The Spy Wore Silk

by Andrea Pickens

Genres: Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

They were once orphans from London's roughest slums. Now they are students of Mrs. Merlin's Academy for Select Young Ladies, learning the art of spying and seduction. Bold, beautiful, and oh-so-dangerous, they are England's ultimate secret weapons. The most skilled of Merlin's Maidens, Siena must unmask a traitor lurking among an exclusive club of book collectors. Armed with only her wits, her blades, and her sultry body, she joins the gentlemen at a country house party. But her prime suspect, disgraced ex-army officer Lord Kirtland proves as enigmatic as he is suspicious-and sinfully sensuous. Kirtland's instincts tell him the enticing "Black Dove" is hiding more than a luscious body beneath her fancy silks. Yet as he starts to plumb her secrets, a cunning adversary lays plans to destroy them both. To live, Siena must end her tantalizing dance of deception and desire-and decide whether to trust her head or her heart.

Release date: June 1, 2007

Publisher: Forever

Print pages: 384

Sample

Chapter One

Steel clashed against steel, the blades flashing like quicksilver fire in the afternoon sun.

But this time, there would be no errant sparks, no flare of flames. This time, the wolf-faced Italian would not goad an explosion of temper—

“Porca miseria!” Spinning with deceptive quickness, Il Lupino punctuated his curse with a flurry of lightning slashes that sent the opposing saber clattering to the courtyard cobbles. “Non, non, non—is all wrong!” he snarled. “You must slide to the left, then counter with a punta sopramano.”

Damn.

“And your thrusts must be deeper and faster, Volpina. Like so . . .” The Italian’s swordpoint cut through the air with a lethal whisper. Soft but deadly.

“Grazie.” Volpina watched its sinuous dance.

“Like a man making love to a beautiful woman.” Finishing with a flourish, he raised his weapon to the en garde position. “Now try it again—this time with more passion.” A smile flashed, the crescent curve a mocking reflection of the hard-edged steel. He was being deliberately provocative. “Unless, of course, you are too tired to continue.”

“Not bloody likely.”

As intended, the challenge prickled, like daggers dancing on tender flesh. For an instant, anger blazed, sparked by wounded pride. But then, Volpina recalled the master’s own words.

Fight fire with fire.

Snatching up the fallen saber, Volpina crossed swords for only an instant before lashing out with a furious lunge that drove Il Lupino back to the edge of the chalked circle.

The Italian parried the attack with ease, but as he set his stance and angled his blade to block the next blow, Volpina suddenly whirled around and drove a knee into his groin.

Woof. Il Lupino doubled over, then dropped to the ground with a leaden thud.

Silence descended over the courtyard, save for the twitching scrape of leather against stone.

“Bella! Bella!” After several moments, the Italian recovered enough of his breath to speak. “Magnifico, in fact.”

Pushing the steel away from his throat, he uncurled his legs and managed to sit up.

Several of the onlookers winced in sympathy, while one or two bit back a titter of laughter.

“Machiavelli would be proud of you.” A note of humor blunted the rasp of pain. “A lady should never fight fair.”

“No hard feelings, Signor Da Rimini?” The dark-haired beauty known only as Siena set a gloved hand on her hip and shook the sweat from her brow. Fire still tingled through her tensed muscles, but its burn curled the corners of her mouth into a small smile. Finally, she had bested the wily wolf at his own game.

“On the contrary. It gives me great pleasure to see one of my pupils begin to master the art of war.” For an instant his grin appeared to angle to a more serious tilt. “It seems you have been born with natural talent, Signorina Siena. My job is to hone it to a fine edge.”

Siena stared down at her sword. Her real identity had long since been lost in the stews of St. Giles. But like all the students at Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Select Young Ladies, she had been given a new name on entering its world, one chosen at random from the ornate globe in the headmistress’s office.

A new name for a new life. A new meaning for the savage skills learned in the primitive school of the slums. Once inside the ivied walls, she had been determined never to look back at the twisted alleyways of her past.

“Now, girls, pay close attention to my words and not my manly thighs.” Her musings were cut short as Da Rimini resumed his cocky drawl. “Signorina Siena has just given us a perfect demonstration of why it is important to keep a cool head in the heat of battle. The point is, all of you will need to rely on wits and imagination, rather than size and strength, to prevail over an opponent. As you have witnessed, brains can be a more potent weapon than brawn.”

Siena reached down and helped him to his feet.

“Fire and ice,” he murmured. “Once again I commend you, signorina. Now that you are learning to fight with your head as well as your heart, you present a deadly challenge. God help the enemy.”

A shiver ran down her spine, hot and yet cold. Was she ready to test her mettle in the real world?

In the distance a bell chimed the hour. “The lesson is over for today, girls,” announced Da Rimini.

Siena stripped off her padded doublet and shook out the knot of curls coiled at her neck. Tall, slim-hipped, and lithe as a rapier, she could pass for a boy in her fencing gear. But the thin linen shirt, dampened from her exertions, revealed curves that were decided womanly.

Da Rimini gave an appreciative leer as he watched the raven tresses spill over her shoulders. “On the morrow I teach you how to execute the botta dritta, eh?”

“Assuming you have the ballocks to step back onto the field of battle,” quipped the student known as Shannon. The class wit, she was always quick to unsheathe a sharp tongue. Sometimes too quick. Her penchant for challenging authority had recently provoked a disciplinary warning. A second might result in expulsion.

“Nonnie,” cautioned Siena, hoping to keep her roommate out of trouble.

“Like my sword, my testicolos are made of steel, Signorina Shannon.” The Italian waggled a brow, his slitted eyes still aimed at Siena. “Indeed, all my equipment is honed to a fighting edge. As the lovely Volpina would quickly discover if only she would accept my offer of more intimate instruction in the nuances of hand-to-hand combat.”

Ignoring his lascivious looks, Siena handed her gear to a first-year student and gathered up her books. “Come, Shannon, we had better hurry and change, else we will be late for our next class.”

Her friend, however, could not resist a parting retort. “Indeed, signor? I heard your equipment was in danger of growing dull with disuse.” Exaggerating a flourish, she tossed Il Lupino a scrap of chamois. “But if it needs a bit of polishing, you will have to do it for yourself.”

With his laughter ringing in their ears, the two of them cut across the fencing yard to the graveled garden path.

Siena slanted a sidelong glance at her friend as they rounded the tall privet hedge. Shannon had the same willowy height, the same loping stride—and the same stubborn set of the chin. Indeed, they might have been taken for twins, save that her friend’s hair was the color of autumn wheat and cut several inches shorter.

“You are lucky. Da Rimini was in one of his better humors today,” she said. “But he’s unpredictable. The next time you try to pick a fight with him, it may not go so well.”

Shannon shrugged off the advice. “The lecherous old goat. His nickname ought to be the Snake instead of the Wolf. Only yesterday he tried to slide his hand up my skirts as I was cleaning my pistol in the armory.” She made a face. “Why the headmistress hasn’t given him the boot ages ago is still a mystery to me.”

“Because despite his alley cat manners and advancing age, he is extremely good at what he does,” answered Siena. “I doubt there is a more skilled fencing master in all of England.”

“As long as he keeps his sword to himself—”

“Rumor has it he was forced to flee Milano over some incident involving a blade.” The student known as Sofia, who shared their spartan dormitory quarters, caught up with them in time to hear the last exchange. Falling in step beside Shannon, she added a wink. “As well as a contessa and a cardinal. And for Italians to express outrage, it must have been shockingly scandalous.”

“It isn’t as if this is an ordinary institution of higher education. Nobody here at the Academy—including ourselves—is remotely respectable.” Siena flashed a sardonic smile. All of them were orphans who had been left to fend for themselves in the slums of London. Alone and homeless, they had quickly learned the cardinal rule of the rookeries—only the strongest survived. Not that she cared to recall those early days, save to remind herself that she was tough enough to stand up to any challenge.

She darted another glance at her companions. The three of them were more like sisters than school friends. Shared adversity was, perhaps, a stronger bond than blood.

Unperturbed by the oblique reminder of their desperate past, Shannon laughed. “You have a point. How many schools for females include a Negro boxer, a convicted cardsharp, and a former courtesan to King Carlos of Spain among its instructors?”

“You neglected to mention the Indian fakir,” said Sofia.

“Fakir?”

“An expert in disciplining both the body and mind. He must be bloody good at it, too, for he arrived this morning in a spitting sleet, wearing naught but a saffron loincloth and two bloodred rubies in his earlobes.”

“We are already doing an hour of yoga a day.” Spinning to a halt, Shannon bent over and touched her forehead to her toes. “Lud, what will Mrs. Merlin think of next?”

“Since you asked, a Turkish belly dancer is coming next term to teach a special class in the art of seduction.” Siena set aside her momentary melancholy and forced herself to join in the banter. She was one of the lucky ones, she reminded herself. If Lord Lynsley had not witnessed her beating off three boys twice her size to protect the gold watch she had just stolen, she would likely still be eking out an existence as a thief. Or perhaps a whore.

Sofia shimmied her hips. “I don’t mind surrendering my virtue in the name of England, just as long as they don’t expect me to bed the Prince Regent. I draw the line at sleeping with a man who wears a corset.”

“There are no lines, Sofia. Not here, not in our world.” Siena turned abruptly and resumed walking toward the quadrangle of Georgian brick buildings that housed the classrooms and dormitories. “We’ll do whatever they ask of us, whether it be slitting a man’s throat or seducing the Prince of Darkness.”

Pressing the tips of his well-tended fingers together, the Marquess of Lynsley looked out the window of his ministry office. A freezing rain pelted against the glass, and the sudden storm, which had blown in out of nowhere, showed little sign of relenting. Clouds hung heavy over the spires of Westminster, the swirling mists turning more leaden by the moment.

Darker still was the news staring him in the face. He lowered his gaze back to the dispatch on his desk. “The devil take it,” he muttered, smoothing at the creases in the travel-worn paper. But nothing could take the edge off his anxiety.

“I would gladly return it to Lucifer if I could, sir.” Major Chertwell essayed a grim smile. As the officer in charge of coordinating military intelligence with their Russian allies, he had long since learned that a sense of humor, however black, was an essential weapon for survival. “But the damn fellow seems to have gone to ground, leaving us with this hellish problem.”

“Hellish indeed.” Lynsley rose. He crossed the carpet and pressed his palm to the mullioned glass. A chill seeped through his skin, and despite the layers of tailored finery, he couldn’t repress a shudder. “A traitor? One of our own?”

“The evidence seems incontrovertible, my lord. Only someone who moves within the highest circle of Society would have access to such information.”

“Tell me again what you know.”

“Our agent in Berlin has penetrated Napoleon’s Eastern spy network. For nearly a year, he has been aware that highly sensitive information was coming out of the very heart of London. Sometimes it was actual government documents, sometimes a summary of troop movements, or secret meetings with England’s allies. At first it was only a trickle; then the flow became truly alarming. But it wasn’t until recently that he discovered how the information was being smuggled out of the country.” Chertwell withdrew a small leather-bound book from his pocket and placed it beside the letter. “That our agent discovered the document hidden in here further confirms our suspicions.” He ran a thumb over the gilt spine. “The volume is a rare early edition of Milton’s Paradise Lost. My source assures me that there are but a handful of gentlemen here in Town who have the means and opportunity to lay hands on such a treasure.”

“Your argument appears compelling.” Lynsley let out his breath in a long sigh. “So our enemy is likely rich and titled?”

Chertwell covered the incriminating paper with a note of his own. “I have made a list of the possibilities, sir.”

After a last glance at the mizzled shadows, the marquess returned to read over the names. “Bloody hell.” He spent another few moments contemplating the list. “You realize the implications of investigating the private affairs of these men?”

The major looked equally grave. “Yes, sir. You have made it clear that this is an extremely delicate situation.”

“And extremely dangerous. The dilemma is, we are damned if we do and damned if we don’t,” mused Lynsley as he perched a hip on the corner of his desk.

At first glance, he would not stand out in a crowd. Over the years he had learned a number of subtle mannerisms to appear shorter and slighter than his true height. As for his features, they were well cut, but a self-deprecating smile softened their patrician edge. His hair, just beginning to turn silver at the temples, was neither long nor short, and its mouse brown hue was echoed in the somber earth tones of his clothing. Many people thought him a bland, rather boring bureaucrat. A fact that suited him perfectly.

His official title—Minister to the Secretary of State for War—was a deliberately vague cover for his true responsibilities. Charged with countering espionage and intrigue, he dealt with the most dangerous and diabolical threats to England’s sovereignty. And while he preferred to work with only a small group of trusted associates, events had unfolded in such a way that he had no choice but to take the major into his confidences.

Lynsley reluctantly went on with his explanation. “If word slips out that we have allowed such treason to take place under our nose, the resulting scandal could topple the government.”

“Yes, sir. It will have to be handled with utmost discretion. Even then, it will take a miracle to pull it off without setting off a display of pyrotechnics in Parliament that would put Vauxhall to blush.”

“A miracle.” Lynsley drummed an urgent tattoo upon the leather blotter, as if summoning spirits from the netherworld.

“A miracle.” The major’s echo had an even more doleful ring. “Or a hero from Arthurian legend.”

“Merlin,” whispered the marquess.

Chertwell gave a halfhearted laugh. “Abracadabra. The heart of Galahad. The steel of Excalibur.”

A moment later, the marquess rang for his secretary. “Collins, have my carriage brought around immediately.” Tucking the list of suspects into his waistcoat, he turned for the door. “Don’t just stand there, Chertwell. We haven’t any time to lose.”

The major cleared his throat. “W—where are we going, sir?”

For the first time that afternoon Lynsley actually smiled. “To take tea with Mrs. Merlin.”

“Who the devil—”

“A little old lady who works magic.”

“Damnation, this door latch still sticks like the devil.”

“Language, girls! Language!” Dressed in dull shades of bark and brown, Miss Clemens, their house prefect, would have been indistinguishable from the woodwork if not for her stentorian shout. “No cursing! You know the rules. Inside these walls you will behave as refined young ladies. Now hurry along—gracefully, mind you, gracefully— and change, or you will be late for Mrs. Twining’s lecture on ballroom etiquette.”

Siena smiled, for in spite of the spinster’s drab appearance, she was not really such a stick in the mud. Many a midnight raid on the kitchens had gone unpunished, and on occasion, the spoils of victory had been washed down with a bottle of Clemmie’s excellent champagne.

“Refined my arse,” muttered Shannon, much to the amusement of the others. “It would take a sledgehammer and chisel to sculpt me into any semblance of a drawing-room miss.”

“Appearance is not the problem.” Sofia regarded her friend’s Valkyrean figure and shook her head. “Lud, I’d kill to have your bosom. It’s a question of attitude. If you would put your mind to it—”

“Need I remind you again?” warned Miss Clemens. “One more infraction for tardiness, and the three of you will be mucking out the stables for a month.”

“Hell, I would rather concentrate on riding and rapiers than on the proper way to curtsy to a duke,” grumbled Shannon as the three of them took the stairs two at a time and raced to their room.

“As would I.” Siena slipped out of her shirt and breeches. “But to be effective, we must be well schooled in the more subtle forms of warfare.”

“Easy for you to say,” shot back Shannon. “You seem to have a natural talent in the classroom as well as on the fencing field.” She made a face. “Lud, you even excel in art history.”

“I find the subject interesting, don’t you?”

Shannon shook her head. “Not unless the paintings portray some of the more esoteric uniforms or weaponry of the period.”

“La, Nonnie is right, Siena. You should have been to the manor born,” teased Sofia. “A fine lady, with nothing better to do all day than dabble in watercolors and collect priceless paintings.”

“Ha—in another moment you’ll be collecting my boot up your backside,” retorted Siena. She turned quickly, using a laugh to mask the fact that the barb had struck a sensitive nerve. As she reached for her chemise, she caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the looking glass. Cheekbones sharp as sabers, lashes dark as gunpowder, gaze guarded as the Crown Jewels. Fighting had become second nature. And she was good at it.

But Shannon was right—a number of subjects seemed to come naturally to her, especially art. She liked the way it challenged her to think and to see things from a different perspective. Was it a weakness to appreciate such things? At times she wondered. But she was not about to admit it aloud. A Merlin was not meant to let down her defenses, not even for a moment.

A shadow fell across her face. Storm clouds were scudding in from the sea, obscuring the sun, and already the echo of thunder rumbled through the school courtyards. Light and dark. At times, she couldn’t help recalling odd flashes of her life before the Academy. An old prostitute had once given her a brightly colored penny print. Oh, how she had guarded that scrap of paper.

Drawing on her yoga training, Siena took a deep breath and shrugged off such strange musings. After all, Da Rimini had drummed into her that thinking too much could be dangerous . . .

“For pity’s sake, Siena, stop woolgathering,” chided Sofia. “Unless you wish for us to be shoveling manure for the next few weeks.”

Her friends were already dressed and sorting through their hair ribbons for the finishing touches to their toilette.

“And you know how La Grande Dame dislikes getting her hands dirty,” drawled Shannon as she mimicked a ballroom twirl.

“Merde!” A crumpled kidskin glove flew across the room. “Just because I like silks as much as saddles doesn’t mean I can’t whip you in a match of riding skills. Just name your stakes.”

Shannon speared the fuchsia missile with a hairpin and tossed it back. “Ha—a challenge? What sort of race do you have in mind?”

“Stubble the horseplay.” Siena grabbed for her indigo gown. “Has anyone seen my India shawl, or has it wound its way back to Bombay?”

Her friends were too sharp to miss the slight edge to her voice. They exchanged puzzled looks.

“Is something wrong?” asked Sofia as she pulled the missing item from beneath a pair of muddied riding boots. “You seem in a strange mood.”

Shannon nodded. “If I had just flattened Il Lupino, I’d be crowing from atop the highest chimney pot.”

“I fear . . .” Her friends would likely laugh to hear what she had been thinking. “I fear I can’t explain it.”

“Fear?” scoffed Shannon. “Ha, you are the most fearless of us all.”

Sofia said nothing but fixed her with a searching stare.

“Forget it,” she muttered, suddenly feeling foolish for even hinting there might be a chink in her armor. The training of the Academy only echoed the lessons of the alleyways—never show any vulnerability.

The tread of Miss Clement’s half boots suddenly interrupted the exchange. Siena swore under her breath, sure that a stern scolding was in order, along with the threatened detention.

But the prefect appeared oddly distracted. She shooed Sofia and Shannon out of the room with a vague wave. “Be off, you two. As for Siena . . .” A hesitation hung in the air. “You need not hurry. Mrs. Merlin has excused you from your next class. She wishes to see you in her office as soon as you have changed into your new emerald green ball gown. Withers will be here in a moment to dress your hair.”

Siena turned, her eyes narrowing at the news. “Why?”

Miss Clemens lifted her bony shoulders. “I am not privy to that information. But I expect you will find out soon enough.”

Was it her imagination, or did the words indicate that the time had come?

“York says she spotted a fancy carriage pulling up to Mrs. Merlin’s private entrance not ten minutes ago,” added the prefect. “Two gentlemen got out.”

Dagger points danced down her spine. Her palms began to tingle. Fear. The friendly banter echoed in her ears. Her only real fear was that the school directors might decide she wasn’t sharp enough for a real mission. The gentleman with the ice blue eyes would, as was his wont, be kindly but firm. Only the very best measured up to the Academy’s stringent standards for the Master Class. Those who did not make the grade were directed into less demanding programs, ones that trained them for other useful duties. Innkeepers, lady’s maids . . .

Siena’s hands clenched, then her chin rose. A challenge? She would rise to the occasion and prove herself. She was one of Merlin’s Maidens.

And Merlins were meant to fly.

Chapter Two

Street orphans!” Chertwell choked on his tea.

“Kindly remember you are sworn to silence.” Lynsley helped himself to another biscuit.

The major uttered an oath.

“Need I also remind you that a lady is present?”

Chertwell’s face turned nearly as red as his regimentals. “Your pardon, madam,” he said stiffly. “I meant no offense to you or your pupils, but I feel duty-bound to voice an objection to this . . . joke?”

His hopeful look was snuffed out by the headmistress’s brisk reply. “Lord Lynsley is quite serious. As am I.” Mrs. Merlin was a frail, feather-thin widow with a cap of dove grey curls framing her narrow face. Age had softened her features and blunted the poke of her prominent nose, but behind the oval spectacles, her silvery eyes gleamed with a hawkish intensity. “Won’t you try a strawberry tart, young man? They are quite delicious.”

“I don’t want a damn tart! I want an explanation!” Sputtering, the major shot an accusing look at Lynsley. “England is in imminent peril while we are sitting here having a tea party!”

“Dear me, Thomas, is the major subject to megrims?” Mrs. Merlin darted a look at Lynsley. “Shall I fetch a vial of vinaigrette?”

Chertwell’s jaw dropped a touch, then snapped shut. His silence did not preclude a pronounced scowl.

“Excellent. I see we may forgo the hartshorn and apply instead a healthy dose of reason to the problem.” Moving with a ruthless efficiency that belied the sweet smile, Mrs. Merlin set aside her teacup and snapped open a document case. A quick rap squared the sheaf of papers within. “But before we get down to business, perhaps you ought to finish your explanation.”

“Thank you, Charlotte. As always, a meeting with you is an educational experience.” Lynsley settled back against sofa pillows. The lines deepened at the corners of his eyes, turning his gaze more shadowed. “As I was saying, Chertwell, the students of Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Select Young Ladies are hand-picked from the legion of orphans who roam the stews of London. There are, I regret to say, a great many to choose from.” He stared into his tea. “I select all of them myself. I look for signs of courage and cleverness. And looks. Beauty can be a weapon in itself.”

“Let me get this straight.” Through gritted teeth, the major managed a mutter. “You take in a ragtag rabble of female urchins and mold them into a special fighting force?”

The marquess allowed a faint smile. “England’s ultimate secret weapon.”

“God save the King.” A stern look from the school’s headmistress caused Chertwell to swallow any further sarcasm.

Lynsley continued as if uninterrupted. “I convinced the government to give us this old estate, which had been used as cavalry pastures. I pay the operating expenses out of my own pocket, and Mrs. Merlin oversees all the day-to-day duties. The idea was inspired by a book I read on Hasan-I-Sabah, a Muslim caliph who raised a secret society of warriors at his mountain citadels. His men were known for their deadly skills and fanatic loyalty. The caliph used them only in times of dire danger to his rule. And legend has it they never failed on a mission. The very name Hashishim—or Assassins—was enough to strike terror in the heart of the Master’s enemy.”

“Assassins?” Chertwell blinked. “Surely you don’t mean to imply that these girls . . .”

“Are trained to kill.” Mrs. Merlin brushed a bit of powdered sugar from her lip. “But of course.”

“Merlin’s Maidens receive expert instruction in a number of disciplines,” explained Lynsley. “Use of weapons is only part of the curriculum. They also are taught all the social graces—proper speech, proper manners, polished skills at music, art, and dancing—so that, if need be, they may move in the highest circles of Society.”

“Indeed, our girls follow a course of study much the same as that at any other school for highborn young ladies of the ton,” added Mrs. Merlin. Surrounded by cheery chintz florals and delicate Sèvres china, the elderly lady looked the very picture of prim propriety. Save for the tip of the poniard that slipped from her cuff as she consulted one of the documents. “The emphasis is on violence as a last resort.”

“It sounds . . .” The major shifted his seat on the sofa. “I would say ‘absurd,’ but I fear you would fillet my liver with that blade.”

Mrs. Merlin smoothed the sprigged muslin over the razored steel. “I assure you, Major, our students are carefully screened, and once they are here, they are subject to rigorous training and constant testing. Those who fail to make the grade are sent off to be taught a more suitable profession.” As she pushed her spectacles back to the bridge of her nose, a gleam of candlelight winked off the lenses. Under less serious circumstances, it might have been seen as a twinkle. “You see, Major, unlike in the military, wealth or rank cannot buy you a place in our Academy. Merlin’s Maidens win their badge of honor by merit alone.”

Chertwell thought for a moment. “Why girls?”

“An astute question.” Lynsley gazed up at the painting above the mantel, a depiction of Boudicca, the ancient British Warrior Queen, in full regalia. “Because females have far more flexibility when it comes down to devising strategy and tactics. They can learn to master the martial arts as well as any man, whereas men cannot perform certain feminine disciplines. They will always find certain doors closed to them.”

“Clever,” conceded the major. “I can see where sex can indeed be a more effective weapon than steel.” He tapped at his chin. “However, abstract theory is one thing, and practical application is quite another. Have you ever employed these Hellion Heroes in an actual mission?”

“Arthur Wellesley would not be alive today if one of the leaders of the Mahratta uprising in India had not suffered an untimely demise during a tiger hunt—an arrow to the throat, I believe . . .” Lynsley proceeded to rattle off several other names and places.

“God save the King.” This time the major’s murmur held a note of awe rather than sarcasm.

Mrs. Merlin moved the tea tray to one of the chinoise side tables. “Having reviewed your requirements, I have selected the student I think is most qualified for the job.”

“Who?”

“Siena.”

He steepled his fingers and appeared to be contemplating his watch chain. Several moments passed before he s. . .