Sweet Revenge

by Andrea Penrose

  “My taste runs to sapphires these days,” quipped the dowager.

  Leaning forward, he placed it in her lap. “I shall leave the jewels to your other suitors. I think you’ll find these even more delicious.”

  The dowager opened the package and gingerly picked up a buttery brown cube dusted with cocoa powder. “Pray, what is it?”

  “Chocolate. Go ahead—taste it.”

  Her brows rose a notch higher. “My dear boy, I wasn’t born yesterday. If you wish to play puerile pranks on someone, please poison someone younger. My constitution is far too delicate to survive a mouthful of mud.”

  Saybrook laughed. “What fustian! You are hearty as a horse. And given your fondness for confections, you will be missing a rare treat if you refuse to be adventurous.”

  After a long look, she gave an experimental nibble. “Mmmm.” The rest of the morsel disappeared in a flash and the purr turned into a sigh. “Edible chocolate! Lud, how divine. Is this something you discovered in your grandmother’s journals?”

  “The journals hold a number of fascinating secrets,” he replied obliquely. “But speaking of stories . . .”

  Lady Sterling popped another piece of chocolate into her mouth. “Very well, now that you have sweetened me up, you may go ahead and tell me the real reason for your visit.”

  “I am hoping that your memory is as sharp as your sense of humor, Aunt Constantina. For I need help in unearthing some information from the past.” The earl shifted his outstretched leg. “You have always kept au courant with the gossip in Town. Do you recall an old scandal in which a gentleman of the ton was forced to emigrate to the West Indies?”

  “More than a few,” she replied dryly. “Jamaica and Barbados have long been popular spots for disposing of wayward sons. Can you be more specific?”

  Saybrook made a face. “Not really. I would say we are talking about something that happened between ten and fifteen years ago, but that’s merely a guess. The only thing I know for sure is that the gentleman involved had a young daughter who accompanied him to the islands.”

  “Hmmm.” Looking pensive, the dowager fingered the rope of pearls resting at her bodice. “Why do you want to know?”

  “I would rather you didn’t ask.”

  “A romantic interest?” she pressed, looking hopeful.

  He shook his head. “Sorry to disappoint you but it’s nothing personal. I’m merely interested in solving a mystery, and if I could put a name to my conjecture, it would be extremely . . . useful.”

  “Let me think about it for a bit.” A sigh, almost imperceptible, fluttered between them. “I can also pay a call on Lady Octavia Marquand. When it comes to peccadilloes of the peerage, she puts even my knowledge to blush.”

  “A frightening thought,” observed Saybrook. He waited for the maid to place the tea tray on the table and leave the room before going on. “In all seriousness, Aunt Constantina, you must be absolutely discreet about making any inquiries. Not a soul must guess that you are trying to uncover information on a member of the ton.”

  Light winked off her spectacles. “Does this have anything to do with your military activities in the Peninsula?” She leaned forward. “Are you still a spy?”

  “I’m simply an invalid, with far too much idle time on my hands,” he replied.

  A wisp of steam floated up as she filled two cups. “And pigs have suddenly sprouted wings and can fly rings around the moon.”

  “Can they?” he replied without batting an eye. “Then perhaps the War Office ought to think of forming an aerial brigade to bombard Bonaparte’s army as they march east. God knows, the Russian tsar could use some help from Above to keep the French from invading his country.”

  The dowager emitted a low snort. “A clever try, but diversionary tactics won’t work on me, dear boy.” She wagged a finger. “For heaven’s sake, Sandro, I am very good at keeping a secret.”

  “If I didn’t believe that, I wouldn’t be here,” he said quietly. “However, the less you know, the better.”

  “You mean to say it might be dangerous?” she demanded.

  He stirred a lump of sugar into his tea. “Yes. So you must be very careful. God knows, I’ve enough on my conscience without drawing you into harm’s way. But time is of the essence, so I must set aside my personal scruples.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Sandro. I’ve a lifetime of experience in navigating through the shoals and crosscurrents of the ton,” replied Lady Sterling. “I’m more concerned about you. The waters can be very treacherous for those who are unfamiliar with the shifting tides and hidden whirlpools.”

  “I’m a strong swimmer, Aunt Constantina.”

  “So are the sharks, Sandro. And they are quick to scent even a single drop of blood in the water.”

  “The warning is duly noted. Be assured that I will take great care to preserve what little I have left.”

  “See that you do.” After a pointed look at his leg, she set down her beverage untasted. “Come back this evening. By that time I should have some answers for you.”

  Arianna opened the pasteboard folder that she had taken from Lady Spencer’s desk and studied the topmost page. Then, pulling out a fresh sheet of paper from the escritoire drawer, she copied the equations and began working through their permutations.

  Her father had loved the magic of mathematics, saying that it represented the essence of the universe. For him, numbers were gods.

  Or devils. She sighed. No, it was only humans who embodied them with positive or negative forces. In and of themselves, they were purely functional, though to her, their limitless possibilities for combinations and complexities held a certain abstract beauty.

  Looking back at her calculations, Arianna tapped the pencil to her chin. There was something familiar about the sequences, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  However, further calculations would have to wait. A discreet knocking reminded her of an appointment with a modiste in Bond Street.

  “Yes, I must swathe myself in fancy silks and satins,” she muttered, reluctantly returning the papers to their hiding place. “For I’ve a far more pressing challenge to meet than the task of solving a mathematical conundrum.”

  “Here is the dossier you requested, milord.”

  Grentham made no move to open the folder. “And what, pray tell, ought I know about its contents, Jenkins?”

  The young man cleared his throat. “Mr. Henning served as an army surgeon with the Third Regiment of Dragoons under Wellington in the Peninsula—as did Lord Saybrook. He resigned at the same time as the earl sold his commission on account of his injury, and both men returned to London on the same transport vessel.” The shuffling of feet was muted by the thick Turkey carpet. “As for earlier background, Henning’s father is an apothecary in Edinburgh, and is known for his outspoken views on social reform. His mother works at a local orphanage teaching the children to read and write.”

  “So we have a Scot who was suckled on idealism instead of whisky.” A mirthless smile curled at the corners of Grentham’s mouth. “Go on.”

  Jenkins rattled off a few more facts about the man’s military service before moving on. “At present, Henning resides in a modest set of rooms at number six Queen Street and runs a clinic for wounded war veterans.”

  “Finances?” asked Grentham.

  “Precarious at best, sir.”

  The minister squared the folder with the edge of his tooled blotter. “Any private patients?”

  “One,” replied the young man. “He seems to be Lord Saybrook’s personal physician.”

  “Now why does that not surprise me?”

  Jenkins did not venture an answer.

  Rising, the minister moved to where a massive gilt-framed map of the city hung against the dark wood paneling. After studying a small section of snaking streets, he turned around. “Has Crandall’s family claimed the body?”

  “Y-yes, milord. Several days ago.”

&nb
sp; “Arrange for Peterson to have a look at it. I should like to have a second opinion.”

  “But, sir, the burial is scheduled for tomorrow in the family plot in Colchester.”

  “Then you had better move quickly. Otherwise you will be needing to dig up a crew of resurrection men to accompany Peterson.”

  “Yes, milord.” His face turning pale as death, the young man scuttled for the door.

  “And Jenkins . . .”

  “Sir!”

  “I want the information that I requested on the East India board of governors on my desk within the hour.”

  Jenkins bobbed a nod and disappeared before any other order could be issued.

  His place was taken by a red-coated officer, who snapped to attention and saluted. “Lord Saybrook is here, milord.”

  “You may dispense with the parade ground theatrics, Colonel Saunders,” growled Grentham. “Send him in.”

  The earl entered a few moments later and without invitation seated himself in the chair facing the minister’s desk. That Grentham was still standing by the map seemed to make no impression.

  “Seeing as you have made yourself comfortable, dare I hope that you have a lengthy report to make on how you have solved the case?” asked Grentham with exquisite politeness.

  “Alas, no,” replied Saybrook with equal formality.

  The minister waited for further explanation, but Saybrook appeared engrossed in polishing a speck of dirt from the silver knob of his cane. Fixing the earl with a critical eye, he slowly circled around to his desk. “Perhaps your social engagements have distracted you from the assignment.” His gaze lingered on the earl’s face, which no longer looked like a death mask. The sharp-edged gauntness had softened and a touch of color had replaced the earlier stone-cold pallor. However, the improvements only seemed to elicit further sarcasm. “You seem to have regained an appetite for frivolous pleasure.”

  “Family obligations occasionally require that I appear in Society. If you are referring to Lady Wolcott’s introduction into London Society, be assured that the duty did not interfere with my investigation.”

  “No?” Grentham lifted a well-groomed brow. “Then there must be some other compelling reason why you have made no progress in finding the Prince’s poisoner.”

  “I didn’t say that I had made no progress,” murmured the earl. “You of all people ought not jump to conclusions, milord.”

  Grentham sucked in a silent breath. He took a moment to shift a folder from a desk drawer to the top of the stack on his blotter before replying, “The government is growing hungry for results, Lord Saybrook. And I am loath to keep serving up the same old excuses.”

  “I am well aware that my own head will end up on a platter if I fail,” said the earl.

  “That will be after your ballocks are fried in Spanish olive oil and offered to the cabinet ministers as amuse-bouches.”

  “I suggest that you season them with Andalusian rosemary and a sprinkling of Mediterranean sea salt. Otherwise they will taste a trifle bland.”

  Grentham thinned his lips. “You think it amusing to cross verbal swords with me? Be assured, it’s no laughing matter—”

  A knock on the door interrupted him.

  “Yes, what is it, Jenkins?” called the minister.

  “Sorry, milord, but you asked me to alert you as soon as the document for the Swedish minister was ready for your signature.”

  “Excuse me for a moment.” Pivoting on his heel, Grentham left the room.

  Saybrook shifted, then rose and flipped open the top folder on the desk. He quickly skimmed through several papers before closing the cover and returning it to the exact position as before.

  Taking his seat, the earl resumed his position of studied nonchalance.

  A moment later, Grentham came through the half-opened door and drew it shut behind him.

  “Now, where were we, Lord Saybrook?”

  “Discussing what spices to use on my ballocks when you serve them to the Prime Minister. However, I have been thinking—perhaps he would prefer them stewed, not fried.”

  “Let us not mince words,” said Grentham slowly. “You may not care about having your already suspect reputation cut to shreds . . .” He paused for just a fraction. “But what of your half sister? Or, rather, your bastard sister, though the lovely young lady currently residing at Mrs. Martin’s Academy for Ladies in Shropshire is registered as the legitimate offspring of some fictitious Spanish count—a highborn relative from the Spanish side of your family, rather than your father’s by-blow.”

  Saybrook’s grip tightened on the shaft of his cane.

  The minister did not miss the subtle gesture and a glint of malice sparked in his eyes. “Oh, yes, I know all about that, Lord Saybrook. Did you really think your private family peccadilloes would escape my notice?” Tracing a finger along the slim blade of his letter opener, he added, “Fifteen is an age of hope and dreams for a girl, is it not? The daughter of a Spanish noble, especially one with a family connection to the high and mighty Earl of Saybrook, can look forward to making a splendid match, and living a life of privilege here in England.” The pause was perfectly timed. “But then again, the slightest stain on her name would ruin any hope of acceptance into the ton.”

  The earl’s expression didn’t alter. “Harm her in any way and you are a dead man,” he said conversationally.

  “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.”


  . . . I’ve found yet another reference from the early 1600s, recounting an incident when English privateers stopped a Spanish galleon loaded with cacao. This time, they didn’t burn the cargo, but dumped it into the ocean, once again thinking the beans were sheep turds! Oh, how I shall tease Sandro with this nugget of information—really, the Inglieze have no appreciation of fine food and wine. . . .

  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.

  One step at a time.

  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.