Sweet Revenge lahm-1

by Andrea Penrose

  “Where am I?” she demanded.

  Saybrook didn’t answer.

  “Bloody hell, Mr. De Quincy, I think I’m entitled to some answers.”

  That drew a gruff laugh. “So do I, Miss Smith,” he replied as he drew the door shut. “So do I.”

  7

  From the chocolate notebooks of Dona Maria Castellano

  Having discovered so many interesting facts in my missionary’s journal has led me to explore other Church records, and I have just learned some new information. In 1569, chocolate became widely popular in Catholic countries because Pope Pius V ruled that drinking the beverage did not break the fast, and so it could be taken as nourishment on Holy Days. However, I doubt such news will be of any interest to Sandro. He shows little reverence for organized religion. . . .

  Spanish Hot Chocolate

  2 cups milk

  2 ounces sweet chocolate

  ½ teaspoon cinnamon

  2 beaten egg yolks

  1. Stir the milk with the chocolate and the cinnamon over low heat until the chocolate dissolves.

  2. Add the egg yolks and beat the mixture until it becomes thick, taking care not to boil.

  3. Serve in coffee mug.

  “So that, in a nutshell, is what happened, Uncle.” Saybrook paused just long enough to chuff a mirthless laugh. “Thank you for drawing me back into the King’s service.” Raising his glass, he cocked a salute. “For God and country. Huzzah.”

  Stealing closer to the library door, Arianna crouched down and eased it open a touch wider. Minutes earlier, the sound of footsteps and the low murmur of masculine voices in the corridor had drawn her attention from the book she had borrowed. Her curiosity piqued, she had given them time to settle in before following along.

  The room was unlit, save a single argent lamp set on the sideboard next to a tray of crystal decanters. Appearing as stark silhouettes against the pale marble of the hearth, the two men were seated facing each other, their dark leather armchairs drawn close to the banked fire.

  “I considered it my duty to pass on Grentham’s request,” said the earl’s companion.

  De Quincy’s uncle? Arianna craned her neck for a better look. In contrast to her captor’s angular features and coal-black hair, the other man had a smooth patrician profile and silvery curls cut short in the latest à la Brutus style. His clothing was elegant and exquisitely tailored as well, the folds precise, the lines faultless.

  Saybrook quaffed a long swallow of his drink and muttered something under his breath.

  Damn. Arianna inched forward, straining to hear.

  “But now that you have recounted the day’s events, I’m convinced that I should counsel you to wash your hands of the matter,” continued the other man.

  There was a sliver of silence, save for the faint hiss of the burning wick.

  “Oh, well done,” said Saybrook softly. “Holding out a temptation, and then taking it away is a very effective strategy. But then, the highly respected Right Honorable Mr. Mellon is known for his persuasive powers.” To Arianna, his voice sounded slightly slurred. “Tell me, did Whitehall ask you to make sure that I wouldn’t crawl away with my tail between my legs?”

  Mellon’s face tightened and his mouth went white at the corners. “I shall assume it was the drug speaking, not you, and so will forgive that remark. However, if you dare insult my integrity again, I will thrash you to a pulp—wounded leg be damned.”

  After draining the last bit of liquid from his glass, Saybrook pressed it to his brow. “Christ, forgive me. That was a rotten thing to imply.”

  “Yes, it was,” growled Mellon. “As if I would throw my brother’s son to the proverbial wolves.”

  “You would become the next earl if anything were to happen to me,” he pointed out. But as his uncle started to sputter anew, he held up a hand. “Cry pax. In Spain, one had to have a certain sense of gallows humor to survive with a modicum of sanity.”

  Arianna could scarcely believe her ears. The dark-as-the-devil specter was an earl? She hadn’t paid any heed when he offered a second name, but she realized now that it must have been his title. Another slip on my part. She couldn’t afford to miss such details. All too often they could mean the difference between life and death.

  Mellon exhaled a long breath, interrupting her mental monologue and drawing her gaze to his face. “Well, seeing as you escaped slaughter in the wilds of the Guadarrama Mountains, I should hate to see you come to grief here in the heart of civilized London.” His tone was light, but beneath the conciliatory smile he looked troubled.

  Setting aside his empty glass, Saybrook gingerly shifted his outstretched leg. A spasm of pain pinched at his mouth, but he quickly covered it with a cynical grimace. “Death isn’t overly discriminating as to place or time, Uncle.” He smoothed out a wrinkle in his trousers. They were, noted Arianna, a new pair, fashioned out of dove gray superfine. “Just why do you advise me against remaining in charge of Whitehall’s investigation?”

  “Because I don’t trust Grentham farther than I can spit. By all accounts, he’s a devious, duplicitous bastard,” replied Mellon. “There’s no question that he’s extremely effective as head of security, but he’s also scheming, manipulative—and utterly ruthless when it serves his purpose.”

  “He would hardly be any good at his job if he weren’t,” observed Saybrook dryly.

  “I suppose that’s true.” Mellon rubbed at his jaw. “But I have been thinking . . . there might well be another reason, aside from your military intelligence experience and your knowledge of chocolate, that Grentham is anxious to have you handle the investigation of this case.”

  “Ah, yes.” Saybrook’s eyes fell half closed.

  Probably due to the drowsying effects of the narcotic he had added to his wine, thought Arianna.

  “Having a half-blood Spaniard in charge provides a convenient scapegoat if things go awry,” the earl went on. “It would be oh so easy to call my loyalties into question.”

  Interesting. She held herself very still, intent on not missing a single word. The more she knew about her captor, the better her chances of outwitting him.

  “I fear so,” admitted Mellon. “Not that anyone in his right mind could question your commitment to your country. Good God, you’re a decorated war hero who served as an officer of army intelligence in the most brutal campaign of the Peninsular War.” He rose and went to pour himself another brandy. “Not to speak of holding one of the most distinguished titles of the realm.”

  “Some people consider that a sacrilege, rather than a mark in my favor.” Saybrook made a face. “Oh, yes, I’ve heard the murmurs—What a pity that the august earldom of Saybrook has fallen to an olive-skinned foreigner.”

  Saybrook, she repeated to herself, trying to recall whether Lady Spencer and her dissolute friends had ever mentioned the name. But nothing came to mind.

  “And while you are up, you may bring me another glass of port. With a generous splash from the vial beside it, if you please.”

  Mellon frowned but did as he was asked. “The blood you spilled on the battlefield of Salamanca flows back to William the Conqueror.”

  “All the more reason that many sticklers of the ton resent me.” He took a sip of the laudanum-laced spirits. “But never mind that. There is an old adage—sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me.”

  “With Grentham, I would not be so sure,” said Mellon. “He wields them with all the skill of a Death’s Head Hussar.”

  “Thank you for the warning, but I am familiar with the shadowy underworld in which he moves,” replied Saybrook. “Lies and innuendo. Deception and duplicity.”

  Oh, yes, thought Arianna. I’m familiar with that world, too, milord.

  Lifting the cut crystal glass to the candle, he spun it in his fingers. “Grentham may wish to maneuver me like a pawn on his chessboard, but he won’t find it quite so easy to control my every move.”

  “You might not find it quite so sim
ple to slip free from his iron-fisted control,” said his uncle.

  “Perhaps not.” A hint of humor seemed to creep into the earl’s voice. “But as you pointed out when you first came to me with this proposal, maybe I need a challenge to rekindle a spark of life.”

  “Just as long as you don’t end up being burned to a crisp.” Mellon grimaced. “Speaking of which, how is your leg? You said you suffered a fresh wound?”

  “Naught but a scratch,” replied Saybrook. “Henning stitched it up for me. He’s quite clever with a needle, a skill that I trust he will put to good use on the late Major Crandall. Grentham has not yet sent round one of his lackeys to take a look at the corpse, but I daresay he will.”

  “Do you trust this fellow?” asked his uncle in a near whisper.

  “With my life,” responded Saybrook without hesitation. “Henning and I fought together during Wellington’s campaign to push Massena out of Portugal, as well as the attack on Ciudad Rodrigo.” Despite the low light, Arianna saw his body tense and a sheen of sweat lick across his brow. “A man shows his true mettle when he’s plunged into the very deepest pits of hell. There’s no comrade I would rather have watching my arse.”

  “Just so long as he doesn’t stick a knife in your back. Grentham has ways of convincing a fellow to betray his friends.”

  “I’m confident that my luck in dodging sharpened steel will hold.” He gestured at his thigh. “Don’t forget, you are the one who admonished me to crawl out of my cave of self-pity and stand on my feet again.”

  “So I did. And while I don’t regret the spirit of my words, I fear that I was wrong in suggesting you get involved in this sordid mess.” Shadows hid his expression as Mellon shook his head. “This is too dangerous, Sandro. There is something havey-cavey going on here. Ask yourself, why did Crandall try to kill the Cook? If they wanted him—or her—dead, they had only to arrest her and do the deed quietly somewhere in the depths of Newgate.”

  “Yes,” mused Saybrook. “I agree. It makes no sense.”

  “All the more reason to distance yourself,” pressed Mellon. “Turn the woman over to Grentham and be done with it.”

  Arianna shot an involuntary glance down the darkened corridor. How many guards did he have posted beyond the door? And were they armed? Her skill at picking locks was quite good, but dexterous hands—and quick feet—would be no match for loaded pistols.

  Looking back, she saw Saybrook press his fingertips to his temples and begin a slow massaging. “Good God, you can imagine what they’ll do to her, knowing she stabbed the Major.”

  Mellon stared into his brandy.

  “She did it to save my life. I can hardly in good conscience hand her over to suffer for my own ineptitude.”

  His uncle’s lips thinned. “What the devil is your alternative?”

  There was a long silence. “I haven’t decided,” he admitted. “I will think about it tonight. And in the morning, I will have another talk with Miss Smith. Perhaps she will be more forthcoming after sleeping on the fact that right now she’s the most hunted criminal in England.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it. From what you described, I’d say the woman has brass balls.”

  A chuckle rumbled in Saybrook’s throat. “Actually, brass is far too soft a metal. I would say that her cojones are made of Toledo steel.”

  “It’s nothing to laugh about.” Mellon rose. “Try to get some rest yourself, Sandro. You look like hell.”

  Lost in thought, Arianna was slow to react.

  “I’ll see myself out,” he added, seeing the earl awkwardly lever to his feet.

  “I’m not so crippled that I can’t walk you to the door, Uncle,” muttered Saybrook.

  Gathering her skirts, Arianna spun around and, after gauging the distance to her room, ran for the closest door.

  The closing thud of the oak doors was echoed by the sharp metallic snick of a key turning in the lock. Arianna held her breath, waiting for the sound of the earl’s shuffling steps to recede. Surely he would lose no time in returning to the library. She had seen the hungry look in his eye as he had glanced at the sideboard. Pain must be gnawing at his leg—

  He stopped, mere inches away from her hiding place, and in the stifling silence she could hear the soft whisper of wool as he shifted his stance.

  “You can come out now.”

  Arianna slipped out of the linen closet. “Whatever else is ailing you, it appears there is nothing wrong with your ears,” she muttered.

  “Nor with yours,” he replied. “I assume you heard everything.”

  She nodded.

  Saybrook closed his eyes for an instant as a spasm of pain pinched at his mouth. Arianna felt a clench of guilt—then quickly shook it off.

  Sympathy was a weakness she couldn’t afford.

  Averting her gaze, she reminded herself to remain detached. Don’t allow it to get personal. The earl was just another obstacle blocking her road to redemption.

  Or was it the path to perdition? She had been traveling for so long that perhaps she could no longer discern the difference.

  “Come along,” he finally said. “We may as well have a talk now.”

  “It can wait until morning, if you wish,” replied Arianna. “You look to be dead on your feet. And I daresay your uncle would have no qualms about handing me over to the government if you shuffle off this mortal coil.”

  “Are you intending to sleep?” he demanded.

  “No,” she admitted.

  “Nerves still on edge? It’s a common reaction after the heat of battle. A drink can help dull the memory.” He turned away. “I intend to have another glass of port before I retire. . . .”

  Liberally doused with opium, no doubt.

  “Whether you choose to join me is entirely up to you.”

  After a slight hesitation, she followed along. Why refuse when the drug might further weaken his defenses?

  “Sherry?” His voice was muffled by the clink of the crystal.

  “I would prefer brandy, assuming it’s a decent vintage.”

  “It is.” More sharp-edged sounds seemed to betray an unsteady hand. Yet somehow he managed to cross the carpet without spilling a drop.

  “Thank you,” she said, accepting her drink. Eyeing the viscous, garnet-colored liquid in his glass, she said, “Did you pick up your dependence on opium in the Peninsula?”

  Saybrook settled himself and propped his leg up on the hassock before answering. “You know a good deal more about me than I know about you.”

  She took a sip of her brandy. “You’re right. It’s superb.”

  “That’s not quite sporting,” he went on, ignoring her comment.

  Arianna shrugged. “I don’t believe in playing by the rules. Especially as they have been made by gentlemen—highborn hypocrites whose notion of honor is conveniently twisted to suit their own games.”

  “True.”

  She had expected an earl to take umbrage at the unflattering assessment, so his concession took her somewhat by surprise. Damn. Her intention was to push him off balance, not loose her own equilibrium. Lifting her glass to her lips, she let the burn of the brandy steady her thoughts.

  “You have an impressive collection of books here,” she said, trying another way to goad him into a temper. “I took your advice and came here earlier to find some reading material.” Lowering her lashes, she added, “I happened to see your grandmother’s journals on your desk.”

  Saybrook darted a glance to the shadowed interior and frowned.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I borrowed them?”

  “Would it bother you if I do?”

  “Not really.”

  He let out a low bark of laughter. “In that, at least, you are honest.”

  “They contain some interesting material.” “Fascinating” was more the word, but she was careful to mask her enthusiasm. “Dona Maria Castellano appears to have been a singular lady.”

  “Yes,” he said tightly. “She was.”

  H
ad she succeeded in striking a sore point? Arianna probed a little deeper. “I take it she’s no longer alive?”

  “No.” The reply was clipped.

  “Was her death recent?”

  The question stirred an odd gleam in his eyes. The amber hue seemed to brighten, as if a tiny flame had sparked to life somewhere in their depths. “Why do you ask?”

  She curled a lock of her loosened hair around her finger. “Just curious.”

  Saybrook rose and limped back to the sideboard.

  “You know, there are better ways of controlling pain than to make your body a slave to opium,” she said without looking around.

  “Thank you for your concern,” he replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “Your grandmother would be tossing in her grave if she could see you now.”

  A bottle slammed down, rattling the silver tray. “Enough, Miss Smith. I’m in no mood for your needling.”

  “You saved my life, so I’m simply trying to return the favor.” She gestured at the vial of laudanum. “That drug will end up killing you.”

  “We’re even,” he said curtly.

  “Not really.” Arianna wasn’t sure why she was pursuing the matter. Let him cross over the River Styx if that’s what he wants. Still, she found herself saying, “You’ve held off turning me over to Whitehall, which would mean a certain death. So the scales are tipped in your favor.”

  He returned to his chair—empty-handed, she noted. “And you appear to be doing your damnedest to make me change the balance.”

  At that, Arianna smiled. “True,” she said, echoing his earlier comment. “But actually, I’d rather you hold off until I have a chance to finish reading Dona Maria’s chocolate notes.”

  “Delicious, aren’t they? Especially for someone interested in nuances of cuisine.” He steepled his fingers. “A temporary truce might be negotiated. Assuming you are willing to offer something in return.”