“Because I barely had time to hide myself in the draperies before he and his two cohorts proved as adept as I was at picking the lock to the study.”
Another oath.
She let him stew for another moment before continuing. “But as you pointed out, I can be clever when I put my mind to it, and I’m fiercely loyal to those I love. So I wasn’t quite ready to accept defeat. With the help of Constantina and Miss Kirtland—”
“Damnation—you were sworn to absolute secrecy!” He didn’t raise his voice, but his anger was palpable.
“I’m aware of that, and of course I told them nothing about your involvement. They don’t know who informed me that Stockhausen possessed the papers. Nor do they care. The point was to retrieve them, and to do so, I needed their help.”
He muttered something under his breath. She caught the words “infernal, interfering Amazons . . .”
“You ought to be glad that we are made of sterner stuff than milquetoast,” she retorted. “In this case, womanly wiles were the only hope of making the best of a bad situation.”
His expression turned wary. “What happened?”
“I lured Orlov to a private parlor, and managed to get my hands on the documents.” Arianna didn’t intend to tell him the details of how. She didn’t trust him not to find some way to use it against her in the future. “However, I found myself blocked from leaving the room, with no chance of overpowering him physically.”
Grentham exhaled through his nose.
“Don’t look so Friday-faced,” she said. “I didn’t allow him to get them back—”
“Enough shilly-shallying, Lady Saybrook.” His knees grazed against hers as he edged forward on the seat. “Write a horrid novel at your own leisure, but I have more pressing things to do with my time. Give me the papers.”
“I can’t.”
“Bloody Hell—”
“I threw them in the fire.”
Grentham stared at her in disbelief. “You. Did. What?”
“I was trapped between the brass fire screen, and an enraged man the size of a Siberian bear, with half a heartbeat in which to make a decision,” answered Arianna. “You were adamant that the papers not remain in the hands of our government’s adversaries. So I did exactly what you asked me to do. I made sure that they were put irrevocably out of reach—at no small risk to my life, I might add.”
She had never seen the minister look so thunderstruck. It wasn’t a good sign.
Steeling his self-control, the minister leaned back. “The Devil take it, you have no idea what you’ve done,” he said in a taut whisper.
Grentham being Grentham, Arianna had assumed he hadn’t told her everything. Still, his heated reaction stirred the sudden suspicion that she had been used as a pawn in some diabolical game within a game. Looking away from his glowering face, she made herself think of what it could be. Several moments slipped by . . . and then the penny dropped.
“You—” gasped Arianna before a spurt of outrage left her momentarily bereft of speech.
Hell’s Bells, how had she not seen it before now!
“You didn’t want the documents merely for safekeeping. You wanted to use them for blackmail!” she said as the realization rose like bile in her throat. “And you were never going to give them back. They contained something which you, like Orlov, could have used to bend Dampierre to your will.”
His expression didn’t alter. “Of course they did.”
“The Devil damn you for using me in your sordid games,” responded Arianna, her blood now at a boil. “I—”
“You would rather that Dampierre’s misguided idealism helps bring Napoleon back to his throne?” cut in Grentham.
“Don’t try to blow smoke in my eyes, sir!” she countered, though a tiny twinge of doubt took some of the force from her words. “Napoleon has abdicated his power—”
“Ye God, don’t be so naïve, Lady Saybrook. He’s abdicated his throne, not his power. The Allies were foolish enough to place the Fox within spitting distance of the henhouse. You really think he isn’t sniffing around, looking for a way to re-feather his old nest?”
Arianna felt a chill tickle down her spine.
“The stolen documents showed that Dampierre has been in correspondence with men who are pressing him to see the weakness of the restored Bourbon king and switch his support to bringing back Napoleon as ruler of France,” continued Grentham.
“Is Dampierre a traitor?” she asked. Constantina would be devastated—she would always wonder whether the personal attachment was purely a ploy to win entrée into Mellon’s inner circle.
“Not as of yet. He’s merely been willing to listen to arguments,” replied Grentham. “If I possessed the documents I asked you to recover, I would have had the means to pressure him to listen no more. Now I have nothing— nothing—with which to counter the enemy’s seductions.” He pulled a sarcastic face. “Perhaps Napoleon will award you a medal if he once again manages to usurp control of France.”
“If you had been forthright with me about the real reason you needed the documents, I would have had the right information on which to have made my decision,” retorted Arianna. “So the failure of this mission does not lie on my head, sir. It lies on yours.”
His eyes narrowed. “Always so quick to be the haughty, high and mighty soul of principle, Lady Saybrook. And yet, you, of all people, should understand that the world isn’t black and white. To keep evil at bay, one often has to fight it with the same filthy weapons. Or would you prefer to go down in ignominious defeat with your hands as pure as driven snow?”
Grentham steepled his forefingers and regarded her over their tips. “As I recall, when you wished justice for your father, you were willing to do whatever was needed to bring the corruption of his partners to light.”
She couldn’t muster a retort. It was true—in the past, she had, on occasion, rationalized some rather unscrupulous actions in the name of the Higher Good. And as for her recent dealings with Saybrook . . .
“No nasty barb? No holier-than-thou denial?”
The silence inside the carriage suddenly felt heavy as lead. It was squeezing the air from her lungs. Was she more like the minister than she cared to admit? Turning to the curtained window, Arianna forced herself to breathe. The thought stuck in her craw. But after a moment, she realized that no, there was a fundamental difference between them. She truly believed in the concept of Right and Wrong, even though she sometimes erred in bending the definition too far . . .
Grentham didn’t dwell on gloating. He was already thinking about the practicalities. “You may turn your back and walk away, Lady Saybrook, but I am left to figure out how best to turn this unfortunate blunder to Britain’s best advantage.” A pause. “Though God only knows how I’m going to salvage this unholy mess. I fear most of the damage is irreparable. And there are precious few other leads for me to follow.”
After another measured inhale and exhale, Arianna regained her composure.
“Surely not all is lost,” she began, “Orlov may know what the papers contain, but without them as proof, he has no way to pressure Dampierre—”
“There are far more dangerous enemies than Orlov out there,” cut in Grentham. “He’s an insignificant cog in the wheels of international diplomacy. I’ve enough incriminating evidence on him to have Tsar Alexander squash him like a bug whenever I so choose.”
The minister’s words suddenly stirred another unsettling thought.
“Just as you would have left me to suffer the consequences had I been caught trying to steal back the documents,” she said. Once again, anger bubbled through her blood—both for his high-handedness and for her own stupidity. “The public would only have heard that I was attempting to protect my family from scandal, with all the resulting humiliation, while the government appears blameless.” A pause. “In fact, you would have welcomed all the gossip, as it would further deflect any suspicions that you were involved.”
He shrugged. “A belat
ed show of aggrieved innocence is an ill-fitting cloak for your actions. You knew the risks.”
Arianna fisted her hands in her lap. Intrigue, lies, deceptions, and double crosses within double crosses—they were the elemental truths of his world. Which made her even more determined never to betray her own principles again.
“I don’t deny that yours is a difficult job, Lord Grentham. And I understand you think to do it well demands an unshakable belief that the ends justify the means.” Their gazes locked. “But that said, I find your deliberate manipulation of me and my family unforgivably arrogant.”
She took hold of the door’s handle and clicked the latch open. “From now on, spin your spider’s web of intrigue with operatives who are willing to be caught in its sticky threads. Be assured I won’t ever be a part of your scheming again.”
“So you say now.” Grentham’s taunting words trailed after her, prickling against the back of her neck. “But if I were you, Lady Saybrook, I wouldn’t be so certain about what the future may hold.”
Author’s Note
Their cleverness, curiosity and courage seem to draw Lord and Lady Saybrook into one dangerous adventure after another. They claim it’s not entirely their fault, and I tend to agree with them. When one possesses resourcefulness, imagination and an unyielding sense of honor, it’s hard to watch Evil at play without feeling compelled to jump into the game and beat it to a pulp.
So from time to time, I’ll be sharing some of their smaller undertakings—ones that they dismiss as mere trifling affairs, but which I think readers will find . . . intriguing.
For those of you looking to place this novella within the chronology of the Lady Arianna series, it occurs shortly after the events describes in Book Three—Recipe for Treason.
About the Author
I began my writing career at age five with a number of lavishly illustrated Westerns, which were lovingly preserved for posterity by my first fan (Thanks, Mom!) However, I have since moved on to Regency England, an era that has fascinated me ever since I read Jane Austen’s Pride And Prejudice.
I majored in art at Yale and went on to get a MFA in Graphic Design, concentrating in publication design. So I guess you could say I have always had a left brain-right brain love affair with the printed page . . .
You can read more about me and my books at my website, along with some of the fascinating details about Regency England.
www.andrepenrose.com
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Also by Andrea Penrose
The Wrexford & Sloane Regency Mystery Series
MURDER ON BLACK SWAN LANE
MURDER AT HALF MOON GATE
The Lady Arianna Regency Mystery Series
SWEET REVENGE
THE COCOA CONSPIRACY
RECIPE FOR TREASON
For more information on Andrea and Andrea’s books, visit www.andreapenrose.com
You can write to Andrea at
[email protected]
Excerpt: SWEET REVENGE
Book One in the Lady Arianna Regency Mystery Series
CHAPTER ONE
From the Chocolate Notebooks of Dona Maria Castellano
“How fascinating! I recently discovered an old Spanish missionary’s journal in a Madrid bookstore and found a number of references to chocolate among his writings. According to him, ancient Aztec legend has it that the cacao tree was brought to Earth by their god Quetzalcoatl, who descended from heaven on the beam of a morning star after stealing the precious plant from paradise. No wonder that the spicy beverage made from its beans was called the ‘Drink of the Emperor.’ It is said that this xocoatl or chocolatl was so revered that it was served in golden goblets that were thrown away after one use . . .”
The scent of burnt sugar swirled in the air, its sweetness melting with the darker spice of cacao and cinnamon. Candles flickered, the tiny tongues of flame licking out as the footman set the plate on the dining table.
“Ahhhh.” The gentleman leaned down and inhaled deeply, his fleshy face wreathing in a sybaritic smile. “Why, my dear Catherine, it smells . . . good enough to eat.”
Laughter greeted the bon mot.
“Oh, indeed it is, poppet. I’ve had my chef create it specially for you.” The heavily rouged lady by his side parted her lips, just enough to show a peek of teeth. “And only you.”
“How delicious.” Plumes of pale smoke floated up toward the painted ceiling and slowly dissolved in the shadows. His lazy, lidded gaze slid past the glittering silver candelabra and took in the empty place settings of the other half dozen guests. “And what, may I ask, is it?”
“Chocolate.”
“Chocolate,” he echoed, sounding a little puzzled. “But—”
“Edible chocolate,” explained Catherine. “A new innovation, fresh from Paris. Where, as you know, the French have refined sumptuous indulgence to an art form in itself.” She lowered her voice to a sultry murmur. “Aren’t you tempted to try it?”
All eyes fixed hungrily on the unusual confection. Soft mounds of Chantilly cream ringed the porcelain plate, accentuating the dark, decadent richness of the thick wafers arranged at its center. Ranging in hue from café au lait to burnished ebony, they rose up from a pool of port-soaked cherries.
“I must warn you, though,” she teased. “Chocolate is said to stimulate the appetite for other pleasures.” Her lashes fluttered. “But perhaps you are already sated after such a rich meal.”
“One can never have enough pleasure,” replied the gentleman as he plucked the top piece from its buttery perch and popped it into his mouth.
A collective sigh sounded from the others as he gave a blissful little moan, squeezed his eyes shut . . .
And promptly pitched face-first into sticky sweetness.
There was a moment of dead silence, followed by a slow, slurping shudder that sent a spray of ruby-red drops and pink-tinged cream over the pristine tablecloth.
“Good God, send for a physician!” screamed one of the guests. “The Prince Regent has been poisoned!”
CHAPTER TWO
From the Chocolate Notebooks of Dona Maria Castellano
“Chocolate was served during religious rites and celebrations. It was often mixed with flavorings such as vanilla, cinnamon, allspice, chilies, hueinacaztli—a spicy flower from the custard apple tree—and anchiote, which turns the mouth a bright red! The Aztec also believed that the dried beans of the cacao tree possessed strong medicinal properties. Indeed, warriors were issued cacao wafers to fortify their strength for long marches and the rigors of battle—a fact that Sandro will undoubtedly find of great interest. I, too, have remarked on the nourishing benefits of hot, sweetened chocolate . . .”
Steam rose from the boiling water, enveloping the stove in a cloud of moist, tropical heat.
“Hell.” A hand shot out and shoved the kettle off the hob.
Cleaning up after such a feast would likely take another few hours, thought the chef irritably. But that was the price—or was it penance—for choosing to work alone. A baleful glance lingered for a moment on the kitchen’s worktable, the dirty dishes and pots yet another reminder that the aristocratic asses upstairs were gluttons for decadent foods.
More, always more—their hunger seemed insatiable.
But it wasn’t as if their appetite for sumptuous pleasures came as any great surprise to Arianna Hadley. Contempt curled the corners of her mouth. Indeed, she had counted on it.
Turning away from the puddles of melted butter and clotted cream, she wiped her hands and carefully collected the scraps of paper containing her recipes. The edges were yellowing, the spidery script had faded
to the color of weak tea, and yet she could not quite bring herself to copy them onto fresh sheets of foolscap. They were like old friends—her only friends, if truth be told—and together they had traveled. . . .
Her hands clenched, crackling the papers. Not that she cared to dwell on the sordid details. They were, after all, too numerous to count.
She closed her eyes for an instant. For as far back as she could remember, life had been one never-ending journey. Jamaica, St. Kitts, Barbados, Martinique, along with all the specks of Caribbean coral and rock too small to have a name. Foam-flecked, rum-drenched hellholes awash in rutting pirates and saucy whores. And from there across the ocean to the glittering bastion of civilized society.
Ah, yes. Here in London the scurvy scum and sluts were swathed in fancy silks and elegant manners. Fine-cut jewels and satin smiles. All thin veneers that hid a black-hearted core of corruption.
Tracing a finger over a water-stained page, Arianna felt the faint grit of salt and wondered whether it was residue from the ocean voyage or one of the rare moments when she had allowed a weak-willed tear. Of late, she had disciplined herself to be tougher. Harder. But as the steam wafted over the sticky pots, stirring a sudden, haunting hint of island spices, she blinked and the words blurred. Light and dark, spinning into a vortex of jumbled memories.
Fire. Smoke. The lush scent of sweetness licking up from the flames.
“Breathe deeply, ma petite.” Her voice lush with the lilt of the tropics, the mulatto cook leaned closer to the copper cauldron. “Drink in its essence.” She sprinkled a grating of cinnamon, a pinch of anchiote over the roasting nibs. “Watch carefully, Arianna. Like life itself, the cacao is even better with a bit of spice, but the mix must be just right. Let me show you. . . .”
The Stolen Letters Page 9