Sweet Revenge lahm-1

by Andrea Penrose

  Saybrook poured two cups and passed one to her. “What about your evening? Did you learn anything of note?”

  “Other than the fact that Concord possesses a private collection of erotic art that would put a whore to blush?” Arianna paused for a sip of the steaming brew.

  If the earl had any reaction, he hid it well.

  “My discoveries may not have been as dramatic as yours, but I think you will find a few things very interesting.” She went on to recount the details of her night, from Ashmun’s probing, to Lady Spencer’s veiled innuendos, building up to Concord’s quarrel with the stranger. “And then, as I was climbing into my carriage,” she went on, “I happened to see Ashmun hiding in the bushes. He must have followed me, but it’s a mystery as to why.”

  Saybrook had listened without interruption. She waited for him to speak now, but instead he picked up a pastry and took a taste.

  Arianna bit back a caustic comment. The earl had some nerve to criticize her eating habits.

  “These are superb,” he murmured, nudging the platter her way. “I was under the impression that you needed sustenance in order to think properly.”

  The scent of almonds tickled her nose. “And I was under the impression that you found my appetite offensive.”

  “Compromise is the essence of a good battle plan.” He helped himself to a roll. “One would be a fool not to learn from one’s allies.”

  She realized she was famished. “I’ve never thought you a fool, Lord Saybrook.” Arianna broke off a buttery wedge and popped it into her mouth. “An ass, but never a fool.”

  He smiled and refilled her cup. “Now, tell me again about the argument.”

  “As I said, I could only hear bits and snatches. The stranger was agitated, and confronted Concord with Crandall’s death and my disappearance. He seemed to feel that some deal had been broken.”

  Saybrook stared meditatively into his coffee. “Try to remember exactly what was said.”

  She thought for a moment. “The stranger assumed Concord was responsible for the Major’s demise and asked if the chef had been smuggled out of the country. Concord didn’t correct him, but merely said not to worry about the chef because it didn’t affect their business arrangement.”

  The earl nodded for her to go on.

  “But that only made the other man more angry—or rather, frightened. Grentham worried him, and he said he had a good mind to . . .” Arianna let her words trail off, just as the stranger had. “At that point they moved away to the hearth. I could only make out a word here and there.”

  “Which were?” he asked, still not looking up.

  Arianna wished that she could answer with something more helpful. “Blunt . . . sword blade . . . Overend . . . Gurney,” she said carefully. Seeing his brow furrow for an instant, she added, “Sorry. I did try. However, as nothing was making any sense to me, I decided to return to the drawing room. Concord joined us shortly afterward, but he seemed distracted and disappeared again. I left an hour or so before dawn, and that’s when I saw Ashmun lurking in the shadows.”

  “Hmmm” was the only reply.

  Reaching for the rest of the almond cake, she finished it in two quick bites, then dusted the crumbs from her fingertips. “Why, Bianca has added morsels of chocolate to the cake,” she suddenly exclaimed, wondering how she had missed it on the first taste. “Brilliant.”

  “Yes, isn’t it?” murmured Saybrook abstractly.

  “Sorry I can’t offer you more. Hell, a blunt sword blade isn’t much of a clue.” She made a wry face. “Perhaps they are trading in military supplies.”

  “An interesting thought.” The earl began to drum his fingers on the knife-scarred maple. “A pity you didn’t hear the fellow’s name.”

  “Concord seemed loath to introduce us,” she replied. “He didn’t—No, wait. He did! Say his name, that is.” Squeezing her eyes shut, Arianna replayed the encounter in her mind. “Cotter . . . Calvin . . . Kelling . . .” Her lids flew open. “Kellton. It was Kellton.”

  The drumming stopped. “Describe him.”

  “Heavyset, medium height, fair hair with a bald spot at the crown,” she answered. “His face was ruddy, as if he had spent time in the sun.”

  “Dio Madre,” he muttered, his leg buckling slightly as his feet hit the floor.

  “What?” cried Arianna, alarmed by the sudden shift into action.

  “It appears, Lady Arianna, that you were one of the last people to see my corpse alive.”

  14

  From the chocolate notebooks of Dona Maria Castellano

  Sandro will be pleased to learn that chocolate finally arrived in England by the mid-seventeenth century. I find it interesting that coffee from the Middle East and tea from the Orient arrived around the same time. Chocolate was the most expensive of the three, but it still became popular, especially among the elite of London, despite the cost. Samuel Pepys, the great chronicler of his time, makes regular mention in his famous diaries of drinking chocolate. . . .

  Chocolate Angel Food Cake

  ½ cup all-purpose flour

  ½ cup unsweetened cocoa powder, plus more for dusting

  1½ cups sugar, divided

  ½ teaspoon salt, divided

  12 large egg whites (1½ cups), at room temperature 30 minutes

  1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

  1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

  1. Preheat oven to 350°F with rack in middle.

  2. Sift together flour, cocoa powder, ¾ cup sugar, and ¼ teaspoon salt.

  3. Beat egg whites with lemon juice, vanilla, and remaining ¼ teaspoon salt using an electric mixer on medium-high speed until they just hold soft peaks. With mixer on high speed, add remaining ¾ cup sugar in a slow stream and beat until whites hold stiff, glossy peaks, 3 to 5 minutes.

  4. Sift flour mixture over whites and beat on low speed until just blended (folding in any unblended flour mixture by hand if necessary).

  5. Spoon batter into ungreased tube pan and smooth top. Run a rubber spatula or long knife through batter to eliminate any large air bubbles.

  6. Bake until a wooden pick inserted into middle of cake comes out clean, 40 to 45 minutes. Remove from oven and immediately invert pan. If pan has “legs,” stand it on those. Otherwise, place pan over neck of a wine bottle. Cool cake completely, upside down, 1 to 1½ hours. Turn pan right side up. Run a knife around edge and center tube of pan. Lift cake, still on bottom of pan, then run a knife under bottom of cake to loosen. Invert to release cake from tube, then reinvert onto a plate. Dust lightly with cocoa powder.

  7. Serve with vanilla yogurt or lightly sweetened whipped cream, and fresh berries.

  “Good God, surely you don’t think that I had anything to do with his death,” exclaimed Arianna. The earl didn’t respond to her question. “This changes everything,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “I had better go inform Henning immediately.”

  He turned for the doorway . . . and nearly collided with a man rushing in from the stairwell.

  “Auch, I was hoping to find you at home,” said the newcomer. He was nearly as gaunt as the earl, but stood a head shorter. The contrast didn’t stop there. Dark and Light. In contrast to Saybrook’s olive complexion and jet-black hair, the fellow had sandy locks, now liberally threaded with silver, and fair skin.

  A Northern warrior, thought Arianna, spying the jagged scars sliced on his brow and cheek.

  The heavy Scots burr confirmed the surmise. “Yer housekeeper said ye were engaged in a private meeting, but I assured her that ye wuddna mind the invasion.”

  Arianna saw him slant a sidelong glance her way.

  “I take it this laddie is yer lady.”

  “Lady Arianna, allow me to introduce Basil Henning, former surgeon to the Third Regiment of His Majesty’s Dragoons,” said Saybrook. “Baz, this is indeed our master of disguise.”

  Lamplight winked off his spectacles as Henning subjected her to a lengthy stare. “Ye make a very fetching male, m
ilady.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured. “I think.”

  “You’ve saved me the bother of traipsing through St. Giles to find you,” said Saybrook without further preamble. “I’ve some important news—”

  “As do I, Sandro,” interrupted the surgeon.

  The two men locked gazes, and Arianna sensed that they did not need words to communicate.

  “Very well, you first,” said the earl, resuming his seat. “Would you like some coffee? Or chocolate?”

  “I’d rather have good Highland malt, but as I know ye only have Spanish brandy, I’ll settle for that.” Heaving a sigh, Henning fetched the bottle and poured a generous splash of the spirits. “Slainte Mhath, milady.”

  “Baz,” began Saybrook.

  “A man must remember his manners,” replied the surgeon before quaffing another long swallow. “Ahhh, now I feel a touch more civilized.”

  The earl said something under his breath that drew a hoot of laughter from his friend.

  “Hold yer water, Sandro,” said the surgeon, once his amusement had died away. “After running me ragged all night, ye could at least have the courtesy to allow me a wee dram.”

  “Baz.”

  “Oh, very well.” The impish grin gave way to a more sober expression. Drawing three small vials from his coat pocket, he carefully stood them in a tight row on the table. “Take a good look at these.” The first appeared to contain a clear liquid, the second was colored a deep Prussian blue, and the third cadmium red.

  “I take it we are not here to admire a new formula for watercolor pigment,” said Saybrook dryly.

  “No, not pigment.” Henning placed another item on the table.

  In the lamplight, it seemed to glow with an inner fire. . . .

  “Don’t touch it!”

  Arianna jerked back her hand. “I wasn’t about to steal it, Mr. Henning.”

  “Yer pardon, milady. But I didna want ye to prick yer finger.”

  “I’m not some delicate English rose. I don’t wilt at a mere touch.”

  “Trust me, ye might shrivel up and die from that thorn,” he growled. “I canna be sure that I’ve removed all the poison, so I would rather be safe than sorry.”

  Poison. For an instant, she felt a little light-headed. First the Prince, and now . . .

  Saybrook frowned. “So you were right in your suspicions?”

  “Aye,” replied Henning. “The froth of his spittle and the clawing of his hands indicated an unnatural death, as did the color of the contusion on the victim’s chest. That was the key clue. I suddenly recalled where I had read about a magenta aureole around the purple and green of a normal bruise—it’s very distinctive and very rare. So I decided to make a few tests.” He sat back with a look of grim satisfaction. “And you’ll never guess what I discovered.”

  “I’m in no mood for playing parlor games, Baz,” replied the earl. “Like Lady Arianna, I’ve had precious little sleep, so kindly get to the point.”

  “All right, all right.” The surgeon looked a little hurt, but that quickly faded as he took a wad of crumpled notes from his coat. “Ye remember in Spain how we was reading that book on Alexander von Humboldt’s discoveries in the New World?” He turned to Arianna. “Sandro studied botany at Oxford, so we often enjoyed studying scientific—”

  “Baz, Lady Arianna is not interested in my educational history,” interrupted the earl.

  Strangely enough, Arianna realized that wasn’t entirely true. A scholar and a soldier? He was an intriguing mix of contrasts and conundrums.

  But this was hardly the time or place to sort them out.

  Henning made a face. “You might at least let me crow a little about my cleverness.”

  “Go on, Mr. Henning,” she said. “I’m anxious to hear about it.”

  “Thank you, Lady Arianna.” He shuffled through his notes. “Getting back to von Humboldt—who was, by the by, a renowned scientific observer of the natural world—Sandro and I were reading his account of a trip through Brazil and Amazonia. While Sir Walter Raleigh and other early explorers had heard about certain indigenous toxins used by the native peoples, von Humboldt was the first European to observe its making.”

  Saybrook frowned. “Do you mean curare?”

  The surgeon nodded. “It’s an extremely lethal substance,” he explained to Arianna. “But to be precise, the name is used for a variety of poisonous plant concoctions. However, the most common source is the bark of Strychnos toxifera mixed with Chondrodendron tomentosum.” He blotted his brow with his sleeve, which Arianna noted was already mottled with a number of dubious smudges.

  It was a wonder, she thought, that he hadn’t expired from his own experiments.

  “Sometimes they add snake venom to the mix. Quite inventive, I must say,” he went on. “But I digress. The usual method of preparation was to boil the bark scraping and other plant material in waters for several days, reducing it to a viscous paste. It’s not dangerous if swallowed, but if introduced directly into the bloodstream by a prick or cut from a tainted object, death is swift and sure.”

  She felt herself pale.

  “I must say, the effect is quite unique,” he mused. “Last year, Sir Benjamin Brodie noted that during curare poisoning the heart continues to beat, even after breathing stops.”

  “I doubt that is any consolation for the victims,” murmured the earl. “All of this is very interesting, Baz. But how can you be sure that it’s curare on the stickpin?”

  “I assumed that would be your first question.” The surgeon allowed a tiny triumphant smile. “The subject intrigued me, so I had done some further reading on it after my return to London. Knowing what chemical compounds are in the barks used for curare, it was not all that difficult to do some specific tests.” A tap, tap set the colored liquids inside the vials to swirling. “These reactions prove without a doubt what killed Kellton.”

  “I wouldn’t presume to question your scientific skills,” said the earl. “But unfortunately, that stirs up a whole new . . .”

  As his words trailed off, he flicked a look at Arianna, and though the movement was subtle, she sensed immediately what was coming.

  Damn the man.

  Sure enough, the slight hesitation gave way to a brusque cough. “Lady Arianna, there’s really no need for you to stay,” he went on. “Why not go home and get some sleep. For the moment, there’s nothing more you can do.”

  In other words, leave the thinking to the men.

  She fisted her hands, feeling a surge of fury well up in her throat. “Ah, right. Females are only useful for cooking and cleaning. Oh, and swiving.”

  Henning blinked.

  “I’d rather not argue with you,” began Saybrook.

  “I don’t intend to argue.” Arianna crossed her arms. “Nor do I intend to be sent off to bed like a helpless child.”

  “You misunderstand me—”

  “Do I?” she challenged.

  The earl’s eyes narrowed. “Willfully.”

  The surgeon appeared to be following the argument with great interest. Setting down the vials, he leaned forward on his elbows, clearly awaiting the next exchange of words.

  “And so,” continued Saybrook. “Despite your refusal to see reason, I don’t intend to let you be part of the discussion. It’s too dangerous.”

  “How do you intend to stop me? Chain me up in some remote castle dungeon like the dastardly Spanish villain in that silly horrid novel by Mrs. Radcliffe?” Actually, Arianna had found the book quite entertaining, but that was beside the point.

  “Ye mean The Mysteries of Udolpho?” asked Henning helpfully.

  “Yes, that’s the one,” she said.

  “Montoni was Italian,” murmured Saybrook.

  “Mea culpa,” retorted Arianna.

  “And that is Latin,” he pointed out.

  “You,” she said slowly, “are an overeducated, aristocratic ass.”

  Henning stifled a snort.

  “And you,” count
ered Saybrook, “are a bloody thorn in my lordly posterior.”

  The surgeon decided to intervene. “Come, come, let us not war with each other. We have far more serious battles to fight.” He looked at the earl. “There’s no denying that the lady is already in the thick of things.”

  “Oh, bloody hell. I suppose I have little choice but to admit you into our confidences,” said the earl grudgingly.

  She watched the sooty shadow of the lamp flame dance across the grained wood. “You won’t regret it.”

  His silence was eloquent in its skepticism.

  “All right then, no more fiddle-faddle.” The surgeon slapped his palms together. “Sandro, as you were about to say, Kellton’s murder presents a whole new set of questions. Beginning with, what were he and Concord quarreling about?”

  “There’s that,” agreed Saybrook. “As well as why Grentham all but asked me to read a file on his recent activities.” His finger traced over the myriad knife scars in the tabletop. “And then there is the conundrum of why an East India Company under-governor was killed with a South American poison. The two concerns are worlds apart.”

  “And yet they have come together,” mused Henning. “Of course, it could be coincidence.”

  Saybrook made a face. “How many people in London have access to curare?”

  “Very few,” conceded the surgeon.

  “There has to be a connection. We simply need to see it.”

  “One other thing,” added Henning. “The mud on his boots contained particles of hemp, pine tar, and crushed shells, as well as the type of clay that is common to the Thames riverbanks. So I would say it came from one of the dockyards around the Isle of Dogs. Not all that suspicious, given his position with the East India Company—save, of course, for the time of night.”

  Saybrook didn’t reply.

  Arianna searched her memory for any new observation that she could offer into the conversation. Nothing came to mind, save what she had already mentioned to the earl. “One would have expected this man Kellton to have been stabbed, seeing as he and Concord were arguing over blunt sword blades.” She meant it half in jest, but after a moment’s reflection, she added, “As I said before, do you think it possible they were involved in some shady dealings with military supplies to our army, or the troops of our allies?”