Henning nodded. “Then I shall leave you to it.” After forking up the last morsel of meat, he rose and brushed the crumbs from his rumpled jacket. “By the by, I’ve left a valise of medicines with your butler that may prove useful.”
He picked up a muffin and stuffed it in his pocket. “Don’t take it amiss that I’ve included an ample supply of bandages and suture needles. You two do have a habit of attracting trouble.”
* * *
Arianna checked the packing lists, scribbled in several additions, and then handed them back to her maid.
“Thank the heavens you are better than I am at turning chaos into order,” she murmured, glancing around at the half-filled trunks and the various items still piled atop the bed and dressing table. A pause, and a sidelong look at the clock, which after another tick began to chime the hour.
“I must step out for a bit,” added Arianna, once the last note had died away. “Might I leave the rest in your very capable hands—”
“No need to sweeten me up, signora,” shot back Bianca. “I shall reward myself later with some of your chocolate confections. In the meantime, by all means, go!” A brusque shooing gesture punctuated her words. “I shall summon Maria to help. You’ll only be in the way.”
Flashing a grateful smile, Arianna hurried down to the entrance hallway and fetched her fur-lined hooded cloak. “If His Lordship asks for me, please tell him I’ve gone out for a short while, “ she called to their longtime butler.
“Very good, milady.” He hesitated. “Shall I call one of the footmen to accompany you?”
“No need,” she replied quickly. “I’m taking our carriage to Miss Kirtland’s residence for a quick visit. I won’t be long.”
It was the truth . . . just not the whole truth.
The ride took little time. As the elderly servant admitted Arianna into the small entrance foyer of Sophia’s townhouse, her friend turned abruptly from her nervous pacing. “I dispatched the message, just as you asked.”
“Thank you,” she replied. “Now, let us hope he comes.”
A scowl pinched at Sophia’s mouth. “Oh, he’ll come.”
Arianna didn’t press for any explanation. Her thoughts were too occupied with how to handle the coming confrontation. A fool’s errand, perhaps. But regardless of the outcome, she would at least have delivered a message.
In a game of cat and mouse, I have no intention of playing the clawless prey.
“Then let’s be on our way. I’m pressed for time as it is.”
Cloaks skirling around their half boots, the two of them hurried out to the waiting carriage. It was a short drive to the less trafficked Cumberland Gate at the northeast corner of Hyde Park. After proceeding for a short distance, the coachman pulled the horses to a halt.
“Please continue on, Jose,” called Arianna after climbing down to the footpath that cut across the carriageway. “You may circle back in twenty minutes.”
As the wheels clattered away over the frozen ground, she gestured for Sophia to lead the way into the copse of leafless trees to the left. “You go first. I’ll stay right behind you.” The element of surprise, however fleeting, might work in her favor.
Up ahead, half-hidden in the long-fingered shadows, a lone figure clad in black was sheltering from the biting wind by a stately oak. With his broad-brimmed beaver hat pulled low and a knitted muffler wound up to the jut of his cheekbones, his face was unrecognizable.
But the arrogant set of his shoulders was all too familiar.
As was the sharp-edged snarl that greeted their approach. “I see you’ve brought a friend, Miss Kirtland. I suppose I should have realized that the company you choose to keep has corrupted your morals.”
“That,” retorted Arianna, “is the pot calling the kettle black!”
Grentham blew impatiently on his gloved hands. “I’m a busy man, ladies. I’ve no time for parlor games.”
“Thanks to you, I, too, am rather busy. So I’ll cut to the chase, sir.” She moved closer—close enough that the silvery swirls of their breath twined together as the vapor rose into the overhanging branches. “The recent shot that nearly shattered my skull got me thinking—”
“I thought we had already settled the fact that if I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t be so crude about it.”
“Yes, we agree on that,” she replied. “However, deliberately sending my husband and me into danger without all the facts would be a far more subtle punishment. Plus it kills two birds with one stone—there is no love lost between you and Sandro.”
Grentham’s eyes narrowed for an instant, sparks tipping his lashes with flashes of fire. “Love, hate, indifference—Ye God, Lady Saybrook, surely by now you should know that emotion has nothing to do the practicalities of my job. You and your husband are valuable assets to have for certain assignments.”
He slapped his palms together. “I’m not about to shoot myself in the foot, as it were, over any petty personal grudge you think I may be holding.”
A part of her didn’t really think the minister was capable of cold-blooded maliciousness.
But Arianna had to be sure.
“I have reason to think you may be holding more than a petty grudge.” Not wanting Sophia to guess at his connection with the recent matter of the stolen letters, she left it at that.
Grentham, of course, knew exactly to what she was referring. “I’m fully aware that in my work, things don’t always go as planned.” He shifted, setting the shoulder capes of his coat to fluttering. Lowering his voice to a whisper that only she could hear, he added, “If I thought you had deliberately double-crossed me, the shot wouldn’t have come from a rifle. And it wouldn’t have missed.”
Arianna drew a deep breath, and then slowly let it out. “So, do I have your word that this upcoming mission is not some diabolical trap?”
He laughed. “Would it matter if I gave my word?
Strangely enough it did.
Remaining silent, she held his gaze.
Behind her, she heard the crackly shuffle of Sophia’s boots over the dead leaves.
A flicker rippled through his eyes. In the uncertain light, it looked for an instant like amusement. “Very well.” He placed a hand over his heart. “You have my solemn oath that I’m innocent of deliberately scheming for your demise.”
Sarcasm edged his voice, but Arianna was satisfied.
“That’s all I wanted to know,” she said. “We need not linger any longer in this hellish cold.”
“Actually, I need just a moment longer with His Lordship.”
As Sophia edged around her, Arianna swallowed a spurt of surprise.
Sunlight glinted off the polished steel barrel of a fully cocked pistol as her friend calmly took dead aim at Grentham’s forehead.
“Kindly point that elsewhere,” he said without batting an eye. “Manton makes his weapons with a very sensitive trigger, and I’d rather not have some flightly female inadvertently spatter my brains to Kingdom Come.”
“If you're implying that I don't know how to shoot a pistol, allow me to correct the misconception.” With a casual flicker of her wrist, Sophia expertly spun the weapon in a circle on her finger and brought it back to perfect aim at his forehead.
“I grew up in the country, and my father believed that a lady ought to know how to defend herself.”
The minister muttered something under his breath.
Arianna raised her brows. She would have thought Grentham too well-bred to know such words.
“Your point being, Miss Kirtland?” he added in a louder voice.
“Just that if you’re lying through your teeth about deliberately sending Lady Saybrook and her husband into danger, you’ll have to answer to me.” With that, she lowered the pistol.
“Parlor games,” he sneered. “No doubt your lady friends are impressed. But I suggest you don’t ever try that with a loaded weapon.”
Sophia twitched an evil grin, took quick aim and squeezed off a shot at one of the low-hanging branches. I
t shattered with a resounding crack, the severed limb falling to the ground in a shower of splinters.
A curl of blue-gray smoke dissolved in the breeze as she dipped a mock curtsey. “Good day, Lord Grentham. And do keep in mind what I just said. Like Lady Saybrook, I have a fierce loyalty to my friends, and believe in looking out for them.”
Chapter 7
Hemp, tar, brine, and the sickly sweet odor of decay. As the coach bumped its way east over the uneven cobblestones, the pungent smells of the naval dockyards at Greenwich grew stronger.
Arianna leaned back against the squabs and shallowed her breathing. “How long before the tide turns?”
Saybrook consulted his pocketwatch. “Not for another two hours.” This far up the Thames, ships timed their departure to head out to sea on the ebb tide rather than fight the current of the incoming waters. “We’ve plenty of time to get our trunks stowed before the captain casts off the bowlines.”
“I daresay he won’t be happy at having to stow all the added baggage. Grentham’s note said the HMS Basilisk is a full-rigged post ship—a small frigate that carries less than 28 guns—and such vessels are built for speed and agility.” Arianna had spent a goodly amount of her youth sailing throughout the West Indies. “A captain spends much time arranging the weight of his ship’s stores to ensure optimum performance before leaving port. We and our fellow passengers are going to knock all his hard work to flinders.”
Saybrook shrugged.
“Which means,” she added, “that he’s not going to look kindly on us.”
Another shrug. “I don’t really give a rat’s arse for his good opinion. Word is, he’s an excellent seaman, and that’s all that matters.” The watchcase clicked shut. “With good weather, we won’t be in his company long.”
Good weather was a matter of luck. And of late, Arianna wasn’t feeling particularly lucky.
They continued on in silence, her nerves drawing tighter as the road curled down closer to the river. The twilight was deepening, the red-gold hues of the fast-setting sun giving way to the muted purples and blues of dusk. She could vaguely make out the dark-on-dark silhouettes of the tall ships riding at anchor, their watch lanterns casting an oily sheen of light over the water as the hulls bobbed up and down in rhythm with the wind-swirled waves.
Wheels clacking, harness jangling, the coach rounded a tight turn and rolled to a halt in a small cobbled square fronting one of the wharves. Saybrook climbed down and signaled to one of the marines guarding the row of warehouses. An officer was quickly summoned, and in short order, a group of stevedores began unloading their baggage and hauling it to the sleek frigate tied at the end of the walkway.
“More bloody weight.” A figure stepped forward from the gloom of its quarterdeck and braced his hands on the rail.
The flutter of two gold shoulder epaulets caught Arianna's eye. The captain. And as she had suspected, he didn’t sound pleased.
“A pox on the Admiralty,” added the captain. Like his voice, his face was sharp-edged, wind and saltwater having weathered away any softness from his features. “We’re a naval warship, not a civilian ferry.”
“My apologies for the inconvenience,” replied Saybrook with equal gruffness. “Might we come aboard?” He set a foot on the gangplank. “I should hate to add tardiness to the list of our sins.”
The captain—Holden, if she remembered the information from Grentham correctly—waited a long moment before giving a brusque wave.
Arianna followed, aware of the subtle change beneath her feet as she passed from land to sea. It brought back old memories—
“Ye god, another female.” Holden’s whisper was just loud enough for her to hear. He then turned to the lieutenant and midshipman who had hurried to join him.
“Mr. Diggs! Tell me—what is it they say about women aboard a ship?”
“Bad luck, sir!” squeaked the midshipman, who looked no older than twelve.
“Bad luck,” repeated Holden, his eyes turned even more hooded as he looked at her.
“I seem to recall reading that several women fought in the gun crews at the Battle of Trafalgar,” countered Arianna.
Diggs’s eyes widened at hearing someone dare to challenge the captain, however obliquely. On board his ship, a captain was God.
“An old wives’ tale,” said Holden curtly.
“Is it?” She allowed a small smile, refusing to be bullied by his incivility. “The resourcefulness of women may surprise you, captain.”
He didn’t deign to reply. “Lieutenant Merriweather, kindly escort our exalted guests to their quarters—that is, assuming you’ve taken the time to make yourself familiar with the ship.”
“Indeed, I have, sir.” The lieutenant gave her an apologetic look and a quick explanation. “I’ve been sent by the Admiralty as a last-minute replacement for the regular first lieutenant, who suffered an unfortunate accident yesterday.”
“Let us hope we’re not cursed with any more misfortunes,” muttered Holden. Addressing himself to Merriweather, he added, “I daresay the accommodations will be less palatial than those to which they are accustomed. But be that as it may, ask them to remain there, out of the way of the crew, while we ready the ship to set sail.”
“This way, milord,” murmured Merriweather as his commanding officer stalked away. “And milady.”
They descended a steep ladder to the deck below. Shadows flitted through the fusty air, its dampness redolent with the fugue of bilge water and unwashed bodies. Saybrook had to hunch over as he navigated the narrow passageway to keep from banging his head on the low-hanging beams.
“You’re in here,” announced the lieutenant, easing open the door to a cabin toward the rear of the ship. “I regret that it’s the best we can offer,” he added apologetically. The light from his lantern pooled over the halfpenny-sized space and the two tiny bunks crammed against the bulkheads.
“Thank you,” said Arianna quickly. Knowing something about shipboard life on a naval vessel, she was aware that two of the officers had likely been forced to give up their quarters and squeeze in with others. “I'm sorry we've made things uncomfortable for you and your fellow officers. Who have we displaced?”
“The surgeon and the second lieutenant don’t mind setting up hammocks in the gunroom.” Merriweather made a face. “Again, I apologize—”
“No need.” Saybrook squeezed through the door and took a seat on one of the bunks—the only choice to avoid a crick in his neck. “My wife and I have stayed in far less salubrious quarters during our travels.”
The lieutenant couldn’t quite hide his skepticism, but merely stepped back with a quick bow. “Then I shall leave you to settle in while I return to my duties. The sailors will be here shortly with the personal luggage you requested, milord.”
“Six days,” Arianna reminded herself, once the door had clicked shut. “Uncle Charles says that with good weather and favorable winds, a fast dispatch ship can reach Elba in six days.” Saybrook’s uncle, Charles Mellon, was a senior diplomat with the Foreign Office and familiar with all the logistics of travel around the Continent.
“As you said, that will depend on having Luck look favorably upon our endeavor,” said the earl dryly.
Arianna sat down on her own bunk facing him. Their knees nearly knocked together. “Are you implying that things have a tendency to go awry when we embark on a journey?”
“As a man of science, I try not to make assumptions. But based on empirical evidence . . .” A twitch of sardonic amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth. “There is still time to change your mind about coming.”
Her answer was cut off by a knock on the door.
“Yer baggage, m’lord.” Two grizzled sailors with bulging biceps and tarred pigtails muscled the bags into the cramped space and scurried away.
“Ah, excellent.” Saybrook fished out a bottle of brandy from one of the valises. “A toast to Neptune—and Lady Luck. May they both look kindly on our voyage.”
Th
ere was a subtle pop as he drew out the cork . . . and then, as if by some dark magic, the sound seemed to stir sudden movement nearby.
The scuff of steps, a rap on the door.
The earl frowned. “Yes?”
Taking the response as an invitation to enter, Wolff—or rather, von Wolfram, thought Arianna—clicked open the latch and stepped inside. “I heard you arrive and thought I would come bid you welcome.”
Watching him move and gracefully assume a seat on the end of Saybrook's bunk, she was reminded once again of how easily her former employer slid into a second skin.
Like me. No, on second thought, Wolff was much, much better at it. She had learned the skill in order to survive, while for him, deception seemed to be woven into the very fabric of his being.
“Captain Holden doesn’t appear to be a terribly hospitable soul,” observed Wolff.
“As he said, he’s commanding a ship of war, not hosting a country house party,” pointed out the earl. He took a swig of brandy and passed the bottle to Arianna. “We upset the clockwork order of his little world, which for him can mean the difference between life and death.”
Wolff shrugged. “No matter what one’s calling is, the key to success is the ability to improvise.”
She swallowed a snort along with a sip of wine.
He eyed the bottle and gave a suggestive waggle of his brows.
“You’re an experienced traveler, Count,” she responded. “I would have thought you’d pack your own refreshments.”
“Yes, but yours look to be of much better quality than mine.”
Arianna handed it over.
“Danke sehr.” He took a long draught, then loudly shuffled his boots on the planking to cover a low whisper. “Given these close quarters, the walls have ears, so we must be discreet. But once we're allowed on the deck, there will be the opportunity for private conversation.” More scraping. “Having spent some time in London with the baroness, I've learned a few things that may interest you—”
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