Sweet Revenge

by Andrea Penrose

  Saybrook’s only reaction was to continue contemplating the top of his cane. This one was fashioned with a polished steel knob and a heavy bezel that rotated to release a stiletto hidden within the stout oaken shaft.

  A hush fell over the room, save for the ticking of a tall case clock in the corner. A full minute passed before Grentham added, “I am waiting with bated breath to see how you will extract yourself from this steaming pile of merde.”

  “Then I had better be on my way, before the evidence grows too cold to be of any use.”

  Grentham waited until the earl had his hand on the latch before replying, “Yes, I would hurry if I were you. But I would also tread very carefully. For be assured that if you make one more mistake, you’ll find yourself buried so deep in trouble that you’ll wish yourself dead.”

  A ghost of a smile greeted the minister’s words. “If you are trying to frighten me, you’ll have to come up with a better threat than that.”

  Metal rasped against metal, jarring Arianna from a troubled half sleep.

  “How kind of you to remember your prisoner,” she mumbled, rising from the bench and brushing the cobwebs from her hair. As the door swung open, she saw that the gardens were darkening with twilight shadows. No wonder her stomach was growling in protest. She hadn’t eaten since morning.

  “I—,” she began, only to be cut off by a curt order.

  “This way.” Taking her arm, Saybrook turned off the gravel path and cut across the grass.

  Arianna bristled, hating her loss of control. But after a sidelong glance at her captor, she held back further sarcasm. His skin was drawn taut over the bones of his face, and with fatigue hazing his gaze, he looked on the verge of collapse.

  Time enough later to argue against Fate. For now, she tried to concentrate on making a mental note of her surroundings.

  Tall, well-pruned plantings, set in a symmetrical pattern. . . . Leaves slapped softly against her cheeks, and through the hide-and-seek flickers of light and dark, she had only a fleeting impression of the imposing town house just beyond the privet hedge. A tiered terrace . . . classical colonnading . . . tall Palladian windows framed in pale Portland stone . . .

  She stumbled, suddenly feeling disoriented. The place exuded an aura of power and privilege. Which made absolutely no sense . . . unless he was playing some devious mental game to break down her defenses.

  “In here.”

  Stiffening her resolve, Arianna steadied her step.

  They passed through a stone-floored scullery and down a long corridor. Saybrook paused to light a branch of candles, the flare of flames illuminating a stretch of burnished mahogany wainscoting and gilt-framed paintings.

  Reflected in the glint of his amber gaze, the browns and gold began to dance in a whirling dervish blur.

  Where the devil am I?

  He opened a paneled door set into the wall and stepped aside. “After you, Miss Smith. Have a care. The stairs are rather steep.”

  At the top landing, they exited into yet another corridor and passed through a set of carved double doors. “In here, if you please.” Saybrook indicated the second door on the right.

  Arianna stepped into a large bedchamber tastefully furnished in shades of taupe and cream.

  “I imagine you’re hungry. I’ve ordered up a hot supper.”

  She unwound her shawl and draped it over the dressing table chair. The rich brocade and burled walnut wood had an understated elegance that bespoke money. Heaps of money.

  “I’m not being put on bread and water until I confess?”

  “I think you will find Bianca’s cooking palatable,” he replied. “Please make yourself comfortable. If you would like, I’ll have a bath sent up after your meal.”

  Her skin began to itch at the prospect of scrubbing away the filth of the day. “Thank you.” Arianna was grateful, but it nettled her pride to have to admit it. She glanced around, noting the locked window latches and heavy oak door, and couldn’t keep from adding, “However gilded, it appears that this is a cage. I take it that I am to be held as a prisoner here?”

  Saybrook raised a brow. “Would you rather be in Newgate? The cells there are damp, dirty, and infested with lice that would eat you alive.”

  “I suppose this is a preferable alternative.” She took a seat on the edge of the massive four-poster bed, feeling even more out of place as her work-roughened knuckles brushed against the eiderdown coverlet. “Assuming I don’t expire from boredom.”

  “There is a library at the far end of the corridor. Feel free to choose a book to occupy your mind. But be advised that the main doorway will be locked, and the servants have strict orders that you are not allowed to leave.” Saybrook let the words linger as he carefully lit a branch of candles. “And in case you are wondering, they are quite loyal to the owner of this place, so don’t bother trying to bribe them.”

  Arianna gave a bitter laugh. “Unfortunately I have nothing to barter, save myself.”

  He turned away and gestured at the massive armoire. “Feel free to place your belongings in there. If you are in need of anything else, you may ring for a maid and she will attend to it.”

  The opulence was overwhelming. Everything about the house—the look, the feel, and even the smell—exuded refinement. Delicate colors, feathery silks, the sweetness of lavender. Arianna blinked back the sting of long-ago memories, refusing to be intimidated. Be damned if the Polite World considered her naught but a verminous insect. She would show them that an insect’s bite was cause for alarm.

  “Where am I?” she demanded.

  Saybrook didn’t answer.

  “Bloody hell, Mr. De Quincy, I think I’m entitled to some answers.”

  That drew a gruff laugh. “So do I, Miss Smith,” he replied as he drew the door shut. “So do I.”

  7

  From the chocolate notebooks of Dona Maria Castellano

  Having discovered so many interesting facts in my missionary’s journal has led me to explore other Church records, and I have just learned some new information. In 1569, chocolate became widely popular in Catholic countries because Pope Pius V ruled that drinking the beverage did not break the fast, and so it could be taken as nourishment on Holy Days. However, I doubt such news will be of any interest to Sandro. He shows little reverence for organized religion. . . .

  Spanish Hot Chocolate

  2 cups milk

  2 ounces sweet chocolate

  ½ teaspoon cinnamon

  2 beaten egg yolks

  1. Stir the milk with the chocolate and the cinnamon over low heat until the chocolate dissolves.

  2. Add the egg yolks and beat the mixture until it becomes thick, taking care not to boil.

  3. Serve in coffee mug.

  “So that, in a nutshell, is what happened, Uncle.” Saybrook paused just long enough to chuff a mirthless laugh. “Thank you for drawing me back into the King’s service.” Raising his glass, he cocked a salute. “For God and country. Huzzah.”

  Stealing closer to the library door, Arianna crouched down and eased it open a touch wider. Minutes earlier, the sound of footsteps and the low murmur of masculine voices in the corridor had drawn her attention from the book she had borrowed. Her curiosity piqued, she had given them time to settle in before following along.

  The room was unlit, save a single argent lamp set on the sideboard next to a tray of crystal decanters. Appearing as stark silhouettes against the pale marble of the hearth, the two men were seated facing each other, their dark leather armchairs drawn close to the banked fire.

  “I considered it my duty to pass on Grentham’s request,” said the earl’s companion.

  De Quincy’s uncle? Arianna craned her neck for a better look. In contrast to her captor’s angular features and coal-black hair, the other man had a smooth patrician profile and silvery curls cut short in the latest à la Brutus style. His clothing was elegant and exquisitely tailored as well, the folds precise, the lines faultless.

  Saybrook quaffed
a long swallow of his drink and muttered something under his breath.

  Damn. Arianna inched forward, straining to hear.

  “But now that you have recounted the day’s events, I’m convinced that I should counsel you to wash your hands of the matter,” continued the other man.

  There was a sliver of silence, save for the faint hiss of the burning wick.

  “Oh, well done,” said Saybrook softly. “Holding out a temptation, and then taking it away is a very effective strategy. But then, the highly respected Right Honorable Mr. Mellon is known for his persuasive powers.” To Arianna, his voice sounded slightly slurred. “Tell me, did Whitehall ask you to make sure that I wouldn’t crawl away with my tail between my legs?”

  Mellon’s face tightened and his mouth went white at the corners. “I shall assume it was the drug speaking, not you, and so will forgive that remark. However, if you dare insult my integrity again, I will thrash you to a pulp—wounded leg be damned.”

  After draining the last bit of liquid from his glass, Saybrook pressed it to his brow. “Christ, forgive me. That was a rotten thing to imply.”

  “Yes, it was,” growled Mellon. “As if I would throw my brother’s son to the proverbial wolves.”

  “You would become the next earl if anything were to happen to me,” he pointed out. But as his uncle started to sputter anew, he held up a hand. “Cry pax. In Spain, one had to have a certain sense of gallows humor to survive with a modicum of sanity.”

  Arianna could scarcely believe her ears. The dark-as-the-devil specter was an earl? She hadn’t paid any heed when he offered a second name, but she realized now that it must have been his title. Another slip on my part. She couldn’t afford to miss such details. All too often they could mean the difference between life and death.

  Mellon exhaled a long breath, interrupting her mental monologue and drawing her gaze to his face. “Well, seeing as you escaped slaughter in the wilds of the Guadarrama Mountains, I should hate to see you come to grief here in the heart of civilized London.” His tone was light, but beneath the conciliatory smile he looked troubled.

  Setting aside his empty glass, Saybrook gingerly shifted his outstretched leg. A spasm of pain pinched at his mouth, but he quickly covered it with a cynical grimace. “Death isn’t overly discriminating as to place or time, Uncle.” He smoothed out a wrinkle in his trousers. They were, noted Arianna, a new pair, fashioned out of dove gray superfine. “Just why do you advise me against remaining in charge of Whitehall’s investigation?”

  “Because I don’t trust Grentham farther than I can spit. By all accounts, he’s a devious, duplicitous bastard,” replied Mellon. “There’s no question that he’s extremely effective as head of security, but he’s also scheming, manipulative—and utterly ruthless when it serves his purpose.”

  “He would hardly be any good at his job if he weren’t,” observed Saybrook dryly.

  “I suppose that’s true.” Mellon rubbed at his jaw. “But I have been thinking . . . there might well be another reason, aside from your military intelligence experience and your knowledge of chocolate, that Grentham is anxious to have you handle the investigation of this case.”

  “Ah, yes.” Saybrook’s eyes fell half closed.

  Probably due to the drowsying effects of the narcotic he had added to his wine, thought Arianna.

  “Having a half-blood Spaniard in charge provides a convenient scapegoat if things go awry,” the earl went on. “It would be oh so easy to call my loyalties into question.”

  Interesting. She held herself very still, intent on not missing a single word. The more she knew about her captor, the better her chances of outwitting him.

  “I fear so,” admitted Mellon. “Not that anyone in his right mind could question your commitment to your country. Good God, you’re a decorated war hero who served as an officer of army intelligence in the most brutal campaign of the Peninsular War.” He rose and went to pour himself another brandy. “Not to speak of holding one of the most distinguished titles of the realm.”

  “Some people consider that a sacrilege, rather than a mark in my favor.” Saybrook made a face. “Oh, yes, I’ve heard the murmurs—What a pity that the august earldom of Saybrook has fallen to an olive-skinned foreigner.”

  Saybrook, she repeated to herself, trying to recall whether Lady Spencer and her dissolute friends had ever mentioned the name. But nothing came to mind.

  “And while you are up, you may bring me another glass of port. With a generous splash from the vial beside it, if you please.”

  Mellon frowned but did as he was asked. “The blood you spilled on the battlefield of Salamanca flows back to William the Conqueror.”

  “All the more reason that many sticklers of the ton resent me.” He took a sip of the laudanum-laced spirits. “But never mind that. There is an old adage—sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me.”

  “With Grentham, I would not be so sure,” said Mellon. “He wields them with all the skill of a Death’s Head Hussar.”

  “Thank you for the warning, but I am familiar with the shadowy underworld in which he moves,” replied Saybrook. “Lies and innuendo. Deception and duplicity.”

  Oh, yes, thought Arianna. I’m familiar with that world, too, milord.

  Lifting the cut crystal glass to the candle, he spun it in his fingers. “Grentham may wish to maneuver me like a pawn on his chessboard, but he won’t find it quite so easy to control my every move.”

  “You might not find it quite so simple to slip free from his iron-fisted control,” said his uncle.

  “Perhaps not.” A hint of humor seemed to creep into the earl’s voice. “But as you pointed out when you first came to me with this proposal, maybe I need a challenge to rekindle a spark of life.”

  “Just as long as you don’t end up being burned to a crisp.” Mellon grimaced. “Speaking of which, how is your leg? You said you suffered a fresh wound?”

  “Naught but a scratch,” replied Saybrook. “Henning stitched it up for me. He’s quite clever with a needle, a skill that I trust he will put to good use on the late Major Crandall. Grentham has not yet sent round one of his lackeys to take a look at the corpse, but I daresay he will.”

  “Do you trust this fellow?” asked his uncle in a near whisper.

  “With my life,” responded Saybrook without hesitation. “Henning and I fought together during Wellington’s campaign to push Massena out of Portugal, as well as the attack on Ciudad Rodrigo.” Despite the low light, Arianna saw his body tense and a sheen of sweat lick across his brow. “A man shows his true mettle when he’s plunged into the very deepest pits of hell. There’s no comrade I would rather have watching my arse.”

  “Just so long as he doesn’t stick a knife in your back. Grentham has ways of convincing a fellow to betray his friends.”

  “I’m confident that my luck in dodging sharpened steel will hold.” He gestured at his thigh. “Don’t forget, you are the one who admonished me to crawl out of my cave of self-pity and stand on my feet again.”

  “So I did. And while I don’t regret the spirit of my words, I fear that I was wrong in suggesting you get involved in this sordid mess.” Shadows hid his expression as Mellon shook his head. “This is too dangerous, Sandro. There is something havey-cavey going on here. Ask yourself, why did Crandall try to kill the Cook? If they wanted him—or her—dead, they had only to arrest her and do the deed quietly somewhere in the depths of Newgate.”

  “Yes,” mused Saybrook. “I agree. It makes no sense.”

  “All the more reason to distance yourself,” pressed Mellon. “Turn the woman over to Grentham and be done with it.”

  Arianna shot an involuntary glance down the darkened corridor. How many guards did he have posted beyond the door? And were they armed? Her skill at picking locks was quite good, but dexterous hands—and quick feet—would be no match for loaded pistols.

  Looking back, she saw Saybrook press his fingertips to his temples and begi
n a slow massaging. “Good God, you can imagine what they’ll do to her, knowing she stabbed the Major.”

  Mellon stared into his brandy.

  “She did it to save my life. I can hardly in good conscience hand her over to suffer for my own ineptitude.”

  His uncle’s lips thinned. “What the devil is your alternative?”

  There was a long silence. “I haven’t decided,” he admitted. “I will think about it tonight. And in the morning, I will have another talk with Miss Smith. Perhaps she will be more forthcoming after sleeping on the fact that right now she’s the most hunted criminal in England.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it. From what you described, I’d say the woman has brass balls.”

  A chuckle rumbled in Saybrook’s throat. “Actually, brass is far too soft a metal. I would say that her cojones are made of Toledo steel.”

  “It’s nothing to laugh about.” Mellon rose. “Try to get some rest yourself, Sandro. You look like hell.”

  Lost in thought, Arianna was slow to react.

  “I’ll see myself out,” he added, seeing the earl awkwardly lever to his feet.

  “I’m not so crippled that I can’t walk you to the door, Uncle,” muttered Saybrook.

  Gathering her skirts, Arianna spun around and, after gauging the distance to her room, ran for the closest door.

  The closing thud of the oak doors was echoed by the sharp metallic snick of a key turning in the lock. Arianna held her breath, waiting for the sound of the earl’s shuffling steps to recede. Surely he would lose no time in returning to the library. She had seen the hungry look in his eye as he had glanced at the sideboard. Pain must be gnawing at his leg—