Recipe for Treason: A Lady Arianna Regency Mystery (Lady Arianna Hadley Mystery)

by Penrose, Andrea

  “Well, there isn’t. Not with Grentham using my nephew as a pawn in his dirty games,” snapped Henning. “Without my help, you haven’t a snowball’s chance in Hell of getting any information out of the locals in St. Andrews. They aren’t, to put it mildly, very chatty with strangers.”

  He drew a deep breath and let it out in a long hiss. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be biting your head off, but my nerves are stretched tight as a bowstring right now. My sister is sick with worry over Angus, what with the lad being incarcerated at Inverness prison. The Sassenach jailers there are notorious for their mistreatment of Scottish prisoners.”

  Sassenach. Henning had unconsciously used the Gaelic term for “English,” noted Arianna. It was not a flattering moniker.

  “We understand,” she said.

  Saybrook shifted against the leather squabs. “I was not going to say anything until we arrived in Edinburgh, but I had one last meeting with Grentham before we left London, and I managed to wrest a concession from him regarding your nephew. As you know, the original agreement was that he is to go free only after Renard is apprehended. However, the minister agreed that your nephew will be released as soon as we reach St. Andrews.” The earl’s lips curled in a faintly mocking smile. “Grentham called it a good-faith gesture that we will not renege on our promise to capture the traitor.”

  Henning spit on the floorboards. “The bastard is all heart, isn’t he?”

  “Grentham doesn’t need such an organ to pump blood through his veins,” quipped Arianna, trying to lighten the mood. “A hunk of coal is all that he requires to blow smoke and brimstone through his body.”

  As she had hoped, Henning chuckled. “Aye, no wonder the air around him always stinks of sulfur.”

  “Enough jabs at Grentham,” counseled Saybrook. “Let us save all our punches for whatever enemies lie ahead. This attack was likely just the first exchange of blows. I’m sure our strength will be sorely tested in the coming days.”

  “True enough.” The glint of amusement died in Henning’s eyes. “Don’t think I’m ungrateful, laddie. I know the high-and-mighty minister does not give his favors for free.”

  Instead of answering, Saybrook reached into his valise and withdrew a slim leather portfolio. “I’ve made some notes of what we know—and what we don’t. A review of the facts may help spark an idea of how to go about picking up Renard’s trail.”

  “Given what happened in Vienna, the trail has probably gone cold. He’s likely become even more careful,” pointed out the surgeon.

  “Or more desperate,” pointed out Arianna. “If Napoleon really has ambitions to escape from Elba and re-seize his crown, he must act sooner rather than later—which may force him and his operatives to take risks. The peace conference is making headway with drawing new borders and forging new alliances. Once Europe is rebuilt from the rubble of war, the Powers That Be will be loath to let anyone plunge the Continent back into chaos.”

  “Perhaps,” conceded Henning.

  Paper rustled as Saybrook arranged his notes in his lap. “The former Emperor is not easy to defeat. Yes, we managed to spike his guns, so to speak, during our trip to Austria. But he’s a genius of battlefield tactics. He will regroup and attack from a different angle.”

  “And his operative Renard is just as canny. The last time, he sought to twist the Scottish fervor for freedom to his own nefarious purposes,” added Arianna. “God knows what he’ll try next.”

  Hunching his shoulders, Henning stared meditatively at his scraped hands. “Judging by what we found inside that brass eagle, you have every reason to fear the worst.”

  “I trust you are still willing to make an introduction to the chemistry professor at the university in St. Andrews.” Saybrook’s words were half statement, half question.

  Grentham had not sent them rattling off to Scotland merely out of spite. In recounting to the minister what had happened during their Vienna mission, Saybrook had been required to explain in great detail about the chilling chemical discovery that he and Henning had made. The surgeon had recognized the diabolical design for an explosive device from an article he had read in a scientific journal from the university at St. Andrews. Further tests on the liquid had confirmed his surmise—the compound was a lethally dangerous concoction, far more powerful than traditional gunpowder.

  Arianna slanted a sidelong look at Henning and her husband. That the substance was linked with Renard had sent a rumbling of alarm through the halls of the British government. And so Grentham had wasted no time in manipulating the three of them into undertaking this journey to Scotland in order to hunt down the traitor.

  Whatever his other faults, the minister was just as cunning as Renard in wielding the weapons in his arsenal.

  Heaving an inward sigh, she noted the surgeon’s slight hesitation in responding to her husband’s query.

  “Aye, Connery and I have known each other since we were wee lads. He’ll talk to me . . . and to you, with my vouching. But we have to approach him slowly and very carefully. Despite our friendship, he won’t be overly eager to expose a fellow Scottish professor to the wrath of the English government, so we must be subtle in our inquiries.”

  “You know I’ve no interest in doing Grentham’s dirty work for him regarding the Dragons of St. Andrews or any other secret society dedicated to democratic ideals and independence from the Crown,” assured the earl. “I’m only after Renard and his cohorts. The identities of any other people I meet will be safe with me.”

  “I don’t doubt you, Sandro.”

  “But you are uncertain of whether that is good enough protection for your Scottish friends?” pressed Arianna.

  Henning gave a cryptic shrug.

  “Grentham has given me the name of the government’s contact in St. Andrews, who will help arrange the release of your nephew and provide any other local assistance that we may need. I shall be discreet in my dealings with him.”

  “You have to be discreet about a lot of things, laddie,” said Henning flatly. “First and foremost, if it becomes known that you and Lady S are fancy English aristocrats, I could beg until I am blue in the face and the Scots won’t talk to ye. Never forget, they hate the Sassenach.”

  “You have been very diligent in reminding us of that,” said Arianna softly.

  The surgeon blew out his cheeks. “Lady S, ye grew up in the New World, so I daresay it’s hard for you to comprehend the bitter hate and distrust ingrained in the Scots, the Welsh and the Irish by centuries of subjugation by the English. In many ways, the mighty British Empire is a seething powder keg, ready to explode.”

  “You’ve always said that violence is not the right way to effect change,” said Saybrook. “If your beliefs have changed, tell us now, Baz. I respect your feelings and will not ask you to go against your conscience. But on the other hand, I must know whether I can count on you as an ally.”

  The silence seemed to grow louder with every passing heartbeat.

  “Aye,” Henning finally answered. “You can count on my loyalty. I am a radical when it comes to abstract notions of freedom and equality, but I’m not a revolutionary. France has shown us the horrors of writing change in blood rather than ink.”

  “Thank you.” Saybrook was quick to move on. Taking a small object from his pocket, he handed it to Henning. “Earlier, you said you recognized this.”

  “Yes,” replied the surgeon, fingering the silver fob. “It’s the badge of the Dragons of St. Andrews.”

  Arianna craned her neck for a closer look. She knew that the Dragons were a secret society dedicated to creating an independent Scotland, governed by democratic rule and the principles of individual freedom. Its members were mostly idealistic university students, but during their last mission, they had learned that the group had come under the control of Renard, who had used the young men for his own objectives. “Your ne
phew was arrested by the English for being a cell leader.”

  The surgeon nodded. “Sandro and I found a similar one in David Kydd’s rooms before you two left for Vienna.”

  She closed her eyes for an instant, trying not to picture the blinding flash, the grisly explosion of blood and bone. The young diplomat, a brilliant protégé of Saybrook’s uncle, had been a friend. He had also been an unwitting pawn in Renard’s sinister games.

  “You think that the French still control the group?”

  “It seems a logical place to start,” answered Saybrook. “Especially given what Baz remembered reading in the technical journal from the university at St. Andrews.”

  Henning nodded his assent, though he didn’t look overly happy about it. “Speaking of starting places, once we cross the border into Scotland, I think it best for you two to assume the new identities we’ve agreed on. As I said, my friends won’t be keen to confide in an English earl or countess, no matter how much I assure them that you are trustworthy. Presenting you as an old Spanish comrade from the war will raise far fewer hackles, Sandro . . . though as I said, the Scots tend to be wary of all strangers.”

  “That should present no problem,” said Saybrook. “I would hope that an air of lordly arrogance and entitlement has not yet attached itself to my person.”

  Arianna smiled. Her husband was perhaps even more radical than most revolutionaries when it came to his views on inherited wealth and privilege. “Nor mine either,” she added. “But then, I’ve had far less practice.”

  Though the daughter of an earl, Arianna had lived most of her life in poverty, her aristocratic birth of no consequence in the day-to-day struggle to survive. “My Spanish is excellent, as is my American accent . . .” She switched to a flat drawl. “The role merely requires me to slide into one of my old skins.” There were three—maybe four—to choose from.

  “The skills acquired during your stint with the theatrical troupe in Barbados have certainly proved useful,” said Saybrook.

  “Most husbands would not find the fact that their wife is a master of disguise and deception a mark in her favor,” replied Arianna, her gaze locking briefly with his.

  The smoky flicker of the carriage lamp caught a momentary ripple of amusement in his chocolate-dark eyes. It was gone in an instant, for despite his Spanish blood, which proclaimed itself in his raven-dark hair, olive skin and lean features, it was his more reserved English nature that dominated the expression of his emotions. She had never met anyone quite so in command of his feelings as the earl.

  “One man’s poison is another man’s pleasure,” he quipped.

  “I never tried to poison you,” she protested. “I just tried to prick you with a knife so you couldn’t chase after me.”

  “Just,” murmured her husband.

  The scuff of Henning’s boots on the floorboards interrupted their teasing exchange.

  “Dio Madre, Baz, you are jumpy as a cat on a hot griddle,” said Saybrook. “We’ve been perilously close to the fire before and danced over the coals without being burned. I’ve every intention of coming through this adventure unsinged as well.”

  Folding his arms across his chest, the surgeon only grunted.

  That Henning refused to take part in his usual hard-edged banter with the earl was not a good omen, thought Arianna.

  “If something is bothering you, I wish you would tell us what it is,” she said. Like her husband, his friend hid his feelings very well. At times, both of them reminded her of hedgehogs, rolled tightly into little balls with prickly bristles pointing outward to fend off any touch.

  “Are you worried about something specific?” she went on.

  “Aye,” he said glumly, “I’m worried about when the next body is going to appear. And whose it will be.”

  3

  From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks

  Double Chocolate Scones

  3 cups all-purpose flour

  1/4 cup sugar

  4 teaspoons baking powder

  1/4 teaspoon salt

  1/2 cup (1 stick) butter

  3 large eggs

  1/2 cup milk

  3/4 cup mini chocolate chips

  1 tablespoon grated orange peel

  1/4 cup white chocolate chips

  1. Preheat the oven to 450°F. Grease a large cookie sheet. Stir the flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt in a large bowl. Use a pastry blender or two knives to cut the butter into the dry ingredients until coarse crumbs form.

  2. Beat the eggs and milk in a small bowl with a wire whisk or a fork. When thoroughly blended, stir this mixture, along with 1/2 cup of the mini chocolate chips and the orange peel, into the flour mixture just until blended.

  3. Shape the dough with lightly floured hands into an 8-inch round on the prepared cookie sheet; dust with flour. Score the top of the dough into 8 wedges with a sharp knife.

  4. Bake for 20 to 25 minutes, until golden. Cool completely on a wire rack. Meanwhile, stir the remaining 1/4 cup mini chocolate chips and the white chocolate chips in separate small, heavy saucepans over very low heat until melted and smooth. Drizzle each chocolate from the tip of a spoon in random lines over the tops of the scones. Let stand for 15 minutes to set the chocolate. Cut the scones into wedges along the score lines.

  Gray on gray, the distant church spire was silhouetted against the sky, a dark needle piercing the gloomy mists. Below it, the ancient rooftops of the town floated in and out of view, hide-and-seek spectres. Dark, slightly menacing.

  The university town of St. Andrews did not appear very welcoming. Perhaps it senses that we are intruders, mused Arianna. Hostile forces, come to make war.

  Heaving an inward sigh, she watched as their coach rolled closer and closer.

  To the left, beyond the dark swaths of rain-swept grass and gorse, the pewter gray ocean was rising and falling in sullen swells, with occasional whitecaps foaming like flashes of teeth. The wash of the waves hit upon the rocky strand with a rough, rasping sound, so unlike the tropical lilt of the Caribbean waters.

  Oh, at times how she missed those faraway islands—the spicy warmth, the vibrant colors, the humid breezes, humming with music.

  Much of her childhood in the West Indies had been grim. Her father, forced into exile for his less-than-honorable business gambles, had been murdered when she was fourteen, leaving her alone in the world and forced to fend for herself. Jamaica, Barbados, Martinique . . . She had floated around more rum-drenched hellholes than she cared to count before returning to England.

  And a chance for revenge.

  But strangely enough, she had come to care more for justice than for retribution.

  A glance at Saybrook’s profile, his aquiline nose and slanted cheekbones sharp in the muted light, provoked a tiny smile as she recalled that from the very first, she had been struck by his unyielding sense of honor. They had clashed—and still did—she the cynic, he the idealist, though he would likely bristle at the notion.

  Her eyes moved to Henning, who sat slouched on the far side of the seat staring moodily out the window, and her smile faded.

  Grim. Gray.

  Another sigh, this one audible. The last two days, which had been spent visiting his sister in Edinburgh, had not been a comfortable interlude. The surgeon’s relatives were not unfriendly, just . . . dour. Chiseled faces, burred voices, granite dwellings, hardscrabble landscape—everything in Scotland seemed hewn out of rain-lashed stone.

  “What are those men doing?” asked Saybrook, pressing closer to the window to get a better look at the pair poking at a gorse bush with long wooden sticks. “Hunting rabbits?”

  A gruff chuckle sounded from Henning. “Hunting featheries—that is, a stitched leather ball filled with feathers. They are playing golf.”

  “Golf?” repeated Ar
ianna.

  “Aye. It’s a game. One whacks a ball around a course filled with hazards, like sand bunkers, streams and bushes. The object is to knock it into a small hole in the ground with as few strokes as possible.”

  Wind whipped against the coach, the pelter of rain rattling like a hail of bullets against the window glass. “And that is considered amusement?” she asked, raising a skeptical brow.

  “It’s quite popular here in the north. Indeed, it’s considered a national sport of sorts.”

  The Scots seemed even more incomprehensible, she thought.

  “St. Andrews is considered the birthplace of the game.” He made a face. “So fer God’s sake, don’t ridicule it in public.”

  Had Henning taken offense at her teasing? It was so unlike him to have such a thin skin.

  “On the contrary, I have a great respect for your game of golf,” said Saybrook, quick to smooth any ruffled feathers. “I have heard that it requires careful strategy and precise execution, for so many variables affect the outcome of each shot. One must plan ahead, exercise patience, and be ready to improvise.” A pause. “Rather like the game we are playing.”

  Henning leaned down to fasten the buckles of his valise. “In golf, the loser forfeits a pint of ale, while we will pay for defeat in blood.” Metal chinked against metal. “Make yourself ready to begin the chase in earnest. We’re almost at our appointed lodgings.”

  Arianna drew in a lungful of the damp, salt-roughened air. Time to start sniffing out the scent of a very clever—and very dangerous—fox. One who meant to wreak death and destruction at the heart of the British Empire, not merely within a country henhouse.

  * * *

  Arianna watched her husband break the wax seal on the note that had just been slid under their door. He quickly skimmed over the contents and then dropped it into the fire.

  “Let us hope Grentham’s operative is as well-informed about other things here in St. Andrews as he is about our arrival,” he murmured as the paper turned to ash.