Her husband let out a low laugh. “Better you than me if she’s in the mood to breathe fire about some issue or another.” It was not for nothing that the dowager was known as The Dragon among Polite Society. Her scathing wit and outspoken opinions terrified most of the ton. “Which clearly she is, given that you mentioned she also stopped by here last night.”
“She does, on occasion, simply wish to enjoy the company of family,” replied Arianna. To deflect further questions, she was quick to add, “After that, I will likely pay a visit to Hatchards and see if the shipment of botanical books has arrived from Philadelphia.” She added a pinch of grated nutmeg to the hot chocolate he passed to her. “And you?”
Saybrook made a face. “There are some rare old journals from the early Spanish explorations of the New World I wish to examine in the archives of the Royal Society. Banks has kindly agreed to give me access to them.”
She raised a brow. “And yet you don’t sound overly happy about it.”
“My eyes have already begun to ache at the mere thought of spending several days trying to decipher more illegible scrawls,” he confessed. “But I shouldn’t be complaining.”
“The trials and tribulation of serious scholarship,” she observed.
“Yes, well, at least nobody will be trying to shoot or stab me.” He said it lightly, but Arianna knew their recent exploits were still a sore point between them.
She buttered a piece of toast. “The pen is mightier than the sword.”
That drew a faint smile. “Safer, yes. But sometimes more boring.”
“Speaking of boring . . .” Arianna took advantage of the chance to broach the subject of politics. “Rather than making any headway on resolving all the conflicts and disputes, it seems the Peace Conference in Vienna is taking even more serpentine twists.” She and Saybrook had, for short time, been tangled in its intrigues. Discussing the various factions with him shouldn’t raise any suspicions. “I’m finding it hard to keep track of who is an ally of whom.”
“That likely changes as often as the Duchess of Sagen switches lovers,” said Saybrook dryly. The duchess had both the Tsar of Russia and Prince Metternich, the Austrian Foreign Minister—along with a wolf pack of other prominent gentlemen—chasing her skirts. “But at present, I believe we are allied with the French and the Austrians against the Russians and Prussians.”
“Why?” she pressed.
“Russia wants to annex all of Poland, and Prussia has made a deal to support them in return for being allowed to gobble up the Kingdom of Saxony. We, along with the French and the Austrians, fear that will make both of them too strong. Our government wishes to create a balance of power.”
“Even when it means siding with the French, who’ve been our sworn enemy for over a decade?”
He shrugged and took a swallow of his chocolate. “Politics makes for strange bedfellows.”
“Still, knowing Talleyrand as we do, I have a feeling his main goal is self-preservation, not a lasting peace in Europe.”
“I don’t disagree,” he responded. “But in this case, I think his interests definitely align with ours. The French want to preserve what power they have. Russia and Prussia are seeking to become bigger players on the Continent, which is a threat to them.” He shrugged “And to us. Though of course, Charles would have a more expert opinion on the political nuances.”
“I see,” she mused. So the Russians and the Prussians seemed the most likely suspects for having stolen the documents from Constantina’s lover. Not much to go on, but at least it was something.
Saybrook finished his shirred eggs and gammon, then gave a glance at the clock on the mantel. “I had better be on my way.” He pushed back his chair. “Give my regards to Constantina.”
“But of course,” she murmured.
“And please do ask her to refrain from stirring up any trouble within Polite Society until I’m done with this blasted research,” he added under his breath. “Much as I admire the fact that she doesn’t suffer fools gladly, at present I’d rather not be distracted by one of her Dragonly controversies.”
Trouble. That word again, taking on an even more ominous echo.
Looking down at the dark dregs of her chocolate, she merely nodded in reply.
“I’m very grateful to both of you for coming.” The ritual of serving tea—along with a platter of chocolate and sultana cakes that Arianna had brought from her kitchens—duly performed, Constantina perched a pair of spectacles on her nose and took up a notebook from the side table.
“The feelings of gratitude are all mine,” murmured Sophia Kirtland. “My latest experiment with aqua fortis is proving perversely difficult.” Sophia’s expertise was chemistry, and she had authored a number of highly regarded scientific papers on the subject—though the Royal Society’s journal refused to publish them on account of her sex. “So I’m more than happy to set aside my scholarly pursuits and have a different sort of conundrum to tackle.”
“I fear this one will be even more difficult,” warned the dowager.
“I’ve jotted down a few thoughts . . .” A whispery flutter sounded as she opened the pages. “But there’s precious little to go on.”
“Science teaches us not to make assumptions before examining all the facts,” replied Sophia stoutly. “The three of us have proved our cleverness in the past. We shall do it again.”
Constantina forced a smile.
“Tell us what you’ve noted,” encouraged Arianna. “Then I have a few thoughts on the matter.”
“As I said, it’s not much,” answered the dowager. “I did, however, note that Gerard seemed troubled about an upcoming diplomatic meeting. He and the envoys of Austria, Russia and Prussia have been summoned by our Foreign Office to make several critical decisions pertaining to redrawing certain borders in Europe.
Russia and Prussia.
“And yet, when I asked him about why he was so worried, he brushed off my concern by saying I was merely imagining it.” She pursed her lips. “But I assure you I wasn’t. I know him well enough to read his moods.”
Arianna nodded. “Anything else?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“No matter. What you noted may be of help, as I, too, have reason to believe Russia and Prussia may be relevant to our problem.” She recounted her breakfast conversation with Saybrook. “It stands to reason that political intrigue is behind the theft, and those two countries seem to have the most to gain by having some hold on Dampierre.”
Frowning in thought, Constantina tapped her fingertips together. “I’m trying to recall . . .” Tap, tap. “Ha! I have it! At Lady Marshalsea’s musicale, I heard someone mention that a special representative from the Russian Tsar had recently arrived from the Continent. That was perhaps a fortnight ago, so it’s possible that he . . .”
“It’s possible that he is instigating a more aggressive program of espionage,” said Arianna, finishing the dowager’s thought. She took a moment to contemplate the idea. Count Golitsyn, the current Russian envoy, was more interested in sybaritic pleasures of London—champagne, foie gras and the lightskirts of Covent Garden—than in exerting himself in any clandestine political activities. If Tsar Alexander wished to be more aggressive in pursuing his objectives . . .
“Yes,” she mused, “it’s definitely something to consider.”
“I know Lady Grinwood hosted the newly-arrived Russian at a supper soirée just a few days ago,” said the dowager. “Perhaps if we pay a call on her, we can wrinkle some useful information out of her.”
Sophia slanted a glance at the tall case clock in the corner of the parlor. “If we hurry, there’s still time for us to do it today.” Morning calls—which within the gilded confines of Mayfair didn’t begin until well after noon—were governed by a strict set of unwritten rules.
Constantina’s chin took on a determined tilt. “Then let us not dally.” She rang for her shawl and bonnet.
“By the by,” said Arianna as she rose and set her untouched c
up of tea back on the serving tray. “Do you perchance know the name of the special representative?” Perhaps it was one of the Russians she had met in Vienna.
“Let me think,” said the dowager. “As I recall, it was not nearly as impossible as the usual Slavic tongue-twisters . . .” Her brow furrowed. “Oblansky . . . Orsinov . . .”
Arianna felt the back of her neck begin to prickle.
“Orlov!” announced Constantina. “Yes, that’s it—Orlov. Prince Vladimir Orlov.”
And here she had thought the challenge couldn’t possibly take a more serpentine twist. A sharp exhale slipped from her lips, followed by an equally exasperated oath.
“Bloody, Bloody hell.”
“I take it you know him,” murmured Sophia, after an uncomfortable moment of silence.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“By which you mean,” replied her friend dryly, “that a heartfelt appeal to the bonds of friendship won’t win us the return of the stolen documents.”
“No. There isn’t a snowball’s chance in Hell that Prince Orlov would give them back to us.” A pause. “Not unless in return he was granted the right to drop me into the deepest, hottest pit of eternal fire.”
Sophia’s eyes widened slightly. “Pray tell, what did you do to him? Or shouldn’t I ask?”
“I rejected his amorous advances, and he didn’t take kindly to it.” Arianna chuffed a sigh. “Though in all candor, I suppose I might have expressed myself with a trifle more tact.”
“Oh, dear—did you knock him on his arse?” asked Constantina.
It was true that her arsenal of unladylike skills did include a number of very nasty but effective tricks for warding off the unwanted attentions of men. Survival in the rough and tumble hellholes of the West Indies had depended on them. But she only resorted to physical violence when absolutely necessary.
“No,” replied Arianna. “It didn’t come to that. The only wound was to his overweening pride. I humiliated him in front of several of his friends, who happened to witness our tête-à-tête.”
Even now, the memory of the unfortunate incident made her skin crawl. It wasn’t something she wished to discuss, but it would be unfair to leave her friends without an explanation.
“Orlov found me alone in one of the pictures galleries of the Hofburg Palace—quite deliberately, I’m sure,” she explained. Saybrook had been attending a diplomatic meeting at the Austrian king’s grand residence in Vienna, leaving her to pass the time viewing some of the priceless art treasures on display. “His flirtations over the last few days had become increasingly aggressive, and subtle discouragements seemed to pass right over his head. He’s a big bear of a man, attractive in a fleshy sort of way, but through the lens of his own puffed-up conceit he sees himself as a veritable Adonis, irresistible to any woman.”
She drew in a quick breath. “I was aware of not wanting to create an unpleasant incident, so did my best to politely discourage his attentions. However, when his ham-handed attempts at seduction started to turn ugly, I was forced to unsheathe my tongue.”
A pause. “I know some very unflattering phrases in Russian that call into question a fellow’s manhood. Unfortunately, several other members of the Russian delegation happened to overhear my speech and witnessed me removing his hand from my breast—in a way that forced him to retreat rather quickly in order to avoid a broken wrist. I heard later that it made him the butt of ridicule for a while. And to an arrogant braggart, that doesn’t sit well.”
“He deserved far worse than ridicule,” muttered Sophia darkly. Her own experience with an aggressive man had left deep scars. “He should have had his bollocks cut off.”
“Much as I agree, it wouldn’t have been a terribly diplomatic response,” said Arianna, unhappy that she had stirred such painful memories for her friend. “I’ve recounted this simply so you both know that Orlov’s hubris knows no bounds.”
“Which makes him just the sort of man who would come to a foreign city and immediately look to flex his muscle,” mused Constantina.
“Indeed,” she agreed. “The Russian court is a Byzantine tangle of intrigue, with all of the various princes and titled noblemen looking to curry favor with Tsar Alexander. Having the means to blackmail a senior French diplomat would be an impressive accomplishment.”
Though Constantina tried to mask it with a sardonic shrug, Arianna saw that fear had taken hold of the dowager’s fragile body. Her heart clenched in sympathy.
Love, for all its beauty, can be a two-edged sword.
“But let us not jump to conclusions,” she cautioned. “We have no proof that Orlov is the guilty party—God knows, there are plenty of other possibilities.” She shifted, just enough to lock eyes with her great aunt. “Furthermore, you need not worry that the bad blood between me and Orlov will have any bearing on our plans. The point is, whatever we decide to try in order to regain the purloined papers, success will depend on absolute secrecy. Whoever the culprit is, he’ll never know I’m involved.”
“Quite right. I—” Sophia fell silent as Constantina’s maid entered the parlor and helped the dowager don her wrap and bonnet.
“I, for one, am looking forward to discovering the smarmy dastard,” she continued, once they were alone again. “Once we do, he’ll rue the day he chose to challenge the three of us.”
The speech brought a bit of the color back to Constantina’s cheeks. With a wave of her cane, she turned for the door. “Quite right. Let us make him pay for his perfidy.”
Arianna followed, but as they reached the street, she came to a halt. “You two take my carriage and go gather the ondits from Lady Grinwood’s drawing room,” she murmured.
“But where—” began Sophia.
“I’ve just had an idea on where I might learn more about what sort of intrigue is swirling within London’s shadows. And it’s best that I travel there by hackney, and without any companions.”
The bells attached to the ornate glass and mahogany door of Señora Delgado’s chocolate shop gave a discreet ring as Arianna entered and took a seat at one of the tables near the glass-front display cases. The warm scent of melted sugar and butter wafted up from the array of fresh-baked pastries.
“Good day.” The proprietress appeared almost immediately—alerted, perhaps, by a sixth sense for intrigue, thought Arianna. Or more likely, an elaborate set of hidden mirrors that let her see into every nook and cranny of the space.
“It’s always a pleasure to welcome you here,” went on Señora Delgado in a smooth-as-treacle voice. There was a raven-like alertness to her, and like the bird, she was garbed entirely in black, right down to the lace mantilla draped over her jet-dark hair. The gauzy shadows shading her face did nothing to dim the bright gleam of her eyes.
A woman who doesn’t miss much. Arianna warned herself not to forget that.
“You’ve tried the recipe for my special walnut and chocolate pastry, I see,” she said in reply to the greeting. In a previous investigation, she and the signora had bonded over a shared interest in Theobroma cacao—or chocolate. The Spanish woman had never seen it used in confections, and a gift of recipes had cemented their friendship.
“It’s proved quite popular,” answered the proprietress. “The men who come here love sweets nearly as much as they love brandy and whisky.”
Set close by the Artillery grounds, the shop catered to the daredevil aeronauts who launched their gigantic flying balloons from the wide swath of space. They were a rough crowd, made up of men who by their very nature took pleasure in defying the rules that constrained most people.
Señora Delgado flashed a sly smile and added, “Dare I hope I can coax you to pass over more of your marvelous recipes?”
“I’m happy to share them with someone who appreciates their nuances,” murmured Arianna. The rakish ambiance of the shop—the clouds of pungent tobacco smoke, the swearing, the copious amounts of alcohol that went along with pots of excellent coffee and spiced chocolate drink—attracted other types
of adventurers and free spirits for whom risk was like a drug. “Dare I hope I can coax you to answer a few questions about the gossip you happen to overhear from your patrons?”
“Like you, I’m quite willing to share my expertise with someone who has the skills to use it properly. Let me fetch us a pot of frothed chocolate and we can discuss what it is you want to know.”
A short while later, the mutually beneficial agreement was sealed with a Spanish toast.
“I shall send the new recipes to you later this afternoon,” said Arianna, after brushing the last sticky crumbs of a walnut-chocolate pastry from her fingers. “By the by, I love your addition of achiote chili to my original recipe.”
“One should always be open to improvising. It can lead to such interesting discoveries,” replied Señora Delgado. “But then, I daresay you know that.”
“Discovery is the spice of life,” agreed Arianna, pushing away her empty plate. “Thank you for the refreshments.”
And for the very useful information. Because of the Spaniard’s sharp eyes and ears, she now had a far clearer idea of which countries had both the motive and the means to have pulled off the theft. As Saybrook had suggested, Russia and Prussia were strong possibilities. But according to Signora Delgado, Spain and the tiny Kingdom of Naples—which was ruled by Napoleon’s brother-in-law and former general, Joachim Murat—would also stand to gain a great deal if they possessed such a bargaining chip. And both had very clever and capable operatives here in London.
Food for thought, reflected Arianna, as she took her leave and headed down one of the side streets to where she could flag down a hackney for the return trip to Grosvenor Square. Though in truth, the addition of yet more suspects made the daunting challenge of learning who had the documents seem even more impossible. The diplomatic meeting was only a week away. Three ladies with little time and no expert resources upon which to call . . .
A sharp turn and the street turned narrower, the tall, soot-streaked brick warehouses blocking all but a hazy scudding of sunlight. Arianna shallowed her breathing against the stench of the adjoining alleyway. Up ahead, a feral cat darted across the rough cobbles, stirring a scattering of pebbles. And behind her—
The Stolen Letters Page 2