Smoke & Lies

by Andrea Penrose

  “Eduardo de la Vega.” Saybrook looked down at the tabletop, his dark lashes veiling his gaze. “A distant cousin, several years younger than I, though during my boyhood summers in Spain, we bonded over a shared interest in exploring the natural world. Between the two of us, we assembled a rather frightening collection of bugs and reptiles, not to speak of plant specimens.”

  The memory caused a fleeting smile to ghost across his lips. “We must have driven the poor housekeepers at our neighboring villas to distraction.”

  He paused, shifting his gaze to the flickering candles. “Eduardo is a bright, inquisitive fellow, full of passion and curiosity. For a time, I know he sympathized with the revolutionary ideals of the French Republic. But once Napoleon crowned himself Emperor and then put his older brother Joseph on the throne of Spain, Eduardo joined the Spanish military forces allied with the British, and fought fiercely to throw the usurpers out of his country.”

  A wink of light flashed off his gold signet ring as Saybrook pinched a crease from his shirt cuff. “He saved my life during a clash with French troops in the mountains. I returned the favor several months later. So we are, in a sense, blood brothers.”

  Arianna studied his face and thought she detected a ripple of uncertainty in his eyes. Despite his outward show of emotional detachment, her husband had a surprisingly sensitive soul and an unshakeable sense of loyalty. He cared deeply for his friends and family, and somehow his essential faith in humanity hadn't been shattered by his military experience in the brutal Peninsular war.

  “Do you think there’s a chance he might have decided to throw his lot in with Napoleon?” she asked slowly.

  “Perhaps,” he admitted. “He cares fiercely about Spain and forging a more progressive future. And the rumblings from the Congress in Vienna aren’t very encouraging on the chance of social reforms happening there.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “On the other hand, I can’t imagine Eduardo would ever betray his military oath to Britain. He has a very strict notion of honor and loyalty.”

  “We are very good at discovering the truth,” said Arianna softly. “Whatever it is, we will find it.”

  Saybrook made a wry face. “Perhaps that’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Truth. An admirably simple abstraction, but they both knew it never came without painful revelations.

  This mission would be hard for him in ways that Grentham couldn't possibly imagine, she reflected. Or perhaps the minister could, and was indulging in a measure of petty revenge to balance the ledger of old grudges.

  Arianna watched the flicker of her husband’s dark lashes in the looking glass and felt a sudden cold clench grip her heart. She feared the coming weeks would be an elemental test of their mettle.

  A battle of trust and truth to cut through smoke and lies.

  She could only pray it wouldn’t prove to be a Pyrrhic victory.

  Chapter 4

  Every window of the imposing Mayfair townhouse was ablaze with diamond-bright light. It spilled out through the mullioned glass to bath the carved marble pediments and well-tended walkways in a shimmering golden glow.

  The glitter of privilege, pedigree and power, thought Arianna sardonically, as she and the earl threaded their way through the crush of carriages crowding the street. Though now part of this world, she would, at heart, always be an outsider, which made her even more aware of how much of the gilded splendor was a thin veneer. The costly silks, the stately mansions, the exquisite art and rare books—strip away the trappings and the beau monde was no better than the rest of humanity.

  Light and Dark—Good and Evil—with an infinite range of greys between the two extremes.

  “Damn Grentham for dragging us here,” muttered Saybrook as they handed their coats to a liveried footman and made their way across the grand entrance hall to the marble staircase leading up to the ballroom.

  “I imagine he has his reasons for choosing this venue,” she replied tersely.

  A grunt was his only response.

  “Which we’ll learn soon enough,” said Arianna, and then drew in a deep breath as they began their ascent. The air was thick with scents—the lush perfumes of the ladies, the delicate fragrance of the hothouse flowers, the faint masculine spice of tobacco. As the line of guests wound slowly upward, the lilting sound of the music became louder, punctuated by the buzz of conversation and the pop of champagne corks.

  The thick Oriental runner softened the smooth hardness of the stone, as they moved from stair to stair, following the graceful curve of the carved balusters. Gilt-framed portraits hung heavy on the pale walls. Arianna glanced at the procession of long-dead Mertons and bit back a smile. The painted faces all appeared to be looking down their aristocratic noses as if they had just caught a whiff of four-day-old fish.

  The evening’s festivities—along with the current century—were no doubt, a sad disappointment for those who thought the glories of the past were always better than the uncertainties of the future, reflected Arianna.

  Change was frightening.

  “Let us keeping moving,” said Saybrook.

  As they rounded the last turn, she looked down into the fast-filling entrance hall and spotted the earl’s great aunt and her party coming through the main portal. “Aunt Constantina and Sophia have arrived.”

  “Excellent,” muttered the earl. “If Grentham gives us any trouble I'll send the Dragon to breathe fire on his cods.” The dowager was one of the very few people in London who wasn't the least intimidated by the minister. Perhaps because she was bosom bows with his mother.

  Amusing as it was to picture Grentham with his privates burned to a crisp, Arianna gave the earl a small nudge. “Try to avoid sparking a battle. We need all the information we can get from him, so discretion is likely the better part of valor.”

  Saybrook’s jaw clenched, a sign that his usual iron-willed self-control had slipped a notch. The minister had somehow gotten under his skin lately. Arianna was fairly sure she knew why. During the previous investigation, Grentham had kept his promise not to reveal that she and Sophia were conducting their own hunt for the villain. That they had come perilously close to death because of it was something that Saybrook was finding hard to forgive.

  It was irrational, perhaps, to blame the minister for honoring his word. But as Aunt Constantina was fond of saying, men were Unfathomable Creatures.

  “Discretion,” repeated Saybrook. He took her arm and guided her around two plump matrons in plumed turbans. “I shall refrain from bloodying his beak. Other than that . . .”

  The double doors to the ballroom were open and they passed through the archway into a scene of fairytale splendor. Under the winking light of the crystal chandeliers, couples were waltzing across the polished parquet. The ladies were a blaze of spinning jeweltone colors and flashing gems, their brilliance heightened by the dark tones of the gentlemen's evening attire.

  Arianna surveyed the dance floor, then shifted her gaze to the recessed alcoves between the marble columns lining the side wall. Halfway down, she spotted Grentham standing in the shadows. He appeared to be alone.

  “Come along, I see him,” she said, giving a tiny nod in the minister’s direction.

  Beneath her gloved hand, she felt Saybrook’s arm stiffen. “Then let us make haste,” he muttered. “The sooner we are done with this, the better.”

  Despite the earl's grumbling, he took his time wending through the press of guests, occasionally stopping to exchange pleasantries with acquaintances. As they came abreast of Grentham's alcove, Saybrook paused as if to survey the crowd, allowing the minister to murmur a greeting, as if the meeting were by chance, and beckon them to join him.

  “Good evening, Lady Saybrook,” said the minister, after a curt nod at the earl. His gaze flicked over her elegant gown and carefully curled coiffure. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

  A barb, no doubt, referring to her recent balloon flight. Granted, her attire that evening had been rather unorthodox . . .
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  Arianna merely inclined a cool nod in reply. Saybrook, however, couldn't hold back a sharp retort.

  “You were hoping, perhaps, that her head would be burst open like a melon from the rifle bullet fired this morning?”

  If at that instant her gaze hadn’t been on the minister’s eyes, she would have missed the ripple of emotion beneath the flat gunmetal-grey hue. Surprise? It was gone too quickly for her to be sure.

  Saybrook added, “It was a rifle, my dear, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she replied, still watching Grentham. “The sound is distinctly different from that of a musket.”

  The violins crescendoed into the final movement of the country dance, the lilting notes distinctly at odds with the tension thrumming between the three of them.

  “Surely you don’t think it was me who ordered it?” Grentham’s face remained expressionless, but his voice betrayed a slight edge. “If I wanted your wife dead, I wouldn’t be quite so crude.”

  “Yes, that’s what I assured Sandro,” replied Arianna. “And methods aside, an injury to me would likely have upset your plans, so it makes no sense.” She smiled sweetly at him. “Whatever your other faults, Lord Grentham, you’re not stupid.”

  The minister’s eyes narrowed, but he ignored the barb. “Now that we’ve finished with our usual polite pleasantries, let us get down to business,” he said. “Saybrook, you need to come with me and have a quick chat with Thorpe from the Foreign Office, who’s just returned from Vienna.”

  To Arianna, he added, “In the meantime, the Baroness Plessy-Moritz will momentarily come strike up an acquaintance with you. She’ll be sailing with you to the Mediterranean. As will a gentleman by the name of Count von Wolfram, who will ask you dance later. Do be charming to both of them—they will, I trust, prove useful.”

  “I can, on occasion, behave in a ladylike fashion,” she murmured.

  Their gazes met, steel against steel.

  “Let us hope so.” Wasting no more time on verbal fencing—Grentham was nothing if not efficient—he turned to Saybrook and said brusquely, “Come with me.”

  They had no sooner moved off toward the terrace doors when Arianna heard a whispery fluttering of silk behind her. She turned and saw a silhouette of lady slip into the alcove, which connected the ballroom to one of the side salons. For a moment, a shroud of shadows obscured all but a hazy outline—tall and sinuous, moving with a languid but sure-footed feline grace . . .

  Arianna’s first impression was that of a sleek, well-fed cat.

  Swoosh, swoosh. The lady glided forward another few steps, into the pool of soft light cast by the wall sconce.

  “Lady Saybrook.” Her voice was a throaty purr, edged with an indeterminate accent. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. The minister has told me so much about you.”

  While I, she thought, know nothing about you. Why Grentham had deliberately put her at a disadvantage was yet another question Arianna had about the upcoming mission.

  “Then I daresay you’ve heard nothing good,” she replied lightly.

  A quick, low-pitched laugh. “On the contrary, you seem to fascinate His Lordship.”

  Arianna could think of some other more accurate words than ‘fascinate'.

  “But how rag-mannered you must think me, to be nattering on in such a forward way without a proper introduction! Forgive me—I am Baroness Plessy-Moritz. But I prefer that my friends call me Jelena.”

  The baroness held out her hand. Like the rest of her, it was clad in exotic elegance. The soft kidskin was de rigueur for the beau monde, but the rich saffron hue was unexpected. An intriguing touch—which Arianna assumed was quite deliberate.

  She hesitated just a fraction before responding to the proffered handshake. “I understand we shall be sailing together.” As Grentham had not seen fit to inform her of whether the baroness was heading to Elba or some other destination, she left it at that.

  “Yes,” answered Jelena, without elaborating. A cat and mouse reply? The baroness, for all her show of friendliness, seemed intent on not giving anything away.

  Arianna decided to see how the baroness would react to probing. “I’m curious as to your accent. I would guess it’s German, though I can’t say whether it’s from the Austrian provinces or farther north.”

  “La, you have an excellent ear for nuances. My native tongue is indeed a German dialect, though I’ve lived in so many different places, I’ve forgotten exactly which one.”

  A clever answer. Most people, reflected Arianna, would be lulled by the baroness’s soft, sultry beauty into underestimating the sharpness of her mind. She must be on guard not to make that mistake.

  “I, too, have a knack for languages, Lady Saybrook,” went on Jelena. “My guess is you didn’t grow up in England.”

  “Correct.” Whether the baroness was attuned to such subtleties, or whether Grentham had given her background information was impossible to know. “So it seems we are fellow nomads.”

  Jelena gave her a coy look. “I have a sense that we have a great deal more in common.”

  “You are a far more discerning judge of people than I am, to be able to make such an assessment so quickly,” replied Arianna dryly. She quickly changed the subject, curious as to how the baroness would react. “Have you friends in Elba?”

  The hesitation was slight but unmistakable. “I have friends all over the Continent.”

  A new melody sounded from the musicians and the ballroom once again came alive with a whirling blur of colors. Arianna couldn’t help wondering if the baroness was half as adroit at twirling through the intricate steps of the waltz as she was with her verbal dancing. The answer was likely yes. The lady looked very much at home amid the twirls and spins.

  “Speaking of friends . . .” Arianna saw Sophia and Lady Sterling approaching. “Aunt Constantina, allow me to introduce you to Baroness Plessy-Moritz.”

  By the time all requisite social graces had been performed, Grentham and Saybrook had returned.

  Jelena’s eyes—artfully rimmed with kohl to enhance their topaz glitter, noted Arianna—took on a speculative gleam as they fixed on the earl. “I understand we are destined to be shipmates, Lord Saybrook. Normally, I find sea travel to be very tedious, but Percival assures me you will prove an interesting companion.”

  Percival? Arianna watched for any reaction from the minister, but his expression remained a Sphinx-like enigma. The only person who dared call Grentham by his first name was Aunt Constantina. In the dowager’s case, age and a dear friendship with his mother had its perquisites, but as to what connection the baroness had with Grentham . . .

  She found it hard to imagine the minister yielding to the pleasures of the flesh.

  “Hmmph, I wasn’t aware that you were planning a trip, Sandro,” said Constantina.

  “A spur-of-the-moment decision,” he replied.

  “Yes, His Lordship was just telling me that his botanical research required a visit to some of the Mediterranean islands,” interjected Grentham.

  “Hmmph.” The dowager’s eyes narrowed. “Cacao doesn’t grow in the Mediterranean.”

  “No, but apparently a number of other very interesting plant specimens do.” The minister gave a tight smile. “You would have to ask him which ones.”

  “Have you an interest in botany, Lady Plessy-Moritz?” asked Sophia politely.

  “None whatsoever,” came the cheerful reply. “However, I do adore dancing.” The baroness fluttered a come-hither look at Saybrook. “What about you, milord?”

  “He’s too well-mannered to say anything else but yes,” quipped Constantina, as the violins ceased their tune-up notes and readied to strike up the next melody.

  Looking faintly amused, Saybrook dutifully offered his arm to Jelena.

  As the dowager excused herself to greet a bevy of matrons seated near the refreshment table, one of Sophia's acquaintances from her scientific society came and asked for her hand. Arianna started to shift her stance for a better view
of the far end of the room . . . only to find Grentham standing stiffly in her way.

  “Will you honor me with a dance, Lady Saybrook?”

  However politely phrased, there was no mistaking it for a request. Yet for an instant, she was tempted to refuse. However, on recalling her earlier warning to her husband, she dismissed the impulse as childish. The only reason the minister would willingly seek her company was that he wished to impart some information.

  And Arianna had a feeling she and Saybrook would need every scrap of it they could get.

  It was another waltz, which would allow them a chance for private conversation. She accepted his arm, aware of the surreptitious looks they were attracting. Grentham was not known for his gallantry with the ladies. If anything made his pulse quicken, she thought a little snidely, it was likely the vision of thumbscrews and the rack, not a sultry smile.

  The minister took up a position at the far corner of the dance floor then placed his hand a little awkwardly on the small of her back and drew her close. Arianna was about to make a clever quip, but the words seemed to stick in her throat. Up close, she was uncomfortably aware of his physical presence. He was tall—not quite as tall as Saybrook, but with the same sense of whipcord strength radiating from his person. And as their gazes met, the look of piercing intelligence in his eyes reminded her that however much her feelings about him were conflicted, it would be a grave mistake ever to underestimate him.

  She knew all too well what a dangerous man he was to have as an enemy. Given the unknowns that lay ahead, she must swallow her pride and do her best not to antagonize him.

  The music began, and Grentham led them into the first figures of the dance.

  “Tell me more about our fellow travelers, the baroness and the count,” she murmured without preamble. “Lady Plessy-Moritz seems to know more about us than we know about her, which gives her an unfair advantage.” A pause. “I would like to think that’s not by deliberate design.”