A Question of Numbers

by Andrea Penrose

  No one answered.

  “It’s the scene in which Viola discovers that her brother is in fact alive!” said Arianna. “I can’t believe that’s merely coincidence.”

  Sophia let out a soft whistle. “By Jove, now that you point it out, it does make perfect sense—in a diabolically clever way.”

  “It requires a leap of faith,” observed Saybook. “But then . . .” He looked at Grentham.

  Averting his eyes, the minister stared into the unlit hearth.

  Arianna held her tongue. She, too, was reviewing the logic of her guess and trying to spot any flaws.

  Grentham finally broke the taut silence. “However convoluted, I confess there’s some merit to your reasoning.” A pause. “Especially as my investigations in Antwerp uncovered other credible evidence that Pierson survived the explosion and is being held captive by the French.”

  “Where?” demanded Saybrook.

  A sour smile. “Would that your wife could conjure up that little detail from Shakespeare, too.”

  She didn’t take umbrage. For all his snaps and snarls, she knew Grentham cared more about Pierson than he wished to let on.

  “Be that as it may, I agree that we ought now act on the assumption that he’s alive.”

  “So the next challenge is to determine exactly where the French are keeping Pierson,” mused Arianna.

  Saybrook tapped his fingertips together. “My guess is, he’s not far away. Any good military strategist would want to keep an important enemy prisoner close at hand, not only to use as a possible bargaining chip, but also to keep probing for information as the situation changes.”

  “I agree,” said the minister. “Napoleon is too canny to have left such an asset in Paris.”

  “That’s not much help,” muttered Sophia.

  “On the contrary,” said the earl. “Armed with this information, we have a far better idea of how to focus our inquiries, and put pressure where it might do some good.” He paused for a moment. “I can already think of several people to revisit, now that I know what to ask.”

  Arianna sensed that the gears in Grentham’s head were also spinning furiously, but he didn’t offer to enlighten them on what plans were taking shape. Instead he turned his attention to one of their other missions.

  “And what of Pierson’s daughter? Have you ladies made any headway on tracking her down?”

  “We’ve met a lady here in town who has connections with the convent schools.” Arianna had no intention of giving him any more details than necessary. Grentham was the master of using even the smallest strand of personal vulnerability to rope one into doing his bidding. “She’s making some discreet inquiries, and I expect to hear something very soon.”

  “One of our English expatriates?”

  “No,” she answered.

  His eyes narrowed.

  “When I have something useful, I will of course let you know,” she added.

  “Leave it at that, Grentham,” interjected Saybrook. “You were also going to make inquiries concerning Andronovich, and whether he lies at the root of the conspiracy to keep an alliance from forming.”

  There were, thought Arianna bleakly, far too many irons in the fire. The chances of getting burned . . .

  “So far,” said the minister, “there’s absolutely nothing to indicate Andronovich is in league with the French. A team of operatives has been shadowing his movements, while others have been digging into his finances and correspondence.”

  “And yet, Grunwald must have said his name for a reason,” mused Sophia.

  “Which remains just as much a riddle as his other communications,” muttered Grentham. “Anything else?”

  “Actually, there is.” Much as Arianna was reluctant to mention it, the confrontation with Orlov might be relevant, given the suspicions of treason swirling around the Russian delegation. “I suggest that you begin looking more carefully at Prince Orlov. I know that at first blush, we decided there was no reason to think him disloyal. However, I suggest your operatives dig deeper into his activities.”

  Chapter 16

  The earl stiffened. “I assume you have a reason for the suggestion.”

  “Today at the end of the horseracing, I took a short stroll while Sophia was taking a pleasure ride with Lord March and his sister. The crowd had dispersed, but apparently Orlov spotted me, and . . .” She chose her words carefully. “And he followed. I wouldn’t bring it up if the encounter had been about purely personal animosities. However, he warned me that meddling in politics might have grave consequences. It seems a curious thing for him to have said, unless he knows more about the conspiracy than he wishes to let on.”

  “Did he threaten you physically?” demanded Saybrook.

  “No—but that may be because I had a pistol pointed at his bollocks.”

  “And you managed to retreat without any trouble?”

  “The prince, for all his faults, isn’t a fool. He decided it was best to play the gentleman when Wellington happened to ride by,” answered Arianna. “An interesting man . . . the duke, that is. I’m happy to have finally met him.” She quirked a small smile at her friend. “He, however, was far more intrigued in watching Sophia thrash Lord March and his sister in a hell-for-leather horse race.”

  “Hardly a thrashing,” murmured Sophia. “It was only by two or three lengths.”

  Saybrook raised his brows. “You beat March and Lady Georgiana by several lengths?”

  “Wellington was impressed, and March was very gracious about it,” said Arianna. “He told the duke that if Sophia were a man, he would recommend she take Uxbridge’s place as commander of the cavalry.”

  Sophia gave a grimace. “I should, perhaps, have kept a rein on my tongue and refrained from making the remark about wearing breeches . . .”

  Grentham choked on a swallow of his brandy.

  “However, men have no idea what a disadvantage it is to jump a six-foot hedge while perched on a sidesaddle.”

  “What, exactly, did you say?” asked the minister.

  “I . . .” She flushed. “I don’t remember the exact words.”

  “It was something to the effect that she could ride even better if she were allowed to do so astride,” answered Arianna. “The duke replied that he didn’t doubt it.”

  A chuckle slipped from Saybrook’s lips. “Have a care, Miss Kirtland. The Beau has an eye for hellions.”

  Her friend’s color turned a deeper shade of pink. “From what I hear, his dance card is quite full at the moment. Word is, he’s dallying with Lady Frances Wedderburn-Webster as well as the Italian siren.”

  “One does wonder about his relationship with Lady Georgiana, as well,” mused Arianna. “They appear to have a special friendship.”

  Grentham shifted in his chair. “If we’ve nothing more pressing to discuss than the duke’s dalliances, I shall take my leave,” he muttered.

  “Is there a way we can contact you if the need arises?” asked Arianna.

  “Ask the ostler at Le Cheval Blanc coaching inn if he knows when Mr. Darcy will be returning to town. I’ll come as soon as I can.”

  “You shock me, sir.”

  “You’re shocked that I have a network of informants in place?”

  “No—I’m shocked that you’ve read Pride and Prejudice.”

  He turned to place his empty glass on the table. It may have been a mere flutter of the lamplight, but she thought she detected a tiny quirk of his lips. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t forget about Orlov,” counseled Saybrook as the minister rose. “I agree with my wife. His warning to her about meddling in politics makes me think he knows more than he should.”

  “That detail isn’t likely to slip my mind,” replied Grentham. “Be assured—”

  A loud rap on the front door cut him off. Footsteps sounded in the entrance hall as one of their footmen went to answer the summons.

  “It appears Constantina has returned from her supper soirée,” r
emarked the earl as the dowager’s voice rose above the thump-thump of her cane.

  “Kindly bring the parcels with you, Tomás.”

  Curious, Arianna moved to the doorway.

  “The oddest thing happened at this evening’s party,” announced Constantina. She marched into the room, followed by the footman bearing a pasteboard box festooned with a burgundy-colored silk ribbon. Tucked under his arm was a smaller, square package wrapped in patterned paper. “Thank you—you may put them on the table,” she said, indicating a spot by the platter of chocolate confections.

  The footman did as he was told, then quietly withdrew from the room.

  It was, noted Arianna, a rather large box. And the other had a strangely amorphous shape. She waited patiently for the dowager to strip off her gloves and help herself to one of the almond-studded wafers before asking, “By ‘odd’ do you mean to say there were no sweets offered in the supper room?”

  “Don’t be impertinent,” chided Constantina in between bites. After brushing the crumbs from her fingers, she gestured at the box. “It was Wellington who gave that to me—and by the by, I must say I wouldn’t have guessed that such a scrawny, spotty-face boy would grow into a military hero. In his youth, he was more interested in playing the violin than riding to the hounds.”

  “Thank heaven he turned in his stringed instrument for a saber,” remarked Saybrook. “But about the box . . .”

  “Yes, yes, I’m coming to that.” The dowager turned to Sophia. “He asked me to give it to you.”

  “Me?” squeaked Sophia.

  “Do go ahead and open it,” urged Constantina. “I’m dying of curiosity to see what it is.”

  Even Grentham shifted a step closer to the table.

  A tentative pluck loosened the fancy bow. A second pull and the ribbon slithered down to the carpet. Sophia took hold of the box top and lifted it off.

  Arianna fought back the urge to laugh. Inside lay a neatly-folded-military tunic fashioned in a gorgeous shade of smoke-green with scarlet trim. An elaborate horizontal frogging covered its front, with four vertical rows of brass buttons punctuating the gold embroidery. The burnished gleam was reflected in the fringed gold epaulettes adorning the shoulders.

  A major’s rank, if she wasn’t mistaken. As to the regiment . . .

  “Is that what I think it is?”

  “Yes,” answered Grentham through his teeth. “It’s the uniform of a Chasseur à Cheval, a light cavalry unit of Napoleon’s Imperial Guard which serves as his personal guards.”

  “But—“ began Sophia.

  “There’s a note,” interrupted Constantina, pointing to a piece of folded paper sticking out from the collar.

  Sophia took it up and quickly skimmed over the contents. Without comment, she a handed it to Arianna.

  “Dear Miss Kirtland,” she read aloud, “I regret that I can’t offer you a commission in the Royal Household Cavalry, but Lord March has found an alternative among our spoils of war that might capture your fancy. So as a token of my esteem, allow me to present you with a tunic from Napoleon’s personal cavalry. I am quite certain that were you to ride against the French, your skills in the saddle would be more than a match for the emperor’s chosen elite.” A pause. “The proper complement is cream-colored breeches . . . but I assume you have your own pair.

  “Yours Sincerely . . .” She looked up. “Wellington.”

  Her friend was already pulling the wrapping paper off the second package. A thick black plume tipped in scarlet appeared first. It was fastened to a flat-top bearskin shako with a gold-tasseled enamel medallion.

  After removing the rest of the paper, Sophia perched it on her head.

  It fit perfectly.

  The minister growled something under his breath that was likely best left unheard. In a louder voice he added, “Let us hope that we never have to put the duke’s speculation to the test.”

  Ignoring the jibe, Sophia fingered the tassel. “I wonder if March can find me a Chasseur saber?”

  Grentham put on his overcoat and took up his shapeless hat. “You know how to reach me if need be.” With that, he tugged it low over his brow and left the room.

  One . . . two . . . three . . . Arianna drew her hairbrush through her curls, allowing the rhythmic strokes to loosen her knotted nerves—at least for a brief interlude. It was irrational, of course, how little everyday rituals could be so calming. Perhaps it was because logic was often so unsettling.

  The bristles caught on a snarl, making her wince. Why is nothing adding up? She felt as if she was grasping at solid clues, only to find them naught but a shiver of air when her fingers closed around them.

  A shadow fluttered across the looking glass as Saybrook came into the bedchamber from his dressing room. An even more disturbing question was why his mood had turned darker of late.

  Arianna was terrified to ask herself the reason. And yet she must.

  Turning in her chair, she watched as he pulled off his shirt. The lamplight flickered over his muscled shoulders, dipping and darting over the chiseled contours. Her hands tingled, intimately aware of every subtle nuance of his shape.

  “Sandro,” she said.

  He turned around, his dark eyes black beneath the fringe of his lashes.

  “I—I sense something is weighing on you.” Her voice pinched as her throat tightened.

  Before she could go on, Saybrook released a pent-up breath. “Yes.” He pulled something from the pocket of his trousers. “There was a message waiting when we returned home. But I thought it best to wait until we were alone before handing it over.”

  Arianna stared at the folded paper. It was sealed with a blood-red wafer of wax. “You go ahead and open it.”

  He shook his head. “As you see, it’s addressed to you.”

  The flowery script was unmistakably feminine. As was the faint scent of Paloma Marone-Cinzano’s perfume as she reluctantly accepted the note. But instead of cracking the seal, she tossed it onto the bed. Two quick steps brought her close—close enough to wrap her arms around him and feel the warmth of his bare skin through the thin silk of her wrapper.

  “During our journey to Elba,” whispered Arianna, “we discussed the danger of keeping secrets from each other.”

  His breath stirred her unpinned hair. “Paloma Marone-Cinzano wasn’t a secret. She was merely a memory. We agreed our past lives had no bearing on our present—”

  “Unless a ghost came back to haunt us, like Patrick Hamilton.”

  His muscles flinched beneath her palms. “It turned out Hamilton had no power to hurt us. I can’t say for sure the same applies to Paloma.”

  “I can,” said Arianna. “Whether you’re Nereid’s father or not doesn’t affect my feeling for you—save to make me feel even more guilty that I haven’t given you a child.”

  “Arianna . . .” he began.

  “No! Let me speak.” She pulled back so she could see his face. “Hamilton isn’t the only ghost in my past. Until now, it seemed unnecessary to mention it because you had assured me that you weren’t unhappy with our life.” She drew in a steadying breath. “And I told myself that I couldn’t be sure the problem lay with me. But now . . .”

  “Arianna—”

  “Please, Sandro, I must finish!”

  He curled a lock of her hair around his finger and brushed a kiss to her brow. “I am listening, quirida.”

  At his gentle touch, Arianna felt a steely stab prick against her heart. “I—I was very young, and just learning how to survive the hardscrabble harbors of the Caribbean.” Saybrook know all about her early life, Her disgraced father had fled with her to the West Indies, but his murder had left her to fend for herself when she was hardly more than a girl. “During a rum-soaked night of festivities with my new shipmates, I yielded to the charms of our handsome bosun and allowed myself to be initiated in the pleasures of the flesh.”

  His expression didn’t alter. He simply nodded for her to go on.

  “Come morning, one of
the dockyard women stumbled upon us, and later that day, she took me aside and gave me a steaming mug of a cinnamon-colored beverage. She said it was an herbal tea that she had brewed specially for me. It tasted horrible, but she insisted I drink it, saying I would thank her later.”

  Her stomach was churning at the memory, and her mouth went dry. “I became very ill, and my body was wracked by terrible pains. I—I thought I was going to die, but my friends summoned a curador—a local healer—who nursed me through the crisis. She explained to me . . .w-why the woman had given me the draught, and said that the herb it contained is poisonous in the wrong dose, and wreaks havoc with one’s innards if one imbibes too much of it.”

  Saybrook shifted, and suddenly she was cradled in his arms. Closing her eyes, Arianna leaned against his shoulder and let her tears come.

  She wasn’t sure how long they stood there twined together, but at last, her emotions spent, she dared to look up. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It breaks my heart that you have suffered,” said Saybrook. “But all the tragedies and triumphs you’ve gone through have made you who you are.” His lashes sparked with a flash of gold from the lamplight. “The woman I love without reservation.”

  “But . . .” Arianna made herself go on. “But you didn’t bargain for damaged goods.” There, she had finally summoned the nerve to voice her most elemental fear.

  “And you didn’t bargain for a brooding half-cripple who abused laudanum,” he replied. “You think I don’t worry about my flaws and how they affect you for the worse?”

  “You shouldn’t—”

  “And neither should you.” Saybrook framed her face between his palms. “Your strength, your courage, your honesty, your compassion—loving you is the light that keeps darkness at bay.” He kissed a lingering tear from her cheek. “Don’t ever think otherwise.”

  Their eyes met, and all at once her heart felt whole.

  “So, that ghost from the past is slain and buried deep where it can never touch us again,” he murmured. “Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” she answered. “On one condition.”