Sweet Revenge (17 page)

“You are in no position to be making threats,” replied Grentham.

“Nor are you,” countered Saybrook. “A good many people might be very curious to know more about the recent activities of dear, departed Major Crandall.”

Grentham went very still.

“He was, after all, your senior military aide, and as such, your wish was his command.”

“I confess that I, too, am very curious to hear where you are going with this.”

“At the moment, I’m not far enough along on the trail to make an announcement on where it leads. However, I promise that you will be the first to know when I get there.”

“I’m afraid you have lost me, Lord Saybrook.”

“You—who know every twist and turn, every cesspool and hellhole in London?” A smile ghosted over Saybrook’s lips. “I think not. Indeed, I’d be willing to wager you could find your way blindfolded through the scum and the dung, no matter how deep.”

“How very poetic.” Grentham perched a hip on the corner of his desk. “But unlike you, I do not possess an artistic temperament. I prefer practical, pragmatic speech. So if you have an accusation to make, please do so.”

“An accusation? Oh, I’m not quite as clumsy as you seem to think.” Saybrook rose, and suddenly the slender length of ebony was a blur of black as it cut a series of feints through the air. “Swords—verbal or otherwise—are something I’m quite familiar with. A soldier never really loses touch with the art of war.”

The silver ferrule stopped a scant half inch from Grentham’s throat.

“You, no doubt, prefer a more cerebral weapon,” continued the earl softly. “But there is a certain primitive pleasure in the feel of steel in your hand.”

The minister slowly pushed the point away. “As you say, primitive. There are far less sweaty ways of destroying an enemy.”

“Yet nothing is quite so supremely satisfying as going
mano a mano
with an opponent,” replied Saybrook.

“Swordplay to rescue a damsel in distress? You’ve read too many romantic tales, Lord Saybrook,” mocked Grentham. “Noble heroes are naught but a dribble of ink on paper.”

“Then consider me a spawn of Satan. For if you ever threaten my sister again I shall follow you to the hottest hole in hell and slice off your cods,” said the earl. “And then ram them down your gullet, uncooked and unspiced.”

Grentham flicked a mote of dust from his lapel. “Would that you could show this much zeal in pursuing the fugitive chef.”

Saybrook tucked the cane under his arm and walked to the door unaided. “I think we both know there are bigger fish to fry.”

 

Arianna let out a low laugh as she looked up from Dona Maria’s journal. The earl’s Spanish grandmother had a deliciously sly sense of humor. No wonder his expression betrayed a hint of sadness when he spoke of her. From her writings, it was obvious that the contessa had been a remarkable lady.

Setting the book aside, she loosened the sash of her silk wrapper. It was late, and yet her nerves were still wound tight. She had spent the evening at a staid musicale, with card games and a midnight supper following the program of Italian opera arias. The singers had been mediocre, the punch weak, and the conversation boring. However, Mellon had insisted that she attend several respectable parties to establish some sort of credibility in Society.

But tomorrow night . . .

She rose and went to stand by the windows. The patter of a passing shower echoed against the panes. Pressing her palms to the glass, Arianna drew a deep breath and let the dampness seep through her skin. The chill took the edge off the frisson of fire twisting in her belly. The idea of getting close to Concord had her feeling both hot and cold.
So near and yet so far.
She had dreamed of revenge for so long. Yet now that it was in reach, her emotions were hard to untangle.

One step at a time,
she told herself.

Turning away, Arianna moved to the chest of drawers, where her newly purchased accessories lay neatly folded on lavender-scented paper. Lacey corsets, silk stockings, lawn cotton shifts soft and sheer as a dappling of sunlight. . . . Lud, she had never possessed such frilly, feminine things. They were luxuries, far too costly for a vagabond on the run.

Her fingers lingered on a curl of satin ribbon, its softness teasing against the callused tips. Then, swearing under her breath, Arianna thrust them beneath the pile of new clothing and found several of her old male garments. Pulling out the canvas smock, she fished a small pouch from a hidden pocket in the seam and carried it over to the bed.

A square of pale ivory paper and wink of fire-tinged gold fluttered in the candlelight as she shook the contents onto the counterpane. Picking up the medallion first, she held it closer to the light in order to study the engraving. She hadn’t taken the time to scrutinize the items taken from Lady Spencer’s desk drawers, but now that she was to meet with Concord, she couldn’t afford to overlook any clue that might help bring her father’s murderer to justice.

For it had been a premeditated murder, and not some random robbery. On that she was willing to bet her life.

Forcing her focus back from the past to the present, Arianna squinted at the curling script phrase on the medallion.

Her brow furrowed as she mentally translated the French into English.

Unsure what to make of the words, Arianna replaced the medallion and the list back in the pouch and unfolded the letter. The message here was less cryptic. Lady Spencer had another paramour who was unhappy about her liaison with the Prince Regent. Did all of this—the murderous attacks, the violent death, the government panic—boil down to a simple matter of sex?

She tucked the paper away and put the pouch back in its hiding place. The earl ought to be told about the contents of the letter. It would save him from running in circles, chasing phantom conspirators. This was most likely not about international politics, but a personal grudge against a Prince who couldn’t keep his pizzle inside his breeches.

However, sharing the information wasn’t to her advantage.

Arianna looked around the elegant room and gave a sardonic grimace. Saybrook’s goal was to end the investigation as soon as possible, while her role was simply to serve as a pawn—a pawn in a ruthless game where she was expendable. That he would not hesitate for a heartbeat to sacrifice her was a fact that she must never forget.

Kill or be killed
. That was one of the cardinal rules of survival.

Indeed, it might be the
only
rule that mattered.

Because come hell or high water, she meant to survive long enough to taste the sweetness of revenge.

T
oo unsettled to sleep quite yet, Arianna took up the candle and made her way down to the kitchen. Its worktables and well-stocked pantries were now familiar territory, for several days ago, on learning that Arianna was studying the chocolate notebooks belonging to the earl’s grandmother, the cook had issued an invitation to help make up the week’s supply of cacao for hot chocolate.

Apparently Arianna had passed the test, for she had been given carte blanche to make use of the space and supplies whenever she wished.

After adding fresh coals to the stove, she lit a lantern and gathered the ingredients she wanted. Spices and almonds, cream and butter, flour and sugar, a ball of cacao paste . . . after measuring out the exact amounts of several ingredients, she set the copper pot on the hob to heat.

As the gloom came alive with soothing sounds and smells of cooking, she felt her tension melting away into the kitchen rhythms.

Lost in thought, Arianna wasn’t aware of the approaching footsteps until the scrape of a boot on the mudroom floor jarred her from her work. Pulse pounding, she grabbed up the long-bladed chopping knife and whirled around from the worktable.

Framed in the doorway was a dark shape, a blur of black on black in the murky corridor.

Her throat seized, her hands clenched.

“A late supper?”The earl stepped out from the ominous shadows, his caped coat flapping around his shoulders.

The blade wavered as she expelled a sharp breath.

“Or is it breakfast?” added Saybrook, slipping out of his coat and shaking off the droplets of rain. He draped it over a stool and came forward into the pool of lantern light. In the flickering flame, he looked tired. Troubled.

Or perhaps pensive was more accurate. It was hard to say. She didn’t know him well enough to recognize his moods.

“Neither,” she replied.

“Well, it smells good enough to eat.” He paused for a look at the simmering sugar, which was slowly caramelizing to a buttery shade of gold. “What are you making?”

Arianna pointed to the sheet of paper by the grater. “I copied one of your grandmother’s recipes for a chocolate and almond confection. I was too restless to sleep, so I thought I would try it. I find cooking relaxing.”

“Sounds delicious.” He went to a tall cabinet by the larder and took down a bottle. She heard a soft splash, and when he returned he was cupping a rounded glass filled with a dark amber liquid.

“Spanish brandy,” he said, catching her questioning look. “Simpler and sharper than the French style. But I’m not in the mood for complexity tonight.”

She looked away from his shadowed face. “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t need an invitation to enter my uncle’s house. I am family, and welcome at any hour.”

Family.
For a fleeting moment Arianna found herself wondering what it would be like not to be always alone.

“What about you, Lady Wolcott?” His dark eyes seemed to pierce her private thoughts. “Or whoever you really are. You must have family somewhere.”

“No.” Arianna scooped up a handful of almonds and set them on the chopping block. “Not all of us are privileged enough to have loving relatives. I’m on my own in this world, naught but a nomad.”

“Even a nomad has a family name, one that roots her to the past, whether she likes it or not.”

“I have a family name,” she shot back. “I told you, it’s Smith.”

“I think not.”

“It’s of no concern to me what you think, sir.”

“I beg to differ, Lady”—there was a quiver of silence before he spoke the next words—“Arianna Hadley.”

The blade slipped, nicking her finger. “I—I don’t know what you are talking about,” she stammered as a bead of blood welled up from the cut. In the low light, the color appeared more black than crimson.