A Question of Numbers

by Andrea Penrose

  His smile turned a little tentative.

  “That you put aside whatever recriminations you are feeling about Paloma Marone-Cinzano and her daughter. If Nereid is yours, we will somehow figure out how to do what is best for everyone involved.”

  “As I said, we may never know. Paloma is not the sort of woman who gives away information without getting something in return.”

  “Then we will find what she feels is valuable,” said Arianna, “and look to strike a bargain.”

  He shook his head. “It won’t be that simple.”

  Arianna had no illusions that it would be. Be that as it may, she was of the opinion that this delicate negotiation was best left to her. Paloma’s feminine wiles gave her an advantage over the earl. But against another lady, such weapons would be useless.

  With all artifice stripped away, Arianna had every reason to believe a meeting of minds could be arranged. Men allowed pride to cloud their judgment. Women were far more pragmatic and practical.

  “We shall see. But in the meantime, let us focus on the present.” She moved to the bed, where the note beckoned, a pale rectangle of ivory against the dark damask coverlet.

  The seal broke with a muted crack. “Come, we’ll read it together.”

  Saybrook came up behind her and placed his hands on her hips, the spurt of heat chasing the last, lingering chill from her blood.

  The message was short, and the only signature was a sketch of a winged dove.

  I have some news. Come to the café Girondelle on rue de St. Laurent.

  Be there tomorrow, a half hour before the church bells ring

  the noontime hour.

  “Perhaps,” murmured Arianna, “we are making some progress on locating Pierson’s daughter.”

  “Perhaps.” Saybrook tightened his hold. “But until we know where her loyalties lie, you should take what you hear with a grain of salt.”

  Chapter 17

  The aroma of fresh-roasted coffee tickled at Arianna’s nostrils as she opened the door of the small cafe.

  “Bonjour.” A plump serving girl dressed in a red calico apron and matching head kerchief looked up from arranging a stack of baguettes and called a cheery greeting.

  “Bonjour,” replied Arianna politely. It took her a moment to spot Paloma. The señora was seated in an alcove tucked at the rear of the room, and her slate blue walking gown blurred into the smoky shadows.

  A metaphor? wondered Arianna, as she made her way to the table. Her husband seemed to think his one-time lover was a chameleon who changed her colors depending on what hue suited the situation.

  “I ordered a pot of chocolate,” said Paloma, indicating an extra cup. “But if you prefer coffee, it’s quite good here.”

  “I’m very fond of chocolate, but only if it has enough heat and spice to make it interesting.”

  “Most aristocratic English ladies find the Spanish style of achiote peppers too hot for their taste.”

  “I wasn’t raised in England,” she replied. “So I’m afraid I don’t have such delicate sensibilities.”

  Paloma cocked her head, a speculative gleam lighting in her eyes. “You intrigue me, Lady Saybrook.”

  “As you do me, Señora Marone-Cinzano.” Arianna poured a measure of the frothed brew and took a sip. “Speaking of chocolate, I brought a small gift that might amuse you and Nereid.” She drew a small pasteboard box from her reticule and slid it across the tabletop.

  “How kind of you.” Paloma lifted the cover. “Are they—”

  “Confections made of chocolate,” she confirmed. “I have some culinary skills and enjoy creating edible treats with cacao.”

  “How . . . adventurous.”

  “Do try one,” said Arianna.

  After a tiny hesitation, Paloma accepted the challenge. She chose a bonbon studded with sultanas and candied orange peel and popped it into her mouth.

  Arianna took another sip.

  “It’s delicious. Nereid will adore such treats.” Paloma brushed the crumbs of sugar from her bejeweled fingers. “Dare I hope I might request the recipes from you?”

  “We cooks guard our secrets very carefully,” she said lightly. “But I shall consider it.”

  Paloma spun the molinillo to re-froth the pot of chocolate and then refilled their cups. “I have made the inquiries you requested and have some news that may help in your search for the right school for your friend’s daughter.” A whisper of paper sounded. “I’ve written down the name of the convent that appears to be the best choice, along with its address.”

  Arianna accepted the folded missive. “I’m very grateful.”

  “However, I suggest you move quickly,” added the señora softly. “I’ve been told that several other people are interested in the same school, so things might not work out for your friend if you delay.”

  “I see.” She shoved the paper into her cloak pocket and slid back her chair. “In that case, I ought to take my leave and inform my friend that time is of the essence.”

  “Of course.” Paloma swirled the dregs of her drink. “I wish you and your friend good luck. Education is important for young girls. Learning to use their intellect helps them to avoid falling prey to predators.”

  Arianna gave a wordless nod, and hurried out to the street. It was only a short walk to the park, where she had arranged to rendezvous with Sophia and Constantina at the ornamental pool. As she quickened her steps, her mind began to race . . .

  Saybrook remounted his horse and threaded his way out of the thick copse of trees. It appeared that his botanical forays had finally yielded more than just a handful of grasses and thorns. A local informant, coaxed by both money and a mutual friend, had just turned over a tantalizing clue—the senior subaltern of the head of French military intelligence had been spotted in the area, and the earl’s intuition told him if Pierson were a prisoner, he would be with the officer’s entourage.

  Now, the next challenge was to find where they had established a headquarters. No easy task, but at least he was no longer looking for a needle in a field of haystacks.

  Shading his eyes, he surveyed the surroundings. He had risen before dawn and was now a four-hour’s ride away from Brussels. Still, the fact his informant had passed on rumors that French reconnaissance patrols were probing toward the city stirred a frisson of alarm. Wellington seemed to think that Napoleon’s advance guard had not yet crossed the border . . .

  In the distance, a cloud of dust on the main road signaled that a group of riders was fast approaching. Spurring his mount back into the leafy shadows, Saybrook found a vantage point from which he could observe the comings and goings without being seen.

  Sure enough, the riders were a detachment of French cavalry. He made a mental note of the regimental markings and the number of men. The duke would not be happy if his advance pickets had allowed Napoleon to steal a march on him.

  But that was a war for the generals to wage.

  He had a different battle to fight.

  “Damnation,” muttered Arianna as she turned in a slow circle in front of the fountain. Constantina and Sophia were nowhere to be seen.

  Her meeting had run shorter than expected, she told herself, so they were likely en route. Shifting her stance, Arianna checked the wide walkway leading to the refreshment pavilion.

  Still no sign of them.

  Too impatient to stand and wait, she cut across to the footpaths that wound through the thick shrubberies and trees. The sun was at its zenith, and the day was turning hot. Constantina might have preferred to use one of the side footpaths, which would allow her to walk in the shade. Indeed, it was far more pleasant beneath the canopy of oaks. A breeze ruffled leaves, stirring a whisper of cool air.

  Arianna stopped and closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the sweetness of the grassy scents and the hoots of laughter from children at play. It was all so peaceful, and yet in a heartbeat—

  “Arianna!”

  Her lids flew open at the sound of Sophia’s shrill shout.


  “Arianna!”

  Shaking off her brooding, she turned and saw Orlov not more than ten feet behind her, his big bear-like body shaded by the overhanging leaves as he stepped out from behind the bushes.

  The prince’s face was also muddled in shadow—and then came a bright flash of sunlight as he raised the barrel of his pistol and took aim at her head.

  A scream—was it the dowager?

  Orlov’s lips started moving but his shout was swallowed in the deafening bang of a gunshot.

  In the same instant, Arianna threw herself sideways, and everything suddenly turned to a whirling dervish blur as she was falling, falling . . .

  She hit the ground hard and rolled for cover. Footsteps were pounding helter-pelter over the path, coming at her from both directions. She was dimly aware of a ragged groan—not her own—and a volley of curses. Sharp-fingered branches scraped against her skin.

  Damnation.

  A hand grabbed at her skirts, but Arianna kicked herself free and kept clawing through bushes.

  More shouts. Another curse. And then a thrashing through leaves and the sound of running steps retreating from the chaos.

  Wriggling free of spiked holly, Arianna scrabbled to her knees.

  Sophia quickly tucked her smoking pistol into her cloak and crouched down beside a moaning Orlov. The prince was clutching his arm, his face spattered in blood from his wounded wrist. He spat out an oath as her friend yanked off his cravat and began wrapping the wound to staunch the bleeding.

  Wincing, Arianna levered to her feet and limped over to join them. “What the devil just happened?”

  “I saw Orlov jump out of the bushes, so I called a warning,” said Sophia. “But then when I saw him aim a pistol at you—”

  “Not at Lady Saybrook, you stupid woman,” said Orlov through clenched teeth. “At the assassin coming at her with a knife.”

  “My apologies for misjudging your intentions, sir,” said Sophia. “But I had only an instant to make a decision.”

  Orlov as a hero? The thought boggled the mind. And yet . . .

  Arianna knelt down next to him. “How did you know?”

  The prince’s face was pale as death, and a grimace spasmed over his pain-wracked features. “The Tsar gave me orders to flush out the French conspirators in our delegation,” he growled. “My operatives overheard our suspect speaking with a Corsican, an assassin named Vecchio—”

  “I know who Vecchio is,” said Arianna as Orlov’s words gave way to a cough. His last-minute warning that the knife-wielding killer was about to attack had given her just enough time to elude his blade.

  “Thank you,” she added, though it stuck in her craw to say it. “For saving my life.”

  A glitter of malice lit in his eyes. “Don’t count on it ever happening again. I would have gladly watched him slice out your liver. But it’s in my country’s interest to see Napoleon defeated.” He coughed again. “And the Tsar’s gratitude will be invaluable to forwarding my own personal plans.”

  “Stop talking,” counseled Sophia. “This is going to hurt.”

  A hiss slipped from the prince’s lips as Sophia tightened the bandage. “Hellbitch,” he muttered. “You’ll pay for this, I promise you that.”

  “Be grateful I didn’t put a bullet through your skull,” she retorted.

  “I’m damnably unlucky the bullet came anywhere near me,” said Orlov, “seeing as a lady pulled the trigger.”

  A crowd was beginning to gather. Still feeling a little disoriented, Arianna turned her attention to defusing the situation. But Constantina had already taken matters in hand. With a brusque wave of her cane, she signaled to a pair of British officers who had coming running at the sound of the gunshot.

  “You there—come here and take Prince Orlov to a military surgeon without delay!” she ordered. “He’s suffered a grievous wound in defending the countess from the footpad who attacked her.”

  “At once, madam!” In a matter of moments, they had the prince up and firmly supported between them.

  “Wellington’s personal physician is among the staff adjutants meeting with the duke at his residence,” called a helpful onlooker. “It’s close by.”

  Arianna nodded. “Take him there.”

  As the officers turned with the wounded prince, Orlov leaned in just enough to whisper a parting shot. “You dodged a blade this time. But that’s because I prefer to do the honors myself.”

  She looked away from the bloody bandage wrapped around his hand. Another score to settle. No doubt the prince was keeping careful tally. However, that problem lay in the future. Right now there were more pressing concerns.

  “Come,” said Arianna, taking the dowager’s arm. “Let’s be off. I prefer not to attract further attention.”

  Sophia rose and quickly rearranged her shawl to cover her bloodstained cuffs. “Yes, enough drama for one day.”

  “As for that . . .” murmured Arianna. She waited until they were well away from the curious bystanders before slowing to a more sedate pace. “I’m afraid it’s only been the opening act.”

  Her friend’s expression sharpened. “You expect another attack?”

  “On the contrary, I think we may finally be in a position to take the offensive,” she replied.

  “Did Señora Marone-Cinzano discover where Pierson’s daughter is?” demanded Constantina.

  “That,” answered Arianna, “is what I hope to have you confirm this afternoon.”

  “How—”

  “I’ll explain that as soon as we reach our residence.” She paused to check her surroundings before moving out from the shaded footpath and exiting the park through the wrought iron gate at the east corner of rue de Royale.

  “Along with the rest of the plan.”

  Tick, tick. The minutes seemed to be sliding by with doleful slowness. Refraining from yet another glance at the clock, Arianna set aside her notebooks and went to the kitchen to fix herself a pot of chocolate. Much as she disliked remaining at home while the others put her plan into action, there were preparations to be made for the evening which only she could undertake.

  Saybrook wouldn’t like what she had in mind, coming right on the heels of the afternoon’s attack. But loyalty would push aside fear.

  “We are who we are, however much we might wish otherwise,” murmured Arianna, aware that voicing such a driveling platitude was a sign of her uncertain mood.

  After setting the kettle on the hob, she fetched some cacao paste and spices from the pantry.

  Chocolate. As she waited for the water to boil, she made herself consider the possibility that Paloma’s information might be a clever ploy to lure them into a trap. Saybrook didn’t trust her . . .

  “So why should I?”

  The kettle began to hiss, sending up a cloud of steam. Arianna watched the silvery vapor swirl up, only to be swallowed by the flitting shadows. Truth and Lies. They rarely defined themselves in black and white. One had to make a leap of faith.

  She put the ingredients in the porcelain pot and added the boiling water. More hazy steam rose as she spun the molinillo between her palms, whipping the mixture to a foamy mahogany hue. But faith needed to be based on fact. And the fact was, there was something awfully unsettling about the French assassin’s attack. To have known her movements, Vecchio must have been watching her night and day.

  Or had knowledge of her meeting with Paloma.

  “Ah, here you are. Dare I hope there’s a cup left for me?” Saybrook slapped his hat against his thigh and ran a hand through his wind-tangled hair. “My throat is parched.”

  Arianna carried the pot to the kitchen worktable. “Sit.”

  The smile died on his lips. He pulled over a stool and leaned his elbows on the scarred wood. The light from the mullioned window gilded the dust motes dancing around his face. In contrast, the lines of worry etched around his eyes looked dark as gunpowder, while beneath his lashes flickered a spark of alarm.

  “Tell me,” said Saybroo
k, pushing away the lump of sugar and tongs she had brought with her. “Sweetening whatever it is won’t make it go down any easier.”

  Arianna gave him a succinct account of the attack.

  The earl’s expression didn’t alter, but his gaze turned opaque. “Was this before or after your meeting with Paloma?”

  “After,” she answered. “But before you react, you had better hear the rest of it.”

  He poured out a measure of chocolate for both of them.

  “She gave me the name of a school—along with a veiled warning . . .”

  Saybrook listened in stoic silence. A breeze rattled the casement, coals crackled in the belly of the stove, and from somewhere inside the walls came the faint scrabbling of a mouse.

  When she finished, he picked up a spoon and then set it down. “Where are the others?” he asked abruptly.

  “I sent them to the school. Constantina is playing the part of a recently arrived expatriate from Ireland making inquiries about a Catholic school for her granddaughter and Sophia is acting as her maid. Knowing as much as we can about the interior layout of the building will be helpful.”

  At last a reaction—his nostrils flared slightly as he drew in a breath.

  “And before you point out that it’s likely a trap, I’m aware of that.”

  The earl looked down as his hands, which had clenched together. His knuckles had turned white. “How can I agree to allow all of you to expose yourselves to mortal danger?”

  The question hung for a moment in the air.

  “How can you not?” she replied.

  His chair scraped over the flagged floor as he rose and went to stand by the window. The sun-dappled back garden was alive with color—the pale pinks of the climbing roses clinging to the honey-hued limestone wall, the bright scarlet of Oriental poppies mixed with the shimmering blue of cranesbill geraniums, the flashes of yellow as bees flitted among the greenery.

  “At least wait until they return, and we have a chance to have a full council of war.”