine she hurled at his head. Picking his way through the shards of porcelain, he paused just long enough to toss a fistful of banknotes onto her dressing table.   

“Choose a parting gift at Rundell & James,” he said quietly before shutting the door on a string of French invectives.

Lud, the ladybird‘s language would put a bloody pirate to blush. She was no longer speaking of what she would do with a feather. The muffled shrieks were more of a blow by blow description of how she would saute his testicles in garlic and olive oil.

He supposed he should count himself fortunate to have escaped with his limbs, if not his dignity, intact. Running a hand through his tangled hair, he sighed and finished tucking in his shirttails. In the past he would have found the scene highly diverting. Now, it was merely . . . depressing.

Stepping out to the street, Osborne flagged down a passing hackney and settled back against the squabs for the ride back to Grosvenor Square. He was weary to the bone, and not just from a night of torrid sex. The truth was, his rakish life was becoming tiresome. Was he was growing old?  Or merely jaded? Everything seemed to come easily to him.

Too easily, perhaps. He feared he was in danger of becoming careless, contemptuous of everything around him. It was hard to value the things that required little effort to possess. Osborne sighed. Having breezed through his studies at Oxford with the highest academic honors, he ought to be smart enough to figure out the cause of his malaise. But somehow, it defied all logic. By any rational measure, he had everything a man could want. Yet something essential seemed missing.
Catching a glimpse of himself in the windowpane, he stared for a moment at the smudged glass. Fair hair, blue eyes, classically chiseled features that many ladies were wont to describe as angelic. He knew he was a great favorite of the ton, a sought-after guest at any entertainment. His face was considered highly attractive, his conversation highly amusing and his manner highly engaging, to both men and women alike. Such qualities, coupled with a perfect pedigree, opened any door in Polite Society.

Handsome. Witty, Charming. Whispering the words aloud left a stale taste in his mouth. It all sounded so shallow. Skin deep, rather than having any real substance.

The vision suddenly dissolved in the pelter of a passing rainshower. What was the true reflection of who he was?

Closing his eyes, Osborne pressed his fingertips to his temples and thought about how he was spending his time. At the moment, the few hours a week that he spent reviewing military documents for Army Intelligence was the most rewarding part of his life. The challenge kept boredom at bay. Perhaps his friend on Burrand’s general staff could be persuaded to give him more work.

The idea helped him shake off his melancholy musing. There was a good chance he would encounter Major Fenimore at the ball this evening. If not, he could always stop by White’s on the way home.

“This is a rather unusual situation.” Mrs. Merlin took a moment to pour a cup of tea before opening her notebook.

“That is one way of putting it.” Lynsley went to stand by the hearth. But despite the blazing fire, he could not dispel the chill in his blood. “The duke approached me on a purely personal basis. We have known each other for years, and though he has no notion of my true duties at Whitehall, he thought that I might be able to advise him off the record on what he should do.”

“At first blush, the death of his grandson from an overdose of opium appears to be a personal tragedy, and not a matter of government concern.”

The marquess nodded. “I thought the same thing, despite Sterling’s insistence that the young man had discovered some sinister forces at work here in London.”

“Grief can stir up strange imaginations in the mind,” said the headmistress softly as she began jotting a few notes. With her mild manners and ruffled silks, she presented a picture of matronly propriety—save for the point of a razor sharp poniard peeking out from beneath her cuff.

“Indeed,” agreed Lynsley. “Still, I made a few informal inquiries, thinking that if I found any evidence of foul play, I could ease a bit of his pain by helping to bring the miscreants to justice.”

Mrs. Merlin’s pen hovered over the page. “And?”

He blew out his breath. “And I fear there may be some truth to his accusations.” Coals crackled in the hearth as he contemplated the flare of flames  “There is an old adage—where there is smoke, there is fire. In this case, a visit to several opium dens favored by the ton turned up some very unsettling information. Lord Robert Woolsey was not the first gentleman to die under suspicious circumstances. Seven have perished over the past six months, including a diplomat from Antwerp and an envoy from Venice.”

“Unsettling indeed, but still not something that your branch of the government has any authority to handle. It seems more a matter for the local magistrates than our Merlins.” She paused for a fraction. “However, if this were simply a sordid story of drugs and debauchery, you would not be here telling it.” A tiny smile momentarily softened the pinch of her mouth. “Much as I enjoy your company for tea, Thomas, I am aware that you do not waste your time in social calls.”

“You are right—there is a deeper, darker mystery here,” answered the marquess. “A web of intrigue that seems to spread from the slums of St. Giles to the mansions of Mayfair. God only knows where it goes from there.” Lynsley heaved a sigh. “Opium is only a small part of the mix. My informants have heard rumors of a sophisticated scheme of embezzlement, one that somehow siphons money from legitimate government contracts to a private consortium. Some shipments are diverted and sold for personal gain, while others are made with inferior materials, and the difference is simply pocketed as profit.”

There was a small silence as he pressed his palms to the marble mantel. “Unfortunately, I have no other details as to what specifically is involved. But if it is true, essential services and military supplies are being compromised while a small circle of conspirators make a fortune.”

“That  certainly casts  a different light on the duke’s personal tragedy.” Mrs. Merlin set aside her teacup. “If it is true.”

“We can’t afford not to follow the thread and see where it leads,” he replied. “If there are high government officials tainted by corruption, it could have disastrous repercussions for the country. A scandal at this point in time would seriously weaken our efforts to stop Napoleon’s march eastward.”

“Yet you seem reluctant to act.”

“It is never easy to send one of our students into danger. Especially when the enemy is naught but a swirl of smoke and shadow.” 

“Of course it’s not easy, Thomas,” replied Mrs. Merlin. “Keeping England safe from all its enemies is a difficult, dirty business. That is why the Academy exists.”

Seeing his fingers tighten on the polished stone, she added, “If it’s any consolation, the girls understand the risks and accept the challenge. They believe as strongly as we do that our freedoms are worth fighting for.”

“An eloquent speech, as usual. So you think I should have a clear conscience?” The marquess glanced up at the gilt framed portrait of Sir Francis Walsingham, but the stern features of England’s first spymaster offered little in the way of sympathy. “Even though I am considering putting one of our Merlins into a nest of vipers with little to go on save for rumor and innuendo?”

“If you are asking for a second opinion, I would say you have no choice but to do so. I take it you do not feel it is a case than can be handled through any normal channels of investigation at Whitehall.”

He shook his head. “Given the sensitive nature of the charges, I do not trust involving any of the other departments.”

Mrs. Merlin opened one of the document cases on her desk and took out a sheaf of papers. “One of our operatives working on the East India docks recently submitted a report on the trafficking of illegal goods from India and China. It should provide some useful leads. Indeed, one item already comes to mind. There is a new source, as yet unidentified, of extremely potent opium coming in from the east. At the same time, the Levant Company has suffered the loss of a number of shipments, which has driven up the price.”

Lynsley frowned. “I shall have one of my men take a closer look at the activity around Mincing Lane, as well as attend the next fortnightly auction at Garraway’s Coffee House.” He thought for a moment. “I shall also send a sample of the narcotic found next to Lord Robert’s body to Lady Sheffield for analysis. She may be able to identify its place of origin.”

“Lady Sheffield?” Mrs. Merlin’s brow furrowed. “Isn’t she the one who was recently accused of poisoning her husband?”

“Malicious gossip,” replied Lynsley. “The earl was a brute who drank himself to death. As for the lady, she is a serious scholar, a highly respected member of the Scientific Society, and a brilliant chemist. I’ve used her before, and her work is impeccable.”

“I should have guessed the truth. The ton is always quick to attack a female of imagination and intelligence.” The headmistress reached for a fresh sheet of foolscap. “Those investigations should turn up some answers. As for the duke’s suspicions, did he give you any clue of what we are looking for?”

“There isn’t much to go on,” replied Lynsley with a purse of his mouth. “Based on a diary found in the young man’s rooms, Sterling believes his grandson was investigating a group of gentlemen who call themselves the Scarlet Knights—on account of their red waistcoats and wild carousing from dusk to dawn.”

“I’ve heard rumors of their revelries.” Mrs. Merlin tapped the pen to the tip of her chin. “Drinking, gambling, and raising hell in the less savory parts of the city is not uncommon behavior for blades of the ton, but the Knights are said to carry excess to the extreme.”

Lynsley turned from the fire and clasped his hands behind his back. “It would all seem juvenile, if not for the people involved. Lord De Winton is said to be one of its regulars, as are several foreign noblemen. Their names are noted with red ink in Lord Robert’s diary.” He withdrew a small object from his coat pocket and placed it on the leather blotter. “This was found as well.”

The headmistress picked up the gold key and carefully studied the blood-red enameled poppy crowning its end. “What is it for?”

Lynsley’s lips thinned to a grim line. “That is what we need to discover. Unfortunately Lord Robert left no hint of its significance in his writings. But I have a strong feeling that it will unlock the secrets we seek.”

“If we put it in the right hands.”

“Yes. The right hands.” The marquess’s voice was barely audible over the hiss of the glowing embers.

The headmistress took a moment to sharpen her quill. “I think it’s time we summon Sofia.