A Question of Numbers

by Andrea Penrose

  “Of course. But our friends—”

  “Are of course included in the invitation,” said the duke.

  “That’s very magnanimous of you, sir,” responded Arianna. “But I must return to Brussels without delay.” She waved the others on. “There’s no need for you to accompany me. I have a carriage waiting.”

  Sophia hesitated. “You’re sure?”

  “Quite.”

  “Then it’s settled, thanks to the graciousness of Lady Saybrook.” After inclining a polite nod at her, Wellington indicated a group of officers waiting at the far crossroads. “Let’s be off. I wish to return to town in time for Lady Capel’s musicale.”

  The glorious pinks and golds of the sunset were fast fading into the deepening purple of twilight as Arianna made her way to the top of the stone ramparts. This out-of-the-way section of the wall, far from the exclusive neighborhood around the park, was deserted. A stiff breeze tugged at her voluminous cloak, its fitful gusts swirling down to ripple the dark water of the Canal de Charleroi.

  Gripping her hood to keep her face hidden, she turned around to keep watch on near stairs leading up to her perch. Her position was exposed. Saybrook was hidden among the warehouses on the street below, keeping guard on the approaches. But a rifle shot could come without warning, and the cunning French assassin was a master at moving with quicksilver stealth . . .

  Arianna shook off the grim thoughts. “Focus,” she reminded herself, squinting into the rising mist. Puzzles were only put together when one had the willingness to fit in one piece at a time.

  The scuff of steps on stone drew her attention to the stairs. A figure—also enveloped in a flapping cloak—materialized from the muddled gloom.

  Her hand tightened on the pistol hidden within the folds of wool.

  “Milady?” It was von Steuben, his voice taut as a bowstring.

  “Yes.” Arianna signaled for him to approach. “In here,” she added, drawing him into a niche formed by one of the ruined watchtowers. “It gives us more protection from prying eyes.”

  He gave a nervous start. “I—I didn’t think of that.”

  “It’s always best to err on the side of caution.” Before fear could tighten its grip, she added. “You have something you wish to show me?”

  “Yes.” The young man blotted the sheen of sweat from his brow, then withdrew a small oilskin package from his pocket. “Grunwald left this with me, saying he wished for me to send it to you as a surprise birthday gift, given your interest and expertise in mathematics.”

  “But I never told him my birthday.” She furrowed her brow. “And besides, he was coming to London himself.”

  “I know, I know.” Von Steuben shook his head in confusion. “The same thought occurred to me, but he dismissed it with some vague excuse that he might be traveling, and he wanted it to arrive around a certain time. It seemed a harmless request.” A ragged breath. “Then, when I learned of his murder, it seemed, well, a bit macabre, so I wasn’t sure whether I should bother giving it to you . . .”

  The wind plucked at the string tied around the package.

  “Until I ventured to look inside it and saw the note.”

  Chapter 15

  Arianna quickly took it and unknotted the string, allowing the oilskin wrapping to fall open. Inside was a small leatherbound book.

  “The note is tucked inside the front cover,” said von Steuben, dropping his voice to a nervous whisper.

  She retrieved the folded paper, but rather than open it, she first turned to look at the book’s title page.

  THE ELEMENTS – BOOK ONE

  EUCLID

  Mystified, Arianna unfolded Grunwald’s note. It consisted of a single sentence—Follow the triangle.

  She looked up to meet von Steuben’s anxious gaze.

  “Is . . . is it some sort of code?” he asked.

  Arianna didn’t wish to encourage his speculations. “No, I imagine it’s just a mathematical puzzle for me.” She thumbed through the book’s pages, checking on whether there were any illustrations that might be points of reference. Several caught her eye, but the sudden swoosh of an owl landing on a jut of the tower ruins startled her and the book nearly slipped through her fingers.

  Von Steuben sucked in a breath and looked around.

  “It appears to be just what he said it was—an amusing challenge to test my skill with numbers.” The young man’s nervousness was beginning to rub off on her, but she kept her tone light. “However, it’s best not to linger here any longer, in case your fears about us being seen together stir any suspicion of intrigue—when in fact there is none. You go on. I doubt we’ve been observed together, but as a precaution, I’ll wait for a bit before leaving.”

  He swallowed hard, and darted another look down at the deserted streets. The moon was playing hide and seek within the scudding clouds, the hazy winks of light tangling with the black velvet shadows flitting among the shuttered buildings.

  “But what if . . .”

  “Go,” she urged. “After I take a more careful look at this, I’ll alert you if there’s any reason for concern.”

  After tugging up his hood, he slipped past her and hurried down the stairs.

  Arianna listened for any other sounds of movement. There was nothing but the creak of a loose shutter swinging in the breeze. And yet, von Steuben’s jumpiness gave it a note of menace.

  “Stop behaving like a flighty schoolgirl,” she muttered. Saybrook, who had come to the rendezvous on his own, would stay hidden until she descended, watching for any sign of trouble.

  After carefully rewrapping the book and putting it in her pocket, Arianna leaned back against the rough stone, and as she waited, she tried to puzzle out what the message might mean. and what connection it could have to Grunwald’s earlier clues.

  Shakespeare and mathematics . . .

  Think! But her mind remained blank—the conundrum only seemed more baffling. Conceding defeat, at least for the moment, she pulled her cloak tighter around her body and made her way down to the street.

  Saybrook slipped out from an alleyway. “This way,” he whispered, drawing her into a narrow passage way between two warehouses.

  She didn’t wish to speculate on what was substances were squishing beneath her half-boots.

  Once they were several streets away from the ramparts, the earl led her out to a cobbled walkway. Arianna pushed back her hood and linked her arm through his—the very picture of a couple out for a postprandial stroll.

  “Anything important?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure. My intuition says yes, but right now, I haven’t a clue of what it means,” she admitted, and added a terse explanation about the book and the cryptic message.

  His only reaction was a low “Hmmph.”

  “Hmmph,” she echoed. “Was that meant to imply skepticism or puzzlement?”

  “Perhaps a little of both,” replied Saybrook.

  “Damnation.” Arianna grimaced. “I know it’s staring me right in the face. Why can’t I see it?”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself.” A pause. “Not all that glitters is gold.”

  “Ye gods, the situation must be truly grim for you to be spouting platitudes.”

  That drew a mirthless smile. “I expected to hear from Grentham by now. So yes, I’m concerned. I’ve made little progress in turning up any leads to follow. My Polish friend promises to have a report for me tomorrow.” He released a frustrated sigh. “But it may only be to say that none of his contacts know anything.”

  “We faced uncertainty in Elba,” she reminded him. But somehow the stakes felt infinitely higher. Napoleon now commanded an army of over 70,000 experienced troops rather than a raggle-taggle handful of loyal Guards. And their friend Pierson was being used as a dangerous pawn.

  One wrong move and all Hell would break loose . . .

  Saybrook seemed to read her mind, for he didn’t attempt to answer. The rest of the walk home passed in uneasy silence, each lost in their own br
ooding.

  Constantina was attending a supper soirée with Dampierre, but Sophia was waiting for them in the parlor. One look at Arianna’s expression caused the welcoming smile to die on her lips.

  “What’s happened?” she demanded.

  In answer, Arianna placed the book on the tea table. “Another damnable riddle within a riddle.” Huffing a sigh, she extracted the note and smoothed it open.

  Both the earl and her friend gathered around her in order to read it for themselves.

  Saybrook, ever pragmatic, was quick to look up. “Is it Grunwald’s handwriting?”

  A good question. Her first glance had been had been in murky light, so she studied it carefully before replying. “Yes, I’m quite certain of it. The count had a very distinctive way of forming the tail of a ‘g.’”

  “But as we know from Grentham, a good forger can fool anyone—even the person in question.”

  “That would mean von Steuben is part of the conspiracy,” said Arianna.

  “It’s something we have to consider,” he replied.

  “You’re right, of course. But we can either spin in endless circles, or use our best judgment on whether to follow a clue.” She paused. “My sense is, the young man is trustworthy.”

  The earl considered the choice for several moments. “Then let us proceed.”

  Sophia tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear. “Have you any idea of what Grunwald was trying to tell you?”

  In answer, Arianna picked up the book and took a seat on the settee. “I need to examine the illustrations and see what they have to say.”

  “I’ll go fetch some tea,” murmured her friend. “And a plate of chocolate wafers. I daresay we’ll need sustenance for working into the wee hours of the morning.”

  Arianna gave a vague wave as Saybrook moved to the sideboard to pour himself a brandy, her attention already on the first set of engravings and accompanying mathematical equations.

  Silence resonated through the parlor, broken only by the muted tick-tick of the tall case clock in the corner of the room.

  Follow the triangle. Touching a fingertip to the page, she traced over the various shapes and sizes, willing them to whisper their secrets.

  Nothing. She turned to the next page of illustrations . . . and then the next. The language of numbers and symbols had always been easy for her to understand. But in this case, their message—assuming there was one—remained a mystery.

  Pinching at the bridge of her nose, Arianna finally snapped the book shut. “I’m sorry. I’m baffled.”

  “The tea is cold,” murmured Sophia. “Shall I fetch a fresh pot?”

  “Ah, yes—tea, the very English solution to any bloody problem,” she snapped, then immediately felt ashamed of herself. “Forgive me. I’m angry with myself. Nothing is adding up as it should.”

  “Follow the triangle,” said Saybrook, lifting his glass to the lamplight and swirled the dregs of his amber-dark brandy. Winks of gold flashed through the cut crystal and danced across the opposite wall.

  If only they would spark inspiration, thought Arianna.

  Rising abruptly, the earl went to fetch several sheets of stationery and a pencil from the escritoire. He placed the on the table next to the teapot and drew a right triangle on the top sheet. “Three—three sides, three corners.”

  “Two equals one,” said Arianna. She took up the pencil and lettered each side. “A fundamental theorem regarding triangles states that A squared plus B squared equals C squared.” Her mouth compressed. “An elegant intellectual concept, but how the devil it relates to our present predicament . . .

  Her words trailed off as an odd pricking stirred at the edges of her consciousness. However, it was gone in a heartbeat, leaving her feeling even more befuddled.

  “What if we’re thinking too literally?” ventured Sophia. “There must be a reason Grunwald chose to direct you to the scene in Shakespeare.”

  Arianna plucked a chocolate wafer from the platter and took a bite, hoping the richly spiced flavor would help chase the taste of defeat from her throat. Saybrook recrossed his legs, his brow furrowing in thought.

  “What is it that ties the two books together?” added her friend.

  “I . . .” Arianna quickly swallowed the rest of her chocolate. “I need to go fetch the book of plays from my trunk.” And pray that its words would prove more articulate than numbers.

  She was halfway to the door when a faint rustling from the rear of the house caused her to freeze. Saybrook heard it too, and shot up to draw his pistol from the overcoat draped over the back of his armchair.

  Steps sounded in the corridor.

  Grabbing the poker from the fireplace, Sophia positioned herself behind the half-open door.

  Arianna started to move for her cloak, which was hung in the far corner of the room.

  Too late. A figure pushed through the portal.

  Saybrook raised his weapon and cocked the hammer. At the same instant, the intruder spun around and caught Sophia’s wrist just as she was about to swing a vicious blow at the back of his head. Swearing, she threw a punch with her free hand, knocking off his hat.

  “Hold your fire!” cried Arianna. But the earl had already lowered his pistol.

  “Thank you for the warm welcome,” drawled Grentham. “I’m delighted to see all of you, too.”

  “You could have knocked,” muttered Sophia.

  “And taken away your opportunity to bash out my brains?” The minister released his hold on her and straightened his cuffs. “That would have been terribly unsporting of me.”

  “Ye gods, don’t jest!” chided Arianna. Insufferable man! How dare he make light of the fact that he had just come within a hairsbreadth of death. “You could have been killed!”

  Grentham raised a brow. “It didn’t occur to me that my demise might upset you.”

  “It doesn’t,” she retorted. “However, it would be uncomfortable to have your blood on our conscience.”

  “Ah.” He cast a cast a look at the decanter of brandy on the sideboard and began unbuttoning his travelworn riding coat. “Then I shall be more careful in the future.”

  Saybrook wordlessly put away his weapon and went to pour him a drink.

  “But let us concentrate on the present.” Grentham let his coat fall to the carpet and settled into one of the armchairs.

  Arianna caught his tiny wince.

  “Have you anything to report?” he finished.

  “Fetch your copy of Twelfth Night, my dear,” said Saybrook, “while I tell the minister about this evening’s encounter.”

  By the time she returned with the volume of Shakespeare, the minister had loosened his cravat and was cradling a half-empty glass of spirits in his hands. In the bright lamplight his face looked gray with exhaustion, but the brandy had brought a touch of color back to his cheeks.

  “Grunwald could have had the grace to tell you directly what secrets he was holding before he died,” he said as she resumed her place by the tea table. “Instead of cloaking them in cursed riddles.”

  Arianna didn’t bother responding to the quip. “Act Five, Scene One—that was the notation on the paper we found on Grunwald’s body.” She opened the book and flipped through the pages. “What Sophia said makes sense. There must be some connection here to the book on mathematics.”

  Chuffing a sigh—or perhaps it was a snort—Grentham rose to refill his drink while she began reading.

  Sophia leaned in to study the drawing of the triangle. “Three sides, three corners . . . Grunwald chose the play “Twelfth Night.” She tapped her fingers on the tabletop. “Twelve divided by four equals three.” Tap-tap. “Twelve times three equals thirty-six.”

  “And twelve plus three equals fifteen,” said Grentham sarcastically. “I believe we’re all conversant with the basics of schoolroom mathematics, Miss Kirtland.”

  “I’m merely trying to spark some creative thinking, sir,” she said.

  The minister returned to his chair.
Settling back against the cushions, he closed his eyes. “Wake me if inspiration strikes.”

  A grim silence settled over the room. Arianna read over the scene several times, determined to spot a connection, no matter how fanciful. Sophia was right—conundrums often yielded their answers when one attacked them from a different angle.

  Angles, angles. She was tempted to turn the dratted book upside down. Instead, she drew in a silent breath, intent on clearing her head before trying again. But instead, her mind kept a grip on Shakespeare’s tale of tangled love, turning her thoughts to her own situation.

  Did Paloma have feelings for Saybrook? Even more unsettling, did her husband harbor secret regrets?

  A shiver of gooseflesh tickled along her forearms. Looking up, she found the earl regarding her with an inscrutable look.

  She tried to quell the disquieting thoughts, telling herself there was no similarity between her situation and the three main characters . . .

  Only to feel a sudden wave of dizziness engulf her.

  “What is it?” Sophia sat up and shot her a look of concern.

  “How . . . How did I not see it before?” Arianna shook her head in disbelief. “The play—it’s a triangle of love.”

  “A triangle of love.” Saybrook frowned in consternation. “And how does that help us?”

  “Because . . .” Her voice took on a rising note of excitement “I believe it answers one of our key questions—Pierson is alive!”

  Grentham opened one eye. “Explain yourself.”

  “At the heart of the plot is a triangle of love—shipwrecked, and heartbroken over the death of her brother, Viola disguises herself as a man in order to serve Orsini.” She rose and began to pace. “Orsini uses her to help him court Olivia, but Viola is falling in love with Orsini—”

  The minister interrupted with a rude sound.

  “Hold your sarcasm and let me finish.” She gave an impatient wave. “The point is, it’s a comedy of confused identities and misunderstandings, with all manner of twist and turns. So why did Grunwald choose Act Five, Scene One in which to leave his pin-pricked message?”