Sweet Revenge lahm-1

by Andrea Penrose

  Grentham made no move to open the folder. “And what, pray tell, ought I know about its contents, Jenkins?”

  The young man cleared his throat. “Mr. Henning served as an army surgeon with the Third Regiment of Dragoons under Wellington in the Peninsula—as did Lord Saybrook. He resigned at the same time as the earl sold his commission on account of his injury, and both men returned to London on the same transport vessel.” The shuffling of feet was muted by the thick Turkey carpet. “As for earlier background, Henning’s father is an apothecary in Edinburgh, and is known for his outspoken views on social reform. His mother works at a local orphanage teaching the children to read and write.”

  “So we have a Scot who was suckled on idealism instead of whisky.” A mirthless smile curled at the corners of Grentham’s mouth. “Go on.”

  Jenkins rattled off a few more facts about the man’s military service before moving on. “At present, Henning resides in a modest set of rooms at number six Queen Street and runs a clinic for wounded war veterans.”

  “Finances?” asked Grentham.

  “Precarious at best, sir.”

  The minister squared the folder with the edge of his tooled blotter. “Any private patients?”

  “One,” replied the young man. “He seems to be Lord Saybrook’s personal physician.”

  “Now why does that not surprise me?”

  Jenkins did not venture an answer.

  Rising, the minister moved to where a massive gilt-framed map of the city hung against the dark wood paneling. After studying a small section of snaking streets, he turned around. “Has Crandall’s family claimed the body?”

  “Y-yes, milord. Several days ago.”

  “Arrange for Peterson to have a look at it. I should like to have a second opinion.”

  “But, sir, the burial is scheduled for tomorrow in the family plot in Colchester.”

  “Then you had better move quickly. Otherwise you will be needing to dig up a crew of resurrection men to accompany Peterson.”

  “Yes, milord.” His face turning pale as death, the young man scuttled for the door.

  “And Jenkins . . .”

  “Sir!”

  “I want the information that I requested on the East India board of governors on my desk within the hour.”

  Jenkins bobbed a nod and disappeared before any other order could be issued.

  His place was taken by a red-coated officer, who snapped to attention and saluted. “Lord Saybrook is here, milord.”

  “You may dispense with the parade ground theatrics, Colonel Saunders,” growled Grentham. “Send him in.”

  The earl entered a few moments later and without invitation seated himself in the chair facing the minister’s desk. That Grentham was still standing by the map seemed to make no impression.

  “Seeing as you have made yourself comfortable, dare I hope that you have a lengthy report to make on how you have solved the case?” asked Grentham with exquisite politeness.

  “Alas, no,” replied Saybrook with equal formality.

  The minister waited for further explanation, but Saybrook appeared engrossed in polishing a speck of dirt from the silver knob of his cane. Fixing the earl with a critical eye, he slowly circled around to his desk. “Perhaps your social engagements have distracted you from the assignment.” His gaze lingered on the earl’s face, which no longer looked like a death mask. The sharp-edged gauntness had softened and a touch of color had replaced the earlier stone-cold pallor. However, the improvements only seemed to elicit further sarcasm. “You seem to have regained an appetite for frivolous pleasure.”

  “Family obligations occasionally require that I appear in Society. If you are referring to Lady Wolcott’s introduction into London Society, be assured that the duty did not interfere with my investigation.”

  “No?” Grentham lifted a well-groomed brow. “Then there must be some other compelling reason why you have made no progress in finding the Prince’s poisoner.”

  “I didn’t say that I had made no progress,” murmured the earl. “You of all people ought not jump to conclusions, milord.”

  Grentham sucked in a silent breath. He took a moment to shift a folder from a desk drawer to the top of the stack on his blotter before replying, “The government is growing hungry for results, Lord Saybrook. And I am loath to keep serving up the same old excuses.”

  “I am well aware that my own head will end up on a platter if I fail,” said the earl.

  “That will be after your ballocks are fried in Spanish olive oil and offered to the cabinet ministers as amuse-bouches.”

  “I suggest that you season them with Andalusian rosemary and a sprinkling of Mediterranean sea salt. Otherwise they will taste a trifle bland.”

  Grentham thinned his lips. “You think it amusing to cross verbal swords with me? Be assured, it’s no laughing matter—”

  A knock on the door interrupted him.

  “Yes, what is it, Jenkins?” called the minister.

  “Sorry, milord, but you asked me to alert you as soon as the document for the Swedish minister was ready for your signature.”

  “Excuse me for a moment.” Pivoting on his heel, Grentham left the room.

  Saybrook shifted, then rose and flipped open the top folder on the desk. He quickly skimmed through several papers before closing the cover and returning it to the exact position as before.

  Taking his seat, the earl resumed his position of studied nonchalance.

  A moment later, Grentham came through the half-opened door and drew it shut behind him.

  “Now, where were we, Lord Saybrook?”

  “Discussing what spices to use on my ballocks when you serve them to the Prime Minister. However, I have been thinking—perhaps he would prefer them stewed, not fried.”

  “Let us not mince words,” said Grentham slowly. “You may not care about having your already suspect reputation cut to shreds . . .” He paused for just a fraction. “But what of your half sister? Or, rather, your bastard sister, though the lovely young lady currently residing at Mrs. Martin’s Academy for Ladies in Shropshire is registered as the legitimate offspring of some fictitious Spanish count—a highborn relative from the Spanish side of your family, rather than your father’s by-blow.”

  Saybrook’s grip tightened on the shaft of his cane.

  The minister did not miss the subtle gesture and a glint of malice sparked in his eyes. “Oh, yes, I know all about that, Lord Saybrook. Did you really think your private family peccadilloes would escape my notice?” Tracing a finger along the slim blade of his letter opener, he added, “Fifteen is an age of hope and dreams for a girl, is it not? The daughter of a Spanish noble, especially one with a family connection to the high and mighty Earl of Saybrook, can look forward to making a splendid match, and living a life of privilege here in England.” The pause was perfectly timed. “But then again, the slightest stain on her name would ruin any hope of acceptance into the ton.”

  The earl’s expression didn’t alter. “Harm her in any way and you are a dead man,” he said conversationally.

  “You are in no position to be making threats,” replied Grentham.

  “Nor are you,” countered Saybrook. “A good many people might be very curious to know more about the recent activities of dear, departed Major Crandall.”

  Grentham went very still.

  “He was, after all, your senior military aide, and as such, your wish was his command.”

  “I confess that I, too, am very curious to hear where you are going with this.”

  “At the moment, I’m not far enough along on the trail to make an announcement on where it leads. However, I promise that you will be the first to know when I get there.”

  “I’m afraid you have lost me, Lord Saybrook.”

  “You—who know every twist and turn, every cesspool and hellhole in London?” A smile ghosted over Saybrook’s lips. “I think not. Indeed, I’d be willing to wager you could find your way blindfolded through the scum an
d the dung, no matter how deep.”

  “How very poetic.” Grentham perched a hip on the corner of his desk. “But unlike you, I do not possess an artistic temperament. I prefer practical, pragmatic speech. So if you have an accusation to make, please do so.”

  “An accusation? Oh, I’m not quite as clumsy as you seem to think.” Saybrook rose, and suddenly the slender length of ebony was a blur of black as it cut a series of feints through the air. “Swords—verbal or otherwise—are something I’m quite familiar with. A soldier never really loses touch with the art of war.”

  The silver ferrule stopped a scant half inch from Grentham’s throat.

  “You, no doubt, prefer a more cerebral weapon,” continued the earl softly. “But there is a certain primitive pleasure in the feel of steel in your hand.”

  The minister slowly pushed the point away. “As you say, primitive. There are far less sweaty ways of destroying an enemy.”

  “Yet nothing is quite so supremely satisfying as going mano a mano with an opponent,” replied Saybrook.

  “Swordplay to rescue a damsel in distress? You’ve read too many romantic tales, Lord Saybrook,” mocked Grentham. “Noble heroes are naught but a dribble of ink on paper.”

  “Then consider me a spawn of Satan. For if you ever threaten my sister again I shall follow you to the hottest hole in hell and slice off your cods,” said the earl. “And then ram them down your gullet, uncooked and unspiced.”

  Grentham flicked a mote of dust from his lapel. “Would that you could show this much zeal in pursuing the fugitive chef.”

  Saybrook tucked the cane under his arm and walked to the door unaided. “I think we both know there are bigger fish to fry.”

  . . . I’ve found yet another reference from the early 1600s, recounting an incident when English privateers stopped a Spanish galleon loaded with cacao. This time, they didn’t burn the cargo, but dumped it into the ocean, once again thinking the beans were sheep turds! Oh, how I shall tease Sandro with this nugget of information—really, the Inglieze have no appreciation of fine food and wine. . . .

  Arianna let out a low laugh as she looked up from Dona Maria’s journal. The earl’s Spanish grandmother had a deliciously sly sense of humor. No wonder his expression betrayed a hint of sadness when he spoke of her. From her writings, it was obvious that the contessa had been a remarkable lady.

  Setting the book aside, she loosened the sash of her silk wrapper. It was late, and yet her nerves were still wound tight. She had spent the evening at a staid musicale, with card games and a midnight supper following the program of Italian opera arias. The singers had been mediocre, the punch weak, and the conversation boring. However, Mellon had insisted that she attend several respectable parties to establish some sort of credibility in Society.

  But tomorrow night . . .

  She rose and went to stand by the windows. The patter of a passing shower echoed against the panes. Pressing her palms to the glass, Arianna drew a deep breath and let the dampness seep through her skin. The chill took the edge off the frisson of fire twisting in her belly. The idea of getting close to Concord had her feeling both hot and cold. So near and yet so far. She had dreamed of revenge for so long. Yet now that it was in reach, her emotions were hard to untangle.

  One step at a time, she told herself.

  One step at a time.

  Turning away, Arianna moved to the chest of drawers, where her newly purchased accessories lay neatly folded on lavender-scented paper. Lacey corsets, silk stockings, lawn cotton shifts soft and sheer as a dappling of sunlight. . . . Lud, she had never possessed such frilly, feminine things. They were luxuries, far too costly for a vagabond on the run.

  Her fingers lingered on a curl of satin ribbon, its softness teasing against the callused tips. Then, swearing under her breath, Arianna thrust them beneath the pile of new clothing and found several of her old male garments. Pulling out the canvas smock, she fished a small pouch from a hidden pocket in the seam and carried it over to the bed.

  A square of pale ivory paper and wink of fire-tinged gold fluttered in the candlelight as she shook the contents onto the counterpane. Picking up the medallion first, she held it closer to the light in order to study the engraving. She hadn’t taken the time to scrutinize the items taken from Lady Spencer’s desk drawers, but now that she was to meet with Concord, she couldn’t afford to overlook any clue that might help bring her father’s murderer to justice.

  For it had been a premeditated murder, and not some random robbery. On that she was willing to bet her life.

  Forcing her focus back from the past to the present, Arianna squinted at the curling script phrase on the medallion.

  Fay çe que vouldras.

  Her brow furrowed as she mentally translated the French into English.

  Do as you please.

  Unsure what to make of the words, Arianna replaced the medallion and the list back in the pouch and unfolded the letter. The message here was less cryptic. Lady Spencer had another paramour who was unhappy about her liaison with the Prince Regent. Did all of this—the murderous attacks, the violent death, the government panic—boil down to a simple matter of sex?

  She tucked the paper away and put the pouch back in its hiding place. The earl ought to be told about the contents of the letter. It would save him from running in circles, chasing phantom conspirators. This was most likely not about international politics, but a personal grudge against a Prince who couldn’t keep his pizzle inside his breeches.

  However, sharing the information wasn’t to her advantage.

  Arianna looked around the elegant room and gave a sardonic grimace. Saybrook’s goal was to end the investigation as soon as possible, while her role was simply to serve as a pawn—a pawn in a ruthless game where she was expendable. That he would not hesitate for a heartbeat to sacrifice her was a fact that she must never forget.

  Kill or be killed. That was one of the cardinal rules of survival.

  Indeed, it might be the only rule that mattered.

  Because come hell or high water, she meant to survive long enough to taste the sweetness of revenge.

  11

  From the chocolate notebooks of Dona Maria Castellano

  Senor Diego Martinez invited me to study some old books in his library, and in them I found the first mention that I’ve seen of chocolate in Italy! In 1606, Francesco d’Antonio Carlette, a merchant from Florence, submitted a report to Ferdinando de’ Medici, the Grand Duke of Tuscany, on his world travels. In it, he includes a whole section on the New World and its trade in cacao. . . .

  Chocolate Cookies with Gin-Soaked Raisins

  ½ cup golden raisins

  ⅓ cup gin

  3 cups sifted confectioner’s sugar (sift before measuring)

  ⅔ cup sifted unsweetened cocoa powder, preferably Dutch-processed (sift before measuring)

  1 teaspoon instant espresso powder

  2 tablespoons all-purpose flour (unsifted)

  ⅛ teaspoon salt

  3 large egg whites

  ½ teaspoon vanilla

  8 ounces pecans, toasted, cooled, and coarsely chopped

  1. Combine raisins and gin in a cup and let stand at least 8 hours to macerate.

  2. Preheat oven to 350ºF. Butter and flour 2 large baking sheets, shaking off excess flour.

  3. Mix confectioner’s sugar, cocoa powder, espresso powder, flour, and salt with an electric mixer at low speed. Add egg whites and vanilla and continue mixing until smooth.

  4. Drain raisins in a sieve, without pressing, then add raisins to dough with pecans. Stir until thoroughly mixed. (Dough will be thick and sticky.)

  5. Working quickly, drop ¼ cup dough for each cookie onto a baking sheet, spacing cookies at least 3 inches apart, and gently pat down each mound to about ½ inch thick.

  6. Bake cookies, 1 sheet at a time, in middle of oven, rotating sheet halfway through baking, for 15 to 17 minutes total, or until cookies appear cracked and centers are just set. Cool cooki
es on sheet 1 minute, then transfer carefully to a rack to cool completely.

  Too unsettled to sleep quite yet, Arianna took up the candle and made her way down to the kitchen. Its worktables and well-stocked pantries were now familiar territory, for several days ago, on learning that Arianna was studying the chocolate notebooks belonging to the earl’s grandmother, the cook had issued an invitation to help make up the week’s supply of cacao for hot chocolate.

  Apparently Arianna had passed the test, for she had been given carte blanche to make use of the space and supplies whenever she wished.

  After adding fresh coals to the stove, she lit a lantern and gathered the ingredients she wanted. Spices and almonds, cream and butter, flour and sugar, a ball of cacao paste . . . after measuring out the exact amounts of several ingredients, she set the copper pot on the hob to heat.

  As the gloom came alive with soothing sounds and smells of cooking, she felt her tension melting away into the kitchen rhythms.

  Lost in thought, Arianna wasn’t aware of the approaching footsteps until the scrape of a boot on the mudroom floor jarred her from her work. Pulse pounding, she grabbed up the long-bladed chopping knife and whirled around from the worktable.

  Framed in the doorway was a dark shape, a blur of black on black in the murky corridor.

  Her throat seized, her hands clenched.

  “A late supper?”The earl stepped out from the ominous shadows, his caped coat flapping around his shoulders.

  The blade wavered as she expelled a sharp breath.

  “Or is it breakfast?” added Saybrook, slipping out of his coat and shaking off the droplets of rain. He draped it over a stool and came forward into the pool of lantern light. In the flickering flame, he looked tired. Troubled.

  Or perhaps pensive was more accurate. It was hard to say. She didn’t know him well enough to recognize his moods.

  “Neither,” she replied.

  “Well, it smells good enough to eat.” He paused for a look at the simmering sugar, which was slowly caramelizing to a buttery shade of gold. “What are you making?”