Hydrogen gas, oceanic currents, barometric pressure. Though her head was starting to spin with all the technicalities of flying, Arianna concentrated on making mental notes of the discussion. “I can understand the exhilaration of seeing the world from a bird’s-eye view,” she said slowly. “But from what you are saying, it sounds like ballooning serves more for entertainment than for any practical purpose.”
“Not so, milady,” said Sadler. “It has a number of serious scientific purposes. Luke Howard has created a comprehensive catalogue of cloud types, and Francis Beaufort has created a system for measuring wind velocity. In addition, high ascents have provided valuable data on barometric pressure and other phenomena. Why, the French chemist Gay-Lussac established that man cannot breathe above the altitude of twenty-three thousand feet. Is not that fascinating?”
“Indeed,” replied Arianna. “Though I cannot say it is a fact that affects our daily life.”
“Ballooning serves as an inspiration,” said Windham. “It uplifts our aspirations, our spirits, no matter our everyday drudgeries.” The young man drew in a deep breath. “As the poet Wordsworth says,
Away we go!—and what care we
For treason, tumults, and for wars?
We are as calm in our Delight
As is the crescent-Moon so bright
Among the scattered stars.”
Sadler gazed fondly at his son, then turned to Arianna. “Youthful exuberance,” he said half-apologetically. “But I believe all of us aviators share that sense of wonder. There are risks, to be sure, but they are far outweighed by the rewards of being pioneers.”
“Aye, we’ve learned a thing or two about safety since Blanchard and Jeffries made the first flight across the Channel,” said the man who had been conversing with Lawrance. “Ho, what an adventure that was . . .”
Nearly three-quarters of an hour passed before Arianna took her leave from the chocolate shop, having garnered a great deal more arcane information about balloons and an open invitation to join one of their flights. But even more intriguing was the fact that over the last several months, Lawrance had become an avid aficionado of aeronautics and was now a frequent visitor to the Artillery Grounds.
“That should give Sandro some new food for thought,” she mused, climbing into her carriage. And with any luck, the evening lecture at the Royal Institution would also serve up some useful tidbits of information.
“Let us hope,” she added to herself, “that at long last, we may finally be getting this investigation off the ground.”
* * *
“Do you, perchance, recognize this, Mr. Stutz?” asked Saybrook.
The tailor took a moment to examine the scrap of silk. “Aye. It is Indian, milord, a very distinctive weave from Jaipur. One can tell by the nubbiness of the texture and the richness of the colors.”
“Is it one of your exclusive fabrics? I was told the stitching was done by this shop.”
Stutz looked up. “Dare I hope you are thinking of switching your allegiance from Weston to me?”
The earl smiled. “Alas, no. I am very happy with my current wardrobe, so it would be disloyal to desert a man who has served me so well.”
“I can’t find fault with that sentiment, milord—though it was worth a try,” replied Stutz, still caressing the silk. “The material is indeed mine. Might I ask why the interest in it?”
“I am hoping you might tell which of your clients have had a waistcoat made up out of it.”
The tailor fingered his chin. “Hmm, let me think . . . The pattern and colors are a bit out of the ordinary, so I believe we only had a few orders . . . Hmmm, there was Lord Glastonbury, an Irish peer here on a visit from Dublin; Mr. Thornwood, the Earl of Bridport’s youngest son . . . oh, and Mr. Lawrance, Baron Blight’s heir.” He pursed his lips. “Yes, yes, I’m quite certain that only three were made.”
“Thank you,” replied Saybrook. “That’s very helpful.”
Stutz watched him tuck the scrap back into his pocket and let out a mournful little sigh. “I take it one of them is damaged beyond repair.”
The earl didn’t answer directly. “I would prefer that this conversation remain confidential.” He put a fat leather purse on the counter. “It is a private matter.”
“But of course, milord.”
Tipping his hat, Saybrook took leave of the fancy shop and turned his steps toward a less elegant part of Town.
A brisk walk brought him to Henning’s surgery, where he hesitated for a moment before entering in his usual manner—without a knock.
“Sandro!” Henning fumbled to shove a handful of papers into his desk drawer as he spun around in his chair. “What brings ye here at the crack of dawn, laddie?”
“It’s well after noon, Baz,” replied the earl dryly.
“Is it?” The surgeon scratched at his unshaven chin. With his red-rimmed eyes and uncombed hair, he looked as though he had just crawled out from under the bedcovers.
“Indeed.” Saybrook eyed the surgery counter, a tiny frown pinching his features as he took in the jumbled disarray. In contrast to Henning, the instruments of his trade were always arranged in an orderly fashion. “Having spent the morning chatting about threads and fabrics, I believe that I’ve discovered the identity of our assailant. It’s Henry Lawrance, and I thought you might care to join me in paying him a visit.” He shifted his stance, the faint scrape of his boots punctuating the pause. “But I can see that you are otherwise occupied.”
“Nay, nay.” Henning rose and ran a hand through his disheveled locks. “Lady S would have my guts for garters were I to let you go off on yer own.” Opening the bottom desk drawer, he took out a pocket pistol and quickly tucked it into his coat.
“A new acquisition?” asked the earl softly.
“Yes, a recent patient bartered it for my services,” replied Henning without blinking an eye. “I’m ready,” he announced, quickly changing the subject. “And be advised that I expect an ample breakfast after we’re done.”
“Bianca will be happy to serve up your favorite creamed herring. But first, we have another fish to fry.”
As they headed west in a hired hackney, Saybrook explained what he had learned. “After making some discreet inquiries, I’ve also discovered that Lawrance has an appointment with the Royal Society’s librarian this afternoon. He wishes to read over some of Antoine Lavoisier’s chemical experiments from the last century.”
“Lavoisier,” repeated Henning. “A Frenchman whose brilliance rivaled that of our current English genius, Humphry Davy.” The wheels clacked, clacked, clacked over the cobblestones, as if echoing the turning of his mental gears. “How interesting that Lawrance would be so curious about a scientist who performed so many experiments with explosives and propellants for flying balloons.”
“It seemed so to me as well.”
“So we shall find him in one of the private study rooms?”
“Yes,” replied the earl with a smile of satisfaction. “A perfect venue for an intimate little chat, don’t you think?”
Henning cracked his knuckles. “Auch, my fists are feeling awfully garrulous today.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in violence.”
“In science, one is always putting theory to practical tests, laddie,” came the cryptic reply.
“Baz—” began the earl.
“Save yer breath te cool yer porridge, Sandro. I don’t need a lecture on the moral triumph of turning the other cheek.”
“I wouldn’t presume to be such a pompous windbag,” answered the earl. “I’m simply concerned that the desire for revenge doesn’t cloud your normally clear-eyed vision. Just ask Arianna how its prism can distort the view of the world.”
Pursing his lips, the surgeon slanted a long look out the grimy window glass.
“
We’re here,” announced Saybrook, breaking the uneasy silence. “For now, let us turn our gaze to a more immediate challenge.”
17
From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks
Lemon–Olive Oil Banana Bread
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 cup whole wheat flour
1/2 cup dark Muscovado or dark brown sugar
3/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1 cup coarsely chopped bittersweet chocolate
1/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil
2 large eggs, lightly beaten
11/2 cups mashed, very ripe bananas (about 3 bananas)
1/4 cup whole-milk yogurt
1 teaspoon freshly grated lemon zest
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
For the glaze:
1/2 cup sifted dark Muscovado or dark brown sugar
1/2 cup confectioners’ sugar
4 teaspoons freshly squeezed lemon juice
1. Preheat the oven to 350°F. Place a rack in the center. Grease a 9 x 5–inch loaf pan or equivalent.
2. In a large bowl, whisk together the flours, sugar, baking soda, and salt. Add the chocolate pieces and combine well.
3. In a separate bowl, mix together the olive oil, eggs, banana, yogurt, zest, and vanilla. Pour the banana mixture into the flour mixture and fold with a spatula until just combined.
4. Scrape the batter into the prepared pan and bake until golden brown, about 50 minutes. Do not overbake or the bread will be dry.
5. Transfer the pan to a wire rack to cool for 10 minutes. Turn the loaf out of the pan to cool completely.
6. While the cake is cooling, prepare the glaze. In a small bowl, whisk together the sugars and the lemon juice until smooth. When the cake is completely cool, drizzle the glaze on top of the cake, spreading with a spatula to cover.
“I’d like for you to distract the porter while I take a peek at the guest log,” said the earl to Henning as they climbed the front steps of the Royal Society’s headquarters in Somerset House. “It would be best if our interest in Mr. Lawrance remains a secret.”
A few innocuous questions regarding an upcoming exhibit served the purpose and they were once again out on the Strand. But rather than seek a hackney, they lit up cheroots and strolled around past the side portico, lingering near one of the delivery entrances until they were able to slip inside unnoticed. A back stairwell led to the rear of the central wing, overlooking the Thames, where the book and manuscript collections were housed.
“Lawrance is in Room Three, at the end of the corridor,” said Saybrook, pausing to check the connecting entryway. There was no sign of life, and aside from the creaking of the floorboards, it was quiet as a crypt. “Check the priming of your weapon, Baz. I don’t expect you will have to use it, but we’ve seen that he’s a slippery devil, and on no account do I intend to let him get away from us this time.”
The hammer cocked back with a low snick.
“That said, aim for his knee and not his heart.” He made a wry face. “I need to have one of our adversaries stay alive long enough for me to question him.”
“Don’t worry, my bullet won’t kill him.” Snick, snick. “But it will be painful enough that he will wish he were dead.”
The door latch released with the same muted metallic sound, allowing them entrance into a small, windowless study room. The only source of illumination was a single Argand lamp set on the corner of the worktable, its oil-fed circular wick casting a halo of mellow light over the sherry-colored paneling and Lawrance’s hunched shoulders. His back was to them, head bent so low that only a glimmer of fair curls showed above the broad curve of his navy coat.
Engrossed in his work, Lawrance appeared unaware that he was no longer alone.
The earl eased a knife from his boot and moved stealthily across the patterned Turkey carpet, Henning shadowing his steps. The thick weave swallowed the sound of their approach, and it wasn’t until the steel point kissed up against Lawrance’s neck that the scratch of his pen abruptly stopped.
“I would advise against any further movement,” said Saybrook, watching a tiny bead of blood well up just below the other man’s ear. “Another flinch and you might sever your carotid artery.”
Lawrance remained motionless. “May I be permitted to turn around?” he asked calmly. “If I am to be executed, I prefer to face my killer.”
“Slowly,” allowed the earl. “And keep your hands away from your pockets.” He kept the blade poised a scant inch from Lawrance’s throat. “I see you have chosen a more subdued waistcoat for today. A wise move, though a trifle too late to save you from your own hubris.”
“I didn’t realize you had an interest in fashion, Lord Saybrook,” said Lawrance coolly.
“Only when I can follow a thread that leads me to a vicious murderer.” Saybrook set the razor-sharp blade to the pulse point located beneath Lawrance’s chin. “Let us not bother with embroidering any more false pleasantries, shall we? Who sent you to kill Brynn-Smith?”
Lawrance tightened his jaw, but to his credit he reacted with admirable sangfroid. “Is this attempt at distraction and dissembling meant to confuse me into spilling my guts?”
“Nay, laddie,” answered Henning. “It is I who will mince yer intestines into wee little chunks to use for Scottish haggis. That is, when we have no more use for yer miserable carcass.”
The prisoner turned a little green around the gills. “I’ve no doubt that I will die, and likely quite in a hideous manner. But you are wasting your time trying to extract information from me.”
“Brave words,” commented Saybrook. “Yet in my experience, most men turn quite talkative once the blade starts carving at their liver. You can, of course, avoid bloodshed by telling us what you know now.”
“Ah, is that what you promised Brynn-Smith before you shoved the blade into his heart?” countered Lawrance.
“Me?” The earl frowned as he considered the question. “As you say, any ham-handed attempts at dissembling are insulting. None of us here is a fool.”
“Yet it was a foolish move to return to the murder scene,” countered Lawrance.
“Why would I do such a thing?” asked the earl. “Assuming, of course, that I killed him.”
“Good God, I have no idea how your devious, traitorous mind works.” Lawrance let out a bark of laughter. “I suppose you must have remembered some telltale clue that would have given you away. A pity that I had not yet found it before you came back to cover your tracks. But be that as it may, we are tightening the noose on you and your circle of conspirators, Saybrook.”
The earl heaved a sigh. “Must we keep spinning round and round through these pointless bluffs, Lawrance? It is getting us nowhere.”
“Then go right ahead and kill me. It doesn’t matter a whit. I’ve left a dossier of detailed notes, and another will take my place.” Lawrance raised his chin in a show of bravado. “As I said, I was closing in on you, just as I was closing in on Lord Reginald Sommers. I’m heartily sorry that he fell victim to a cutpurse in Vienna. I would have preferred to see him exposed as the treacherous snake that he was.”
Lawrance paused to draw a deep breath. “I admit, you were the cleverer of the two. I hadn’t pegged you as part of their group until the other night.” A sneer curled at the corners of his mouth. “Your uncle is so damnably proud of you and your heroic service to God and country. He will be devastated to learn that in reality, he’s been nursing a viper at his bosom.”
As Lawrance finished his statement, Henning suddenly tossed a small leather purse at his head. Reacting instinctively, he threw up his right hand to catch the missile.
“Oh, bloody hell,” muttered the surgeon.
Saybrook fixed him with a questioning look.
; “While ye were checking the bedchamber, I made a cursory examination of the body,” explained Henning. “Brynn-Smith was killed by a left-handed thrust. And as we see, both of ye are right-handed.”
“You did not think that important to mention before now?” growled the earl.
“I . . . I assumed ye were going to arrange it with Grentham that I got a full examination of the body.”
“Grentham?” Lawrance couldn’t hold back his surprise. “B-but . . .” His voice trailed off in confusion as he eyed his captors.
“Let me guess,” said the surgeon sardonically. “Ye are working for the Home Guard—no, no, on second thought, they would choose a former military man. So it must be—”
“The Foreign Office,” finished Saybrook. “They are the most obsessive about keeping secrets from the other branches of government, so it makes sense that they would have their own network of spies.”
“I am not a spy,” said Lawrance, mustering a show of dignity. “I am an investigative agent for the Crown.”
The surgeon uttered a rude sound. “Auch, a rotten fish by any name smells—”
“Baz,” warned Saybrook.
“What a devil-damned cock-up,” said the surgeon. “The government has an itch on its arse, and no idea which of its arms is moving to scratch it.” His expression brightened somewhat as he went on. “Grentham will be mad as a newly gelded stallion to hear that another department is treading on his turf.”
At the second mention of the minister’s name, Lawrance’s scowl turned a trifle tentative. “Are you claiming that you work for Lord Grentham?”
Saybrook pinched a grim smile. “Would you believe me if I did?”
Lawrance shifted slightly in his chair, careful to avoid the sharpened steel still poised perilously close to his throat.
“We’re not the enemy, laddie,” said Henning.
“No?” Eyes narrowing, their prisoner fixed Saybrook with an uncertain look. “Then why was your wife at a chocolate shop frequented by the Artillery Grounds aeronauts? It couldn’t have been a coincidence.”
Recipe for Treason: A Lady Arianna Regency Mystery (Lady Arianna Hadley Mystery) Page 22