The Scarlet Spy (12 page)

Not that she expected any great revelations. However, she couldn’t afford to leave any stone unturned. The looking glass reflected her wry grimace. Even if that meant memorizing several chapters on the sculptural techniques of ancient artists. Sterling was a noted connoisseur of classical coins and portrait medallions. Pretending to share his passion would provide a perfect excuse to cultivate a friendship.

Lies and deception.

“Shall you wear the forest-green daydress, milady?” Rose entered the room, a stack of freshly ironed handkerchiefs in her hands.

Sofia looked up from her reading. “Yes.” Its conservative cut—long sleeves, high neck, full folds—would help create the illusion of a prim widow, interested in furthering her knowledge of serious scholarship. “And a plain wool shawl.”

“Very good, milady. We had best begin dressing, if you are not to be late.”

Time to don yet another disguise.

As her maid turned away, Sofia fingered the locket beneath her silk wrapper.
A stranger in her own skin.
It was yet another kinship she felt with the mystery lady portrayed in the miniature. The faded features reflected her own blurred identity. They were both nameless, with no discernible past. This foray into London Society, where every minute detail of family, rank, and relationships was scrutinized, had made her even more aware of her own isolation. Her own unanswered questions.

Lady Nobody.

“A simple hairstyle would be fitting, don’t you agree?” Rose gathered the loosened tumble of raven hair and coiled it in a tight bun.

Sofia pulled her thoughts back to the present. “Yes, yes, that looks just right.”

However, she remained somewhat distracted through the rest of her dressing. Picking up the book on Roman history, she reviewed the chapter on the Pantheon as her maid set about making the finishing touches.

“Would that the duke had an interest in Florence or Siena,” she murmured. “I at least have a rudimentary knowledge of Renaissance art.”

Her maid fumbled a hairpin, and it fell to the carpet.

“It’s my fault.” The bobble brought a rueful smile to Sofia’s lips. Rose was normally so sure-handed. “I fear that my fidgets are making things harder for you.”

“No, milady.” But Rose wore an odd expression as she reached for another pin.

“Is something wrong, Rose?”

“No, milady.” There was a pause as she anchored the loose strand in place. “It was simply the mention of the city—Siena. It reminded me of something else.”

Sofia turned in her chair, nearly undoing her maid’s handiwork. “You know … Siena?”

Rose’s gaze turned more shuttered. “I have not had the opportunity to travel in Italy.”

“That was not what I meant.” Sofia decided to press the point. The world of polite society was all so new and disorienting. It would be nice to have someone in whom she could confide some of her secrets. Lynsley had assured her that the woman was completely trustworthy. “I was speaking of …” Sofia hesitated for a fraction. “My sister. My sister-in-arms, that is. Siena and I trained together for years.”

The announcement finally elicited a crack in the maid’s stony stoicism. “The resemblances between the two of you are striking,” murmured Rose, allowing just a hint of a smile.

Sofia studied her own reflection for a moment. “Would that I can show the same skill and courage in the face of danger as she did.”

Looping the last strands of hair into place, Rose set the pins in a precise row. “From what I have seen, milady, you have no need to worry.”

“Why, thank you, Rose.” The compliment, however oblique, was a boost to her confidence.

The maid’s answer was a rustling within the armoire. “The burgundy shawl will add just the right touch of coloring to your ensemble. Elegant, yet sober and sensible.” The fringe feathered over Sofia’s arms, and though it might only have been her imagination, it seemed as if Rose’s workmanlike hands lingered a touch longer than usual.

“Excellent.” The maid stepped back to judge the effect. “Now, you had better be on your way. The carriage is waiting, and it would not be wise to make a late entrance to the lecture.”

Accepting her reticule, Sofia smiled. “I am not quite sure what to expect. Let us hope I shall not find myself thrown to the lions of the Coliseum.”

“More likely they will put you in a place of honor so that they may feast their eyes on you.”

The words proved to be no joke, for a short while later, Sofia found herself being escorted to a front-row seat by the head of the Society, a portly, middle-aged baron who, despite his advancing years and receding hairline, wore his locks in the latest
a la Brutus
style.

“What a pleasure to have you join our little group this afternoon, Contessa,” he announced.

“I do hope I was not too forward in asking if I might attend one of your lectures.”

“Not at all, not at all. We are always anxious to have those with a serious interest in scholarship join our ranks.”

Sofia hoped that Lynsley had not started a rumor regarding her expertise in some arcane area of ancient study. She was still struggling to tell the difference between Aurelian and Octavian stylistic elements. “I confess, I am merely a neophyte, but I am anxious to learn more.” She paused and heaved an audible sigh. “My late husband was a connoisseur of Roman sculpture, and he passed on his passion to me. I wish to become more conversant with his collection.”

The baron’s smile turned positively Dionysian. “That is very commendable of you. I would be delighted to provide a private tutorial whenever you might wish.”

“How kind.” She fixed him with a stony stare that quickly sobered his expression.

“And then, of course, our series of talks on the—”

“Ahem.”
Clearing his throat, the gentleman at the lectern glared and shuffled his papers. “If you would all take your seats, I would like to begin with a few words on the early years of Augustus …”

The talk prosed on for nearly an hour. Sofia struggled to keep up with the detailed explanation of stylistic nuances, yet she found her attention wandering. The elderly lady dressed in flowing white silks and a golden headdress of artificial laurel leaves must be the eccentric Dowager Marchioness of Muirfield, a lady who claimed to commune with the ghost of Cleopatra. That oddity was overlooked because of her generous financial contributions to the Society, and because her essays on Roman garden design were considered quite lucid.

Seated to her left was an effete-looking young man in high shirtpoints and an elaborate cravat. The frothing folds of the Waterfall knot matched the artful curl of his long hair—surely he was the
enfant terrible
poet Bryce Beecham, whose translation of Virgil’s
Aeneid
had made him the newest sensation of the literary world.

Sofia’s gaze slid sideways, trying to match faces with the names and descriptions in her files. Fat and florid Lord Rockham penned sonnets in classical Latin, rail-thin Mr. Jervis had authored several scholarly treatises on the ancient aqueduct system, and the copper-curled Miss Pennington-Pryce was an authority on Roman sculpture …

Her eyes nearly missed the Duke of Sterling, who was seated in the far corner, deep in the lengthening shadows of a large statue of Jupiter. Even half obscured, he exuded an aura of authority, with a sculpted strength to his profile that matched the regal Roman stone. The angular planes and chiseled lines had weathered over the years to a harsh edge in places. But at the age of five and sixty, the duke was still a handsome man, with a leonine mane of white hair crowning a high forehead and prominent aquiline nose.

He looked austere, aloof and aristocratic, as befitting his august lineage. And sad.

The death of his grandson must still be sharp in his memory, mused Sofia. She also seemed to recall mention of another family tragedy buried in the past, something about an estrangement from his only daughter, a great favorite, who had eloped in defiance to his wishes. By all accounts, the young lady had died before any reconciliation had taken place.

Sofia gave an inward sigh.
Family.
Life was so fragile, so fleeting. How could any quarrel sever the bonds of love?

After staring a moment longer, she looked away. The Academy’s classes on the beau monde had taught that love had little to do with the lives of titled families. Marriages were based on pragmatic considerations like land, power, and money, rather than any flutter of the heart. Duty came before desire.

A rueful smile played on her lips. In many ways, it was not so very different from the rules governing her own world.

“And so that covers the sculpture of the Flavian period. In the coming weeks, I shall be talking about the later years of the Empire, but for now, I will be happy to answer any questions.”

Several people raised stylistic queries; then the meeting was adjourned for refreshments. Sofia allowed the baron to introduce her to a circle of his friends, but after a few polite pleasantries, she managed to excuse herself from the conversation. Eluding eye contact with the two ladies, she made her way to the glass display cabinets in the arched alcove.

“You appear to have a keen interest in coins, madam.” A deep voice, gruff and gravelly, sounded close by after she had been studying the artifacts for some time.

She looked up. “Very much so. I find the faces fascinating.”

Up close, the Duke of Sterling did not look so intimidating, perhaps because his lively gray-green eyes suddenly lit with a certain spark of amusement. “Indeed, one can see the full range of human emotion,” he replied. “Greed, pride, avarice, lust.”

“As well as courage, nobility, and compassion,” she added softly.

“That, too.” He pressed his broad palms to the glass. “I suppose I have become a trifle cynical in my old age.”

“Not nearly as cynical as Tiberius.” Sofia pointed to the pronounced sneer of the ancient emperor. “I sometimes like to imagine stories to go with the faces—who they really were, what their lives were like. Not very scholarly, I fear, but it makes history very human.”

Sterling chuckled. “I confess that I do much the same when studying my own collection. Some of the likenesses are haunting.” His gaze narrowed for an instant; then he shook his head slightly. “Of course, it’s naught but flights of fancy, yet as you say, it does make the past come alive.”

“By all accounts, your private collection would inspire more than a few stories, Your Grace. I have heard that it is one of the finest in England.”

“It does not compare to some of the collections in your country.” His smile had returned. “Permit me to make your formal acquaintance, Contessa, though it seems we have no need of exchanging names.”

“Indeed not, sir. It is an honor to meet such an august personage.”

He gave a wry grimace. “Good heavens. You make me sound as if I, too, should be under glass.”

She feigned a show of embarrassment. “Forgive me—my English is not as polished as I would like.”

“Your English is delightful, Contessa.” He patted her arm. “Though I daresay you ought to be conversing with the younger gentlemen, rather than an ancient artifact like me.”

“I much prefer intelligent discourse to false flatteries, Your Grace.”

He gave a short, sardonic growl of laughter. “You, too, find toadeaters tiresome? Then allow me to spirit you away to the other galleries and show you the rest of the Society’s collection.”

“I should like that very much.”

Sofia followed the duke through the other display cabinets, hoping that her occasional comments did not betray her unfamiliarity with antiquities.
False flatteries, indeed.
She felt a little guilty for leading him on. Clearly the subject was one that was dear to his heart. The set of his mouth softened as he described the exquisite workmanship on a series of bronze castings, and the shading beneath his eyes seemed to lighten.

Turning into the Sculpture Room, Sterling paused before a bust of Ovid. “My grandson was a great admirer of rhetoric and logic.” He sighed. “Perhaps too much so.”

“Forgive me if I stir painful memories, but I would like to offer my condolences. I am only recently arrived in Town, but I have heard mention of your recent loss.”

“Yes, I have no doubt that Robert’s death was grist for the gossip mills.” His jaw tightened. “London loves a scandal. And the more lurid the details, the better.”

“Unfortunately, the penchant for sordid speculation is universal, Your Grace. Rumors and innuendo tend to take on a life of their own.”

“You are wise beyond your years, Contessa.” His expression turned bleak, brooding. “I thank you for offering such words of comfort.”

They appeared to be of cold comfort. The duke’s face was as pale and lifeless as the carved marble.

“Did your grandson share your love of antiquities?” she asked. Though loath to pry into painful memories, it was her duty to learn all she could about the young man.

“Yes. Robert had a lively interest in a great many things. He was an extraordinary fellow …”

Osborne stalked past the display of botanical books, seeking the section of shelves devoted to Italian history and culture. There must be a Mediterranean version of Debrett’s, a volume that listed the titled nobility of the various principalities and city states.

Count della Ghiradelli. Contessa della Silveri.
He would begin by seeing whether they were fact or fiction. Lynsley’s teasing had rubbed his already-sensitive nerves raw.

It took some searching but he finally found what he was looking for. That it was in Italian didn’t matter, for all he needed was to page through the alphabetical listings on Milan and Venice.

Ghirabella, Ghiracetti … damn.
He felt a tiny twinge of disappointment at discovering an entry for Giovanni Marco Musto della Ghiradelli. The age looked to be right. As did all the information on Conte de Silveri, who had indeed passed away several years ago. A marriage date was there, but the name was left blank.

“I was not aware of your genealogical interest in Italy, Lord Osborne.” The voice of Lady Serena Sommers floated over his shoulder.