A Question of Numbers

by Andrea Penrose

  “Lady Saybrook.” Paloma’s expression betrayed no emotion. “I see I was right in guessing you’re no stranger to intrigue.”

  “Nor are you.” Arianna kept her aim steady on the señora’s left breast. “But let us cease our clever word games—it’s gone far beyond that.”

  “The girl—”

  “Oh, the girl is safe, despite the trap you set for us,” she cut in. “Now, tell me where your cohorts have taken Lord Grentham.”

  “Lord Grentham?” Paloma’s confusion sounded genuine. But this, Arianna reminded herself, was a woman highly skilled in the dark arts of seduction and betrayal.

  “Men may fall victim to your wiles, but be assured I won’t hesitate to pull the trigger,” said Arianna. “Where is Lord Grentham? I won’t ask again.”

  “I could pull the trigger first,” observed Paloma with a sardonic smile.

  “You are welcome to do so. I haven’t come alone.”

  The candleflames caught in an unseen draft. “You would leave a little girl motherless and at the mercy of strangers?”

  “Her father would be happy to take charge of her.”

  An involuntary gasp shuddered from Paloma’s lungs. “No!” she whispered, her face turning deathly pale. “The man is a monster . . .”

  Arianna started in surprise. Not by any stretch of the imagination could the earl be called—

  “Dio Madre.” Paloma’s eyes widened in shock. “You . . . You think your husband is Nereid’s father?”

  “Are you saying he isn’t?” Arianna wondered what sinuous lies the Spanish beauty would try to weave now.

  Paloma set her pistol on the desk. “I see I have no choice but to tell the truth if I’m to keep you from making a terrible mistake.” She placed her pen beside it. The glint of cold steel made the feather look absurdly fragile.

  “The truth?” repeated Arianna with a scornful laugh. “How the devil do you expect me to believe a single word you say.?”

  “All I ask is that you listen before putting a bullet into my heart.”

  A tiny scuff in the corridor caused Arianna to swing her weapon to cover the doorway. The darkness gave way to a quiver of white as Nereid, clad in a nightrail and clutching a rag doll, slipped into the room.

  “I heard voices, Mama.”

  “Go back to bed, quirida,” said Paloma calmly, though a note of anguish roughened her voice.

  The girl’s gaze locked on Arianna’s pistol, her expression more curious than fearful. “Are you going to hurt us?”

  Ye gods. How to answer? Arianna uncocked the hammer and slid the weapon into her pocket. But she kept her hand fisted around the butt.

  “There’s been a misunderstanding, that is all,” assured Paloma. “Now please do as I say.”

  The girl hesitated.

  Paloma added something in rapid-fire Spanish.

  A smile blossomed on Nereid’s face. “Buenas noches, Señora Saybrook,” she said before darting back into the corridor.

  “What did you tell her?” asked Arianna, once the patter of bare feet faded away.

  “That if she did as she was told, you would teach her how to hold and fire your very impressive dueling pistol,” answered Paloma. “She thinks my little pocket model is a weapon for children.”

  “You are a very strange lady,” she murmured.

  “And it would seem we are two peas in a pod.”

  Arianna felt her rage giving way to . . . an unidentifiable emotion. But then, the thought of Grentham in mortal danger—assuming he was still alive—made her harden her heart.

  “Never mind that now,” she snapped, drawing her weapon in a flash. “A friend is in danger and precious seconds are slipping by. So you had better start talking.”

  “You asked why you should believe a word I say,” responded Paloma. “The answer is because I’m an agent for the British government. I didn’t send you into a trap. I called in a goodly number of favors to find the answers to your questions and passed them on as quickly as I could.”

  “Bollocks!” Arianna was astounded that the lady would attempt such a feeble lie. “Lord Grentham is head of state security and he knows nothing about you.”

  Paloma released a sigh. “That’s because I don’t work for Grentham. Surely you don’t think there’s only one intelligence network within the government.” She pause. “That would be not only unwieldy but dangerous. There is an old adage about not putting all your eggs in one basket.”

  Arianna’s scowl turned a trifle more tentative. “For whom do you claim to work?”

  “The Foreign Office,” came the unhesitating reply.

  “Saybrook’s uncle—”

  “Knows nothing about me,” said Paloma. “He’s been kept in the dark to avoid creating an awkward situation. You see, this isn’t the first mission where you’ve received intelligence that comes from my work.”

  The floor seemed to be pitching like the deck of a ship, leaving Arianna feeling a little queasy.

  “I report to Sir Henry Chauncey,” continued Paloma. “It was he who first recruited me ten years ago, when he was a junior diplomat stationed in Lisbon. My husband was in the business of exporting wine to England, and when some imprudent investments caused it to fail, he took his own life, leaving me in dire financial straits. My entrée into the highest circles of society—I am, by the by, truly from a minor branch of the Marone-Cinzano family—allowed me to attend the same parties as the prominent Spanish and French gentlemen living in the city.” A ghost of a smile flitted over her lips. “Sir Henry’s offer seemed a more attractive choice than the limited other choices open to those of our sex.”

  “But a very dangerous one,” observed Arianna.

  “Danger didn’t frighten me. The idea of sacrificing any hope of independence or control over my life was far more terrifying.”

  Arianna found her throat was suddenly too tight to manage a reply.

  Paloma took her curt nod as a signal to continue. “When the French and Spanish invaded Portugal two years later, Sir Henry asked me to take on a more active role in espionage. I agreed. I found it gave me a purpose.” A shrug. “We had a mutual respect for each other and worked well together. When he was returned to London to take on a more senior position in the Foreign Office, he remained my . . . spymaster.”

  “How did you come to . . .” Arianna drew in a breath, then made herself ask the question that had been at the heart of her inner conflicts. “ . . . to be involved with Sandro?”

  A flicker of sympathy rippled in Paloma’s eyes. “I was given the task of identifying a British officer who was passing military secrets to the enemy. I had only a basic physical description to go on—tall, handsome, dark-haired—and given your husband’s Spanish heritage, he seemed a likely choice. And so I set out to seduce him.”

  Paloma looked away into the shadows. “It must be obvious that a female agent is required to use her body as a weapon.”

  “I understand,” said Arianna. She, too, had made pragmatic choices in her youth while struggling to survive in the dog-eat-dog underworld of the West Indies. “Virginity is vastly overrated—especially to women.”

  That drew an appreciative laugh. “It appears you’re nearly as cynical as I am.”

  “Probably more so,” she quipped. “But do go on.”

  “Very well. I quickly came to the conclusion that Saybrook—though he wasn’t the earl at the time—couldn’t be the traitor. One learns to trust one’s instincts, and he was simply far too principled and honorable to betray his country.” Paloma kept her gaze averted. “Though I did spend a night with him, just to be sure of my judgment. I couldn’t afford to be wrong, and lovemaking reveals much about a man’s elemental character.”

  “Did you catch the traitor?” asked Arianna, though in truth, that wasn’t the question she really wanted to ask.

  “Yes,” came the reply. “My short liaison with Saybrook allowed me to observe other officers, and my hunch on who might be guilty proved correct. Indeed, once I
had passed on my report, the man was caught with incriminating evidence in his quarters.”

  Paloma slowly curled an errant lock of hair around her finger. “I hope that answers your concerns about any emotional connection to your husband. There was none—save for the fact that I came away thinking he is good man. However, I imagine you would like to hear more about Nereid in order to put your other suspicions to rest.”

  “I . . .” Arianna realized that she had come to believe the other lady was telling the truth. “That’s not necessary. I’m willing to accept your word that she isn’t Sandro’s child.”

  “She isn’t,” confirmed Paloma. “But I think it’s imperative for you to hear my explanation, as it further explains why Grentham has no knowledge of me.”

  It felt a little uncomfortable to pry any deeper into the other lady’s personal life, but Arianna acknowledged that the information was important to know. “Then please go on.”

  “Shortly after the mission involving your husband, I was dispatched to the city of Oporto, where again, there was a question of whether someone within the British high command was in collusion with the enemy. I became involved with a staff adjutant, a highly intelligent and ambitious younger son of a prominent aristocrat, who also possessed a penchant for cruelty to women. The investigation proved inconclusive—the trail seemed to disappear, and thankfully Sir Henry ended it.”

  Her lungs slowly filled with a steadying breath. “However, my paramour didn’t wish to relinquish me as a plaything. Indeed, he followed me back to Lisbon and threatened to kill me if I didn’t agree to be his mistress. Sir Henry was forced to send me into Spain, and give me a new identity. I only agreed to remain working for him if he pledged his word of honor that the man—the Honourable Lionel Randolph—would never know of my whereabouts or my position as an operative for the British government. By that time, I realized I was with child, and I feared what he might try do to both of us.”

  Another inhale. “Randolph left Portugal later that year and through the influence of his father, the Earl of Dunster, he took up a position in the office of state security in London. He’s now a senior adjutant on Grentham’s staff. So perhaps you now understand why the minister is unaware of me or my presence in Brussels.”

  “I’m sorry,” whispered Arianna.

  “Don’t be. My work feels meaningful, and my daughter brings me joy beyond words. But enough about my past. We ought to address the present. What has happened to—” Paloma suddenly grabbed up her pocket pistol from the desktop and took aim at the doorway.

  Reacting a half second later to the tiny creak of the floorboard. Arianna also spun around with her weapon raised.

  “Don’t shoot,” called Saybrook dryly. He waited a moment before stepping into the room.

  “Thank God you’ve returned.” But relief quickly yielded to a frisson of alarm. “Sophia was standing guard—”

  “And I asked her to remain outside to keep watch,” said the earl. “It seemed prudent precaution, given the recent actions of our enemies.”

  “I take it Constantina has told you what’s happened this evening.” She, too, had been careful not to rush off without leaving Paloma’s address with the dowager. “I’ll explain it all later, but I’m convinced that Señora Marone-Cinzano is an ally, not an enemy. She’s working for Sir Henry Chauncey in the Foreign Office.”

  “Yes, I heard enough of her story to agree with your assessment, my dear,” said the earl. He inclined a small bow to Paloma. “No offense, señora. But as you well know, ours is a serpentine world of tangled truth and lies. One must be suspicious.”

  “None taken,” replied Paloma. “But let’s not waste any more breath on polite pleasantries. Tell me what’s happening.”

  Arianna quickly explained about the rescue of Pierson’s daughter from the convent and the fact that the minister was now missing.

  “Damnation,” muttered Paloma. “So the French are holding one of Grentham’s key operatives—and perhaps the minister himself?”

  “Yes, but that’s not all. We’re actually dealing with two missions,” said Arianna. “We believe there’s someone within the Allied delegations working in collusion with the French to upend the agreement to join military forces and drive Napoleon off the throne.” She went on to recount the attack in the park.

  Paloma’s expression turned grim. “As it happens, I’ve been sent here to keep an eye on Orlov. He’s cunning and calculating, so despite what you’ve just described, I have my doubts about where his loyalties lie. The attack could have been a clever ruse to make you all think he’s a hero.”

  “Why?” asked Saybrook.

  “First of all, I’m aware of Vecchio’s reputation.” She looked at Arianna. “The attack on you sounds clumsy—he’s far better than that. As for Orlov, because of Miss Kirtland’s quick thinking, we don’t know whether he intended for his shot to go anywhere near the assassin.”

  “Both excellent points,” conceded the earl. “We shall keep the prince high on our list of suspects.”

  Paloma rose and went to fetch a large brass-banded rosewood box from inside a cabinet near the sideboard. “I’ve an idea of who might know something about tonight’s attack.” She fingered a gold chain around her neck and drew out the small key tucked inside her bodice. Snick-snick—the two locks on the box released the lid. “And where the Frenchmen may have gone to ground with a captive.”

  Arianna watched her unfold the black velvet covering and take out two lethal-looking dueling pistols. “Those are Wogdons,” she murmured, admiring the weapons. “I happen to fancy Joe Manton’s firearms, but Robert Wogdon makes a very fine pistol.”

  “He equips them with a hair trigger.” Paloma checked the flints. “Which in my profession can mean the difference between life and death.”

  She then removed the panel on which the weapons rested and lifted out a weighty chamois bag. The muted chink of metal sounded as it settled on the tabletop.

  Gold, reflected Arianna, possessed a far mellower tone than copper or silver.

  “This represents the funds for my entire mission,” murmured Paloma. “But I assume the British government will be willing to pay a king’s ransom for information that may help us free Lord Grentham?”

  “Money is not an issue.” Saybrook took a purse from his own pocket and placed it beside the bag. “Whatever you need, I’ll supply it.”

  “We may require more. But let me see what I can negotiate.”

  Saybrook eyed the small fortune. “Do you wish me to accompany you?”

  “No, it’s best I go alone.”

  His expression betrayed his reluctance—gentlemanly scruples warring with the cold-blooded reality of espionage, Arianna knew—but surrendered to pragmatism.

  “What about Nereid?” ventured Arianna. “We have three former partisan fighters standing guard over Emma Pierson at our residence. Your daughter would be quite safe with her there.”

  “My maid is quite competent . . .” Paloma hesitated. “But your offer is a prudent one, and it would be silly of me to refuse. I’ll just be a moment in fetching her and my cloak from upstairs.”

  True to her word, she was back in a flash.

  “I must go out, querida,” said Paloma to her daughter after passing a small valise to Arianna. “But Lord and Lady Saybrook have kindly offered to have you stay with them while I’m gone.”

  The little girl fixed her mother with a hopeful look. “May they show me how to fire a pistol?”

  “What a bloodthirsty little creature you are,” murmured Saybook as he swung her up into his arms. “I would rather teach you how to play chess. Knowing how to win a battle with your mind can be a far more useful weapon than a pistol or a rifle.”

  Nereid scrunched her face in thought. “Will it help me against Pierre, who pushes me down and takes my ball when we play?”

  The earl chuckled. “Yes, we’ll come up with a strategy for dealing with your bully.”

  That earned a grin from the little girl
. “Ha! Boys think they are so superior. I can’t wait to prove him wrong.”

  Paloma wrapped her cloak around her. The money was distributed between several inside pouches, while the pistols disappeared into the outside pockets. After patting everything into place, she threw up her hood.

  “I’ll report back as soon as I can.”

  Arianna blew out the candles and moved for the door. “I’ll come with you and fetch Sophia. Once you’ve gone, the rest of us will take our leave through the rear garden.”

  They all moved swiftly and silently through the darkness, and within minutes the house was empty.

  “What do we do now?” whispered Sophia as she slipped through the shadows beside Arianna.

  “We wait.” And pray for a miracle.

  Chapter 21

  “Do stop pacing.”

  Sophia was still dressed in her riding breeches and boots, and the agitated tattoo of her steps on the parquet floor was echoing loud as gunfire off the parlor walls.

  “Walking from here to Hades by dawn won’t bring him back any faster,” added Arianna, forcing a weak attempt at humor. She, too, felt as if every nerve in her body was stretched tighter than a bowstring.

  Her friend halted, the lamplight throwing splashes of dark and light across her face. The flickering shadows only accentuated the marble-white paleness of her skin.

  “Damn the man,” she muttered, glaring at the black knitted toque on the sidetable. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “We don’t know that,” she answered calmly. “If it’s any consolation, Sandro and I have both faced even more threatening situations than this one and somehow managed to dodge the bullet. I daresay Grentham has as well.”

  “But the blood,” she said in an anguished whisper. “So much blood.”

  “Head wounds bleed like the devil,” said Arianna. “Even a superficial scratch.”

  Pressing her fingertips to her temples, Sophia nodded. “I know, I know.” She turned away and resumed her pacing.

  Arianna refrained from further comment. Words wouldn’t satisfy her friend’s craving for action. Leaving Sophia to her silent brooding, she turned her attention to practicalities. If, perchance, Paloma discovered Grentham was being held here in Brussels . . .