Sweet Revenge (34 page)

“She makes a good point, laddie,” said Henning.

“Yes, well, I have some background in planning these sorts of things,” she murmured.

The earl cleared his throat with a cough.
Or was it a laugh?

Henning flashed a fleeting grin, but his expression quickly turned pensive. “If we are tossing out questions, I have a few of my own. How do Kellton and Lady Spencer fit in?”

“Kellton I can see, because of his trading experience with the East India Company,” answered Saybrook. “Lady Spencer’s involvement is a bit harder to figure out. She did, of course, provide the original South Sea documents, as well as easy access to the Prince. But we may be missing something else.” He paused. “Or we may be entirely wrong in our assumptions.”

“Auch, it’s hard to know what to believe,” groused Henning.

Saybrook didn’t answer.

“It’s not a matter of what any of us believe, Mr. Henning,” interjected Arianna. “It’s a matter of what we can prove.” Her chair scraped back. “I’ve a party to attend tonight, where I intend to seduce a few more facts from Concord.”

“Be on guard,” said Saybrook rather sharply. “Never forget that he is likely a cold-blooded murderer.”

“I, of all people, am acutely aware of that,” she said.

“Good.” His voice, however, was flat and devoid of feeling. “In the meantime, I shall call on Lady Spencer this afternoon and see what more I can learn.”

“Bring her a box of chocolate,” quipped Arianna. “Butter and sugar tend to melt her inhibitions.”

“I had planned to,” answered the earl brusquely. “And tomorrow I will be returning to Horse Guards, where Grentham has consented to allow me access to the confidential government dossiers on the South Sea Bubble.”

“How did you manage that?” she asked.

“The minister and I are playing a little game of standing eyeball to eyeball, and seeing who will blink first.”

“It’s more like sticking your head into a lion’s open jaws,” muttered Henning. “And hoping that he doesn’t snap them shut.”

The earl ignored the comment. “I’ll need to think more about Cockburn, too, but for now, Baz, see what more you can learn about the owners of the merchant ship.”

“I’m meeting with Jem at the Crooked Cat as soon as we’re finished here.”

Arianna rose and stuffed the papers back into the folder. “Then what are we waiting for?”

Grentham picked up his penknife, and then set it down again.

“One . . . two . . .”

Before he reached “three,” a knock announced the return of his secretary, who hurriedly flipped open a folder as he entered the office.

“The report just arrived, sir. An urchin was seen entering Henning’s surgery. He wore the same hat and jacket as the boy who appeared at Lord Saybrook’s town house, so our spy is of the opinion that it’s the same person.”

“I trust that he was smart enough to follow the imp?” growled Grentham.

The secretary shuffled his feet. “Yes, sir. But apparently the boy was a slippery little devil. Our man lost him. . . .”

Grentham’s eyes narrowed.

“In the vicinity of Lady Wolcott’s residence. He swears that the boy must have taken refuge in one of the gardens.”

The minister fingered the gold fobs hanging from his watch chain. “Bring me the file you’ve put together on the Widow Wolcott, along with the one on Lord Ashmun.”

“Yes, milord.”

“And have a new man assigned to the surveillance. One who is quick-witted and quick-footed enough to keep his quarry in sight.” The fobs slid across the silk of his waistcoat. “Assign the current fellow to shoveling dung in the Horse Guards stables.”

“Yes, milord.”

“And Jenkins, do tell our operative that I expect him to stick to Lady Wolcott like a leech, understand? And tell him that his blood will be feeding the lice and bedbugs at Newgate if he fails.”

Jenkins scuttled out the door, as if his own flesh were at risk.

“Wealthy widow, street urchin—what other roles are you playing, Lady Whoever-You-Are?” he said softly.

A sudden patter of rain hit against the windowpanes, momentarily blurring the troop of cavalry trotting across the parade ground.

“Not that it matters. For all your fancy footwork, you look to be heading exactly where I want you.”

T
he carriage lamp flickered as the wheels jolted over a rut in the road. Arianna braced herself against the squabs and peered out through the window. Darkness shrouded the surroundings, the moonless night made even more impenetrable by swirls of thick gray fog twisting through the tall hedgerows.

She could smell the river close by, but any water sounds were drowned out by the creak of the harness leather and the thud of the hooves.

How much farther?
she wondered.

Her heartbeat kicked up a notch as she pressed a palm to the glass and wiped away the beads of moisture. The city lights had long receded, leaving naught but indistinct shapes of black against black shifting in the breeze. All she could see was her own taut reflection.

Concord’s note explaining the sudden change of venue for this evening’s party had said that the journey from Mayfair would take a little over an hour. Leaning back, Arianna closed her eyes and sought to steady her nerves. That her own personal vendetta had become entangled in a far bigger web of evil was still a little disorienting. In truth, she really shouldn’t care very much anymore—her original motivations had, like so much else in her life, been based on lies. And yet, she found that she did care.

Could Saybrook be right? Could she actually believe in abstract notions like justice?

Arianna shook off the questions. She needed her head clear, her thoughts focused on the coming revelries.

Concord had added several lines below the directions, explaining that the arrival of a valuable shipment from abroad had sparked the idea of holding a special celebration—and that she was among the select few being invited to participate. An “initiation,” he had called it. To see if the rest of the club would approve the offer of a full-fledged membership. Which, he assured her, would open the portal to every imaginable pleasure.

Fay çe que vouldras—
Do as you please.

Her hands knotted together in a tight fist. And if embezzlement, treason, and murder were necessary to achieve one’s desires, then so be it.

The thought of murder made her frown for an instant. Saybrook would likely be angry that she had set off without sending him word about the change in plans. But Concord’s note had come late, and she had been in a rush to ready herself for the carriage ride to Wooburn Moor.

A special ceremony required a special venue.
The directions had described an isolated manor house set by the river, well hidden from the main road. No other information had been given, save to say that it belonged to another club member.

The question recalled what she had read about Francis Dashwood, the original founder of the Hellfire Club, whose lands in High Wycombe were not far away. She wondered whether the rumors of secret caves cut into the soft chalky stone beneath the old Medmenham Abbey were true. Subterranean chambers of stygian darkness, where the devils could play at will.

“It doesn’t matter whether Saybrook knows or not,” she whispered aloud. “I’ve always looked out for myself.”

A blaze of torchlight suddenly shone through the misted panes. “Welcome.” A masked figure stepped out of the fog to open the carriage door. Arianna didn’t recognize the voice. Likely it was a servant, paid well to keep silent about what went on within the walls of the manor house up ahead.

“This way, madam.” He led her along a gravel path and up a set of marble stairs. Taking hold of the brass knocker—a horned Satan with a monstrous erection—he rapped on the door and then retreated, leaving her standing alone in the gloom.

Several minutes ticked by before the iron-studded oak swung open.

“Ah, Lady W, I am delighted that you accepted the invitation.” Concord was dressed in scarlet trousers and matching jacket, the rich fabric giving a reddish gleam to his overbright eyes and oiled hair. A musky scent oozed from the combed curls, a mixture of sandalwood and some exotic sweetness that made her want to gag.

Forcing a smile instead, she replied, “I wouldn’t have missed the opportunity for the world.”

He raised his glass in salute. It held a crystal clear liquid that he quaffed in one gulp. “To a memorable evening,” he murmured. “Please help yourself to refreshments. I must have a word with the membership committee and our host about the coming ceremony. I shall join you shortly.”

“Of course, sir.” Arianna spotted Tipton and Gavin in one of the side alcoves. They were wearing white trousers and jackets, identical in cut to Concord’s clothing.

“But pray,” she added, “don’t let them keep you too long.”

Concord’s gaze flicked to her cleavage. “Just a few matters of business, and then we may move on to pleasure, Lady Wolcott.”

Arianna made her way to the far corner of the drawing room, where an array of drinks were set up on a gilded table festooned with bloodred candles. It was the one bright spot, aswirl with tongues of fire, licking up with silent laughter.

Insatiable,
she thought, taking up a glass of burgundy wine. Men like Concord could never have enough.

The rest of the room was pooled in flickering shadows. She could dimly make out several other people standing together by the curtained windows, but the hooded robes they were wearing made it impossible to make out their identities. Whoever they were, they made no acknowledgment of her arrival.

Perhaps it was part of the ritual. She seemed to be the only one attired in evening finery. . . .

The soft swoosh of fabric suddenly intruded on her musings. Arianna felt a prickling of gooseflesh as a laugh sounded close to her ear.

“Nervous, my dear?” Lady Spencer was wearing a nun’s habit, fashioned out of coal-black cloth. A half-moon of white hung over her shoulders, reflecting the fire-gold glow of the candles up to her face. Even without the highlights, her eyes looked unnaturally bright.

“Perhaps just a little,” replied Arianna.

“It is only natural.” Two points of red glittered in the center of her dilated pupils. “You are about to enter a whole new world.”

“I—I am eager to experience a different life.”