The Scarlet Spy (7 page)

Both in word and inflection, her English was perfectly clear. It was her motives that were cause for question.

“Please forgive me if I have given you the wrong impression,” she continued. “Lord Lynsley and I are extremely grateful for your willingness to introduce a complete stranger into your circle of friends. I should be greatly upset if you should think otherwise.”

It was a handsome apology, and yet her spine remained stiff, her gaze guarded.

“It is I who must apologize for distressing you,” he said softly. “The last thing I shall say on the subject is that if I have unwittingly offended you, I hope you will allow me to make amends.”

After an awkward silence, Sofia asked him to identify several of the buildings along Half Moon Street. The rest of the ride passed in pleasantries; however, as he helped her down from the high perch, Osborne sensed she was anxious to escape his presence.

Lud, he didn’t have the plague or a paunch.
His irritation increased as he watched her hurry up the marble steps and let the door fall closed without a backward glance. Perhaps his feelings were still on edge from his recent mistakes, but the fact that a complete stranger had snubbed his offer of friendship piqued his pride.

Still staring at the dark green portal, he flexed his gloved fingers. For whatever reason, Lady Sofia Constanza Bingham della Silveri had thrown down a gauntlet.
Was he up to the challenge?

The corners of his mouth curled. The duel would at least keep boredom at bay. It would be interesting to see which proved stronger—his reputed charm or her inexplicable disdain.

Turning away, he walked back to his vehicle with a spring in his step. His friend Kirtland, a decorated veteran of the Peninsular War, had a name for such a confrontation.

Mano a mano.

He gave the horses a light flick of the whip.

Mano a mano,
he repeated to himself. Well, may the best man win.

The scent of sweet perfumes and spicy colognes mingled with the smoke from the blazing torchieres flanking the front door. The evening was cool, but the heat inside the crowded entrance hall was already oppressive.

Sofia looked around, taking care to mask her amazement over the sights, the sounds, the smells of her first London ball. She was now a fine lady, she reminded herself. No one must guess she was not at home in the sumptuous splendor of Mayfair’s mansions.

A lady must always be in control of her emotions.
For an instant, the echo of Mrs. Merlin’s words rose up over the trilling voices and velvety swoosh of the evening finery. She could feel the curious stares upon her as the marquess handed her cloak to one of the porters.

From now on, she would have to do a much better job at hiding her feelings. That Lord Osborne had seen through her show of politeness so quickly was something of a shock. Given his golden looks and great popularity, she had assumed that he would be more interested in himself than anyone else. She would take greater care not to underestimate his powers of observation again.

“A dreadful crush, is it not?” The marquess surveyed the line of guests trying to make their way up the curved stairway. “That is, of course, the highest accolade for any evening entertainment.”

“A crush indeed.” Sofia swept her skirts from the paths of two young gentlemen, who nearly collided with each other as they turned to ogle her bosom. “Cabbage heads,” she said under her breath, watching them fuss with the voluminous folds of their cravats. “If their shirtpoints were any higher, they would be in danger of poking out their eyes.”

“As you see, many of the
ton
are slaves to fashion,” said Lynsley dryly. “Take a moment to look around and familiarize yourself with the beau monde. Once we pass through the receiving line and enter the ballroom, things will begin moving quite fast.”

“I will stay on my toes, sir.” She had not made mention of her pointed exchange with Osborne. She would give the marquess no further cause for complaint.

“Just Lynsley,” he reminded her. “I am no longer your superior, merely a friend.”

Yes, sir.
Quelling the urge to snap a salute, Sofia assumed an air of nonchalance and began a slow survey of her surroundings.

The vast stretch of black and white marble floor tiles were barely visible beneath the sea of ruffled silks and polished pumps. The effect was still impressive, as was the glossy white paneling, trimmed in a tone of deep claret. Several large gilt-framed portraits peered down in grim-faced silence at the milling guests. Judging by the starched white ruffs and richly embroidered velvet doublets, they had witnessed several centuries of frivolity without cracking a smile.

Their old-fashioned sartorial splendor was more than matched by the feathered finery of the present day.

Lud, were those really pink ostrich plumes crowning a billowing purple turban? Sofia stilled the flutter of her lips as her gaze moved on. The ballgowns ranged from demure pastel confections to daring jewel tone designs that bared a goodly amount of flesh. Highlighting the soft shimmer of the fabrics was the hard-edged sparkle of gold and precious stones. Lace fichus, gold-threaded overskirts, fringed shawls, painted fans … Sofia felt her head spinning at the flamboyant show of au courant styles.

The gentlemen were strutting around like peacocks as well. Though some were, like Lynsley, dressed in stark black and white, there was plenty of colorful plumage to be seen. Her eye lingered on a swallowtail coat of canary yellow pressed shoulder to shoulder with a sky-blue wasp-waisted jacket. Even more colorful were the waistcoats, which came in a dizzying assortment of stripes and patterns. The accessories were no less extravagant. Brass buttons the size of saucers festooned the superfine wool, ruby stickpins held knotted cravats in place, and the thick gold watchchains hung heavy with ornate fobs.

Privilege, power, pedigree.
Wealth had a language of its own.

“If you are ready, my dear, I think we can begin making our way up to greet our hostess.” Lynsley’s words roused her from her study.

“Yes, of course.”

The line snaking up the ornately carved staircase did not appear to have thinned much, but Sofia followed Lynsley’s lead. She felt the brush of wool against her bare arms and heard whispers stir behind her back. Lifting her chin, she pretended to take no notice.

She was an actress playing a role, she reminded herself. Now that the curtain had risen and she had stepped onto the grand stage, she must get used to being the subject of scrutiny.

As they made the last turn to the upper floor, the light from the massive chandelier seemed to take on an even more glittering intensity.

“My dear Thomas! To what do we owe this rare honor? It isn’t often that we can coax you out of the warrens of Whitehall.”

“To the daughter of an old friend, Sally. Allow me to introduce Lady Sofia della Silveri—”

“Ah, yes, I’ve heard all about the contessa.” Lady Jersey waggled a plump finger. “You’ve stirred up quite a gaggle of gossip, my dear, by convincing the devilishly handsome Lord Osborne to ask you to ride in his phaeton.” The countess lowered her voice, though to Sofia it still sounded like a stentorian shout. “Caro Culverton has been trying for
years
to wheedle her way to such lofty heights. But Osborne is known for never sharing the seat of that particular vehicle. You must tell me what hold you have over the man.”

“None at all, I’m afraid.” Sofia matched the other lady’s light laugh. “Lord Osborne was simply being exceedingly kind, in response to Lord Lynsley asking a favor of him.”

Lady Jersey arched a brow at the marquess. “I didn’t realize the two of you were friends. It’s true he shows great loyalty to his friends. He stood by Lord Kirtland, despite all the ugly rumors swirling around the earl’s name.”

“Osborne is a gentleman of great integrity,” agreed Lynsley. “I am fortunate he is free to escort Lady Sofia around Town until she is settled into Society.”

“How very kind of you, Thomas.” The countess tapped his sleeve with her fan and winked. “Not many gentlemen would be so gracious as to cede that task to someone else.”

“Alas, I have little choice in the matter. Work is a harder mistress than any female.”

Lady Jersey gave a snort of laughter.

“Besides, Lady Sofia will have a much gayer time with someone who is not old enough to be her father.”

The countess made a show of examining the marquess through her quizzing glass.

Sofia, too, ventured a surreptitious look, aware she was seeing him in a whole new light. A whole new world. The glittering Mayfair ballroom, aswirl in silks, champagne, and crystal-edged laughter, was so utterly unlike the simple, spartan Academy classrooms.

Though Lynsley’s neatly trimmed hair was showing a touch of silver at the temples, it was still thick and a rich, burnished brown. His face, while not precisely handsome, was austerely aristocratic. Lines crinkled the corners of his ice-blue eyes, but age had not softened the strength of his chiseled features. And though his somber dress—devoid of any color or ornament that might draw the eye—seemed deliberately designed to blend in with the crowd, there was a subtle air of authority about him.

Sofia blinked. Anyone who looked carefully would see he was a very attractive man.

Lady Jersey seemed to agree. “You don’t appear to be doddering into your dotage quite yet. I’ve several ladies I would like you to meet—”

“Perhaps later.” Lynsley smoothly lifted the lady’s hand to his lips. “But for now, we ought to let you get back to greeting your other guests. I already feel the daggered looks at my back.”

“Not on account of me.” The countess shot a speaking look at Sofia. “Very well, I’ll let the two of you go.” A last waggle of her fingers shooed them off. “But be warned—I shall catch up with you later, Thomas.”

“Now you know why Lady Jersey is known as ‘Silence’—she does like to talk,” murmured Lynsley as he took two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing footman.

Sofia sipped slowly, already feeling a bit light-headed from the effervescence of the crowd. The first notes of a waltz struck up, and the couples on the polished parquet began to spin through the elegant figures of the dance.

Focus,
she told herself. Amidst the blur of sound and color, she must concentrate on picking out the members of the Scarlet Knights. She had memorized the names from the files passed on by Lynsley. It shouldn’t be hard to spot the telltale blaze of red—

“Ah, here is Osborne,” observed the marquess.

Biting back a sigh of frustration, she schooled her expression to a polite smile. He was
not
the gentleman she wished to see at the moment, but she must go through the motions of greeting him.

“Lady Sofia, you look like a Botticelli painting come to life.” Osborne bent low over her hand.

Recalling her resolve to appear more friendly, she replied with a coy smile. “Thank you for not saying Rubens. I should have been forced to give up my favorite strawberry tarts.”

“Rubens is French, and we all know their cuisine calls for a surfeit of butter and cream.”

To his credit, the man had a quick sense of humor.

“We Italians have our vices as well.”

“Whatever they are, be assured that they are far outweighed by the virtues of beauty and wit.” Osborne finished his bow with a graceful flourish, catching the pristine square of pasteboard dangling from her wrist. “I see you have saved the first waltz on your dance card for me.” He scribbled his initials on the blank line. Then, to her dismay, put them down for the supper dance as well.

Damn.
The prospect of lobster patties and Russian caviar no longer seemed so appetizing.

It was not that she disliked the man. Oddly enough, she was a little afraid of him. A tiny frown thinned her lips. Well, not precisely
afraid
—she was not intimidated by any man. It was more an apprehension, a worry stirred by the strange sensation that came over her when his lazy gaze met hers. Deverill Osborne was a … distraction.

The mission was going to be difficult enough without anything drawing her attention from duty.

Sofia was suddenly aware of his glove grazing lightly over her bare arm. A tingle of heat, a shiver of ice.

“Shall we dance, Lady Sofia?”

Just as Lynsley had promised, the contessa was a marvelous dancer, her slim body following his lead with an effortless grace. Her steps were light, lilting, like a love sonnet of Dante …

A wry grimace pinched at Osborne’s mouth. Where had
that
thought come from? He wasn’t in a particularly poetic frame of mind. And love was certainly not the sentiment that came to mind in regard to Lady Sofia. She had responded with a light laugh to his banter, but her smile had not touched her eyes. There was still a coolness there, and despite her fluid movements, he sensed a stiffness in her spine.

Like an angry cat, its back arched, its claws barely sheathed.
Or rather a panther.
Beneath her soft silks, he was aware of an intriguing hint of muscle.

He wondered what he had done to draw her displeasure. Most ladies enjoyed a bit of flirtation. But from the start, she had made it clear she found his attentions annoying.

Even now, with their bodies only inches apart, he sensed she was determined to keep her distance. Her thoughts certainly seemed elsewhere, and her gaze was riveted to a spot over his left shoulder.

“Who is that gentleman?”

He glanced around. “Adam De Winton. But Lord Lynsley would not want me to introduce you to him.”

“Why not?”

“He has a rather nasty reputation for wildness.”

The dance drew them away from the balcony doors, yet as Osborne led her through a series of twirls, he was aware that Lady Sofia’s eyes kept drifting back to De Winton.

Perhaps she simply preferred dark-haired men to blonds, he told himself. Or perhaps she was not quite as prim and proper as she wished to appear.

Women were fascinated by sinners rather than saints. They seemed to find shadow and darkness more interesting than sweetness and light.