The Scarlet Spy

by Andrea Pickens

Genres: Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

They were once orphans from London's roughest slums. Now they are stuidents of Mrs. Merlin's Academy for Select Young Ladies, learning the techniques of spying and seduction. Bold, beautiful, and oh-so-dangerous, they are England's ultimate secret weapons... The most ladylike of "Merlin's Maidens," Sofia possesses a natural grace and grandeur to go along with her deadly arsenal of martial skills--which makes her the perfect choice for a dangerous assignment to investigate rumors of government corruption. She must spin through the glittering ballrooms of Mayfair and the sinister back alleys of the city in search of the truth. One misstep on her part could prove fatal as she works to unravel the tangled web of deceit...but keeping the sinfully sexy Deverill Osborne at arm's length is a real test of her mettle. Handsome, witty and charming, Osborne is the darling of the ton. So when he is asked by the Marquess of Lynsley to introduce a lovely young Italian contessa into Society, he is only too happy to oblige...however he soon has suspicions about the contessa. When he catches her stealing valuables from a gentleman's study, should he believe the worst? Or should he trust the tantalizing murmur of her words...and the sultry, sensuous whispers of her body. To unmask the conspirators, Sofia and Osborne will overcome hidden dangers, including their own growing passion...which may be the most dangerous force of all.

Release date: September 10, 2008

Publisher: Forever

Print pages: 352

Sample

“LOOKING FOR SOMETHING TO READ, CONTESSA?”

Sofia laughed as she caressed the leatherbound books. “The party is rather a bore, Lord Osborne. I was seeking a distraction—and it seems you are of the same frame of mind.”

The flicker of the candlelight did not quite reach Deverill’s face.

“Perhaps we could make the night a bit more interesting,” she added coyly.

“Is that an invitation?” Deverill’s voice was as inscrutable as his expression. “I was under the impression that my advances were not welcome.”

“A lady must sometimes play hard to get.” Hearing voices at the far end of the corridor, she took a step closer. “Most gentlemen are hunters at heart. They find the chase exhilarating.”

“And when the quarry is cornered?”

She reached out her hand and touched his jaw, smooth, strong, with just a faint hint of stubbling against her fingertips. “Then I expect the hunter will move in for the coup de grace.”

Deverill hesitated for a heartbeat, then caught her up in his arms . . .

“Pickens is a wonderful storyteller.”

—Romance Reviews Today

RAVES FOR SEDUCED BY A SPY . . .

“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! Merlin’s Maidens make a comeback in a thrilling sequel. But it’s more than action that makes this a keeper; it’s the emotional depth of Pickens’s honorable characters, strong conflict, and superb repartee.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine

“Excellent . . . A rollicking action adventure full of smoldering romance, historical intrigue [and] dry wit . . . The return of two popular characters from the first book in the series will delight readers who have already discovered Merlin’s Maidens, while those who are new to the series will thoroughly enjoy getting to know the spirited and courageous Shannon and the wickedly charming Alexandr. I highly recommend it.”

—FreshFiction.com

“Pickens has added the swashbuckling of The Three Musketeers and some steamy romance. It’s a lot of fun.” —JandysBooks.com

“Action-packed, with passion and romance radiating between Shannon and Alexandr . . . Another wonderful historical.”

—BookLoons.com

“I was absolutely riveted by Seduced by a Spy from the very first page. There is action, suspense, intrigue, and romance. I adored the hero and heroine . . . The premise of the Merlin’s Maidens simply captivated me.”

—KathysReviewCorner.com

“Fast-paced . . . fascinating lead characters . . . a fun historical.”

—Midwest Book Review

AND THE SPY WORE SILK . . .

“Passion and sexy swordfights . . . rapier-sharp repartee, action, and suspense. This is the stuff of fantasy and nonstop reading!”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine

“Saucy . . . audacious . . . a fun thriller . . . Regency espionage romantic suspense starring a courageous heroine and a strong support cast.”

—Midwest Book Review

“Ms. Pickens is a talented writer. Her characters are real and the setting is beautifully drawn, while the dialogue is snappy and period-appropriate. For readers of romance who enjoy tales of fighting women and the men who love them, this book is worth adding to your reading list.”

—Historical Novels Review

Chapter One

Candlelight kissed the cut crystal, the fire-gold 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 also 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-gray 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 as 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 tight-knit 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 roommates 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 upon to undertake a different sort of mission, Sofia.” As if by magic, the Marquess of Lynsley appeared in one of the archways of the alcoves. Dressed in somber shades of charcoal and gray, 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 to 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 ormolu 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 town house 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 congé. 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 start to sound like a shrew.” He looped his limp cravat over his collar, somehow feeling as if a noose were 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.

Osborne had heard quite enough. He 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 and 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 sauté 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 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 rain shower. 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 imaginings,” 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 that 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 . . .