Arianna dutifully accepted a pastry and a cup of tea, deciding to let the elderly lady finish her repast before peppering her with impertinent questions.
After several minutes of polite exchanges, the dowager set aside her empty plate. “Well?” she inquired.
“Excellent,” murmured Arianna. “They have just the right amount of sweetness.”
“So they do,” replied Lady Sterling dryly. “However, I wasn’t referring to the scones. I don’t imagine you are here to discuss recipes.”
“Much as the subject interests me, no.” She had composed a carefully worded query during her carriage ride through Mayfair, and hoped that she had struck the right balance between asking enough without revealing too much. “Your nephew says that your knowledge of Society and all the intricacies of its inner workings is unrivaled.”
A silvery brow rose a fraction, which Arianna took as a signal to proceed.
“So I was wondering . . .,” she continued. “Could you perchance suggest how I might arrange to see some certain business records?”
“Business records?” repeated the dowager. “What sort of business records?”
“Shipping records,” replied Arianna.
A silence greeted the request. Then a cough. “You and Sandro ask the oddest questions.”
As Lady Sterling lifted her quizzing glass, Arianna wondered whether she had made a mistake. It was a little unnerving to have a large pale eyeball subjecting her to such scrutiny. She felt as if her faults were magnified.
“By the by, what branch of the family did you say you were from?”
“I didn’t,” murmured Arianna.
The dowager took a moment to polish the glass lens, and then once again lifted it to her eye. “Perhaps you would care to clarify it now . . . cousin.”
Arianna decided that honesty was best. “I think we both know there is no family connection.”
“Hmmph.”
She started to rise.
“Sit down, gel,” commanded Lady Sterling. “And tell me precisely what it is you need.” A twitch played at the corners of the dowager’s lips. “At my age, I need a little excitement to spice up my life.”
Arianna smiled in return. Fishing a list from her reticule, she handed it over. “I would like a list of ships arriving from South America at the West India docks on these dates,” she explained. “Sorry, but I can’t be overly specific about the ports of origin. My guess is that Veracruz, Portobelo, and Cartagena are the ones of most interest.” She cleared her throat. “And it’s important that I get them as soon as possible.”
Lady Sterling took a moment to read over the request. “Lord Bevan is an old admirer, and he owes me a favor—a large one. Let me see what I can do.”
“Please, you must be dis—”
“Discreet. Yes, yes, I know. Sandro said the same thing,” interrupted the dowager. “It’s dangerous, is it?”
Feeling a trifle guilty, Arianna nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid it is.”
The twinkle in the dowager’s eyes become even more pronounced. “Oh, piff. I can bloody well take care of myself. It’s Sandro I worry about.” She leaned in a little closer. “I trust you will help me keep an eye on him.”
“I will do my best,” promised Arianna. “Though His Lordship is not the easiest of men to manage.”
“Somehow I think you are up to the challenge, gel.” Lady Sterling rang the small silver bell on the tea table. “Shipping records, eh? Well, I had better hoist anchor and get ready to sail into action.”
20
From the chocolate notebooks of Dona Maria Castellano
I must remember to tell Sandro that the exclusive gentlemen’s club on St. James’s Street to which he belongs was originally established to serve chocolate! An Italian named Francis White opened White’s Chocolate House in 1693. These days, I have heard that the members prefer claret, brandy, or port—which may be why Sandro finds their company egregiously boring. . . .
Chocolate Espresso Spelt Cake
1½ sticks (¾ cup) unsalted butter, softened, plus additional for pan
¾ cup unsweetened Dutch-processed cocoa powder, plus additional for dusting pan and cake
1 cup boiling-hot water
1½ tablespoons instant espresso powder
1½ teaspoons vanilla
1 teaspoon baking soda
½ pound Medjool dates (12 to 14), pitted and coarsely chopped (1½ cups)
2 cups spelt flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
¾ teaspoon salt
1 cup packed dark brown sugar
2 large eggs
1. Put oven rack in middle position and preheat oven to 350ºF. Butter 9-inch springform pan, then lightly dust with cocoa powder, knocking out excess.
2. Stir together boiling-hot water, espresso powder, vanilla, and baking soda in a bowl, then add dates, mashing lightly with a fork. Soak until liquid cools to room temperature, about 10 minutes.
3. Whisk together spelt flour, cocoa powder, baking powder, and salt in another bowl. Beat together butter and brown sugar with an electric mixer at medium-high speed until pale and fluffy. Add eggs 1 at a time, beating until just combined. Beat in date mixture (batter will look curdled), then reduce speed to low and add flour mixture, mixing until just combined.
4. Spoon batter into springform pan, smoothing top, and bake until a wooden pick or skewer inserted into center comes out clean, about 50 minutes to 1 hour. Cool cake in pan on a rack 5 minutes, then remove side of pan and cool cake on rack. Serve cake warm or at room temperature.
Having exchanged her fancy silks and satins for threadbare cotton and moleskin, Arianna squeezed through a gap in the splintered planking and made her way down the dank alley. The earl’s housekeeper had informed her that Saybrook had gone to Horse Guards for a meeting with Grentham, but was now likely at Mr. Henning’s surgery.
Anxious to share what she had discovered in Lady Spencer’s papers, she had decided to seek him out there, rather than return home and wait with ladylike restraint.
Despite the maze of byways and alleys, the directions proved easy enough to follow. The brick building housing Henning and his rooms stood out as slightly less shabby than its neighbors. Seeing the front entrance shut tight, Arianna went around to the side, where a primitive portico sheltered a door. The sign showed a scalpel crossed with a bone saw.
Crinkling her nose, she slipped inside, finding it difficult to draw a breath. The smell of blood, sweat, and fear seemed to ooze from the damp plaster walls, adding to the staleness of the air. It, too, felt heavy enough to cut with a knife.
The only light in the corridor came from the room ahead, where the door was ajar. She crept closer, loath to interrupt if Henning was in the midst of amputating a limb or dosing a man for the clap.
“I’ve not yet made up my mind about Lord Ashmun.” It was Saybrook who was speaking. “So far I’ve uncovered nothing that indicates he is anything but what he says he is. However, his solicitous manner seems just a tad overdone.”
Arianna hesitated, and then instead of announcing herself, she took up a position behind the oak planking.
“I hate te say it, but we can’t afford te overlook something else, Sandro.” Henning expelled an audible sigh. “Maybe yer lady is really the mastermind of the nefarious group we’re chasing. And this fellow Ashmun is a cohort, whose sudden appearance is meant to throw you off the scent of the real trail.”
“You think I’m being led by the nose?” Saybrook’s voice was suddenly harder, colder than a moment before.
“Auch, ye wouldn’t be the first man in history te fall for the wiles of a beautiful woman.”
“She has the brains and the nerve to be heading a criminal consortium,” conceded the earl. “As well as a grudge against Society. So perhaps you are right.”
Arianna felt as if she had been kicked in the gut. “You really think me capable of that?” she demanded, stepping out from behind the door.
The earl turned around slo
wly. “Why shouldn’t I?” he answered evenly. “You’ve told me more than once that you have no morals, no principles.”
True. Arianna lifted her chin, willing the sharp, sour taste of disappointment to subside. And I meant every word.
Saybrook was watching her intently. “I’ve witnessed what a consummate actress you are,” he went on. “You’ve an uncanny ability to be very convincing in whatever role you play.”
“No doubt it’s due to having trained for years at the knee of a master liar and blackguard cheat,” she shot back.
His expression softened just a touch.
“No offense, Lady Arianna,” apologized Henning. “We were merely looking at the problem from every possible angle.”
“No offense?” She gave a brittle laugh. “Oh, none taken. I’m quite used to being thought of as a scheming slut.”
The surgeon flushed.
“So why I bothered to care whether the two of you might be interested in another important clue is beyond me.” Her work papers were now clutched in her fist and she shook them at Saybrook.
“What clue?” he asked quickly.
“Go to hell,” snapped Arianna as she thrust them back into her coat pocket.
He folded his arms across his chest. “We apologized.”
“No, we did not. Mr. Henning did.”
“You wish one from me?”
Arianna looked away.
“If I truly thought you were involved in this, Lady Arianna, you would not still be waltzing through the ballrooms of Mayfair. At my expense, I might add.”
She made a mock curtsey. “How reassuring to know I have your full and unqualified support, sir.”
“Please sit down, Lady Arianna.” Henning hastily pulled out one of the rickety chairs arranged around the small table. “We, too, have some interesting things to share.”
“Just as long as you’re not planning on using your scalpels or saws on me to extract information.”
“Baz is a gentleman,” remarked Saybrook. “I make no such claim.”
“Then it’s a good thing I don’t consider myself a lady.” Arianna took a seat and unfolded her notes. “You have to admit, at least I am not boring, like most of the demure young demoiselles of the ton.”
“You are not boring,” agreed Saybrook. His tone, however, gave no hint of whether he considered that a good or bad thing. His gaze flicked to her notes. “Now that we’ve settled personal concerns, might we get down to business?”
But of course—this was naught but a cerebral challenge for him.
Well, I, too, am capable of using my mind for more than lies and deception.
She hitched her chair a little closer. “I think I have figured out what’s worth all the recent murder and mayhem.” Paper crackled beneath her fingertips. “I believe that Lady Spencer is somehow involved in a conspiracy to establish a trading company based on the model of the South Sea Company.”
The surgeon let out a low whistle but the earl appeared less impressed. “Why?” he demanded.
“Because along with taking the medallion and Kellton’s letter from her desk, I also took this.” She pulled the pasteboard folder from inside her jacket. “It’s a set of mathematical equations—two sets, in fact, one old and one new.”
Saybrook swore. Several times over. “I thought we went through the dangers of withholding information,” he said through gritted teeth.
“We did. And I chose to ignore you.” Arianna narrowed her eyes. “So, now you can either cut off my fingers with that disgusting-looking scalpel or you can hear me out.”
“Listen to reason, laddie,” murmured Henning.
“Bloody hell.” The earl leaned back. “Go on.”
“Your great-aunt’s revelation that Lady Spencer’s grandfather was involved in the South Sea Bubble got me to thinking.” Arianna spread out the papers. “As I said, one set of documents looks quite old, so I started with them. First I gathered a number of books and read up on the history of the South Sea Company. Then I began to work through the mathematics. . . .”
Saybrook made a sound—more precisely a growl—but she ignored it.
“As you know, the Bubble revolved around the government partnering with a private company to divest itself of a ballooning national debt.”
“Aye,” muttered Henning.
“And on paper, the formulas work very well,” she went on.
“Assuming, of course, that the company has real value, and is not just some empty shell made of polished lies and pretty promises,” murmured the earl.
“Right.” She traced over the first string of equations on the age-yellowed paper. “Once I worked through the numbers here, I started to see similar patterns to the things I had been reading about regarding the South Sea Bubble. I guessed that they were the confidential financial papers of Lady Spencer’s grandfather, who, as you recall, was a director of the Sword Blade Bank.”
“Which was the financial arm of the South Sea Company,” added Saybrook, for Henning was beginning to look a bit bewildered.
“Correct, sir. So I decided to compare them to the set of newer documents that Lady Spencer had in the same folder. I ran a few projections, based on today’s debt, factoring in inflation and a percentage of—”
“What?” interrupted Henning.
“Never mind. What we’re really concerned with is the ratio of debt-equity swaps.”
“What?” repeated the surgeon.
Arianna drummed her fingers against the table, trying to quell her impatience. To her, the concepts were simple, but she understood that many people did not find mathematics quite so easy to follow.
“Debt-equity swaps are designed to benefit both parties. In this case, the government paid a lower rate of interest on its debt, and the South Sea Company profited as its stock price rose—you see, a high profit-to-expense ratio makes the company worth more on paper.” She looked up. “It can therefore issue more stock, which in turn generates more blunt for its partners.”
The earl nodded for her to go on.
She paged through the modern papers and quickly explained what the complex mathematics meant. “So you see, the numbers mirror the same formulas used in the last century. And that can only mean one thing.”
“What?” The surgeon appeared hopelessly confused.
Arianna glanced at Saybrook, wondering whether he grasped the significance of her calculations.
“What you mean is,” said the earl slowly, “the scale and volume indicates that the deal can only be a very large one.”
“That’s right, sir. A very large one, and a very profitable one.” She paused to pull out the sheet of numbers that the earl had found in Lady Spencer’s desk on the night of their encounter with Lord Ashmun. “Bear with me while I go over one last thing. Based on what I discovered in the old and new documents—and something that Mr. Henning had said about dockyard mud—I had an idea of what these sequences might mean. So I visited your great-aunt this morning and asked her if, through her many connections in Society, she could get me copies of certain shipping records.”
“And?” asked Saybrook.
“And sure enough, the sequences on this paper correspond to the dates when certain merchant ships arrived in London from the old Spanish Empire trading ports. Perhaps it’s coincidence. But I doubt it. I think what we’ve uncovered is a new business venture—a New World trading company modeled on the financial scandal of the last century.”
Arianna learned forward and propped her elbows on the table.
“Only bigger.”
21
From the chocolate notebooks of Dona Maria Castellano
I know that it is not at all fashionable these days to speak well of the French, but there is no denying that despite all their faults, they have contributed greatly to the refinement of fine cuisine. So we must give credit to a Frenchman named Dubuisson, who invented a hand mill for grinding cacao in 1732. Having toiled for untold hours in the kitchen with mortar and pestle, I raise my cup in sa
lute, and I am sure that Sandro will join me. Unlike many men of wealth and privilege, he has a very open mind. . . .
Mint Hot Chocolate
½ cup unsweetened cocoa powder
⅓ cup sugar
½ cup cold water
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup half-and-half
2½ cups milk
⅓ cup crème de menthe,
or to taste 2 tablespoons crème de cacao,
or to taste whipped cream and shaved bittersweet chocolate for garnish
1. In a heavy saucepan combine the cocoa powder, the sugar, the water, the vanilla, and a pinch of salt and heat the mixture over low heat, whisking, until the cocoa powder is dissolved and the mixture is a smooth paste.
2. Gradually add the half-and-half and the milk, both scalded, and simmer the hot chocolate, whisking, for 2 minutes. Stir in the crème de menthe and the crème de cacao. (For a frothy result, in a blender blend the hot chocolate in batches.)3. Divide the hot chocolate among mugs and top it with the whipped cream and the chocolate. Makes about 4½ cups.
Henning opened his mouth to say something, but Saybrook signaled him to silence. He spoke instead. “How very clever of you to have figured this all out on your own.”
Arianna drew in a sharp breath and narrowed her eyes. “Just what are you accusing me of, sir?”
“Of having a genius for mathematics which must rival that of your late father,” he replied.
“I . . .” She quickly composed herself, unwilling to show that the barb had hurt. “Yes, I’ve always had a knack for numbers. But I haven’t ever used it for cheating. . . .” Recalling several harbor towns in the Windward Islands, she shrugged. “Well, hardly ever.”
The earl’s brows rose ever so slightly.
“I’m sharing it with you, aren’t I?” she retorted, nettled by the unspoken skepticism.
“A cunning criminal would,” he answered. “I’ve not enough expertise to discern whether you’ve fiddled with the numbers. Or whether you’re lying outright.”
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