A Question of Numbers

by Andrea Penrose

  “What of the bodies?” asked the captain, casting a look at the two dead ruffians and Vecchio.

  “We’ll have to leave them where they are,” said Saybrook without hesitation. “The kidnapping of children and murder of diplomats doesn’t earn battlefield honors.”

  “Your husband’s show of ruthlessness tonight surprises me,” murmured Grentham as the earl walked away to help Sophia round up the horses.

  “It shouldn’t,” replied Arianna. “Woe to those who threaten his friends or innocents caught up in a conflict. They can expect no quarter.”

  “Ah. It seems he possesses hidden facets.”

  “Don’t we all?”

  That drew a grudging chuckle—which turned into a sharp inhale as Grentham shifted his weight onto his left leg.

  “Is it broken?” she demanded.

  “My knee is a trifle bruised.” He took a step, careful to avoid limping, though the effort clearly cost him dear. “I shall survive.”

  Men.

  Chuffing an exasperated, sigh, Arianna went to collect the spent pistol she had tossed into the trampled grass. As she rejoined the group, Saybrook ordered—there was no other word for it—the minister to mount the prime bay stallion from the Prince of Orange’s stable instead of the nag the captors had given him.

  “Its gait is smooth as silk,” he added, lacing his hands together to offer Grentham a boost into the saddle, “which will make the journey more comfortable for you.”

  “I don’t require—”

  “Don’t be an arse,” cut in the earl. “I’d rather not waste time scraping your ornery hide out of the muck on the ride back.”

  Clenching his teeth, Grentham raised a mud-flecked boot and allowed himself to be lifted up onto the stallion.

  An added blow to his already bruised pride, no doubt, thought Arianna, as it was done far less elegantly than he would have wished. She happened to know he was a superb rider.

  Saybrook asked the minister a few more words about his captors, using the exchange to discreetly adjust the stirrups. Sophia, she noted, tactfully looked away, pretending not to notice how Grentham was struggling to handle the reins and keep a stiff spine.

  “Let’s be off,” called the earl as he chose the best of the three remaining horses. However, after a small hesitation, he moved to Vecchio’s corpse and did a quick search of his clothing. The light was too murky to make out any detail, but Arianna thought she saw him extract something from inside the assassin’s coat and shove it in his pocket.

  “Leave the spare horses,” he said, once he had swung into his saddle. “We’ll have the duke’s adjutant dispatch some soldiers to collect them—and the bodies—later today.” After positioning himself next to Grentham, Saybrook added, “Leete, you take the lead. Arianna, fall in behind him, and Miss Kirtland, you take the minister’s other flank.”

  He took one of the pistols from his swordbelt and shoved it into the holster of Grentham’s saddle. “Cut over to the main road. There’s no need for stealth anymore, so spur to a gallop when the terrain allows it. The sooner we return to Brussels, the better.”

  Chapter 23

  “You shouldn’t be up yet.” Arianna pulled the batch of sultana muffins from the oven and placed them on the stovetop. “Lord knows when the next opportunity will come for sleep.”

  “What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander,” replied Saybrook, Stifling a yawn, he poured himself a cup of coffee. The clock showed it was just after noon.

  Dawn had been hovering on the horizon by the time they returned to the city, and Arianna had insisted that they all retire for some much-needed repose rather than hold a council of war—though she had demanded to satisfy herself that Grentham’s injuries were not in need of immediate attention.

  “Cooking helps me think,” she replied, then made a face. “Though I can’t claim to have unknotted any of the conundrums that still face us.”

  “We’ve rescued Emma Pierson and freed the head of British intelligence from the French,” pointed out Saybrook, “so I daresay our efforts haven’t been all for naught.”

  “True,” she murmured, passing him a piping hot pastry. “But we both know that’s not good enough. Not when George Pierson is still in mortal danger.”

  “Pierson won’t crack,” he mumbled through a mouthful of muffin.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.” The idea of the gruesome pain he would endure while the French tried to break his will caused the taste of bile to rise in her throat.

  “We’ve a good idea of where he’s being held,” said the earl. “We’ll get him back.”

  But would it be in one piece? That question hung unspoken in the sugar-scented air.

  “By the by,” he added, “Constantina and Señora Marone-Cinzano are seeing to the children. They’ll be down shortly to join in planning our next moves.”

  “What about Grentham and Sophia?”

  “I assume they’re still sleeping.” He took another bite of muffin. “Likely not together, though one can’t help but wonder . . .”

  “You noticed that, too?”

  “The current of unwilling and unwanted attraction?” He waggled a brow. “Had the sparks been any more explosive, my breeches would have caught on fire.”

  “Don’t be vulgar,” she murmured, adding a platter of shirred eggs and gammon to the serving tray.

  “Is it vulgar to imply that Grentham might actually have red-blooded desire pulsing thought his . . .”

  She made a warning sound.

  “ . . . veins,” he went on, “rather than merely coldly-calculated machinations?”

  Arianna didn’t bother answering. “Kindly carry the tray for me while I take the pot of coffee.” She padded through the corridor, her soft kidskins slippers moving silently over the Oriental runner, and opened the door to the breakfast room . . .

  Only to shut it again very quickly.

  Beating a hasty retreat, she motioned for Saybrook to return to the kitchen.

  “Sophia appears to be of the opinion that the minister kisses quite nicely.” A smile touched her lips as she set down the pot. “It seems we’re going to have to start thinking of Grentham as human.”

  Arianna watched a curl of steam rise up from the spout. “Decidedly human.”

  “Heaven forfend.” For an instant, the earl looked as though he was holding back a laugh. But just as quickly, his expression sobered. “Much as I’d like to needle him for allowing Cupid’s arrow to find a chink in his armor, we need to keep our weapons pointed at the enemy.”

  “Speaking of which . . .” She began whipping up a frothy brew of chocolate to go along with the coffee. “Have you any ideas on how to extricate Pierson?” A mission of such critical importance called for careful reconnaissance of the surroundings, followed by surveillance to determine the daily patterns of the captors. But that required time, and Arianna feared what precious few hours they had left were fast ticking away.

  “I sent José to inform Wellington that Grentham is safe. I’ve also asked him to request a map of the area around Cailloux, preferably delivered by one of the duke’s cavalry officers who has led a patrol through the village,” answered Saybrook. “Other than that, I thought it prudent to wait and hear what Grentham has to add to the situation before we begin devising a strategy.”

  She frowned in thought as she stared into the frothy foam. “What was it you took from inside Vecchio’s coat? Is it of any help?”

  “Not that I can see,” replied Saybrook. “It’s a local map, but the only marking on it is a triangle drawn over a section of farmland to the north of the city.”

  “A triangle?” Arianna felt a prickling tease at the nape of her neck. “Ye gods. Surely that can’t be a coincidence.” Seeing his puzzlement, she quickly explained, “Grunwald! Remember, Grunwald’s coded message said follow the triangle.”

  “Damnation, what with all the other clues we’ve been chasing, I had forgotten that.” He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “We n
eed to have one of the duke’s officers tell us what’s located in the area marked by the triangle.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. And yet, a niggling whisper somewhere in the dark nooks and crannies of her consciousness was saying the answer didn’t lie there. “Perhaps Grentham will have an idea. He would have passed that area on his way to Antwerp.”

  “I think we’ve given the minister and Miss Kirtland enough time for personal matters.” The earl once again hefted the tray. “This has proved to be the most devilishly difficult of this mission’s conundrums. We need for Grentham to tell us what explosive secret Pierson possesses, in case it will help formulate a strategy.”

  “I’ll bring the coffee and chocolate in a moment. First I want to fetch the others. Grentham isn’t yet aware of Señora Marone-Cinzano’s role with the Foreign Office, and who knows, perhaps from her perspective she’ll see how some of the pieces of the puzzle fit together.”

  Sleep, along with the very capable ministrations of the earl’s valet, had Grentham appearing much improved from the previous evening. His face was freshly shaven, and a new bandage, smaller and cleaner than the previous rag, was half hidden by his neatly-combed hair.

  He started to rise as Arianna crossed the carpet. “Don’t let us stand on ceremony, milord,” she said. “It’s best you keep weight off your injured leg as much as possible.”

  “Be damned with my leg—you ladies fuss too much over a few bumps and bruises.” However, he remained seated. “We’ve far more important things to discuss.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Saybrook as he placed the food on the table. “Beginning with why the French have brought Pierson here, rather than leaving him moldering in a Parisian prison. Clearly he knows something that Napoleon and his head of intelligence feel can shift the balance of power to them.”

  “Before you answer that, I’d like you to wait for Constantina,” said Arianna as Grentham was about to speak. “And Señora Marone-Cinzano.”

  The minister’s eyes narrowed. “Much as I respect your judgment, Lady Saybrook, I think it highly unwise to add a stranger—and a foreigner at that—to our council of war. We’re about to discuss some highly secret government information.”

  “The lady in question is no stranger to our government’s secrets. Indeed, she’s been a trusted operative for years.”

  “Then why haven’t I heard of her?” asked Grentham.

  “Because I asked Sir Henry Chauncey to keep my identity and activities a secret.” The whisper of silk fluttered thought the air as Paloma entered the room. “Even from you, milord.”

  The minister’s face betrayed no reaction, save for a tiny tic of a muscle in his jaw. “Sir Henry,” he said, after taking a deliberately long moment to subject her to a head-to-toe scrutiny, “ought to know better than to muck around in intrigue, especially at the highest levels of security.”

  “Nonetheless, sir, he has done so,” she replied calmly. “And my information has proved very useful to you on more than several occasions.”

  “And what of the damage done?” asked Grentham. “Did either of you think of the dangers of your little deception?”

  Paloma didn’t answer.

  His gray eyes took on a gunpowder-dark grimness. “Even the most adept juggler is likely to drop a few balls if one hand isn’t aware of what the other hand is doing.”

  “Be that as it may, I suggest we sit down and agree to share our knowledge and resources,” said Arianna, breaking the tension in the room.

  Paloma took the seat next to Saybrook and poured herself a cup of chocolate.

  “Have I missed anything important?” Constantina slipped through the door and clicked it shut behind her.

  “Lord Grentham is just about to tell us why Pierson is such an important pawn for the French,” answered Arianna.

  The dowager fixed the minister with an expectant stare.

  “What about you, Saybrook?” Grentham turned his eyes on the earl. “Are you in agreement that the señora can be trusted?”

  “I am.”

  “As am I,” added Sophia. “For what it’s worth.”

  The minister drew in a measured breath. Arianna sensed it was not easy for him to take a leap of faith.

  “Very well,” he conceded. “Wellington and the Prussian commander, General Blücher, have a fraught personal relationship. Add that to our rather shaky diplomatic alliance, and one small spark could destroy the agreement that our two armies will fight together if Napoleon moves east.”

  His fingertips tapped together. “Pierson know where there is a document that proves Wellington lied to Blücher about certain military matters. That could be the spark, so naturally I’m concerned.”

  Tap-tap. “But what worries me even more is how the French knew about the document and Pierson’s connection to it. That information is locked in my private files.”

  “You’re sure the French know?” queried the earl.

  “One of the reasons I went to Antwerp was to follow up on rumors concerning the matter. I’m convinced the head of French intelligence is privy to the information.” A pause. “Just as I’m convinced that he knew of Pierson’s presence on Elba, and was quick to pounce when an injured British man was hauled out of the sea.”

  “Has Lionel Randolph been able to gather any clues as to how the French received their information?” asked Paloma.

  The tapping stopped as Grentham pressed his palms together. “Randolph knows nothing about this. His work in intelligence gathering is confined to routine missions. Besides, he’s overseeing the Allied diplomats back in London—”

  “No, he’s not,” she interrupted. “I saw him here in Brussels three days ago.”

  “You’re mistaken,” said the minister.

  “I’m not.” Paloma’s voice was steady as steel. “Trust me, I would recognize the Honourable—or rather, the Dishonourable—Lionel Randolph in the deepest, darkest pit of Hell.”

  “The señora has explained to us that she has a history with Randolph, whom she encountered in Portugal while looking to unmask a British officer who was passing military secrets to the enemy,” offered Arianna. “Sandro and I believe her story. He wasn’t proved guilty, but she uncovered a number of other unsavory things about him.”

  Grentham stared down at the tiger maple tabletop, as if intent on memorizing every whorl in the grain.

  “Well, well,” mused the earl after several moments had passed in uneasy silence. “It appears the seemingly random pieces of the puzzle are finally falling into place.”

  “Speaking of puzzles pieces,” said Arianna. “Sandro, have you the map you retrieved from Vecchio’s body?”

  The earl pulled the paper from his pocket and smoothed it open on the burled wood.

  She pointed to the triangle. “Lord Grentham, does this area between Brussels and Antwerp mean anything to you?”

  He leaned in for a closer look, and then shook his head. “It’s merely small farms and woodlands. There’s nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “Then why,” she wondered aloud, “would one of Napoleon’s most trusted operatives be carrying such a map on his person?”

  Sophia lifted her shoulders in bafflement. “I can’t think of any plausible reason.”

  “Unless,” whispered Arianna. “it’s another coded message.”

  They all stared at the squiggly lines, blurred in places by smudges and waterstains.

  “Perhaps it is,” muttered Grentham, “but I can’t squander time trying to ponder the impenetrable. It could take days or weeks to decipher, assuming it can be done. I need to attack problems that I have a chance of solving.”

  The earl rumbled a grunt that signaled his agreement, followed quickly by murmurs of assent from the others. Arianna, however, couldn’t tear her gaze away from the map.

  What am I missing? The dratted question had been plaguing her thoughts for weeks.

  “Señora Marone-Cinzano, where did you see Randolph?” demanded the minister, his attention already onto the battles
he could fight.

  “Leaving a tavern of the city favored by the local carters and bargemen,” answered Paloma. “I’ve some contacts who may be of help in discovering his whereabouts . . .”

  As the talk around the table turned to the tasks of apprehending a likely traitor and how to begin arranging a rescue of Pierson, Arianna took up the map and moved the bank of mullioned windows, where the sunlight allowed a better view of the minute details.

  “I’ll be back shortly,” she announced. “I want to take a look at this with my magnifying glass.”

  No one paid her any heed as she hurried from the room. A fool’s errand, perhaps, but the nagging sense that something terribly important was staring her in the face was growing more insistent.

  Taking a seat at the desk in the parlor, Arianna scrabbled through her notebooks and papers to find the large silver-handled lens. Sparks of white winked for an instant as she angled the convex glass over the creased and curling paper. Bit by bit, the crabbed writing and penned lines shot up in size—roads, rivers, village names . . . and a few faint sentences scrawled on the margin. But as of yet, their meaning remained elusive. The secret of the map was still shrouded in mystery.

  She made a thorough search of the entire document, before laying down the magnifying glass and pressing her palms to her eyes. Fatigue was like a noxious vapor, fogging her brain.

  “Damnation,” she swore, as her gaze fell upon the center of the lens, where it lay upon the maddening triangle marked on the map. “Relax,” she told herself, knowing her mind worked best when it was allowed free rein. “There has to be a reason Grunwald sent me Book One of Euclid’s Elements.”

  Euclid’s Book One concerned equilateral triangles—all three sides of the same length. The one on the map had different lengths for each side.

  Odd triangles . . . equilateral triangles . . . Napoleon . . . she mused. Think. Think! What was the connection?

  Her heartbeat kicked up a notch as she suddenly recalled a detail from a long and convoluted conversation she had had with Napoleon while making chocolate confections in his palace kitchen on Elba. “It was mathematics that launched me on my career,” he had said . . . As a young man, Napoleon had won acclaim for his skill as an artillery officer, his genius with numbers allowing him to win the crucial Battle of Toulon for the French through his accuracy in ballistics. And later in their exchange on Elba he had gone on to boast about his mathematical prowess. “I proved a theorem on triangles, which was then named after me—Napoleon’s Theorem . . . It relates to equilateral triangles.”