A Question of Numbers

by Andrea Penrose

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  Excerpt: SMOKE & LIES

  Book Four in the Lady Arianna Regency Mystery Series

  CHAPTER ONE

  Leaden clouds hung heavy in the sullen sky, squeezing out all but a weak glimmer of the dawn's light. Overhead, the icy crackling of the bare branches, black silhouettes shivering against the grey-on-grey hues, punctuated the fitful whistling of the wind.

  Hyde Park appeared deserted, but then the thud of hooves suddenly joined the other sounds as two riders broke free of the mist, their horses kicking up clots of frozen earth as they cantered along the deserted stretch of Rotten Row.

  “Damnation,” muttered Arianna, the Countess of Saybrook, as they slowed to a sedate walk at the far end of the bridle pathway. Steam rose from the sweating flanks of the animals, and their snorts sent plumes of pale vapor curling up into the swirling shadows. “I swear, sidesaddles are the Devil’s own insidious invention.”

  “Be that as it may, you need to rein in your tongue—it's very unladylike to curse,” chided her companion, though a glint of amusement flashed in her eyes. “And since I've given up my cozy comforts in the dead of winter to teach you the fine points of how a gently-bred female rides, let's make a point of practicing all the requirements.”

  “If I was truly intent on cursing, I know far worse words than damnation.” It was beastly cold, and the frigid-fingered breeze was brazenly probing beneath every fold of Arianna's woolen riding habit. Shifting uncomfortably on the pommel, she proceeded to prove it.

  In exquisitely colorful detail.

  Sophia Kirtland arched her brows. However, she refrained from further comment—no small feat, as her tongue was usually the sharper of the two. “You must try to relax,” she counseled, turning her attention back to their riding lesson. “And learn to move in harmony with the motion of your mount, rather than trying to fight it.”

  “Seeing as I’ve never responded well to the bit or the bridle, it’s no wonder that I’m not well-suited to equestrian activities,” groused Arianna. It was true. She possessed a fierce independence—a result, no doubt, of a highly unconventional upbringing that had forced her to fend for herself from a young age. Which made her a rough-edged square peg in a world that expected ladies to fit into smoothly rounded holes.

  Deep and dark holes, thought Arianna grimly, where they stayed trapped in the shadows from cradle to grave.

  Sophia’s laugh drew her from such dark musings. “You would rather be bouncing around in Mr. Sadler’s balloon above the clouds?” demanded her friend. The two of them had recently undertaken a harrowing aerial flight in pursuit of a dangerous traitor to King and country. For a short while, their lives had hung by a mere thread over the English Channel, but the aviator’s prodigious skill—and a bit of luck—had carried them to safety.

  “To be honest, yes,” replied Arianna. “I found that rather exhilarating, while this is merely irritating in the extreme.” A bitter gust of wind tugged at her fur-trimmed shako. After freeing the jaunty plume from her collar with an impatient swat, she added, “However unstable, a balloon gondola doesn’t rub one’s backside raw.”

  “Your riding skills are improving,” murmured Sophia.

  “Ha!” Her friend’s uncharacteristic show of tact drew a wry smile. “It’s not like you to dress up the truth in faux silks and satins.”

  “I hadn't quite finished,” quipped Sophia. “I was going to add that much as your skills in the saddle are improving, it's frightfully clear you'll never enjoy riding as much as ballooning or other such adventures.” She shifted her crop and flicked a wind-loosened curl from her cheek. “And since you wish the naked truth, it's because it's not as dangerous.”

  A gust blew through the nearby copse of trees, whipping up a swirl of dead leaves

  “Admit it,” went on Sophia. “Danger is something that sends a frisson of fire through your blood.”

  The comment caused Arianna to frown in thought. Granted, most of her life had been spent dancing along a deadly-sharp razor's edge. From exile in the West Indies to a vagabond existence as a chef and sometimes swindler, to returning to England to seek vengeance for the murder of her father, she had risked her life more times than she could count.

  But . . .

  The frown slowly surrendered to a grimace. “You have a point. I find there is something about danger that makes one feel . . . more alive.” She slanted a curious look at Sophia. “And now that you’ve had a taste of it, I sense you understand what I mean.”

  Her friend, who had until recently led a solitary, sequestered life as a bookish scholar, looked ready to argue. But then she, too, allowed a reluctant grin. “You’ve been a bad influence on me.” A pause. “Thank God. Chemical research and the quiet company of my lovely cat are all very edifying. However, I can’t deny that it does the spirit good to get out of the laboratory and thump a few heads. I won’t soon forget the look on Prince Orlov’s face . . .”

  Several nights ago, the two of them—along with Arianna's feisty great aunt Constantina, the dowager Countess of Sterling—had undertaken a risky dance of deception at a diplomatic soirée to retrieve some sensitive personal letters and diplomatic correspondence that had been stolen from the dowager.

  “We were lucky to have dodged disaster,” replied Arianna. “To be honest, I'm not proud of that whole affair.” Her sigh was swallowed in another gust of chill air. “I still feel guilty over keeping our actions a secret from Sandro. I understand Constantina's reasons for it, but loyalty . . .” Her hands tightened on the reins. “Loyalty is not always so simple to define.”

  Sophia nodded thoughtfully.

  “Be that as it may, there’s little likelihood of any further danger in the foreseeable future. Sandro and I have determined to lead a quiet life here in Town for the foreseeable future. He’s intent on finishing his botanical treatise on Cacao theobroma. And I have much work to do on completing the book of his grandmother’s recipes and research. So, no exotic travels, no clandestine missions.”

  “I thought Grentham was pressing the two of you—” began Sophia.

  Arianna shook her head. “Lord Grentham can go to Hell—”

  Her horse suddenly shied as a branch snapped in the wind, and her boot slipped from the stirrup. Huffing another unladylike curse, Arianna leaned down and reached for the—

  Crack!

  It took half a heartbeat for her to realize the sound was a gunshot. In the same instant, a bullet whistled by her ear and her shako went flying.

  Somehow, she managed to grab hold of the animal’s mane and keep her seat as the spooked mare reared and raced off at a panicked gallop.

  Pounding hooves upon the frozen ground, helter-pelter blurs of browns and greys, stinging cold slapping against her flesh—caught up in a whirling dervish spin of sensations, Arianna ducked low and clung on for dear life. There was no time to think—every muscle was merely acting on primitive instinct, fighting to hold on.

  Above the cacophony of sounds, she thought she heard Sophia shout. Or maybe it was just the blood roaring in her ears.

  The mare thrashed through another angled turn and suddenly stumbled over the rutted ground. Arianna’s fingers had gone numb and her grip was slipping. Damn, damn, damn. She could feel herself sliding, sliding, sliding . . . The hardscrabble ground was streaking by in a disorienting rush perilously close to her nose.

  Of all the bloody ways to give up the ghost.

  The irony of it tore a gurgle of laughter from her throat. She hated horses.

  A hand suddenly caught her coat collar, jerking her upright.

  “Arianna! Arianna!” Her voice shrill with fear, Sophia added, “Hell’s bells—are your hurt?” as she got control of the mare and expertly slowed the spooked animal to a halt.

  Dizzy and disoriented, Arianna needed to suck in several shuddering breaths before her wits stopped turning cartwheels.

  “Aside to the grievous blow to my pride?” she wheezed, after a none-too-elegant dismount. The fr
ozen terra firma felt surprisingly comforting beneath her boots.

  “Do not make light of the moment, milady!” Her groom Jose, who had been following at discreet distance before the gunshot, reined to a skittering halt beside Sophia and vaulted out of his saddle. After a quick assessment satisfied him that no damage had been done, he tucked away his pistol and held up her hat—one finger poked accusing through the gaping bullet hole in its crown. “This is no jesting matter!”

  Sophia let out a low whistle. “Ye God, what nest of vipers have you and Saybrook kicked up this time?”

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  Excerpt: MURDER ON BLACK SWAN LANE

  Book One in the Wrexford & Sloane Regency Mystery Series

  Rain pelted against the narrow mullioned window, as if the gods were taking perverse pleasure in echoing the faint thump-thump of foreboding inside her head. No doubt, mused Charlotte, the thought of primitive, pagan forces controlling the universe would be considered blasphemous in civilized London.

  “Civilized—ha!” she whispered. A leading churchman savagely slaughtered, orphans and widows left to fend for themselves in the hardscrabble streets, the ravages of war draining the country’s coffers. “The concepts of charity and kindness to all seem to have gone to hell in a handbasket.”

  Charlotte put down her pen and stared glumly at the drawing she was trying to finish. Prinny’s accusing eyes stared back at her, half hidden in the corpulent folds of flesh she had made for his face. Normally she felt no compunction about skewering the Royals, but a dark mood had taken hold of her this morning, brought on perhaps by seeing the boys head out into the gloom. Raven had said that he wanted to search for more gossip on the Earl of Wrexford and the ongoing murder investigation.

  She hated that they felt compelled to dig up dirt for her.

  But dirt sold her satirical prints. And money put food in their mouths.

  Ergo unum oportet esse pragmaticam.

  “I must be pragmatic,” she repeated aloud, hoping the spoken words might help chase away her malaise.

  A gust of wet wind rattled the glass.

  So much for incantations and talismans. They were fiddle-faddle for the foolish. Railing at Fate was a waste of breath. If one hoped to shape destiny, one had to do so with one’s own hands.

  After sharpening her quill, she resumed her work.

  An hour passed, though as she glanced out the window Charlotte realized it might have been two. She often lost track of time when she was working. It was the growling in her stomach that had broken her concentration.

  Or perhaps it was the faint rasp of metal on metal.

  She froze and cocked an ear.

  The sound came again.

  The outer entryway had nothing to steal within the bare-bones space. But she always kept the main door locked, and aside from her only Raven had a key.

  Snick. Snick. The latch slowly lifted.

  Swallowing a spurt of panic, Charlotte grabbed her penknife. A meager weapon, to be sure, but if push came to shove, she’d learned a few nasty tricks over the years to fend off attack.

  Steady, steady. She slipped off her chair.

  The wall lamp shivered as the door creaked open. A figure stomped through the opening, his skirling overcoat sending a spray of raindrops spattering over the floor. Great gobs of viscous mud clung to his black boots.

  They were exquisitely made, noted Charlotte in spite of her fear, the leather buffed to a soft sheen.

  A gentleman, not a ruffian from the stews.

  She jerked her gaze upward.

  Well-tailored wool, burnished ebony buttons. Shoulder capes that accentuated the breadth of his shoulders.

  She took an involuntary step back.

  He pulled off his hat and slapped it against his thigh, sending more drops of water flying through the air. Wind-whipped hair, dark as coal, tangled around his face. At first, all Charlotte could make out was a prominent nose, long and with an arrogant flare to its tip. But as he took another stride closer, the rest of his features snapped into sharper focus. A sensuous mouth, high cheekbones, green eyes, darkened with an undertone of gunmetal grey.

  Ye god, surely it couldn’t be . . .

  “Forgive me if I have frightened you, madam.” He didn’t look the least contrite. Indeed, there seemed to be a momentary flash of amusement as he flicked an emerald-sharp glance at the knife in her hand. “I am looking for A. J. Quill.”

  “You have come to the wrong place,” replied Charlotte, dismayed to hear her voice had come out as a mouse-like squeak.

  “I think not.” He came closer. “The two little imps who deliver Quill’s drawings were followed back to this house.”

  “Stay where you are!” she warned, trying to regain some semblance of control. “Another step and I’ll scream.”

  “By all means go ahead and shriek to the high heavens. Though I imagine it will be a prodigious waste of breath.” He placed a fist on his hip. “I doubt there are many Good Samaritans in this part of Town.”

  She thinned her lips, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of being right. “How dare you invade my home! Whoever you are, I demand you leave at once.”

  “How ungentlemanly of me. You’re right—I neglected to introduce myself.” A mocking bow. “I am Wrexford. I daresay you’re familiar with my name.”

  Charlotte maintained a stony face. “No, I’m not. Now please leave, or . . . or . . .”

  “Or you’ll cut out my liver with that dainty little penknife?” He made a tsk-tsk sound. “Yes, well, A. J. Quill is quite skilled in skewering my person. Let him fight his own battles.” Wrexford looked around the room. “Where is he?”

  “I tell you, sir, you are mistaken—”

  For a big man, he moved with feral quickness. A blur of wolf black, leaving the sensation of predatory muscle and primitive power pricking against her skin.

  “Stop!” she began, the protest dying quickly as Wrexford leaned over her desk. And began to laugh.

  “Your husband has captured Prinny’s self-indulgent squint to perfection.” He looked up. “That is, I assume he is your husband.”

  Charlotte didn’t answer. Like a helpless mouse, she seemed frozen by her fate, waiting for the paw to flash out and deliver the inevitable coup de grace.

  “Or perhaps it is a more casual arrangement?” His lidded gaze lingered for a moment on her face.

  Think! Think! But all that came to mind was the overwhelming urge to stick the knife into one of his eyes.

  “Ah, I see you’re in no mood for pleasantries.” Wrexford hooked one of the stools with his boot and pulled it over. “No matter. I’ll wait.”

  Panic seized her. Charlotte felt as if its unseen hands were crushing her ribs, squeezing the breath out of her.

  “You cannot!” she rasped. The knife slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor. Her hard-won existence shattering into a thousand tiny shards . . .

  Suddenly fury crested over fear. She flew at him, fists flailing. Be damned with the consequences. Her life was already over.

  Wrexford caught her wrists, not before she landed a nasty blow to his cheek. “Tut, tut, there is no need for violence, madam. Your husband and I can—” He stopped abruptly, those infernal eyes now focused on the fingers of her right hand. One by one, he pried them open.

  She tried to pull away.

  “Bloody hell,” he breathed, studying the smudges of ink. “Let me guess—it’s not your husband. It’s you who are A. J. Quill.”

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  Excerpt: MURDER AT HALF MOON GATE

  Book Two in the Wrexford & Sloane Regency Mystery Series

  Charlotte picked up the woven straw hat and carefully shook the dust from its floppy brim. The motes floated through the still air, sparkling like bits of gold in the sunlight slanting though the narrow window. It was, she told herself, only a figment of her maudlin memories that the musty back room suddenly
seemed redolent with the summer-warm fragrance of cypress and thyme.

  Italy had been a time of simple pleasures—ethereal light, glorious art, breathtakingly beautiful landscapes, cheap wine. She and her late husband had been poor as church mice. And yet they had been happy there.

  With a pinch of her fingers, she fixed a crick in the paint-stained crown, and then set it atop a neatly folded pile of Anthony’s clothing. The hat been a great favorite of his—he’d worn it every day while painting outdoors amid the classical ruins of Rome. They had both loved the sense of old and new that one saw in every vista of the city. It made life seem eternal.

  But it was now time to truly put the past behind her. Anthony’s death had been . . .

  Avenged? Charlotte hesitated, running her hand over the soft folds of a linen shirt. No, that wasn’t the right word. Perhaps the emotion defied definition. Knowing the truth had at least allowed her to make peace with her demons—and his.

  It had been a senseless death. But life was capricious. All the more reason to look to the future.

  Charlotte quickly finished sorting through the box of Anthony’s clothing and returned to the main room.

  “Raven,” she said, after scribbling a short missive and folding the paper. “Would you and Hawk kindly take a note to Mr. Henning?” The surgeon ran a clinic for wounded war veterans. She was sure that a donation of clothing would be most welcome.

  The boys looked up from their schoolbooks—too quickly, she thought with an inward sigh. With all the distractions of readying for the move, they had been neglecting their studies.

  “Aye, of course, m’lady!” said Raven, shooting up from his stool.

  “And we’d be happy te run any other errand for you,” added Hawk hopefully.

  “Thank you, but the note may wait until after you have finished the chapter on the Glorious Revolution.”