The Scarlet Spy by Andrea Pickens

He took a handkerchief from his pocket and slowly unrolled its folds. “This was found hidden in the binding of Lord Robert’s diary.”
    Sofia studied the details of the key and its distinctive scarlet poppy for several moments before speaking. “The goldwork and enameling look to have been crafted in Venice,” she said slowly, glad to discover that the long hours of art history classes could be put to practical use. “Have you any idea what it’s for?”
    “That’s part of your assignment, Sofia. I suspect it is part of a set, but it’s up to you to discover what it’s for and who else might possess similar ones.”
    She was beginning to understand why the marquess considered this such a difficult mission.
    The shadows beneath his eyes seemed deeper, darker than just a few days ago. “Having second thoughts?” he said softly.
    “Not at all, sir. A Merlin rises to any challenge.”
    Her bravado brought a ghost of a smile to his face. “I appreciate your courage, but be careful how you unfold your wings, Sofia. London is home to many dangerous predators.” Rising, he tucked the silk square back in his coat but handed her the key. “It might prove useful, so you keep it.”
    Its ornate teeth looked rather menacing against her palm.
    “After tonight, we will not be seen together in public. The Scarlet Knights must think the connection between us is a distant one at best. I won’t really be traveling, but neither will I be making any appearance in Society. You may send word to me through Rose when you have something substantive to report. Otherwise, you are on your own.”
    “Don’t worry, sir. If I have to probe every lock in London, I will discover what secrets this pretty poppy guards.”
     
    “Rotten Row? What a very odd name.”
    “It’s said to derive from the French
Route de Roi,
or King’s Road. King William III had the avenue built in 1690, in order to have a safe way to travel between St. James’s Palace and his new court at Kensington Palace.” Osborne shifted the reins of his phaeton to return a greeting from the dowager Duchess of Canfield and her party. “At night, it was lit by three hundred oil lamps—”
    “Osborne!” A wave of lace fluttered up from a quartet of ladies strolling beside the crush of carriages. “You must
promise
to attend my musicale. The tenor is from Milan and is said to have the voice of an angel. But as your taste in music is divine, I must of course hear
your
opinion.”
    “You may count on my presence, Lady Caroline.” He drew his team to a halt. “However, I imagine Contessa della Silveri, who has just this week arrived from the Continent, would have a more expert opinion on Italian singers. Allow me to introduce you and your friends.”
    The lady did not look overly enthusiastic at the prospect. Her smile froze, and she greeted Sofia with a chilly politeness and ice in her eyes. It took several more pointed hints before an invitation to the musicale was grudgingly given.
    As for Lady Caroline’s companions … Osborne allowed a harried inward chuckle. He did not know how females managed to defy the laws of physics by appearing to be looking down their noses when observing someone high above their heads.
    His gentlemen acquaintances showed a decidedly warmer response to the presence of a new face in the crowd. The high-perch phaeton was quickly surrounded by riders eager to get a closer glimpse of the features beneath the poke brim bonnet.
    “You seem to know a great many people, Lord Osborne,” said Sofia as the crowd of well-wishers finally thinned.
    “It may seem as if all of London takes a turn down this pathway, but in truth, the
ton
is a very small world.” He guided his team around a lumbering barouche. “Surely you must be acquainted with some people in Town.”
    “No, not a soul, save Lord Lynsley.”
    “The marquess mentioned your father was English. Will you not seek some contact with this family?”
    “No.” Her voice was clipped,