Sweet Revenge lahm-1

by Andrea Penrose

  Grentham waved away the offending document with a flick of his wrist. “I am a trifle confused, Jenkins,” he murmured. “I thought you said Prinny ate the stuff, not drank it.”

  “He did, sir. It says here in the physician’s report that the Prince Regent collapsed after eating a disk of solid sweetened chocolate.” Seeking to forestall another acerbic attack, he quickly went on. “Apparently the confection is a recent culinary creation, developed in France. It is said to be very popular in Paris.”

  “Chacun à son goût,” said Grentham under his breath.

  “Sir?”

  “Never mind. Go on—anything else of interest in the report?”

  “Well, milord, the man does mention the possibility that the Prince might have sickened from overindulgence, and not from any toxin.” Jenkins swallowed hard. “But the Prince’s private physician questions whether chocolate in this new, solid form might have naturally occurring poisonous properties.”

  Grentham thought for a moment. “So in fact, we don’t have a clue as to whether this was an attempt on the reigning sovereign’s life, or merely another example of his appetite for pleasure getting him in trouble.”

  Looking unhappy, Jenkins nodded. His superior was known as a man who preferred to view the world in black and white. An infinite range of grays merely muddied the subject—which did not bode well for whoever presented the ill-formed picture.

  “I should be tempted to let him stew in his own juices . . . ,” began the Major, but a sharp look from Grentham speared him to silence.

  The minister fingered one of the leather document cases piled on his desk. “Given the current situation, it is imperative— imperative—that we ascertain whether foul play was involved. What with the upcoming arrival of the Allied delegation and our troubles with the upstart Americans, the death of the Prince Regent could be catastrophic for the interests of England.”

  The assistant instinctively backed into the shadows of the dark oak filing cabinets, though he had a feeling that the basilisk stare of his superior could see straight through to the deepest coal-black pit of hell.

  “And so,” he mused, “however unpleasant a task, we must extract the truth from this sticky mess.”

  Jenkins gave a sickly smile, unsure whether the minister had just attempted a witticism.

  “The question is, who among our operatives is best equipped to handle such an investigation?” Grentham pursed his lips. “Any suggestions?”

  The Major quickly shot a look at Jenkins.

  “Well, milord, I . . . I . . .”

  “Spit it out, man,” ordered the Major. “We haven’t got all day.”

  Sweat beaded on the assistant’s brow, though his throat remained bone-dry. “I was just going to say, perhaps one of our Peninsular allies might prove u-u-useful. Seeing as it was the Spanish who brought cacao to Europe from the New World, it would seem logical that they would be the most knowledgeable on the subject.”

  Grentham looked thoughtful.

  The Major’s gaze narrowed to a crafty squint. “Yes, I was just going to say that I think it an excellent idea to look outside our own circle of intelligence officers,” he said quickly. “They are all personally acquainted with the Prince, and we wouldn’t want any question of impartiality to color the conclusion of the investigation. I mean, sir, if anything were to . . .” He let his voice trail off.

  Grentham flashed a semblance of a smile. “Good God, I may actually have a body or two around me with a brain.” Setting down his pen, he contemplated his well-manicured hand for a bit before slowly buffing his nails on his other sleeve.

  Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. The sound was soft as a raptor’s wing-beat, as the bird homed in on its kill.

  “Send a messenger to Lord Charles Mellon. Tell him that I wish to see him as soon as possible.”

  Arianna added a spoonful of sugar to her morning coffee and slathered a scone with butter. The condemned ought to eat a heartier meal, she thought sardonically as she broke off a morsel of the still-warm pastry and let it crumble between her fingers.

  If Luck was indeed a Lady, the traitorous bitch had a perverse sense of humor.

  Biting back a grim smile, Arianna had to admit the irony of the situation. After all her meticulous plotting and carefully calculated moves, one unfortunate little slip had wreaked havoc with her plans.

  The best-laid schemes of mice and men go often askew, and leave us nothing but grief and pain.. . . Her father, who had carried a love of poetry—and precious little else—with him from England to Jamaica, had enjoyed reading Robert Burns to her on the rare evenings when he wasn’t sunk too deep in his cups. Arianna had cherished those times together, curled in the comforting shelter of his arms.

  She sucked in her breath, her lungs suddenly filled with the memory of his scent—an earthy mix of tobacco, leather, and citrus-spiced sandalwood.

  Oh, Papa, she thought, expelling a slow sigh. So brilliant, yet so naïve. Scandal had stripped him of all his rightful honor, forcing him to survive on his wits. But even his enemies admitted that Richard Hadley, the Earl of Morse, was a charming dreamer. Like fine brandy, his mellifluous laugh was smoothly seductive, making even the most grandiose schemes seem plausible. The earl was so convincing that over the years he had come to believe his own lies.

  Blood must run true, mused Arianna, for it seemed that she had inherited his gift for deception.

  Raising a defiant finger, she traced the burnt-cork stippling that darkened her jaw. A short stint with a theater troupe in Barbados had taught her the art of disguise. Paint and glue. False hair and feather padding. With the right touch, a skillful hand could alter one’s appearance beyond recognition. It helped that most people were easy to fool. They saw only what they expected to see and rarely noticed what lay beneath the surface.

  “Mr. Alphonse!” The shout cut through the quiet of the kitchen. “Captain Mercer will see you. Now!”

  “Oui, oui, I am coming,” she called. Thank god her voice was naturally husky—a slight roughening of the edges was all it required to mimic a masculine growl.

  Making no effort to hurry, Arianna paused to make one last check of her reflection in one of the hanging pots. She would have preferred to be interrogated here in the kitchen, where she was master of her own little Underworld. The light was kept deliberately murky, while the crowded racks of cookware and herbs created added distraction. However, if there was one thing she had learned over the years of fending for herself, it was how to improvise.

  “Step lively,” snapped the guard, punctuating the command with a rap of his pistol against the door. Though dressed as a footman, there was no mistaking his military bearing. “The likes o’ you ought not keep your betters waiting.”

  She took her time mounting the stairs.

  “Bloody frog,” he muttered, shoving the gun barrel between her shoulder blades to hurry her up the last few treads.

  The guard escorted her into the breakfast room, where a big, beefy army officer sat perfectly centered on the far side of the dark mahogany table. All the other seating had been cleared away, save for a single straight-back chair set directly opposite him. It looked rather forlorn in the wide stretch of empty space.

  “Sit down,” he barked.

  For an instant, Arianna debated whether to remain on her feet. Goading him to anger might distract him from his intended line of questioning. But she quickly decided against the strategy. However cleverly padded, her body was best not put on prominent display.

  “Merci,” she mumbled, slouching down in her seat. It was only then that she noticed a second figure standing by the bank of mullioned windows. He, too, was dressed in scarlet regimentals, but the color blended neatly into thick damask draperies of the same hue. The slanted shadows and angled sunlight made his features hard to discern. It was his carefully groomed side whiskers that caught her attention. Sparks seemed to dance through the ginger hair as if it were on fire.

  “Well, what have you to say to defend your
self, Mr. Alphonse?” went on the officer seated at the table.

  Shifting her gaze to the papers piled in front of the pompous prig, Arianna replied with exaggerated surprise, “Am I being accused of something, mon General?”

  “Oh, so you think yourself a clever little bastard, eh, to make light of an assassination attempt on the Prince Regent of England?” The captain, whose rank was clearly denoted by the stripes on his sleeve, thinned his lips. “I promise that you will soon comprehend it is no laughing matter.”

  “ Non, iz not amusing. Not in ze least,” she agreed, deliberately drawing out her French accent. “Iz grave, very grave.”

  The captain glared, uncertain as to whether he was being played for a fool. Snapping open a leather-bound ledger, he scanned over several pages of notes before speaking again. “I have sworn statements that you were the only one working in the kitchen the night the Prince was poisoned. Is that true?”

  “Ça dépend—that depends,” answered Arianna calmly. “The servants who carried the dishes up to the dining room were in and out all evening.” She paused. “I’m sure you have been told that the supper was a lengthy affair, with numerous courses.”

  “Did you see anyone tampering with the food?” he asked quickly.

  “Non.”

  “Nor anyone lingering below stairs?” It was the officer by the window who asked the question.

  “Non,” replied Arianna, not looking his way. While her first response had been the truth, this one was a lie. She had seen someone, but she had no intention of sharing that information with the Crown.

  Shoving back his chair, the captain rose abruptly, setting off a jangle of metal. Arianna watched the flutter of ribbons and braid as the gaudy bits of gilded brass and enameled silver stilled against his chest. Did the man have any notion how ridiculous he looked, strutting about in his peacock finery? His martial scowl was belied by the fleshiness of his hands as he braced them on the polished wood. They looked soft as dough.

  A bread soldier, thought Arianna. A staff flunky. Put him in a real fight and a butter knife would cut through him in one swift slice. As for the other one, he looked to be made of sterner stuff. She guessed that he was the man in command.

  “Mr. Alphonse!” Raising his voice to a near shout, the captain leaned in and angled his chin to a menacing tilt. “Did you try to murder the Prince Regent?”

  Arianna ducked her head to hide a smile. Conceited coxcomb—I’ve been bullied by far more intimidating men than you.

  “If you answer me honestly, it will go a lot easier for you,” he went on. “Otherwise future interrogations could become quite unpleasant.” His mouth twitched into a nasty smile. “For you, that is.”

  “I have told you ze truth. I did not poison the Prince,” she said. “If you don’t believe me, why don’t you search the kitchen?”

  The draperies stirred, echoing a low laugh. “What do you think my men are doing as we speak?” The officer there moved to stand in front of the windows. Limned in the morning light, his silhouette was naught but a stark dark shape against the panes of glass—save for the halo of ginger fire.

  “I have nothing to fear,” she answered calmly. The bag containing her disguises was well hidden beneath a pantry floorboard, with the weight and odor of the onion barrel discouraging too close an inspection of the dark corner. “I am innocent of any attack on your Prince.”

  The captain replied with a vulgar oath.

  “Am I under arrest?” asked Arianna, deciding it was to her advantage to end the interview as soon as possible. She had overheard two of the guards discussing their orders earlier, and was aware that Whitehall was sending another interrogator later in the day. She would save her strength for that confrontation.

  “Not yet, you stinking little piece of—”

  “Leave us for a moment, Captain Mercer.” The other officer cut off his cohort with a clipped command.

  The captain snapped a salute. “Have a pleasant chat with the Major, Froggy,” he muttered under his breath.

  The Major’s boots clicked over the parquet floor, echoing the sound of the door falling shut. Approaching the captain’s vacated chair, he picked up a penknife from the table and slowly began cleaning his nails.

  Snick. Snick. Snick. The faint scrapings were meant to put her on edge, thought Arianna as she watched the flash of slivered steel. Like her, the Major understood the importance of theatrics.

  The noise ceased.

  Bowing her head, she remained silent.

  “I think you are lying to us, Mr. Alphonse,” he said in a deceptively mild tone.

  She lifted her shoulders in a Gallic shrug. “What can I say? Iz hard to offer proof for an act that I haven’t committed.”

  “Oh, I don’t expect you to speak right now. I am perfectly happy to let you stew a little longer about your fate.” He stroked at his side whiskers, and his fingers came away with a trace of Macassar oil on their tips. “You see, I expect you to die. But if you give us the information we want, the process will be a good deal less painful for you.”

  Arianna kept her expression impassive.

  “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”

  “Arguing with you would only be a waste of breath,” she murmured. “Am I excused? The household expects to eat at noon.”

  “Go.” He placed the blade atop the captain’s sheaf of notes. “But be assured, you haven’t heard the last from me.”

  3

  From the chocolate notebooks of Dona Maria Castellano

  The cacao tree was a symbol not only of health but of wealth. A prized commodity, the beans were used as currency by Aztecs. The missionary mentions seeing a local document that listed some of the trading values—a tomato cost one cacao bean, an avocado cost three beans, and a turkey hen cost 100 beans. . . . The next few pages of his journal show some sketches of various drinking vessels for cacao. Oh, how I should like to find one of the ceremonial cups, made from a hollow gourd, that were used to serve the army its elixir. It would make a special gift for Sandro, and perhaps keep him safe. . . .

  Chocolate Stout Cake

  1 stick (½ cup) unsalted butter, plus 2 melted tablespoons

  ½ cup stout, such as Mackeson or Guinness (pour stout slowly into measuring cup; do not measure foam)

  ½ cup packed soft pitted prunes (6 ounces), chopped

  3½ ounces fine-quality bittersweet chocolate (not unsweetened or extra-bitter), chopped

  1¼ cups all-purpose flour

  ¼ teaspoon baking soda

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  2 large eggs

  1 cup packed dark brown sugar

  1 teaspoon vanilla

  1. Put oven rack in middle position and preheat oven to 350°F. Lightly brush 6-cup Bundt pan or 8-by-3-inch ovenproof ring mold with half the melted butter and chill 2 minutes. Then butter again and chill while making batter.

  2. Bring stout to a boil in a small saucepan and add prunes. Remove from heat and let stand until most of liquid is absorbed.

  3. Meanwhile, melt chocolate and remaining stick butter together in a small heavy saucepan over low heat, stirring constantly. Sift together flour, baking soda, and salt into a bowl.

  4. Beat together eggs, brown sugar, and vanilla in a large bowl with an electric mixer at high speed until thick, about 2 minutes. Add chocolate mixture and beat until just combined. Reduce speed to low and add flour mixture, mixing until just combined. Stir in prune mixture until combined well. Spoon batter into pan and bake until a wooden skewer inserted into middle of cake comes out clean, 40 to 45 minutes.

  5. Cool cake in mold on a rack 10 minutes, then invert onto rack to cool completely, at least 30 minutes.

  “Thank you for coming to see me, Lord Saybrook.” Grentham didn’t look up from the document he was reading. “I trust that the request did not inconvenience you.”

  Without waiting for an invitation, Alessandro Henry George De Quincy, the fifth Earl of Saybrook, shifted his cane and sat down in the chair fac
ing the desk. “Not at all. I am always at the beck and call of the government.”

  Grentham dipped his pen in ink and wrote a lengthy notation in the paper’s margin before setting his work aside. “How kind.” Narrowing his gunmetal-gray eyes, he subjected Saybrook to a lengthy scrutiny.

  The earl stared back, seemingly unconcerned that he looked like he had just crawled out of the deepest, darkest corner of hell. His long black hair was neatly combed and his face freshly shaven, but no brush or razor could disguise the ravages that pain and narcotics had wrought on his body. Sallow skin stretched over bones sharp as sabers, bruised shadows accentuated his hollow cheeks, and his clothes hung loosely on his lanky frame.

  Grentham, on the other hand, was immaculately attired in a charcoal coat of superfine wool, which set off the starched folds of his snowy cravat to perfection.

  “But now that we have met,” the minister went on, “I cannot help but wonder whether your trip here was a waste of both your time and mine.”

  “My uncle has explained the task at hand,” replied Saybrook, matching the other man’s sardonic tone. “If I did not feel myself up to its rigors, I should not have bothered coming here.” After allowing a fraction of a pause, he added, “One of the first lessons I learned as an army intelligence officer was that appearances can often be deceiving.”

  Grentham’s nostrils flared for an instant, but he covered his displeasure with a bland smile. “So, you think that you are capable of rising to the occasion, Lord Saybrook?” Again the gunmetal gaze raked over the earl’s legs. “Despite your infirmity?”

  “I assure you, sir, my infirmity does not affect my performance.”

  The minister folded his well-tended hands on his blotter. “And yet, according to the surgeon’s report on you, the French saber cut perilously close to your manhood. I wonder . . .”

  Saybrook maintained a mask of indifference. “Do you anticipate that the job will entail swiving one of the witnesses?” He paused for a fraction. “Or buggering the cook?”