Sweet Revenge lahm-1

by Andrea Penrose

  Salted Chocolate Caramels

  2 cups heavy cream

  10½ ounces fine-quality bittersweet chocolate (no more than 60% cacao if marked), finely chopped

  1¾ cups sugar

  ½ cup light corn syrup

  ¼ cup water

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  3 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into tablespoon pieces

  2 teaspoons flaky sea salt, such as Maldon

  vegetable oil for greasing

  1. Line bottom and sides of an 8-inch straight-sided square metal baking pan with 2 long sheets of crisscrossed parchment.

  2. Bring cream just to a boil in a 1- to 1½-quart heavy saucepan over moderately high heat, then reduce heat to low and add chocolate. Let stand 1 minute, then stir until chocolate is completely melted. Remove from heat.

  3. Bring sugar, corn syrup, water, and salt to a boil in a 5- to 6-quart heavy pot over moderate heat, stirring until sugar is dissolved. Boil, uncovered, without stirring but gently swirling pan occasionally, until sugar is deep golden, about 10 minutes. Tilt pan and carefully pour in chocolate mixture (mixture will bubble and steam vigorously). Continue to boil over moderate heat, stirring frequently, until mixture registers 255°F on thermometer, about 15 minutes.

  4. Add butter, stirring until completely melted, then immediately pour into lined baking pan (do not scrape any caramel clinging to bottom or side of saucepan). Let caramel stand 10 minutes; then sprinkle evenly with sea salt. Cool completely in pan on a rack, about 2 hours.

  5. Carefully invert caramel onto a clean, dry cutting board, then peel off parchment. Turn caramel salt side up. Lightly oil blade of a large, heavy knife and cut into 1-inch squares.

  The next few days passed in a blur. Modistes, milliners, parasols, corsets . . . the list of shops to visit and things to order seemed endless. As did the long sessions with Lord Mellon and his wife, reviewing proper etiquette and the hierarchy of Polite Society.

  Like any savage place, London had its own laws of the jungle.

  Arianna saw nothing of Saybrook. After discreetly delivering her to his uncle’s residence and recruiting him as a reluctant ally, the earl had disappeared. Mellon was far too well-mannered to express his true feelings, but worry was writ plain on his patrician face. Did he wonder whether he was harboring a murderer in his home? Or were his fears all for the consequences his nephew would suffer if this deceit of Whitehall became known.

  They would, she guessed, be dire.

  Well, the earl would have to look out for himself. As for carrying out her own part of the plan, she didn’t intend to fail.

  By the end of the interlude, even Mellon had been forced to concede that she learned her lessons well. Perhaps, thought Arianna sardonically, she had absorbed the essence of aristocratic bearing from her mother’s milk. She remembered Lady Anne as an ethereal beauty, surrounded by an air of absolute tranquility. The calm before the storm. Her father’s life had gone to pieces upon her death, no longer held together by his wife’s serene good sense.

  Ashes to ashes. But justice could rise, like a phoenix from the burnt-out coals.

  Justice. In an odd sort of way, she and the earl did have something in common, though they might define the concept in very different ways.

  So, she had worked diligently during the day, and spent long hours at night plotting, planning her strategy. Lord Concord—his depravities and desires were well known to her, thanks to the loose tongue of Lady Spencer. And she planned to use that knowledge as a weapon. The swoosh of a fan, the flutter of lashes . . . blades and bullets were not the only way to slay an enemy.

  As Arianna ran her hand over the fancy gowns hanging in the armoire, feeling the seductive softness of the costly silks and satins, the intricate patterns of the exquisite beading and lace, her flesh began to prickle in anticipation. The act of sliding into a new persona was by now so familiar that it felt like donning a second skin. Disguise and deception. She had been hiding her true self for so long, she wondered whether it existed anymore.

  Her fingers clenched. It didn’t matter. She had waited for what felt like a lifetime to assume this role.

  Let the play begin.

  Gemstones sparkled in the blaze of the torchieres flanking the front door, looking like brilliant bits of colored fire against the swirl of dark velvet cloaks and black overcoats. The evening was cool, but the heat inside the crowded entrance hall was already cloying. Lush perfumes and spicy colognes mingled with the sweet scent of the roses, thickening the air so that every little breath was a tickling caress against bare skin.

  Arianna quickly adjusted her shawl to cover the pebbling of gooseflesh on her arms.

  She looked around, careful to mask her reaction to the sights, the sounds, the smells of her first London ball with an expression of regal indifference. No one must guess she was not at home in the splendor of Mayfair’s mansions. She was now one of them, she reminded herself.

  A lady of indolent leisure. Rich. Bored. Craving a taste of excitement.

  Her own emotions had no place here. All her actions must be calculated to attract, entice a certain sort of gentleman.

  “Abandon hope, all ye who enter here,” said Saybrook in a sardonic murmur, while his uncle and aunt were drawn aside to greet some old friends.

  “Is that meant to put me at ease?” she asked under her breath.

  “God, no, simply an observation. I can’t imagine anything putting your nerves on edge. Certainly not a gathering of rich, overfed aristocrats.”

  She laughed. “You, at least, appear the better for taking some nourishment. I trust that Bianca and Elena have been feeding you chocolate.”

  His mouth quirked. “Stuffing me like a pig.”

  “There’s an old adage about casting pearls before swine.” She noted that his evening clothes seemed close to fitting his lanky frame.

  “Ah, you flatter me, Lady Wolcott,” he murmured. Arianna had chosen her mother’s middle name to use as her nom de guerre. “Though allow me to point out that most people will take such frankness amiss.”

  “I know what is expected of me,” answered Arianna in a low whisper. “I shall not disappoint.”

  She could feel the curious stares as the earl handed her cloak to one of the porters. Her gown, fashioned from shimmering sea-green watered silk, was expertly cut to accentuate every subtle feminine curve.

  “A lovely creation, madam,” murmured Saybrook. “Your taste is exquisite.”

  “And expensive,” she replied. “I hope you are a very rich man, milord.”

  He inclined his head a fraction. “I am. But be advised that I expect my investment to pay off.”

  The note of cool detachment nettled for an instant, but Arianna was quickly distracted by the arrival of Lord Concord, who came in with several other gentlemen.

  As he turned to converse with his friends, she had a chance to study him under the bright light of the crystal chandelier.

  Robert Mappleton, the Right Honorable Lord Concord, was a decade younger than her father—which put his age at forty-four—and had inherited the barony only recently. Those facts, and a good many other details about his background, she had committed to heart. Until now, however, she had caught only fleeting glances of his face.

  Arianna could see why many women found him attractive. He possessed fleshy good looks that were just beginning to show the effects of his dissolute lifestyle. His dark hair was thick, with just a touch of silver showing at the temples, and his smile radiated a certain self-confident hauteur.

  She angled her body, just enough to catch his eye, and then turned away. Let him wonder who she was.

  “Quite a crush, is it not?” Saybrook surveyed the snaking line of guests winding their way up the curved stairway. “That is, by the by, the highest accolade for any evening entertainment.”

  Mellon and his wife rejoined them. “Shall we go up?” he inquired tightly.

  “After you, Uncle,” replied Saybrook, offering Arianna his arm.

&nb
sp; The vast stretch of black and white marble floor tiles were barely visible beneath the sea of ruffled silks and polished evening pumps. The effect was still impressive, as was the pristine painted woodwork and the high, arched ceiling decorated with an Italianate fresco of cavorting cherubs.

  She blinked, feeling a bit blinded by all the rich trappings of the haute monde.

  A lady’s light laugh sounded nearby, the dulcet tone blending with the masculine murmurs and the muted clink of crystal.

  Privilege, power, pedigree. Wealth had a language of its own.

  Her eyes once again found Lord Concord.

  “If you are ready, Lady Wolcott, I think we ought to follow my uncle’s suggestion and go meet our hostess.”

  Saybrook’s words roused her from her study. “Yes, of course.”

  The stairs were still crowded. She felt the brush of wool against her bare arms and heard whispers stir behind her back. Their comments had drawn attention. People were curious about the new face in their midst.

  Excellent.

  Fluttering her fan, Arianna ventured a peek at the people below. Concord was leaning on the newel post, his head upturned, his gaze on her.

  Better and better.

  As they made the last turn to the upper floor, the light from the massive chandelier seemed to take on an even more glittering intensity. Mellon was waiting for them, and as his wife slipped away to greet a group of her friends, he held out a gloved hand. “I shall take our lovely relative to greet Lady Battell,” he announced. “And then we will have the first dance before turning her over to you, Sandro.”

  The earl stepped aside with alacrity. “But of course. I will meet up with you later.”

  Arianna had no chance to see where he slipped off to, as she was immediately swallowed into a swirl of silken greetings. Names, faces, titles—she concentrated on keeping them all straight. Everyone, it seemed, was anxious to make her acquaintance.

  “That seemed to go well,” she murmured as Mellon finally was able to lead her on to the dance floor.

  “Yes.” The earl’s uncle kept a dutiful smile pasted on his face, but no warmth reached his eyes.

  “I know how little you like this, sir,” she said. “But I’m not your nephew’s enemy. I’m not going to stab him in the back.”

  “So you say.” His jaw tightened. “Have you truly any idea of what a dirty, dangerous game you are playing?”

  “I’m not afraid,” answered Arianna.

  “Well, you should be,” whispered Mellon. “As should my nephew.”

  She wasn’t sure how to answer, so they danced the rest of the quadrille in silence, their feet moving mechanically in time with the music.

  “Your uncle dislikes me,” she said, as the earl claimed her hand.

  “He tends to be protective,” answered Saybrook.

  “Your grandmother’s journal also expressed worry over you,” she blurted out. “Why?”

  “I was at war, Lady Wolcott. Naturally she was worried.”

  Despite the noise and the crowd, Arianna was suddenly aware of being very alone. No one gave a damn whether she lived or died. Even when her father was alive, he had shown little paternal responsibility. Every man for himself was the unspoken credo. She had learned at an early age to fend for herself.

  “Naturally,” she replied coolly. “So who watched over you in the army? Do your fancy English regiments hire mother hens to keep watch over the precious chicks?”

  The shadow of his lashes hid his eyes. “Have a care where you tread, Lady Wolcott,” he said softly.

  Arianna felt his shoe pinch against her toe.

  “The dance,” he chided. “Pay attention to the dance. If you wish people to believe you are who you say you are, you can’t afford the tiniest slip.”

  “Thank you for the warning,” she muttered.

  “Call it a caution.” He spun through an intricate turn. “I see that Lord Concord is here. I assume you wish to strike up an acquaintance.”

  “Correct,” she said through her teeth.

  “I know one of his companions. I’ll introduce you when this sets ends.”

  “A Mr. Needham has claimed my hand for the next dance.”

  Saybrook’s mouth curled to a semblance of a smile. “Prerogative of rank. I shall inform him that I want you to meet some of my friends.”

  “And your wish is my command?”

  “So it will seem to him.”

  An oblique answer. Which was just as well. Having to work with anyone chafed. She didn’t rub along well with figures of authority.

  “My uncle and aunt will be leaving shortly—and by the by, we can trust that Eleanor has made certain that every gossip in Town is now aware that you are a very rich widow.”

  “Lucky me,” she murmured.

  “Yes, well, you’ll have every fortune hunter sniffing around your skirts. But I imagine you won’t have any trouble fending them off.”

  “Just get me close to Lord Concord, sir.”

  “As I said, that will be no problem.” His face betrayed no hint of concern. Indeed, he looked almost anxious to feed her to the wolves. “Signal me when you are ready to leave. I will take you back to my uncle’s town house in my carriage.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that wasn’t necessary. But it was. The rules of propriety must be maintained for now.

  “Come,” he said, as the trill of the violins died away. “Now that the erstwhile chef has spent a bagful of my blunt making herself look good enough to eat, let us see if Concord will bite.”

  “You are new to Town, Lady Wolcott?” asked Sir Philip Gavin as Saybrook excused himself from the group.

  “Yes.” Arianna flashed a smile at the three men, letting it linger just a little on Concord. “It’s been ages since I’ve visited. I am so looking forward to enjoying myself.”

  Gavin looked at her intently, and then his mouth twitched—a little hungrily, she thought.

  Encouraged, she leaned in a little, allowing them all a better look at her décolletage. “Is it very naughty to admit that I take pleasure in a party? My late husband preferred a quiet life in the country. We would occasionally journey to Harrowgate to take the waters. But the society there was very . . . dull.”

  “It’s only natural for a lovely lady to prefer a more stimulating environment than the wilds of Yorkshire,” replied Concord with a hint of a grin. “I assure you London is far more fun.”

  “Oh, I am delighted to hear you say so.” Tapping her fan to his shoulder, Arianna asked, “Would you be so kind as to ask the waiter for a glass of champagne, sir?” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I much prefer bubbly to ratafia punch.”

  “Vile stuff, ratafia,” agreed Gavin. Neither he nor the honorable Mr. John Tipton had been present on the night of the Prince’s poisoning. However, Lady Spencer had frequently mentioned them as being part of Prinny’s inner circle of friends, whom the newspapers had dubbed the Carleton House carousers.

  “Have you ever tried brandy?” asked Tipton, after exchanging a look with Concord.

  She giggled. “Yes, but on the sly. It was strictly forbidden by my late husband.”

  “I bet that made it taste even sweeter, eh?” said Concord slowly.

  “Yes.” This time her laugh was a little throatier. “But I daresay I shouldn’t admit it.”

  “Oh, we understand what you mean, Lady Wolcott,” assured Gavin.

  Arianna took a swallow of her champagne, wondering if she was appearing too eager. She didn’t think so. According to Lady Spencer, young widows—preferably rich ones—were just the sort of females favored by men like Concord and his cronies. They had the relative freedom and independence to do as they pleased, provided they were discreet about it.

  Besides, she had no choice but to flagrantly flaunt her availability. Time, as delineated by Saybrook, did not allow for a more subtle approach.

  Drianing her glass she held it out for a refill. “Oh, how lovely to discover myself
among such amiable gentlemen.”

  Their smiles put her in mind of a pack of feral dogs eyeing a fresh bone.

  “You know, we are holding a party the day after the morrow. It promises to be quite amusing. The thing is . . .” Concord fingered his watch fob. “Some of the guests do not move in quite the exalted circle of Society as your relatives. Would that be a problem?”

  “My distant relatives,” stressed Arianna. “La, I am not a green girl, and they are not my guardians. They were kind enough to invite me to stay with them while they introduce me into the ton. But I intend to lease my own residence as soon as my man of affairs locates a suitable property.” Her fan swooshed back and forth, stirring a tickle of cool air. “To be honest, they are nice, but . . .” She mouthed the word “dull.”

  “Ah. Dull is decidedly boring.” A speculative gleam lit in Concord’s eye. “But what of the earl? He appears to be your escort here tonight.”

  Concord was, of course, aware that Saybrook was investigating the Prince’s poisoning, so she quickly moved to distance herself from him. Any hint of an alliance and all her plans would be for naught.

  “I did not wish to offend my cousin Mellon. But the truth is, I find Lord Saybrook worse than dull—I find him forbidding.” She slanted a look across the ballroom to where he was standing in the shadows of the colonnading and feigned a shudder. “Look how he stands so solemn and silent. He reminds me of a monk from the Spanish Inquisition.”

  “Lud, you are right.” Tipton made a face. “Dark, disapproving—he should have stayed in the god-benighted Peninsula, where he belonged.”

  “I know him from my club, but I cannot say we are friends,” mused Gavin. “Indeed, I was greatly surprised that he chose to introduce you to us.”

  Arianna was ready with an answer. “I asked him to.” She looked around quickly then lowered her voice a notch. “You three are the only interesting men in the room.”