Sweet Revenge lahm-1

by Andrea Penrose

  Henning looked at Saybrook and arched a graying brow. “You did say that Whitehall is worried about any disruption of talks with the Russian and Prussian envoys next month.”

  “Very worried,” agreed Saybrook. The planes of his face seemed to sharpen in the flickering lamplight. “That is, if we trust Grentham’s explanation for bringing me into this investigation. That he may have other, ulterior motives is something we have to consider.”

  Arianna suddenly felt a little dizzy.

  “Blunt . . . sword blades, blunt . . . sword blades,” mused Henning aloud. “British India and Spanish America.”

  Saybrook sat, head bowed, unmoving. He looked as though he were carved out of obsidian, she thought. Dark, impenetrable.

  A grunt of laughter from Henning drew her attention away from his profile. “Blunt . . . sword blades—hell, perhaps someone has resurrected the old South Sea Company of a century ago.”

  Beneath the rough-spun cotton shirt, Arianna felt a pebbling of gooseflesh shiver down her arms.

  “Ye all right, milady?” asked the surgeon. “Ye look as if ye’ve seen a ghost.”

  I have, in a manner of speaking. But unwilling to reveal any reaction until she had time to compose her thoughts, Arianna shook her head. “I’m simply feeling a little fatigued, is all,” she mumbled.

  Henning made sympathetic sounds, but as the earl raised his gaze to meet hers, she sensed that he saw through the lie.

  Looking away, she sought to deflect his scrutiny. “What do you mean, Mr. Henning?” she asked quickly.

  He answered with a question of his own. “Are you familiar with the term ‘blunt’ as it is used in common cant, Lady Arianna?”

  “It is slang for money, is it not?” she replied slowly.

  “Correct. And do you know why?”

  Though she knew the reason all too well, Arianna pretended to think for a moment. “I would imagine that it is because money dulls the edge of poverty.”

  “An excellent guess,” said the surgeon. “However, the truth is, it’s based on an actual person. Sir John Blunt was an entrepreneur from early in the last century.”

  The name caused a clench in her belly. Some men had patron saints, but her father had worshipped at the altar of the Almighty Sir John Blunt.

  “For a time his name was synonymous with easy riches,” went on Henning. “For you see, he offered people a simple way of amassing great wealth with little or no effort.”

  Oh, if only she had a penny for every time she had heard plans for such a scheme. “That sounds too good to be true,” she said warily.

  “It was,” said the earl. “Have you read anything about the South Sea Bubble?”

  She took care to answer obliquely. “Remember, I didn’t attend your fancy schools, Lord Saybrook. I’ve not spent my life with my nose buried in some musty book.”

  “Perhaps your father made mention of it,” he suggested. “Given his interest in gambling and numbers, it would seem likely.”

  Arianna shook her head, “If he did, I don’t recall it.”

  His gaze lingered on her face for a long moment, leaving her skin feeling slightly scorched.

  “It was a stock scheme,” offered Henning. “Initially, the South Sea Company was created in 1711 by the Lord Treasurer Robert Harley as a way of funding the national debt, which was ballooning because of England’s wars. It then put together a very sophisticated proposal for raising money, based on the government granting it exclusive trading rights in Spain’s New World colonies. Now, dunna ask me to explain the fine points of finance, for such intricacies are far too complicated fer my simple brain. But basically, it involved a swap of private stock for government debt. . . .”

  Arianna listened in mute dismay as he went on to explain the initial investment phases. She had heard it all before. And yet it still sounded reasonable. But then, the clever plans always did.

  “A New World trading company should have proved enormously profitable on its own,” said Arianna. Something was niggling at the edges of her consciousness, but she couldn’t as yet put a finger on it.

  “The actual trading became a minor concern,” said Saybrook. He was watching her closely. “Once the majority of the public agreed to accept the initial offering of company stock in exchange for their government holdings, the main thrust of the South Sea governors was to drum up enthusiasm for the venture, in order to drive up the stock price.”

  “That’s why the South Sea Company asked Sir John Blunt to join forces with them,” explained the surgeon. “Blunt had made a name for himself promoting highly profitable lotteries for the government. He brought in the Sword Blade Bank as a new partner.”

  “An odd name for a bank,” she mused. Her surprise was genuine. She couldn’t recall her father ever mentioning such an entity.

  “It began as a manufacturing company of—yes—sword blades crafted with smithing techniques brought to England by Huguenot refugees. The company failed, but Blunt, who was a mere scrivener at the time, put together a group of investors and turned it into a land bank, which granted mortgages, accepted deposits, and issued notes. In 1711, it won a lottery to raise two million pounds. Based on Blunt’s success in selling the subscription, the bank then went on to become the financial arm of the South Sea Company.”

  “H-how do you know so much about all this, Mr. Henning?” asked Arianna, once the lengthy explanation was done.

  The surgeon made a face. “Because my grandfather lost all of his blunt when the South Sea Bubble burst. Left him penniless. He had to sell his house, a lovely stone cottage with orchards and grazing lands, and find work in Edinburgh. My father was forced to take up a trade, rather than study at the university, as was always intended.”

  So hers was not the only life ruined by a desire for instant riches. Oh, Papa. How was it that he never really learned a thing from his beloved John Blunt?

  Her face must have betrayed a hint of what she was thinking, because Henning gave a gruff grunt. “Those caught up in a dream never think it can turn into a nightmare, eh?”

  Arianna tucked her hands into her lap, trying to evade the memory of the shrieking wind and trembling fingers sticky with blood. “What has a century-old scandal to do with these current crimes?” she asked in a small voice.

  “A good question,” answered the surgeon. He slanted Saybrook a questioning look. “Ye were rather good at solving conundrums for Wellington and his staff. Have ye got no ideas?”

  Saybrook’s mouth quirked up at the corners. “I don’t have quite the freedom in London as I did in the Peninsula,” he pointed out. “There I had resources to call on, and an idea of what mission I was trying to accomplish. While here I feel as if I am spinning in circles. It’s unclear to me why, but I suspect that I’ve been put in motion for reasons that have little to do with uncovering the truth.”

  Arianna tried to squelch the tiny stirring of guilt in the pit of her stomach. Truth, she told herself, was all relative. Its definition depended on what one was seeking. And the Earl of Saybrook was looking for something far different than she was.

  “Tell me again exactly what you overhead, Lady Arianna,” said Saybrook. “Every word, precisely as you remember them.”

  She did as he asked.

  Henning scratched at his chin. “Gurney. That’s a litter fer carrying wounded men,” he said helpfully. “So maybe this is about some sort of business with military supplies.”

  The earl nodded abstractly. “Given Kellton’s position with the East India Company, it raises a number of questions. Nitrates, which are essential for gunpowder, come to us from the east—”

  “Sir.” She wasn’t even aware that she had spoken until Saybrook turned around.

  “Yes?”

  “Forgive me for interrupting, but . . .”

  He waited, dark and silent as a storm cloud hovering on the horizon.

  “But before you go on, there is something that you ought to know. It may have no bearing on your investigation, but along w
ith the medallion, I . . . I also took a letter from Lady Spencer’s desk.” She met his eyes. “And it so happens that it was from Kellton.”

  15

  From the chocolate notebooks of Dona Maria Castellano

  Like many of the most scrumptious flavorings for chocolate, praline—a sweetly crunchy almond concoction—was the result of a fortuitous kitchen accident in 1671. A bowl of almonds dropped into a pan of burnt sugar . . . in a panic, the last minute creation was served to the Duke of Plesslis-Praslin, a diplomat in the service of King Louis XIII of France, who adored it and gave the new dish his name. Today, praline is, of course, a very popular filling. I must remind Sandro to use Spanish Marcona almonds . . .

  Chocolate Chipotle Shortbread

  1 cup all-purpose flour

  ¼ cup unsweetened cocoa powder

  ½ teaspoon chipotle chile powder

  ½ teaspoon cinnamon

  ⅛ teaspoon salt

  1 stick unsalted butter, softened

  ⅓ cup superfine granulated sugar

  1. Preheat oven to 350°F with rack in middle.

  2. Whisk together flour, cocoa powder, chile powder, cinnamon, and salt in a bowl.

  3. Beat together butter and sugar with an electric mixer at medium speed until pale and fluffy. At low speed, mix in flour mixture until well blended. Divide dough in half and pat out into 2 (7-inch) rounds (¼ inch thick). Arrange rounds 2 inches apart on an ungreased baking sheet. Cut each round into 8 wedges (do not separate wedges). Prick all over with a fork.

  4. Bake until dry to the touch, 16 to 18 minutes. Recut shortbread while hot, then cool on sheet (shortbread will crisp as it cools).

  “How kind of you to share that information with us,” replied Saybrook with undisguised sarcasm.

  “Sandro,” chided Henning.

  “Dare I inquire as to its contents?” he went on, ignoring his friend’s warning. “Or is that too much to ask?”

  “His Lordship has a right to be peeved,” she said to the surgeon. “But until this moment, I honestly did not see what the letter had to do with his investigation.”

  “That is precisely the point of sharing information,” he said through gritted teeth. “Though it may come as a rude surprise, Lady Arianna, you are not always in the best position to judge what is relevant and what is not.”

  “I am aware of that, sir. Just as I am aware of the fact that who I can and cannot trust is even more difficult to discern.”

  “I don’t know what else I can do to prove that I’m not your enemy, Lady Arianna.”

  Nor do I. Like truth, trust was a hard concept to capture in words.

  “Yes, well, instead of debating our philosophical differences, milord, wouldn’t you rather hear about the letter,” she retorted.

  “Por favor,” he muttered.

  “It was mostly a passionate plea, bemoaning the loss of her favors in bed. I only took it because . . . well, Lady Spencer was careful to choose influential lovers. Having a bargaining chip with such men sometimes proves useful.” Arianna heard Henning add a splash of brandy to his glass. “As I said, I didn’t think it relevant.”

  Saybrook released a pent-up breath.

  “But in light of the present circumstances,” she went on, “his pleas about betrayal may have a more sinister meaning.”

  “Before I comment on that, is there anything—anything—else you are holding back?”

  Somehow, to give voice to the cryptic sheet of numbers and the folio of equations was to give them actual substance. And why? Her vague suspicions were absurd—absurd. To explain them would mean stripping away the last of her protective secrets.

  “As far as I know, I possess no other information that may prove useful,” she replied carefully.

  The earl looked less than satisfied with her answer, but he let it pass. “You are sure that the letter is from Kellton?”

  “His hand is very legible. The signature reads, Your devoted servant Gideon Kellton. I wouldn’t imagine there are two rich men of that name.”

  Clasping his hands behind his back, he began to pace the length of the kitchen. For some moments, the scuff of leather on stone overwhelmed all other sounds. Then it suddenly stopped.

  “It seems to me,” he announced, “that it’s time to get reacquainted with Lady Spencer.”

  “But—,” she began, then hesitated.

  The earl fixed her with a mocking look. “You think I don’t qualify? I possess a title and wealth. As for my ability to meet her other requirements, I daresay I shall rise to the occasion.”

  Arianna felt herself flush. To cover her embarrassment, she quickly said, “And starting tonight, I shall heat up my efforts to cozy up to Concord. It’s obvious that he and Lady Spencer are close. For what reason is something we need to find out.”

  “You mean that you will tumble willingly into his bed?” asked Saybrook quietly.

  “Yes. If need be.”

  “No.” It was barely more than a whisper, but there was no mistaking the note of command.

  She opened her mouth to retort, but Henning hastily intervened.

  “Lady Arianna, I think what Sandro meant is, we certainly don’t expect you to, er, sacrifice your, er, virtue to ensnare these criminals.”

  A laugh, bitter as bile, welled up in her throat, but Arianna forced it into a sardonic smile. “Mr. Henning, I’ve had to fend for myself since I was fifteen years old, and the West Indies are far more primitive than the fancy streets of Mayfair. I assure you, my virtue is not an issue.”

  The surgeon looked uncomfortable, while Saybrook . . .

  Arianna could not quite describe the earl’s expression. His dark eyes had a trick of turning opaque and allowing nothing to penetrate their depths.

  “All questions of morality aside, I would suggest we try to avoid that scenario,” said Saybrook, his voice devoid of emotion. “It would place you in far too vulnerable a position. The smallest slip . . .” He shifted his injured leg. “We can assume that Concord is extremely dangerous and won’t hesitate to kill if he feels threatened.”

  “You think Lady Spencer is any less dangerous for being a female?” she demanded.

  Rather than reply, Saybrook turned his focus to another conundrum. “We cannot forget about Grentham, or how he fits into the puzzle.”

  “I wuddna be surprised to find he is the one trying to put all these filthy pieces together,” growled Henning.

  The earl seemed less certain. “I have heard that he is ruthless, but as far as I know, there are no rumors that he is corrupt.”

  “Power always corrupts,” replied Henning darkly. “Besides, who else ordered a senior officer of the Blues to try to murder Lady Arianna, not to mention an under-governor of the East India Company?”

  “I prefer to keep an open mind—”

  A tenuous cough from the archway interrupted him. “Your pardon, milord.” One of the earl’s footmen held out a letter. “A messenger from Whitehall just delivered this. He said it was urgent.”

  “Speak of the devil.” Cracking the seal, Saybrook skimmed over the contents and then looked up. “I am summoned for a meeting with the minister. As soon as possible.”

  “Kellton?” asked the surgeon.

  “It doesn’t say. But I would be surprised if he hasn’t heard of the death.”

  “What do you plan on telling him?”

  The earl shrugged. “That depends on how much he knows—or claims to know. Conversing with Lord Grentham is always a game of cat and mouse.”

  Anxious to think over what she had just heard in the privacy of her own house, Arianna took up her hat and pulled it low over her brow. “I had better go and try to catch a few hours’ sleep before Lady Ravenell’s ball tonight.”

  She half expected Saybrook to forbid her attendance. However, he made no response, save to reach for Henning’s glass and quaff the last swallow of brandy.

  “I’ll take my leave as well.” The surgeon gathered up his vials and placed them back in his bag. “I h
ave patients to see.”

  Rather than follow him into the corridor, Arianna turned for the passageway leading to the back door.

  To her surprise, the earl fell in step behind her instead of accompanying his friend. Arianna quickened her pace, hoping to slip away without any further exchange of words. She was tired, and in no mood for argument.

  His hand, however, caught her sleeve, and pulled her around.

  Arianna chuffed an impatient sigh. “Whatever you have to say, please make it quick.”

  “This will only take a moment.”

  Her heart began hammering against her ribs as he learned in closer.

  “Be careful.”

  “W-what?”

  “Be careful,” repeated Saybrook. “I am not exaggerating when I say that the unknown enemy is diabolically dangerous. And utterly amoral. As you heard Henning say, curare is a particularly unpleasant death.”

  “Why should you care about me?” Arianna knew she sounded belligerent, but couldn’t help it.

  “For any number of reasons,” he went on softly. “Because you have courage and strength. Because you have passion and intelligence.” His fingertips brushed a lock of hair from her cheek. “But most of all, because you don’t expect anyone to give a damn whether you live or die.”

  The sting of salt burned against her eyelids. At that instant, she almost hated him for making her feel this way. Alone. Uncertain. Vulnerable.

  Wrenching free of his hold, Arianna braced a hand on the storage shelf. “Well, don’t bother,” she drawled with feigned nonchalance. “Caring, that is. It’s not as if we are going to be friends for long.”

  Saybrook pulled back just a fraction, and she felt the heat of his body dissipate in the still air.

  “True,” he agreed amiably. “But I didn’t delay you merely to discuss personal matters, Lady Arianna. My warning was simply a prelude to a request—I want you to keep Concord and his cronies occupied tonight.”