The earl nodded. “How long before he can travel?”
“At least a few days, and maybe more. The roads be rough this time of year, and I wuddna like te see the wound reopened.”
Saybrook thanked him again and led the way out into the night.
Wincing as a gust of cold air slapped against her cheeks, Arianna couldn’t decide which was worse—the prospect of staying in cold, cheerless Scotland or another interminable coach journey.
Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.
The Devil was proving to have a perverse sense of humor.
Once in their rooms, her husband went through the motions of splashing water on his face and undressing without a word, his normally graceful movements stiff and awkward. Despite his earlier chidings, she guessed that he blamed himself for the shooting of both Henning and his nephew. The weak light from a single taper played over his bare back, making his olive skin appear as dark as bronze. His body was beautiful, the lithe contours reminding her of the engravings she had seen of classical Greek gods. Mythic warriors, epic heroes.
Yet tonight, his muscles were taut with tension. Arianna found herself longing to reach out and touch him. She lifted a tentative hand, wondering whether the press of flesh on flesh, heat on heat, would help dispel the knots.
But then he moved away, and she let the moment pass. When Saybrook retreated into himself, she wasn’t quite sure how to follow. The path appeared daunting—deeply shadowed, guarded by thorns, its footing made precarious by the shards of sharp-edged stone.
Rather like the roads here in Scotland, she thought wryly. But then, her whole life had not been an easy journey. She was used to traversing treacherous stretches . . .
“Come to bed, Arianna.” Her husband slipped beneath the eiderdown coverlet. “It’s been a long, exhausting day, and we both need to keep up our strength.”
She blew out the candle and watched the ghostly wisp of smoke dissolve in the darkness. “Yes, I know. I’m coming.”
* * *
The page crackled, tingeing her fingers with soot. Shifting her chair closer to the window, Arianna picked up a book knife from the desk and gingerly turned another page.
“What secrets are you hiding?” she murmured, squinting at the spidery script through her magnifying glass.
Saybrook had gone to see Henning, saying that as the two of them had experienced death together on the battlefields, it was best for him to break the news about Angus MacPhearson alone. To keep herself distracted, she had decided to have a look at the half-burned journal.
“I wonder,” she continued, “was it Girton or his murderer who sought to turn you into ashes?”
Either way, she felt there was a good chance that the little book contained some vital clue that would help with their investigation.
“Or perhaps I’m merely grasping at swirls of Scottish mist,” added Arianna. So far, any tangible evidence had proved maddeningly elusive. Save for dead bodies, of course.
Frowning, she hunched closer in concentration, pencil and fresh paper close at hand for making notes. But after an hour of poring over the pages, her hopes of finding anything important began to fade. The writing seemed to be nothing but a daily log of mundane laboratory labors—microscope calibrations, notations on student performance, records of supplies used.
Pinching the bridge of her nose, Arianna sat back and stirred at her now-cold cup of tea. Perhaps someone more skilled in scientific study would see more. Her own formal schooling was spotty at best. A smattering of literature, learned in her father’s lap on the rare nights when he wasn’t submerged in a sea of brandy, comprised her education in English. And mathematics. Her father had been a genius, and apparently his knack for numbers had been passed on to her. They had spent hours playing complex games with equations, and the concepts came naturally.
But as for normal feminine skills, there had been no governess to oversee instruction in deportment and embroidery, no masters to teach the rudiments of art, music or dancing. Her classroom had been the hardscrabble streets of the Caribbean harbors, her instructors the few trusted friends she had made along the way.
In contrast, Saybrook was an erudite scholar, an expert botanist, a connoisseur of the classics, an avid reader of science and philosophy who had studied at Oxford. He had then been offered a military commission to serve as one of Wellington’s intelligence officers for the war in Portugal and Spain because of his knowledge of the languages and customs.
Her grip tightened on the spoon as she recalled one of Grentham’s nasty comments, made during one of their confrontations. The revelation that her husband had regular meetings with a reclusive female scholar was meant to cause pain.
I wasn’t hurt—merely surprised, mused Arianna. Saybrook hadn’t mentioned the arrangement. “Nor was he beholden to do so,” she muttered under her breath. “I was no dewy-eyed innocent, with girlish illusions of making a love match.” Theirs was a relationship of mutual respect and growing friendship. That was far more than most aristocratic couples had. As for the past, she and Saybrook had, by mutual consent, avoided discussing their private lives before their marriage. She assumed that he had taken lovers. He was rich, handsome, titled . . .
Forcing her thoughts back to the journal, Arianna carefully turned the page. But her mind kept wandering from the smoke-streaked paper. Was Saybrook regretting his impetuous offer, made to save her from bearing the brunt of Grentham’s retribution? Did he long for a wife who shared his bookish knowledge?
Not long ago, he had, in the heat of battle, told her that he loved her. But the sentiment had never been repeated.
“Perhaps I only imagined it,” she whispered. It might only have been the notes of a waltz drifting out from a Viennese ballroom, or the flutter of a starlit breeze dancing through the cobbled streets.
She stared, unseeing, at the scribbles of ink for several more minutes before admitting defeat. It must be the death of Henning’s nephew that had her in such a strangely maudlin mood. She did not usually dwell on the past or fret over old mistakes.
“Damnation, I might as well try to do something useful.” Exasperated, Arianna turned to put the book aside, but in her haste, it nearly slipped from her fingers, and the fragile pages fanned out, sending flakes of dark ash falling to the carpet.
“Damnation,” she repeated, leaning down to brush away the specks. As she shifted the journal, it fell open to a spread near the back of the book. The ashes suddenly forgotten, she reached for her magnifying glass and read over the lightly penciled text. The writing was so faint that it took several minutes to decipher the short message, and even then the string of letters was meaningless.
A code.
Putting down the glass, she quickly copied it onto her notepaper and stared at the sequence. A thrum of excitement tingled down her fingers. Dealing with emotions was like sparring with shadows. Here was something familiar. Something she knew how to attack.
Patterns, poppet. Look for patterns. Her father’s jovial voice echoed for an instant in her head. A skill in mathematics was important in breaking a code, for working out patterns of repetition and frequency helped determine the actual message. There were, of course, all sorts of coding techniques, from simple shift ciphers to elaborate Vigenère squares. And if a text cipher was used—one based on a certain book page or passage that only the intended recipient knew—then cracking it was all but impossible.
Tapping her pencil to the tip of her chin, Arianna mulled over the myriad possibilities. Tap, tap, tap. Sometimes it was best to start with the simplest solution.
Lettering out the alphabet at the top of her notepaper, she flexed her shoulders and set to work.
* * *
“How did Basil take the news?” Arianna looked up at her husband’s approach, knowing the query sounded absurd. “I meant . . .”
“I know
what you meant.” He sank into the chair by the hearth and ran a hand through his hair. “God in Heaven, I’ve performed difficult duties in the military, but never one so draining as that.”
She rose and went to pour a glass of whisky. “Drink this. Your face is gray as ashes.”
“I need more than a spark of Highland malt to warm my spirits,” he muttered. “I need some flicker of light to help us see through the muddled mists of this Devil-cursed maze. It feels as if we are wandering blindly after an enemy who knows every twist and turn.” The glass spun between his palms. “Which allows him to stay one step ahead of us with maddening ease.”
Arianna wiped her soot-smudged fingers on her skirts. “I think I’ve found a small candle flame.” She indicated the half-burned book on the side table. “I discovered several pages of pencil notations in the back section. They were written in code—a fairly basic one. Using a simple method of frequency analysis, I was able to decipher the message.”
“Only a mathematical genius would call frequency analysis simple,” he said with a tiny smile.
“As you know, I seem to have a natural aptitude for numbers,” she said, handing him a sheet of paper. “Unfortunately, my formal education is sadly lacking, so the scientific data in the book is naught but gibberish. You and Basil will have to examine the material to see if there’s anything meaningful.”
“We need to pore over the documents taken from Girton’s laboratory and his home as well. Assuming Baz has the stomach to continue,” said the earl. “He is far more expert in the field than I am. However . . .”
He didn’t need to go on.
Heaving a sigh, Arianna added another few squares of peat to the fire while Saybrook studied the decoded message.
“‘Greetings, my dear friend . . .’” Having finished skimming over it, her husband began reading the words aloud. “‘I fear that something very dangerous is brewing at RI. With HD away, one of his Bright Lights may be burning the candle at both ends. I suspect The Flame, but in truth, I don’t know if any of them can be trusted, including TW. You must not reveal to them what Cayley and I have discovered. Too explosive, and if the plans got into the hands of England’s enemies it would be devastating. I will explain more when I see you. In the meantime, I beg you to think of who among your government acquaintances we can warn.’”
“As you see,” said Arianna. “It appears to be a draft of a letter. But whether it was sent is impossible to know.”
The earl’s brow was furrowed in thought. “Right,” he replied absently. “Hand me your pencil, please.”
She passed it over.
“HD and RI,” he said, writing the two sets of initials below her transcription. “Given Girton’s last words, I think it fair to assume ‘RI’ means the Royal Institution.”
“I confess, I am a bit confused about all these ‘Royal’ organizations devoted to science. I would have thought that a man of Girton’s abilities would be working with the Royal Society.”
Founded in the late seventeenth century, the Royal Society was recognized as one of the oldest and most prestigious scientific organizations in the world. It funded numerous scholarly projects, including explorations of uncharted places around the globe as well as research in a variety of subjects. The membership was made up of the leading intellects in Britain—it was, in effect, an elite club of ideas and imagination.
“An excellent surmise, my dear,” said Saybrook. “The society is indeed the best-known group in London. But for chemistry, the Royal Institution is the leading forum of experimentation, especially since Humphry Davy arrived there in aught-one.”
“Humphry Davy—that is HD?” she asked.
“I think it has to be,” he answered. A charismatic figure despite his diminutive size, the scientist from Cornwall possessed not only a brilliant mind but also an ebullient charm and boyish good looks, which had made him the darling of London Society. His lectures were always crowded to capacity—with both gentlemen and ladies.
“Davy has made chemistry a popular topic among the ton,” he continued. “The headquarters on Albemarle Street has become a center for people who fancy themselves as the first wave of the future.”
Arianna thought for a moment. “You mean, as a catalyst for change?”
“Well put,” answered the earl. “The newly knighted Davy and his wife are away on a Grand Tour of Europe right now, and when he returns, he will serve as a professor emeritus, so who will serve as the institution’s new leader is still undecided. Until Davy returns and helps make the final decision, Trevor Willoughby is serving as the acting director.”
“TW.”
He nodded. “His appointment was no surprise, despite his young age. I’ve heard him lecture, and like Davy, he’s a charismatic showman. The institution was smart enough to realize that keeping in the public eye makes it easier to attract wealthy benefactors.”
The paper crackled in his hands. “So, those first three guesses seem patently obvious. But as for the rest of the message . . .” He frowned. “Bright Lights can mean any of Davy’s inner circle. Over the last few years, he has attracted quite a number of smart young scientists eager to work with the world’s master of chemistry.”
“What about Cayley?” asked Arianna.
He thought for a moment. “The name sounds vaguely familiar, but I shall have to do a little research on it.”
Opening a notebook, Arianna began to make some jottings of her own. “Find out who Cayley is, then start compiling a list of those men who are acknowledged to be part of Davy’s inner circle,” she murmured. “It would also make sense to find out who were Girton’s closest friends. We should be looking for someone he trusted, and someone who had connections to the institution. There can’t be very many who fit that description.”
“It’s rather frightening how good you are becoming at organizing an investigation,” said Saybrook.
“I have learned from an excellent teacher,” she replied. “And I seem to have a natural skill at clandestine activities. It’s far more interesting than the oh-so-proper hobbies a gently reared lady is allowed to dabble in.”
“How fortunate for me that my wife prefers tracking down murderers to playing the pianoforte.” He said it with a hint of humor, but a momentary flicker in his eyes made her wonder . . .
Perhaps my odd habits are beginning to chafe against his skin.
Despite his eccentricities, Saybrook was an earl, with all the responsibilities and traditions that went with the noble title.
“And it seems imperative to marshal whatever expertise I have gained in order to help,” she added quietly. “I fear you will be shorthanded for some time to come.”
“I fear you are right,” said Saybrook gravely. “Baz’s injury will keep him out of action. A gunshot wound is always cause for concern.”
“It’s not just the physical injury that I worry about,” she said. “I would hate to see the special friendship between you two suffer a mortal blow.”
Shadows scudded over his face as he turned to gaze at the slate-colored windowpanes. Rain drummed against the glass like a martial tattoo summoning troops to battle. “I am aware of the danger, Arianna. It’s a damnably difficult position when personal loyalties clash with duty to a higher cause.” His dark lashes hid his eyes. “I hate that I’ve forced him into making painful choices. And yet, given what we had learned, and what we suspect Girton was up to, countless people will die if we aren’t ruthless in our pursuit of Renard,” he said bleakly.
War is a battle of moral imperatives as well as opposing armies, mused Arianna. As a former military intelligence officer, her husband must have faced such terrible decisions before.
“I understand, Sandro. In many ways, a general has a far easier job than you do. His mission is black-and-white—win or lose. The rules are clear and bloodshed is expected. While what Grentham
has asked of us is shrouded in an infinite range of grays.”
“An astute assessment,” he said.
Her mouth quirked up for an instant. “But it doesn’t make things any less wrenching.”
The earl continued to stare out the window, though the world outside was reduced to naught but a watery blur. “No, it doesn’t.”
“On the field of battle, if a battalion has taken a beating, a general must improvise, correct? He must shift his forces and send in reinforcements,” pointed out Arianna. “We shall just have to step up and cover the gap left by our injured comrade.”
“Yes, I had come to that conclusion myself,” mused Saybrook. “Though it stretches our ranks perilously thin. Baz is the real expert on chemistry, and without his help, we shall be left with our flanks exposed, so to speak.”
“Well, we shall just have to shore up our weaknesses,” she said. “Perhaps I can apply my knowledge of chocolate and experimenting with recipes to learning something about science.”
As she had hoped, her words provoked a smile. “I don’t doubt that you can do anything you set your mind to, my dear.”
“As can you, Sandro. We shall find whoever murdered Baz’s nephew and see that he is brought to justice. That will at least bring him some measure of satisfaction.”
The earl smoothed at the page in his lap. “Still, I wish that Baz could have reviewed the papers we took from the laboratory. He might have spotted a clue that I will miss.”
“It’s not as if he’s gone to the grave.” Assuming the close friendship between the two men wasn’t dead. “Or are you unwilling to ask because you think that Stoughton and Grentham have killed off any hope that Basil might aid England?”
“I—I haven’t yet decided what to do.”
The shadows around them suddenly seemed to shiver and darken with doubt.
“Don’t worry.” Arianna forced a show of certainty, despite her own misgivings on the mission. “Even without our friend’s help, we shall outwit Renard and run him to ground.”
Recipe for Treason: A Lady Arianna Regency Mystery (Lady Arianna Hadley Mystery) Page 8
