Master of the Shadows (Darkyn #8)

Master of the Shadows (Darkyn #8) Page 8

“The contessa is an old and trusted friend,” his master told him. “You may speak in front of her.”

“I went to the auction office as you directed, and obtained the information you desired,” he said. “The female listed a Chicago address that I verified with our friends in the north. If it existed—which it does not—it would occupy the middle of Lake Michigan.”

Robin didn’t appear impressed by this news. “Someone must have noted it wrong.”

“I thought so as well at first,” Will continued, “but the driver’s license she provided was not registered with the Chicago Department of Transportation. Also, her credit card was issued by a government-managed credit union in Washington, D.C., but one week ago.”

Robin’s expression tightened. “What else?”

“I felt I should go to the gallery to question her employer,” Will said. “It is closed until the night of the show, but I intercepted one of the humans exiting from the back door—a man named Dennis. Under my influence, he admitted that he did not work for the gallery or any art dealer. He is an electronics expert who specializes in covert monitoring devices. He said that he, the woman, and everyone associated with this show are special agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

The contessa, who was listening closely, pressed her full red lips together.

Robin looked as dumbfounded as he had when he discovered the mortal gone from his bedchamber. “She is an FBI agent.”

“Aye, my lord, and that is not all that the man told me.” Will wished he could soften the blow somehow for his master’s sake, but decided the truth was best. “Agent Renshaw came to Atlanta to work undercover as an art dealer, and set up what they refer to as a ‘sting operation.’ The FBI wishes to identify and arrest those responsible for transporting to the states the stolen art recovered by the Kyn in France.”

Robin fell silent for a time, and then said, “I am the one responsible for that.”

“Yes, my lord.” Will became uneasy. “According to the man Dennis, the FBI has been interested in your, ah, activities in the art world for some time. The agents have not yet identified you by name or appearance, and they have no witnesses, but they know a great many details about your most, ah, daring exploits. They call you ‘the Magician.’”

The contessa produced a tiny laugh. “Most appropriate, my lord, given your skills at making things disappear.”

Will didn’t care for her fawning or her flattery; it sounded false to his ears. “I do not believe that the female knows that you and the Magician are one and the same,” he told Robin. “If she did, she surely would have tried to arrest you last night. But she and her cohorts are staging the gallery show specifically as a trap for you. The Maiden’s Book of Hours is being used as the bait.”

“How could she know that I wanted that manuscript?” Robin sounded angry now. “For that matter, how did they know I live here, in Atlanta?”

Will moved his shoulders. “I cannot say, my lord, but their information is very good.”

“Too good.” Robin rose and walked from one end of the room to the other. “You are certain that she does not know who I am?”

“My lord, given that your activities date back several decades, the FBI believes you to be an elderly mortal,” Will replied. “Even if Agent Renshaw did suspect, you appear too young and affluent to fit what Dennis called their ‘profile.’”

“I cannot believe it.” Robin shook his head slowly. “First this mortal treats me like a discarded garment, and now she means to entrap and imprison me.”

The contessa, who was watching Robin’s face with a singular intensity, spoke then. “If I may be so bold as to make a suggestion, my lord?” When Robin faced her, she said, “As I have told you, my talent is persuasion. I could attend this gallery show with you, and easily convince this mortal female to surrender the manuscript to you voluntarily. Would that not be fitting revenge for what she has taken from you?”

Robin swept his hand to one side. “She took nothing from me.”

“Perhaps nothing material, my lord,” the contessa said. “But your trust has obviously been violated, and by a woman who would gladly do much more harm to you. You are a suzerain; she is but a mortal. If word of this were to spread among our kind…”

It sounded almost as if she were threatening him, Will thought. It certainly looked as if she were relishing every detail.

“No one need know anything about this,” Will said, glowering at her. “I’m sure such an old and trusted friend as you, my lady, will keep my lord’s confidence.”

“You can depend on me to be as silent as a mute,” the contessa agreed before she turned to his master. “But what will you do about this mortal who dares to hunt you, my lord?”

“Teach her a lesson,” Robin said flatly. “One she will not soon forget.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“Welcome to Rosethorn, Ms. Carmichael,” a melodic female voice said. “I hope your journey from the city was a pleasant one.”

Reese automatically straightened her jacket as she turned and saw the willowy form of a light brown–haired woman standing just inside the sitting room. At first glance Rebecca of Daven appeared angelic, almost radiant, as if her flawless features had been fashioned in some higher place by an unearthly hand. As accustomed as Reese was to the physical beauty of the Darkyn, this slim goddess just might surpass all of them. For a moment she didn’t know whether to offer her hand or go down on her knees.

As Rebecca came toward her, however, one glaring imperfection made itself known. The goddess had a limp—a bad one. She stepped out with her right leg but dragged the left along the floor, as if she couldn’t bend the knee or use her hip properly. That explained the heavy material of the floor-length skirt of the dress she wore; she was either covering up a cast or a leg brace.

Chris’s envy dwindled. “Very pleasant, my lady.” She glanced at the nearest love seat. “Would you care to sit down for a few minutes?”

“No, I’m quite well, thank you. Forgive my ungainliness.” She touched the side of her skirt. “I had the crippling sickness when I was a human child. What do you Americans call that disease?”

Reese thought for a moment. “I think you mean polio.”

“Yes, that is the word for it.” She came a little closer and studied Reese. “You seem quite young to be in service. I had thought tresori remained in training until their third decade.”

“Most do, but a few of us are permitted to begin serving late in the second.” Reese knew she had to change the subject, and quickly. She gestured around the room. “You run this entire household by yourself?”

“I have my ladies to help me, and my husband, Sylas, serves our lord as his castellan,” Rebecca said. “Together we are able to cope with most of the domestic crises.” She offered an encouraging smile. “Will Scarlet tells me that you have not yet pledged yourself to Lord Locksley. Have you some concern that has not been addressed?”

Reese seized on that. “I know so little about the suzerain or the estate. When I make my choice, it’s going to be for life, and I’d like to be sure I’ve made the right one.”

“You might have talked this over with Will,” the chatelaine chided. “No one knows Lord Locksley or Rosethorn as well as he.”

Rebecca had her there. “There are things you just can’t ask Kyn males. They don’t always understand what’s important to a female tresora. They look at Rosethorn and see a well-guarded Darkyn fortress. I see property that, under certain circumstances, can be seized and searched by the authorities.” Reese nodded toward the painting hanging between two windows: a delicate portrait of a young woman gazing into a mirror. “I know that is a Vermeer. What I don’t know is if it really belongs to Lord Locksley or someone else.”

Rebecca eyed the painting. “That once belonged to a mortal who fled to South America from Germany after one of the mortal World Wars. No one knows it still exists.” She frowned. “But we would never permit the authorities to see it.”

“Unless they came during the day, when all of the jardin is at rest,” Reese pointed out. “Then I would have to know whether to hide this painting, or let them admire it while I served them coffee.”

“Now I see your meaning.” The chatelaine gave her a look of approval. “I also understand why they let you serve at so young an age. You are a clever and thoughtful young woman, Reese Carmichael. We would be blessed, I think, to count you among our mortal friends.”

A pity she never would. “Thank you, my lady.”

“’Tis Rebecca. Come now, I will show you where you might take your photographs.” The chatelaine limped out of the room, and Reese followed her toward the double winding staircase. “I think we should begin with our sewing rooms, where we keep the tapestry work. Our ladies are quite industrious.”

“They are as busy as they are beautiful,” a man drawled from behind Reese. “But they dim before you, my lady.”

Reese smelled something warm and green, like a field of sweet herbs, and glanced over her shoulder at the Kyn male standing there. Like Rebecca, this man had been blessed with extraordinary beauty, although his was more vibrant and earthly. His hair, streaked with all the colors of autumn leaves, hung loose around a face that belonged in an old master’s painting. Dark brows and lashes made his amber brown eyes look like polished gems.

Tiger eyes, Reese thought, and then remembered. “I doubt that, my lord.”

“I am called Alain.” He circled around as he gave her what should have been an insulting personal inspection. “Chatelaine, is it my birthday?”

“You know it is not,” Rebecca said, her soft voice suddenly sharp.

“How tragic.” He reached out and fingered a strand of Reese’s hair. “Is it hers?”