Sweet Revenge (9 page)

I can take care of myself.
The words were on the tip of her tongue but she held them back.

“Ah, I had a feeling your oh so clever brain would grasp the logic in that.” She heard him move away. “I’ll return as soon as I can.”

Logic.
Arianna felt her way to the back of the shed and found a sliver of space on the rough planks. Curling up against the stone-cold clay pots, she tried to still her spinning thoughts and focus on making sense of the last few days. It seemed that in hunting down her own quarry, she had unwittingly stepped into a nest of vipers. Slithering serpents with bared fangs, coiled to strike. She drew her knees to her chest, aware of the prickling of gooseflesh along her arms.

So close, so close, and then she had turned careless in her last few steps. The question was, would their bite prove fatal?

She had crossed an ocean to pursue those two cold-blooded reptiles. It had been a shock to learn from Lady Spencer that Hamilton had broken his neck six months ago during a drunken carriage race from London to Brighton. But that still left Concord, and she had always considered him to be the more dangerous of the two.

That he might be dangerous enough to dare an attack on the Prince Regent added an unexpected twist.

And suddenly her quest seemed tied in a Gordian knot.

Arianna thought of the three items she had taken from Lady Spencer’s desk. For now, they were her only tangible clues to cutting through the secrets surrounding her father’s death.

Revenge. Redemption.
For years, those twin desires had driven her onward. But in her heart, she also wanted to know the truth.

 

Saybrook shifted in his seat, his boots scuffing softly over the minister’s Turkey carpet. “And so, after a quick check of the surroundings showed no sign of the chef,” he explained, “I thought it best to leave the pursuit to the guards and returned to the town house, in order to arrange for the body to be taken away.” A pause. “I assumed you would want me to dispose of the problem quickly and discreetly.”

“How very thorough of you,” said Grentham, his expression remaining inscrutable.

“I try to be,” replied Saybrook blandly.

The minister tapped his fingers on the three sheets of paper that Saybrook had handed over. “Tell me again precisely what happened.”

“The details are spelled out in my report.” Another pause. “Milord.”

“Nonetheless, I should like to hear you recount them again,” said Grentham softly. “Assuming you haven’t suffered too great a shock.”

Saybrook carefully repeated the sequence of events, omitting any mention of the chef’s transformation from “he” to “she.”

“Two shots, you say.” Grentham fixed him with a long look. “And yet Major Crandall was accorded to be a crack shot. I wonder how two bullets managed to go so badly astray?”

He shrugged. “I couldn’t really say, sir. In the heat of battle, strange things happen.”

“Strange things happen,” repeated the minister softly.

Saybrook sat in steadfast silence.

“I can’t help but wonder . . .” Grentham smoothed the creased papers, and then slid them into a dossier. “Have you any idea as to why Crandall would try to kill the Frenchman while you were interrogating him?”

“No.”

“And you wouldn’t care to hazard a guess?”

“I don’t care for parlor games,” replied Saybrook. “If you wish to hear people engage in idle speculation, I am sure you have plenty of lackeys outside your door who will be only too happy to oblige you.”

“You’re a good deal more facile with your tongue than you are with a weapon, Lord Saybrook.” The minister leaned back in his chair. “I put you in charge of this investigation and what do I have to show for it? Within less than half a day, the Prince’s assassin has escaped, my military attaché is dead, and you—you’re barely able to crawl through my door with a few pathetic pieces of paper.” A slow, mocking clap of applause echoed off the sherry-colored paneling. “Bravo, sir. Bravo.”

Saybrook’s only reaction was to continue contemplating the top of his cane. This one was fashioned with a polished steel knob and a heavy bezel that rotated to release a stiletto hidden within the stout oaken shaft.

A hush fell over the room, save for the ticking of a tall case clock in the corner. A full minute passed before Grentham added, “I am waiting with bated breath to see how you will extract yourself from this steaming pile of
merde
.”

“Then I had better be on my way, before the evidence grows too cold to be of any use.”

Grentham waited until the earl had his hand on the latch before replying, “Yes, I would hurry if I were you. But I would also tread very carefully. For be assured that if you make one more mistake, you’ll find yourself buried so deep in trouble that you’ll wish yourself dead.”

A ghost of a smile greeted the minister’s words. “If you are trying to frighten me, you’ll have to come up with a better threat than that.”

 

Metal rasped against metal, jarring Arianna from a troubled half sleep.

“How kind of you to remember your prisoner,” she mumbled, rising from the bench and brushing the cobwebs from her hair. As the door swung open, she saw that the gardens were darkening with twilight shadows. No wonder her stomach was growling in protest. She hadn’t eaten since morning.

“I—,” she began, only to be cut off by a curt order.

“This way.” Taking her arm, Saybrook turned off the gravel path and cut across the grass.

Arianna bristled, hating her loss of control. But after a sidelong glance at her captor, she held back further sarcasm. His skin was drawn taut over the bones of his face, and with fatigue hazing his gaze, he looked on the verge of collapse.

Time enough later to argue against Fate. For now, she tried to concentrate on making a mental note of her surroundings.

Tall, well-pruned plantings, set in a symmetrical pattern. . . .
Leaves slapped softly against her cheeks, and through the hide-and-seek flickers of light and dark, she had only a fleeting impression of the imposing town house just beyond the privet hedge.
A tiered terrace . . . classical colonnading . . . tall Palladian windows framed in pale Portland stone . . .

She stumbled, suddenly feeling disoriented. The place exuded an aura of power and privilege. Which made absolutely no sense . . . unless he was playing some devious mental game to break down her defenses.

“In here.”

Stiffening her resolve, Arianna steadied her step.

They passed through a stone-floored scullery and down a long corridor. Saybrook paused to light a branch of candles, the flare of flames illuminating a stretch of burnished mahogany wainscoting and gilt-framed paintings.

Reflected in the glint of his amber gaze, the browns and gold began to dance in a whirling dervish blur.

He opened a paneled door set into the wall and stepped aside. “After you, Miss Smith. Have a care. The stairs are rather steep.”

At the top landing, they exited into yet another corridor and passed through a set of carved double doors. “In here, if you please.” Saybrook indicated the second door on the right.

Arianna stepped into a large bedchamber tastefully furnished in shades of taupe and cream.

“I imagine you’re hungry. I’ve ordered up a hot supper.”

She unwound her shawl and draped it over the dressing table chair. The rich brocade and burled walnut wood had an understated elegance that bespoke money. Heaps of money.

“I’m not being put on bread and water until I confess?”

“I think you will find Bianca’s cooking palatable,” he replied. “Please make yourself comfortable. If you would like, I’ll have a bath sent up after your meal.”

Her skin began to itch at the prospect of scrubbing away the filth of the day. “Thank you.” Arianna was grateful, but it nettled her pride to have to admit it. She glanced around, noting the locked window latches and heavy oak door, and couldn’t keep from adding, “However gilded, it appears that this is a cage. I take it that I am to be held as a prisoner here?”

Saybrook raised a brow. “Would you rather be in Newgate? The cells there are damp, dirty, and infested with lice that would eat you alive.”

“I suppose this is a preferable alternative.” She took a seat on the edge of the massive four-poster bed, feeling even more out of place as her work-roughened knuckles brushed against the eiderdown coverlet. “Assuming I don’t expire from boredom.”

“There is a library at the far end of the corridor. Feel free to choose a book to occupy your mind. But be advised that the main doorway will be locked, and the servants have strict orders that you are not allowed to leave.” Saybrook let the words linger as he carefully lit a branch of candles. “And in case you are wondering, they are quite loyal to the owner of this place, so don’t bother trying to bribe them.”

Arianna gave a bitter laugh. “Unfortunately I have nothing to barter, save myself.”

He turned away and gestured at the massive armoire. “Feel free to place your belongings in there. If you are in need of anything else, you may ring for a maid and she will attend to it.”

The opulence was overwhelming. Everything about the house—the look, the feel, and even the smell—exuded refinement.
Delicate colors, feathery silks, the sweetness of lavender.
Arianna blinked back the sting of long-ago memories, refusing to be intimidated. Be damned if the Polite World considered her naught but a verminous insect. She would show them that an insect’s bite was cause for alarm.

“Where am I?” she demanded.

Saybrook didn’t answer.

“Bloody hell, Mr. De Quincy, I think I’m entitled to some answers.”

That drew a gruff laugh. “So do I, Miss Smith,” he replied as he drew the door shut. “So do I.”

“S
o that, in a nutshell, is what happened, Uncle.” Saybrook paused just long enough to chuff a mirthless laugh. “Thank you for drawing me back into the King’s service.” Raising his glass, he cocked a salute. “For God and country. Huzzah.”

Stealing closer to the library door, Arianna crouched down and eased it open a touch wider. Minutes earlier, the sound of footsteps and the low murmur of masculine voices in the corridor had drawn her attention from the book she had borrowed. Her curiosity piqued, she had given them time to settle in before following along.

The room was unlit, save a single argent lamp set on the sideboard next to a tray of crystal decanters. Appearing as stark silhouettes against the pale marble of the hearth, the two men were seated facing each other, their dark leather armchairs drawn close to the banked fire.

“I considered it my duty to pass on Grentham’s request,” said the earl’s companion.

De Quincy’s uncle?
Arianna craned her neck for a better look. In contrast to her captor’s angular features and coal-black hair, the other man had a smooth patrician profile and silvery curls cut short in the latest
à la
Brutus style. His clothing was elegant and exquisitely tailored as well, the folds precise, the lines faultless.

Saybrook quaffed a long swallow of his drink and muttered something under his breath.

Damn
. Arianna inched forward, straining to hear.

“But now that you have recounted the day’s events, I’m convinced that I should counsel you to wash your hands of the matter,” continued the other man.

There was a sliver of silence, save for the faint hiss of the burning wick.

“Oh, well done,” said Saybrook softly. “Holding out a temptation, and then taking it away is a very effective strategy. But then, the highly respected Right Honorable Mr. Mellon is known for his persuasive powers.” To Arianna, his voice sounded slightly slurred. “Tell me, did Whitehall ask you to make sure that I wouldn’t crawl away with my tail between my legs?”