Sweet Revenge lahm-1

by Andrea Penrose

Sandro has sent me the most delightful chocolatiere that he found at Sotheby’s Auction House. It is made of delicate cream-colored porcelain and is painted with a fanciful scene of the tropics. He thinks it is quite old, and in doing a bit of research on the subject, I found that this style of pot was invented in the late seventeenth century, and features a tall, thin shape and a lid with a small hole, designed to fit the handle of a molinillo. . . .

  Chocolate Peanut Toffee

  4 sticks (1 pound) unsalted butter, cut into pieces

  2 cups sugar

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  4 cups whole cocktail peanuts, plus 1 cup chopped

  (1 pound, 10 ounces)

  7 to 8 ounces 70%-cacao bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped

  1. Butter baking pan and put on a heatproof surface.

  2. Bring butter, sugar, and salt to a boil in a 4- to 5-quart heavy pot over medium-high heat, whisking until smooth, then boil, stirring occasionally, until mixture is deep golden and registers 300°F (hard-crack stage) on thermometer, 15 to 20 minutes.

  3. Immediately stir in whole peanuts, then carefully pour hot toffee into center of baking pan. Spread with spatula, smoothing top, and let stand 1 minute, then immediately sprinkle chocolate on top. Let stand until chocolate is melted, 4 to 5 minutes, then spread over toffee with clean spatula. Sprinkle evenly with chopped peanuts, then freeze until chocolate is firm, about 30 minutes. Break into pieces.

  “I trust there is a damn good reason for dragging me out here.” Saybrook turned up the collar of his coat to the cold, clammy breeze. “I had only a few hours of sleep last night and spent most of the day haring over the city, tracking down several leads.”

  His boot made a small sucking sound as the earl shifted his stance in the mud. “So if this proves to be a wild-goose chase, I shall not be pleased.”

  “No rest for the wicked, eh?” quipped Henning. He edged to the corner of the warehouse wall and peered into the gloom. Fog was drifting in from the inky waters of the East India docks, the thick swirls of vapor heavy with the grit of salt and soot. Rising up from the sea of silver, the rigging of the tall ships rocked back and forth against the scudding clouds, looking like a tangled web woven by some giant rum-drunk spider.

  “You mean to say that you would rather be at Almack’s than the Isle of Dogs?” added the surgeon.

  “Not at all—dancing through the muck with you is far more fun that waltzing with an heiress,” said the earl dryly.

  “We must wait another five minutes,” murmured Henning, after a quick look at his pocket watch. “Then move quickly. But based on what I heard from my friend, you won’t be disappointed.

  “You’ve more tentacles than an octopus, Baz. I hadn’t realized that your reach extended to the merchant fleets.”

  “Illness and poverty are everywhere,” replied the surgeon dourly. “People are anxious to repay my help as best they can.” Hugging close to the shadows, he leaned his back to the wall. “The curare got me curious about recent shipments from the New World, so I asked around. And sure enough, a recently arrived sailor confided to my contact that his captain had been strangely secretive about the unloading of their cargo. A special crew of stevedores had been hired to work under the cover of darkness, rather than during the day. And the crew was paid off early, and replaced with a cadre of private guards. Tough-looking men who were strangers to the docks.”

  The earl gave a noncommittal grunt.

  “We’re in luck that there’s no moon,” murmured the surgeon over the low gurgle of the ebbing tide. “We turn left once we cross through the loading area. The warehouse we want is the third one on the south side.”

  “What about watchmen?” asked Saybrook.

  “The one guarding that section has been asked to ignore any activity he might notice for the next hour. But we still must be careful not to be spotted by any of the other patrols.” He pressed a finger to his lips and then signaled for the earl to follow.

  Moving stealthily through the shadows, they traversed the narrow passageways.

  “This is the one.” Henning stopped by a recessed door set within the blackened brick. He felt along the iron bands reinforcing the rough-cut oak until his hands encountered the hasp and padlock. Metal rasped against metal for just a moment. “Quick, get inside.”

  He pulled the portal shut behind him. “Go ahead and light the lantern.”

  Saybrook struck a lucifer and set it to the wick. After adjusting the metal shutters, he angled the beam around the cluttered room.

  “This is the back office. The storage area is through there.” Henning indicated another door. “My source says there aren’t any important papers kept here, but if you wish, we can have a look. Our time, however, is limited. The watch changes in an hour, and we must be gone by then.”

  “Let’s have a look at the cargo first,” said the earl. “That is the reason we are here, isn’t it?”

  “Correct.” Henning ventured a quick peek into the darkness, and then added, “Stop sounding so peeved, laddie. I had expected more gratitude for my cleverness.”

  “Sorry, but the only thing I’d give thanks for at the moment is a night of uninterrupted sleep.” Saybrook ran a hand over his bristled jaw. “On second thought, I shall shower you with several cases of your favorite malt if this turns out to be worth the trip.”

  “I shall send my request to yer agent at Berry Brothers and Rudd first thing in the morning,” shot back the surgeon. A grunt sounded as his boot hit upon a metal object. “Shine the light over here.”

  The oily glow pooled over a small chest. A padlock secured the hasp, but the earl drew a thin, flexible length of steel from his pocket and within moments the mechanism released with a soft snick.

  “I see ye haven’t lost yer touch from our times with the partisans.”

  “My skills are a bit rusty,” said Saybrook. “But it’s all beginning to come back to me.” Throwing open the lid, he pulled out several burlap bags. “Dried leaves,” he murmured, handing a sprig to Henning. A sniff was followed by a tentative nibble. “Erythroxylum coca.”

  “Aye,” corroborated the surgeon after taking a taste. “A favorite stimulant of the ancient Aztec armies.”

  “As was chocolate,” murmured the earl. He opened one of the canisters at the bottom of the chest, revealing a quantity of snow-white powder.

  “Careful, laddie,” warned Henning as the earl inhaled a small pinch. “That’s a potent drug, assuming it’s what I think it is.”

  The earl passed him the container. After a tentative taste, the surgeon nodded. “Lumley and I did some experiments in his laboratory at Oxford, distilling the coca plant’s essence.” He refastened the lid and placed the powder back in the trunk. “When reduced to a crystallized form and ground into a fine powder, it has a powerful effect on the senses, stimulating a rush of energy and euphoria.”

  “You speak from experience?”

  “A scientist must have empirical knowledge,” replied Henning. “So aye, I tried it.” He thought for a moment. “Interesting. I’ve heard rumors of a new elixir being offered within certain circles of the aristocracy. A special pleasure drug, an elixir called the Devil’s Delight. It costs a fortune for a small vial, but there are many willing to pay the price.”

  “Interesting,” echoed the earl. He dropped to his knees and began examining the contents of the canvas sack next to the chest. “Speaking of chocolate . . . There are several bales of cacao beans here, and they appear to be rare criollas of the highest quality, rather than the common trinitario variety.” There was a rustling as he edged the lantern along the planking. “Along with dried vanilla pods and what looks to be a half dozen crates of silver bullion.”

  Henning made a face. “An odd assortment. Granted, all the items are valuable, but it’s not as if there is enough of any one thing to make the long voyage worthwhile.” He picked his way along a line of assorted barrels and boxes, poking and prodding at the deeply shadowed shapes. Beyond the weak pool of light
, the darkness was impenetrable. “Perhaps they are simply a sample. A taste to whet the appetite.”

  Wood scraped against wood as the earl shifted a stack of crates. “Did your contact say where the ship picked up this cargo?”

  “There were three ports of call. Veracruz, Portobelo, and Cartagena.”

  “Which were all main points of embarkation for the old Spanish treasure fleets,” mused Saybrook.

  The surgeon ran his hand over a cloth sack, stirring up a swirl of spicy sweetness. “So, we have merchandise coming from the New World, all of it with the potential to be highly profitable.”

  “But none of it in enough quantity to justify the cost or hazards of a long journey,” added the earl.

  “Not yet, not yet. But I tell you, this new Devil’s Delight is already turning an obscene profit. The canister we just found will go a long way to paying the expenses of the voyage.”

  Silence, save the sudden scurrying of a rat among the burlap bales.

  Saybrook tucked the sprig of coca into his pocket and sat back on his haunches. “Who owns the ship?”

  Henning cracked his knuckles. “I’m working on that.”

  “Well, spread your tentacles even wider, Baz. We need to know the names of those involved.”

  “The pieces of the puzzle seem to be coming together, eh?” mused the surgeon. “Kellton was murdered with curare, a New World poison, and here we’ve just discovered evidence of an enterprise worth killing for. Then we have Concord, whom we know to have been involved in dirty dealings in the past.” He pursed his lips. “Like Lady Arianna’s father, Kellton must have become a threat to the operation, and so they eliminated him.”

  “Perhaps. But I’m not as certain as you are.” Dusting his hands, Saybrook rose and squeezed his way through the bales to another row of crates. “As of yet, the pieces are still too damn amorphous to show any pattern, or any way they interlock.”

  “Auch, we’re getting close, laddie. I feel it in my bones,” muttered Henning.

  The earl swore as his knee banged up against a brass urn.

  “And ye know damn well how my intuition saved our skin on several occasions in—”

  A grunt cut short the surgeon’s point.

  “Well, well, well.” Saybrook had dropped to a crouch and was shifting a burlap sack. “Come see what we have here, Baz.”

  Arianna set aside the book she had been reading and rose from her chair. From across the room, her bed beckoned, a sumptuous stretch of quilted satin and down-filled pillows that were whispering a Siren song.

  Crash upon these gilded rocks and find oblivion in sleep.

  “Tempting,” she muttered. But instead she sought a spot by the bank of diamond-paned windows.

  Think! she cajoled, forcing herself to review all the complex financial data she had been studying for the last few hours.

  Her two footmen had been dispatched that morning, one to Hatchard’s bookstore and one to Lady Sterling’s residence, with orders to buy or borrow all books related to the South Sea Bubble. Despite her denial to the earl and his great-aunt, the name was painfully familiar. When drunk, her father had often extolled—albeit with a slur of envy—the cleverness of men who could create value out of thin air.

  Value. Like most words, its definition seemed to depend on what tongue gave it voice.

  A glance back at the stack of gold-stamped spines heightened the feeling that somewhere buried among all the mind-numbing array of facts and statistics lay some vital key to unlocking the current mystery.

  “But what it is, I haven’t a clue.” Pressing her fingertips to her temples, Arianna paused and squeezed her eyes shut.

  Mathematics was all about logic, order, precision. . . .

  Perhaps she did have a clue. In any case, it was the only tangible thing she had to go on.

  Fetching the paper that Saybrook had left, along with the documents taken from Lady Spencer’s desk, Arianna spread them all out on her escritoire and smoothed out a fresh sheet of foolscap. Patterns, my dear poppet. Her father’s brandy-warm laugh echoed through the deepest recesses of her head. Numbers are supremely simple to understand if you know how to speak their language.

  “What are you trying to tell me?” she murmured, ordering the old and new papers from the folder into two neat piles. In between the piles she placed the single sheet of paper that the earl had discovered. It bore a list of numerical sequences, each line made up of three sets of pairs, separated by dashes.

  “What is it that I am missing?”

  The papers sat in taunting silence.

  Taking up her pencil, she made yet another copy of the age-worn mathematical equations, then leaned back and studied the sequences.

  Patterns, patterns, patterns. For all his weaknesses in seeing the repetitive themes in his own life, her father was a genius at understanding the core concepts of mathematics. Numbers, like letters, told a story, he always said.

  Losing herself in the abstract challenge of making order out of chaos, Arianna tried not to think of the reality of what he had done. In some ways, perhaps a part of her vehemence for vengeance had stemmed from a fear that he was guilty of some crime. Perhaps a part of her secretly believed that such efforts could somehow atone for his wrongs.

  A gust of wind rattled the window casement and a chill finger of air seemed to squeeze at her throat.

  I’ve been as guilty as Papa of denials and delusions.

  The pencil point dug into the paper, tearing a tiny rip.

  “Damn.” She was about to ball up the sheet in disgust when a certain section caught her eye. Leaning closer, she gave them a more careful study.

  Patterns. Logic, repeated Arianna, giving yet another glance at the three sets of papers. What was the connection? They must be related—

  Related.

  Good God, how could she have overlooked the obvious until now? Seeing as Lady Spencer’s grandfather was connected to the South Sea stock manipulation, it was logical to assume that the old papers in the folder were his. And if that were the case, the modern papers might be . . .

  Her heart began to thump a touch faster.

  Sliding a fresh piece of paper across the polished wood, Arianna scribbled out a series of equations.

  Excitement kicked up another notch.

  Working a hunch, she gathered the books she had been reading and found the pages she needed for reference. Slowly, methodically, she worked through a progression of calculations.

  Yes, yes, it was all beginning to add up. Page by page, she carefully compared the old documents with the new ones. After rechecking the numbers and copying the final results, she looked up, the first pale rays of dawn illuminating a small smile.

  “Eureka.”

  “The South Sea Bubble?” Grentham set down his pen beside the silver coffee service on his desk and fixed the earl with a pointed stare. “Pray, explain to me why, when time is of the essence in solving the Prince’s poisoning before our Eastern allies arrive, you interrupt my morning libation wishing to discuss a century-old scandal, Lord Saybrook.” He carefully capped his inkwell. “Has the opium addled your brain?”

  “If you wish to relieve me of my duties in this investigation, you are welcome to do so,” replied the earl. “But somehow, I don’t think you will.”

  The minister’s eyes narrowed. “You keep making veiled threats.”

  “As do you.”

  Their gazes remained locked for several long moments before Grentham leaned back and tapped his fingertips together in a gesture that was smooth and soundless, despite the hint of impatience. “I am waiting for your explanation.”

  “I’ve reason to believe that the Prince was not poisoned because of a personal grudge,” said Saybrook. “Nor do I think that the motive was purely political.”

  “Then what, in your expert opinion, is the motive?”

  “I’m not yet prepared to say.”

  The tapping ceased.

  In response, Saybrook took a piece of paper from his p
ocket and read over it before looking up. “I would like a look at some of the government files from December 1720, including the private notes of Mr. Robert Walpole’s meetings with the Bank of England and the East India Company, along with the Parliamentary records concerning corruption charges against John Aislabie, Sir John Blunt, and the other directors of the South Sea Company.” He paused for another glance at his list. “I also want access to the records on how the conversion of government debt to private stock was handled by the Sword Blade Bank.”

  “That material is highly confidential,” said Grentham tightly. “Access is limited to a very small circle of ministers.”

  “Ah, but considering the power you wield in the government, I am sure you can arrange an exception, milord,” answered Saybrook.

  A tiny tic marred the smoothness of Grentham’s jaw.

  “There are several other dates that I’m interested in. I’ll leave the list here.” The paper dropped onto the desk. “I’ll come by tomorrow, if I may.”

  The minister nodded.

  Saybrook spun the head of his cane between his palms, and then rose. “Thank you.” He made a half turn. “By the by, Lord Cockburn is a good friend of yours, is he not?”

  Grentham had started to open a portfolio, but he suddenly went still as a statue. “Yes. He is.”

  “You must have enjoyed the shooting party at his estate this past August very much.”

  The leather case slid across the blotter as Grentham leaned forward. “Hunting is indeed my favorite sport.”

  “I rather guessed it was.”

  Easing back in his chair, the minister dismissed him with a curt wave. “One week, Saybrook. If you haven’t solved this case in one week, you won’t be finding that word games come quite so easily to your tongue.”

  “Thank you for seeing me at such an early hour, Lady Sterling,” said Arianna as a footman escorted her into the dowager’s drawing room. “I apologize for the breach in proper etiquette.”

  The dowager waved off the words. “Oh, pish. Family are not expected to stand on ceremony.” She patted a spot on the sofa. “Come sit beside me and help finish off Cook’s breakfast scones. They are quite good.”