Sweet Revenge

by Andrea Penrose

  “Just how naughty?” she said archly, obediently taking a seat on the buttery soft leather. Bold striped pillows of black and gold accented the vivid shade of scarlet. Kicking off her slippers, she sunk her stocking-clad toes into the thick bearskin rug beneath her feet.

  He merely smiled and moved away to latch the door shut.

  The room, a private parlor located at the end of a long, winding corridor, reminded her of some of the fancier bordellos she had seen in her Caribbean travels. Gaudy colors, expensive decorations—her head was beginning to ache from all the gilding. Or maybe it was because of the drug. Despite all the little tricks learned in her tropical travels, she had been forced to drink more than she wished, in order not to stir his suspicions.

  She tapped her nearly empty glass. “Lady Spencer says this is your own special elixir. I’ve never had anything like it.”

  “That’s because it’s something very new and very costly.” Concord took a seat next to her, close enough that his thigh pressed against hers. Twitch, twitch, twitch. A strange current of heat was rippling through his muscles, making it hard for him to sit still.

  Smoothing at her skirts, Arianna summoned her resolve. I will sleep with Satan himself if it will bring justice for Papa. The declaration, so forcefully asserted in another time and place, was harder to hold on to now, with the devil’s hot breath tickling her cheek.

  Concord had carried a slim crystal bottle of the elixir cradled in his arms from the drawing room. Holding it up to the sconce, he set the contents to turning in a slow whirl. “It’s made from an exotic plant, brought all the way from South America.”

  Backlit by the flames, the tiny white flecks in the liquid swirled like snow. She widened her eyes. “Wherever did you find it?”

  The elixir was spinning faster and faster and faster, a whirlpool of white. He watched, mesmerized for a moment, before emitting a low laugh. “Oh, I have my sources.”

  The Earl of Cockburn?

  The name was on the tip of her tongue, but Arianna caught herself. Recalling Saybrook’s gruff growl only echoed the voice in her own head.

  Be careful.

  Concord surely considered himself cleverer than other men—she must turn that strength into a weakness.

  “Oh, I see.” Arianna deliberately added a shade of disappointment to her voice. “I thought Lady Spencer said that you had created it. But what she meant was that you merely purchased it from someone else.”

  A bit of smugness drained from his face. “Don’t believe everything you hear from Lady Spencer.” He sucked in a mouthful of his drink. “She may think she knows everything . . .” He reached out and ran a thumb along the line of her jaw. “But trust me, she is not quite as smart as she thinks.”

  Trust you? I should rather trust an asp.

  His touch slithered down to the top of her bodice. “My partner and I will make a fortune off the Devil’s Delight. There are plenty of wealthy men willing to pay any price for pleasure.”

  It took every ounce of her hard-won acting ability to repress a shudder. Up close, his fleshy good looks took on a grotesque twist—the dilated eyes, the lines of dissipation. . . .

  Arianna gulped for air, hoping her reaction would be seen as desire and not disgust.

  He smiled and smacked his lips. “You see, Lady Wolcott, everything I touch turns to gold.”

  Or blood.

  She dropped her gaze to the hand hooked in her gown, and all she could see was his fingers dripping with her father’s gore. Her pulse began to pound in her ears, and with it a whisper from the past.

  Forgive me for being such a wretched parent. And for sinking you in such a sordid life.

  Strange, but her father’s dying words brought a sudden sense of calm. Yes, I forgive you, Papa. Perhaps bringing his murderer to justice was more about her own redemption than anything else.

  The past could finally be buried, along with all the old sins.

  Summoning a smile, she gave a feline stretch and reclined against the pillows, leaving his hand hovering in midair. “So, you have a Midas touch, milord?” she said. “How very intriguing. Pray, refill our glasses and then let us put your claim to the test.”

  “You won’t be disappointed, m’dear.”

  Crystal clinked against crystal.

  A splash of liquid sloshed over the leather. Oddly enough, though his gaze still held a dangerous glitter, the crackling energy of earlier seemed to have suddenly ebbed. His movements seemed mired in a heavy languidness.

  She, too, was suddenly having trouble keeping her eyes open. “How . . .,” she began, but all her questions had turned terribly fuzzy.

  “Drink,” he urged.

  Damn. All at once, his voice sounded very far away.

  “Drink.” His clammy hands were now on her throat.

  As his face turned blurry, she was only dimly aware of the glass slipping from her fingers.

  23

  From the chocolate notebooks of Dona Maria Castellano

  The Church figures into yet another bit of chocolate lore—although this time the situation takes on a far more sinister shade. It is said that Pope Clement XIV was murdered in 1774 by the Jesuits, who poisoned his cup of chocolate in retaliation for his persecution of the Order in earlier years. It is true that chocolate’s rich flavor provides an excellent mask for lethal substances, so perhaps the story is true. . . .

  Dulce de Leche and Nut Butter Truffles

  4 ounces 60%-cacao bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped

  2 tablespoons dulce de leche at room temperature

  2 tablespoons well-stirred natural almond butter

  or peanut butter

  For coating

  ¼ to ½ cup unsweetened cocoa powder (preferably

  Dutch-processed)

  2 ounces 60%-cacao bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped

  1. Melt 4 ounces chocolate in a heatproof bowl set over a saucepan of barely simmering water, stirring occasionally until smooth. Remove bowl from heat and stir in dulce de leche and nut butter. Cool slightly, then roll level teaspoons of mixture into balls and place on a tray. Chill completely, about 30 minutes.

  2. Sift cocoa powder into a medium baking pan or onto a tray. Melt 2 ounces chocolate in a shallow heatproof bowl set over a saucepan of barely simmering water, stirring occasionally until smooth. Remove pan from heat, leaving bowl over water. Dip truffles, 1 at a time, in chocolate, lifting out with a fork and letting excess drip off, then immediately transfer to cocoa, turning to coat. Let stand until coating is set, then shake off excess cocoa in a sieve. (Remaining cocoa can be sifted and returned to container.)

  Darkness drifted in and out of her consciousness, shadows twining with shards of light.

  What a bloody stupid fool I am.

  After all the years of plotting and planning, to fail so miserably . . .

  How very, very ironic that she, who had sworn not to repeat the mistakes of her father, had in the end proved less clever than Concord.

  Recriminations were, she knew, a little late. Yet oddly enough, the sharpest pinch of regret was that she had let Saybrook down. He had been willing to risk his life for a higher purpose than personal vendetta. While she—

  A light slap to her cheek jarred her eyes open.

  “Lady Wolcott?”

  “I . . .” She blinked, trying to clear the wooziness from her head.

  “Let me help you sit up.” Gavin was kneeling by the divan, his grip steadying her slumping shoulders. Propping her against the pillow, he brought a glass to her lips. “Here, drink this.”

  She tried to pull away.

  “It’s just water,” he assured her.

  The liquid was blessedly cool and clean, washing the sour taste from her mouth. “Thank you,” she croaked.

  “Don’t try to speak quite yet,” said Gavin. “You’ve had a nasty shock.”

  “Concord . . .,” she began, trying to clear the fog from her head. The question died on her lips as she spotted her nemesis sprawled o
n the floor.

  “Won’t be bothering you again.” With a casual prod of his boot, Gavin nudged the body faceup. A circle of darker red was fast spreading over the scarlet jacket. Centered in it was a dagger, sunk to the hilt in the baron’s left breast.

  “Or anyone else for that matter.”

  “I think he meant to kill me,” she whispered.

  “Actually, his intention was most likely just to rough you up a bit,” replied Gavin, touching a hand to his pocket. He had changed out of his snowy white garb and was now clad in a black coat and trousers. “Sex had an extra edge for him when the women were frightened.”

  Fear—a primal, primitive emotion. Drawing a steadying breath, Arianna looked up to thank him again.

  Only to find the snout of a pocket pistol hovering inches from her forehead.

  “It is I who you really need to fear,” he said conversationally. “Get up, Lady Wolcott—or rather, Lady Arianna Hadley.”

  A fresh wave of dizziness washed over her.

  “Get up!” The slap was a good deal harder than his first one.

  “How . . . why . . .” A myriad of questions tangled on her tongue.

  “You’ll learn all that later.” Gavin grasped her arm and hauled her to her feet. “Move.” Cold steel hit hard against her temple. “And quickly, or I’ll put a bullet through your brain.”

  What brain? thought Arianna groggily. Still half dazed by the drug, she stumbled along unresistingly. A slave to her own obsession, she had been too stupid to see the truth.

  “This way.” Gavin unlatched a set of glass-paned doors and shoved her outside. A damp breeze ruffled through the dark foliage of an overgrown garden.

  Gravel crunched underfoot as he hurried their steps away from the house.

  “Where are you taking me?” asked Arianna, the chill and the sharp stabs of the stones helping to restore her wits. Up ahead in the shadows, she saw a team of horses harnessed to a covered carriage.

  “To a cozy little spot where we won’t be disturbed.” His low laugh echoed the rumbled wash of the nearby river. “Don’t worry, Lady Arianna. It’s not far away.”

  Grentham let the draperies fall back in place and stepped away from the window. Half hidden by a grove of trees, the abandoned gamekeeper’s cottage overlooked the ghostly ruins of Medmenham Abbey. “Has Lord Cockburn arrived?”

  “Yes,” assured the man who had just come in from the darkness. “He is waiting at the entrance of the caves.”

  “Excellent, excellent.” The minister turned to the other two people in the room. “What of Lady Wolcott and Lord Saybrook?”

  “The lady left London just after dusk, milord, and arrived at the Wooburn Moor according to schedule,” replied the spy appointed to keeping her under surveillance.

  “The earl followed shortly afterward, alone and on horseback,” reported the other man. “His friend, the surgeon Henning, is coming by coach, along with four other former soldiers.” A pause. “All cripples.”

  “Saybrook has considerable hubris, to face off against the unknown with such a paltry force.” The spark of a flint scraping steel caught the slight upward curl of Grentham’s mouth. “But then, that doesn’t really surprise me.”

  He lit a single candle and set it by the map on the table. Motioning for the three men to come closer, he then indicated the paper. “Martin, you and your group will keep watch on the London road here, while Finley, you are to station your forces by the Abbey ruins, in this part of the gardens.”

  Tap, tap. The minister punctuated his orders with a well-tended finger. “Beckham, you will come with me. Your weapons are loaded?”

  One of the men nodded.

  “A reminder to you others—stay well hidden. No one—no one—is to move unless I give the signal.” Grentham drew on a pair of black gloves. “I’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to set this trap. So need I say that there will be hell to pay for anyone who cocks it up?”

  Silence.

  “Good. Then let us go take up our positions.”

  “Damnation,” growled Saybrook. “You are sure that he called her Lady Arianna?”

  “Aye, sor,” answered the leader of Henning’s sailors. “And he said the spot where they were going wasn’t far away.”

  “Did you see which way the carriage was headed?”

  The man flashed a gap-toothed grin. “Better ’n that, sor. I sent Davy te grab on to the back struts. He’s a former maintops’I man, well used to hanging on te a shroud in gale-force winds. A few bumps won’t shake ’im loose.”

  Saybrook glanced up at the sliver of moon. The crescent curve of light was almost imperceptible through the heavy scrim of clouds. “I’m not sure how that will help me find them in this ocean of darkness,” he muttered. “Unless he has a lodestone in his pocket—one with a magnetic force powerful enough to guide me to their presence.”

  “No lodestone, sor,” piped up one of the men, “but a naval signal lantern, with a powerful beam that can be seen fer miles on a foggy night.”

  “Aye,” added the leader. “And it’s shuttered te make a pinpoint o’ light, so the driver of the vehicle won’t notice it.”

  “Well done,” said Saybrook. “I’ve a good idea of where they are headed, but I can’t afford to make a mistake. God knows, I’ve made enough already.” A last lingering look at the manor house, whose rear façade rose like a spectral shadow from the deserted gardens, seemed to spur him to action. “One of you wait here for Henning to tell him of the change in plans. The rest of you row on to High Wycombe—is anyone familiar with Medmenham Abbey?”

  “I am,” volunteered one of the sailors. “I was raised in this area and know it well.”

  “Then you’ll know about the entrance to Dashwood’s caves.”

  The sailor nodded. “Devilish doing down there in years past, or so local rumor had it.”

  “I fear that the embers of evil may well have been stirred to fire again,” replied the earl in a tight voice. “Flex your muscles, men, and make your boat fly.” He turned to make his way to where his horse was tethered. “We haven’t a moment to lose.”

  Arianna stumbled, her bare feet scraping over the rocky path. Pain lanced through her limbs as Gavin jerked her upright.

  Oh, but pain is good, she thought, biting her lip to keep from crying out. It was helping to clear the last noxious vapors of the drug from her brain.

  “Clumsy cow,” snarled Gavin as she slipped again. His hold tightened on her arm as he shoved her forward. “Be careful. We can’t have you breaking your lovely neck just yet.”

  “Why?” she rasped, tasting a trickle of blood.

  Why hadn’t he killed her along with Concord?

  “You’ll learn that soon enough.”

  They were halfway down a steep slope. Through the drifting mist, Arianna could just make out a faint rippling of moonlight on water. The sound of the current lapping over the rocks stirred a sudden swirl of memories from her island childhood. Sun, surf, her father’s warm laughter.

  Gavin yanked her back from her momentary reveries. “This way.”

  The path led to a courtyard framed by a high crumbling stone archway. Up ahead, the light of a single lantern pierced the gloom.

  “You’re late.” The voice, a nasal drawl made shriller by a pinch of nervousness, was not one she recognized. “Was there any . . . complication?”

  “None,” replied Gavin with savage satisfaction. “The problem has been eliminated. What about you?”

  “The samples have been moved, exactly as planned.” As the man raised the light, an oily glow spilled over his features. His face was long and thin, with an air of aristocratic arrogance chiseled into the angled cheekbones and hawklike nose. A shock of silvery hair was swept straight back, accentuating a high forehead and bushy brows.

  The picture of patrician refinement was ruined by a high-pitched cackle.

  That laugh. All of a sudden, it came back to her in a gold-flecked flash. A long-ago memory of sitting curled in he
r father’s lap, mesmerized by the gleam of shiny buttons as he and his friend “Cocky” talked late into the night.

  “That’s why our partnership works so well,” went on Cockburn—for she was sure it must be him. “We both are extremely good at what we do.” His laughter stilled. “So, this is Dickie’s daughter?”

  Arianna squinted against the glare of the beam. But before she could reply, Gavin pressed the pistol to the back of her neck. “Move inside, Lady Arianna.”

  It was then that she noticed a low, vaulted entrance cut into the hillside beneath the flinty Gothic archway.

  A shove forced her inside.

  Damp, dank air kissed her cheeks. She staggered and was suddenly, violently sick.

  Cockburn jerked his perfectly polished Hessian boot away with fastidious quickness. “I told you that the combination of poppies and coca leaves was a dangerous mix.”

  “It was the only way to ensure that both of them would be sluggish enough not to raise any alarm,” said Gavin. “A calculated risk, but not a great one. After all, it hardly mattered whether it would kill Concord. As for Lady Arianna . . .”

  Wrinkling his nose, Cockburn thrust a handkerchief into her hand. “Here, clean your face.”

  Arianna was under no illusion that the gesture was an act of kindness. No doubt he didn’t wish the sour smell of bile to follow them into the depths. She wiped her mouth with the soft linen, suddenly aware of a small patch of raised threads against her lips. Embroidery?

  She offered the soiled square back to him, taking care to angle it into the lantern light. If there was any doubt as to his identity, the design did away with it. Though the stitching was cream on cream, she could just make out the image of a strutting cock.

  He made a moue of disgust and waved it away. “Drop the damned thing and come along.”

  They walked on for what felt like an age—Arianna counted two hundred steps—before the tunnel narrowed and turned down to the left. The native chalk gave the walls an eerie, ghostly white glow. Roman numerals were carved into the stone at odd intervals, along with a series of grotesque heads.