A Question of Numbers

by Andrea Penrose

  Constantina swallowed her last bite of toast and pushed her plate aside. “Excellent. I’m ready to move into action.”

  Repressing a smile, Arianna took a pencil and notebook from her reticule. Opening to a fresh page, she divided it into three columns. Atop them, she wrote out three headings.

  “First we have the diplomatic conspiracy,” she said. “Sandro and Grentham are perhaps best positioned to follow the clues left by Grunwald and uncover the culprits.”

  “Andronovich,” said Sophia. “Given your murdered friend mentioned him twice, it seems clear he lies at the heart of the conundrum.”

  “Yes—” she responded, only to be interrupted by the dowager.

  “Mark my words,” intoned Constantina. “When we come to the core of rot, we’ll find Prince Orlov there.”

  “He’s a despicable man,” replied Arianna. “But that doesn’t mean he’s a traitor. Tsar Alexander trusts him.”

  “Hmmph.” The dowager narrowed her eyes. “The Russian soul seems shaped for betrayal. Good heavens, Alexander quite likely was part of the conspiracy to kill his own father and take the throne.”

  “Tsar Paul was insane,” pointed out Arianna. “He once court-martialed a rat for eating one of his bread soldiers and then had the rodent hung with army assembled on the parade grounds to witness the execution.”

  “Yes, well, madness is another flaw that runs through their monarchy,” muttered the dowager.

  “We’ll keep an eye on Orlov,” said Sophia.

  “But he mustn’t distract us from other key tasks,” responded Arianna. “As we’ve discussed, we must use our wiles among the ladies, as well as the gentlemen, to winkle out information—beginning with tomorrow’s ball. Wellington’s presence will attract the crème de la crème of the Allied diplomats, as well as the leaders of the expatriate British community.”

  She looked to the dowager. “You know most all of them, and your questions won’t tend to spark suspicions.”

  “In other words,” drawled Constantina, “they will assume a rusty old battleax has lost her edge.”

  “Yes, and then our enemies will discover that you’re a weapon with which to be reckoned,” replied Sophia.

  The jesting about blades caused Arianna’s expression to turn even more grave. “Let us not allow hubris to make us overconfident. We must never forget that a dangerous assassin—one possessing deadly skill with a knife—is on the loose and may strike at any moment. He knows of my connection to Grunwald, which means you two are also in danger.”

  “I never go anywhere without my pocket pistol,” answered Sophia, “and I trust you do the same.”

  “Vecchio is an expert at death. He’ll look to strike when we’re least expecting it.”

  Sophia gave a grim nod. “Then we must never let our guard down.”

  Easier said than done, thought Arianna. And he has the advantage of us in that we don’t know what he looks like.

  But she left those thoughts unsaid and turned to Constantina. “I imagine Dampierre will invite you to various diplomatic picnics and parties, which will give you a change to mingle with the French royalists. Both of you need to keep your ears open for any hints of who might be a secret operative for Napoleon.”

  “You may count on us,” assured the dowager. “For all his radical notions, Gerard is just as determined as we are to see Napoleon doesn’t plunge Europe back into war.”

  “Then let us turn to our last objective—finding Pierson’s daughter and bringing her to safety.”

  “She’s an innocent pawn,” murmured Sophia. “We must find her.”

  Arianna had considered the risks of approaching Paloma. If the Spanish lady were a French agent, that might alert their enemies as to where the girl was. But it seemed unlikely that anyone save for the highest level of operatives would know about an important prisoner like Pierson.

  And so she had decided to take the chance.

  “I think Señora Marone-Cinzano may be able to help us with finding Emma Pierson,” she said. “Here’s what I have in mind . . .”

  Chapter 12

  Sophia paused on the park’s main walkway to peer through the gap in the trees at the pavilion up ahead. The morning clouds had blown off and the bright sunshine had drawn a crowd to the stand selling refreshments.

  “Ah, there they are.”

  Arianna spotted a laughing Nereid crouched down and feeding a morsel of food to a brindled terrier dancing around her fluffed skirts . . . and all at once, the leafy hues turned a sharp, bilious green.

  A sudden stab of jealousy, Shakespeare’s ‘green-eyed monster,’ caused her heart to clench as she thought about how she couldn’t give Saybrook a child. He had assured her it didn’t matter.

  But what man didn’t wish for an heir to carry on the family name? And if he knew the truth about why . . .

  “They’re heading for the ornamental pool. Shall we follow?” Constantina’s question cut through her self-pity.

  “Yes,” answered Arianna, turning quickly to the shadows to hide her face. “We haven’t a moment to lose in any of our endeavors. But let us take a more roundabout way.” She led the way to one of the side paths, which wound around past the Prince of Orange’s palace.

  “Slender Billy may be a superficial fribble, but he has superb taste in horseflesh,” said Sophia, slowing her steps to look through the fence as a groom led two magnificent chestnut stallions around to the stables.

  “He and the Duke of Richmond’s son, Lord March, are mad for horseracing and hold frequent competitions out near the Anglo-Dutch army encampments,” volunteered Constantina. “I daresay you, with your knowledge of horses and all things equestrian, might contrive to learn some interesting information from the officers by attending them.”

  “I’ll suggest it to Harriet Capel,” replied Sophia, finally letting her gaze move away from the prancing stallions. “I’m sure she can arrange an invitation for us.”

  Arianna was only listening with half an ear to the exchange. Her attention was on Paloma and her daughter. Nereid had climbed atop the low marble wall that surrounded the water and was pirouetting along the narrow decorative rail. She was, observed Arianna, a striking little girl, graceful like her mother, and apparently curious and unafraid . . .

  Like her father?

  Arianna quelled the churlish thought. Quickening her pace, she rounded the bend ahead of the others.

  “Halloo,” she murmured, joining Paloma, who was standing by a statue of a frolicking dolphin. “Your daughter is quite adventurous, I see. And like her namesake, she seems drawn to water.”

  The girl twirled in a dizzying circle and let out a peal of laughter.

  “Do you not worry that she’ll fall in?”

  “Nereid is very sure-footed,” answered Paloma. “And fearless.”

  “Excellent qualities for any girl to have,” she replied.

  “At any age.”

  An astute answer. Which reminded Arianna not to let personal issues cloud her judgment. If Saybrook’s suspicions were correct, and Paloma was an experienced clandestine operative, the lady would be not only clever and cunning, but highly dangerous. She would need to keep her wits sharp.

  “True,” she responded. “And yet, fearlessness untempered by caution can lead to recklessness.” She watched Nereid perform another spin. “It’s always a delicate balance, no?”

  “You speak as if you have a great deal of experience in the world outside the gilded drawing rooms of the English aristocracy.”

  “That shouldn’t surprise you,” said Arianna, deciding to meet the other lady’s probing with a hint of steel. “Surely you’re well enough acquainted with Saybrook to know he would have been bored to flinders married to some milk-and-water miss with no imagination.”

  Paloma fixed her with a speculative look. But the arrival of dowager and Sophia cut short the exchange as the Spanish lady turned to greet them.

  “Oh, to have the exuberance of youth,” remarked Constantina as Ner
eid continuing her daring dance around the water. “And the legs to match it.”

  That drew a chuckle from Paloma. “Lady Saybrook and I were just discussing the challenges girls face when they are too headstrong.”

  “That’s because most of us are taught to quell any show of independent spirit,” said Sophia. “I think it’s laudable that you encourage your daughter to swim against the current, as it were.”

  “Another unusual attitude from an English lady. London appears to have changed since I spent time there.”

  Arianna wondered when that was.

  “Let us hope the world is changing,” replied Sophia. “Even if it comes far more slowly than we might like.”

  Paloma shrugged. “Like Lady Saybrook, you appear to think hope is a powerful force, Miss Kirtland.”

  “To think otherwise is to meekly concede defeat,” murmured Arianna. “Speaking of hope, we’re wondering you might be able to help us with a question about local convent schools for girls.”

  “I choose to educate Nereid myself,” answered Paloma. “But I know some of the nuns here in the city, who allow her to play on occasion with their school children. If you tell me what you wish to know, they may be able to provide an answer.”

  “I would be very grateful,” she replied. “I have a friend who married a French royalist against her family’s wishes while he was in exile in London. They moved back to France when the King was restored. But alas, her husband died in a hunting accident six months ago, leaving her a widow with a young daughter—and cut off from any support from home.”

  “Her husband has no family?”

  Constantina let out a heavy sigh. “They were all sent to the guillotine during Robespierre’s reign of terror.”

  “A very dangerous time,” reflected Paloma.

  “As is the present, for those who supported the monarchy,” said Arianna. “She’s making her way here to Brussels, and wishes to place her daughter into a convent school—she wishes to honor her husband’s wish that the girl be raised in his religion.”

  She paused. “But my friend also wishes for her daughter not to lose her English heritage, and has heard that because of the influx of families from Britain there are local schools which have English students. However . . .” A helpless shrug. “We have no idea where to begin asking.”

  “Let me make some inquiries and see what I can find out.”

  “That’s exceedingly kind of you. She’s due to arrive soon, so . . .”

  “I understand.” Paloma glanced at her daughter. “A mother’s primary concern is always the welfare of her child. Shall I send word to the address you gave me yesterday when I have it?”

  “Yes,” replied Arianna. “Thank you.”

  “De nada. I’m happy to help.” Paloma hesitated. “Perhaps you and your friends would care to come have tea with me some afternoon—assuming, of course, that your husband hasn’t given strict orders that you are to have nothing to do with me.”

  Sophia coughed to smother a laugh.

  Paloma cocked her head. “I see that amuses Miss Kirtland. Might I ask why?”

  “Because,” answered Arianna, “I’m not prone to following orders.” She smiled. “I informed my husband before we married that if he wished for absolute obedience, he would be better off purchasing a dog.”

  “I see.” Paloma’s expression turned inscrutable. “Men aren’t usually so willing to cede power.”

  “Saybrook isn’t like most men.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “Which is to say, we would be delighted to take tea with you and your charming daughter,” chimed in the dowager.

  Arianna felt Paloma watching her intently, as if trying to read her reaction. She was careful to show naught but a polite smile. “Indeed.”

  “Bueno. Perhaps a day next week . . .” Her voice trailed off as her gaze shifted to the main walkway.

  Half-blocked by the marble statue, Arianna angled a look over her shoulder and into the sun. At first, all she saw was a profusion of glittering gold braid festooning an azure blue military tunic faced with red and white trim. Light winked off the row of gleaming medals, bringing the man’s face into sharper focus.

  “Ah, my dear Lady Marone-Cinzano, I hope you haven’t forgotten your promise to walk with me along the city ramparts. The view promises to be splendid.”

  The voice sent an involuntary shiver skating down Arianna’s spine.

  “I am greatly looking forward to it, Prince Orlov,” called Paloma.

  Too late for retreat, even if I wished to do so. Arianna lifted her chin, telling herself that Orlov was likely the least of their worries.

  “Then I do hope your companions won’t mind me taking you—” The prince stopped abruptly as Arianna stepped away from the sculpture, his expression darkening to a glowering frown.

  “Allow me to introduce you,” began Paloma.

  “No need,” interrupted Arianna. “We’re acquainted with the prince.”

  “Ah. Events in Brussels seem to be bringing together a host of international friends,” said Paloma.

  “I wouldn’t call us friends.” Arianna fixed Orlov with a challenging look. She didn’t imagine that he wanted the actual details of their previous encounters to become known, so it was to his benefit to follow her lead. “We had several rather strenuous disagreements over politics. But that, I trust, is all in the past. Given the current situation, I’m sure we can all behave in a civilized manner.”

  Orlov smiled, but his eyes remained cold as Siberian ice. “But of course. Surely you ladies don’t think I am someone who would hold a grudge?”

  No, your style runs to vicious revenge, especially if your victim is a woman, thought Arianna as she flashed an equally false smile. “Of course not. Such a petty perversion would be ungentlemanly, and I’m quite sure Tsar Alexander, who is known for his charm and gallantry, wouldn’t tolerate such behavior among his senior courtiers.”

  Orlov’s cheeks darkened at the veiled warning—the tsar owed Arianna a debt of thanks and he knew it—but he merely acknowledged her words with a stiff bow.

  If Paloma sensed the tension crackling beneath the charade of polite manners, she gave no sign of it. Offering her arm to Orlov, she called to her daughter. “Come, querida. Enough of playing with the water. We are going to take a stroll with the prince.”

  Nereid reluctantly hopped down from the wall.

  To Arianna and others, she added, “I look forward to tea, and furthering our acquaintance.”

  “As do we.” Constantina shifted her cane from one hand to the other. “Do have a care up on the ramparts. The stone looks to be crumbling in places and that can be treacherous.”

  “I shall watch my step,” replied Paloma. “And of course, I have a very large and strong escort.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” muttered the dowager once the prince had shepherded his charges out of earshot.

  “Do you think we should warn her about Orlov and his penchant for violence with women?” asked Sophia.

  Arianna didn’t feel it was right to disclose Saybrook’s suspicions about Paloma’s possible involvement in espionage just yet, so she merely shook her head. “Señora Marone-Cinzano strikes me as a lady who knows how to take care of herself.” A pause. “And besides, unsolicited advice from strangers is rarely welcome.”

  “True,” conceded Sophia. Spotting a bench in shade, she tactfully suggested a taking a short rest before the walk home.

  At the crunch-crunch of gravel, Arianna shifted her stance and made to follow. And yet her thoughts lingered on the fast-receding figures atop the ramparts. The fact that Orlov and Paloma were on a friendly footing had the tiny hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.

  Had she made a mistake in asking her husband’s one-time lover about the convent school?

  “It’s pointless to look back,” she whispered, and turned away from the ancient wall. “We must look ahead.”

  And be ready to improvise.

&
nbsp; Chapter 13

  The following day brought no real progress. Saybrook’s forays were useful in gauging the mood of the various Allied military encampments, but he was growing frustrated. So far, he had learned of naught but nebulous rumors from his contacts.

  “I feel as though I’m chasing specters,” he admitted as they dressed for the evening’s ball.

  “As we did during our last mission,” replied Arianna after darkening her lashes with a touch of kohl. “The threads of a conundrum always feel elusive. We must be patient. Once we grab hold of the first one, it will tangle with another, and then another, until the answers start to weave together.”

  He frowned as he reached for a starched cravat and began tying an intricate Waterfall knot around his upturned shirtpoints. “We have a limited time for patience. Two massive armies are poised to clash, and God help the Continent if Wellington can’t find a way to defeat Napoleon.”

  Her insides clenched at the thought of more bloodshed and mayhem. “I take it there’s been no word from Grentham?”

  “No. And he certainly won’t be making an appearance in the ballroom. He’ll stay in the shadows, while we spin through the glittering light.”

  Dark and Light—while the answers likely flitted somewhere in between . . . an amorphous fog of muddled grays, where one could never seem to see more than a step or two ahead.

  “I’m sorry if I made a mistake in involving Señora Marone-Cinzano in the search for Pierson’s daughter.” She stared into the looking glass, trying to read his reflection. “Had I known she had any connection to Orlov, I would have held my tongue.”

  Saybrook smoothed the finished folds of his cravat into perfect alignment. “Let’s not dwell on it. Your reasoning was sound, and we both know it’s impossible to compute every permutation of a possible outcome. The odds are greatly in our favor that she’s not involved in some intrigue with the Russians—or any faction, for that matter.”