Sweet Revenge (6 page)

T
hump, thump, thump.
The sound of the graceless descent gave Arianna ample warning that her bailiwick was about to be invaded.

Sure enough, several moments later a man appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. He was tall and broad-shouldered, though at present his big body was slightly hunched in pain. Taking in the cane and the awkward shift of his weight, she guessed that his stiff left leg was its source.

She looked up. His face might once have been called handsome, but its chiseled planes had sharpened to the point of gauntness. Black lashes framed eyes dark as volcanic ash. Yet as his gaze met hers, she was almost certain that she saw a burnt-gold spark smoldering in their depths.

She had expected another soldier. Instead they had sent . . . Satan incarnate.

No need to let my imagination run wild,
she chided herself. Not when an all too real Hell was already erupting around her.

Shaking off her flight of fancy, Arianna quickly slipped into her role of aggrieved Frenchman.

“
Sacre bleu
, not another attack on my integrity,” she muttered, cutting an angry little swish through the air with her fillet blade. “I am fast losing my taste for London. It is clear zat my talents are not appreciated here.”

“I shall try not to take up too much of your time with my questions,” said the intruder, his ash-black eyes following the flight of her hands.

“Hmmph!” Scowling, she waved him on. “Come, if you wish to talk, you will have to do it while I prepare ze stew for supper, Monsieur . . .”

“De Quincy,” he answered. After a fraction of a pause, he added, “Or Saybrook, if that comes easier to your tongue.”

“Given a preference, sir, the only word I would be saying is
adieu
,” she shot back.

“Unfortunately, that is not possible quite yet. But as I said, I will endeavor to keep our talk brief.” Strangely enough, his gaze remained focused on her hands. “And to the point.”

Her grip tightened on the hilt. “Ze household must eat,
n’est-ce pas
, Monsieur De Quincy?”

“But of course,” murmured Saybrook.

Arianna led the way to a massive worktable set in the center of the space. “Have a seat, monsieur,” snapped Arianna, indicating the lone stool at one end of the steel-scarred length of maple. She set aside the fillet blade and took up a paring knife. “While I peel and dice the carrots.”

“No amanita mushrooms?” he said softly.

The reference to the deadly poisonous species took her aback.
Good God, did the man actually have a sense of humor?

Arianna grunted in reply. “Zees may be a joke to you, sir, but it eez my reputation at stake.”

“Not to speak of your life.”

She felt herself blanch, but remained silent.

Perching a hip on the stool, Saybrook watched her scoop up a handful of the vegetables and begin trimming off the tops. “You have the hands of an artist, Monsieur Alphonse,” he remarked, shifting his gaze to the heavy steel blades and graters arrayed around him and then back again. “One would not expect those fine-boned fingers to wield the tools of your trade with quite so much skill.”

Her throat seized and Arianna didn’t dare try to speak, fearing a feminine squeak would give her away. At this distance, the darkness of his eyes appeared due to the telltale dilation of his pupils—Mr. De Quincy clearly imbibed a goodly amount of laudanum to ease his pain. But apparently the drug had not dulled the sharpness of his wits.

She must not make the mistake of underestimating him. She had made too many errors already.

Willing herself to remain calm, Arianna took up a butcher’s knife.
Chop, chop, chop.
The familiar rhythm steadied her nerves, and in a matter of seconds, the carrots were reduced to a pile of uniform slices.

“If Prinny had been gutted and quartered instead of poisoned, you would be an even more obvious suspect,” he added conversationally.

“Does that mean that you have come to arrest me for attempted murder?” she demanded.

Instead of answering, he asked, “Have you always been interested in cooking?”

She lifted her shoulders. “From an early age I had to learn how to fend for myself, and at times I had to be creative in order to keep from starving. I discovered that I had a knack for working with food, and I find it interesting.” A sweep of the blade pushed the vegetable aside. “But you—you look like one of zose monkish men who subsist on bread and water—and ze thrill of hunting down dangerous criminals and eliminating them from society.”

“I’ve been recovering from an injury,” he answered brusquely.

Had she touched a sore spot? If so, Mr. De Quincy was quick to cover his discomfort. “As it happens,” he went on calmly, “I do have an interest in cuisine. And from what I have heard, you are very good at what you do.”

Another shrug.

“Did you learn your art in France? I am trying to place your accent. . . .”

“
Non
, in ze islands of the Caribbean,” she growled. A head of garlic, finely diced, joined the carrots in a large copper pot. “Martinique, Guadeloupe, St. Barthelemy. Then I drifted to Jamaica for a time.” Arianna reached for a bowl of small white onions. “Do you require references?” she added with a sarcastic laugh.

“Not at present,” replied Saybrook politely. “So, what brought you to London?”

“I was bored and wished to expand my horizons.”

His dark brow notched up a fraction.

“Zhis is a city of great wealth and opportunity,” she went on. “People hunger for fine things, and I saw a chance to profit from it.”

“A very pragmatic assessment, Monsieur Alphonse,” murmured Saybrook.

“Unlike you fancy Ingleeze gentlemen, I did not grow up in a cosseted world of pampered privilege. I had to survive on my own wits, so yes, I am pragmatic. Is zat a crime in this country?”

“Not that I am aware of.” Saybrook shifted slightly, and Arianna guessed that he was trying to ease the pressure on his injured leg. “What makes you think I am a gentleman?”

“Your coat is tailored by Weston. He only caters to a wealthy, titled clientele.”

“You have a discerning eye, Monsieur Alphonse.”

“Cooking requires one to pay attention to the small details.”

Saybrook remained silent as he watched her pluck a bouquet of fresh herbs from the overhanging rack and methodically mince a handful of the leaves.

“Rosemary.” Saybrook sniffed the air. “As well as thyme and savory.”

She looked up in surprise.

“I spent time in my grandmother’s kitchen when I was a boy.”

“You are an odd agent of the government—a member of the upper class who chooses to get his hands dirty”—the chopping grew louder—“with desperate criminals, like
moi
.”

“Perhaps, like you, I am bored,” said Saybrook pleasantly. “By the by,
are
you a desperate criminal?”

“Ha! You don’t care about ze answer.” She flashed him a sardonic smile. “All you and your government care about is making an arrest.
Voilà
—the problem is solved, and be damned with the inconvenience of ze truth.
N’est pas?”

Saybrook turned slightly, a pensive look shading his profile
.
The window draperies were drawn almost shut, and in the low light, shadows danced over the taut skin and harsh bones. The air was growing heavy with the warmth of the simmering pots on the stove, and Arianna saw a beading of sweat break out on his forehead.

Hell, what madness had possessed Whitehall to send a cadaver to confront her?
Or was the government playing some diabolical game with her? Perhaps in some hideous twist of logic they had poisoned the man in order to confront her with her own supposed crime. . . .

Don’t panic
, she told herself. The idea was insane . . . and yet, the man looked on the verge of dropping dead on the spot. Which would only lay another sin at her feet.

“Are you ill, sir?”

His lids flew open.

“You look pale. Here, have a morsel of my chocolate.” Arianna shoved a plate toward him. “It works wonders at reviving both body and spirit—assuming you are brave enough to try it.” A bitter laugh. “But of course, I may simply be seeking yet another victim for my poison.”

“Thank you.” Saybrook took a small chunk of the nut-brown confection. “I confess, I have been very curious to sample chocolate in an edible form. The Aztecs issued wafers of solid chocolate to their soldiers on long marches. It was believed to increase stamina.”

“How—how is it that an Ingleeze gentleman knows about such things?” asked Arianna. She was usually very good about reading a person’s strengths and weaknesses. But Mr. De Quincy was proving difficult to decipher. He was too . . . unpredictable. A strange mix of odd angles and unexpected contrasts. Now that she had had a chance to study him more closely, she saw that his eyes were not as black as she had first supposed. They were more of a toffee-gold amber, sparking the unsettling feeling of being trapped like a fly in their depths.

Arianna shifted uncomfortably, angry at herself for letting him put her off balance.

“Most men of your rank are indolent idlers, interested in nothing but superficial pleasures.”

“Perhaps I am not quite what I seem.” Placing the morsel of chocolate in his mouth, Saybrook let it dissolve on his tongue. “How interesting. You’ve flavored the cacao with vanilla, sugar, cinnamon, and a touch of nutmeg.”

An agent from Whitehall with an expertise in cooking?
She ducked her head, trying to mask her confusion by peeling away the greased wrapping from a slab of beef.

“I recently came across an old Spanish recipe for a similar combination,” continued Saybrook. “However, I have not yet had a chance to try it.”

Arianna knew she shouldn’t bite, but curiosity overcame caution. “A recipe?” she echoed. “For chocolate?”

The crackling of the wrapping paper faded as her ears filled with a far more soothing sound.

“Cooking is a metaphor for life,
ma petite
. You must be bold, and use your imagination,” whispered her old cook’s voice. In her mind’s eye she could see gnarled brown hands spinning the molinillo faster and faster to froth the steaming milk and cacao. “Never cease to be curious. Never be afraid to experiment. That is the recipe for feeling alive.”

A sweet memory—ah, but Oribe had been wise beyond words.

Shaking off the reverie, she added, “Considering your official duties, you have very strange interests, Mr. De Quincy.”

“True.” Saybrook’s mouth softened into a faint smile. “I inherited them from my late grandmother. Chocolate was her passion. She scoured the antiquities shops of Madrid and Barcelona, looking for manuscripts and diaries from the New World. She left me several notebooks filled with the recipes and legends she collected.”

“What a treat it would be to read them,” mused Arianna.

“Perhaps you’ll have a chance.” He made a wry face. “I have been working on translating them into English, with the hope of finding an interested publisher.”

“Unlikely,” she scoffed. “They are far more interested in horrid novels, with fainting heroines, talking swords, and dastardly villains.”

“Stranger things have happened,” he replied with an enigmatic look. His gaze lingered on her face, and then suddenly cut down to the chopping board, where she was slicing the beef into small pieces for the stew.

Arianna felt a strange prickling, like dagger points dancing down her spine.

Dangerous.
Though she had hardened herself to emotion, she felt a clench of fear squeeze the air from her lungs. There was something deceptively dangerous about the man. She had the feeling that despite his mild manner he was ruthlessly probing her defenses, looking to deliver the
coup de grâce
.

She closed her eyes for an instant, trying to master her momentary weakness. But when she opened them, she saw that Saybrook had taken up one of her paring knives and was testing the edge of its blade against his thumb.

“Could I convince you to give me the recipe for your chocolate wafers?” he asked.

“Non.”
Arianna edged a step into the shadows. “I don’t share my secrets, sir.”

Perhaps it was merely a quirk of light, but Saybrook’s lidded gaze seemed to sharpen. “Is there a reason you work in such darkness, monsieur?” he asked abruptly. “I would have thought that a man so conscious of detail as you are would prefer a brighter room.”

A serving spoon clattered to the floor. “I—I worked aboard ships, and have become used to it.”

He suddenly shifted the knife to his other hand. And then—

And then it cut through the air, a quicksilver streak against the gloom.

“Monsieur!”
Arianna tried to parry the blow, but Saybrook, anticipating the move, slid his blade up and under her guard. The sharp point sliced through her linen smock and sunk smack into the middle of her belly.

“Ummph!” Her jaw went slack as she stared down at the quivering steel.

He drew in a sharp breath and held absolutely still, watching, waiting . . .

Slowly, a snowy white feather spilled from the slash, then another.

Saybrook jerked the knife free and with a quick flick of his wrist knocked the toque from her head. A slice severed the ribbon tied around the tightly wound mass of curls.

Recovering from her initial shock, Arianna let fly with a dockyard curse. “You bloody bastard,” she added, sliding hard to her left. Lifting her own weapon in a quick feint, she whipped it down in an angry arc.

Saybrook pivoted just in the nick of time, causing the blade to brush over his trousers.

Damn the man.
Arianna used a few more moves from her arsenal of filthy tricks, yet he managed to elude the stabs aimed at his injured leg. She was good with a knife. But so was he.