The Stolen Letters

by Andrea Penrose

  Arianna gazed in the looking glass, watching the light from the branch of candles flickers across her face. Her skin was paler than usual. She must be even more on edge than she realized, and made herself draw a calming breath.

  “The peridots, por favor,” she answered.

  Constantina’s vulnerability had, she admitted, touched a chord with her. Love was a maddeningly complex conundrum, a teasing, taunting ever-changing entity. And like a quicksilver swirl of vapor, its perfect form always seemed to be dancing just out of reach. How to explain its joy and anguish—and all the infinite variations in between the two extremes? She thought of her own difficult childhood, her vagabond youth, the conflicted emotions that had brought her to London . . .

  And to marriage with Saybrook.

  “Your pardon, milady,” apologized Bianca as Arianna unconsciously flinched at the touch of the filigree earbob against her lobe. “Did I prick you?”

  “No, no, it was my fault. Forgive me. My thoughts were wandering.”

  Bianca was good at reading moods, and after bobbing a quick acknowledgment, she finished fastening the teardrop jewels in silence. She added the matching necklace, the cool stones a contrast to her warm fingers, and then stepped back.

  “Bueno,” she announced after taking a long moment to survey her handiwork. “I hope you enjoy your evening out with Lord Mellon. Will there be dancing?”

  “It’s a diplomatic reception,” replied Arianna dryly. “My guess is the only intricate spins and twirls will take place in the verbal negotiations the gentlemen make while enjoying the host’s fine brandy and champagne.”

  A stirring of air caught the candle flames, causing a flare of light. “Lord Mellon asked me to accompany him,” she explained, “along with Lady Sterling and Miss Kirtland, in order to soften all the masculine edges. Put a group of gentlemen together, and no matter how civilized they appear, primal instincts will come to the fore.”

  Her maid allowed a faint smile. “It sounds like a tedious evening.”

  “Quite likely.”

  Bianca straightened up the cut crystal bottles of lotions and scents before asking, “Is there anything else I can do, milady?”

  “Thank you, but no.” Arianna waited until the door clicked shut before taking a pot of kohl from the dressing table drawer and darkening her lashes.

  A practice flutter left her satisfied with the effect.

  Men would see only the superficialities. The expensive jewelry, the fancy silks, the elegant coiffeur—all the things that marked her as a decorative appendage of her aristocratic husband.

  “A paragon of propriety,” she whispered at her reflection, a silent laugh slowly fogging the shiny surface. A lady who had neither the imagination nor the bravado to dream of matching wits with men who had mastered the shadowy world of subterfuge.

  Their own hubris was one of the few weapons women could wield against them.

  She touched the side seam of her fancy gown, where a long, thin pocket was cleverly concealed within the folds of fabric. Given her past clandestine activities, she had made a point of having all her new gowns made with such useful embellishments.

  Would that it proved its worth tonight.

  A glance at the enameled clock next to her jewel case showed it was time to be off.

  “My thanks for agreeing to join me this evening, Arianna.” Charles, Lord Mellon flashed a grateful smile as he leaned back against the soft squabs of his carriage after helping her up to the seat facing his. “For some reason, Grentham seemed to think a female presence would help grease the gears of diplomacy tonight, and was insistent that I arrange it.”

  He expelled a wry sigh. “I confess, the request came as quite a surprise—as you know, he’s not one to spend his time on social considerations. But in this case, I happen to agree with him.”

  “Constantina and I are happy to oblige, as is Sophia,” she answered. “We shall make every effort to do our duty for King and country.”

  “Duty, I fear, will be cursedly boring,” he remarked with a light laugh. “The guests will assume the ladies present haven’t the intelligence to discuss anything remotely related to the present political situation, so they will confine their attentions to shamelessly flirting with you.”

  The carriage lamp’s wavering glow did little to dispel the nighttime shadows as the vehicle clattered over the cobblestones. Winter’s chill was turning their breath to ghostly puffs of vapor.

  “We are used to being underestimated,” murmured Arianna.

  The comment drew another short laugh. “God help any gentlemen who underestimate the three of you. They do so at their own peril.”

  “We shall do our best not to stir any mischief.” She then turned the talk to other matters, and the rest of the short ride passed in his telling her the latest news from the Peace Conference in Vienna.

  The Prussian envoy’s townhouse was ablaze with diamond-bright light. A gusty wind ruffled the fur trim of her cloak as Mellon escorted her up the marble steps and into the cheery warmth of the entrance hall, where a liveried footman hurried to take her wrap.

  She knew from Constantina that von Stockhausen was a bachelor—though he kept a mistress in a snug little love nest near the British Museum. That there was no hostess to fuss over the female guests was to their advantage, she reflected, darting a quick look around to get her bearings. From a careful study of the house plans Grentham had supplied, she knew what rooms lay behind the grand central staircase leading up to the next floor, and where the servant stairwells were positioned.

  As for what lay ahead . . .

  “Shall we go up, my dear?” murmured Mellon.

  Accepting his arm, Arianna let herself be led across the black and white marble tiles.

  The pieces are all arranged on the chessboard—let the game begin.

  Their host was waiting at the entrance to the drawing room, and after finishing his greetings to a quartet of attachés from the Kingdom of Saxony, he turned to welcome her with a flourish and a bow.

  “Lady Saybrook, how very kind of you to grace us with your lovely company,” said von Stockhausen loudly, raising her gloved hand to within a hairsbreadth of his fleshy lips. He was a short man who appeared even less prepossessing because of his girth.

  The gaudy medals pinned to his scarlet sash click-clacked as he straightened and wagged a finger at Mellon. “You are not allowed to keep your lovely relative all to yourself this evening, milord. You must share!”

  Mellon, ever the diplomat, made a suitably agreeable response.

  Arianna kept a pleasant smile pasted in place. Her gaze, however, flitted around the room, taking stock of who had arrived. She recognized a number of the gentlemen. Some she had met in Vienna, and some she had met with Saybrook here in London. As for Constantina and Sophia—

  “Ah, and here is Lady Sterling!’ announced von Stockhausen, raising a welcoming wave to the dowager.

  Greetings were duly exchanged, Sophia introduced, and then Mellon shepherded the ladies to the refreshment table. Arianna accepted a glass of champagne, but took only a tiny sip. She needed to keep her wits about her.

  “I see La Chaze, who just arrived from Paris, and I really ought to have a word with him before he has too much to drink,” murmured Mellon. “Would you ladies mind terribly if I desert you?”

  Constantina flicked a dismissive wave at him. “Go,” she said in an imperious voice. “I assure you, we are quite capable of fending for ourselves.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” he said dryly. “It’s my colleagues who need protection from your tart tongue.”

  “Moi?” The dowager arched her brows in mock surprise. “Nonsense, I am the very soul of kindness and discretion.”

  Mellon chuckled and strolled off to meet the Frenchman.

  “Come,” said Constantina, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Let us move away to the picture alcove and have a last-minute council of war before the gentlemen descend on us like proverbial locusts.”

&
nbsp; The three of then edged off into the recessed space.

  “I inquired about the ladies’ withdrawing room,” went on the dowager. “It’s located halfway down the corridor to the right when one exits the drawing room.”

  Arianna recalled the plans of the townhouse. “Excellent. That puts it quite close to one of the servant stairwells leading up the private quarters.” Again, she gave thanks that von Stockhausen had no spouse. There was little likelihood of anyone being upstairs during the soiree. “There are several side salons connected to the drawing room through this picture alcove. They too, give access to the corridor in question.”

  “When will you attempt to head up to von Stockhausen’s private study?” asked Sophia.

  “Not for a while—perhaps close to an hour from now. We must mingle first, and allow everyone to become used to our presence.”

  Constantina nodded. “I agree. When you deem the time is right, simply give us a signal. We’ll contrive to draw the gentlemen’s attention.” A crafty smile. “They love gossip even more than we ladies do, and I know some very entertaining—and deliciously scandalous—ondits from some of the recent balls here in London.”

  “I don’t suppose they will care to hear about my chemistry experiments,” said Sophia dryly. “So I shall just smile and allow the lecherous rogues of the group to pinch my derriere.”

  “All in a good cause,” pointed out Arianna.

  The dowager raised her glass. “To purloining the papers.”

  A crystalline clink echoed off the walls.

  “Auch, now what are you ladies plotting?” A tall, bewhiskered gentleman whose graying hair still held a hint of ginger highlights appeared in the archway of the alcove.

  “How to engage the attentions of the most interesting men in the room, of course,” answered the dowager without batting an eye. “Which is no easy task as the guest list includes so many prosy bores.” She smiled. “You are looking very well, Angus. Allow me to introduce you to my great niece, Lady Saybrook and her friend, Miss Kirtland.”

  To Arianna and Sophia she said, “This rascal is Laird McDavitt. And though he was raised as a savage in the Highlands, he has since learned a modicum of manners.”

  “You exaggerate, milady.” McDavitt gave a wink. “About the manners, that is.” He inclined a courtly bow and then added, “Dare I hope I’m included in your privileged circle of interesting men?”

  “That depends,” replied Constantina, “on how many bawdy stories you know.”

  He laughed, which in turn drew the attention of several other gentlemen, who came to join them.

  During her vagabond years abroad, Arianna had spent some time in a theater company, so acting a role had become second nature to her. Frivolous flirt, seductive temptress, primly proper aristocrat, irascible chef—it had proved a very useful skill.

  One that had saved Saybrook and her from disaster on several occasions.

  Batting her lashes, she turned her attention to playing the part of a charming, elegant countess.

  Until it was time to cloak herself in the role of cunning thief.

  A quartet of stringed musicians was playing in a corner of the drawing room, the sonorous sounds of the cello complementing the lilting notes of the violins. The melody danced through the floral-scented air, twining with the crystalline clink of glasses and the deep-throated buzz of masculine conversation. Candlelight from the ornate chandeliers overhead flickered over the dark-clad gentlemen, the fire-gold glow accentuating the occasional flare of feminine colors.

  Arianna wound her way through the crowd, stopping to greet old friends and make new acquaintances. The pleasantries came easily to her lips. She laughed, she listened . . . all while keeping a sharp eye on her surroundings, and the movements of the different diplomats.

  Mellon drifted into one of the side salons, along with three Frenchmen and a pair of Austrians from the court of the emperor. Their host was near the tall bank of leaded glass windows, speaking with several military officers from the Horse Guards. Other small groups had formed and, fueled by the host’s excellent champagne, the conversations seemed to be getting more animated.

  She glanced at the ornate ormolu clock on the sideboard. So far, so good.

  Edging away from a heated discussion between two representatives from the Kingdom of Sicily, Arianna made her way through the picture alcove and followed the narrow passageway to the last of the connected side salons. The three of them had agreed to regroup there at the top of the hour to assess their next steps. She saw Constantina holding court with several elderly admirers from the Foreign Office, but as soon as the dowager spotted her, she excused herself and came over to stand by the tall marble plinth holding a vase of hothouse flowers.

  “As we suspected, the political discussions are heating up,” murmured Constantina as she fanned her flushed face.

  “Which is all to our advantage,” said Sophia as she emerged from the shadowed passageway to join them.

  Arianna nodded. “I think the time is right. You two move away a bit and start laughing in order to draw the gentlemen’s attention. I’ll use the distraction to slip away.”

  Chapter 7

  The coolness of the deserted corridor felt very welcome after the cloying closeness of the crowded rooms. Arianna drew a quick breath before hurrying away from the noise of the soiree. She paused by the door to the ladies’ withdrawing room, but thankfully there was no one around to spot her. Keeping close to the shadows, she continued on her way and darted into the stairwell used by the servants.

  No sounds echoed within the darkened space—save for the jumpy thump-thump of her heart.

  Steady, steady, she thought, reminding herself of a few far more outrageous risks than this one from the litany of her past misdeeds.

  The pulse point on her throat ceased its throbbing. Gathering her skirts, Arianna swiftly climbed the stairs, stirring naught but the faint whisper of silk. On reaching the next landing she pressed her ear to the stairwell door and listened for several long moments for any hint of movement.

  Nothing. She didn’t expect there to be any servants here at this hour—von Stockhausen’s valet wouldn’t be needed until much later. Still, it was never wise to make assumptions.

  Satisfied that the floor was deserted, Arianna cracked the door open, waited for another heartbeat, then slipped into the corridor. The study was at the rear of the house, overlooking the now-dormant garden. Her evening slippers moved noiselessly over the thick Turkey runner. Only a single wall sconce was lit, its weak flame casting naught but a few ghostly flutters of light. Touching her hand to the dark wood wainscoting, she used the wall to guide her through the deepening gloom.

  Up ahead, the dark-on-dark corridor came to an end. Two doors were set into the carved oak paneling. The study was the one on the left.

  She hurried her last few steps and took hold of the latch.

  It didn’t budge.

  Locked.

  But Arianna had expected no less. Given the sensitive material that passed through the Prussian envoy’s hands, it seemed only natural that von Stockhausen would take the precaution of keeping his workroom secure. Raising a hand to her topknot, she carefully extracted the extra-long forged steel pin she had slid into her hair after Bianca had finished arranging her curls. Sliding its point into the keyhole, she began to feel around for the levers that controlled the locking mechanism.

  Before heading to Vienna the previous autumn, both she and Saybrook had taken pains to become experts in the fine points of opening a lock, no matter how complicated. Espionage depended on access to places where people hid their secrets. It required a deft touch . . .

  And patience.

  A trickle of sweat began to slide down her spine as the pin probed and probed. German puzzle locks were among the most fiendishly difficult to breach, and she didn’t have the luxury of time. She could only afford to be gone from the soiree for a short while before people would begin to notice her absence.

  Forcing her
self to concentrate, Arianna drew a calming breath and tried again. Ah—one tumbler finally clicked into place, then another . . .

  Startled by sudden sound close by, she nearly dropped the pin. Every muscle froze as she waited for it to come again.

  Silence—and then a quick scrabbling, which died away just as fast.

  Arianna released her pent-up breath. A mouse within the molding. Like her, an intruder who wished to go about its mischief unseen.

  Stilling the tremble of her fingers, Arianna set to work again and found the last lever.

  With a soft snick, the lock released.

  She slipped inside and pulled the portal shut, a few quick twists of the inside brass knobs resetting the locking mechanism. The heavy velvet draperies framing the tall mullioned windows were pulled back, allowing a dappling of silvery moonlight into the room.

  Thankfully it was just enough illumination, for she didn’t want to light a candle and risk leaving a telltale hint of smoke.

  Arianna moved to the center of the space and turned in a tight circle to survey the space.

  Merde. She added another silent oath as she stared balefully at the clutter—portfolios and papers piled haphazardly on the every flat surface, books crammed helter-pelter in the massive bookcases, dirty brandy glasses arrayed in drunken disorder along the sideboard . . .

  What had become of the legendary Germanic penchant for order and precision? If only the cursed fellow had been Swiss.

  The faint tick-tick from the half-hidden mantel clock reminded her that she had no time to waste. In light of the chaos, trying to reason out what might be a logical hiding place seemed absurd. She decided to start with the obvious.

  Arianna moved swiftly to the large mahogany desk and took a seat in the chair. A methodical riffling of the files stacked on the ink-stained blotter turned up nothing of interest, save for a threatening note from Berry Brothers, the well-known London wine merchants.

  Apparently von Stockhausen didn’t pay his brandy bills.