Sweet Revenge lahm-1

by Andrea Penrose

  And then it cut through the air, a quicksilver streak against the gloom.

  Dear God, the man was mad!

  “Monsieur!” Arianna tried to parry the blow, but Saybrook, anticipating the move, slid his blade up and under her guard. The sharp point sliced through her linen smock and sunk smack into the middle of her belly.

  “Ummph!” Her jaw went slack as she stared down at the quivering steel.

  He drew in a sharp breath and held absolutely still, watching, waiting . . .

  Slowly, a snowy white feather spilled from the slash, then another.

  Saybrook jerked the knife free and with a quick flick of his wrist knocked the toque from her head. A slice severed the ribbon tied around the tightly wound mass of curls.

  Recovering from her initial shock, Arianna let fly with a dockyard curse. “You bloody bastard,” she added, sliding hard to her left. Lifting her own weapon in a quick feint, she whipped it down in an angry arc.

  Saybrook pivoted just in the nick of time, causing the blade to brush over his trousers.

  Damn the man. Arianna used a few more moves from her arsenal of filthy tricks, yet he managed to elude the stabs aimed at his injured leg. She was good with a knife. But so was he.

  A flurry of wild slashes drove him back several steps. Steel rang against steel as he parried her blows. Regaining his balance, he countered with a series of probing jabs. He handled his weapon with expert ease—it was clear that he wasn’t trying to draw blood, merely to disarm her. Which somehow made her temper flare. Did he think he could toy with her, simply because she was a woman?

  Steady, steady. Reminding herself that fighting a mano a mano battle was foolhardy, she edged closer to the curtained window. Saybrook shifted his stance to match her movement, opening up an angle to an iron-banded door, a tradesmen’s entrance, set to the left of the mullioned glass.

  Arianna drew a quick breath and darted forward.

  With a spinning lunge, he moved to block her path. His boot came up, lashing a well-aimed kick that buckled her knee. As she stumbled, he flicked a chop with the flat of his hand, sending her weapon flying across the room.

  “Damn you to hell!” she spat out, rubbing at her bruised leg and then at her wrist. Dropping the French accent, she added a perfectly irate English curse.

  “I’ve been there and back,” replied Saybrook calmly, watching a few more downy fluffs seep from the gaping wound in her padded middle. “But be assured, mademoiselle, that I’m not going anywhere until I get some answers from you. And nor are you.”

  She shot him a daggered look.

  “No need to stare like that. I’m well aware that you would like to cut out my liver and make it into pâté. However, having left a small chunk of myself on the battlefields of Spain, I would prefer to keep the rest of my body intact.”

  “I—I was not really trying to hurt you,” she muttered. “I was simply—”

  “Trying to escape,” he finished for her. “I don’t really blame you for trying. But I cannot permit that to happen.”

  She looked away, expelling a sigh. “How did you know?”

  “Like you, I try to be observant, and pay attention to the small details. You are good—very good—but there are certain subtle ways in which a woman is different from a man.”

  Her mouth formed a mocking curl. “How very clever of you to have noticed, Mr. De Quincy.”

  “Your hands, for one thing,” he went on pleasantly, ignoring her sarcasm. “By the by, how did you learn the art of disguise?”

  “I had a friend in a theater troupe in Barbados. It seemed a useful skill to know.” She hugged her arms to her chest. “Though binding your breasts is cursedly uncomfortable. So is walking around with a wool stocking stuffed in your crotch.”

  “I shall take your word for it,” replied Saybrook dryly.

  She twitched a grudging smile. “You are a very odd man, Mr. De Quincy.”

  “That is rather the pot calling the kettle black, Miss . . . or is it Missus?”

  “Miss.” Her chin rose a fraction. “Smith.”

  “Smith,” repeated Saybrook. “Ah, I should have guessed.”

  She merely shrugged. “Speaking of taking my word, sir, I’ll have you know that I had nothing to do with poisoning the Prince Regent.”

  “I hope, for your sake, that is true.” Reaching over with his knife, he speared a morsel of chocolate from the worktable and lifted the blade to his lips. “It would be a great pity if your sweet secrets went with you to the grave.”

  “I know it looks rather suspicious, sir, but I can explain my masquerade,” said Arianna. “However, it has no relevance to your investigation. . . .” She paused.

  “I’m afraid I must judge that for myself,” responded Saybrook.

  “It’s a rather lengthy story.”

  “Nonetheless, I must insist on hearing it,” he said.

  “What if I were to tell you that I possess information that could help lead you to the real culprit?” she countered.

  “Then I should suggest it would be greatly to your benefit to share it with me.”

  Her jaw tightened. “Not without getting something in return from you.”

  “You are hardly in a position to bargain,” pointed out Saybrook. Shifting his weight, he began to massage his thigh. “Might we sit down and negotiate over a plate of your special chocolate,” he suggested. “I am willing to listen—” His voice cut off abruptly.

  Arianna followed his gaze and caught sight of a shape—more of a shadow—through the light-colored weave of the window draperies. It moved again, a blur of dark against the coarse linen.

  “What—”

  Reacting at the same split second, Saybrook grabbed her and flung her to the floor, just as one of the glass panes exploded and a bullet whizzed overhead.

  5

  From the chocolate notebooks of Dona Maria Castellano

  Intrigued by the missionary’s journal, I have begun to search for other old papers documenting the first reactions to cacao here in Spain. So far, the earliest mention I have found occurs in 1544, when a delegation of Dominican friars returned from Guatemala and presented Prince Philip with a pot of hot, frothed chocolate. His reaction is not recorded, but I have learned that the Spanish found the Aztec preparation too bitter and spicy for their taste, and so began adding sugar from the cane plantations in the Caribbean islands, along with old-world spices like pepper instead of chiles. . . .

  Cacao Shortbread

  1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened

  ⅔ cup confectioner’s sugar

  2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract

  2 cups all-purpose flour

  ¼ cup Dutch-processed cocoa powder

  ½ teaspoon salt

  1. Preheat oven to 350ºF.

  2. Using an electric mixer, beat butter and sugar until creamy, about 2 minutes.

  3. Add vanilla and beat well.

  4. Mix in flour, cocoa, and salt on low speed until just combined. Form dough into disk, wrap in plastic, and chill for at least 2 hours.

  5. Roll dough between 2 sheets of wax paper to a ¼-inch-thick rectangle. Use a sharp knife to cut shortbread into 2-inch squares.

  6. Place squares on baking sheet 1 inch apart and prick tops with fork. Bake 15-18 minutes. Cool completely on wire rack.

  With the sound of the gunshot still echoing in her ears, Arianna crabbed toward the side door.

  “Stay down,” barked Saybrook, seeing her push up to her hands and knees.

  A plume of smoke wafted in through the gaping hole, and with it the acrid tang of burnt powder. Arianna gagged, the smell triggering another rush of memories. Blood. Screams. Death. Kingston was a notoriously violent port of call, and escaping the clutches of a slave ship captain had sparked a horrifying brawl.

  Arianna’s pulse kicked up a notch, and as she pressed a palm to the wainscoting, she could feel her heart pounding against her ribs. No matter which way she turned, the Grim Reaper seemed intent on shadowi
ng her steps.

  Get hold of yourself, Arianna, she thought with an inward grimace. However, the warning was unnecessary. Already her instinct for survival had taken charge and her mind was racing to assess her options.

  A quick glance showed that Saybrook had crawled to the door and was lifting the iron latch.

  It released with a soft snick.

  At the same instant, a force outside slammed into the door, flinging it open. A man burst in, the smoking pistol still grasped in one hand. With the other, he raised a second weapon, its hammer already cocked, and took dead aim at her.

  A mirthless laugh welled up in her throat as she stared into the unblinking eye of the gun barrel. Of all the damnable ironies—she had survived on her own in some of the most brutal hellholes on earth, only to stick her spoon in the wall in a nondescript London kitchen.

  Oh, Papa, I’m so sorry for failing—

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Saybrook lunge with his knife, and the blade, still sticky with chocolate, cut across the assailant’s sleeve.

  The pistol fired, echoing her scream.

  Dazed and half deafened by the explosion, Arianna fell back against the wall. Through the haze of smoke, she saw a cloud of feathers floating in the air, but as her hands flew to her stomach, she found that only her padding had suffered a mortal wound. Save for a nick on her cheek from a shard of glass, the rest of her was unscathed.

  “Buggering bastard.” The assailant cursed and slammed the butt of the spent weapon into Saybrook’s ribs, knocking him back against the worktable.

  Biting back a grunt of pain, Saybrook threw himself sideways, narrowly avoiding a vicious smash aimed at his head. The tabletop shivered, and a pewter tray crashed to the stone tiles, along with a basket of cutlery.

  A kick caught him flush on his injured leg, and Arianna saw his face contort in pain. “Duck!” she cried, casting a look at the spent pistol just out of arm’s reach. If the fight shifted just slightly, she would have a chance. . . .

  Saybrook’s hands clenched and somehow his fingers closed around his cane. Blocking a punch, he countered by ramming the silver knob into his assailant’s groin.

  The man dropped to his knees with a strangled snarl. “You’re a dead man,” he rasped, sweeping up a bigbladed butcher’s knife from the floor. His voice was further muffled by the black silk mask covering his whole head. There was a slit for his mouth and two rough-cut holes for his eyes, which blazed with a malevolent gleam. “You and that nosy little she-bitch will soon be feeding the fish in the Thames.”

  The slim ebony stick wasn’t much of a match for the length of murderous steel. Saybrook shuffled back, darting a sidelong look at the cleavers hanging at the far end of the overhead rack. Arianna saw it, too—another step or two would bring them within his reach.

  “De Quincy!” she warned.

  The assailant had scrambled to his feet, and with a roar of rage launched into a head-on charge.

  Bracing himself, Saybrook managed to block the first stab. He held the advantage in height, but the other man was built like a bull, with thick limbs and slabs of solid muscle. The blade flashed again, slicing the cane in two.

  “The next one will sever your jugular.”

  Saybrook ducked the slash and spun around, raking the jagged wood across the man’s knuckles.

  Blood welled up from the furrow, but the assailant kept hold of his weapon. Its steel danced through the air, sleek and sinuous as a snake ready to strike.

  Anticipating the blow, Saybrook quickly dodged to his left, but his leg, weakened by the struggle, was slow to react. The knife cut through his trousers, scoring a gash in his thigh.

  Arianna bit back a cry.

  The momentum of the attack sent both of them sprawling to the floor. Saybrook landed awkwardly, his head hitting hard against the stone tiles. The other man fell on top of him, flailing, cursing, kicking.

  The blood pounding in her ears, Arianna watched with a strangely detached sense of calm. It was over. Saybrook was trying to fight off the attack, but it looked as though his strength was ebbing fast. In another moment, she, too, would be dead.

  With a savage snarl, the assailant reared up. His upraised arm hovered for a heartbeat in the hazy shadows. . . .

  Thwock. Steel stabbing into flesh made a sickening sound.

  Then, as if in slow motion, the blade fell harmlessly from the man’s lifeless fingers and his body toppled forward, landing heavily atop Saybrook’s sprawled form. The impact appeared to rouse him from his momentary stupor. Twisting out from beneath the limp limbs, he eyed the hilt of a carving knife protruding from the man’s back and expelled a ragged breath.

  “Thank you,” he croaked, slowly levering to his feet.

  “De rien,” muttered Arianna, wiping her red-stained fingers on the remains of her smock. “You saved my life earlier. Now we are even.”

  She quirked a sardonic smile, but realized her hands were shaking uncontrollably. Clasping them to her mutilated belly, she slanted a look at the lifeless body. “Oh, merde.” Her words were barely a whisper. “Now I am really in the suds.”

  Saybrook bent down and pressed a finger to the man’s throat. “The fellow is dead,” he confirmed after several long moments.

  Arianna blinked. “I . . . You . . . you are hurt,” she said, eyeing his slashed trousers, the fringes of charcoal wool now black with blood.

  “Just a scratch,” he replied. Sitting back on his haunches, he slowly peeled the mask from the corpse’s face.

  “Merde,” she muttered again, echoing her earlier epithet. It seemed exactly the right word to sum up her sentiments.

  “Do you recognize him?” he asked.

  Arianna nodded grimly.

  “So do I.” But before he could elaborate, the hurried thump of boots upstairs warned that all hell was about to break loose.

  How long had it been since the first shot? A few minutes at most, she calculated.

  “Bolt the door,” he suddenly ordered.

  Arianna hesitated.

  “Quickly, goddamn it! ” He rushed to the window and checked the back garden. Seemingly satisfied, he turned. “Then hide in the pantry. Don’t make a sound.”

  At the moment, he seemed like the lesser of two evils, so she decided to do as she was told.

  Tucking the mask in his pocket, Saybrook hurriedly retrieved the pistols and dropped them close by the body. Gritting his teeth, he yanked the knife from the dead man’s back and rolled the body over. “God forgive me,” he muttered, cutting several quick jabs into the fast-cooling flesh before lodging the blade between two ribs.

  What was he doing? she wondered, casting a sidelong glance at the macabre scene.

  After reordering a few of the other fallen objects, Saybrook rose awkwardly to his feet.

  “Open up! Open up!” A fist pounded on the kitchen entrance, rattling the locked latch.

  “I’m coming!” Glancing down at his bloodied trousers, Saybrook gave a wry grimace. “I won’t have to exaggerate my own ineptitude,” he added under his breath.

  Shooting back the bolt, he flung the door open. “Don’t just stand there,” he snarled at the four guards who were staring in bewilderment at the carnage. “The chef has escaped. I tried to stop him but the damned fellow is as skilled as a butcher. You and you”—he jabbed a finger at the two closest men—“go after him. He fled through the garden. But have a care—he’s armed and dangerous.”

  As the pair headed off in pursuit, Saybrook quickly turned to the remaining men.

  Crouched in the darkness, Arianna listened to his orders, growing more mystified by the moment. He was saving her from the wolves. But why?

  Through a crack in the door, she saw Saybrook grab the nearest man by the arm. “I want you to carry a message to Mr. Basil Henning, at number six Queen Street—and do it with all haste,” he barked. “Tell him that Lord Saybrook needs to see him immediately, but say nothing of what has happened. You are to wait and escort him back here. Unders
tood?”

  “Yes, milord!”

  Milord? She frowned, feeling even more disoriented.

  Saybrook waved the man on his way, and then addressed the last man. “And you are to remain with the Prince Regent. Lock yourself in his chamber, draw the curtains, and admit no one until I come and tell you otherwise.” He paused for a fraction. “Is that clear?”

  The man snapped a salute.

  “Go!” he ordered.

  Drawing a deep breath, Saybrook waited for several long moments before approaching the pantry. He opened the door a touch more but did not enter. “I assume you have female clothing hidden in your room.”

  “Yes,” answered Arianna in an equally low voice.

  “Get dressed. And pack up any traces of your disguises,” he said curtly. “Be quick about it. When the moment comes, we will have to move fast. In the meantime, stay quiet as a church mouse.”

  Arianna didn’t waste any time with questions. Gliding past him with quick, silent steps, she slipped into the shadows of the bedchamber.

  “Who the devil are you?” he growled.

  “I could ask the same of you, sir.”

  He made a face. “A far more pressing question for both of us, Miss Smith, is why Major Crandall, late of the Horse Guards and Lord Grentham’s senior staff, is lying dead on the kitchen floor.”

  6

  From the chocolate notebooks of Dona Maria Castellano

  Oh, how I had to laugh when I found another old journal in which the writer debated whether it was Columbus or Cortez who brought the first cacao beans to Europe. My research leads me to agree with his conclusions that Columbus had little interest in chocolate. But a far more delicious discovery was that English pirates who preyed on the Spanish treasure fleets sailing from the New World once burned an entire cargo of cacao beans, thinking they were sheep turds! Sandro will find that story greatly amusing. . . .

  Mini Brownie Cupcakes

  4 sticks unsalted butter, cut into pieces

  8 ounces unsweetened chocolate, chopped

  1¾ cups all-purpose flour