A Question of Numbers

by Andrea Penrose

  “Petticoats can be a nuisance when one wishes to explore,” responded Arianna.

  The remark drew a musical laugh. “Very true. Do you think there will ever come a day when ladies will be permitted to wear pantaloons?”

  “I won’t hold my breath waiting.” She reached out and smoothed a crease from Nereid’s skirts. “In the meantime, please don’t ring a peal over your daughter’s head. I, for one, am of the opinion that it’s good for a girl to have both spirit and curiosity.”

  The lady fixed her with an appraising stare. “As it happens, I agree with you. Though those who hold similar sentiments in Polite Society are few and far between.” A pause. “You see, in Greek mythology, the Nereids are sea nymphs, with the freedom to roam the oceans.”

  “It’s a beautiful name,” said Arianna.

  “Names—¡Dio Madre!” Nereid’s mother gave rueful grimace. “I’ve let my manners sink to unforgivable depths.” She expelled a sigh. “You’ve already met my rascally imp, but please allow me to introduce myself. I am Paloma Marone-Cinzano.”

  The surname sounded vaguely familiar. “That is one of the grand old Spanish families, is it not?” she said politely.

  Paloma seemed to tense. “My husband was from a very minor branch.” A pause. “Signor Marone-Cinzano perished in the fighting in Portugal. As did so many fine men.”

  Arianna murmured her sympathies. It was indeed a common story. And yet, she had the distinct feeling that the lady was lying.

  However, rather than pry any further—she could always ask Saybrook about the Marone-Cinzanos this evening—she turned the talk back to a less fraught subject. “Both your given names are very lovely, and very poetic—the sea and the sky.”

  Amusement flashed in Paloma’s eyes. “Both places of infinite space, and infinite possibilities, no?”

  A very interesting woman. Most people would assume there was no substance beneath such fine-boned beauty. They would, sensed Arianna, be much mistaken.

  “Indeed,” she answered. “Though one can find possibilities in everyday places if one looks carefully.”

  A shadow—surprise, or some other emotion?—momentary flitted beneath dark fringe of Paloma’s lashes.

  “Alas, my name has no interesting connection to Earth, Wind, Water or Fire, ” said Arianna. “I am merely Arianna.” After all this time she still felt a hitch of hesitation before adding, “Countess Saybrook.”

  Paloma went very still—so still and bloodless that for an instant her face appeared carved of stone. And then slowly her mouth softened.

  “Does that mean Sandro is here in Brussels?”

  Chapter 11

  Sandro. Hearing the Spanish beauty utter her husband’s name prompted a vortex of conflicting thoughts to start whirling inside her head.

  Steady, steady. Arianna drew in a silent breath, seeking to dispel the dizzy sensation.

  “He is,” she replied calmly, willing the roaring of blood in her ears to subside. “I take it the two of you are acquainted?”

  “Yes.” Paloma’s expression gave nothing away. “I wasn’t aware he had taken a bride. Else I would have sent my felicitations.”

  As she shifted the raven-haired child in her arms, Arianna felt her insides give a sickening lurch. Nereid looked to be seven or eight . . . Saybrook would have been in Spain at that time . . .

  No, no—don’t sink to sordid speculations.

  It was absurd to let her imagination run wild, chided Arianna to herself. By mutual consent, she and the earl had agreed there was no point in parsing over the sins of their past lives. Neither of them had laid any claim to sainthood. They both had had demons with which to deal.

  During their recent mission, however, several of her old ghosts had come back to haunt her, forcing certain revelations of which she wasn’t proud. And now, with its usual perverse sense of humor, the cosmos seemed to be taking great glee in turning the situation topsy-turvy.

  She would try to meet whatever surprises lay ahead with the same unflinching love and trust as Saybrook had.

  “Please give him my greetings,” continued Paloma.

  The words snapped Arianna’s focus back to the present. As she looked up, she caught sight of Constantina and Sophia coming toward them. And between them was . . .

  “Actually, it looks as though you may do so yourself.”

  Her arm anchored in the earl’s firm grip, Constantina lifted her cane in a cheery wave as she quickened her pace. “Sandro was told by some of his military friends that the park was the social center of the city,” she called.

  Paloma had yet to turn around.

  “And so he decided to stop by and see what acquaintances from the Peninsula might be in Brussels.”

  Constantina wasn’t wearing her spectacles, and Saybrook’s attention was on the patch of rough gravel beneath the dowager’s feet. But Sophia was sharp-eyed enough to see Arianna’s expression.

  Her brows tightened in question.

  “How fortuitous that he found us,” continued Constantina as the trio came closer. She gave an owlish squint. “Oh, have you made a new friend?”

  Arianna forced a smile, though her heart had begun hammering so hard that she was sure a rib was about to crack. “Allow me to introduce—”

  Paloma finally shifted her stance, setting off sinuous swirl of silk. “Paloma Marone-Cinzano.”

  Saybrook’s face turned ashen.

  “And my daughter, Nereid.”

  Constantina must have felt the earl’s muscles spasm, for her expression turned guarded.

  “Halloo, Sandro,” added Paloma after a fraction of a pause. “It seems as if the threat of Napoleon’s armies has once again caused our paths to cross.”

  “You two know each other?” demanded the dowager.

  “Yes.” Saybrook had recovered his composure and answered with an air of unruffled calm.

  But Arianna knew him too well to be fooled by the polite façade. The shock was bone-deep—every fiber of his being was drawn tighter than a bowstring. She could almost hear the air humming with tension.

  “We met in Portugal,” he went on, his gaze taking a fraction of a moment to shift from the child in Paloma’s arms. “It was during the time General Junot and the French army marched into Lisbon and occupied the city.”

  Sophia’s eyes widened slightly, but she maintained a tactful silence.

  “Difficult days,” murmured Paloma. “We were lucky to survive.”

  The earl said nothing.

  “War always takes a dreadful toll, in ways that reach far beyond the actual battlefields,” said Arianna softly. “Let us hope that diplomacy will avoid more death and destruction.”

  “In my experience, hope is no match for ambition and the lust for power,” said Paloma with a cynical shrug.

  “Indeed?” Arianna met and held the Spaniard’s gaze. “I find it a more powerful force than you might think.”

  “I shall hope you are right.” But her tone was eloquent in its skepticism.

  “Mamá.” Nereid gave an impatient tug at her mother’s shawl. “May we go have ices at the pavilion now? Perhaps the nice man with the little dog will be there.”

  “Yes, of course, querida.” She flashed an apologetic smile. “If you’ll excuse me, I did promise her a treat.”

  The earl inclined a polite bow and stepped aside, the brim of his hat hiding his face.

  “You and your daughter must come by tea some afternoon,” said Arianna impulsively, and gave their address.

  The suggestion sparked a flash of amusement—or was it something else?—in Paloma’s eyes. She gave a nod and then took her leave with a graceful wave.

  The exotic spice of her perfume seemed to linger for an instant before dancing away on the breeze.

  An uncomfortable silence remained in its wake. The dowager, never at a loss for words, seemed uncertain of what to say. It was Sophia who overcame the awkwardness of the moment.

  “By the by, did you discover anything interesting on you
r botanical foray?” she asked the earl.

  The question seemed to snap his attention back into focus. “It gave me an excuse to ride through the various Allied military encampments, which was very helpful. One can tell a lot about the mood of the soldiers by small details,” he replied. “In addition, it was good to discover old acquaintances among the officers. There are a few connections that might lead to the sort of unofficial network who can supply the information we need. I’ll know more tonight, when I meet one of my Polish friends at a tavern in Etterbeck, on the outskirts of the city.”

  “You’ve had a productive day,” murmured Arianna. “As have we.” She slanted a look at the dowager. “Shall we return to the carriage? The sun is a trifle strong, and I’m sure we would all welcome some refreshments after our activities.”

  Constantina nodded in agreement. “I do feel a little parched.”

  It was, Arianna knew, the closest the dowager would ever come to admitting fatigue. They would have to keep careful watch that she didn’t exhaust her strength.

  “Your horse is nearby?” she asked of Saybrook.

  “It’s tethered at the gate leading out to rue de Belle Vue, near the Prince of Orange’s palace.” His eyes didn’t quite meet hers. “I shall see you all at home.”

  Arianna didn’t blame him for the lack of enthusiasm in his voice. She wasn’t looking forward to a private tête-à-tête either.

  Some secrets were, perhaps, best left uncovered.

  The crunch-crunch of the stones echoed her own inner agitation. That was the trouble with Truth. The search for it showed no mercy—it didn’t allow one to pick and choose what flaws to drag into the light.

  “Do you wish to talk about it?” asked Arianna. Teatime, an excruciatingly polite comedy of manners, had finally ended, allowing her and Saybrook to retreat to their wing of the grand townhouse.

  “Not really.” The earl took a seal on the edge of the bed and pressed his palms to his brows. “But of course, I must.”

  “If you wish to wait—”

  “Like in battle, it’s best to pull the knife from the wound while it’s still fresh. That way, there’s less chance for putrification to set in.”

  “I’m not sure what to think about being compared to a wound in danger of festering,” she said. “Give me more credit than that.”

  That drew a grudging smile. “You know what I meant.”

  “I doubt there’s anyone who doesn’t have things in the past of which they’re not proud,” she said softly. “You came face to face with my own egregious mistakes. The blame was all mine with Patrick Hamilton. I was angry at the world, and that make me uncaring of who I hurt.”

  Arianna was watching him intently, but Saybrook could be a cipher when he withdrew into himself. She couldn’t read his face. “Your sins can’t be as bad as mine. I know you and your sense of honor,” she went on. “You’re incapable of betrayal.”

  He rose and went to stare out the window. His back was to her, and with the slanting afternoon sun silhouetting him in an aureole of light, all she could see was a solid black shape, all stark angles and coiled tension.

  “Sandro.” His silence was unsettling. When they had first met, he had been prone to fits of brooding, exacerbated by the laudanum he was taking for the leg wound he had suffered in battle. With her help, he had conquered his melancholy, along with his dependence on the drug.

  But did one ever really slay one’s inner demons?

  “Sandro,” she repeated.

  He finally turned around. “How can you be so certain you know me, when I’m not sure I know myself?”

  “Because you’ve become part of me, and I do know you—your elemental strengths and weaknesses—to the very depth of my marrow,” asserted Arianna. It hurt her beyond words to hear the pain and uncertainty in his voice. “Ye gods, we all have faults.” She drew in a breath, aware of all the subtle angles and planes of his face—a face that had become inexpressibly dear to her. “And while I may not be aware of every tiny flaw, what I am certain of is that integrity is woven into the very fiber of your being.”

  Saybrook closed his eyes for an instant.

  “War, with its threat of death and destruction, makes us live in the moment, and grasp for all that makes life precious. Whatever happened between you and Paloma Marone-Cinzano, it only makes you more human.”

  “Then why do I feel like . . . like a cold-blooded reptile?”

  Ah, so now they were coming to the heart of the problem.

  “Is the child yours? Is that what you’re struggling to tell me?”

  “I—I don’t know.” He expelled a shuddering sigh. “It’s possible.”

  Silence quivered for a moment between them.

  “Why don’t you ask her?”

  The suggestion provoked a ghost of a smile. Thank God.

  “Ever pragmatic, my dear,” he murmured.

  “Pragmatism is usually the best way to attack a problem.”

  “Perhaps.” The earl gave a wry grimace. “But I’m not sure I’ve ever heard a truthful word out of Paloma Marone-Cinzano.” A pause. “Beginning with her name—she claimed a different surname back then—or what she was doing in Lisbon.”

  Arianna took a moment to parse over his words. “You think she was involved in espionage?”

  “I didn’t at first.” Another grimace. “But then, in the beginning, I wasn’t thinking with my brain, but rather with a far more primitive portion of my anatomy.”

  “She’s very beautiful,” observed Arianna.

  “And very manipulative, in her own Machiavellian way,” said Saybrook. “So my answer is the same as it was to your first question.” His lips pinched together. “It’s possible.”

  “More so than men, women are often forced to lie and uses their wiles simply in order to survive in times of war. It doesn’t always mean they have ulterior motives.”

  He made a face. “You’re not usually so willing to give someone the benefit of the doubt.”

  True. Though Arianna didn’t care to ask herself why. She preferred to be honest when she indulged in introspection, and at the moment her emotions were too fraught to do so.

  “I’m merely saying we shouldn’t be quick to make assumptions.” About a lot of things.

  Saybrook nodded. “Just as we shouldn’t allow any personal peccadillo to distract us from our primary missions.” He pinched at the bridge of his nose. “I never had any idea there might be a child. We were together only once . . .”

  “A statement,” she said dryly, “that has been made with the same note of disbelief since time immemorial.”

  He acknowledged the quip with a rueful sigh. “I know, I know. As a man of science, I, of all people, understand the fundamentals of biology.” His gaze angled away to the shadows. “I suppose I’m simply trying to look like less of a cad in your eyes.”

  “I could never think that,” said Arianna. “And besides, we don’t know that you’re guilty of anything but enjoying a fleeting night of pleasure.” She paused. “And we might never know. So, however hard, you must come to grips with that possibility.”

  “I’m aware of that.” His lashes lowered, wreathing his eyes in shadow.

  “We must remember that we’re here because we’ve a conspiracy to root out and a friend to rescue . . . assuming Pierson is alive.”

  Fathers and daughters, thought Arianna as she drew in a breath to continue. A strange twist of the cosmos seemed to be giving the elemental connection a special urgency.

  “Even if he’s not, there’s his child to keep out of the clutches of those who would use her as a pawn.” As she said it, a sudden idea of where to begin that quest leapt to mind, but she decided to keep it to herself. “Perhaps Grentham has learned more since arriving—”

  “He hasn’t,” interrupted the earl, and proceeded to tell her about his encounter with the minister. “However, he’s off to Antwerp for a few days and hopes to return with some answers about how and why Count Grunwald had Pierson’s ri
ng.”

  “So in a sense, we’re all playing blind man’s buff,” mused Arianna. “Running hither and yon, hoping by some stroke of luck to catch the unseen clues which flit just beyond our outstretched arms.”

  “Speaking of which,” muttered Saybrook, “as I mentioned, I’ve a meeting with a an old acquaintance, who may be able to put me in touch with a network of people who know what secrets are hidden beneath the pomp and pageantry here. But I’ll need to leave soon in order not to be late.”

  “Go,” she said. As he moved for the armoire, in order to change into a plainer riding coat, she caught his arm and pulled him into a quick hug. “We’ve faced daunting enemies before. And we’ve beaten them by fighting one battle at a time.”

  The next morning, Arianna came down to breakfast with a martial light in her eye. The earl had left at first light for another day of botanical exploration—this one to take him through the Prussian military encampments. She, too, had mapped out a strategy for the coming hours.

  Sophia and Constantina were already seated at the table and conversing in hushed tones. They fell silent as she entered, both looking a little uncertain despite their smiles. The previous evening’s conversations had scrupulously avoided any reference to the encounter with Paloma. But unspoken questions thrummed through the air.

  Arianna order a pot of chocolate and slipped into her seat. “I know you wish to ask more about yesterday’s encounter with Señora Marone-Cinzano,” she began, deciding to take the bull by the horns. “But for now, we all must be patient. Things are more tangled than they might seem—there is a question of past loyalties and betrayals. Until Sandro is more certain of what is truth and what are lies, he hopes you will trust him—”

  “Say no more,” interrupted the dowager. “Trust is a given among us.” Her eyes flashed. “As is loyalty.”

  “That goes without saying,” added Sophia.

  “Thank you,” murmured Arianna. “That said, we are going to have a few queries of our own for Señora Marone-Cinzano.” Sophia sat up a little straighter. “But before I explain, we need to look at an overview of the battlefield and carefully plan how to attack our objectives.”