Arianna waited for several minutes, then tossed aside the book and hurried to the door. There were no wall sconces lit in this stretch of the corridor. Standing very still, she thought she could detect a faint buzz of voices from the right. In the opposite direction lay only deep shadows, heavy with silence.
And a fleeting whiff of smoke.
It was a risk, but she could always feign confusion and claim she had become disoriented in the darkness. . . .
The scent of spiced tobacco led her through an archway and down another passage. Up ahead, a narrow sliver of light at floor level alerted her to the presence of a door set in the paneling.
She pressed a palm to the polished oak. Damn. It was firmly shut and she didn’t dare fiddle with the latch.
Looking around, she spotted a set of glass-paned doors leading out to the back garden. Easing the lock open, she slipped outside and picked her way through the shrubbery. As the evening was pleasant, the study windows might well be open to the evening breeze.
Had the gentlemen been conversing in normal tones, her efforts would have gone for naught. At that moment, however, Concord’s visitor was expressing his displeasure in a near shout.
“Don’t try to fob me off with some farrididdle, Concord! My source at Whitehall informs me that Grentham plans to exhume the body. What the devil is he looking for?”
The slight silence was amplified by the stillness of the garden. And then, “What body?”
The question triggered another explosion. “Damn you! Are you pretending not to know that the minister’s top military lackey was stabbed to death by Lady Spencer’s chef, who has so far eluded capture despite the princely ransom on his head?”
“Ah.” The word was punctuated by another pause. “So you, too, have access to sensitive information within the department of security. I wasn’t aware of that. The public announcement was that Crandall choked to death on a piece of beefsteak.”
“Of course I have ears within Whitehall. Like you, I have my interests to protect.” Concord’s visitor sounded a little shaken. “I don’t appreciate being played for a fool.” Arianna shrunk back into the bushes as he approached the windows. “I take it you have the chef well hidden somewhere safe.”
Arianna heard a desk drawer open and shut. “You need not concern yourself with the chef,” said Concord. “It does not affect our arrangement.”
“Bloody hell, our arrangement didn’t include sticking a blade up Grentham’s arse. I’m willing to take risks, but only reasonable ones, Concord. I’ve got a good mind to . . .”
“To what?”
She caught a quick glimpse of the man’s face as he turned away from the leaded glass. Sweat sheened his skin. He was not only angry. He was frightened.
“To reconsider my position,” he answered tightly.
“You’re overreacting. Sit down and have a brandy.” Concord’s voice had smoothed to a mellow flow. “The incident at Lady Spencer’s had nothing to do with our arrangement.”
Try as she might, Arianna could catch only fleeting words as the two men settled into the two armchairs by the hearth.
Blunt . . . sword blade . . . letters of exchange . . . Overend . . . Gurney . . .
As their tone dropped even lower, Arianna decided that there was little more to be learned, and the risk of discovery was growing too great. Retracing her steps, she made her way back to the room of erotic art. Something sinister was at play here—that Concord was involved in some sordid game for profit was no surprise. The question was how to unknot the serpentine tangle of lies and deception.
“Why, Lady Wolcott, surely you don’t mean to deprive us of your company any longer.” Gavin joined her, a fresh goblet of punch in each hand. “Can I entice you to return to the drawing room?”
“Of course,” she murmured. “I should like nothing better.”
Concord rejoined his guests shortly after her return, bringing with him several servants bearing a pair of ornate Indian water pipes that emitted a low gurgling along with a cloud of sweet smoke. The laughter grew more languid after that, and one or two couples withdrew into the shadowed alcoves.
Arianna managed to appear an eager participant in the revelries, though much of her punch was discreetly dumped into the potted plants.
Despite his smiles, Concord seemed on edge. He made no move to renew his flirtations, and disappeared again after perhaps a half hour.
As it was now nearing dawn, she felt that she could take her leave without drawing any suspicion. Saybrook had, after all, demanded a report on the evening, and while she did not mean to dance to his tune, she had her own reasons for sharing what she had overheard.
Her carriage was waiting on the side street. A breeze ruffled through the ivy leaves on the garden walls, and aside from the swish, swish, swish of her skirts on the walkway, the creak of the harness leather mingled with the raspy snores of the drivers were the only other sounds.
Lost in thought, Arianna dropped her reticule in fumbling for the door latch. Swearing to herself, she turned to retrieve it from the cobblestones.
Damn.
As she crouched down, a movement in the shadows of the nearby linden tree caught her eye. A clatter of steps, and the figure darted into the alleyway, but not before the fleeing face was limned for an instant in the scudding moonlight.
Rising slowly, she felt a frown pinch her brow.
Why was Lord Ashmun lurking outside Concord’s residence?
It was, she reflected, yet another question to which she had no answer.
13
From the chocolate notebooks of Dona Maria Castellano
Although there is some debate about how chocolate was introduced into France, I believe the credit most likely belongs to Anne of Austria, the daughter of King Philip III of Spain. My research has turned up evidence that she gave her husband an engagement present of chocolate, packaged inside an ornately decorated wooden chest. Whether it is true or not, it makes a very sweet story. . . .
Coconut Chocolate Bites
¾ cup sweetened flaked coconut
¾ cup unsweetened dried coconut
⅓ cup sweetened condensed milk
3½ to 4 ounces fine-quality bittersweet chocolate (preferably 70% cacao), finely chopped
1. Line bottom and 2 opposite sides of an 8-inch-square metal baking pan with a sheet of wax paper, leaving a 2-inch overhang on both sides.
2. Mix together flaked and dried coconut and condensed milk with your fingertips until combined well, then firmly press into pan in an even layer with offset spatula. Chill, uncovered, 5 minutes.
3. Melt chocolate in a metal bowl set over a saucepan of barely simmering water or in top of a double boiler, stirring until smooth. Spread chocolate evenly over coconut layer with offset spatula and chill until firm, 5 to 7 minutes.
4. Lift confection onto a cutting board using overhang and halve confection with a sharp knife. Sandwich halves together, coconut sides in, to form an 8-by-4-inch rectangle, then discard wax paper. Cut rectangle into 32 (1-inch) squares. Arrange paper cups (if using) on a platter and fill with candies. Chill, covered, until ready to serve.
“Another dead body.” Straightening from his examination, Basil Henning absently wiped his fingers with a frayed handkerchief. In the murky light of early morning, the library was dark as a crypt. “I dunna like the look of it, Sandro.”
“Nor do I.” Saybrook slowly circled the large pearwood desk, taking in every detail of the scene. The gentleman’s corpse was seated in a rattan-backed chair, and he appeared to have expired just as he was beginning to write a note on the sheet of paper that lay on the blotter. The pen had slipped from his fingers, spattering ink over an illegible scrawl, but otherwise it was hard to tell that anything was amiss.
A closer look, however, revealed hands curled like claws and a grimace frozen on the bloodless lips.
“Do you think he died of natural causes?” asked the earl, once he had returned to his starting point.
“Hard to
say.” Henning ran a hand over his stubbled jaw. “I see no sign of foul play, but the coincidence of yet another death among the people you are investigating strikes me as awfully suspicious, laddie.”
“Indeed,” agreed the earl. He gave another long look at the body. “You could, of course, have a much better picture of what happened if you were to get a more thorough look.”
The surgeon grunted. “Lock the door. Then help me get his coat and shirt off. It’s a damnably tough job once rigor mortis has set in.”
They worked in silence for several minutes, wrestling the garments from the rigid limbs.
“An interesting design,” observed Saybrook, before setting the intricate stickpin atop the rumpled cravat.
“Looks to be a blood ruby,” said Henning, not bothering to hide his disdain. “Such a bauble could feed a regiment of hungry men for a year.”
“Few people are as altruistic as you are, Baz.”
“Hmmph.” A last hard tug pulled the shirt free. “Draw the draperies,” said Henning as he lit the argent desk lamp and angled its light over the marble-white flesh. “And then tell me again how ye happened to be having a dawn appointment with a cadaver.”
“I tracked down the gentleman in question at his club yesterday afternoon,” began Saybrook. “And asked if I might have a chat with him about some recent bills of lading from the Madras trade route.”
The surgeon’s bushy brows rose in question.
“His Lordship is—or was—an under-governor with the East India Company, and oversaw trade from the southern part of the country,” he explained.
“What in the name of God does that have to do with the Prince’s poisoning and a dead military man from Whitehall?”
“I’m not sure,” answered the earl. “But when I was in Grentham’s office, he was called away for a few minutes and I happened to spot a file from the Madras office of the Company on his desk.”
“Odd.”
“Very.” Their eyes met. “And yes, I’m thinking the same thing you are. The minister is far too clever to have left a sensitive document out in the open by mistake. I am assuming he wanted—nay, expected—me to see it. The question is why.”
Henning rummaged in the canvas satchel by his side and withdrew a large magnifying glass, along with a blunt wooden probe. “Too many bleeding conundrums in this case, if ye ask my opinion.” He lifted the man’s lips away from his teeth and had a quick look at the traces of spittle. “Go on.”
“Our friend here seemed on edge and claimed to have a pressing engagement that prevented his granting my request. He put off setting another time to talk until later in the week. But then, late last night, a note was delivered to my town house, requesting that I come by before first light, for he didn’t wish for it to be known that we were meeting.”
“I take it he didn’t admit you himself.”
“No,” replied Saybrook. “The note told me to come in through the back entrance, which would be unlocked. I was directed to proceed up the stairs and come to the library.”
From outside in the alleyway, the faint rattle of a coal cart sounded. “The household will soon be stirring to life,” remarked Henning wryly. “Come around here and hold the light for me.”
The earl took up a position by the corner of the desk and lifted the lamp. “See something?”
Henning bent lower, until his lens was nearly touching the thick peppering of hair on the dead man’s chest. “Higher,” he muttered, using the probe to part a tangle of coarse curls.
The oily flame illuminated a small round bruise, less than a quarter inch in circumference, just above his breastbone. In its center was a pinprick of darker purple.
“The fellow appears to have stuck himself with his fancy piece of jewelry,” remarked Saybrook.
The surgeon canted the magnifying glass one way and then the other before replying. “Perhaps. But the contusion beneath the skin seems to indicate a tad more force was used than one would normally require for pushing a pin through linen. And as for its color . . .” He pursed his lips and shook his head after taking a closer look. “Hmmph.”
“What—”
Henning waved him to silence. “We don’t have long before the servants start to notice something is amiss.” Setting aside the probe, he skimmed a hand down to the dead man’s belly and palpated the now cold flesh. “Help me shift him, so that I can get a look at his back.”
Together they tilted the corpse forward. Saybrook steadied the body, while Henning did a quick check. “Nothing of note here,” he growled. Dropping to his knees, he lifted the man’s trouser legs. “Or here.” A pause. “He was out earlier this evening. There is mud on his shoes, and it’s still wet.”
The earl took a look. “I don’t suppose there is any way to tell from where it came?”
Henning rolled his eyes. “Bloody hell, Sandro. Do you think me a magician?”
Saybrook’s lips quirked. “As a matter of fact . . .”
A low snort, then the sound of scraping. “Hand me your handkerchief. I’ll be damned if I’m going to dirty mine.” After stuffing the folded silk into his satchel, Henning stood and shook the wrinkles from his canvas pants.
“If you have finished,” murmured the earl, “we had best get him dressed before taking our leave.”
“Right.” Henning glanced at the desk, then gingerly picked up the stickpin and wrapped it in his own pocket square. “If ye dunna mind, I’d like to take a closer look at this.”
“I was hoping you would.”
Working quickly, they managed to get the corpse dressed in some semblance of normalcy and propped back in the chair. “Leave off the damned cravat,” muttered Henning. “It’s natural that he might have removed it while sitting down to work.”
The earl nodded. “An observant eye will notice that there’s nothing natural about this, but perhaps the physician who is summoned will not care to look too closely.”
“Then you don’t mean to report this yourself?”
“Not at present, Baz,” replied Saybrook softly.
“Aye, I didn’t think so.” Henning picked up his bag. “In that case, we had better take our leave.”
The taste of the steaming chocolate—strong, sweet, and hot—helped wake Arianna’s sluggish senses. “Thank god for Theobroma cacao,” she murmured. “The life of an indolent aristocrat is harder work than I thought.”
Moving to the windows, she looked down on the back garden. The earl had chosen a charming town house for her on South Audley Street. She could almost imagine herself at home here, reading, cooking, relaxing. . . .
She spun around and set aside her empty cup. Wishful thinking made one weak. And she had made a vow to be strong.
A glance at the mantel clock showed that she had only slept for several hours since returning from the party. Saybrook could not complain if she took another interlude of rest before making her report. But in truth, she was anxious to tell him all that had happened during the evening.
Concord’s late-night visitor added yet another shadowy figure to the specters of evil. It seemed that the baron had lost little time in finding a new crony in crime after Hamilton had stuck his spoon in the wall.
Fetching a bandbox from the top shelf of the armoire, Arianna drew out an assortment of ragged garments and a floppy wool cap, along with her bag of cosmetics and face paints. It was short work to transform herself into a street urchin. Satisfied with the results, she stepped away from the cheval glass, feeling a rush of anticipation at once again having the freedom to move unnoticed through the streets of London. She didn’t envy highborn ladies, who couldn’t twitch a skirt without someone watching that the gesture conformed to the rules of propriety.
Arianna shuddered, unable to imagine living such a constricting, confining life. She, at least, could choose her own path . . . even if it led to perdition.
Saybrook had assured her that the small staff he had assembled for her were utterly trustworthy, so she didn’t worry about crossing thro
ugh the pantries and exiting the house through the scullery door. It was a short walk to the earl’s town house, where she went around to the tradesmen’s entrance and was admitted by a dark-eyed maid who immediately escorted her to the kitchen.
Bianca greeted her with a broad smile and an offer of hot chocolate topped with whipped cream. “Too magro,” she clucked. “Too thin.”
“Thank you, but I would rather have coffee,” said Arianna.
“I shall have the same,” said Saybrook from the archway of the corridor. His hair was windblown and a stubbling of whiskers darkened his jaw.
“Magro, magro,” repeated Bianca, fixing him with a critical squint.
“You may bring some buttered rolls and jam as well,” he said, taking a seat at the worktable. “And perhaps some of your almond cakes. Our visitor has a very healthy appetite.”
Arianna observed the smudged shadows under his eyes. He, too, appeared to have had little sleep. “Enjoying a night of revelries, milord?”
“Only if you count dancing with death a form of entertainment.”
Her mouth went a little dry. “Good God, who? Does it have anything to do with us?”
“No one you would know,” he answered. “As for the connection, I cannot say.” He pressed his fingertips to his temples. “And before you take umbrage at that, it is because I don’t know. I may have a better idea after Henning has a chance to examine the evidence that we removed from the body. At the moment it’s unclear whether the deceased was murdered or died from natural causes.”
She made a wry face. “I take it there were no knives.”
“No knives.” His expression, however, looked a bit odd.
“What?” she pressed.
He shook his head. “It’s nothing, really. Henning sometimes has very strange notions.”
Before Arianna could ask him to elaborate, the cook approached with the coffee and a platter of food. “Buen apetito.”
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