A Question of Numbers

by Andrea Penrose

  The chances of that, she conceded, were slim. Her sense was the minister was already en route to the French intelligence headquarters, wherever that might be. And with two men in their clutches who knew so many of Britain’s military secrets, the French wouldn’t hesitate to do whatever was necessary to make their captives give them up.

  Blood. So much blood. Repressing a shudder, Arianna made herself fetch pencil and paper. A plan—they would need a plan.

  But it was also a question of numbers—could the three of them mount a rescue mission? Saybrook had gone to seek a private audience with Wellington, despite the lateness of the hour, in order to advise him of the situation. But any military involvement would have to be done very discreetly and with absolute secrecy. If word got out that Britain’s head of intelligence had been captured, it would be a grievous blow to the already-shaky morale of the unseasoned troops and uncertain allies.

  Sophia circled around to where Arianna was seated, staring in consternation at the blank page.

  “I have an idea—” But before her friend could say more, the thud of steps coming up from the kitchen’s back entrance announced that the earl had returned. Arianna set aside her notebook and clasped her hands together. She heard Sophia hitch in a breath, steeling herself for the worst.

  “No word yet,” he announced grimly. “And the duke left this afternoon to meet with General Blücher in the Prussian encampment. He won’t return until tomorrow.”

  Sophia’s face turned even paler.

  “However, on my way home, I stopped at the Prince of Orange’s palace. A friend from the Peninsula is serving with the prince’s personal cavalry, and as luck would have it, I found him in his quarters. He’s an experienced soldier, steady as steel under fire, and he’s willing to help us.”

  “I take it you trust him?” said Arianna. With deception swirling all around them, she was feeling a little shaky about her ability to discern friend from foe.

  “Without reservation,” replied the earl. “He’s going to station himself in the prince’s stable.” A faint smile. “If we need to ride to the rescue, we’ll have an edge on our adversaries by being mounted on the finest horseflesh in town.”

  “If you mean to buck up our spirits, your assertion is quite wasted on me,” she quipped. “My skills are at their sharpest when I have my feet on terra firma.”

  Sophia was more appreciative. “The prince’s warhorses would allow us to outride and outmaneuver the enemy.”

  “Let us not race ahead of ourselves,” counseled the earl. “For now, we must wait for word from Señora Marone-Cinzano. And while we do so, I suggest we all try to get some rest.”

  Pounding— the pounding of hoofs was hammering against her skull . . . Twisting away from the relentless sound, Arianna was roused from a fitful sleep by Saybrook’s gentle shake to her shoulder.

  Rubbing the muzziness from her eyes, she sat up, aware that the thuds were coming from the closed door.

  “José is signaling that the señora has arrived.” He had already grabbed up his coat from the dressing table and was halfway across the carpet. “Wake Sophia.”

  It took only a few minutes to fetch her friend and hurry down the stairs to the drawing room, but already their cook, another loyal retainer brought from London, had a steaming pot of coffee and fresh-baked rolls on the table.

  “You need sustenance when facing Trouble, milady,” murmured the woman as she placed a plate of chocolate wafers beside the bread.

  Strength in chocolate . . . or so the Aztec warriors believed. The word Theobroma—the scientific name for chocolate was Theobroma cacao—meant “gift from the gods.” Arianna quickly swallowed several of the confections.

  If ever we needed divine help . . .

  Paloma had shrugged off her cloak and was smoothing the folds from a piece of paper she had placed on the table.

  “It appears all is not lost.” She looked up. “Grentham is alive and apparently not badly injured. They took him captive when they realized they weren’t the only ones after Mr. Pierson’s daughter, with the idea that if they failed, they would be able to force him to tell where the girl had been taken.”

  “But that means they’ve likely already begun to torture him,” said Sophia. “Come, we haven’t a moment to waste.”

  “It’s not that simple,” cautioned Paloma. “The men holding the minister are merely foot soldiers for French Intelligence, and the fact that they had no idea of who their prisoner was worked in our favor. Their intention was to remain holed up here in the city until they had gotten the information, then slink away and return to their superior to make their report.”

  Her mouth compressed for an instant. “However, Vecchio paid them a visit to their hiding place and recognized the minister. The plan now is to spirit him out of the city before dawn and hand him over to the French Intelligence—in one piece, I might add. So far, Grentham hasn’t been injured, though it seems Vecchio has been quite vocal about how much he shall enjoy carving the minister into fish bait once the French finish interrogating him.”

  Sophia let out a hiss, followed by an oath.

  “Might I ask how you know all this in such detail?” asked Saybrook.

  The same question had of course occurred to Arianna. Much as she wished to believe Paloma was who she said she was, a good agent wore lies like a second skin.

  “Because my informant is mistress to one of the men,” answered Paloma. “They’ve taken refuge in her house, and as they don’t wish to risk being spotted by the night watch or a military patrol, they’re depending on her to gather the necessary supplies.”

  “That begs another question,” said the earl. “What makes you so certain she’s not in league with the French?”

  “Because I’ve worked with her on several occasions before.” Paloma fisted a hand in her skirts. “And because I’ve good reason to know of her hatred for the French, and the reason for it.”

  “We can’t afford any misjudgment,” said Saybrook softly.

  A shadow of sorrow darkened Paloma’s eyes. “Several years ago, French soldiers killed her daughter—a child of four—while sacking a Belgian village in search of an informant. Since then, she’s been one of our most effective agents. I’d stake my life on her loyalty.” A sigh. “And in fact, I have. Several times.”

  “Revenge is a two-edged weapon,” whispered Arianna. “I would counsel your friend to withdraw from the fray before she cuts out her own soul.”

  Paloma nodded. “I know. Pray heaven her services soon won’t be needed anymore.”

  Saybook leaned in to study the paper, which contained a rough map of the city. “We need to be here—” he tapped a finger to a spot near the top corner, “—in order to spot their departure and follow them. Have you any idea of when they are planning to bolt?”

  “You have an hour. My informant has promised she won’t arrange for horses to be brought to the rendezvous spot before then. And you may count on the fact that their mounts will be nags, which will also slow them down.”

  The earl consulted his pocketwatch, then snapped it shut. “Grab up your outer garments and weapons.” He gave an approving nod at Sophia, who had come down already enveloped in a midnight-dark cloak. “Captain Leete will be waiting in the prince’s stable.” To Paloma he added, “You’ll be safer staying here, señora. The children are sleeping downstairs in the pantry, guarded by our servants. They will set up a cot for you there.”

  “I would offer to accompany you if I thought I could be a help, not a hindrance. But my expertise doesn’t extend to military action,” replied Paloma. “I can, however be very effective in a more intimate setting, where poinards and pocket pistols are the weapons of choice. No one will harm the girls while I have a breath left in my body.”

  The earl’s lips twitched, and he murmured something in Spanish that made Paloma smile.

  She started to turn, then stopped in mid-step. “By the by, since you are working with Grentham, I think you should know that there�
��s another serious matter concerning the British government at play here. It involves why the Foreign Office sent me here, and while it’s a matter of great secrecy, it seems it’s in all of our interests to share the information.”

  Saybrook shot a glance at the mantel clock.

  “It concerns a Russian by the name of Andronovich—”

  “Where Andronovich’s loyalties lie is one of the conundrums we were sent her to unravel,” interrupted Arianna. “He’s head of the Russian delegation in charge of finalizing the military alliance. And so far, we’ve not been able to determine the answer.”

  “I believe I can clarify that,” replied Paloma. “Working with my informant, as well as other sources I’ve cultivated throughout the city, I’ve discovered that the French are planning to assassinate Andronovich at a diplomatic supper given by the Austrians tomorrow evening—so that should be a telling clue as to which side he is on.”

  “You’re sure?” demanded the earl.

  “Absolutely sure. I’ve passed the information on to my diplomatic contact in Antwerp.”

  “But what does that gain them?” muttered the earl. “If the French assassinate Andronovich, Russia, Prussia and Austria will stop their intriguing with each other and agree to the military coalition against France. They would have to, for if anyone held out, they would look to be in collusion with Napoleon, and that would have grave consequences for their political objectives in the East. The other two countries, along with Britain, would immediately unite against them.”

  “Not if someone senior in the Russian delegation immediately proclaims that he has evidence that the Prussians are behind the assassination,” said Paloma. “That would give them every reason to abandon the alliance, claiming the others have been scheming against them. And of course, Prussia will be outraged at being accused, and also quit the alliance, taking with it Blücher’s army.”

  “Who is the traitor within the Russian delegation?” asked Saybrook.

  Paloma lifted her shoulders. “I’m not certain. All I know is the plan—and it’s a cunning one.”

  “Grunwald must have somehow learned about that plot, too,” said Arianna. “No wonder they murdered him.”

  Saybrook frowned in thought. “Have you any idea what the Foreign Office plans to do to prevent the assassination?”

  Paloma shook her head. “They don’t confide such things to me. I did give them a description of the assassin. I would assume they would take measures to see that he doesn’t gain entrée into the supper.”

  “Damnation,” swore the earl. “The Foreign Office isn’t as skilled at covert action as Grentham’s operatives.”

  “But we don’t know how to communicate with Grentham’s network,” pointed out Arianna. “And freeing the minister must be our first priority.”

  Another few precious seconds ticked by. “What’s the assassin’s description?” demanded Saybrook.

  “He’s of medium height and slender build, with reddish-blond hair. His face is narrow, with a pointed chin. But most importantly, he has a black mole on the ridge of his right cheekbone.”

  The earl hurried to the writing desk and scribbled a note. “I’ll have Tomás give the information to Wellington’s personal secretary first thing in the morning.” He sealed the paper with a circle of hot wax and his signet ring. “The duke will, I’m sure, take every possible measure to keep his alliance from falling apart.”

  Where there is smoke, there is fire . . . All the mischief seemed to be stirring within the Russian delegation. Orlov—

  A sharp bark from the earl pulled her back from her musing.

  “Are we all ready?”

  “Sí,” answered Arianna as she tucked her braided hair up under a low-crowned beaver hat.

  The Prince of Orange’s stables appeared to be floating on a silvery sea of mist, its sharply-pitched cupolas rising like fanciful masts from the slate roof. They had made their way into the grounds through a side gate, and were threading their way through the copse of trees bordering the paddocks.

  Saybrook paused for a moment to survey the surroundings. “This way,” he whispered, indicating a footpath leading around to the rear of the building.

  A set of massive double doors, large enough for a stately carriage to pass through, filled the center of the back wall. Several smaller entrances were set on either side. The earl led the way to the right side and pressed a palm to the one closest to the middle.

  It swung open.

  “Leete,” he called softly.

  “Over here.” A dark silhouette appeared from behind a mountain of hay. Flint struck steel and a small flame hissed to life within a metal lantern, illuminating a tall, well-muscled man with shaggy brown hair and an impish grin. “Good Lord,” he said, after a hard squint at Arianna and Sophia. “You weren’t jesting about your comrades-in arms being, er . . .”

  “Ladies?” finished Arianna. “No, it’s not a jest.”

  “Allow me to present Captain Declan Leete,” drawled the earl. “Dec, this is my wife, the Countess of Saybrook.”

  She gave a cool nod.

  “And,” continued Saybrook, “our good friend, Miss Sophia Kirtland.”

  Leete inclined a polite bow. “An honor, milady and Miss Kirtland.” His gaze returned to the earl. “I’ve picked out our strongest stallion for you. He’s a beast, but you’re a bruising rider and will keep him under control.”

  Sophia was already marching toward the four saddled horses tied to one of the brass railings by the tack room.

  “Er, I beg your pardon, miss!”

  Sophia began to unknot the reins of the coal-black stallion—the same one she had ridden in the hell-for-leather race observed by Wellington.

  “But Satan isn’t a fit mount for a lady,” warned Leete.

  “I’m not a lady,” shot back Sophia. A brace of pistols appeared from inside her sack. After looping the still-bulging canvas over her shoulder, she gathered the reins of the snorting black stallion and shoved the weapons into the saddle holsters.

  “Ye gods, Sandro—stop her,” appealed Leete.

  “It’s not possible, Dec,” replied the earl. “Nor is it necessary. Miss Kirtland is a better rider and a better shot that most of the men in your regiment.”

  Leete rolled his eyes in skepticism, but abandoned any further attempt to argue and mounted his own dappled gray charger. “It’s on your head, my friend.”

  Sophia vaulted into the saddle and the skittish stallion stopped its nervous prancing.

  “Would you care for a saber, Miss Kirtland?” asked Saybrook, indicating the rack of regimental weapons.

  “No, thank you,” she replied, smoothing out the tails of her cloak. “I’ve little practice with a blade. However, you may hand me a rifle, and a pouch of bullets.”

  The earl did as he was asked.

  “I’ll take one, too,” said Arianna as she adjusted her stirrups, grateful that the chestnut gelding appeared to have a placid temperament.

  Leete was looking a little shell-shocked. “Don’t worry, Captain,” she added. “You needn’t worry that we’ll inadvertently shatter your skull. Miss Kirtland and I rarely miss our targets.”

  After a small hesitation, Saybrook unhooked one of the sabers and fastened the sword belt around his waist before mounting his horse. “We’ve been told our adversaries are hired ruffians, not soldiers. We’re likely more skilled with firearms, and if the action gets close . . .” He touched a hand to weapon’s hilt. “They would be wise to surrender.”

  “Very wise,” agreed Leete. “I’m in no mood to be charitable as the dastards are causing me to miss an evening of dancing at Lady Capel’s soirée with the lovely young ladies of our expatriate community. And God only knows how long we have to enjoy such delightful festivities before the Continent once again is bathed in blood.”

  “Have no fear, Captain Leete. There will be no dearth of dancing in the coming week,” said Arianna. “Lady Richmond is giving a fancy ball on Thursday, and Wellington has
promised to attend, so you need not worry that it will be put off.”

  “Ah, then it seems we may eat, drink and be merry for a few days longer,” replied Leete.

  “But not tonight,” reminded the earl. “Lead us out of here, Dec, and let us take up our surveillance positions. I’ll explain what I have in mind once we’re outside the palace grounds.”

  Lantern in hand, Leete urged his horse forward, the narrow beam skittering over the dark flagging. He turned down a long walkway between stalls and brought them to a tall, arched portal. Leaning down from his saddle, he drew back the bolt and extinguished the lantern flame before pushing open the heavy oak door.

  “The gate ahead is unlocked,” he murmured “You go ahead. I’ll close up here and catch up.”

  The soft grass muffled the sound of the horses as they made their way into the gloom. Saybrook took the lead and guided them through the stately trees and across a quiet side street where they entered the swath of parkland bordering the Palais du Roi.

  “Go with Leete and wait between the gates leading out to the Chaussée de Wavre and the Chaussée de Louvain,” he said as he dismounted. “Logic says they’ll be heading west, but I’m going on foot to keep the house under surveillance, just to be sure. Whichever way they go, I’ll come find you and we’ll pick up their trail.”

  Chapter 22

  “They’ve halted in a clearing, perhaps a quarter of a mile up ahead,” reported Leete.

  After Saybrook had rejoined them, they had shadowed the French party out of the city. He and Saybrook had been taking turns keeping them under surveillance while Arianna and Sophia had followed at a greater distance. “One of their horses appears to have a loose shoe.”

  “Shouldn’t we seize the chance to attack?” said Sophia.

  “Not necessarily,” replied the earl. “They may be on the lookout for danger, as they’re in a vulnerable position.”