Smoke & Lies

by Andrea Penrose

  Smoke & Lies

  Andrea Penrose

  SMOKE & LIES

  A Lady Arianna Regency Mystery

  Book Four

  by

  Andrea Penrose

  Copyright © 2018 by Andrea DaRif. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Created with Vellum

  “I can never see a throne

  without being tempted to sit on it.”

  —Napoleon Bonaparte

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Also by Andrea Penrose

  Excerpt: SWEET REVENGE

  Excerpt: THE COCOA CONSPIRACY

  Excerpt: RECIPE FOR TREASON

  Excerpt: MURDER ON BLACK SWAN LANE

  Excerpt: MURDER AT HALF MOON GATE

  On the World of Books and Reading

  Chapter 1

  Leaden clouds hung heavy in the sullen sky, squeezing out all but a weak glimmer of the dawn's light. Overhead, the icy crackling of the bare branches, black silhouettes shivering against the grey-on-grey hues, punctuated the fitful whistling of the wind.

  Hyde Park appeared deserted, but then the thud of hooves suddenly joined the other sounds as two riders broke free of the mist, their horses kicking up clots of frozen earth as they cantered along the deserted stretch of Rotten Row.

  “Damnation,” muttered Arianna, the Countess of Saybrook, as they slowed to a sedate walk at the far end of the bridle pathway. Steam rose from the sweating flanks of the animals, and their snorts sent plumes of pale vapor curling up into the swirling shadows. “I swear, sidesaddles are the Devil’s own insidious invention.”

  “Be that as it may, you need to rein in your tongue—it's very unladylike to curse,” chided her companion, though a glint of amusement flashed in her eyes. “And since I've given up my cozy comforts in the dead of winter to teach you the fine points of how a gently-bred female rides, let's make a point of practicing all the requirements.”

  “If I was truly intent on cursing, I know far worse words than damnation.” It was beastly cold, and the frigid-fingered breeze was brazenly probing beneath every fold of Arianna's woolen riding habit. Shifting uncomfortably on the pommel, she proceeded to prove it.

  In exquisitely colorful detail.

  Sophia Kirtland arched her brows. However, she refrained from further comment—no small feat, as her tongue was usually the sharper of the two. “You must try to relax,” she counseled, turning her attention back to their riding lesson. “And learn to move in harmony with the motion of your mount, rather than trying to fight it.”

  “Seeing as I’ve never responded well to the bit or the bridle, it’s no wonder that I’m not well-suited to equestrian activities,” groused Arianna. It was true. She possessed a fierce independence—a result, no doubt, of a highly unconventional upbringing that had forced her to fend for herself from a young age. Which made her a rough-edged square peg in a world that expected ladies to fit into smoothly rounded holes.

  Deep and dark holes, thought Arianna grimly, where they stayed trapped in the shadows from cradle to grave.

  Sophia’s laugh drew her from such dark musings. “You would rather be bouncing around in Mr. Sadler’s balloon above the clouds?” demanded her friend. The two of them had recently undertaken a harrowing aerial flight in pursuit of a dangerous traitor to King and country. For a short while, their lives had hung by a mere thread over the English Channel, but the aviator’s prodigious skill—and a bit of luck—had carried them to safety.

  “To be honest, yes,” replied Arianna. “I found that rather exhilarating, while this is merely irritating in the extreme.” A bitter gust of wind tugged at her fur-trimmed shako. After freeing the jaunty plume from her collar with an impatient swat, she added, “However unstable, a balloon gondola doesn’t rub one’s backside raw.”

  “Your riding skills are improving,” murmured Sophia.

  “Ha!” Her friend’s uncharacteristic show of tact drew a wry smile. “It’s not like you to dress up the truth in faux silks and satins.”

  “I hadn't quite finished,” quipped Sophia. “I was going to add that much as your skills in the saddle are improving, it's frightfully clear you'll never enjoy riding as much as ballooning or other such adventures.” She shifted her crop and flicked a wind-loosened curl from her cheek. “And since you wish the naked truth, it's because it's not as dangerous.”

  A gust blew through the nearby copse of trees, whipping up a swirl of dead leaves

  “Admit it,” went on Sophia. “Danger is something that sends a frisson of fire through your blood.”

  The comment caused Arianna to frown in thought. Granted, most of her life had been spent dancing along a deadly-sharp razor's edge. From exile in the West Indies to a vagabond existence as a chef and sometimes swindler, to returning to England to seek vengeance for the murder of her father, she had risked her life more times than she could count.

  But . . .

  The frown slowly surrendered to a grimace. “You have a point. I find there is something about danger that makes one feel . . . more alive.” She slanted a curious look at Sophia. “And now that you’ve had a taste of it, I sense you understand what I mean.”

  Her friend, who had until recently led a solitary, sequestered life as a bookish scholar, looked ready to argue. But then she, too, allowed a reluctant grin. “You’ve been a bad influence on me.” A pause. “Thank God. Chemical research and the quiet company of my lovely cat are all very edifying. However, I can’t deny that it does the spirit good to get out of the laboratory and thump a few heads. I won’t soon forget the look on Prince Orlov’s face . . .”

  Several nights ago, the two of them—along with Arianna's feisty great aunt Constantina, the dowager Countess of Sterling—had undertaken a risky dance of deception at a diplomatic soirée to retrieve some sensitive personal letters and diplomatic correspo
ndence that had been stolen from the dowager.

  “We were lucky to have dodged disaster,” replied Arianna. “To be honest, I'm not proud of that whole affair.” Her sigh was swallowed in another gust of chill air. “I still feel guilty over keeping our actions a secret from Sandro. I understand Constantina's reasons for it, but loyalty . . .” Her hands tightened on the reins. “Loyalty is not always so simple to define.”

  Sophia nodded thoughtfully.

  “Be that as it may, there’s little likelihood of any further danger in the foreseeable future. Sandro and I have determined to lead a quiet life here in Town for the foreseeable future. He’s intent on finishing his botanical treatise on Cacao theobroma. And I have much work to do on completing the book of his grandmother’s recipes and research. So, no exotic travels, no clandestine missions.”

  “I thought Grentham was pressing the two of you—” began Sophia.

  Arianna shook her head. “Lord Grentham can go to Hell—”

  Her horse suddenly shied as a branch snapped in the wind, and her boot slipped from the stirrup. Huffing another unladylike curse, Arianna leaned down and reached for the—

  Crack!

  It took half a heartbeat for her to realize the sound was a gunshot. In the same instant, a bullet whistled by her ear and her shako went flying.

  Somehow, she managed to grab hold of the animal’s mane and keep her seat as the spooked mare reared and raced off at a panicked gallop.

  Pounding hooves upon the frozen ground, helter-pelter blurs of browns and greys, stinging cold slapping against her flesh—caught up in a whirling dervish spin of sensations, Arianna ducked low and clung on for dear life. There was no time to think—every muscle was merely acting on primitive instinct, fighting to hold on.

  Above the cacophony of sounds, she thought she heard Sophia shout. Or maybe it was just the blood roaring in her ears.

  The mare thrashed through another angled turn and suddenly stumbled over the rutted ground. Arianna’s fingers had gone numb and her grip was slipping. Damn, damn, damn. She could feel herself sliding, sliding, sliding . . . The hardscrabble ground was streaking by in a disorienting rush perilously close to her nose.

  Of all the bloody ways to give up the ghost.

  The irony of it tore a gurgle of laughter from her throat. She hated horses.

  A hand suddenly caught her coat collar, jerking her upright.

  “Arianna! Arianna!” Her voice shrill with fear, Sophia added, “Hell’s bells—are your hurt?” as she got control of the mare and expertly slowed the spooked animal to a halt.

  Dizzy and disoriented, Arianna needed to suck in several shuddering breaths before her wits stopped turning cartwheels.

  “Aside to the grievous blow to my pride?” she wheezed, after a none-too-elegant dismount. The frozen terra firma felt surprisingly comforting beneath her boots.

  “Do not make light of the moment, milady!” Her groom Jose, who had been following at discreet distance before the gunshot, reined to a skittering halt beside Sophia and vaulted out of his saddle. After a quick assessment satisfied him that no damage had been done, he tucked away his pistol and held up her hat—one finger poked accusing through the gaping bullet hole in its crown. “This is no jesting matter!”

  Sophia let out a low whistle. “Ye God, what nest of vipers have you and Saybrook kicked up this time?”

  Chapter 2

  “Ah, here you are at last.” Lord Percival Grentham, bared his teeth in what clearly was not meant as a smile. “My humble thanks for gracing my office with your exalted presence.”

  The Earl of Saybrook crossed the carpet and without waiting for an invitation, seated himself in the chair facing the massive burled walnut desk. “There’s nothing remotely humble about you, Grentham.” A pause. “Though perhaps there should be, considering how many times my wife and I have pulled your cods out of the fire.”

  Grentham’s nostrils flared in annoyance. As the senior government minister in charge of state security, he was used to commanding fear and respect. That the earl’s biting sarcasm matched his own made it little wonder that they didn’t like each other.

  But threats to king and country had occasionally made them reluctant bedfellows. A fact that rubbed both of them raw.

  “Let us dispense with our usual pleasantries,” snapped the minister. “You refused to look at certain papers the last time you were here.” His scowl gave way to another flash of teeth. “However, I think you may wish to reconsider.”

  Looking up at the ceiling, Saybrook expelled a martyred sigh. “And why is that?”

  “Because,” drawled Grentham, “a tender conscience is one of your many shortcomings.”

  The earl slowly straightened from his slouch. “Thank you for the lecture on morality. But I fail to see why my conscience has anything to do with you and your sordid scheming.”

  Grentham picked up his penknife and began to clean his nails. “You will when you have a look at the papers.”

  “No,” he said flatly. “And there’s nothing you can say that will change my mind.”

  “That may be so, but the words from Colonel Campbell will likely alter your thinking.” Grentham put down the knife. “Which is why you’ll soon be headed to the isle of Elba.”

  For a long moment, an uneasy silence crackled between the two men.

  Elba was an island thirty miles east of Corsica and less than seven miles off the coast of Tuscany—and perilously close to the south of France. The previous year, the Allied armies had finally negotiated a treaty Napoleon to abdicate the French throne. In return for accepting exile to Elba, he was allowed to create his own sovereign nation there. The trouble was, a tiny empire in the Mediterranean—the narrow, fish-shaped island totaled barely 86 square miles—was proving uncomfortably small for a man used to ruling half the world.

  “Why me?” ask Saybrook softly. “You must have plenty of informants there.”

  “Of course I do—as does every government on the Continent, from the Austrian empire to the tiniest fleabitten German principality. The island is a nest of vipers, and God only knows what machinations are going on in Napoleon’s new little empire,” replied the minister. “I warned Liverpool and Wellington that it was madness to put that fat little snake so close to Europe, where he can so easily uncoil and strike again.”

  “You surprise me, Grentham.” Saybrook arched his brows in amusement. “You have a reputation for ruthless pragmatism—a well-deserved one, I might add—so I hadn’t thought your imagination could take such flights of fancy. As I recall, just a short while ago, you were quick to dismiss the idea that the former emperor has the resources to dream of glory again. After all, the abdication treaty only allowed him to take 700 of his loyal soldiers and a few small ships with him—”

  “Yes, I think it highly unlikely that Napoleon can act on his own,” interrupted the minister. “But things have changed. The leaders of the Congress in Vienna are at each other’s throats, and one of them might be addled enough to think an alliance with such a formidable military man would force the others to bend to his will. Tsar Alexander and Metternich are ruled by volatile emotions—and they are squabbling over Poland.”

  Grentham steepled his fingers and touched the point to his chin. “As for Talleyrand—I don’t trust that old devil farther than I can spit. He’s changed his coat so many times, betrayal is woven into the fabric of his being.”

  “Perhaps,” responded Saybrook. “But Napoleon is not likely to be conspiring with Talleyrand. Didn’t he call him ‘shit in silk stockings’?”

  “Talleyrand would smell as sweet as the late Josephine’s beloved roses to the former emperor if he were to help Napoleon orchestrate a glorious return to power.”

  “Surely, that's an unlikely scenario.”

  Grentham’s eyes narrowed to a razored edge. “I wouldn’t last long in this job if I could only contemplate the ordinary, Saybrook.”

  “True,” quipped the earl. “Your mind is far more devious
and manipulative than that of our worst enemy.”

  “Enjoy your little bon mots, milord.” Grentham pushed a packet of papers across his massive desk.

  Saybrook looked down his nose at it. “I told you, you can take whatever unholy skulduggery it contains and shove it . . .” A deliberate pause “Back in your drawer.”

  The minister’s nostrils flared. “You’ve a very clever and caustic wit, Saybrook. But as I keep so tediously repeating, you may change your tune once you’ve read what’s written in them.” A pause, deliberately drawn out. “For another one of your weaknesses is an unwavering loyalty to those who are dear to you.”

  The earl expelled a harsh breath. “What new threat to my family or friends have you managed to spin with your devil-cursed legion of poisonous spiders? That sanctimonious grin of yours can only mean you think you have me by the cojones.”

  “Tsk, tsk, such an unfair accusation.” The minister flashed an unpleasant smile. “Not all evil in this world emanates from me.”

  “Enough does that the air in here is choked with the stink of fire and brimstone,” growled the earl.

  Grentham’s expression remained impassive. “I suggest you read the letter atop the packet, milord.”

  Saybrook hesitated, eyeing the documents as if a fanged serpent lay coiled within the dog-eared folds.

  “Dio Madre,” he swore under his breath, and then slowly plucked the sheet of folded paper from where it lay. It took him only a few moments to skim over its contents.