Arianna set aside the book she had been reading and rose from her chair. From across the room, her bed beckoned, a sumptuous stretch of quilted satin and down-filled pillows that were whispering a Siren song.
Crash upon these gilded rocks and find oblivion in sleep.
“Tempting,” she muttered. But instead she sought a spot by the bank of diamond-paned windows.
Think! she cajoled, forcing herself to review all the complex financial data she had been studying for the last few hours.
Her two footmen had been dispatched that morning, one to Hatchard’s bookstore and one to Lady Sterling’s residence, with orders to buy or borrow all books related to the South Sea Bubble. Despite her denial to the earl and his great-aunt, the name was painfully familiar. When drunk, her father had often extolled—albeit with a slur of envy—the cleverness of men who could create value out of thin air.
Value. Like most words, its definition seemed to depend on what tongue gave it voice.
A glance back at the stack of gold-stamped spines heightened the feeling that somewhere buried among all the mind-numbing array of facts and statistics lay some vital key to unlocking the current mystery.
“But what it is, I haven’t a clue.” Pressing her fingertips to her temples, Arianna paused and squeezed her eyes shut.
Mathematics was all about logic, order, precision. . . .
Perhaps she did have a clue. In any case, it was the only tangible thing she had to go on.
Fetching the paper that Saybrook had left, along with the documents taken from Lady Spencer’s desk, Arianna spread them all out on her escritoire and smoothed out a fresh sheet of foolscap. Patterns, my dear poppet. Her father’s brandy-warm laugh echoed through the deepest recesses of her head. Numbers are supremely simple to understand if you know how to speak their language.
“What are you trying to tell me?” she murmured, ordering the old and new papers from the folder into two neat piles. In between the piles she placed the single sheet of paper that the earl had discovered. It bore a list of numerical sequences, each line made up of three sets of pairs, separated by dashes.
“What is it that I am missing?”
The papers sat in taunting silence.
Taking up her pencil, she made yet another copy of the age-worn mathematical equations, then leaned back and studied the sequences.
Patterns, patterns, patterns. For all his weaknesses in seeing the repetitive themes in his own life, her father was a genius at understanding the core concepts of mathematics. Numbers, like letters, told a story, he always said.
Losing herself in the abstract challenge of making order out of chaos, Arianna tried not to think of the reality of what he had done. In some ways, perhaps a part of her vehemence for vengeance had stemmed from a fear that he was guilty of some crime. Perhaps a part of her secretly believed that such efforts could somehow atone for his wrongs.
A gust of wind rattled the window casement and a chill finger of air seemed to squeeze at her throat.
I’ve been as guilty as Papa of denials and delusions.
The pencil point dug into the paper, tearing a tiny rip.
“Damn.” She was about to ball up the sheet in disgust when a certain section caught her eye. Leaning closer, she gave them a more careful study.
Patterns. Logic, repeated Arianna, giving yet another glance at the three sets of papers. What was the connection? They must be related—
Related.
Good God, how could she have overlooked the obvious until now? Seeing as Lady Spencer’s grandfather was connected to the South Sea stock manipulation, it was logical to assume that the old papers in the folder were his. And if that were the case, the modern papers might be . . .
Her heart began to thump a touch faster.
Sliding a fresh piece of paper across the polished wood, Arianna scribbled out a series of equations.
Excitement kicked up another notch.
Working a hunch, she gathered the books she had been reading and found the pages she needed for reference. Slowly, methodically, she worked through a progression of calculations.
Yes, yes, it was all beginning to add up. Page by page, she carefully compared the old documents with the new ones. After rechecking the numbers and copying the final results, she looked up, the first pale rays of dawn illuminating a small smile.
“Eureka.”
“The South Sea Bubble?” Grentham set down his pen beside the silver coffee service on his desk and fixed the earl with a pointed stare. “Pray, explain to me why, when time is of the essence in solving the Prince’s poisoning before our Eastern allies arrive, you interrupt my morning libation wishing to discuss a century-old scandal, Lord Saybrook.” He carefully capped his inkwell. “Has the opium addled your brain?”
“If you wish to relieve me of my duties in this investigation, you are welcome to do so,” replied the earl. “But somehow, I don’t think you will.”
The minister’s eyes narrowed. “You keep making veiled threats.”
“As do you.”
Their gazes remained locked for several long moments before Grentham leaned back and tapped his fingertips together in a gesture that was smooth and soundless, despite the hint of impatience. “I am waiting for your explanation.”
“I’ve reason to believe that the Prince was not poisoned because of a personal grudge,” said Saybrook. “Nor do I think that the motive was purely political.”
“Then what, in your expert opinion, is the motive?”
“I’m not yet prepared to say.”
The tapping ceased.
In response, Saybrook took a piece of paper from his pocket and read over it before looking up. “I would like a look at some of the government files from December 1720, including the private notes of Mr. Robert Walpole’s meetings with the Bank of England and the East India Company, along with the Parliamentary records concerning corruption charges against John Aislabie, Sir John Blunt, and the other directors of the South Sea Company.” He paused for another glance at his list. “I also want access to the records on how the conversion of government debt to private stock was handled by the Sword Blade Bank.”
“That material is highly confidential,” said Grentham tightly. “Access is limited to a very small circle of ministers.”
“Ah, but considering the power you wield in the government, I am sure you can arrange an exception, milord,” answered Saybrook.
A tiny tic marred the smoothness of Grentham’s jaw.
“There are several other dates that I’m interested in. I’ll leave the list here.” The paper dropped onto the desk. “I’ll come by tomorrow, if I may.”
The minister nodded.
Saybrook spun the head of his cane between his palms, and then rose. “Thank you.” He made a half turn. “By the by, Lord Cockburn is a good friend of yours, is he not?”
Grentham had started to open a portfolio, but he suddenly went still as a statue. “Yes. He is.”
“You must have enjoyed the shooting party at his estate this past August very much.”
The leather case slid across the blotter as Grentham leaned forward. “Hunting is indeed my favorite sport.”
“I rather guessed it was.”
Easing back in his chair, the minister dismissed him with a curt wave. “One week, Saybrook. If you haven’t solved this case in one week, you won’t be finding that word games come quite so easily to your tongue.”
“Thank you for seeing me at such an early hour, Lady Sterling,” said Arianna as a footman escorted her into the dowager’s drawing room. “I apologize for the breach in proper etiquette.”
The dowager waved off the words. “Oh, pish. Family are not expected to stand on ceremony.” She patted a spot on the sofa. “Come sit beside me and help finish off Cook’s breakfast scones. They are quite good.”
Arianna dutifully accepted a pastry and a cup of tea, deciding to let the elderly lady finish her repast before peppering her with impertinent questions.
&
nbsp; After several minutes of polite exchanges, the dowager set aside her empty plate. “Well?” she inquired.
“Excellent,” murmured Arianna. “They have just the right amount of sweetness.”
“So they do,” replied Lady Sterling dryly. “However, I wasn’t referring to the scones. I don’t imagine you are here to discuss recipes.”
“Much as the subject interests me, no.” She had composed a carefully worded query during her carriage ride through Mayfair, and hoped that she had struck the right balance between asking enough without revealing too much. “Your nephew says that your knowledge of Society and all the intricacies of its inner workings is unrivaled.”
A silvery brow rose a fraction, which Arianna took as a signal to proceed.
“So I was wondering . . .,” she continued. “Could you perchance suggest how I might arrange to see some certain business records?”
“Business records?” repeated the dowager. “What sort of business records?”
“Shipping records,” replied Arianna.
A silence greeted the request. Then a cough. “You and Sandro ask the oddest questions.”
As Lady Sterling lifted her quizzing glass, Arianna wondered whether she had made a mistake. It was a little unnerving to have a large pale eyeball subjecting her to such scrutiny. She felt as if her faults were magnified.
“By the by, what branch of the family did you say you were from?”
“I didn’t,” murmured Arianna.
The dowager took a moment to polish the glass lens, and then once again lifted it to her eye. “Perhaps you would care to clarify it now . . . cousin.”
Arianna decided that honesty was best. “I think we both know there is no family connection.”
“Hmmph.”
She started to rise.
“Sit down, gel,” commanded Lady Sterling. “And tell me precisely what it is you need.” A twitch played at the corners of the dowager’s lips. “At my age, I need a little excitement to spice up my life.”
Arianna smiled in return. Fishing a list from her reticule, she handed it over. “I would like a list of ships arriving from South America at the West India docks on these dates,” she explained. “Sorry, but I can’t be overly specific about the ports of origin. My guess is that Veracruz, Portobelo, and Cartagena are the ones of most interest.” She cleared her throat. “And it’s important that I get them as soon as possible.”
Lady Sterling took a moment to read over the request. “Lord Bevan is an old admirer, and he owes me a favor—a large one. Let me see what I can do.”
“Please, you must be dis—”
“Discreet. Yes, yes, I know. Sandro said the same thing,” interrupted the dowager. “It’s dangerous, is it?”
Feeling a trifle guilty, Arianna nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid it is.”
The twinkle in the dowager’s eyes become even more pronounced. “Oh, piff. I can bloody well take care of myself. It’s Sandro I worry about.” She leaned in a little closer. “I trust you will help me keep an eye on him.”
“I will do my best,” promised Arianna. “Though His Lordship is not the easiest of men to manage.”
“Somehow I think you are up to the challenge, gel.” Lady Sterling rang the small silver bell on the tea table. “Shipping records, eh? Well, I had better hoist anchor and get ready to sail into action.”
20
From the chocolate notebooks of Dona Maria Castellano
I must remember to tell Sandro that the exclusive gentlemen’s club on St. James’s Street to which he belongs was originally established to serve chocolate! An Italian named Francis White opened White’s Chocolate House in 1693. These days, I have heard that the members prefer claret, brandy, or port—which may be why Sandro finds their company egregiously boring. . . .
Chocolate Espresso Spelt Cake
1½ sticks (¾ cup) unsalted butter, softened,
plus additional for pan
¾ cup unsweetened Dutch-processed cocoa powder,
plus additional for dusting pan and cake
1 cup boiling-hot water
1½ tablespoons instant espresso powder
1½ teaspoons vanilla
1 teaspoon baking soda
½ pound Medjool dates (12 to 14), pitted and coarsely
chopped (1½ cups)
2 cups spelt flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
¾ teaspoon salt
1 cup packed dark brown sugar
2 large eggs
1. Put oven rack in middle position and preheat oven to 350ºF. Butter 9-inch springform pan, then lightly dust with cocoa powder, knocking out excess.
2. Stir together boiling-hot water, espresso powder, vanilla, and baking soda in a bowl, then add dates, mashing lightly with a fork. Soak until liquid cools to room temperature, about 10 minutes.
3. Whisk together spelt flour, cocoa powder, baking powder, and salt in another bowl. Beat together butter and brown sugar with an electric mixer at medium-high speed until pale and fluffy. Add eggs 1 at a time, beating until just combined. Beat in date mixture (batter will look curdled), then reduce speed to low and add flour mixture, mixing until just combined.
4. Spoon batter into springform pan, smoothing top, and bake until a wooden pick or skewer inserted into center comes out clean, about 50 minutes to 1 hour. Cool cake in pan on a rack 5 minutes, then remove side of pan and cool cake on rack. Serve cake warm or at room temperature.
Having exchanged her fancy silks and satins for threadbare cotton and moleskin, Arianna squeezed through a gap in the splintered planking and made her way down the dank alley. The earl’s housekeeper had informed her that Saybrook had gone to Horse Guards for a meeting with Grentham, but was now likely at Mr. Henning’s surgery.
Anxious to share what she had discovered in Lady Spencer’s papers, she had decided to seek him out there, rather than return home and wait with ladylike restraint.
Despite the maze of byways and alleys, the directions proved easy enough to follow. The brick building housing Henning and his rooms stood out as slightly less shabby than its neighbors. Seeing the front entrance shut tight, Arianna went around to the side, where a primitive portico sheltered a door. The sign showed a scalpel crossed with a bone saw.
Crinkling her nose, she slipped inside, finding it difficult to draw a breath. The smell of blood, sweat, and fear seemed to ooze from the damp plaster walls, adding to the staleness of the air. It, too, felt heavy enough to cut with a knife.
The only light in the corridor came from the room ahead, where the door was ajar. She crept closer, loath to interrupt if Henning was in the midst of amputating a limb or dosing a man for the clap.
“I’ve not yet made up my mind about Lord Ashmun.” It was Saybrook who was speaking. “So far I’ve uncovered nothing that indicates he is anything but what he says he is. However, his solicitous manner seems just a tad overdone.”
Arianna hesitated, and then instead of announcing herself, she took up a position behind the oak planking.
“I hate te say it, but we can’t afford te overlook something else, Sandro.” Henning expelled an audible sigh. “Maybe yer lady is really the mastermind of the nefarious group we’re chasing. And this fellow Ashmun is a cohort, whose sudden appearance is meant to throw you off the scent of the real trail.”
“You think I’m being led by the nose?” Saybrook’s voice was suddenly harder, colder than a moment before.
“Auch, ye wouldn’t be the first man in history te fall for the wiles of a beautiful woman.”
“She has the brains and the nerve to be heading a criminal consortium,” conceded the earl. “As well as a grudge against Society. So perhaps you are right.”
Arianna felt as if she had been kicked in the gut. “You really think me capable of that?” she demanded, stepping out from behind the door.
The earl turned around slowly. “Why shouldn’t I?” he answered evenly. “You’ve told me more than once that you have no morals, no principles.”
True. Arianna lifted her chin, willing the sharp, sour taste of disappointment to subside. And I meant every word.
Saybrook was watching her intently. “I’ve witnessed what a consummate actress you are,” he went on. “You’ve an uncanny ability to be very convincing in whatever role you play.”
“No doubt it’s due to having trained for years at the knee of a master liar and blackguard cheat,” she shot back.
His expression softened just a touch.
“No offense, Lady Arianna,” apologized Henning. “We were merely looking at the problem from every possible angle.”
“No offense?” She gave a brittle laugh. “Oh, none taken. I’m quite used to being thought of as a scheming slut.”
The surgeon flushed.
“So why I bothered to care whether the two of you might be interested in another important clue is beyond me.” Her work papers were now clutched in her fist and she shook them at Saybrook.
“What clue?” he asked quickly.
“Go to hell,” snapped Arianna as she thrust them back into her coat pocket.
He folded his arms across his chest. “We apologized.”
“No, we did not. Mr. Henning did.”
“You wish one from me?”
Arianna looked away.
“If I truly thought you were involved in this, Lady Arianna, you would not still be waltzing through the ballrooms of Mayfair. At my expense, I might add.”
She made a mock curtsey. “How reassuring to know I have your full and unqualified support, sir.”
“Please sit down, Lady Arianna.” Henning hastily pulled out one of the rickety chairs arranged around the small table. “We, too, have some interesting things to share.”
“Just as long as you’re not planning on using your scalpels or saws on me to extract information.”
Sweet Revenge Page 23