A Question of Numbers

by Andrea Penrose

  Grentham expelled a sigh. “A daughter. She’s thirteen years old and her name is Emma.” He pursed his lips. “For some years, she was safely ensconced in a remote school for girls in the Lake District. But last year, Pierson undertook a very delicate mission in Poland, and somehow that information was compromised.”

  “How?”

  “Through the German teacher at the school, a native of Prussia with ties to revolutionaries in Warsaw,” answered Grentham. “To be safe, Pierson decided it was best to move the girl out of England. Her late mother was Flemish, so he chose Brussels—”

  Saybrook let fly a volley of oaths in Spanish. “Are you saying you neglected to collect the girl after Elba and put her out of reach of the French?”

  Grentham flushed. “To begin with, after Pierson’s demise, there wasn’t any reason to do so. With her father dead, she was of no use as a pawn or hostage to anyone. Secondly, Pierson didn’t confide to me the name of the school in which he had placed her. All I know is that it’s run by a convent.”

  The earl swore again.

  “Once I’m in Brussels,” Grentham added, “I’ll determine how best to set a discreet search in motion. I’ll find the girl and—”

  “I’ve a better idea,” interrupted the earl. “Let my wife take charge of learning her whereabouts. A female will draw less attention making inquiries about a schoolgirl, especially as the search involves convents. She’ll be able to learn the most likely possibilities by taking tea with the local society ladies.”

  Grentham looked as if he wished to argue, but remained silent.

  “Then it’s settled.” Saybrook straightened and turned for the door. “If my wife has any further questions about the girl, may she count on seeing you tonight at the Countess of Southport’s ball?”

  “I’ve no choice but to dance attendance on the overfed diplomats of the Allied delegations.” A sour grimace. “And hope they may drop a crumb of information.”

  “Perhaps your time would be better spent getting some rest. Exhaustion makes for a bad bedfellow with good judgment.”

  “Yes, well, if Napoleon steals a march on us and strikes soon, a French military victory will be a bad bedfellow with any hope of peace for the foreseeable future.”

  Chapter 7

  Music floated out of the ballroom, the sonorous lilt of a Haydn concerto at odds with the silent rumblings of impending war. Arianna felt a shiver, despite the heated crush of guests making their way up the grand staircase. A night of drinking champagne and nibbling lobster patties . . . while Napoleon was planning how to gobble up all of Europe.

  She craned her neck, hoping to spot one of her Prussian acquaintances through the fluttering of silk and well-tailored wool.

  Saybrook’s gaze was probing the crowd as well. As his arm brushed against hers, she felt the tension thrumming through his coiled muscles. But on catching her questioning look, he dismissed it with a pinched frown.

  Unseen specters seemed to have them both jumpy.

  “I see Charles with several members of the Austrian delegation,” he murmured as they inched through the turn. “I’ll join them as soon as we’ve made our greetings to the hostess.”

  “And I shall look to find a familiar face from last autumn among the Prussian diplomats,” replied Arianna in the same low tone. Perhaps some careful probing about Grunwald’s recent activities would shed some light on his mysterious message. She had spent the afternoon trying to make sense of the Shakespearean reference—but to no avail.

  Forcing a smile to mask her frustration, she turned their talk to superficial pleasantries as they reached the landing and joined the receiving line. A greeting here, a polite nod there—at last they were done with the formalities and moved into the ballroom.

  The earl veered away to join Mellon, while Arianna took a moment to survey the crowd. The crystalline light of the chandeliers accentuated the overbright smiles of the assembled guests. Richly colored gowns glittered against the midnight-dark formality of the gentlemen’s evening attire, like jewels flung across a black velvet sky.

  Spotting Constantina standing with a group of peacock-plumed matrons near the refreshment table, she began to make her way around the perimeter of the room. At the far end was a series of shadowed niches created by the decorative marble columns. Pausing for a moment, Arianna drew in a breath. The crowd was still clustered by the entrance, the air not yet choked with the scent of lush perfumes and masculine musk. Her nerves were taut despite the trilling gaiety echoing all around her.

  Pleasure dancing on a powder keg. And yet most of the guests appeared oblivious of the danger.

  Or uncaring.

  “Lady Saybrook.”

  The murmur drew her back from her brooding. Without looking around, Arianna edged back into the shady recess between the columns.

  “Go home,” she said. “You must be dead on your feet, and in such a state you’re of no use to anyone.”

  “Thank you for your astute medical opinion.” Grentham had a shoulder braced against the fluted stone. “I know you question my judgment about many things, but I’m aware that fatigue is not conducive to good decision-making. However, I imagine you have some questions you wish to ask me, and I’d rather not be rousted from my sleep by you and your band of infernal Furies in order to answer them.”

  She raised a brow. “Was Constantina breathing fire at you earlier?”

  His expression turned dark as a thundercloud. “Lady Sterling’s flames are harmless.”

  Ah, so it wasn’t the dowager who had ignited such ire. Arianna looked around and spotted Sophia retreating through the arrangement of decorative potted palms.

  “As for Miss Kirtland, she’s a loose cannon,” he muttered, “Can’t you do something to dampen her powder?”

  “I know you think it unladylike for a female to show any spark,” she answered. “But some of us do possess a brain and the ability to use it. And it’s both insulting and infuriating to be treated as if we’re not capable of helping to solve a conundrum.”

  “This isn’t merely a word game or intellectual puzzle,” shot back Grentham. “Getting involved in intrigue is dangerous.” He glowered. “The smallest mistake can mean people die.”

  She fixed him with a cool stare. “As I said, it’s extremely irritating when men assume we’re stupid.”

  He huffed an exasperated snort. “You’re different.”

  “Pray tell, in what way?”

  His eyes narrowed, ire giving way to uncertainty.

  Much as it was amusing to see him hoist on his own petard, Arianna had no interest in making him squirm. They had more important matters to address.

  “I will have a word with Miss Kirtland,” she added quickly. “Now, about Mr. Pierson’s missing daughter, is there anything else you can tell me that might help in tracking her down?”

  “I told your husband all that I know.”

  “A physical description would be useful.”

  Looking grim, Grentham shook his head. “I met her only once, when she was but a child.”

  In other words, they were searching for a straw in a haystack.

  “However, when you arrive in Brussels I suggest you make the acquaintance of Her Grace the Duchess of Richmond,” said the minister. “She’s established herself as a leading hostess in the city—anybody who is anybody garners invitations to her parties—and she makes it her business to know all the gossip.”

  He thought for a moment. “Her three eldest daughters are old enough to circulate in society, so they too, are worth cultivating as a source of information. Georgiana in particular may prove useful. She’s been a great favorite of Wellington since he served as her father’s chief secretary in Ireland after returning from India.”

  Arianna nodded. “Young ladies might very well know what schools are available to English expatriates.”

  “The local elite attends the duchess’s entertainments as well,” said Grentham.

  “And ladies,” mused Arianna, “stir les
s suspicions than men when they ask incessant questions.” She allowed a small pause. “You see, we do have our uses.”

  The light was too murky within the alcove to tell whether the twitch of his mouth was meant to be a smile.

  “You’ll get no argument from me on that. We merely differ on what they are.”

  “Have a care, Lord Grentham,” she murmured. “I might actually come to think you have a sense of humor.”

  “Heaven forfend.”

  She bit back a chuckle. But after a moment, her thoughts returned to more serious matters. “I’m wondering whether you’ve learned any more about Andronovich. Grunwald said his name for a reason. We know the Russian delegation has a traitor within it—”

  “Or traitors,” interjected Grentham. “And there’s always a chance that Grunwald was in league with the French and delivering false information to sow confusion and mistrust.”

  “But then why would the French kill him?” she demanded.

  The minister lifted a brow. “We don’t know who killed him.”

  The musicians had finished the Haydn concerto and as they struck up a country gavotte the dance floor was suddenly aswirl in a dizzying blur of colors.

  “I’m not sure how you keep your equilibrium,” she said, watching the couples fly by. “When the facts are like whirling dervishes, spinning out of control.”

  “Like a sea captain, you must try to remain nimble on your feet and not stare at one spot for too long,” he murmured.

  Wise advice. And yet the floor felt as if it was sitting atop a storm-tossed ocean.

  “Getting back to Andronovich,” said Arianna. “We are likely to encounter him in Brussels. I should like to know your opinion on whether he is friend or foe.”

  “As Dampierre said, he has a reputation for integrity. But given that Napoleon’s gambit has shifted all the pieces on the chess board, I think it best not to assume we know on which side anyone is.” A pause. “Especially the Russians, who are known for their mercurial temperaments.”

  “In other words, intrigue seems to bubble through their blood.”

  “A poetic image,” responded Grentham. “But then, poetry often contains elementary truths about human nature.”

  So it does.

  “I’ve finished my other business here,” went on the minister. “So if you’ve no further questions I’ll take my leave.”

  “I’ll not keep you, as it seems I must look elsewhere for answers,” replied Arianna, her gaze suddenly sharpening as she caught sight of a gentleman coming through the entrance archway. “Sweet dreams, sir.”

  ‘Hmmph.” Grentham straightened with a slight wince and flicked a crease from his coat. “To the devil with my dreams, sweet or otherwise. Let us pray that the coming weeks don’t turn into a hellish nightmare for our country and all of Europe.”

  The minister moved away and melted into the crowd. Arianna waited a few moments, then slipped out of the alcove and went to find the dowager.

  Seeing her approach, Constantina excused herself from her friends.

  “Was that Percival?” she asked, once they had found a secluded spot near the entrance to the side salon. “Surely it’s not good to be going a second night without sleep.”

  “Yes, it was,” replied Arianna. “And no, it isn’t.” She expelled a sigh. “I think I’ve convinced him as to the wisdom of going home and getting some rest. But never mind Grentham. I’ve recognized one of the Prussian diplomats who’s just arrived.”

  She hooked the dowager’s arm. “Come stroll with me, so my approach doesn’t look too obvious.”

  As they turned, Sophia appeared from the side salon and greeted them with a smile. However, by the flush of red staining her cheekbones, Arianna guessed that her blood was still up from her confrontation with Grentham.

  “Come with us,” said Constantina. To Arianna, she murmured, “A gaggle of ladies will put your quarry even more off guard.”

  Sophia dutifully fell in step beside them, a martial gleam lighting in her eyes. “Who are we stalking?”

  Arianna quickly explained about recognizing a Prussian acquaintance from Vienna and his connection to the murder victim. “Grunwald and Hansdorf were good friends. Perhaps if I can get him to talk about the count’s recent activities, I’ll see some clue. There has to be a key to deciphering the message.”

  She refused to believe otherwise.

  The dowager signaled to a passing waiter to bring over his tray. “Take a glass,” she commanded. “Champagne makes a lady look frivolous,” she added once the fellow had moved away, “Which makes a gentleman more prone to be chatty.”

  They found Hansdorf conversing with one of Mellon’s junior envoys in one of the side salons. Constantina rapped her cane and called out a cheerful greeting to the young man, forcing him to begin the formal introductions to his companion. The Prussian cut him short by taking Arianna’s hand with a flourish and bringing it to his lips.

  “My dear Lady Saybrook. How delightful to see you again. Your visit to Vienna was far too short.”

  “Indeed, it was,” replied Arianna. “I had not yet had a chance to see all the city’s magnificent splendors.” She and Saybrook had been too busy rooting out a dangerous French spy. “However, a pressing matter at home required our presence.”

  “A pity, as Vienna is quite beautiful,” responded Hansdorf. “But next time you are visiting the Continent, you must come to Berlin, which has its own special charms. As I recall, you had an interest in botany, so you would enjoy seeing the famous collections of Alexander von Humboldt.”

  “How kind of you to remember,” she exclaimed. “I have very fond memories of the discussions I had with you and your friend, Count Grunwald.” A sigh slipped from her lips. “I was terribly shocked to hear of his murder. And to think it happened here in the heart of Mayfair.”

  The smile squeezed from Hansdorf’s face. “I fear these are dangerous times. Trouble may strike anywhere.”

  Constantina fixed him with a searching look. “Mellon wonders if it might have been a personal grudge turned violent.”

  “Gentlemen do take matters of honor to heart,” murmured Sophia. “Perhaps a quarrel over cards or . . . other gentlemanly interests provoked a moment of rage?”

  The Prussian shook his head. “No, no, I can’t imagine such a thing. Grunwald was a man of exemplary behavior. His interests were purely artistic. He spent his free time visiting Lord Elgin’s marbles at the museum and the King’s Library—”

  “And no doubt the theatre,” said Arianna. “He was extremely fond of Shakespeare.”

  “Yes—Shakespeare was a great passion.” Hansdorf paused, a flicker of regret clouding his eyes. “He was very eager to attend a performance of . . .” He frowned in thought. “I can’t remember which play . . .”

  A gentleman just to their left broke away from his own conversation. “The Taming of the Shrew,” he offered with a friendly smile. “Grunwald had recently purchased a lovely set of Shakespeare’s plays from Hatchards, and he seemed particularly interested in the comedies. My suite of rooms at the Albany Hotel were next to his, and I often had a difficult time rousing him from his reading to accompany me to supper.”

  “He did seem rather obsessed of late,” mused Hansdorf, before recalling his manners and introducing the newcomer—a portly, bewhiskered member of the Prussian delegation named von Bettendorf—to the ladies.

  “Lady Saybook,” repeated von Bettendorf as Hansdorf finished making him known to Arianna. “Why, Grunwald mentioned your name the day of his murder—”

  The blood suddenly drained from his face. “Gott in Himmel,” he whispered, and pressed a hand to his brow.

  Hansdorf steadied his friend.

  “Forgive me,” stammered von Bettendorf. “I fear I’ve made a very careless mistake.”

  Arianna went very still, waiting for him to go on.

  “As I was leaving my rooms to meet one of Lord Mellon’s staff at White’s, Grunwald called to me from his quarters�
�he seemed a trifle agitated—and asked me to have one of the porters deliver a note. It was addressed to you, milady. But I put it in my pocket . . .”

  His face sagged in remorse. “And promptly forgot about it.”

  Careful to maintain a mask of calm politeness, Arianna favored him with a quick smile. “I quite understand, given all the important matters of state weighing on your mind.”

  He expelled a sigh of relief. “That’s very kind of you. But I really can’t forgive myself.”

  She let a moment of guilty silence hang between them. “Might you still have the note?” Her mouth trembled. “Grunwald and I enjoyed such interesting talks about Shakespeare’s play. It would be a special keepsake to his memory.”

  Constantina gave a watery sniff as Sofia thrust a handkerchief into Arianna’s hand.

  “I—I am sure it must still be in my coat pocket,” said von Bettendorf in a rush. The prospect of feminine tears had him looking a little desperate.

  “Might we call tomorrow and fetch it?” asked Constantina.

  “Of course, of course! But I should be happy to bring myself—”

  “Oh, you’re far too busy with government business,” interrupted Sofia. “Besides, I’m sure Lady Saybrook would take solace in seeing her old friend’s rooms and his set of Shakespeare’s plays. It would make her last memory of him one of . . . happier times.”

  Arianna felt her heart skip a beat. A stroke of genius! The set of books. She had been so focused on the literal words of the play that she hadn’t considered what else Grunwald’s cryptic message might have meant.

  “Of course, course,” gabbled von Bettendorf.

  Arianna had the sense that he would have agreed to run stark naked down Piccadilly Street to be done with the conversation.

  “Thank you.” She took sip of champagne and fluttered her lashes in silent salute at Sophia. “We shall see you tomorrow.”

  “Indeed,” said the dowager. She rapped her cane. “Now come along, gels, and escort me back to my chair. All this habble-gabble about murder in Mayfair has left me feeling a trifle fatigued.”