Seduced by a Spy (Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Extraordinary Young Ladies #2)

Chapter 2

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 second-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 which 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 duties.

“ 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 early spring of 1812, Napoleon had won one military victory 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 for 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 courtmartial, 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, ying 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, continued Shannon. “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 which 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.”

He nodded .

“Rather than make a final decision, why not give me a trial? A chance to prove myself in an actual assignment.”

A frown furrowed Lynsley’s brow. “A trial by combat, so to speak?” He considered the idea a moment longer. “The idea strikes me as somewhat barbaric. If I am to ask you to risk your life, it ought to be as?—”

“Think of it more as an apprenticeship,” she interrupted. “In truth, you can’t be expected to admit me to the full-fledged ranks of the Merlins, seeing as my first flight was erratic. However, it would be a shame to waste all the years of training without giving me one more chance to prove my wings.”

His grave expression betrayed a flicker of bemusement. “A skillful negotiation.”

Shannon had once be told by Mrs. Merlin that the marquess had been inspired to create the Academy after reading a book 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. And legend had it that 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.

Like them, she would do anything to prove her unswerving dedication to Lord Lynsley and his ideals.

“Though it may not seem so, sir, I do understand that victory is not always achieved with a sword,” replied Shannon. “A good general knows that compromise can be a powerful weapon.” She hardly dared to breathe. “What do you say?”

In answer, the marquess slowly pulled an oilskin packet from inside his coat and put it on the side table .

Her throat went suddenly dry. Marching orders, no doubt. But to where?

“I admit that I have had mixed feelings about you, Shannon. On one hand I admire your courage, your conviction. On the other hand, I worry that your bravado is dangerous. Not only to you, but to all those who depend on you to get the job done.”

She nodded.

“But Mrs. Merlin is of the opinion that you should be given a second chance.”

Hope soared in her breast. “I promise I won’t let you down, sir.”

His lips compressed. “Don’t thank me quite yet. The assignment is a very dangerous one, Shannon. If I had a choice, I would not rush you into action so soon.” His fingers drummed upon the packet. “However Mrs. Merlin tells me I do not. The job calls for a full arsenal of deadly skills. You are, without question, the best we have.”

“Thank you, sir!” Ignoring his admonition, she broke into a wide grin. But much as her fingers itched to snatch up her orders, she held herself back.

“As I said, you may soon be wishing me to Hades, rather than Heaven, once you learn the particulars,” he replied dryly. “The details are all spelled out in your orders. I do hope you are not prone to seasickness.”

An ocean voyage? A wave of excitement washed over her. “No, sir. My stomach stays on an even keel.” After a moment she added, “As will my resolve. I won’t go off half-cocked.”

“I am counting on that, for the man you are matching up against is a consummate professional. The smallest slip on your part could prove fatal.” He glanced at the clock. “We have time for only a brief overview before you must leave. A coach is waiting outside to convey you to the coast.”

“I promise that I shall watch my step, sir.” Shannon schooled her voice to a flat calm. “What is it you want me to do when I come in contact with him?”

“Kill him, before he assassinates another one of our key allies.” Lynsley stood and went to warm his hands by the fire. No spark, no flame reached his face. Wreathed in shadow, his eyes appeared grey as gunmetal and the weight of his responsibilities seemed to hang like cannonballs from his shoulders. She did not envy him his job.

“Tell me when, and where.” Was she headed to France? To the Low Countries, to . . .

“Ireland,” he said. “We have received word that for the next fortnight he is residing at a remote castle of the O’Malley clan near Killarney. The French have sent him to instruct several of their members in the tricks of his trade before moving on to Scotland for his next attack.”

“An isolated location, a fortress bristling with armed guards,” she mused. “Let us hope he has a weakness for women.”

“D’Etienne is French,” replied Lynsley dryly. “And is said to have an insatiable appetite for feminine flesh. Which is another reason why you have been chosen over one of my military operatives.”

“He is about to get a taste of a femme fatale .” She thought for a moment. “Any preference for how it is to be done?”

“I leave the choice to your discretion, Shannon.”

“Is D’Etienne the only target, sir? I have heard that O’Malley and his bunch are a brutal lot.”

Lynsley appeared to measure his words carefully. “ D’Etienne is our main concern. Don’t risk the mission by going after the others. But an Irish rebellion would be a serious threat to our government at this time. If there are other casualties . . .” He did not need to finish the thought.

“I had best go collect my weapons.” She stood up.

“Sofia had already been instructed to load them in the coach.” Mrs. Merlin consulted the small gold watch pinned to her bodice. “You have a quarter of an hour to change your clothes and pack the rest of your gear.”

The marquess pressed the document packet into her hands. “I would not have you think this is a punishment or a penance,” he said softly. “Don’t go up against insurmountable odds. I would rather have you return, ready for another try, than die a hero’s death on the ramparts.”

“I understand, sir. Discretion is the better part of valor.” Shannon flashed a rueful smile. “Contrary to what some of my classroom teachers think, I do listen to their lectures.”

“So I am learning.” His expression of grim foreboding had lightened somewhat. “I have sent my carriage on ahead and shall ride with you for the first few miles to go over the logistics of the mission. Certain details I cannot put down in writing. The rest of the information you will have ample time to study while you are at sea.”

“Godspeed, Shannon.” Mrs. Merlin fluttered her hands. “Now go.”

She snapped a salute and moved off swiftly through the arched hallway. It was an unspoken rule that sentiment played no part in Academy farewells. Still, on crossing the courtyard, she felt a small lump form in her throat. A rite of passage. From the familiar—the nicked gargoyle, the cracked tower bell, the loosened gate latch—to the unknown. For the first time, she was no longer a student but a full-fledged agent.

One of Merlin’s Marauders.

She must now prove herself worthy of her wings.

Hurrying her steps, Shannon took the stairs two at a time up to her room. Not that packing would occupy a great deal of time. A proper young lady of the ton might require an army of trunks to transport her wardrobe, but for her, a single canvas seaman’s bag would do. A rain cloak, a throwing knife, a set of picklocks from?—

“Take this as well.” Sofia jammed a small leatherbound book in between the slivers of steel. “You may have a few moments of peace in which to read.”

“But you haven’t finished it.” Shannon didn’t look up from rolling her riding gloves into a tight ball.

“Which is why I expect you to bring it back in one piece. It cost me an arm and a leg.”

“Thanks, Fifi. I will do my best to keep it unscathed.”

“See that you do.” Her roommate perched a hip on her desk. “Or I’ll take a birch to your backside.”

“You could try.” Shannon tested the flex of a braided rope and added it to the bag. “But you might find yourself too sore to sit down for a fortnight.”

Sofia grinned and mimed an intricate ballroom twirl. “Not if I dance out of reach.”

Both understood the feelings that lay beneath the banter. Thrown together, skinny little orphans plucked from the sordid stews of London, they had become close as sisters during their years at the Academy. The only family each had ever known.

“Your prowess on the parquet far exceeds mine,” admitted Shannon. “Of the three of us, you have always been the most ladylike.” Seeing her friend scowl, she hastened to add, “Not that I am disparaging your fighting skills, it’s just that grace and charm are your weapons, while I must rely on a steel wrist and a sharp aim to vanquish a foe.”

Her friend leveled a long look her way before answering. “Don’t underestimate your strengths, Nonnie.”

As she tugged her shirt over her head, she caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the looking glass. Though slender as a rapier, she could hardly be described as delicate. Not with her height, and hint of lithe muscle accentuating the more feminine curves. Marco had once compared her to a lioness, pointing out her blonde mane and explosive athleticism. He had also remarked on her gaze, calling it piercing, predatory. The eyes of a hunter.

Shannon stared at the glitter of green for an instant, then ducked away. How strange. She saw doubt where others saw determination. As for her face, while others described her features as striking, she considered herself quite ordinary.

Smoothing the folds of the fresh linen, she stripped off her old breeches and donned a clean pair.

“Know thyself as well as the enemy,” she said softly, quoting another precept from Sun Tzu’s classic treatise on the art of war. “I shall take great care to avoid any mistakes in judgment.”

“You have nothing to prove, you know.” Sofa fingered the thin filigree chain at her neck. “To yourself or to others.”

Not trusting her voice, Shannon jammed a last bit of clothing into her bag and pulled the strings taut.

“One last thing . . .” Unfastening the clasp, Sofia took the length of silver and the hawk-shaped pendant and pressed it into Shannon’s palm.

“T-this is your lucky charm!”

“I am counting on you to bring it back, along with my book, so that I may depend on its powers when it’s my turn to fly.”

Fisting the tiny talisman, Shannon gave her friend a fierce hug. “Time to go.”

Fog. Rain. The bone chilling dampness pervaded every cursed corner of the creaking timbers. Orlov wrapped his cloak a bit tighter around his shoulders. Not even a layer of thick sable could keep it at bay. Glowering at the grey waves, he took yet another turn on the narrow deck.

“You are not at home on a ship?” The Dutch captain fell in step beside him.

“I prefer space to stretch my legs.” The schooner gave a yawing lurch. “And terra firma beneath them.”

“With this wind, we shall soon be reaching our destination.”

“It can’t be soon enough.” Orlov added a rather salty oath.

The officer immediately knocked his knuckles on the wooden railing. “We sailors are a superstitious lot. It is bad luck to insult the sea gods.”

“Then it is fortunate I have no ambitions for a nautical career. I hold very little sacred, save my own skin.” Wiping the drops from his brow, he grimaced. “Which may soon turn into fish scales.”

“This is no more than a passing drizzle.”

Cold comfort indeed. “I think I shall go below,” he said, though his dank cabin was designed for someone only marginally larger than a bilge rat .

Once he had wedged his lanky frame into the narrow berth—a feat that forced him to draw his knees to his chin—Orlov lit the lamp and thumbed through the sheaf of documents. He had, of course, read over them before.

Ad nauseum , he added wryly as his stomach gave an unpleasant heave. A touch of seasickness brought on by the foul weather did not improve his mood. By the bones of St. Sergius, he hated traveling by ship.

He turned his attention back to the papers. Yussapov’s spies had been quite thorough. D’Etienne’s background and accomplishments were spelled out in grisly detail. The man was, by all accounts, a ruthless bastard whose list of victims included several women and a young child.

Orlov’s expression clouded. He freely admitted to having precious little claim on morality, but he did not make war on the families of his foes. His profession was a dirty business, and killing a sordid necessity, but in this particular case he would not suffer any twinge of conscience.

The maps appeared excellent as well. Routes were drawn, landmarks described and several bolt holes marked along the way. He spent some time committing the information to memory, before nausea and a piercing headache forced him to extinguish the flame. However, the pounding of the waves against the hull was still foreign to him and he had trouble settling into the rhythm of the ocean.

Were the sea gods seeking vengeance for his verbal slight? Or was it some more earthly demon prodding a trident into his skull?

He could not shake the feeling that something was not quite right. As of yet, he could not put a finger on it. The feeling was nebulous, like the crosscurrents of fog rising up from the sea. Impossible to grab hold of, but its swirl stirred a prickling at the nape of his neck. It might be only the ill effects of the mal de mer .

But he didn’t think so.

Instinct, a sixth sense for survival, had warned him in the past of impending danger. He had learned to trust these strange twinges—a leap of faith for someone who tended to view the world with sardonic detachment. Trust was, after all, not a very practical attribute in his profession. Deception and duplicity were far more useful. Lying had become second nature . . .

Pressing his fingertips to his throbbing temples, Orlov sought to hold such disquieting musings at bay. It wasn’t often that he gave a second thought to the morality of what he did. Right and wrong? Good and evil? Perhaps a true gentleman would believe in absolutes. But it seemed to him that the world was not black and white, but rather shaded in an infinite range of greys.

And yet, he did have some principles. Though he would be loath to admit it aloud, he did care—if his actions helped stop the spread of tyranny and injustice, then perhaps his benighted soul would not roast in damnation for eternity.

He made a face. The Almighty might be forgiving, but there was a young lady who would like to see his soul—or more likely his liver—fried over the hottest coals of Hell. Not that he could blame her. He had made several uncharacteristic mistakes during his last mission, a fact that might very well be exacerbating his present malaise.

Was he losing his touch?

Damn Yussapov. And damn the sudden stirrings of his English sense of honor. Somehow the tumultuous seas had churned up the oddest mix of sensations.In his mind’s eye, he suddenly saw the prince’s beaded face, melting into visions of a blond Valkyrie, and then a soaring hawk. From high in the heavens came a cry, cursing him roundly for his misdeeds.

That it echoed some of his own recent musings amplified its accusations. However, the Russian part of him knew how to drown such melancholy brooding.

Growling an oath, Orlov reached for the flask of spirits.