Arianna spun around at the sound of a tiny scuff and brandished the knife she had whipped out from the hidden pocket of her gown. “Who’s there?”
“Oiy!” A ragged urchin slipped out from the muddle of shadows. “Put yer blade away. I ain’t a threat.”
“Why are you following me?” she demanded.
“Because the fancy cove said I had te give this te ye private-like, else I won’t git the rest o’ my blunt.” He held out a filthy hand, the folded piece of paper gleaming bright against the grime-on-grime greys of the surroundings.
She gingerly plucked it from his fingers. But before she could ask another question, he darted off, leaving naught but a faint whisper of air in his wake.
Frowning, she smoothed open the note, the crackling of the foolscap echoing off the close-set walls. The writing looked to have been done in a hurry—the ink was smudged, and a few errant spatters showed where the pen had snagged in the paper.
Angling it to catch the light, Arianna read over the short message.
If you wish to save your relative from scandal, be at the Dutch spice merchant’s stall in Covent Garden Market tomorrow morning when the clock of St. Paul’s church strikes nine.
So, it seemed a game within a game was afoot. Perhaps a deadly one. But no matter how dangerous, did she really have a choice on whether to play it?
Chapter 3
Sullen grey clouds hung heavy in the morning sky, their dull pewter color accentuating the chill of the gusty winter breeze. Arianna made her way down the row of stalls, nodding a greeting to the vendors who sat huddled by their makeshift braziers, warming their rag-wrapped hands over bits of burning coal. Smoke swirled through the flapping canvas of the shelters, adding its acrid scent to the air of foreboding.
Arianna shook off the sensation. There was, she assured herself, no reason for alarm. She had taken the precaution of coming armed—a small pistol was tucked in the pocket of her cloak—and the maze of Covent Garden market’s rambling layout was familiar territory. She came here often to shop. The merchant ships that arrived daily at the London dockyards from all corners of the globe assured an array of exotic ingredients for her chocolate recipes, though at this time of year the place was far emptier than in the warmer months.
The offerings looked particularly sparse today, she noted, and few other buyers had braved the cold.
“A foul day to be out, milady,” greeted the rotund Dutchman who specialized in spices from the Moluccan Islands.
“Indeed it is, Mr. Joost,” replied Arianna. They had come to be friends, so he knew she was an aristocrat. But as she always dressed in drab, serviceable garments when coming to the market, to the casual observer she would appear as naught but the wife of a tradesman. “However, I’m in need of your excellent peppercorns, along with some cinnamon and nutmeg. A small sack of each, please.”
As he measured out her purchases, Arianna glanced around, shuffling her booted feet to keep warm.
Nothing—no sign of a rendezvous.
What if the unknown note writer didn’t make contact? An unsettling thought, and one she hadn’t considered. Clearly, someone else knew of Constantina’s troubles. The question was who?
She had lain awake half the night contemplating the question. The obvious answer was the original thief, who was looking to sell the incriminating evidence. It had occurred to her that perhaps the robbery had nothing to do with politics, but was merely the action of some opportunistic individual who had learned of the dowager’s liaison with Dampierre and was seeking to make money from it. A sordid situation, but one far easier to solve than the intricacies of international intrigue.
Or perhaps—
Lost in thought, Arianna wasn’t aware that the stall had another customer until the man sidled closer and shifted clumsily, bumping up rather hard against her shoulder.
“Pardon me,” he growled, holding her gaze for an instant before turning to Joost and ordering a small canister of cloves. He was a nondescript fellow of average height and average build, made even more unremarkable by the dull mouse-brown color of his slouched hat, thick muffler and unfashionable coat. Only his sharp-as-steel eyes were out of the ordinary.
Definitely not a gentleman, unless his skills at disguise rivaled those of her own. Which begged the question of how he had come to know about Constantina’s secret—
“Can you tell me the quickest route from here to Tavistock Street?” he asked her abruptly after paying for his purchase.
Arianna gave him the instructions.
“And how long a walk is it?” he inquired.
“Not far—perhaps five minutes.”
“Five minutes,” he repeated, then gave a brusque nod and hurried away without a further word.
A signal? Surely it must have been.
Thanking Joost, she handed over her own payment and tucked the small packages into her reticule.
“Have a care, milady,” murmured the merchant, his eyes following the stranger. “This time of year, the market attracts all sorts of unsavory skulkers who seek the warmth, such as it is, of our fires. And the surrounding streets have less traffic.”
“I’m always careful,” she replied. “But thank you for the warning.” Arianna took a roundabout route away from his stall, then quickly cut over to the appointed rendezvous spot.
Steel-Eyes was waiting, half hidden in the recessed shadows between two buildings. She approached warily, keeping alert for any sign of a cohort lurking nearby.
He straightened from his slouch, his gaze watchful.
“Do you intend that we negotiate here, or would you prefer to go somewhere more private?” she asked coolly.
His lips quirked upward, revealing a peek of teeth. “Oh, I’m just the dogsbody. The man you want to speak with is waiting nearby. You’re to follow me.” He slipped out of the slivered space and without a backward glance began walking.
Arianna hesitated, then hurried to keep pace. He turned off onto another side street, then ducked into a narrow alleyway.
Damnation. Again she hesitated. And again she threw caution to the wind. She could imagine Saybrook’s reaction if he had an inkling of what she was doing . . . Why the devil must you always race in where angels fear to tread?
Because Constantina has asked me to do so, she answered to herself. If love and loyalty were a fault, so be it.
Still, Arianna wished she were not sworn to keep him in the dark. His counsel—and his companionship in crime—would be most welcome. Deceiving him—
The deception is all for a good cause, she reminded herself.
The gloom deepened as she hurried through several tight twists. Her fingers were wrapped around the pistol’s grip, ready for trouble. Steel-Eyes, however, simply kept up a steady pace. After another minute or two of slipping and sliding over the frozen muck, Arianna spotted a sliver of light up ahead.
They emerged onto a cobbled street, deserted save for a closed carriage waiting close by. It was black, with no distinguishing markings or bits of brass work to draw the eye. A coachman sat hunched on the perch, but all she could see of him was his heavy caped driving coat and the curl of his long whip. The pair of mismatched horses snorted, sending up pale puffs of vapor. The shuffling scrape of their hooves on the stone signaled their impatience at standing still in the cold.
Steel-Eyes grasped the door handle and tugged it open.
Clearly she was meant to get inside. A devilish choice. She was damned if she did and damned if she didn’t.
Expelling a sigh—along with the last lingering vestige of caution—Arianna drew her weapon and climbed up into the unlit interior.
“Please put that weapon away, Lady Saybrook,” said a curt voice. “Before you inadvertently pull the trigger.”
“You!” she muttered, keeping the pistol aimed at the dark silhouette seated across from her. “Why does it not surprise me that you are in the thick of this sordid mess?”
“Because your clever mind works along the same devious lines as
mine,” came the answer. A twitch of the window drapery allowed for a dribble of weak light, its uncertain glimmer catching the curl of a sardonic smile. “Now, as I said, kindly uncock your pistol.
“If I intended to shoot you, I would have already done so,” snapped Arianna. “I know a number of people who would give me a medal for it.” Nonetheless, she eased down the hammer and slid the weapon back into her pocket.
“Most men would be offended by such a nasty remark.”
“That’s because most men have a heart, capable of human feelings,” she shot back.
A brusque laugh sounded in answer. The figure shifted, setting off a creak of leather and a whisper of well-tailored wool.
“Yes, but hearts, along with the tender sentiments they engender, are cursedly inconvenient encumbrances, aren’t they, Lady Saybrook?” sneered Percival, Lord Grentham, Minister of State Security—and one of the most feared and ruthless men in all of Great Britain. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
Arianna glared at him. “Which begs the question of why you went to such elaborate means to lure me into the depths of the stews. If you wished to blackmail me over my great aunt’s predicament, you could have simply called at Grosvenor Square and done the deed in civilized comfort.”
“I was,” he drawled, “under the impression from your recent actions that you and Lady Sterling wanted to keep this little incident a secret from your husband.”
She felt herself flush. Drawing a silent breath, she forced herself to remain calm, unwilling for him to see that he had gotten under her skin. Grentham had been her nemesis since first they had crossed paths and he had ruthlessly used her as bait to catch a dangerous traitor. Subsequent dealings with him had been equally unpleasant. She had lost count of how many times she and Saybrook had been in danger of losing their lives because of him and his devil-cursed machinations.
“What do you want?” she demanded.
“To make a deal,” he replied.
Chapter 4
Arianna waited.
“I’m aware that Lady Sterling is in trouble over some stolen letters,” he continued, after a deliberate pause. “And I may be able to help you get them back.”
To give the devil his due, Grentham understood the art of creating a dramatic moment. The offer was unexpected . . .
Which immediately made her suspicious. The minister didn’t have an altruistic bone in his body.
“But naturally, you want something in return,” said Arianna slowly.
“Naturally.”
He was clearly enjoying reeling her in on a string, like a hooked trout. Ah, well—she could hardly complain, seeing as she had taken the bait. Pushing aside emotion, she forced herself to concentrate on the business at hand.
“Then let us get down to brass tacks, milord.”
“I knew I could count on your . . . pragmatism.” His tone indicated it wasn’t meant as a compliment.
“Just as I can count on yours. Though I might give it a less dignified name.”
“You see, we understand each other perfectly.” Grentham crossed his legs and pinched a crease from his trousers. “As I said, I know you want to recover the dowager’s letters. I can help.”
“Was it you who ordered them to be stolen?” she demanded.
“Tut, tut, such a diabolically devious mind you have.” He leaned forward slightly and when he spoke again, the insufferable drawl was gone, replaced by a harder edge. “No, it wasn’t me. But I have my sources, and I now know who did.”
“If you were a true gentleman, you would simply steal them back,” she observed. “After all, Constantina is bosom bows with your grandmother.”
“There are reasons that transcend mere personal considerations . . . assuming, of course, that I would even consider acting out of pure goodwill.” He tapped his gloved fingertips together, taking a moment before going on. “To begin with, the documents were taken by the Prussians, and for reasons of state security, it’s absolutely imperative that Dampierre’s papers do not remain in their hands—”
“Why?” interrupted Arianna.
“I am not at liberty to reveal the reasons,” replied Grentham.
She drew in a sharp breath, but decided to accept him at his word.
For now.
“Very well,” she conceded. “Go on.”
“Rival countries may indulge in skulduggery with each other here in London,” he explained. “But given the tensions in Vienna right now, there would be undesirable ramifications if we, as the host, were to break into the Prussian envoy’s residence.”
“I assume you have skilled operatives who aren’t traceable back to you.”
“None that I trust with such a sensitive secret.” His brows rose in a cynical arch. “If we can buy their services, so can others.”
A fair point, she conceded.
“But you, Lady Saybrook . . .” Tap, tap. His fingers recommenced their drumming. “You are unique. Not only do you possess the skills and the sangfroid for such a clandestine mission. But despite our personal differences, I know I can trust you to keep your lips sealed about it. After all, you are just as anxious as I am that the existence of these documents and letters remain a secret.”
Her mouth compressed. The idea of doing Grentham’s dirty work for him—and not for the first time—rubbed her raw. And yet . . .
“So here is what I propose,” he continued. “You find a way to get the documents away from the Prussian envoy—I leave it to you as to how—and you’re free to return the incriminating letters to Lady Sterling without Saybrook or Mellon knowing of her indiscretion. In return for my help, and my silence, I get Dampierre’s papers.”
“Why can’t his papers be returned to him?”
Grentham let out a pained sigh. “Because I’m not convinced he’s able to guard them properly. For now, they are safer in my hands. As I said, there are critical negotiations taking place in Vienna. Our government, and his, can’t afford any mistakes, especially now, as a very important meeting with the representatives of Russia, France and Prussia is taking place at the Foreign Office next week.”
So Constantina was right concerning Dampierre’s nervousness about the upcoming meeting, reflected Arianna. And while she might doubt the minister’s integrity concerning a number of things, she conceded that his loyalty to country and crown were unquestionable. Which made his explanation ring true—or as close to the truth as would ever slip from his lips.
“Once the meeting is over, I shall return the papers to Dampierre,” continued Grentham. “Without, I might add, informing his superiors about his carelessness.”
“Why? You’ve just taken great pains to emphasize the fact that you have no altruistic feelings.”
He let out a low, cynical laugh. “Don’t be so naïve. It has nothing to altruism. Keeping quiet about the matter does him a great favor. Which means he will owe me one in return at some point in the future.”
Whether she liked it or not, his reasoning made perfect sense.
“So there you have it, Lady Saybrook. What’s your answer—yes or no?” He sat back and waited.
Choices, choices.
Trusting Grentham required a leap of faith. And she found herself loath to jump to his tune. On the other hand, Constantina was desperate to save Dampierre from trouble and avoid embarrassing Mellon . . .
Arianna hesitated, taking a moment to consider her options. She had received a message the previous evening informing her that the dowager and Sophia had gleaned no useful information from the call to Lady Grinwood. In reply, she had made no mention of the urchin’s note or this morning’s rendezvous, but had merely arranged for an afternoon council of war to decide the next moves. If she spit in the minister’s eye, it would leave her with nothing to offer.
She ventured a sidelong look at Grentham. He had turned his head to look out the window, throwing his profile in sharp relief. Yes, she could, perhaps, cock a snoot at him and proceed on her own, now that he had given her the vital information
. But she was under no illusion that Grentham would ever let her double cross him. If she refused his offer, his operatives would be watching her closely. At the first hint of treachery . . .
Sensing her scrutiny, he turned, his gunmetal grey eyes narrowing in impatience.
I must decide—and do it quickly.
The sounds of the jangling harness and restless horses seemed amplified within the close confines of the carriage. As was the continuing tap-tap of Grentham’s fingertips.
“Very well,” said Arianna slowly. “We have a deal.”
His mouth curled in satisfaction.
“But you had better not make me regret it.”
“That will be up to you. For there’s a perfect opportunity coming up for each of us to get what we want . . .”
Sophia blew away the tendril of steam rising up from her just-poured tea as Arianna entered the dowager’s drawing room.
“Please tell us you’ve had better luck than we have in ferreting out some helpful information,” huffed her friend. I swear, the ladies of the ton use their heads as naught but perches for their frivolous bonnets.” Her expression pinched in exasperation. “All they wanted to talk about yesterday was the latest fashions and whether the color ‘cherry pink’ would be all the crack come spring.”
“It wasn’t quite so bad as that,” murmured Constantina. “But close enough.” She sighed. “There truly seems to be no gossip to speak of, political or otherwise.”
Arianna took a seat and waved away the offer of tea.
“Which doesn’t bode well for me,” added the dowager in a hollow voice. “I had better consider telling Charles and Sandro about my predicament. It would be grossly unfair to have the scandal take them by surprise. Perhaps Charles can think of some way to deflect it.” She made a wry face. “He could rightly claim my wits have gone wandering in my old age—”
The Stolen Letters Page 3