Sweet Revenge lahm-1

by Andrea Penrose

  “Study the numbers, Lady Arianna,” interjected Cockburn, who appeared eager to gloss over the topic of murder. As if keeping his own hands lily white absolved him of any responsibility. “Between the projected trade revenue and sale of company stock,” he went on, “I assure you, our new venture will rival the East India Company.”

  She spread the first few pages out on the table and took a few moments to study the equations. To her grim satisfaction, it appeared that all her earlier conjectures were essentially correct.

  “Profits are easy to put down on paper. But for me to work with these numbers, I need to have a clearer idea what you are actually doing.” She paused, carefully choosing her next words. “Frankly, I can’t conceive of any trading scheme that matches the scale of the East India Company.”

  “Perhaps it’s because you have no imagination,” answered Cockburn smugly.

  She choked down a laugh.

  “The Spanish colonies in the New World possess far grander riches than India,” he went on. “There is Mexico, and a whole continent below it to exploit.”

  “Think of the ancient Aztec treasures brought back by the first Conquistadors.” Gavin’s eyes lit up. “Gold, silver, emeralds, spices. Not to speak of the potent coca leaf narcotic. And that’s just the beginning.”

  “Yes, but the Spanish colonies are controlled by Spain,” pointed out Arianna. “And Spain is controlled by France. Which in turn is ruled by Napoleon. Doesn’t that present a slight problem for an English company?”

  A smile blossomed on Cockburn’s lips. “Not for us.”

  Gavin chuckled. “Vivre l’emperor.”

  Et voilà. With that simple French phrase, the whole puzzle fell neatly into place. Saybrook had been essentially right in his speculations. Granted, the people who made up the pieces were slightly different, but the overall picture was the same—a group of English aristocrats had conspired with the French to betray their country’s interest for their own economic gain.

  “Lady Spencer told me about the Prince Regent’s poisoning,” said Arianna slowly.

  “Lady Spencer ought to confine her activities to the bedchamber. Else she is going to end up like the others,” said Gavin darkly.

  Arianna ignored him. “She thought it was Concord who bribed her chef. But it wasn’t, was it?” The words came tumbling off her tongue as she sought to clarify one last bit of information. “It was you who poisoned the Prince. By throwing the government into turmoil, you hoped to ensure that the meeting of Eastern allies would fail, allowing Napoleon to conquer all of Europe and then force England to sue for peace.”

  “Clever girl,” murmured Cockburn.

  “There’s just one thing that I can’t quite figure out—how did Major Crandall tie in?” she asked. “Is Grentham involved in your group? If I am to be part of this, I would like to know who else is involved. It’s all part of assessing the risk of a venture as well as its reward.”

  “Clever girl,” echoed Gavin. A pause. “Too clever, in fact.” With one hand, he slowly loosened the knot of his cravat. “Lady Spencer didn’t know that Crandall was killed in her kitchen. Outside of a very select circle of Whitehall officials, only Lord Saybrook is privy to the knowledge of how the Major really died.”

  Arianna clenched her teeth, realizing her mistake a heartbeat too late.

  “And if he shared it with you . . .”

  I’m so sorry, Papa. I thought I was smarter than this.

  Gavin tossed the length of linen to Cockburn. “Tie the she-bitch to the chair. I think it’s time we cut through Lady Arianna’s lies and extract the truth from her.”

  Not without a fight, you bastards, vowed Arianna.

  She jerked up a knee, catching the marquess flush in the groin.

  A yowl reverberated off the rocks as he dropped like a sack of stones.

  Hurling herself sideways, she scrabbled to her feet from the overturned chair and darted for the dark opening of the passageway. Just a few quick steps and—

  “Not so fast,” snarled Gavin, snaring a handful of her hair. Pain sizzled through her scalp as he yanked her back and punched a fist to her temple.

  The shadows began to spin and blur.

  Still moaning, Cockburn crawled to his knees.

  “Right the chair,” ordered Gavin. He drew his pocket pistol from his coat and passed it over. “Use this to keep her under control.”

  “By God, I’ll blow her brains out,” gasped the marquess.

  “No! Not yet,” exclaimed Gavin.

  Arianna felt herself shoved back against the wooden slats. Fear lanced through the fuzziness in her head. She knew she was going to die—and quite horribly. Sweat began to bead on her brow, and strangely enough, she could hear as well as feel the salty drops drip onto her lashes.

  Click, click. The sound was unnaturally loud. Like metal against metal.

  Clucking in impatience, Cockburn set the pistol down for a moment to finish knotting the linen looped around her chest and arms.

  “First, we need to find out just how much the earl knows,” finished Gavin.

  A boot scuffed, sending a few pebbles skittering across the rough-hewn rocks.

  “Then why don’t you ask him yourself?”

  Cockburn lunged for his weapon, but a blast erupted from the darkness, and an instant later a round of molten lead kicked it out of reach in an explosion of shards and sparks.

  The marquess screamed and stared down in dazed shock at the blood spurting up from the stump of a finger.

  “Drop the knife, Gavin.” Saybrook calmly jammed the still-smoking barrel into his pocket and took aim with his second pistol. “Blades make me very twitchy.”

  Gavin hesitated, and then lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. “No need to get nervous.” He moved a step closer to the table. “See, I’m just setting it down here.”

  “Are you hurt?” The earl’s gaze flicked to Arianna . . .

  In that split second, Gavin grabbed the lamp and hurled it at Saybrook’s head.

  The earl ducked and the glass shattered against the chalky walls, splashing hot oil and flames over his coat. A spark set off his weapon, the bullet ricocheting off the ceiling with a thunderous bang.

  “Sandro!” cried Arianna, struggling to get free of her bonds. Gavin had snatched up the scalpel and hurtled a fallen chair. Plumes of silvery smoke spun through the slivers of wildly flickering light and shadow. “Watch out! He has a blade!”

  The earl dodged the oncoming attack, moving with catlike quickness despite his lingering limp. A swing of the pistol butt smashed the nearest sconce as he danced away from the arcing steel.

  Gavin slipped on the spattered oil, swearing a savage oath.

  “Déjà vu,” called Saybrook as he ducked low and pulled a knife from his boot. Patches of red-gold fire burned on his coat, painting him in a demonic glow. Sparks flared, catching the curve of his mouth.

  Good God, was he actually grinning? Arianna blinked. That long-ago day of the kitchen duel he had looked like hell, while now—now he appeared a lithe, long-limbed Lucifer. An avenging dark angel.

  “Watch out!” she cried again, seeing Gavin take up a jagged hunk of broken globe and fling it at the earl’s face.

  “Don’t worry, sweeting.” For an instant, a wink seemed to hang on his dark lashes, and then he whirled back with a deft sidestep, letting the missile fly harmlessly over his head. “I’ll not need you to pull my cods out of the fire today.”

  Glass crunching under his boots, he angled away from the wall, forcing Gavin to retreat several steps. “Give it up. I’m not going to let you escape.”

  Sweat sheened Gavin’s face and the glint in his eye reflected a rising panic. “Give it up? For what—Newgate and a date to dance the gallows jig?” The scalpel slashed through the air, a feint one way and then a quick cut that lanced to within an inch of the earl’s chest. “I’ll take my chances with a sodding cripple.”

  “It’s your choice,” said Saybrook, parrying the thru
st. His own blade swooshed back and forth. “I daresay I’d do the same. A noose takes a long time to choke the life from a man.”

  With a snarled oath, Gavin suddenly pivoted and lashed out with a hard kick, desperation giving his attack added force. “The pistol, Charles, the pistol!” he screamed over his partner’s mewling moans. “For God’s sake, shoot him!”

  As the earl’s leg buckled, Cockburn started crawling across the floor.

  Saybrook dropped to a knee, but as Gavin raised his weapon and cut an arcing downward slice, he caught the other man’s wrist and gave a vicious twist.

  A last frantic jerk and Arianna finally broke free of her bonds.

  Too late? Too late?

  The marquess was already reaching out for the weapon. . . .

  Gulping for air, she dove for the table.

  Struggling to break free, Gavin hammered a flurry of punches at Saybrook’s face. The earl countered by smashing the hilt of his knife into Gavin’s nose. Flailing and kicking, the two of them tumbled to the hard stone floor, tangled together in a bellicose blur of fists and steel.

  Arianna dared not focus on their fight. Her fingers found the chamois and its bevy of lethal implements. Thank God for the theatrical tricks and circus games needed to keep a restive pirate audience amused in her former life. In one sweeping motion, she plucked up a slim two-edged blade, whipped around, and let it fly.

  The point spun a quicksilver trail through the dancing dust motes and buried itself deep into bone and flesh.

  Cockburn’s hand spasmed, then went slack as he screamed and collapsed in a dead faint.

  Arianna rushed to retrieve the pistol.

  “Here, here, I’ll take charge of that.” Saybrook wiped a bloodied palm on his torn trousers. “Your hands are shaking so badly that I fear you might accidentally fire at me.” He gently peeled away her fingers. “However unorthodox, we seem to make an effective team in fighting miscreants. Gavin is no longer a danger.”

  A lick of light caught the gleam of steel protruding from the dead man’s throat.

  She looked away. “Poetic justice, I suppose.”

  “Or divine retribution,” said Saybrook with unholy satisfaction. “The deities do not like it when mere mortals play God.”

  Her lower lip was cut, and as she swallowed, the acrid taste of blood, salt, and grains of gunpowder stung her tongue.

  “True,” she whispered, and then was suddenly aware of another soft sound melding with her sigh. The slither of wool.

  A wave of fury washed over her and for a moment she saw red—a deep, viscous bloodred.

  Her kick hit flush on target, but bare toes didn’t manage the desired wallop.

  “Allow me.” Saybrook drew back a booted foot. “Always aim for the jaw. It is a far more effective way to knock a man senseless.”

  Cockburn twitched as the muddy leather connected with a sickening thud, and then went very still.

  Despite the swelling on her cheekbone, Arianna managed a lopsided smile. “Gracias.”

  “De nada,” replied Saybrook with a soot-streaked grin. And then enfolded her in his arms.

  25

  From the chocolate notebooks of Dona Maria Castellano

  I have mixed up a fresh pot of glue, and Luisa has wielded her scissors with great care, trimming the last batch of my recipes so that I may paste them into these pages. They shall fill the rest of this journal, for I have become quite loquacious in my old age and rambled on longer than I intended. Tomorrow, I shall start a new notebook, for there is still much I wish to record. . . .

  Chocolate Chili Bread Pudding

  1 tablespoon unsalted butter plus additional for greasing ramekin

  ⅓ cup heavy cream

  2 ounces fine-quality bittersweet chocolate (not unsweet-ened or extra-bitter), chopped

  1½ teaspoons sugar

  ½ teaspoon vanilla

  ¼ teaspoon cinnamon

  ⅛ teaspoon cayenne

  1 large egg, lightly beaten

  ¾ cup cubes (1/2 inch) firm white sandwich bread (from about 2 slices)

  1. Put oven rack in middle position and preheat oven to 350°F. Generously butter ramekin or 1 muffin cup.

  2. Cook butter (1 tablespoon), cream, chocolate, sugar, vanilla, cinnamon, cayenne, and a pinch of salt in a 1- to 1½-quart heavy saucepan over low heat, stirring constantly, until chocolate is melted and mixture is smooth, 1 to 2 minutes. Remove from heat and whisk in egg until combined. Fold in bread cubes and let stand 5 minutes.

  3. Fill an 8 ounce ramekin with bread mixture and bake until puffed and set around edge but still moist in center, 15 to 20 minutes. Cool 5 minutes before serving. Serves one.

  The thump of approaching steps jarred her out of a dreamlike haze. She raised her cheek from Saybrook’s shoulder and stepped back. “What—”

  “Reinforcements,” murmured the earl.

  Before he could elaborate, Henning burst out of the darkened tunnel, brandishing a cavalry pistol. Behind him was a band of ragged men armed mostly with cudgels, though one or two naval cutlasses glinted in what light was left.

  Skidding to a stop, the surgeon surveyed the chaos. “Hell and damnation. I promised the laddies that they would get to kick a few lordly arses, and here you have gone and spoiled all the fun.”

  “My profound apologies.” said Saybrook dryly. “Next time I shall be more considerate of your men’s tender sensibilities.” He nodded at the ex-soldiers and sailors. “You can still lend a hand by carrying this corpse outside.”

  “What about that bilge rat?” asked one of the men, pointing to where Cockburn lay curled in the corner.

  “Leave him for now,” replied the earl. “Baz, perhaps you could tend to his scratches. We wouldn’t want him to bleed to death before we hand him over to the authorities.”

  At that, Cockburn’s whimpers grew louder.

  The surgeon blew out a huff of disgust. “I’d rather cut off his cojones. But I suppose we ought to let justice take its proper course.” He gave a curt wave at Gavin’s lifeless form. “Haul the carcass away, laddies. And keep a close guard on things outside until we decide how te deal with this night’s work.”

  “It was all Gavin . . . he forced me . . . I can explain . . . ,” began Cockburn.

  Ignoring the appeal, Henning turned to Arianna. “What about you, lassie? Are ye hurt?”

  She shook her head. “No. A few bumps is all.” She chafed at her arms, feeling a chill seep through her skin now that the warmth of Saybrook’s big body was gone. “And perhaps a slight headache from the Devil’s Delight.”

  The surgeon brushed a callused fingertip to her cheek. “I’ve got some arnica salve in the carriage. It will keep the bruising down.” To the earl he added, “I thought ye were going to keep her safe! Did ye stop fer a wee dram along the way?”

  “Don’t badger the earl,” she murmured. “He was . . .” A storybook hero? No, that made her sound like a sentimental schoolgirl. “He was . . . quite efficient, especially considering his recent injury.”

  “Yes, well, we have chocolate to thank for a happy ending to this affair,” quipped Saybrook. “I owe my restored strength to its potent healing properties.”

  Healing. For all her aches and bruises, Arianna realized that she felt remarkably free of pain.

  “Help me! I’m dying.” Cockburn’s piteous whine interrupted their exchange.

  “Ye deserve to,” muttered the surgeon, reluctantly shuffling over to the marquess.

  “I swear, it was all Gavin’s idea,” repeated Cockburn, as Henning began to tend to his injured hands.

  “Indeed?” said Arianna. She imagined that Saybrook would subject the dastard to a thorough interrogation, but first she had some questions of her own. “We’ve already figured out the basics of the stock scheme, and I now understand why Prinny was poisoned. But how did Major Crandall fit in? Why did he try to kill Lady Spencer’s chef?”

  “C-Crandall was my cousin.” Cockburn groaned as Henning staunched th
e bleeding with strips of linen torn from Gavin’s cravat. “He was recruited to keep us informed about state security activities.”

  “So it was he who told you about the upcoming secret meeting of allies?” asked the earl.

  “Yes,” answered Cockburn. “The timing seemed perfect, and he was supposed to ensure that the chef was blamed for the Prince’s demise. But when you were called in to investigate, it was decided to eliminate the chef. You see, Gavin worried that the cursed fellow had spotted him sneaking into the kitchen.”

  Arianna thought back to the night, and the other shadowy figure she had seen with Concord in the corridor. “So Concord knew nothing about the poisoned chocolate?”

  “No, nothing at all. We—That is, Gavin made up an excuse concerning the Devil’s Delight narcotic in order to arrange for a clandestine meeting at Lady Spencer’s town house. He claimed it was urgent business, but he didn’t want Lady Spencer to know of the partnership, lest she demand a cut.” Cockburn drew a deep breath. “As we told you, Concord was unaware of our plans for a New World trading company. He only became suspicious when Kellton panicked over Crandall’s death and ended up revealing more about the scope of the business than he should have.”

  How ironic, thought Arianna. Once again, the echo of her father’s laugh began to whisper in her head, along with the lines of his favorite poem. The best laid plans of mice and men . . .

  “And Lady Spencer had no idea about any of this, either?” she asked.

  “No. She was only involved with Concord and Kellton on a minor deal to supply cheap boots to the army at premium price. Her role was to persuade the Prince to award them the contract.”

  Saybrook shifted his stance, throwing his face deeper into shadow. “Kellton was brought in because of his experience with the East India Company, correct?”

  “He was very clever with numbers and had a great deal of experience with drafting shipping records,” confirmed Cockburn. “But more than that, his amorous relationship with Lady Spencer allowed him to gain access to certain important financial papers. Her grandfather was—”