The Scarlet Spy (8 page)

Quickening his tempo to the cresecendoing music, he shrugged off such musings. Why the devil did he give a damn what sort of man Lady Sofia cared for? Whether she liked him or not was of no consequence. He was simply doing a personal favor for the marquess. After he discharged his duty, the cold contessa could go to hell.

As the last strains of the violins died away, Osborne led her toward a knot of gentlemen who had gathered by the punch bowl.
Hillhouse, Whalley, York, Howe.
All were prominent peers, men of influence in Society.

“Lady Sofia, allow me to introduce you to some of my friends.”

There was a clinking of cut glass as the gentlemen hurriedly set aside their cups. The claret appeared untasted, for they had all been drinking in the sight of the lovely stranger.

“Enchanted, Contessa.”

“Italy has just lost one of its artistic treasures.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you.”

The fellows were nearly tripping over their feet to make their bows to the lady. He stepped back and watched in sardonic amusement as her dance card was quickly filled in a flurry of scribbles.

Lord Hillhouse had won the honors of leading her out for the next set, a lively country gavotte.

Seeing that she was in good hands for the next little while, Osborne turned away and quickly found a glass of champagne. His throat was dry and prickly from his exertions, but even though he quaffed it in one long swallow, its sweetness did not quite wash the sour taste from his mouth. He reached for another, sipping more slowly this time as he observed Lady Sofia and Hillhouse sharing a merry laugh. It shouldn’t rankle that the contessa had given
him
the cold shoulder, yet his hand gripped the glass so tightly that the cut crystal pattern was imprinted on his palm.

He tried to temper his irritation by telling himself it was based on principle rather than personal pique. The lady ought to have a reason for treating him with ill-disguised contempt.

“Osborne.” A rice-paper fan slapped softly against his sleeve. “I find you free at least.”

“Lady Caro.” He kept his eyes on the capering couples.

“The contessa appears to have made a number of conquests.”

His only answer was a brusque shrug.

“Why, even
you
seem smitten by her charms.” Lady Caroline’s tone was playful, but her eyes sharpened to a slitted gaze. “Everyone has remarked on the promenade in the park.”

“For God’s sake, I am merely doing Lord Lynsley a small favor,” he snapped. “I don’t know why it should stir such a fuss.”

Lady Caroline paled.

“Forgive me.” He sighed and pressed his fingertips to his temples. “I am feeling a bit out of sorts … a headache.”

Her expression softened into a look of concern. “I thought you looked unwell. You should not be straining your strength by staying out until all hours. Return home at once and seek your bed. I will send one of my servants around with the recipe for a soothing posset.”

More likely she would bring it around herself.

He and Lady Caroline had had a brief affair some months ago—another of his recent lapses in judgment. She was very pretty, but very possessive, despite the fact that she had a husband. The elderly baron hated Town life, while Caroline loved the pleasures of London. Now that she was back from the country, she had been dropping obvious hints about her desire to resume the arrangement.

“It’s merely a trifling bother. And besides, I promised the marquess that I would help introduce the contessa into Society.”

“She does not look as if she needs any assistance,” replied Lady Caroline. Her voice was waspish.

Women.
Osborne gave an inward wince. The ache in his head was beginning to feel as if someone was pounding a spike through his skull.

“Osborne!”

Seeing Henry Griswold’s wave, he excused himself from Lady Caroline and made his escape. The fellow, a noted authority on Roman antiquities, could be a bit garrulous at times. But he would gladly listen to the whole of Caesar’s Commentaries on the Gallic Wars in return for such a fortuitous rescue.

“Osborne, I must tell you all about the bust of Dionysius I just purchased at auction. You, of all people, will appreciate its artistic merits …”

The lecture lasted until the supper dance. Osborne felt a little guilty about listening with only half an ear, but his occasional murmurs and nods seemed to satisfy his friend.

“How fascinating, Griz. But alas, I am promised for the upcoming waltz.” He was finally forced to put an end to the detailed description of orgies in the second century. “Can’t keep a lady waiting.”

“Er …” The scholar blinked. “Oh, right.”

“A toast to merriment and revelry.” Osborne raised his glass and winked before walking back to the dance floor.

It was not hard to find the contessa. She was surrounded by a bevy of admirers anxious to make her formal acquaintance. “Forgive me, gentlemen, but I am afraid I must claim the lady for the next dance.”

The announcement elicited a chorus of sighs.

“Be a good fellow and introduce me,” asked Lord Westford in a low voice as he stepped aside. “We all know you have no interest in donning a legshackle, but the contessa’s beauty might tempt me to make an offer.”

“Not to speak of her wealth.” Osborne paused for a fraction. “It’s well known you need to marry for money, Fitz. But don’t get your hopes up. The marquess will be sure to warn the widow away from fortune hunters.”

And if Lynsley didn’t, he would.
The lady, for all her faults, deserved better than a dissolute drunk like the Earl of Westford.

Taking Lady Sofia’s hand, he drew her onto the dance floor. “Are you enjoying your first foray into London Society?”

“Very much, thank you.”

“By the look of it, you will have no trouble fitting in.”

“Everyone has been very kind.” Her eyes kept moving around the ballroom. “Perhaps I shall not have to impose on your hospitality for too much longer.”

His mouth curled in irony at the suggestion. “Don’t worry, Lady Sofia. You won’t have to endure my obnoxious presence for more than another week or so.”

“Th-that is not precisely what I meant, sir,” she stammered. “My English—”

“Your English is perfectly clear,” he said lightly. “No need to blush. We are out of earshot from Lord Lynsley. However, as the marquess has asked me to be responsible for seeing you set within the right circles, we shall have to spin along together for a little longer.”

The silence between them stretched on for several twirls before she spoke. “You take your responsibilities seriously?”

“Yes,” he replied, more sharply than he intended. “I do.”

On that note, it was time to turn their steps for the supper room.

After filling their plates from the sumptuous array of delicacies, Osborne found them seats in a corner by the mullioned windows.

“I could not help but notice, sir”—Lady Sofia took a tiny nibble of a lobster patty, then set it aside—“there are several gentlemen wearing waistcoats of a similar shade of bright red. Is there any significance to their dress?”

“Yes. But I won’t disturb you with the details.”

Her jaw tightened. “Dear me, are you one of those men who feel that talk of the weather and the latest fashions are the only subjects fit for a lady’s virginal ears?” For an instant, it looked like her knife was poised to spear his liver rather than the morsel of sautéed foie gras. “Be advised that I am not a virgin. Nor am I a child.”

“No one would ever mistake you for a child, Contessa,” he drawled, hoping that humor might help dispel the tension between them.

The set of her mouth relaxed.
A twitch of amusement?
Or merely a flicker of candlelight? “No comment on the other assertion?”

“None that a gentleman would dream of making.”

This time there was no mistaking her chuckle. It was lush and liquid, like cool water running over smooth stones. “I wonder, sir, why it is that you seem to go out of your way to appear—”

“Frivolous?” he finished. “Ah, well, I suppose beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

“You clearly have a sharp intelligence lurking beneath your frivolous flirtations.”

She seemed to be challenging him. “I wonder, madam, why it is you seem to go out of your way to appear cold and condescending,” he replied calmly. “For you clearly have a sly sense of humor lurking beneath your imperious scowl.”

“Touché.”

“I didn’t realize we were at daggers drawn.”

She sliced off a small piece of roast beef. “About the red waistcoats, Lord Osborne.”

Damn.
He had hoped to steer the conversation away from De Winton and his friends. The Scarlet Knights were likely not the sort of men Lynsley had in mind for Lady Sofia. If there was any truth to the rumors he had been hearing lately, their exploits went far beyond the usual vices of drinking, wenching, and gambling.

“A vulgar color, don’t you think?” He exaggerated his teasing tone. “I am crushed that you have yet to comment on
my
waistcoat. I would have thought that a lady from the country of the Renaissance would find this subtle shade of seafoam blue far more intriguing. Indeed, my tailor assures me that it is a work of art.”

A spark of annoyance flared from beneath her sable lashes. But when she looked up, her gaze had darkened to a deep smoky green. “It suits your coloring to perfection—as I am sure you know well.”

“I was not fishing for compliments, Contessa.”

“And yet I rose to the bait,” she said tartly.

Her humor was quick, cutting. To his surprise, Osborne found himself enjoying the verbal thrusts and parries. It was stimulating, in a way that was difficult to describe. “Would that you were hooked on my company. But alas, it appears you can’t wait to wriggle away from me.”

Lady Sofia stilled her fidgeting. Yet her eyes kept darting over the supper crowd. “Perhaps if you would speak to me as if my brain were as well-developed as other parts of my anatomy, I would find our time together a more comfortable experience.”

Osborne nearly choked on a swallow of champagne. “From that barb, am I to assume you prefer plain speaking?”

“Yes.”

“Most ladies would rather hear sweet nothings.”

There was a hint of hesitation. “I am not like most ladies, sir.”

He was fast becoming aware of that. Everything about her—the intense emerald gaze, the sultry dark beauty, the sleek stretch of muscle—was exotic. Unexpected.

Before he could answer, she turned slightly, her eyes following a figure near the ballroom archway. “However, if you do not care to answer my questions, I can always ask the gentleman himself.”

“Lady Sofia,” he began.

“Lady Sofia!” Lord Webster approached, accompanied by none other than Adam De Winton.

Osborne tried to warn his friend off with his eyes, but the baron was oblivious to the daggered look.

“Allow me to introduce you to another admirer, Contessa.” He winked at Osborne. “Sorry, Dev. I tried to keep her to ourselves, but De Winton would not take no for an answer.”

When it came to pleasures of the flesh, the word was likely not part of the man’s vocabulary, thought Osborne rather acidly.

“Indeed, the lady is far too lovely to keep sequestered in this corner. I beg you will permit me the honor of making your acquaintance.” De Winton held her hand a fraction too long at his lips. “I have a confession to make, Contessa—I have been watching you from afar all evening, hoping for the opportunity to approach and pay my respects.”

Lady Sofia favored him with a smile. “I, too, could not help noticing you, sir—or rather your waistcoat.”

Osborne gritted his teeth to keep from grimacing.

“Do you like bold colors?” asked De Winton.

“That depends.”

Osborne saw De Winton’s smile stretch a touch wider. “On what, madam?”

Lady Sofia batted her lashes. “On a great many things.”

Damn.
Was she actually
flirting
with the man?

“As for your choice, sir, that is a very distinctive shade of scarlet. I was just asking if there was a story to it.”

“Oh, yes. I would be most happy to tell it to you during one of the upcoming dances.”

“Alas, I am afraid that my card is full, sir.”

“What a pity.”

Up close, De Winton’s gaze mirrored the reddish cast of his waistcoat.
Was the lady blind to the telltale signs of dissolution?

“You must promise to save a waltz for me next time we meet.”

“I shall indeed.”

The crowd was beginning to drift back to the ballroom. Already the musicians were tuning their instruments.

Osborne welcomed the chance to put an end to the exchange. “Lady Sofia, I believe Woodbridge is written in for this set.”

If looks could kill.
The contessa did not look at all happy at his interruption. “Please excuse me, Lord De Winton. It seems as if I must not miss a note of this opening gavotte.”

“Ciao.”
De Winton mouthed the word as if he were biting into a ripe peach.

He felt Sofia turn for a last little look. “If I were you, I would say
arrivederci,”
he muttered. “De Winton is a dissolute scoundrel. And his taste in clothing is execrable.”

She kept her eyes averted from his. “As you said earlier, Lord Osborne, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

Sofia finished writing up her daily report and set down her pen. Lady Mooreworth’s tidbit on De Winton’s favorite gaming haunts—served up with sugared lemon cakes and tea in the lady’s overheated parlor—was an interesting bit of gossip. As was Mrs. Wentworth’s dark hint of drug use among his friends. However, as she thumbed back through the pages of the notebook, a sigh of frustration slipped from her lips. True, she was beginning to compile some useful information on the members of the Scarlet Knights. Still, it felt as if her mission was proceeding at an excruciatingly slow pace.

As opposed to her social life, which rarely allowed her a moment to breathe. She made a wry face. The last few days had passed in a whirl. Dress fittings, morning calls, shopping for baubles on Bond Street—the life of a pampered aristocrat was more demanding than she had imagined.