A Question of Numbers
BOOK FIVE IN THE LADY ARIANNA REGENCY MYSTERY SERIES
Andrea Penrose
A Question of Numbers
A Lady Arianna Regency Mystery
Book Five
by
Andrea Penrose
Copyright © 2019 by Andrea DaRif. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
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Created with Vellum
“Blood only serves
to wash ambition’s hands.”
—Lord Byron
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Author’s Note
About the Author
Also by Andrea Penrose
Excerpt: SWEET REVENGE
Excerpt: THE COCOA CONSPIRACY
Excerpt: RECIPE FOR TREASON
Excerpt: THE STOLEN LETTERS
Excerpt: SMOKE & LIES
Excerpt: MURDER ON BLACK SWAN LANE
Excerpt: MURDER AT HALF MOON GATE
EXCERPT: MURDER AT KENSINGTON PALACE
On the World of Books and Reading
Chapter 1
“Remind me again . . .” Sparkling light, pale gold like the finest champagne, flooded through the diamond-paned windows of the Mayfair mansion, illuminating the Earl of Saybrook’s scowl. “Why the devil are we here? You dislike the false smiles and insincere flatteries of these fancy soirées just as much as I do.”
“Because your Uncle Charles asked us to perform a small favor for him,” answered Arianna, the Countess of Saybrook. “And neither of us would be so churlish as to refuse.” She raised a brow. “Would we?”
“Hmmph.” Her husband’s eyes narrowed. “We both know this wasn’t my uncle’s idea. He was coerced.” Sparks of fire tipped his dark lashes. “Coerced,” repeated Saybrook. “By that damnable spider who spins the webs within webs entangling half of Europe’s royal courts.”
“Yes, I’ve no doubt that Lord Grentham encouraged him to make the request.” She paused for a moment to admire the chiseled planes of her husband’s profile silhouetted against the honey-colored Portland stone. “But do give the minister some credit. If he spins a web, it most certainly encompasses all of Europe’s royal courts. For when it comes to intrigue, Grentham does nothing by half.”
“I never thought to hear you, of all people, offer him any praise, however faint,” grumbled the earl.
Arianna and the shadowy minister in charge of state security for Great Britain had a fraught history. They had first clashed when he had used her to cover up a scandal within the highest circles of the government. Save for Saybrook’s intercession—and unexpected marriage proposal—he would have quashed her like a gnat when the affair was done, because she knew too much about the sordid details. But of late their mutual dislike had mellowed . . .
“I’m merely giving the Devil his due,” replied Arianna.
Saybrook muttered a rude oath. But his bark lacked any bite. She suspected that he, too, no longer saw Grentham as Satan Incarnate. However, that didn’t mean either of them trusted the man. His world was ruled by lies and deception. While theirs . . .
She took her husband’s arm.
“Shall we go in, my dear? The sooner we’re done with our obligation, the better.”
The drawing room was ablaze with the crystalline fire of myriad candles set in the ornate chandeliers. Their reflections winked off the glittering medals and gold-braided splendor of the diplomats and military men gathered for the occasion.
What was it Napoleon had once said? thought Arianna as she paused for a moment in the entranceway to survey the crowd. Ah, yes—'Men are ruled by toys.’
The music of power and privilege echoed off the fluted colonnading and decorative paneling—muted laughter, the clink of crystal, a string quartet playing Haydn.
“Thank you for coming.” Lord Charles Mellon, Saybrook’s uncle, broke away from a group of Austrian dignitaries to come and greet them. A senior diplomat with the Foreign Office, he was one of the men in charge of convincing Britain’s European allies to put aside their petty squabbles and agree on a united strategy for dealing with Napoleon, now that the former emperor had escaped from Elba and returned to France to retake his throne.
“I see you managed to coax the Russians and Prussians to be here, along with the Austrians,” observed Saybrook.
“Yes, but whether I can get them to all move in same direction is yet to be seen.”
“I don’t envy you the task, Charles,” murmured Arianna. “Herding a roomful of feral cats would be a far easier feat.” In truth, Russia, Prussia and Austria seemed more caught up in scheming against each other to become the dominant power in Europe than in uniting to fight Napoleon.
“Quite likely,” replied Mellon with a humorless smile. “Cats are clever and pragmatic creatures. While too many of these princes and generals are pompous windbags, filled with far more hot air than common sense.”
“That doesn’t bode well for the coming months,” said the earl. “How are the negotiations proceeding?”
Mellon took care to maintain the façade of a host simply making casual pleasantries. His smile became more pronounced as he took her by the arm and indicated that the three of them should move to a more secluded spot near the entrance to the side salons.
But Arianna didn’t miss the flicker of unease in his eyes.
“As to that . . .” His voice dropped to a taut murmur. “I haven’t time to explain all the complications now. This afternoon I received a secret communication from someone in the Prussian delegation claiming there is a group of conspirators within our coalition of European allies who are in league with Napoleon. He says it’s their mission to foment mistrust and dissention in order to cause our plans for a joint military alliance to crumble.”
“Which would throw the balance of power to Napoleon,” interjected Saybrook. “Any country trying to fight him alone would be a great underdog. If Europe fails to unite
, the emperor could force negotiations to legitimize his seizing of the throne. And if that happens, it’s only a matter of time before he starts another attempt to . . .”
“To conquer the world,” finished Mellon.
The earl considered the statement for a long moment. “How well do you trust this informant?”
“Ah, there’s the rub. The note was sent anonymously.”
“Anonymous letters always trigger my suspicions.” Saybrook shook his head. “It could be a ruse to feed you false information or trick you into revealing sensitive information.”
“I’m aware of that,” replied Mellon. “However, I really have no choice but to pursue the matter. Our government simply can’t afford for the coalition to crumble. Wellington’s situation is not good . . .”
Though the Duke of Wellington was about to take command of an army just outside of Brussels, it was pitifully small, and the majority of his troops were untested in battle.
“The truth is, he can’t beat the French on his own,” continued Mellon.
“So what do you plan to do?” asked Saybrook. “Though I have a feeling I’m not going to like the answer.”
“You’re right.” Mellon drew a tight breath. “You see, my next move all depends on your wife.”
Chapter 2
“Me?” Arianna frowned in puzzlement. “Ye gods—why me?”
“It seems my anonymous source is acquainted with you from your trip to the Peace Conference in Vienna last autumn,” replied Mellon, “and has the highest regard for your ironclad integrity.”
A Prussian. She tried to think of who it might be. Precious few of them had appeared to hold a women’s intellect in high regard—
“He demanded that his first meeting be face-to-face with you. If you give him your word that I can be trusted, he’ll reveal the names of the conspiracy’s ringleaders.”
“It’s likely a trap—though not a very subtle one.” The earl caught Arianna’s eye and lifted a brow. Mellon knew only a few basic facts about their recent trip to Elba, and certainly nothing about her tête-à-tête with Napoleon. “We’re not at liberty to explain, but suffice it to say that the French may hold a personal grudge against Arianna.”
“A rather large one,” she murmured.
“I see.” Mellon blew out his breath. “Please forgive me for asking. I would never have done so if I thought it would put you at risk—”
“Just where and when is this meeting supposed to take place?” interrupted Arianna.
“Here in the rear gardens, inside the pergola of climbing roses. The gardener’s gate in the back wall has been left unlocked to allow him access.” Mellon glanced at the tall case clock in the corner alcove and released another sigh.
“The risk seems minimal, Sandro,” she pointed out.
“All the more reason to be on guard,” he muttered. “It’s too obvious, which makes it clever.”
Mellon cleared his throat. “Actually, the meeting place was my suggestion. It seemed the easiest and safest venue.”
Arianna sensed from the look on his face that there was no time for argument. “Given the gravity of the military situation, I think it imperative that I meet with the man.” She held up her reticule to Saybrook. “I took the precaution of bringing my pocket pistol. If it puts your mind at ease, I shall slip it into the sash of my gown.”
‘My mind is never at ease when you’re intent on cocking a snoot at danger.”
“I promise I’ll be the very soul of discretion.” She smiled. “And besides, I imagine you will find a way to sneak out to the terrace and be ready to leap to my aid in the blink of an eye.”
“That’s the only reason I’ll agree to go along with this.”
“Charles?” she said, darting a look at the clock.
“Eight minutes,” he murmured.
“Then I had better hurry . . .”
A breeze tickled through the ivy as Arianna let herself out through the French doors of the music room. After a quick look around, she descended the terrace stairs to the footpath winding through the formal plantings. Clouds were scudding in from the east, hazing the stars. Several ornate brass lanterns were lit at intervals along the terrace’s stone railing, but the rest of the gardens were shrouded in darkness.
Stepping off the path, she started to make her way noiselessly along the close-cropped grass verge, ear cocked for any sound of company.
A faint whispering of the leaves was all she heard.
Up ahead, the rose-entwined pergola rose up, a muddle of grays against the midnight-black shadows. As she approached, she heard a soft rustle of fabric, as if someone was shifting position.
“Sir?” she murmured.
Was that a cough in reply?
Arianna edged closer, only to spin around and whip out her pistol at the sudden thump of the back gate falling shut.
Thump, thump. After allowing a moment for her heartbeat to steady, she turned back to the pergola and slowly eased through the thorny foliage to reach the structure’s interior.
“Damnation.” Arianna smelled trouble an instant before her slipper hit up against the body sprawled on the flagstones. Blood—the coppery scent tainting the floral perfume. Crouching down, she found the man’s neck and felt for a pulse.
He stirred. “A-A-Andron . . .”
“Don’t try to speak,” she said, running a hand over his torso in search of the wound.
“A-A-Andronovich . . .”
Her fingers came away from his chest wet with a chilling warmth.
A bit of moonlight dribbled through the leaves, illuminating the man’s pale-as-death face. The fine-boned features had a certain feminine delicacy to them—a fact he tried to disguise with a luxuriant blond mustache, upturned at the ends with a twist of wax.
She instantly recognized the distinctive curl.
“Count Grunwald—”
A sound rattled in his throat.
Leaning close to his fluttering lips, she tried to make out his words.
“Try . . .” he rasped.
“Try what,” she coaxed.
He sucked in a breath, but the next sound died on his tongue.
Arianna felt for a pulse. Finding none, she gave a short whistle, the signal agreed upon with Saybrook. In a few moments he was there, his dark coat melding in with the leafy shadows. He, too, smelled the blood, for he let out a low oath.
“Is he still alive?”
“I’m not sure. But he won’t be for more than a minute or two more. He’s been stabbed in the chest.”
“I’ll get a light. Try not to disturb the scene.” The earl returned quickly with one of the lanterns.
“He’s gone,” she said, watching the lamplight play over his sightless eyes. Grunwald had, she recalled, been very fond of Shakespeare’s play, especially A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Funny what little details one remembered about a person.
Lord, what fools these mortals be.
“It’s a wonder he didn’t die instantly,” observed Saybrook. “The blade must have just missed his heart.” He leaned in for a closer examination. “Whoever did this knows how to kill. It was an expert thrust, and—”
His words stopped abruptly.
Arianna followed his eyes and a sharp hiss slipped from her lips.
Grunwald’s right arm was outstretched, and with a finger drenched in his own blood, he had sketched two angled lines.
Saybrook shifted the lanternlight to pool over the stones.
“It looks like . . . a V,” said Arianna.
“Hmmph.” He studied the surrounding swath of flagging. “Perhaps. Or it may be that his hand was simply contracting in a death spasm.”
“I don’t think so. The lines are too regular. They look to be deliberate,” she mused. “And why dip his fingers in his own blood if he wasn’t trying to communicate something?”
The earl shrugged. “I prefer not to speculate right now.” Unfastening the buttons of the dead man’s coat, he began a thorough search of his clothing for any
sign of documents. “Do you recognize the fellow?”
“Yes, it’s Count Grunwald,” she answered. “I did spend some very pleasant hours with him in Vienna while you were in meetings. He was fond of all things British. We had some interesting discussions on Shakespeare’s plays, but why he would choose to trust me . . .” She found it puzzling. “It makes no sense.”
“We both know the patterns of intrigue never do when the first few strands spin around you and draw you into the web.”
Arianna felt a chill slide down her spine.
“Nothing,” muttered the earl, after finishing with the outer pockets. He patted along Grunwald’s breeches, working his way down to the high-top Hessians.
He slid his fingers into the right boot, but sounds from the terrace caused him to abandon his probing and blow out the lantern.
“We can’t linger here.” He rose and offered Arianna a hand up. “I must alert Charles. He needs to send word to Horse Guards and then make sure that no one enters the garden until the powers-that-be decide on how to handle the situation.”
She was under no illusion as to whom he was referring.
“And I must get a message to Henning.” Their friend, a former military surgeon, was very skilled in dissecting the secrets of violent death. “I’d like him to examine the body as soon as possible. As for you . . .” He eyed her evening gown. “You’ve bloodstains on your skirts. Wait here—when I return, we’ll leave through the back gate.”
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