Sweet Revenge lahm-1

by Andrea Penrose

  She took a long swallow. “I didn’t poison the Prince, for I imagine that is your first question.”

  “An astute guess, Miss Smith. Yes, it makes sense to start there.” He tapped his fingertips together. “If you didn’t do it, who else might have had the opportunity?”

  Arianna meditated on the question for several moments, trying to decide just how much to reveal. She would have to feed him a few tidbits—he was too sharp to be fobbed off with nothing.

  “The guests had gathered early that evening, and Lady Spencer made no secret of the fact that I was preparing a special delicacy for His Royal Highness,” she replied carefully. “One of the ladies—I don’t know her name—did come to the kitchen and ask what it was, but I chased her away. For reasons that should be obvious, I did not encourage anyone to enter my bailiwick.”

  “The persona of temperamental chef helped disguise your secret,” he mused.

  She nodded. “My impression was that she merely wanted to tease the Prince with hints of what was coming.”

  “What about the kitchen help? Could one of the girls who helped you prepare the meal have slipped some substance into the chocolate?”

  She shook her head. “As you saw, Lady Spencer isn’t plump in the pocket. One of the reasons she valued me was that I didn’t complain about working alone. As for the footmen who served the guests, I handed them the platters at the door.”

  Tipping back his head, Saybrook stared up at the ornate plaster ceiling, apparently lost in contemplation of the carved rosettes. As the silence stretched on for what felt like an age, she began to fidget.

  “Feel free to refill your glass,” he murmured, answering her unspoken question of whether he had fallen asleep with his eyes open.

  As Arianna rose, he added, “You’ve stated that no one entered the kitchen while you were there. But did you perchance leave it untended at any time during the evening?”

  Truth or lies? She watched the swirling pattern of the thick Turkey carpet ripple beneath her stocking-clad toes. Could she slide by with a fib?

  She looked up to find him watching her intently. “I was gone for a short while.”

  “Why?”

  “The reason is not relevant to your investigation, Mr. De Quincy—or, should I say, Lord Saybrook?”

  “Call me whatever you wish. I’m not a stickler for propriety,” he replied. “However, as to the other matter, I’m afraid that I shall be the judge of that.”

  Her jaw tightened. “All you need to know is that I was absent for maybe a quarter hour. In returning, I did see two of the gentlemen guests in the back corridor, near the door to the scullery. One I did not see well enough to recognize, but the other was Lord Concord.”

  “You know his name?” It was half question, half statement.

  “Yes,” she replied, but did not elaborate.

  “Hmm.” Saybrook ran a hand over his thigh, kneading his palm against the injured flesh. A shock of his shoulder-length hair had fallen over his face, making it impossible to see his expression.

  “You know, it would make things a good deal easier if you would tell me why you were working for Lady Spencer,” he said, easing back in his chair. “It doesn’t make sense, for a number of reasons. To begin with, you claim to have come to London in order to make a profit from its riches—and yet you sold yourself quite cheaply. A chef of your skills could have commanded far more money, not to speak of more comfortable working conditions.”

  “It’s not my business to make things easier for you, Lord Saybrook. I overheard enough to know that your reasons for undertaking this investigation have nothing to do with me or my motivations.”

  “Save when it comes to keeping your neck off the chopping block.”

  “Why do you care about me?” challenged Arianna.

  “I don’t, per se. I care about the principle of justice, even when it means defending a willful wench hell-bent on self-destruction.”

  The set-down brought a faint rush of heat to her cheeks. “You are one to talk,” she countered. “And speaking of withholding information, Lord Saybrook, I heard you tell your uncle that man who attacked us was Major Crandall, a top aide to the Minister of State Security. Why was an officer of the Horse Guards trying to kill me? And you?”

  The earl responded with a sardonic smile. “The reason is not relevant to your concerns. I am not at liberty to reveal any more than that.”

  A chill snaked down her spine. Cupping her hands around her glass, Arianna wished that she could draw a touch of warmth from the amber spirits.

  “Touché,” she murmured, unable to muster a sharper retort.

  “I would prefer not to always be at daggers drawn with you.” Saybrook sighed as he ran a hand through his unruly hair. “Too bloody dangerous.”

  The movement caused a momentary flicker of lamplight to play over his face. If anything, the bruised shadows under his eyes seemed to have grown deeper. Darker. He looked tired, and most of all, frustrated.

  Not that she blamed him.

  Swearing under his breath, the earl rose and made his way to the sideboard. It was only then that Arianna realized how badly his hands were shaking.

  Her eyes narrowed. “If you are truly so concerned about solving this case, I’ll repeat what I said earlier—you ought not dose yourself with that vile drug. For now it might dull the pain, but it’s also dulling your senses, and creating a pernicious dependence that will eventually rot your mind.”

  “Thank you,” he snapped, after returning to his seat. “In one subject, at least, you are a veritable font of information.”

  Coals crackled in the banked fire, sending up a spurt of sparks.

  “There are other ways to deal with pain. I have some knowledge of healing arts. I can give your cook a list of the ingredients, and if you allow me in your kitchen I’ll show her how to brew it.”

  He made a face.

  “Stubborn arse,” she muttered.

  A glint of amusement lit for an instant in his eyes. “That’s rather like the pot calling the kettle black.”

  She repressed an answering smile. “We seem compelled to thrust and parry tonight. Perhaps we ought to withdraw from the fray and lick our wounds.”

  Saybrook set aside the drug untasted, and levered out of his chair. “Right. Let us both get some sleep. Perhaps in the morning we can come together with a fresh perspective and negotiate a meeting of minds.”

  Sleep? The idea seemed impossible. Her body was heavy with fatigue, as if it had seeped into the very marrow of her bones, and yet Arianna felt too restless to seek the comfort of the splendid bed. Cupping the glass of brandy that she had carried from the library, she moved to the diamond-paned window and stood staring out through the misted glass. The blackness of night was far preferable to the vivid images imprinted in her mind’s eye.

  Out of the frying pan and into the fire. She had heard the expression often enough, but it took on new meaning when one’s own flesh was hovering a hairsbreadth from the flames.

  The liquor began to burn her throat—or perhaps it was only the sudden memory of black powder smoke, sharp and sour as it mingled with her scream. Setting aside the glass, Arianna turned abruptly and went to the armoire, where the contents of her valise sat folded on a single shelf. She had not called the maid to unpack her meager belongings. Her secrets were fast being stripped away, making it imperative to keep those she still had hidden for as long as possible.

  Taking the pasteboard folder from inside the frayed pair of men’s breeches, Arianna carried it to the dressing table and drew the candle closer. Shadows danced over the age-worn top page, making the spidery writing even more difficult to make out. She wasn’t quite sure what had impelled her to add the papers she had stolen from Lady Spencer’s desk to her hastily collected jumble of clothing and face paints.

  An intuitive flight of fancy?

  No, more likely an utter waste of effort, she thought wryly.

  It was the numbers. They intrigued her.


  They always had.

  Tracing a finger over the first equation, Arianna was reminded of her father and the idyllic games they had played throughout her childhood.

  What’s seven times twelve, divided by four, poppet?

  “Twenty-one, Papa,” she whispered, blinking away the sting of salt against her lids. There was something wonderfully pure about numbers and the abstract concepts they created. They were not intrinsically good or evil—they simply . . . were.

  Arianna turned the first page, and then the second, and the third, losing herself in the intricacy of the equations. Intriguing. She wasn’t quite sure what they meant, but following the progression of logic had provided a welcome diversion from her own tangled emotions.

  Oddly enough, numbers had always been a source of solace. She had come to think of them as friends, playmates for a lonely childhood that helped keep the pinch of poverty at bay. That her father had encouraged the games, and had taken great pleasure at her skills, only added to the allure. The connection—the time together working out mathematical puzzles—was the one thing that could keep him from seeking escape in a bottle. He had tried to stay lucid for their nightly games.

  But those precious moments had become rarer and rarer, and as she got older, Arianna had become desperate to keep him from drowning in drink. The games turned into arguments. Bitter ones at times. . . .

  Snapping the pasteboard covers shut, she rose and returned the folder to its hiding place. As the candle sputtered and died, throwing the room into darkness, she found her glass and quickly swallowed the last splash of amber spirits.

  Don’t stir up painful memories of the past, she chided herself.

  To survive, she must focus all her thoughts on the problems of the present.

  8

  From the chocolate notebooks of Dona Maria Castellano

  We Spaniards were quick to make our own variations on the New World preparations of chocolate. Instead of frothing the drink by pouring it back and forth between two cups, as was the Aztec method, we created the molinillo, a type of wooden whisk that is submersed in the hot liquid and spun between the palms. It creates a lovely frothy foam, and I remember how Sandro loved to watch me in the kitchen, his tiny hands mimicking the rhythm of the whirling wood. . . .

  Mexican Chocolate Cookies

  1 cup all-purpose flour

  ½ cup plus 1 tablespoon unsweetened Dutch-processed cocoa powder

  ¼ teaspoon baking soda

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  ½ cup plus 1 tablespoon brown sugar

  ½ cup plus 1 tablespoon granulated sugar

  3 tablespoons sweet butter, slightly softened

  3 tablespoons stick margarine

  ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon

  generous pinch of ground black pepper

  1 teaspoon vanilla

  1 egg white

  1. Combine the flour, cocoa, baking soda, and salt in a medium bowl. Mix thoroughly with a whisk. Set aside.

  2. Combine the sugars in a small bowl.

  3. In a medium mixing bowl, beat butter and margarine until creamy. Add sugar mixture, cinnamon, pepper, and vanilla. Beat on high speed for about one minute. Beat in egg white. Stop the mixer.

  4. Add the flour mixture. Beat on low speed just until incorporated.

  5. Gather the dough together with your hands and form it into a neat 9-to-10-inch log. Wrap in waxed paper. Fold or twist ends of paper without pinching or flattening the log. Chill at least 45 minutes, or until needed.

  6. Place oven racks in the upper and lower third of the oven and preheat to 350ºF. Line cookie sheets with parchment paper or aluminum foil.

  7. Use a sharp knife to slice rounds of chilled dough ¼ inch thick. Place 1 inch apart on prepared baking sheets. Bake 12 to 14 minutes. Rotate baking sheets from top to bottom and front to back about halfway through. Use a metal spatula to transfer cookies to a wire rack to cool.

  It must have been the brandy, for despite feeling sure that Morpheus would not be her bedfellow, Arianna was drawn out of a deep sleep by a discreet knock on the door.

  Sitting up, she winced as a blade of sunlight cut across her face. No rest for the wicked, she thought wryly, squinting through the diamond-paned windows. She usually rose with the dawn, but the previous day must have . . .

  The previous day.

  Squeezing her eyes shut, Arianna pressed her palms to her brow. Was this living, breathing nightmare really less than twenty-four hours old? Burnt powder. Twisted screams. Spattered blood. The smell of death. A churning vortex of spinning, swirling memories stirred a sudden nausea.

  No, no, no, it was hunger that had her feeling light-headed, not fear.

  “Signorita?” The knock came again.

  “Sí.” Throwing back the covers, Arianna reached for her wrapper. The maid had brought her nightclothes the previous evening, gorgeous silken garments that slid over the skin like a whisper of tropical air. And certainly far more costly than any clothing she had ever possessed, she reflected, catching sight of herself in the cheval glass.

  Dear God, in such borrowed finery, I actually look like a real lady.

  A wink of light. A mere illusion. From her father she had learned how easily perceptions could be manipulated.

  Turning abruptly, Arianna called, “Come in,” then added in Spanish, “Pase, por favor.”

  The door nudged open and a middle-aged woman entered, carrying a silver tray nearly as wide as her own ample girth. It was loaded with food, the aroma of fresh-baked rolls and fried York ham mingling with the sugared scent of steaming hot chocolate.

  Despite her earlier queasiness, Arianna suddenly felt ravenous. “Thank you—Gracias,” she said as the woman set it down on a small table by the windows.

  “De nada.” After carefully arranging a fork and knife atop a starched white napkin, the woman gestured for Arianna to sit.

  Pausing only to pick up a folded sheet of paper from the dressing table, she hurried to comply. A full cup was already waiting, and as the first swallow swirled down her throat, she let out a little sigh.

  “Ambrosial,” she murmured, savoring the rich taste of the cacao mingling with hot and sweet spices.

  “Good?” asked woman in tentative English, her dark eyes watchful.

  “Very good,” replied Arianna. “Cinnamon, anchiote, vanilla . . .” She took another sip. “And some spice I can’t quite place.”

  The woman tapped a finger to a tiny dish beside the chocolate pot and mimed a sprinkling motion. “Nuez moscada.”

  “Ah. Nutmeg.”

  Nodding, the woman turned to leave, but Arianna placed a hand on her arm. “A moment, por favor.” Handing over a recipe that she had scribbled out earlier, Arianna managed, through a mixture of English, Spanish, and hand language, to communicate what she wanted.

  The woman’s solemn expression gave way to a tiny smile. “Sí, sí. I understand, signorita. I will take this to Bianca.”

  “Tell your cook that if she doesn’t have the ingredients in her pantries, they are all easily obtainable in London,” said Arianna. “I will be happy to come down to the kitchen if she has any questions.”

  Tucking the paper in her apron, the woman bobbed her head and hurried away.

  “A lost cause,” she muttered to herself. “But then, who am I to talk?” Her stomach growled in answer. “Right—let the condemned eat a hearty meal.”

  After the first few bites, Arianna felt her mood brighten. The warmth of the chocolate, the dappling of the sun, the twittering of birds . . . a new day, and with it, she must look at her situation with a new perspective.

  During the night, she had already decided on a change of plan. Her first impulse had been to escape, but on further reflection that seemed a bad choice. Flee now, and she would likely never get another chance at revenge.

  Revenge. Her knife hovered for a moment over the plate. Strangely enough, she hadn’t yet decided what she wanted. Was it to coax a confession from him and then slide a blade between his ri
bs? Or somehow see him brought to justice for his crime?

  Either way, what mattered was that when the time came, Concord would know that a Hadley had not allowed the truth to die along with her father. But to do that, I must get close. The trouble was, the earl had seen her as a woman, and whatever his other faults, he was not a man who would be fooled twice by any disguise.

  No, if she wanted to pursue her quarry, she would have to improvise. And after careful consideration, a plan had started to take shape. . . .

  Another tap on the oak interrupted her thoughts, but this time it was Saybrook, not a servant, who entered.

  “I see you have broken your fast.” His expression conveyed an edge of irony as he surveyed the heaping platters.

  “There is more than enough to share,” said Arianna.

  The earl pulled up a chair. A night had done little to improve his appearance. He had shaved, and brushed his long locks into some semblance of order, but the burnished blackness only accentuated the sickly pallor of his gaunt face.

  Bloody hell, she hoped he wasn’t about to expire. She needed him alive, at least for a little longer.

  “I’m not hungry,” he murmured.

  “No wonder you look like you should be knocking on death’s door, not mine.” Arianna forked a piece of pineapple onto her plate. “By the by, isn’t it highly improper for you to be visiting me in my bedchamber? My reputation would be in tatters if word got out.” She met his grim gaze and grinned. “As would yours, milord.”

  “I think we can dispense with formalities, Miss Smith,” said Saybrook dryly. “Our secret should be safe enough. For now, that is. However—”

  “However, we must decide how to deal with this situation,” she interrupted. “I agree, sir. I have been thinking . . . and I have a proposition.”

  The earl crossed one booted foot over the other. “Indeed?”

  “Yes, and I shall cut to the chase, sir,” said Arianna, deciding that coyness was a waste of time. “You need me. I have seen and heard certain things at Lady Spencer’s establishment that may be of utmost importance in unraveling your mystery. So I’ll help you—but only on certain conditions.”