A Question of Numbers

by Andrea Penrose

  And von Steuben’s note was burning a hole in her hand.

  “There will be riders from the Prussian cavalry and the loyalist French troops competing against the British and Dutch entries,” pointed out Sophia. “And spectators at horse races tend to imbibe a goodly deal of spirits. So it will be an excellent opportunity to make new friends and ask questions.”

  “You’ll be far better at cozying up to horse-mad gentlemen than I,” muttered Arianna.

  “They don’t expect a lady to know anything about horses,” drawled her friend. “I’m sure you’ll come up with some suitable topics to winkle information out of them.”

  That provoked a grudging smile. “You’re proving frighteningly good at understanding the essence of intrigue.” Arianna wasn’t sure Saybrook or Grentham would approve. However, the choice of delving into danger belonged to no one but Sophia.

  She was about to excuse herself and slip away to find a secluded spot on the terrace when March came over to join them. Introductions were made, along with the requisite exchange of polite pleasantries.

  “I’m very much looking forward to having you ladies join our party.” March waggled a brow at Sophia. “Lady Harriet has told me you’re an expert rider, Miss Kirtland. Perhaps after the races, you’d care to take a gallop with me and my sister, Georgiana? She often rode out with the Beau when he was stationed in Ireland and earned his praise for her skill in the saddle.” A grin. “As a word of warning, we’ll likely set a bruising pace, so if you would rather demur . . .”

  Sophia met the challenge with an unflinching stare. “I’d be delighted to join you, Lord March. But please, do make sure you choose a mount with some legs and some spirit. So far, I haven’t been impressed with the cavalry horses I’ve seen here in town.”

  March’s grin turned a touch evil. “I have just the stallion in mind. I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

  As he sauntered away to rejoin his friends, Arianna noted the all-too-familiar arrogant swagger. Most men were supremely sure of their superiority over the fair sex . . . which didn’t bode well for any lady who beat them at their own games.

  “I shudder to think what beast he’s going to give you. I know you’re very good, but discretion is sometimes the better part of valor. Don’t feel compelled to do something—”

  “Where I end up falling on my arse?” cut in Sophia. Her eyes narrowed. “Have no fear. When it comes to riding, I’m more than good.”

  Arianna recognized the martial light in her friend’s eyes—she had seen it often enough in the looking glass—and didn’t bother arguing. “I look forward to you knocking the smugness from Lord March’s smile.”

  “Perhaps,” murmured Sophia, “he’ll invite the Prince of Orange to come, too. I’ve heard his prowess at flirting is far better than his skills in the saddle.”

  “Have a care not to become too overconfident,” she counseled, and then took her friend’s arm. “Come, let’s take a stroll on the terrace. I feel the need for some fresh air.”

  Her expression turning alert, Sophia allowed herself to be led without question through the open French doors. Torchieres flickered at regular intervals along the length of the stone railing, the gently swaying flames bathing the ornamental plantings in a soft light. Crickets chirped, adding their chorus to the soft twitter of the night birds.

  Arianna gazed for a moment into the distance, where the shadows lay upon the horizon in peaceful slumber. She would be tempted to think the threat of war was naught but a bad dream . . .

  Save that she had seen the blood pooled beneath Grunwald’s body and touched the worn gold of Pierson’s signet ring.

  Shifting her eyes, she found a small nook created by a trellis of climbing roses and drew her friend into its shelter.

  Paper crackled as she slipped off her glove and unfolded the note. The penciled writing was barely legible in the clouded moonglow. She had to angle it up to catch the light.

  Meet me atop the north corner of the rampart wall tomorrow

  at dusk—and please come disguised. I have something I need to

  show you, but I dare not risk having anyone spot us together.

  “Who gave it to you?” whispered Sophia, after reading it over her shoulder.

  “A very junior member of the Prussian delegation, who owes his appointment to the fact that his father is an influential landowner. During our casual conversations in Vienna, he was more interested in talking about my work with chocolate than politics.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “I don’t trust anyone—and neither should you,” replied Arianna as she tucked the paper back inside her glove.

  “So you won’t—”

  “Of course I will.” She edged back to the parapet and took a moment to study the terrace and clusters of potted plantings. “Trust has nothing to do with whether I’ll attend the meeting. We can’t afford to overlook a potential clue.”

  Satisfied that their section of the terrace wasn’t under surveillance, she rejoined Sophia and gestured for them to return to the ballroom.

  “But that doesn’t mean I won’t take precautions, or fail to look at all information I’m given with a skeptical eye.”

  Chapter 14

  A roar rose from the crowd as a half-dozen riders thundered around the last turn of the makeshift racecourse and galloped hell-for-leather toward the finish line.

  Despite her fraught feeling for horses—she had nearly come to grief beneath the flailing hooves of a runaway mare several months ago—Arianna felt her pulse kick up a notch. Whips thrashing, spurs jabbing, the two leaders were jockeying for position, their lathered mounts running neck and neck with scant inches between them.

  The smallest mistake . . . She sucked in her breath as one of the horses suddenly swerved. But with a daredevil maneuver, the other rider fended off disaster and shot ahead to win by a nose.

  A collective groan rumbled up from the French Royalist contingent as the British officers erupted in wild cheering. Her own heart thumping, Arianna allowed a small smile. Danger, she knew all too well, was like a drug that bubbled through one’s blood. Dancing on a razor’s edge made one feel alive.

  “What a thrilling ride!” Sophia looked around, her eyes aglitter with excitement. “You can’t claim that didn’t send a frisson of fire racing down your spine.”

  “Indeed, not,” she answered. “I can admire your passion for working as one with a powerful animal without sharing it.”

  March let out a hoarse laugh, his voice nearly gone from all his shouting. “A centaur—there’s nothing so magnificent as feeling like a centaur!” He offered his arm to Sophia. “Come, shall we go congratulate the champion, Miss Kirtland? He’s a captain in the Royal Horse Guards and serves with me on the Prince of Orange’s staff.”

  “I should love to.”

  And you, Lady Saybrook?” he asked.

  Arianna eyed the crush of admirers pressing around the sweating, snorting stallion and its rider. “Thank you, but I’ll wait for you here.”

  It had been the last inter-regimental race of the afternoon, and the crowd was beginning to disperse. The morning clouds had blown off and the sun had become uncomfortably bright. Spotting a footpath that wound down past a glade of beech trees, Arianna decided to seek respite from the heat and noise in the dappled shade. A light breeze ruffled through the leaves, and with the rumble of masculine shouts and laughter fast receding, she turned her thoughts to the upcoming meeting with von Steuben.

  Was it a ploy to lead them stray, masterminded by a clever enemy? Or was the earnest young man shrewder than he seemed?

  Questions, questions. And if some answers didn’t appear soon—

  Somewhere within the dark tangle of trees, a branch snapped.

  She peered into the shadows, trying to catch any flutter of movement.

  “I didn’t realize you shared your husband’s interest in weeds and brambles.”

  Arianna spun around. For a big bear of a man, Prince Orlov was su
rprisingly light-footed. But then, predators needed a stealthy step in order to hunt down their prey.

  “Or were you looking for something else?”

  Damnation. She had made a careless mistake in dropping her guard. A glance around showed there was no one else in sight. And he was blocking the path back to the racing grounds.

  “Just some shade,” answered Arianna with deliberate nonchalance while retreating several paces into a darker patch of shadow. As she fanned her face, she shifted the reticule looped around her other wrist. Inside it was her pocket pistol.

  “It’s been very hot and very dry.” He snapped his fingers, and in the stillness of the grove it sounded loud as a gunshot. “So dry that a tiny spark could cause a powder keg to explode.”

  Still no sign of others.

  “I trust the ordnance officers are aware of the danger . . .” The silken cords loosened, allowing her fingers to work their way into the bag. “And are taking precautions to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  “Accidents can occur, despite the best precautions.” Orlov shifted his stance, bringing him a touch closer. “You have a higher opinion of this raggle-taggle British army than I do.”

  “It is the Allied army, Prince Orlov,” she replied. “Or perhaps you’ve decided we’re not on the same side.”

  His face darkened for an instant, before he bared his teeth in a crocodile smile. “Russia wants nothing more than to unite with Great Britain and the other European leaders to defeat Napoleon.”

  “Then prove it by ending all the self-serving bickering among your delegations and marching the Russian army west.”

  “Oh, but as you know, politics is never quite so simple as that.” His boots slid another few inches over the sun-parched earth. “There is often more than one objective to balance.”

  “That’s close enough, Prince Orlov.” She could smell the scent of brandy on his breath.

  A nasty laugh. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

  “Not as uncomfortable as you’ll feel if you take another step toward me.”

  “Be assured,” he growled, “that your knee won’t find its mark this time around.”

  Arianna found her pistol and cocked the hammer with a metallic snick. “Be assured it won’t be my knee that slams into your groin.”

  Orlov went very still. “One of these days, playing with fire will get you burned, Lady Saybrook. And perhaps sooner than you think if you don’t stop meddling in politics.”

  “Perhaps.” A movement caught her eye—a lone rider mounted on a chestnut stallion came into view. “But not today.”

  The man was dressed in a drab gray coat rather than gaudy regimentals, yet something about his ramrod-straight posture radiated an aura of command. On impulse, she lifted a hand in salute. Whoever he was, he appeared to be a fellow who wouldn’t mind aiding a damsel in distress.

  The prince turned around to look, and his sneer turned to a more tentative look. Muttering something in Russian under his breath—Arianna doubted it was a hallelujah—he quickly squared his shoulders and angled around to offer her his arm.

  Bemused, she decided to play along with his change of heart. They started back up the path, Orlov all smiles and courteous gestures, the very picture of a perfect gentleman.

  “Your Grace,” called the prince, inclining a bow as they approached the rider.

  The lean and long face . . . the hawk-like the nose . . . the intense gaze that looked as though it could pierce steel . . .

  Wellington.

  Arianna dropped a quick curtsy. She had never met the duke, but recognized his austere face from last night, and the countless print shop engravings of the Hero of the Peninsula.

  “Where are your manners, Prince Orlov?” Wellington’s voice had a slightly nasal sound to it. “Do introduce me to the lady.”

  Another bow. “Sir, allow me to present the Countess of Saybrook.”

  The duke regarded her for a long moment, his expression coolly composed, save for the tiny twitch at the corners of his mouth. “Ah, the earl’s wife. I’ve heard about you.”

  “Oh, dear. Should I be worried?” murmured Arianna, looking up at him through her lashes.

  He let out a bark of laughter. “Not that I know of. Have you done something you shouldn’t, Lady Saybrook?”

  Orlov cleared his throat with a cough.

  “More times than I care to count,” she replied, which earned another chuckle.

  “Your husband is a very interesting fellow,” drawled the duke. “And so, it appears, are you, milady.” He dismounted and offered her his arm. “Come, walk with me.” He turned their steps towards the racecourse, forcing Orlov to follow several steps behind them. “I’m looking for Lord March and his sister, Lady Georgiana,” continued the duke. “I was told they had come here to see the competition.”

  “Yes, they did, and I’m part of their party,” said Arianna. “I believe they were planning to take a short pleasure ride with a lady friend of mine before returning to town.”

  “Hmmm.” Wellington stared off into the distance, where a cart road curled out of the forest and cut through a series of fields lined with hedgerows. “Do you carry smelling salts, Lady Saybrook? March and Lady Georgiana ride like the devil, so your friend may need them if she tries to keep pace.”

  “I think she is made of sterner stuff than that, Your Grace.” She saw a faint cloud of dust rise up where the road emerged from the trees—a sign that riders were coming toward them at a pounding pace. “But we shall see.”

  After another few moments, Arianna could make out three horses bunched together. March was in the lead—but only barely. Sophia, her skirts tucked tightly around her sidesaddle, was leaning low and urging her monstrous black stallion to greater speed. Lady Georgiana, who was mounted on a smaller filly, had fallen several lengths behind.

  Tapping a finger to his chin, Wellington watched in silence.

  March’s horse, a muscled cavalry charger, looked to be gaining ground on his pursuer. And then . . .

  Arianna’s heart leapt into her throat as Sophia suddenly veered off. Ye gods, the black beast was headed right at one of the tall hedgerows. Her hands fisted in her skirts. It was madness—surely her friend would pull up, or . . .

  Tightening the reins, Sophia slapped her crop to the stallion’s rump and all at once the two of them were in air, soaring, soaring, soaring—

  “Well done,” murmured Wellington as they cleared the hedge with room to spare and came back to earth without missing a stride.

  The maneuver had given horse and rider a clear advantage in distance. Sophia angled the stallion to meet the road at least two lengths ahead of March. Try as he might, he couldn’t muster a last burst of speed from his tiring mount, and Sophia raced to the finish line unchallenged.

  Arianna expelled a shuddering sigh of relief.

  “I thought you had every confidence in your friend,” said the duke dryly.

  “I know she’s very skilled,” replied Arianna dryly. “I just wasn’t aware that she is mad to boot.”

  “Madness is sometimes simply a matter of perspective,” said Wellington.

  Orlov shifted, drawing a cool look from the duke.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace, I ought to rejoin my delegation, now that competition is over for the day,” said the prince.

  Orlov’s pleasant tone didn’t fool Arianna. She might have won today’s skirmish, but the battle was far from over.

  Wellington dismissed him with a curt wave, then returned his attention to the racers.

  Slowing the stallion to an easy canter, Sophia circled around the racing meadow, allowing the lathered horse to cool down before reining to an easy walk.

  “By Jove, that required bal—er, balance!” called March admiringly. “I thought m’sister was a corking good rider—but you’re even better, Miss Kirtland.”

  Face flushed, lungs heaving, Sophia drew up beside Arianna and flashed him a grin. “I was lucky. You gave me the best mount.”


  “It wasn’t luck,” rasped Lady Georgiana, easing her tuckered mount to a halt. “I tip my chapeau to you, Miss Kirtland,” she said, touching the brim of her shako. “You ride like a demon with the devil hot on its tail.”

  “Aye.” Her brother made a rueful face. “Lady Harriet had been rattling on and on about how skilled you are in the saddle. So I confess, I meant to take you down a peg or two by giving you Satan as a mount.” He snapped a jaunty salute. “Instead you whipped me fair and square.”

  March slanted a look at the duke. “It’s a pity Miss Kirtland is a female, Your Grace. Otherwise I’d press you to dismiss Lord Uxbridge and offer her command of your cavalry.”

  Sophia paled as Wellington turned his gaze on her and she grasped who he was.

  “Would that my Death’s Head Hussars rode half as well as you, Miss Kirtland,” said the duke.

  “T-thank you, Your Grace,” she said, then drew a steadying breath and lifted her chin. “Would that I could ride astride like your officers, rather than be obliged to perch on a sidesaddle. It puts ladies at a distinct disadvantage in working in tandem with their mounts.”

  The duke pursed his lips, regarding her with a thoughtful mien. Arianna knew he had an eye for the ladies. His marriage was an acrimonious one, with no love lost on either side, and it was no secret that he sought solace elsewhere. He seemed to favor bold and unconventional women—his current paramour was said to be the notorious singer, Guiseppina Grassini.

  Perhaps she should warn Sophia . . .

  And then quickly discarded the notion as insufferably condescending. Her friends wasn’t a dewy-eyed schoolgirl.

  “I don’t doubt it, Miss Kirtland,” came Wellington’s reply. He then turned to Lady Georgiana. “I was hoping you and your brother might consent to ride out with me—at a more sedate pace than your racing—to review the artillery camp near the Forest of Soignes.”

  “We should be delighted, sir!” exclaimed Georgiana, and turned to March. “Wouldn’t we, Charles?”