Merlins Maidens - Secuced by Spy - Pickens, Andrea Read online

And they were good. Damn good.

  So was he. Yet it was only by the skin of his teeth that he had eluded the embarrassment of being captured. Sitting here, in the comfort of the Stockholm embassy, it was easy enough to crack jokes. But at the time, it had been no laughing matter.

  Taking up the prince’s Cossack dagger, Orlov spun its point upon the leather blotter. “However, you might have given me—and Lord Lynsley—fair warning that the mission was a joint venture. As it was, the wrong man nearly ended up with his throat cut.”

  “Bah.” Yussapov brushed off the retort with a cavalier wave. “All’s well that ends well. Is that not how your famous Bard put it?”

  “As I am half Russian, I am wont to look at things from a more melancholy perspective,” he replied dryly. “It is easy for you to laugh from the comfort of your armchair and lap robes, but the whole affair came dangerously close to disaster on account of not knowing who was friend and who was foe. If we are allies with the British, should we not try to work together a bit more closely?”

  “We are uneasy allies, Alexandr. The Tsar is not quite certain he can trust the Mad King and his ministers.”

  “Still, it is cork-brained not to share intelligence with Whitehall.” Light winked off the razored steel. “While we circle each other with daggers drawn, Napoleon’s agents steal a march on us.”

  “You have a point.” The prince stroked at his beard. “I shall raise the issue with His Imperial Highness.”

  Orlov felt marginally better for having voiced his opinion. Yet his mood remained surprisingly discontented given the superb quality of the aged port and Turkish cheroots. Leaning back, he propped a booted foot on the desk and blew out a ring of smoke, hoping to rid himself of his black humor as well. It hung for an instant in the air, a perfect oval in harmony with itself, before disappearing in a sinuous swirl of ghostly vapor.

  Ashes to ashes… What strange musings had come over him? His Slavic penchant for brooding introspection was usually balanced by the more devil-may-care spirit of his English heritage. His mother, a lively Yorkshire beauty, had proved a perfect foil for his Muscovite father’s proclivity for solitary sulks.

  Orlov drew in another mouthful of the pungent tobacco smoke. He was aware that many would say he had inherited the worst traits of both parents. His cynical outlook on life and acerbic wit offended most people. Deliberately, he conceded. He was the first to admit that he was an unprincipled scamp, a rapscallion rogue. A man possessing a finely honed sense of honor would have difficulty doing the things he was called on to do. Lies, thievery, seduction—and yes, even murder. His conscience, if ever he had had one, was certainly long dead to remorse and recrimination.

  “Another drink?” Yussapov was eyeing him strangely from beneath his shaggy silver brows. “You appear—how do the English say it?—red-deviled tonight.”

  “Blue-deviled, Yuri.” Forcing a sardonic smile, Orlov held out his glass. “Stick to Russian if you wish to employ subtle sarcasm. It loses something in the translation.”

  “Moi? Sarcastic?” Assuming an air of injured innocence, the prince toyed with the fobs on his watch chain. “I am merely concerned for you, tvaritsch. As a friend, I fear that of late we are asking too much of you.”

  Orlov nearly choked on a laugh. “I am greatly touched by your tender sentiment,” he replied after swallowing the port. “Not that I am fooled in the least by what motivates it. I take it you have another job?”

  A flicker of hesitation, and what seemed to be a flash of warmth. But Orlov quickly dismissed it as a quirk of the candlelight. Or a figment of his own overheated imagination. For when Yussapov spoke, it was with his usual ruthless candor. “As a matter of fact, yes. This one will not require your celebrated charm with women.”

  “You are skating on dangerous ice, Yuri,” he growled. “That particular joke is wearing thin.”

  “You are in an odd mood.” The prince folded his hands on the desk. “But I shall take heed of the warning and skirt the issue—”

  Orlov’s glass thumped down beside the fallen dagger.

  “My, my, such a sensitive skin tonight, tvaritsch. But very well, I shall refrain from any further mischief.” His expression sobered. “There is, after all, nothing remotely amusing about this next mission.”

  “Which is?”

  “Our head of Intelligence in Brussels was murdered last week. We have good reason to think it was done by D’Etienne, the same fellow who dispatched the Prussian envoy in Warsaw.”

  “I have heard of him,” murmured Orlov. “He is said to be the most dangerous agent the French have. And very good at what he does.” A wry grimace thinned his lips. “Apparently the rumors are not much exaggerated.”

  “Good, yes.” Yussapov swirled his ruby port. “But not, I trust, as good as you.”

  Muscles tensing, he straightened in his chair. “What is it you want me to do?”

  “Kill him, of course.”

  “Of course,” repeated Orlov softly.

  “As you know, we have resumed negotiations with England about forging an alliance between us and our Western compatriots. Through murder and mayhem, the French hope to disrupt any agreement between our countries.”

  “Where is D’Etienne now?”

  “In Ireland. He’s staying for several weeks to foment trouble with the Irish nationals. From there, we believe he is scheduled to move on to Britain, in order to assassinate Angus McAllister.”

  “The Scottish ballistics expert?” Orlov frowned. “That would indeed be a blow to the British efforts to improve their artillery units.”

  “So you understand the gravity of the situation.”

  He stared at the blood-red refractions of light from the crystal. “You have no need to offer moral explanations. I am far from faint-hearted.”

  “You are human, Alexandr. As am I. I do not ask you to take a life lightly,” said Yussapov quietly. “But however repugnant, the action may save a great many good men.”

  Orlov merely shrugged.

  “You look tired, tvaritsch.”

  “I’m not getting any younger,” he snapped.

  A wink of gold flashed in the candlelight as Yussapov toyed with his signet ring. “Perhaps the time has come to think of settling down. Of getting a wife.”

  “God forbid.” He grimaced. “Can you really imagine me legshackled to a proper little London belle or Muscovite miss?”

  The prince contemplated the question for all of five seconds before giving a bark of laughter. “I confess, I cannot picture you leading such an ordinary life.”

  “Work may be a hard mistress, but it’s far preferable to the boredom of matrimony.” A sardonic curl lingered at the corners of his mouth. “I trust you have the logistics for this assignment arranged.”

  “A schooner is ready to sail on the next tide.”

  “Ah, and here I thought I would have a chance to explore the Nordic delights of Stockholm. A pity—a blond Valkyrie would be just the thing to appeal to a man of my tastes.” He rose. “Perhaps next time.”

  The prince pushed a packet of papers across the desk. “All the background details are there, as well as maps and a list of contacts.”

  Orlov slipped it into his coat pocket. “When do you return to St. Petersburg?”

  “I still have several more meetings with the Minister of War and his deputies regarding the Polish question. After that…” He shrugged. “God knows where I shall be. Like you, I am dispatched to wherever it is necessary to fight fire with fire.”

  “Do have a care not to get singed, Yuri.”

  “And you, Alexandr. Contrary to what you think, I am a sentimental old fool. I would be greatly upset to hear of your demise. So do try to return in one piece rather than go out in a blaze of glory.”

  Chapter Two

  “I am not quite sure what I should do, Charlotte.” The Marquess of Lynsley settled down on the sofa, his coal black coat and pantaloons a somber smudge on the pastel floral chintz. “I do not make a habit of secon
d-guessing my decisions, but in this case…”

  “It is, I know, an onerous one, Thomas. But that is why the Academy exists—because there are no easy or pretty answers to the threats our country faces in times of war.” A frail, feather-thin widow with a cap of dove gray curls framing her narrow face, Mrs. Merlin had presided over the school since its inception. Age had softened her features and blunted the poke of her prominent nose, but behind the oversized spectacles, her silvery eyes gleamed with a hawkish intensity. “The girls understand that.”

  “I know.” Lynsley pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yet it does not make it any easier to sleep at night.”

  “Rest easy,” she counseled. “Protecting England from enemies who would seek to destroy its sovereignty, its freedoms, is a cause worth fighting for. Victory does not come without sacrifices.”

  “Thank you for serving up a generous helping of sympathy along with your superb Oolong tea and strawberry tarts.” He leaned back from the light and sipped at the fragrant brew.

  Despite his wealth and rank, the marquess chose to spend much of his time in the shadows. And by design, he would not stand out in a crowd. Over the years he had learned a number of subtle mannerisms to appear slighter and shorter than he really was. As for his features, they were austerely patrician, but by cultivating a self-deprecating smile, he softened the edge of authority. His hair was neither long nor short, and its mouse brown hue, now turning silver at the temples, was echoed in the somber 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. The Academy had been one of his most unorthodox ideas. The Prime Minister had thought him mad at first, but he had convinced the government to give him an old estate, which had been used as cavalry pastures. He paid the operating expenses out of his own pocket, and Mrs. Merlin oversaw all the day-to-day operations.

  “I know you take these decisions very personally, Thomas. After all, it was you who picked each of our students from the rabble of orphans roaming the slums.”

  Lynsley drew a deep breath. “Regrettably, I have a great many from which to choose.” Each year, a select few were added to the ranks of the school. He looked for signs of courage and cleverness in a girl. And looks. Beauty was a weapon in itself.

  “Life can be unfair, as we both know,” replied the headmistress. “However, the girls take pride in the fact that they have been given the weapons to fight for a higher good.”

  “So, would you care to offer any last-minute advice on my choice?” he asked.

  “To be frank, I am not sure you have any choice.” Peering over the rims of her spectacles, Mrs. Merlin slowly squared the sheaf of papers on her desk. “The latest evaluations from Shannon’s instructors only confirm what I’ve observed for myself. No one else here can come close to matching her skills with weaponry.”

  “I have no doubts about her physical prowess,” said Lynsley softly. “It’s her mental state that is cause for concern. If ever an assignment called for a cool head and steady nerve, it is this one. An impulsive move, an unnecessary risk, and she will die. As will others, as a result of her failure.” The marquess stared into his cup, as if trying to read the tea leaves. Throughout the first few months of 1812, Napoleon had won one military triumph after another on the Continent. England desperately needed a victory—even a small one—to show that the Emperor was not almighty. “I have read the disciplinary reports on the top of your pile. Knowing of a weakness beforehand makes me wonder whether I am morally justified in overlooking it.”

  “Sometimes a weakness can be a strength. It’s all a matter of timing and degree,” replied Mrs. Merlin. “Being decisive, even dangerously daring, can often snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.”

  He made a wry face. “You are very persuasive.”

  “That is why you pay me so well to teach a master class in rhetoric and logic.” A twinkle reflected off the lenses of her spectacles. “However, I take it you have not made up your mind?”

  “No.”

  “Let us go ahead and call her in. If you decide at the last minute on a change of strategy, then we will regroup and come up with another plan of attack.”

  At Lynsley’s nod, the headmistress rose and went to the door.

  Wiping her hands on the backside of her breeches, Shannon tried to remove the worst of the black powder and gun oil. A sidelong glance in the windowpane showed a face streaked with sweat and a spattering of mud, its sharp angles framed by untamed tendrils that had pulled free of her hairpins. A picture of recklessness rather than restraint.

  She sucked in her breath, trying to keep her emotions under tight rein. If they expected parade ground precision, they would be disappointed. And not for the first time.

  Squaring her shoulders, she shook off such negative thoughts. If defeat were inevitable, she would show grace and grit and…

  Goddamn it, she would fight like the very devil to change their minds.

  “Ah, I see Hopkins passed on the message,” said Mrs. Merlin as Shannon snapped off a quick salute.

  “Yes, ma’am. I came as quickly as I could.”

  The headmistress eyed the trail of mud and straw now befouling her hallway runner. “So I see.”

  “Sorry. I should have—”

  “Come in, come in.” The headmistress waved off the apology. “Lord Lynsley is here, and we have several things we would like to discuss with you, my dear.”

  If one lived by the sword, one should not be afraid to die by the sword.

  “Before you begin, sir, might I first say a few words in my own defense?”

  “This is not a court-martial, Shannon,” said the marquess softly. He smiled, though the crinkling of humor could not quite hide the lines of tension etched around his mouth and eyes.

  “It is what I deserve, sir,” she replied. “And yet…” Lynsley was always so kindly. Like the father she had never known. As she met his gaze, she found herself wondering about his age. It was hard to tell. His hair, though threaded with silver, was still thick and his body still looked lean and strong beneath the elegant tailoring. She had heard rumors of his youthful exploits for Whitehall, tales that seemed at odds with his refined features and courtly manners—

  His brow quirked ever so slightly. “And yet?”

  Roused from her momentary study, she quickly finished her request. “And yet, I should like to offer a rationale for what I did.”

  “Would you care for some tea first?” murmured Mrs. Merlin.

  Shannon shook her head, afraid the rattle of china might betray the true state of her nerves.

  Lynsley set down his cup and folded his well-tended hands in his lap. “Go on, then.”

  “According to Sun Tzu, the great Chinese military strategist, yin and yang—hot and cold—are essential elements of the art of war. They must be balanced, of course.” She swallowed hard. Did she dare go on and risk sounding insubordinate? There was still time to pull back and take cover in convention. The clotted cream and cakes looked inviting. “Which is to say, sir, that victory cannot come from wisdom, organization, and discipline alone. Such sterling qualities must be complemented by flexibility, imagination, and surprise.”

  “In other words,” said Lynsley slowly, “a general must trust the ch’i—the spirit—of his officers in the field?”

  Shannon wished she could read his reaction. The marquess was always in command of his emotions. Neither his inflection nor his expression gave anything away. She slanted a look to Mrs. Merlin, but the elderly lady was busy jotting a few lines in her notebook.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “A very incisive and intelligent summation of the legendary manual of war. Based on such principles, how would you assess your own recent performance?”

/>   What did she have to lose?

  “In retrospect, sir, I would not have done anything differently.” She forced a ghost of a grin. “Save perhaps for not cutting the Russian rascal’s throat when I had the chance.”

  Was it merely a flicker of the candles, or did Lynsley’s lips twitch? In her defense, the mysterious Mr. Orlov had proved just as slippery in eluding the marquess’s efforts to nab him. Despite a tight surveillance of all the Channel ports, the man had disappeared as if into thin air.

  But it was not Orlov’s fate that was under discussion—it was her own.

  “Let me explain myself more fully,” she went on quickly. “When you asked me those questions concerning Siena’s loyalty and commitment to the Academy, I judged that her mission must be of the utmost importance.” Forcing a calmness that belied the churning of her inside, Shannon paused for a fraction. “I also judged that it was in danger of failing for two reasons—Siena was a traitor, or she was in trouble. Either way, I decided I could be the difference between success and failure.”

  Mrs. Merlin looked up from her notes, her gaze intense, unblinking. The resemblance to her namesake hawk was uncanny. “And what if Siena had betrayed the principles of our Academy?”

  “I did not truly believe it would come to that. But if it had, I trust I would have had the strength to do the right thing.”

  Coals crackled in the hearth. Papers shuffled with a feathery whisper. Shannon watched steam curl up from the teapot, wondering whether her hopes of remaining at the Academy were dissolving just as quickly.

  “Sit down, Shannon, and take some sustenance.”

  As Mrs. Merlin’s gentle urging had an undertone of command, she perched herself on the edge of the nearest chair and accepted a plate of shortbread.

  “Well, Thomas?” murmured the headmistress after she had finished refilling his cup. “Satisfied?”

  Shannon sensed Mrs. Merlin was not referring to food or drink.

  Lynsley touched a hand to his temple.

  To Shannon, the silence spoke volumes as to his lingering misgivings. “Sir, before you answer, I have one last thing to add,” she said. “If I may.”