Sweet Revenge

by Andrea Penrose

  He fingered his chin, and she could tell he was giving it serious thought.

  “Come, you have to admit that there is no reason it won’t work. Chef Alphonse simply disappears, as befits a canny murderer. I, in turn, make an entrance into Society as a relative of Mr. Mellon and his family, which is all very proper and according to protocol.”

  “There are a number of rather important details, such as a fashionable wardrobe and a respectable residence. To be credible you cannot exist as a will-o’-the-wisp.”

  “True, but all of these things can be easily worked out.” Arianna feigned a casual shrug. Money, bloody money. The cursed stuff—or lack of it—had controlled so much of her life. And now was no exception. Her plan depended on how much of his own the earl was willing to part with.

  “You’ve plenty of blunt,” she went on. “Surely you won’t mind spending a bit to drape yourself in the glory of catching the Prince’s poisoner. I’m sure His Royal Highness will reward you handsomely.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I’m not looking for another medal, Miss Smith. Or money.”

  “Ah, yes. Noble principle.” Perhaps it was a mistake to mock him, but she couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “Well, not everyone can afford to have such integrity, Lord Saybrook. Most of us are willing to sell ourselves quite cheaply.”

  “But not you, Miss Smith,” he responded, matching her tone. “What you are suggesting will cost me a pretty penny. A fancy wardrobe . . . a lady’s maid . . . a residence and retainers.” His brow rose a notch. “While we’re at it, shall we add in a matched pair of winged unicorns to fly your spun-sugar carriage to the moon?”

  “Not necessary. I told you, sir, I’m not going anywhere until we solve this case.”

  “We?” He chuffed out a harsh breath. “What makes you think you can carry off this charade? It’s one thing to skulk around a darkened kitchen disguised as a rough-mannered man. But to parade as a gently bred lady under the glittering lights of a Mayfair ballroom will take more than cojones. . . .” He let his words trail off.

  “I know more about your world than you might imagine.” Vague memories stirred, like the flutter of gossamer silk in a summer breeze. Candlelight and music. Champagne popping and couples dancing. The dulcet tones of her mother’s laughter rising up to her hiding place at the top of the marble staircase.

  Strange, but it suddenly felt as if a flock of butterflies were beating their wings against her ribs.

  Clearing her throat, she summoned from somewhere deep within herself the cultured tones of an English aristocrat. “I promise you, Lord Saybrook, I am quite capable of playing the role of a respectable female.”

  She looked up to find the earl’s eyes boring into her. “Who are you?” he mused. “Not that I expect an answer.”

  Arianna brushed off the odd sensation. “My past isn’t important,” she said softly. “All that should concern you is what I can do for you in the next little while.”

  Saybrook rose and went to stand by the windows. Backlit by the morning sun, he appeared as a stark sliver of black, all sharp angles and impenetrable shadows.

  “Not a soul is aware of my presence in London,” she added. “Indeed, most people aren’t even aware that I still exist. Which should count as yet another point in favor of my plan.”

  “Yes, it’s doubtful Grentham knows anything about you,” conceded the earl. He turned abruptly. “He would have pounced by now.”

  She could sense that he was wavering. As a distraction, she pointed to the plate of chocolate wafers that Elena had brought in. “You might as well begin your healing regimen right away. If you are to be of any use, you need to build up your strength.”

  He ran a finger over the glossy dark discs. “I thought you didn’t share your secrets.”

  “Seeing as you shared your grandmother’s journals—”

  “Unwillingly, I might add.”

  “Be that as it may, I thought it only fair to reciprocate.”

  “Yet you’ve taken great pains to tell me you have no principles,” pointed out Saybrook. “Isn’t that a contradiction?”

  “No doubt. I also told you I don’t feel compelled to abide by any rules. You will have to get used to my mercurial habits.”

  Arianna could almost see his mind working. Lies and flatteries, deceptions and betrayals. The earl was wondering whether he was being set up. Ensnared in a silken web.

  He rubbed at his injured leg. “We’ve spent a lot of time discussing the Prince’s poisoner, but have you forgotten about Major Crandall? Why he wanted you dead is just as great a mystery.”

  “Yes, it is.” Arianna gave a small smile of triumph. “You solve that one while I apply myself to the other. Assuming, of course, that you accept the terms of my offer.”

  “You drive a hard bargain.”

  “Does that intimidate you, Lord Saybrook?”

  The challenge seemed to spark a new light in the depth of his eyes. There was, she reminded herself, a luminous intelligence there, though the opium had made it difficult to discern.

  Cat and mouse. They would both be playing a dangerous game, each determined to be the predator and not the prey.

  His mouth curled up at the corners. “Oh, be assured that I am tougher than I look.”

  She felt her mouth go a little dry. “As am I, sir.”

  Saybrook acknowledged the assertion with a small nod.

  “So, do we have a deal?” asked Arianna.

  “I will likely regret it, but yes, we have a deal, Miss Smith.” Picking up a piece of the chocolate, he broke off a sliver and popped it into his mouth. “Now get dressed. We must move quickly if we have any hope of making this work.”

  9

  From the chocolate notebooks of Dona Maria Castellano

  Ha! I have made another scientific discovery! In 1570, chocolate was being used as a medicine in Spain. Francisco Hernandez, the royal physician to King Philip II, believed that it was beneficial, and prescribed it to reduce fevers and relieve discomfort in hot weather. I have my doubts about the effectiveness of such treatments, but I applaud his intelligence in realizing the healthful benefits of chocolate. . . .

  Salted Chocolate Caramels

  2 cups heavy cream

  10½ ounces fine-quality bittersweet chocolate (no more

  than 60% cacao if marked), finely chopped

  1¾ cups sugar

  ½ cup light corn syrup

  ¼ cup water

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  3 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into tablespoon pieces

  2 teaspoons flaky sea salt, such as Maldon

  vegetable oil for greasing

  1. Line bottom and sides of an 8-inch straight-sided square metal baking pan with 2 long sheets of crisscrossed parchment.

  2. Bring cream just to a boil in a 1- to 1½-quart heavy saucepan over moderately high heat, then reduce heat to low and add chocolate. Let stand 1 minute, then stir until chocolate is completely melted. Remove from heat.

  3. Bring sugar, corn syrup, water, and salt to a boil in a 5- to 6-quart heavy pot over moderate heat, stirring until sugar is dissolved. Boil, uncovered, without stirring but gently swirling pan occasionally, until sugar is deep golden, about 10 minutes. Tilt pan and carefully pour in chocolate mixture (mixture will bubble and steam vigorously). Continue to boil over moderate heat, stirring frequently, until mixture registers 255°F on thermometer, about 15 minutes.

  4. Add butter, stirring until completely melted, then immediately pour into lined baking pan (do not scrape any caramel clinging to bottom or side of saucepan). Let caramel stand 10 minutes; then sprinkle evenly with sea salt. Cool completely in pan on a rack, about 2 hours.

  5. Carefully invert caramel onto a clean, dry cutting board, then peel off parchment. Turn caramel salt side up. Lightly oil blade of a large, heavy knife and cut into 1-inch squares.

  The next few days passed in a blur. Modistes, milliners, parasols, corsets . . . the list of shops to visit and things to order s
eemed endless. As did the long sessions with Lord Mellon and his wife, reviewing proper etiquette and the hierarchy of Polite Society.

  Like any savage place, London had its own laws of the jungle.

  Arianna saw nothing of Saybrook. After discreetly delivering her to his uncle’s residence and recruiting him as a reluctant ally, the earl had disappeared. Mellon was far too well-mannered to express his true feelings, but worry was writ plain on his patrician face. Did he wonder whether he was harboring a murderer in his home? Or were his fears all for the consequences his nephew would suffer if this deceit of Whitehall became known.

  They would, she guessed, be dire.

  Well, the earl would have to look out for himself. As for carrying out her own part of the plan, she didn’t intend to fail.

  By the end of the interlude, even Mellon had been forced to concede that she learned her lessons well. Perhaps, thought Arianna sardonically, she had absorbed the essence of aristocratic bearing from her mother’s milk. She remembered Lady Anne as an ethereal beauty, surrounded by an air of absolute tranquility. The calm before the storm. Her father’s life had gone to pieces upon her death, no longer held together by his wife’s serene good sense.

  Ashes to ashes. But justice could rise, like a phoenix from the burnt-out coals.

  Justice. In an odd sort of way, she and the earl did have something in common, though they might define the concept in very different ways.

  So, she had worked diligently during the day, and spent long hours at night plotting, planning her strategy. Lord Concord—his depravities and desires were well known to her, thanks to the loose tongue of Lady Spencer. And she planned to use that knowledge as a weapon. The swoosh of a fan, the flutter of lashes . . . blades and bullets were not the only way to slay an enemy.

  As Arianna ran her hand over the fancy gowns hanging in the armoire, feeling the seductive softness of the costly silks and satins, the intricate patterns of the exquisite beading and lace, her flesh began to prickle in anticipation. The act of sliding into a new persona was by now so familiar that it felt like donning a second skin. Disguise and deception. She had been hiding her true self for so long, she wondered whether it existed anymore.

  Her fingers clenched. It didn’t matter. She had waited for what felt like a lifetime to assume this role.

  Let the play begin.

  Gemstones sparkled in the blaze of the torchieres flanking the front door, looking like brilliant bits of colored fire against the swirl of dark velvet cloaks and black overcoats. The evening was cool, but the heat inside the crowded entrance hall was already cloying. Lush perfumes and spicy colognes mingled with the sweet scent of the roses, thickening the air so that every little breath was a tickling caress against bare skin.

  Arianna quickly adjusted her shawl to cover the pebbling of gooseflesh on her arms.

  She looked around, careful to mask her reaction to the sights, the sounds, the smells of her first London ball with an expression of regal indifference. No one must guess she was not at home in the splendor of Mayfair’s mansions. She was now one of them, she reminded herself.

  A lady of indolent leisure. Rich. Bored. Craving a taste of excitement.

  Her own emotions had no place here. All her actions must be calculated to attract, entice a certain sort of gentleman.

  “Abandon hope, all ye who enter here,” said Saybrook in a sardonic murmur, while his uncle and aunt were drawn aside to greet some old friends.

  “Is that meant to put me at ease?” she asked under her breath.

  “God, no, simply an observation. I can’t imagine anything putting your nerves on edge. Certainly not a gathering of rich, overfed aristocrats.”

  She laughed. “You, at least, appear the better for taking some nourishment. I trust that Bianca and Elena have been feeding you chocolate.”

  His mouth quirked. “Stuffing me like a pig.”

  “There’s an old adage about casting pearls before swine.” She noted that his evening clothes seemed close to fitting his lanky frame.

  “Ah, you flatter me, Lady Wolcott,” he murmured. Arianna had chosen her mother’s middle name to use as her nom de guerre. “Though allow me to point out that most people will take such frankness amiss.”

  “I know what is expected of me,” answered Arianna in a low whisper. “I shall not disappoint.”

  She could feel the curious stares as the earl handed her cloak to one of the porters. Her gown, fashioned from shimmering sea-green watered silk, was expertly cut to accentuate every subtle feminine curve.

  “A lovely creation, madam,” murmured Saybrook. “Your taste is exquisite.”

  “And expensive,” she replied. “I hope you are a very rich man, milord.”

  He inclined his head a fraction. “I am. But be advised that I expect my investment to pay off.”

  The note of cool detachment nettled for an instant, but Arianna was quickly distracted by the arrival of Lord Concord, who came in with several other gentlemen.

  As he turned to converse with his friends, she had a chance to study him under the bright light of the crystal chandelier.

  Robert Mappleton, the Right Honorable Lord Concord, was a decade younger than her father—which put his age at forty-four—and had inherited the barony only recently. Those facts, and a good many other details about his background, she had committed to heart. Until now, however, she had caught only fleeting glances of his face.

  Arianna could see why many women found him attractive. He possessed fleshy good looks that were just beginning to show the effects of his dissolute lifestyle. His dark hair was thick, with just a touch of silver showing at the temples, and his smile radiated a certain self-confident hauteur.

  She angled her body, just enough to catch his eye, and then turned away. Let him wonder who she was.

  “Quite a crush, is it not?” Saybrook surveyed the snaking line of guests winding their way up the curved stairway. “That is, by the by, the highest accolade for any evening entertainment.”

  Mellon and his wife rejoined them. “Shall we go up?” he inquired tightly.

  “After you, Uncle,” replied Saybrook, offering Arianna his arm.

  The vast stretch of black and white marble floor tiles were barely visible beneath the sea of ruffled silks and polished evening pumps. The effect was still impressive, as was the pristine painted woodwork and the high, arched ceiling decorated with an Italianate fresco of cavorting cherubs.

  She blinked, feeling a bit blinded by all the rich trappings of the haute monde.

  A lady’s light laugh sounded nearby, the dulcet tone blending with the masculine murmurs and the muted clink of crystal.

  Privilege, power, pedigree. Wealth had a language of its own.

  Her eyes once again found Lord Concord.

  “If you are ready, Lady Wolcott, I think we ought to follow my uncle’s suggestion and go meet our hostess.”

  Saybrook’s words roused her from her study. “Yes, of course.”

  The stairs were still crowded. She felt the brush of wool against her bare arms and heard whispers stir behind her back. Their comments had drawn attention. People were curious about the new face in their midst.

  Excellent.

  Fluttering her fan, Arianna ventured a peek at the people below. Concord was leaning on the newel post, his head upturned, his gaze on her.

  Better and better.

  As they made the last turn to the upper floor, the light from the massive chandelier seemed to take on an even more glittering intensity. Mellon was waiting for them, and as his wife slipped away to greet a group of her friends, he held out a gloved hand. “I shall take our lovely relative to greet Lady Battell,” he announced. “And then we will have the first dance before turning her over to you, Sandro.”

  The earl stepped aside with alacrity. “But of course. I will meet up with you later.”

  Arianna had no chance to see where he slipped off to, as she was immediately swallowed into a swirl of silken greetings. Names, fac
es, titles—she concentrated on keeping them all straight. Everyone, it seemed, was anxious to make her acquaintance.

  “That seemed to go well,” she murmured as Mellon finally was able to lead her on to the dance floor.

  “Yes.” The earl’s uncle kept a dutiful smile pasted on his face, but no warmth reached his eyes.

  “I know how little you like this, sir,” she said. “But I’m not your nephew’s enemy. I’m not going to stab him in the back.”

  “So you say.” His jaw tightened. “Have you truly any idea of what a dirty, dangerous game you are playing?”

  “I’m not afraid,” answered Arianna.

  “Well, you should be,” whispered Mellon. “As should my nephew.”

  She wasn’t sure how to answer, so they danced the rest of the quadrille in silence, their feet moving mechanically in time with the music.

  “Your uncle dislikes me,” she said, as the earl claimed her hand.

  “He tends to be protective,” answered Saybrook.

  “Your grandmother’s journal also expressed worry over you,” she blurted out. “Why?”

  “I was at war, Lady Wolcott. Naturally she was worried.”

  Despite the noise and the crowd, Arianna was suddenly aware of being very alone. No one gave a damn whether she lived or died. Even when her father was alive, he had shown little paternal responsibility. Every man for himself was the unspoken credo. She had learned at an early age to fend for herself.

  “Naturally,” she replied coolly. “So who watched over you in the army? Do your fancy English regiments hire mother hens to keep watch over the precious chicks?”

  The shadow of his lashes hid his eyes. “Have a care where you tread, Lady Wolcott,” he said softly.

  Arianna felt his shoe pinch against her toe.

  “The dance,” he chided. “Pay attention to the dance. If you wish people to believe you are who you say you are, you can’t afford the tiniest slip.”