½ cup unsweetened cocoa powder (preferably Dutch-processed)
½ teaspoon salt
3¾ cups granulated sugar
8 large eggs
vegetable-oil cooking spray
confectioner’s sugar (optional)
1. Preheat oven to 350ºF and line 2 mini-muffin tins with liners. Spray liners with cooking spray.2. Melt butter and chocolate in a 4-quart heavy pot over moderately low heat, stirring until smooth. Whisk together flour, cocoa, and salt. Remove pan from heat and whisk in granulated sugar. Add eggs, 1 at a time, whisking after each addition until incorporated, and stir in flour mixture just until blended.3. Spoon batter into muffin liners, filling cups to top, and bake in middle of oven 25 to 30 minutes, or until a tester comes out with crumbs adhering. Cool 5 minutes in tins and turn out onto racks. Repeat with remaining batter.4. Dust with confectioner’s sugar if desired.
“This way—and quickly, damn it.” Wrapping his long fingers around her arm, Saybrook shoved her past the upturned corpse. “You moved fast as a snake earlier.”
Arianna tore her gaze from the slashed shirt linen and pooled patterns of viscous red. Bile rose in her throat but she forced down her momentary nausea with an acid retort. “For which you should be bloody thankful.”
“I’ll compose a suitably sentimental ode to your audacity later.” He inched the door open a fraction and made a rapid survey of the garden. “Let’s go.”
Ungrateful wretch.
Saybrook stumbled on the uneven gravel but quickly steadied his stride and cut through a narrow gap in the ornamental plantings. Despite the labored hitch of his gait, he moved with surprising speed. Arianna found herself hurrying to keep pace.
Hugging close to the leafy shadows of the ivy-twined wall, he led the way to the side gate, which gave access to an alleyway.
“Left leads past the mews and out to Welbeck Street,” she murmured as he ventured a peek through the wrought iron bars. Her first day of employment, she had scouted out the area, making a mental note of how to disappear in a hurry. “Right goes straight to Wigmore Street. It’s shorter, but there’s usually more traffic.”
“Which means a greater likelihood of finding a hackney,” he said, more to himself than to her. “We’ll chance it.” He shifted his weight, leaning a shoulder to the painted metal. His coat covered the rent in his trousers, but she saw that the wool was growing wet and sticking to his knee.
“Your leg—”
“Sod my leg,” growled Saybrook. “You ought to be far more concerned about your neck.”
She bit back a sharp reply. His face was deathly pale, accentuating the Stygian shadows beneath his hooded eyes.
The gate creaked, and in another moment they were turning the corner.
“Aren’t you afraid that we’ll attract attention?” demanded Arianna. His hand was still clamped like a manacle around her arm. To emphasize her point, she gave a small shake of her canvas satchel. “You are limping, and ladies aren’t often seen carrying such bags.”
Saybrook reached around and plucked it from her grasp.
“Don’t be an arse,” she protested in a low voice. “You’re having trouble enough hauling your own carcass to the next crossing. What I meant was, I would draw less notice on my own.”
“Arse?” His grip tightened. “I was an arse to accept this . . . this . . .”
This what? Arianna waited for him to finish, but he merely sucked in a breath and looked up and down the street.
“If any of the guards spot us,” he added, after hailing a hackney, “I shall say that I saw you walking past the house and wish to detain you as a possible witness.”
“I still say that you should let me go ahead on my own,” she pressed. “We can choose a place to meet up later.”
He answered with a curt, mirthless laugh. “I may be an arse, but I’m not an idiot,” he added. “Though given my earlier incompetence, I can hardly blame you for thinking me a bumbling fool.”
Whatever else he was, Mr. De Quincy was no fool, thought Arianna. She had merely hoped to catch him off guard.
“It was worth a try,” she replied coolly.
“You’ll have to do better,” said Saybrook, helping her none too gently into the hired carriage. He climbed in after her and collapsed in an inelegant sprawl beside her.
She could feel heat emanating from his body. Fever? Anger? Or some dark, drug-deranged emotion that she could not name? It bothered her that she was having such a difficult time figuring him out. Men were, in her experience, primitive creatures, ruled by three basic lusts—power, money, and sex. That made them rather simple to understand.
And manipulate.
But Mr. De Quincy was proving an exception to the rule. Which made him dangerous.
Slanting a look through the grimy glass panes, Arianna reminded herself that she had survived for years by outwitting men who posed a far greater threat than her captor. It should be easy to escape his clutches—she would just have to pick the right moment. One twist, one lunge, and she could surely outrun him, leaving her free to pursue her own quarry.
Let De Quincy chase his own specters. All she cared about was the ghosts from her father’s past. Step by step, she was coming closer to the truth. So close she could almost taste it.
Sweet, sweet revenge.
“Turn here!” Rapping his knuckles on the trap, Saybrook called out a few more commands.
As Arianna watched the buildings roll by, she forced herself to quell the flutter of unease in her belly. Where was he taking her? At present, he seemed reluctant to turn her over to the authorities.
But that could change in the blink of an eye.
She had better seize her chance to run, and soon.
The wheels clattered to a halt on the cobblestones, and once again Arianna let herself be hustled down an alleyway and through a garden gate. The terraced grounds were far fancier than Lady Spencer’s haphazard layout. Formal hedges of trimmed yew flanked pristine paths of white gravel, their precise symmetry blurred by a profusion of colorful flowers.
“Where are we?” she asked abruptly.
Saybrook brushed by a trellis of climbing roses, stirring a sudden, overpowering sweetness in the air. For an instant, she was dizzy, disoriented. The lush floral fragrance seemed so insanely at odds with the metallic smell of death still lingering in her nostrils. Silk and steel. Seeing the swirl of soft pinks darken to deep red, she choked down a burble of hysterical laughter.
Don’t panic, she chided herself. Not when she could still salvage victory from the jaws of defeat.
Shaking off the strange light-headedness, Arianna tried to concentrate on memorizing the layout of the gardens. There was a second gate ahead, just past a small storage shed discreetly hidden from the main house by a screen of holly trees. The door was partly open, revealing sacks of manure and an assortment of terra-cotta pots—
Without warning, Saybrook whirled and shoved her inside.
“Sorry.” The click of the padlock punctuated the apology. “I need to arrange things inside the main house.”
“Bloody bastard,” she hissed, thumping her fists against the oak planks.
“I suggest you remain silent, Miss Smith. You’re a good deal more comfortable in there than in one of the Horse Guards interrogation chambers.”
His reply only fueled her frustration. Kicking at the clay shards underfoot, she muttered several words in Creole under her breath.
“Look, you ungrateful wench, I’ve put my neck on the chopping block for you,” he snapped. “The least you can do is refrain from insulting my manhood.”
Arianna clenched her teeth.
“And in case you are wondering, all the sharp implements are kept elsewhere. So resign yourself to spending the next little while inside. If you’ll notice, I tossed your valise inside with you, so you are not entirely stripped of creature comforts.”
“It’s dark in here,” she muttered, squinting at the thin slivers of light coming in through the cracks.
“And it stinks of merde.”
“I seem to recall that you prefer the dark,” said Saybrook. “As for the odor, would you prefer the smell of death?”
“How long do you plan to keep me confined in this cesspool?”
“Hard to say,” he replied. “In the meantime, there’s a small potting bench built into the back wall. “I suggest that you sit quietly and contemplate the error of your ways.”
She ground out another oath.
“Rather than spend your time cursing me to the devil, you might want to think about this—it was you, not me, who Major Crandall was trying to kill. Would you really rather take your chances on the streets of London, with no idea of who else might be hunting for you?”
I can take care of myself. The words were on the tip of her tongue but she held them back.
“Ah, I had a feeling your oh so clever brain would grasp the logic in that.” She heard him move away. “I’ll return as soon as I can.”
Logic. Arianna felt her way to the back of the shed and found a sliver of space on the rough planks. Curling up against the stone-cold clay pots, she tried to still her spinning thoughts and focus on making sense of the last few days. It seemed that in hunting down her own quarry, she had unwittingly stepped into a nest of vipers. Slithering serpents with bared fangs, coiled to strike. She drew her knees to her chest, aware of the prickling of gooseflesh along her arms.
So close, so close, and then she had turned careless in her last few steps. The question was, would their bite prove fatal?
Lord Concord and Lord Hamilton.
She had crossed an ocean to pursue those two cold-blooded reptiles. It had been a shock to learn from Lady Spencer that Hamilton had broken his neck six months ago during a drunken carriage race from London to Brighton. But that still left Concord, and she had always considered him to be the more dangerous of the two.
That he might be dangerous enough to dare an attack on the Prince Regent added an unexpected twist.
And suddenly her quest seemed tied in a Gordian knot.
Arianna thought of the three items she had taken from Lady Spencer’s desk. For now, they were her only tangible clues to cutting through the secrets surrounding her father’s death.
Revenge. Redemption. For years, those twin desires had driven her onward. But in her heart, she also wanted to know the truth.
Saybrook shifted in his seat, his boots scuffing softly over the minister’s Turkey carpet. “And so, after a quick check of the surroundings showed no sign of the chef,” he explained, “I thought it best to leave the pursuit to the guards and returned to the town house, in order to arrange for the body to be taken away.” A pause. “I assumed you would want me to dispose of the problem quickly and discreetly.”
“How very thorough of you,” said Grentham, his expression remaining inscrutable.
“I try to be,” replied Saybrook blandly.
The minister tapped his fingers on the three sheets of paper that Saybrook had handed over. “Tell me again precisely what happened.”
“The details are spelled out in my report.” Another pause. “Milord.”
“Nonetheless, I should like to hear you recount them again,” said Grentham softly. “Assuming you haven’t suffered too great a shock.”
Saybrook carefully repeated the sequence of events, omitting any mention of the chef’s transformation from “he” to “she.”
“Two shots, you say.” Grentham fixed him with a long look. “And yet Major Crandall was accorded to be a crack shot. I wonder how two bullets managed to go so badly astray?”
He shrugged. “I couldn’t really say, sir. In the heat of battle, strange things happen.”
“Strange things happen,” repeated the minister softly.
Saybrook sat in steadfast silence.
“I can’t help but wonder . . .” Grentham smoothed the creased papers, and then slid them into a dossier. “Have you any idea as to why Crandall would try to kill the Frenchman while you were interrogating him?”
“No.”
“And you wouldn’t care to hazard a guess?”
“I don’t care for parlor games,” replied Saybrook. “If you wish to hear people engage in idle speculation, I am sure you have plenty of lackeys outside your door who will be only too happy to oblige you.”
“You’re a good deal more facile with your tongue than you are with a weapon, Lord Saybrook.” The minister leaned back in his chair. “I put you in charge of this investigation and what do I have to show for it? Within less than half a day, the Prince’s assassin has escaped, my military attaché is dead, and you—you’re barely able to crawl through my door with a few pathetic pieces of paper.” A slow, mocking clap of applause echoed off the sherry-colored paneling. “Bravo, sir. Bravo.”
Saybrook’s only reaction was to continue contemplating the top of his cane. This one was fashioned with a polished steel knob and a heavy bezel that rotated to release a stiletto hidden within the stout oaken shaft.
A hush fell over the room, save for the ticking of a tall case clock in the corner. A full minute passed before Grentham added, “I am waiting with bated breath to see how you will extract yourself from this steaming pile of merde.”
“Then I had better be on my way, before the evidence grows too cold to be of any use.”
Grentham waited until the earl had his hand on the latch before replying, “Yes, I would hurry if I were you. But I would also tread very carefully. For be assured that if you make one more mistake, you’ll find yourself buried so deep in trouble that you’ll wish yourself dead.”
A ghost of a smile greeted the minister’s words. “If you are trying to frighten me, you’ll have to come up with a better threat than that.”
Metal rasped against metal, jarring Arianna from a troubled half sleep.
“How kind of you to remember your prisoner,” she mumbled, rising from the bench and brushing the cobwebs from her hair. As the door swung open, she saw that the gardens were darkening with twilight shadows. No wonder her stomach was growling in protest. She hadn’t eaten since morning.
“I—,” she began, only to be cut off by a curt order.
“This way.” Taking her arm, Saybrook turned off the gravel path and cut across the grass.
Arianna bristled, hating her loss of control. But after a sidelong glance at her captor, she held back further sarcasm. His skin was drawn taut over the bones of his face, and with fatigue hazing his gaze, he looked on the verge of collapse.
Time enough later to argue against Fate. For now, she tried to concentrate on making a mental note of her surroundings.
Tall, well-pruned plantings, set in a symmetrical pattern. . . . Leaves slapped softly against her cheeks, and through the hide-and-seek flickers of light and dark, she had only a fleeting impression of the imposing town house just beyond the privet hedge. A tiered terrace . . . classical colonnading . . . tall Palladian windows framed in pale Portland stone . . .
She stumbled, suddenly feeling disoriented. The place exuded an aura of power and privilege. Which made absolutely no sense . . . unless he was playing some devious mental game to break down her defenses.
“In here.”
Stiffening her resolve, Arianna steadied her step.
They passed through a stone-floored scullery and down a long corridor. Saybrook paused to light a branch of candles, the flare of flames illuminating a stretch of burnished mahogany wainscoting and gilt-framed paintings.
Reflected in the glint of his amber gaze, the browns and gold began to dance in a whirling dervish blur.
Where the devil am I?
He opened a paneled door set into the wall and stepped aside. “After you, Miss Smith. Have a care. The stairs are rather steep.”
At the top landing, they exited into yet another corridor and passed through a set of carved double doors. “In here, if you please.” Saybrook indicated the second door on the right.
Arianna stepped into a large bedchamber tastefully furnished in shades of
taupe and cream.
“I imagine you’re hungry. I’ve ordered up a hot supper.”
She unwound her shawl and draped it over the dressing table chair. The rich brocade and burled walnut wood had an understated elegance that bespoke money. Heaps of money.
“I’m not being put on bread and water until I confess?”
“I think you will find Bianca’s cooking palatable,” he replied. “Please make yourself comfortable. If you would like, I’ll have a bath sent up after your meal.”
Her skin began to itch at the prospect of scrubbing away the filth of the day. “Thank you.” Arianna was grateful, but it nettled her pride to have to admit it. She glanced around, noting the locked window latches and heavy oak door, and couldn’t keep from adding, “However gilded, it appears that this is a cage. I take it that I am to be held as a prisoner here?”
Saybrook raised a brow. “Would you rather be in Newgate? The cells there are damp, dirty, and infested with lice that would eat you alive.”
“I suppose this is a preferable alternative.” She took a seat on the edge of the massive four-poster bed, feeling even more out of place as her work-roughened knuckles brushed against the eiderdown coverlet. “Assuming I don’t expire from boredom.”
“There is a library at the far end of the corridor. Feel free to choose a book to occupy your mind. But be advised that the main doorway will be locked, and the servants have strict orders that you are not allowed to leave.” Saybrook let the words linger as he carefully lit a branch of candles. “And in case you are wondering, they are quite loyal to the owner of this place, so don’t bother trying to bribe them.”
Arianna gave a bitter laugh. “Unfortunately I have nothing to barter, save myself.”
He turned away and gestured at the massive armoire. “Feel free to place your belongings in there. If you are in need of anything else, you may ring for a maid and she will attend to it.”
The opulence was overwhelming. Everything about the house—the look, the feel, and even the smell—exuded refinement. Delicate colors, feathery silks, the sweetness of lavender. Arianna blinked back the sting of long-ago memories, refusing to be intimidated. Be damned if the Polite World considered her naught but a verminous insect. She would show them that an insect’s bite was cause for alarm.
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