Sweet Revenge

by Andrea Penrose

  “My research has uncovered a business venture, one involving the supply of munitions to the Duke of Brunswick’s army during the First Coalition campaign against the French revolutionaries. The duke was advancing on Paris and the French should have been no match for his veteran forces. However, at the Battle of Valmy, Brunswick was forced to retreat in the face of superior artillery fire.”

  She frowned. “I assure you, my father wasn’t the least bit interested in politics or warfare.”

  Again the earl hesitated. “No, but he was very interested in money, wasn’t he?”

  Her throat grew painfully tight.

  “There seem to have been some serious questions concerning the company’s bookkeeping,” he went on. “Nothing was proved, but in reading over the records of the case, I learned that one of the investigators thought that there appeared to be a complex and cleverly designed formula in place, one that allowed the partners to profit handsomely while leaving the British army short of cannon shells.”

  No, no, no! Would the lies of others forever haunt her life?

  “Why are you telling me this?” she asked.

  Saybrook’s mouth thinned to a grim line. “Because the names of the company’s investors included not only Lord Concord and Lord Hamilton, but also Richard Hadley, the Earl of Morse.”

  Arianna felt her stomach begin to churn. Fear, trepidation, denial—a hot mix of emotion that burned like acid at her very core. And then suddenly all her pent-up anger surged upward rather than inward. “How dare you!” she whispered. “My father would never have betrayed or cheated his country. Never.”

  “We are often the last ones to see fault in the people we love,” said the earl gently.

  She saw a stirring of sympathy in the depths of his chocolate-dark gaze, which only goaded her to greater fury. Pity was the last thing on earth she wanted from him.

  “You pompous prig,” she hissed. “You just said yourself that there was no proof, yet you show no shame in repeating such scurrilous rumors. Oh, how easy it is to blacken the name of someone who isn’t able to defend himself.”

  “Smile,” he warned under his breath. “The other guests will get the wrong impression.”

  “On the contrary, we want them to think that I find your company odious,” she said tightly.

  “I know this must be hard for you,” he murmured. “But if we don’t explore every possibility, we shall never find the truth—”

  “The truth? You don’t care about the truth,” she said bitterly. “This is simply a cerebral challenge for you. A distraction to draw you out of your own morbid musings. A body here, a scandal there—you may tell yourself how very, very smart you are when you piece it all together. As for what lives are ruined in the process, well, for a veteran officer, that’s simply the casualties of war.”

  “Have a care about making your own unfair accusations, milady,” responded the earl.

  “What about the revelation we just learned from your great-aunt? That seems far more explosive information than some vague twenty-year-old charges against an obscure company,” challenged Arianna. “Do you intend to pursue Lady Spencer as ruthlessly as you have my father?”

  “Yes, you may be assured that I won’t spare anyone.”

  Nor will I, she thought, as the whirling dervish blur of numbers in her head began to slow and form a more solid shape.

  The music must have ended, for on looking up, Arianna saw that the earl was steering their steps for a secluded spot between the marble colonnading and a display of tall potted palms. Grateful for a moment of respite, she took shelter in the leafy shadows.

  “I regret that my words caused you pain,” began the earl after a moment of awkward silence.

  “You must understand that my father was a dreamer, and in many ways naïve to the ways of the world,” interrupted Arianna. “He was generous, and trusting—perhaps to a fault.” The echo of a rich, baritone laugh danced unbidden across her consciousness. “If there is any truth to what you just told me, it would be because he was manipulated by his friends.”

  Innocent, innocent—his dying words reverberated in her head.

  “In fact,” she said slowly, “certain things are beginning to make more sense.”

  “What makes you say that?” asked Saybrook. Though bladelike shadows cut across his face, making his expression impossible to discern, his voice was sharp with skepticism.

  Don’t react, she warned herself. But the words, bitter as bile, had already escaped her lips. “Because he was murdered, sir. Stabbed in a dark alley in Kingston Harbor and left to bleed to death in the filth and garbage. He managed to crawl back to our tavern room, but . . .”

  “I am sorry. I didn’t know that.”

  Aware that she had already revealed far more than she meant to, Arianna remained silent.

  Saybrook turned slightly, his big body shielding her from the glittering lights and laughter. “I take it he told you who was responsible?”

  “He said enough for me to figure it out on my own.” She steadied herself with a deep breath. “My father swore on his deathbed that he was innocent of the cheating charge, and I believe him. As for any other—”

  A rustling of the leaves warned that someone was approaching.

  “Lady Wolcott?” said a tentative voice.

  It was Ashmun.

  “Ah, here you are.” His hooded gaze lingered on the earl, and though the flickering light of the chandeliers did not quite penetrate the greenery, it caught the momentary pinch of a scowl. “Forgive me for intruding, but I believe we are slated for the next set, and I would be very disappointed to miss the pleasure of partnering you.”

  Despite her misgivings about the man, she was not unhappy over the interruption. “Oh, there is no need for apologies. The earl and I were merely discussing a relative. But reminiscing can wait. I would much rather dance.”

  “Excellent,” said Ashmun.

  Saybrook yielded his place without objection. After a perfunctory bow, he turned and walked off.

  In the direction of Lady Spencer, noted Arianna out of the corner of her eye. Whatever else his faults, the earl was a man of his word.

  “I don’t mean to pry,” said Ashmun. “But it appeared as if the two of you were engaged in a rather heated exchange. I do hope the earl wasn’t upsetting you. He has the reputation of being . . . unstable.”

  “It was simply an old family matter,” she replied brusquely. “There is no call for concern.”

  Ashmun didn’t press, but even as the formations of the lively country gavotte drew them apart, she could sense that he was watching her like a hawk.

  Silk swirled around her ankles, the paste jewel ear-bobs caressed her lobes, and for an instant she yearned to strip away the layers of lies, the practiced deceptions, the well-rehearsed lines, and flee from the past. Oh, to imagine that she might ever be free to be herself.

  Whoever that was.

  But as Lady Sterling had so wisely pointed out, there was no escaping history.

  Another glass of champagne fortified her for the next set. And then another. Arianna was feeling a little light-headed when Gavin came out from the card room to claim his second dance with her.

  “The Spanish Inquisitor seems to have shed his monk’s robe for the evening,” he remarked, eyeing the earl and Lady Spencer standing together in close conversation by the balcony doors.

  “You mean Saybrook?” She made a pained face. “The man is a tedious bore. For propriety’s sake, I had to take a turn around the dance floor with him, but then he insisted on subjecting me to a lecture on proper behavior for a lady.”

  “Boring indeed,” remarked Gavin with a sardonic laugh.

  “You can’t begin to imagine. He thinks I’m too fast.” Her palm slid suggestively against his shoulder. Leaning a little closer, she let her breath tease against his ear. “Do you?”

  Beneath her touch, his muscles twitched. “I believe ladies should be able to . . . do as they please.”

  �
��Fay çe que vouldras,” said Arianna, drawing out the French phrase slowly, like a strand of melting sugar.

  “Precisely, Lady Wolcott.” Up close, the predatory gleam in his eyes blazed bright as an open flame. “How very interesting that you would choose that exact phrase.”

  “Oh, I heard someone mention it recently,” she said. “And thought it sounded . . . intriguing. French is such a sensual language, is it not?”

  “Deliciously so,” he answered. “It drips like melted butter from your tongue.”

  She tittered. “La, isn’t the mention of body parts strictly forbidden in Polite Society, Sir Gavin?”

  He glanced around the ballroom before locking his gaze with hers. “Among a select group of people, the rules don’t apply.”

  “Even more intriguing,” she whispered. She let a few more steps of the dance go by before adding, “Lord Concord mentioned a club. A very exclusive club. How does one apply?”

  “One doesn’t apply, Lady Wolcott. One is invited,” responded Gavin. “But seeing as Concord is in charge of the membership, I am sure that your name will be high on the list.”

  “I do hope you will put in a good word for me.”

  “But of course.” A series of tight twirls turned the ballroom into a kaleidoscope blur of colors. “I think you would fit in perfectly.”

  “So do I, sir.” So do I.

  18

  From the chocolate notebooks of Dona Maria Castellano

  I picked up several illustrated books on botany on my last shopping sojourn in Madrid, and now know there are three distinct types of cacao trees. Criollas are considered the “prince of cacao.” They are very delicate and prone to disease, but produce the highest-quality beans. Forasteros are the most common variety, and although they are very hardy, they are the least flavorful. Trinitarios, named for the island of Trinidad, are a hybrid, and offer an excellent balance of taste and ease of cultivation. . . .

  Mexican Chocolate Pudding

  ½ cup packed light brown sugar

  ¼ cup unsweetened cocoa powder

  2½ tablespoons cornstarch

  ½ teaspoon cinnamon

  ⅛ teaspoon salt

  2 cups plain unsweetened almond milk

  1½ tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into bits

  ½ teaspoon pure vanilla extract

  1. Mix together brown sugar, cocoa powder, cornstarch, cinnamon, and salt in a heavy medium saucepan, then whisk in almond milk. Bring to a boil over medium heat, stirring often, then boil, whisking, 1 minute.

  2. Remove from heat and whisk in butter and vanilla.

  3. Chill in a bowl, surface covered with a piece of buttered wax paper, until cold, at least 1½ hours.

  Fog floated through the chill night air, a sea of silver obscuring the rain-spattered cobblestones. The shower had passed, but the mizzled moonlight was too weak to penetrate the shadows separating the row of town houses. Darkness hid any sign of movement along the garden wall of Arianna’s rented residence.

  Saybrook slid his shoes over the damp grass, careful to avoid any stray twigs that might make a sound. The cloaked figure ahead of him was now only three steps away . . . two steps . . .

  Lunging forward, he caught his quarry by the shoulders. A half spin and hard jerk slammed the man up against the mossy brick.

  “Quiet!” he growled, whipping out a knife from his coat and angling its edge beneath the upturned jaw. “And don’t move.”

  His prisoner held very still. “Are you going to slit my throat?”

  “That depends,” said Saybrook. “What filthy game are you playing, Ashmun? Answer me now, and I might let your blood stay in your veins.” The blade pressed harder against the exposed flesh. “Why are you following Lady Wolcott?”

  “Because . . .” Ashmun drew a ragged breath and slowly lifted his chin. “Because I’m very concerned for her safety.”

  “Explain yourself,” ordered the earl.

  “I’m afraid that she’s gotten herself into deep trouble with you, and the men you have introduced to her.” His gaze flicked down to the knife. “I might ask the same question of you, Lord Saybrook. Why are you following her?”

  “What business is it of yours?” he demanded.

  “I . . . I would rather not say,” replied Ashmun.

  The sharpened steel twitched, drawing a drop of blood. “I’m afraid I must insist.”

  The night was still, save for the rasp of their breathing. The ghostly puffs of vapor twisted and twined together against the blurred shades of black.

  The earl waited, but Ashmun remained silent.

  “I applaud your courage, if not your common sense.” Saybrook eased back a touch. “If your motives are upright, you have nothing to fear from me.”

  Ashmun appeared uncertain. However, after a long moment he let out a soft sigh. “I suppose I really have little choice.” His lips pursed into something between a grimace and a smile. “I am Lady Wolcott’s godfather. Or rather, I am Lady Arianna Hadley’s godfather. For she is, I am sure, the daughter of my good friend Richard Hadley, who was forced to flee to the West Indies some time ago.”

  Saybrook slowly lowered the knife. “She thought you looked familiar.”

  “Did she?” Ashmun looked puzzled. “I wonder how that could be? I was present at her christening, of course, but spent years abroad so did not see her again before her father left the country. And while I visited Jamaica to speak with Richard, I would have sworn that Arianna knew nothing of it. He and I took great pains to make sure that she wasn’t aware of my visit.”

  “Lady Arianna has a knack of learning things that others might want to keep a secret.” The earl thought for a moment. “It is odd, though, that she didn’t recognize your name.”

  “Not necessarily. I was only the Honorable Mr. Josiah Becton at the time of her birth. I’ve since acceded to the title of Baron Ashmun.”

  “I see.”

  Ashmun pulled a rueful face. “Her father would have been unhappy to hear that she spotted me. We were trying to protect her.”

  “She wouldn’t thank you for it.” Saybrook sheathed his blade. “Protect her from what?”

  The baron fixed him with a searching stare. “Before I answer that, what is your interest in the lady?”

  “I, too, am anxious to keep her out of harm’s way,” answered Saybrook. “I am not at liberty to say any more than that.”

  “But—”

  A muffled crunch of leaves underfoot caused him to cut off his words.

  Saybrook whipped around, the knife flashing out from inside his coat. The sound came again, from beneath the overhanging ivy, and then Arianna slipped out from the muddled shadows of the recessed gate in the garden wall.

  “I thought I heard something,” she murmured, eyeing the earl’s weapon. Sliding a step closer, she saw that his other hand held a man pinned to the garden wall.

  “And so you decided to come investigate?” Saybrook did not sound pleased. “Alone and unarmed?”

  She revealed the small turn-off pocket pistol hidden beneath the folds of her India shawl. “I’m not quite so careless as you think.” She thumbed the hammer back to the half-cocked position but kept the barrel aimed at the baron’s head. “Once again, it seems you are following me, Lord Ashmun. Would you care to explain why? Or shall I be forced to reconsider using a more persuasive means of making you talk.”

  “I have the situation in hand, Lady Wolcott,” said Saybrook. Lowering his voice, he added, “Go back inside. It is likely that someone is watching your house, and it would be prudent to give him nothing to report.”

  She took cover within the brick archway and then silently motioned for the men to follow her.

  “Damnation,” Arianna heard Saybrook swear softly. “We had better do as she asks, else she is capable of shooting both of us.”

  “A wise move, sir,” she said as he and the baron ducked into the garden. “As you know, I’m unpredictable.” A tug on the hasp clicked the lock shut. “Follow me. We�
�ll be more comfortable inside, away from prying eyes.”

  Crossing the terrace, Arianna led the way through a set of glass-paned doors and halfway down the corridor to a small study.

  “Help yourself to a drink,” she said, indicating the decanters on the sideboard as she stirred the banked fire to life.

  “May I pour you something?” asked the earl, measuring out a generous helping of brandy for both himself and Ashmun.

  “Thank you, but no. I’ve imbibed enough for one evening.”

  Saybrook lifted a brow. “Dancing does work up a thirst.”

  “So, it would seem, does skulking through the dead of night,” she replied. “Which raises the question of why you were lurking outside my town house.”

  “You mentioned your concern about Lord Ashmun. So I decided to have a look for myself.”

  Arianna had a feeling that there was more to the matter than met the eye, but put off confronting him for the moment. Instead, she turned to Ashmun.

  “And what have you to say for yourself, sir? I think it’s time you explained your interest in me.”

  The baron hesitated and cast a mute appeal at Saybrook.

  “You do not need the earl’s permission,” snapped Arianna. “He is not my guardian.” Her mouth tightened. “Or my protector.”

  The older man flushed, and then cleared his throat. “Very well. I’ve been following you because I believe you are the daughter of my very dear friend Richard Hadley.”

  She sat down rather heavily.

  “Are you Arianna?” he asked. “You look exactly like the miniature he showed me—the one he carried inside his watchcase.”

  For once, she couldn’t quite slip out of her real skin. “I knew I had seen you before—somewhere other than here in London.”

  “I met with your father in Jamaica the day before his death.” Ashmun pressed a hand to his brow. “I—I tried to find you the next day, after I learned of the attack. But you had already disappeared.”