Sweet Revenge

by Andrea Penrose

  “I had no money to pay the landlord. And the barter he suggested was not a price I wished to pay for that hovel,” she replied.

  “I am so sorry, my dear.”

  She managed a careless shrug. “I wasn’t your responsibility, sir.”

  “But you were.” He regarded her sorrowfully. “You see, I am your godfather, and should have saved you from having to make such wretched choices.” His hands knotted together in his lap. “Did your father never mention my existence?”

  Oh, Papa—how many other secrets did you take to the grave?

  Arianna slowly shook her head. “It appears that there was much he did not tell me.”

  “You were about to tell me earlier why you undertook a journey all the way from England to speak with Lord Morse,” said Saybrook. “Please do so now, Ashmun. His daughter is anxious to learn everything there is to know about the circumstances surrounding his death.”

  “Before we get to that, I would like to be assured that you have a claim to her confidence,” said Ashmun. He slanted a questioning look at Arianna. “Do you trust him?”

  “You may speak freely,” she replied, carefully evading a more specific answer.

  Her response elicited a harried sigh. “Very well. But to be honest, my dear, I’m not sure that it serves any purpose to dredge up the past.”

  “I’m afraid that it does,” answered Arianna. “Indeed, it may prove very important in solving a present problem.”

  The baron shifted uneasily in his chair. “Then I assume you wish to hear the truth, and not some rose-tinted version of it.”

  Truth. That cursed word again. It seemed to taunt her at every turn.

  She signaled with a curt nod for him to go on.

  After wetting his lips with a sip of brandy, Ashmun set his glass aside. “I need not tell you, Arianna, what a charming, fun-loving fellow your father was. But for the earl’s sake, I will try to paint a quick sketch.” He closed his eyes, taking a moment to frame his thoughts. “Richard had a magnetism that is hard to describe, an innate ability to convince you that black was white, even if the evidence to the contrary was right in front of your nose.”

  Saybrook stretched his legs out toward the hearth.

  A wry smile tugged at Ashmun’s mouth. “Now don’t get me wrong—there was not a more loyal or generous friend in a pinch. But he also had a harder, sharper facet to his character.”

  Arianna stared at the freshly stirred coals, hot and cold points of ash and fire.

  “You see, Richard took great delight in being just a little cleverer than the rest of us,” Ashmun went on. “He was extraordinarily gifted in mathematics. And at times he used that talent to his advantage.”

  She quelled the urge to press her palms over her ears.

  “You are sure that you want me to go on?” Ashmun’s face was wreathed in concern.

  “Yes,” answered Arianna. Was there really a choice?

  The earl rose and went to pour a fresh glass of brandy. He placed it in her hands before resuming his place by the fire. “If it makes your story any easier, Lady Arianna already has reason to suspect that her father may have been involved in some questionable business dealings.”

  Ashmun looked relieved. “Then what I have to say will not come as a complete shock.” He puffed out his cheeks. “I do not know the specifics of the deal—it happened twenty years ago—but Richard had some sort of partnership with a group of gentlemen he knew from one of his gaming clubs. Concord, Ham—”

  “Yes, I know the names by heart,” interrupted Arianna.

  “Then I shall not pain you by constantly repeating them,” said Ashmun softly. “Suffice it to say, Richard had become their friend . . . he enjoyed the camaraderie of his fellow peers, and was flattered that a set of young, fast gentlemen courted his company. He found it easy to fit into the group.”

  Like a chameleon, thought Arianna. No wonder she found it so effortless to change her skin. If one simply shrugged off all questions of right or wrong when it suited one’s purpose, the transformation was quite simple.

  And apparently she had learned from a man who had mastered the art of amorality.

  Looking up, she found the earl watching her intently, his dark eyes like daggers against her flesh.

  “Yes, Papa enjoyed being the life of the party.” She summoned a cool smile, though her insides were twisting in a painful knot. “The center of attention.”

  “Even when he had to cut corners to get there,” murmured the earl.

  “That is a good way of putting it, I suppose. Richard didn’t see the harm in shaving a bit off the rules. I . . . but first, I should finish my story.” Ashmun crooked a tiny grimace. “In any case, he recounted to me how he had created a complex mathematical billing model for a company that his friends had invested in, one that allowed him to manipulate the numbers. Don’t ask me to explain it, but the formula created an extra profit for the company while shipping fewer goods than contracted for. So it proved extremely clever on both ends. And extremely lucrative for the investors. He was quite proud of himself for figuring it out.”

  “I assume he was rewarded for his brilliance,” said Saybrook.

  “Yes. A share in the partnership,” answered Ashmun. “But for a man who was a genius with numbers, Richard seemed to have no concept of money. He spent freely . . . or, rather, flagrantly. While his wife was alive, she managed to control his wilder impulses. But after her death . . .” He lifted his shoulders. “God knows, I tried to counsel him on the dangers of . . . of . . .”

  “Of cheating?” suggested Arianna. “Of consorting with criminals?”

  “Your father saw things far more abstractly,” replied Ashmun. “It is deucedly hard to explain, but Richard had great trouble seeing the connection between his actions and the consequences of them. He meant no harm—his calculations were simply an intellectual challenge, and he took boyish delight in solving them. It wasn’t until later . . .”

  Ashmun paused for a swallow of brandy. “But before I digress, let me finish with this part of the tale. To make a long story short, your father’s cleverness went a touch too far, for you see, he couldn’t help but add an extra equation that skimmed off a little extra for himself.”

  “In other words,” said Saybrook, “he cheated the cheaters at their own game.”

  “Precisely,” answered the baron. “It took them a year or so to discover it, and to be honest, I’m not quite sure how it came to light. Perhaps Richard admitted the joke one night when he was in his cups. That would be the sort of thing he would do—ha, ha, ha, no hard feelings, eh?”

  “Ha, ha, ha,” echoed Arianna.

  “However, his friends did not find it amusing and so decided to take revenge. They, too, were very clever men. Ruthlessly so, as you have good reason to know, my dear.”

  “So they concocted the accusation of cheating at cards,” murmured Arianna.

  “Which forced Lord Morse to leave the country,” finished Saybrook.

  “Aye.” Ashmun blotted his brow with his handkerchief and finished his brandy. “I believe that in the meantime, your father had constructed a few other ventures for them, and I suppose they felt they didn’t need him anymore.”

  “And he couldn’t very well reveal their wrongdoings,” mused the earl. “For to do so would have ruined his own name as well.”

  “Correct. My understanding is that they gave him a sum to leave quietly. Richard was in financial straits at the time and, well, he really had no choice but to accept his punishment. To have been publicly branded a cheat at cards would have been a fate worse than death. He would have been ostracized from Society and all the convivial company he so craved. In Jamaica, at least, he could pretend that he was still part of that world.”

  The world of illusions?

  “I can see that.” Arianna lifted her glass and set the amber liquid into a slow, spinning swirl. “But what I don’t understand is why they should want to have him murdered. They had taken their revenge—in s
pades, I might add. Papa’s sun had long since sunk into an ocean of rum. He posed no threat to them.” Her fingers tightened. “I am, of course, assuming that his death wasn’t a random robbery. Having inherited a little of his knack for numbers, I would say the odds of that are virtually nil.”

  “Lady Arianna,” began Saybrook.

  “However,” she said quickly, ignoring his interruption. “When I add two and two together, it becomes clear that you did not journey all the way to the West Indies simply to share a glass of planter’s punch with an old friend.”

  “Unfortunately, your arithmetic is correct,” said Ashmun with a doleful sigh. “I was never close with Richard’s new set of friends. I was living in Scotland at the time of your father’s first foray into partnership with them, else I would have tried to steer him away from any involvement. Even then, they had a reputation as being dangerous men to deal with. However, I have enough contacts within the world of commerce to have gotten wind of some disquieting information in the summer of ’05. I heard that one of the group—I am not sure who—had approached a senior clerk at Richardson, Overend and Company, which, by the by, specialized in handling discount bills of exchange for a number of banks, both here in England and abroad.”

  “What are bills of exchange?” asked Arianna.

  “They are the grease that keeps the wheels of commerce turning.” It was Saybrook who answered her question. “They facilitate the exchange of money for goods, especially over great distances or across borders.”

  Curious, she pressed for further information. “How so?”

  “Let us say the owner of a sugar plantation in Jamaica sells his crop to a merchant in Liverpool. He may go to a bank in Kingston and draw a bill of exchange against the value of the shipment, which he verifies with a bill of lading and a certificate of insurance stating the goods are indemnified against loss. In other words, he is advanced the money for the sugar cane, minus certain fees and interest, and the bank retains the bill of exchange, which is redeemed when the merchant pays on delivery of the sugar cane.”

  “I see,” she said slowly.

  “The Kingston bank may then resell the bill of exchange, or use it for collateral against other loans. The rate of exchange is where profits can be made or lost. It’s a complex variable, which depends on distance, the scarcity of goods, and a number of other factors.” The earl looked to Ashmun. “Isn’t that right?”

  “You appear well-informed on economics, Lord Saybrook.”

  “I’ve been doing some reading on the subject lately.” He slanted a quick glance at Arianna before asking, “Samuel Gurney joined Richardson, Overend and Company in 1807, did he not? And controls the firm, which is now known as Overend, Gurney and Company?”

  “Yes,” replied Ashmun. “The Gurneys are a well-known Quaker family, with powerful connections in banking circles.”

  Gurney. The name explained yet another bit of Kellton’s disjointed rant.

  But then Arianna reminded herself that for the moment it was only speculation.

  “Theory is all very well, but let us get back to your story, Lord Ashmun,” she prodded. However horrible, she needed to know the details. “I think we had better hear the rest of it.”

  “Very well,” agreed Ashmun. “I received a letter from your father hinting that he had the promise of riches—and a return to England. It seemed to me that the only possibility was a new venture with his former partners.”

  She couldn’t hold back an exasperated oath. “Bloody hell, you would think he had learned his lesson.”

  The baron’s eyes flooded with sympathy. “He wanted so desperately to bring you home to England, my dear.”

  Yet another unrealistic dream. Genius could be a blessing or a curse.

  “I sent him a long reply, trying to point out just such a thing,” went on Ashmun. “However, the more I thought about it, the more I worried that he was desperate enough to do something that he would regret.” A short exhale, hardly more than a chuff of air, emphasized the last word. “His missive made mention that a meeting to finalize the deal was set for sometime in the beginning of November. As I had some family estate affairs to settle in Jamaica myself, I decided to move up my trip in order to arrive in the West Indies before that date. I thought that I might be able to talk some sense into your father. As you know, we did meet. . . .” The baron shook his head. “In the past, he had always been willing to listen to reason.”

  “He had been drinking heavily for some years,” said Arianna.

  “I suppose that explains his error of judgment.” Another mournful sigh. “As I suspected, his so-called friends wanted him to construct a mathematical model for manipulating bills of exchange. And Richard, being sure that they needed him, sought to drive a hard bargain. He wanted a higher share of the profits than his erstwhile partners were willing to offer. I think he considered it his due for the years in exile.”

  “You were there during the negotiations.” It was more statement than question. “That is when I saw you.”

  “I was,” corroborated the baron. “And I told him he was making a grave mistake. Not only did he ignore my advice, but as the talks were breaking down, he threatened to expose their scheme if they didn’t agree to his demands. You see, this time, being as yet uninvolved, he had no reason to remain quiet. He was sure they couldn’t afford to say no.”

  “What they couldn’t afford was the chance of betrayal,” observed Saybrook. “No matter how great his mathematical skills, he had broken a sacred rule among criminals—never grass on your cohorts.”

  How strange. She hadn’t touched a drop of her drink, and yet Arianna felt that her head was swimming.

  “Lady Arianna . . . Lady Arianna . . .”

  With an effort, she shook off the sensation.

  “May I get you some sherry?” asked Ashmun in some alarm.

  “N-no, thank you.” She stiffened her spine. “I’m simply . . . fatigued. Dancing and drinking until dawn is not a life to which I am accustomed.”

  Saybrook rose. “I think we have all had enough activity for the night.”

  “Indeed, indeed.” Taking his cue, the baron levered up out of his chair. “I hope I have not make a mistake in being completely forthright with you, Arianna. I did not mean to cause you pain.”

  “It hurt far more not to know,” she said softly.

  Or did it? At the moment, Arianna felt totally numb. Her limbs must have moved by rote rather than command, for she found herself on her feet.

  “Don’t trouble yourself, Lady Arianna. I will see Ashmun out,” said Saybrook, signaling her to stay by the hearth. “And then check that the back of the house is locked up.”

  “Before I go . . .” The baron hesitated. “I have answered all your questions, but I have a great many of my own.”

  Her silence only made him more determined. “I fear that you are in some sort of trouble, Arianna,” he persisted. “Why else would you be hiding your identity? Why else would you be seeking the company of your father’s erstwhile friends? At least now, I hope you understand that they are not men who would offer you any aid.”

  Coals crackled, emitting a hiss of smoke.

  “Whatever coil you are in, I would like to help—”

  “If you wish to be of service to Lady Arianna,” interrupted Saybrook, “you will distance yourself from her, in order not to raise questions about why an old friend of Lord Morse is so interested in a young widow newly arrived in Town.”

  “That is all you will tell me?”

  “Yes,” answered the earl bluntly.

  “Lord Saybrook is right, sir,” she added. “However well-meaning, your attentions could be harmful.”

  “Then I shall, of course, do as you ask. No matter that I don’t understand.” Ashmun gave a courtly bow. “But please know that if anything changes, and you need my assistance, you have only to let me know.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s the least I can do, seeing as I’ve failed you so miserably
in the past.” He blew out his cheeks. “If only I had been more persuasive.”

  If only, if only, if only.

  “If only Papa had been more responsible,” she countered. “However, weeping over what happened won’t change anything.”

  “A wise philosophy, Lady Arianna,” said the earl. “One should look to make the future free from the ghosts of the past.”

  Close to a quarter hour passed before Saybrook returned. “The locks are all secured. Is there anything else I can do for you before I take my leave?”

  Arianna nodded abstractly, not really listening to what he was saying.

  “Lady Arianna.”

  She looked up from her contemplation of the glowing embers. The candles on the sideboard had burned down low, leaving the room shrouded in shadows.

  “Will you be all right on your own here tonight?” he asked, the gentleness of his voice rousing her from her stupor.

  “Are you offering to come upstairs and keep me company, Lord Saybrook?” she said mockingly, hating herself for feeling so vulnerable.

  The momentary change in his expression was too swift, too subtle to interpret. Or maybe she had merely imagined it. Her powers of observation were clearly not as sharp as she had thought.

  “I was not under the impression that my company would be of any comfort,” he replied slowly.

  “I’m not looking for comfort,” she retorted. “A distraction, perhaps. Nothing more.”

  “Ah. Well, I’ve enough distractions to suit me. So I think I shall decline any additional ones.” A pause. “Assuming that was what you offered.”

  The rejection, however oblique, left her feeling even more fragile. Her whole life felt as if it had been built on a house of cards. Gaudy bits of pasteboard, colored with illusions and lies.

  And a breath of air had just knocked it to flinders, leaving her with nothing to cling to.

  I have myself. And yet, somehow that didn’t seem like enough anymore.

  But unwilling to expose how lost she was feeling, Arianna curled a cynical smile. “I don’t blame you for not wanting to sleep with a slut. Bad blood clearly runs in my family, so you are right not to want to taint your exalted person.”