A Question of Numbers

by Andrea Penrose

Saybrook turned, the tangle of dark hair framing his face making his flesh look bloodless.

  Arianna hated squeezing him between a rock and a stone. She knew that every bone in his body would break before he betrayed his sense of right and wrong.

  He uttered a soft oath in Spanish—which she knew was a sign of surrender. “While we wait, tell me more about what you have in mind.”

  “Come upstairs to our quarters.” She had spent the last hour sketching out some preliminary plans. “I’ll show you how it can be done with a minimum of risk.”

  As they passed through the sitting room and entered the bedchamber, his gaze immediately fell upon the coils of rope and pulleys spread out on the counterpane. “A minimum of risk?” he muttered.

  “You know very well that from my years of sailing in the West Indies I can outrace a monkey among the lines and knots of a ship’s rigging.”

  He didn’t smile.

  She fetched her notebook and turned to a rough sketch. “The convent schools I’ve seen over the past week all have similar features . . .” She went on to outline her idea for extracting Pierson’s daughter. “I just have to move from here to here, and using the ropes will greatly reduce the chances of being seen. Then it’s a simple matter of lowering the girl to the ground and following along once she’s in safe arms.”

  “On paper, it looks perfect.” The earl looked up. “Deceptively so.”

  “That doesn’t mean it won’t work.”

  He ran a finger along a length of the rope. “And what happens if there is a spider waiting for the fly to fall straight into its sticky web.”

  “Then I’ll have to improvise. It won’t be the first time.”

  Her quick bravado didn’t soften his scowl.

  Two swift steps brought her close to him—close enough to seize his wrist and place his palm against her cheek. An unnatural chill suffused his skin and she pressed closer, wanting to share her warmth. “I don’t mean to be glib, Sandro. If you have a better idea, I’m more than happy to hear it. But regardless of the risks, we can’t in good conscience shy away from action because it might put us in danger.”

  A stirring in his dark eyes gave hint at his inner anguish. “I’m damned if I do,” he whispered, “and damned if I don’t.”

  “Then we’ll both go to the devil together.”

  “It’s not that simple . . .” But before he could continue, a noise in the entrance hall signaled that Constantina and Sophia had returned.

  “Let us go hear what they have to say,” suggested Arianna. “And then we can assess our options.”

  They descended the stairs to find the dowager untying a rather hideous bonnet that muddled unflattering shades of gray with a straitlaced poke and a voluminous black veil.

  “Wherever did you get that?” asked Arianna. She hadn’t seen them leave the house.

  “Ghastly, isn’t it?” replied Constantina with grim satisfaction. She tugged at her ill-fitting gown, whose bulging layers of underskirts made her look like a misshapen turnip. “I had my maid search out several outfits suitable for disguise before we left London.”

  “No one,” said Saybrook, “would ever recognize the beau monde’s leading arbiter of style.” The dowager was known for her refined taste and elegant bearing. “Or if they did, let us hope you don’t start a trend for dressing like a moldy vegetable.”

  “Hmmph.” Wincing, she unwound the heavy black shawl from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. “Lud, that was beastly hot and heavy.”

  “Nonetheless, you were magnificent,” said Sophia.

  Where her friend had borrowed such a drab gown and mousey bonnet was a mystery. Arianna lifted her brows in question, knowing that her own maid would eat flooring nails rather than wear such ugly garments.

  “The scullery maid’s mother was happy to lend me appropriate clothing for the afternoon,” offered Sophia in response. “Though for the price I paid, I could have purchased a lovely ballgown.”

  “Yes, but it was worth it.” Constantina gestured at the door to the side parlor. “May we all sit before we tell you what happened? These cursed half boots are a touch too small.”

  Arianna helped the dowager to the sofa and crouched down to unlace the offending footwear.

  Constantina released a sigh of relief as the boot slid off and wiggled her stocking-clad toes. “Bless you.”

  “Brandy?” asked the earl.

  “No, no—we must keep our wits about us, given the task ahead.” The dowager sat up straighter. “The Mother Superior at the convent all but confirmed that Pierson’s daughter is there.” She looked to her partner-in-espionage. “Isn’t that so?”

  “Yes,” confirmed Sophia. “Lady Sterling was wonderfully convincing as a concerned grandmother, wishing to deal discreetly with a granddaughter born on the wrong side of the blanket without stirring up ugly gossip that might blacken the family’s name.” She gave an admiring smile. “I wasn’t aware you could spin such outrageous bouncers, milady.”

  “One gets plenty of practice when one circulates in Polite Society,” replied Constantina dryly. “The Mother Superior was very understanding, especially when I mentioned the fee I was willing to pay for the gel. She assured me that the convent had another British boarder whose family also demanded absolute privacy, and that she and the other nuns were sworn to a vow of silence concerning their students.”

  “And Lady Sterling was clever enough to ask to see where the girls lived within the convent,” offered Sophia. “We can describe the precise location. It adjoins the bell tower.”

  “So, it seems the first part of the plan has proved successful,” observed Arianna. “As to the second . . .” She met Saybrook’s gaze. “We now must make a choice.”

  “I thought—” began Sophia, then quickly bit off her words.

  Constantina eyed the earl with an inscrutable look but said nothing.

  Which must have required a prodigious amount of self-control, thought Arianna, allowing herself a flicker of humor to lighten the moment. The dowager was rarely at a lack for words.

  Saybrook rose, a telling sign of his strange uncertainty. He was not one to dither over a decision. His sense of right and wrong was always quick to narrow down the possible options.

  So what was holding him back?

  She watched him pace around the perimeter of the room before venturing a suggestion. “Perhaps if we discuss whatever reservations you have about the plan we could come up with a way to solve them?”

  He shook his head. “I concede that your plan has merit. Indeed, it’s the best way of spiriting the girl to safety without alerting our enemies that we suspect Pierson is alive.”

  “Then what is the sticking point?” demanded Arianna.

  “Me,” he said bleakly. “I can’t be two places at once.”

  “Nor can I,” came a deep-throated growl from the darkened corridor. “And so,” continued Grentham as he slipped out of the shadows and entered the room, “I hope you have a damnably good reason for summoning me here.”

  Chapter 18

  “I didn’t summon you here,” said Arianna. She had briefly considered it, but rejected the idea for any number of reasons. Most of all, because she knew he would be even more opposed to her planned aerial exploits than Saybrook.

  “I did,” announced her husband. “Though I’m now doubly glad you are here.”

  “Explain yourself,” snapped the minister.

  “I’ll start with my own discovery,” replied Saybrook. “I’ve a reliable informant who’s spotted the senior adjutant to the head of French military intelligence in the area. If Pierson is alive, I think it’s almost certain that he’ll be among the officer’s entourage.”

  Grentham frowned. “The French have crossed the border?”

  “I saw a reconnaissance patrol no more than a four-hour ride from here,” replied the earl.

  “Wellington seems to think Napoleon’s forces are not nearly that close.”

  “I have no idea where the
main army is.” Saybrook paused. “And from what I’ve seen, the duke’s advance observers are the Belgian troops under the Prince of Orange’s command. I can’t help but wonder where their true loyalties lie. Until recently they fought for the French.”

  “The Devil only knows whether they can be trusted,” muttered the minister. “However, Wellington has little choice but to do so. He’s hard-pressed to cobble together a credible force to oppose Napoleon, should the emperor decide to march east.”

  “Oh, he’s coming,” said Saybook. “It’s just a question of when.”

  A sharp exhale sounded in reply. “Dare I hope you have better news for your second discovery?” asked the minister.

  “Yes and no,” answered Arianna.

  Her announcement drew a sour look from Grentham. “Why is nothing ever clear-cut with you two?”

  “That,” she retorted, “is akin to the pot calling the kettle black.”

  He chuffed a grunt.

  “You’ll be happy to hear we’ve homed in on the school where Pierson’s daughter is boarding.” Arianna smoothed a wrinkle from her skirts. “However, my informant told me others have been making similar inquiries, and time is of the essence in getting her to safety before they locate her.”

  “Who is your informant?” demanded Grentham.

  “That’s not important,” she replied. “I’m quite sure the information is credible.”

  The minister’s face hardened. His features looked as though they had been chiseled out of cold granite. “Why is that?”

  “Because Vecchio attempted to kill me this afternoon. I doubt he would have bothered unless his superiors felt that I had become a threat to their objectives.”

  “There’s more,” added Saybrook. He went on to explain about Orlov, and how the prince had shouted a warning to Arianna.

  Grentham took a long moment to digest the news. “So, the identity of the traitor within the Russian delegation has become even less clear.”

  “It has,” agreed Arianna. “But it seems to me that we have a more immediate problem, which is how to rescue Pierson’s daughter before the French get to her.”

  A flicker of surprise darkened in his gunmetal-gray eyes. “I assumed you and your husband had already formulated a plan.”

  “I did come up with an idea,” she responded. “And Lady Sterling and Miss Kirtland have already completed the first part of it—quite successfully, I might add. However . . .” A glance at Saybrook. “My husband was just about to explain the obstacles to completing the mission when you arrived.”

  A hush fell over the room as the earl stepped away from the hearth. His movements were tentative and lacking their usual lithe grace.

  “There are any number of concerns, but that is always the case when a plan is dangerous.” Another step brought him into the sliver of shadow cast by a tall curio cabinet. “The reason I don’t see how it can be done is because, as I said, I can’t be in two places at once.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. It was, noted Arianna, in dire need of trimming.

  “I’ve managed to set up a meeting late tonight with a Frenchman willing to sell information about the whereabouts of the French intelligence headquarters. It may be our only chance to locate Pierson.”

  “But—” began Arianna.

  “Please hear me out.”

  She bit back a protest. It was a fair request.

  “We know where Pierson’s daughter is,” explained the earl. “What’s uncertain is whether waiting a day will affect the chances of rescuing her.”

  Damn him for being so infuriatingly rational. She couldn’t argue with his logic.

  “Let us assume I can’t be part of the rescue mission. That would leave the three ladies,” continued Saybrook, his words directed at Grentham. “I would hope that my great aunt’s innate common sense will prevent her from imagining she can take part in the actual rescue mission.”

  “The spirit is willing.” Constantina shifted uncomfortably in her chair and glanced down at her frail toes. “But I concede the flesh is weak.”

  “So that leaves my wife and Miss Kirtland to undertake it on their own,” pointed out Saybrook. “I have the utmost respect for their skills . . .”

  Arianna sensed the tiny pause presaged the tossing of a metaphorical gauntlet at her feet.

  “However, my wife’s own carefully constructed sketches show that three people are required for the plan to work.”

  She sought to deflect the challenge. “It could work with two.”

  “But it would be far more dangerous—for both you and the child.”

  Her first reaction was to point out that there was no reason to expect danger. Ye gods, they were entering a convent, not a military fortress. Yes, it would be unwelcome if the alarm was raised and uncomfortable questions asked, but . . .

  But the sudden memory of the afternoon—a sudden jerk, the flash of a blade—caused her to surrender the point without a fight. He was right. Danger could strike at any moment.

  Ever the gentleman, Saybrook gave her another moment to voice an objection before putting the moral dilemma to Grentham.

  “So you see, we must make a decision, and I think the facts dictate that my meeting is the most pressing one.”

  “I would agree with you,” said the minister slowly. “Except it seems to me the only impediment to doing both is the lack of an additional body.”

  Eyes widening, Sophia sucked in an audible breath. “Your arm!”

  “My arm is quite healed, Miss Kirtland, thanks to the expert medical attention of Lady Saybrook,” drawled the minister. “And I assure you, I can handle a pistol nearly as well as you can.” A pause. “I trust you’ll take my word on it, but I can demonstrate it if you so desire.”

  Sophia flushed.

  Her friend’s display of prowess had been a little theatrical, admitted Arianna. There were ways to prove a point, other than spinning a loaded weapon on one finger when its barrel had been pointed at Grentham’s forehead.

  “That won’t be necessary, milord,” murmured Sophia.

  “Well then, fetch your sketches, Lady Saybrook,” said the minister, “and show me what you have in mind.”

  Clouds had blown in to obscure the crescent moon and the air was turning heavy with the scent of approaching rain. Arianna and Grentham, both dressed in black, their faces darkened with ash, crept along a narrow alleyway, hugging close to the convent wall. They moved with care through the fetid gloom, picking their way by feel through the rotting detritus.

  Arianna didn’t care to contemplate what lay beneath her feet.

  After several more steps, she looked up. The steeply-pitched roof of the building abutting the bell tower was silhouetted against the fitful night sky, the dark-on-dark terracotta tiles looking slightly menacing through the ghostly swirls of mist.

  “This is a good spot,” she whispered. “It provides the right angle for the grappling iron.”

  Grentham handed over the coil of rope slung over his shoulder.

  After a quick tug to test the knot attached to the barbed metal, Arianna stepped back and paid out a length of the heavy rope.

  “I trust you’ve done this before,” he murmured.

  “More times than you might like to know,” she replied, hefting the hook to feel its weight.

  The quicksilver spasm in the shadows might have been a quirk of his lips.

  “You know the plan,” added Arianna. “Once I’m up and give the signal—” The hoot of a barn owl, two quick times in succession, had been agreed upon. “—You move around to the street to keep watch on the rear gate for any sign of alarm, while Sophia takes up her station here.”

  They had decided that a single horse and rider had the best chance of going unnoticed. And given her friend’s equestrian skills, Sophia was the perfect choice for carrying Pierson’s daughter to safety, leaving the minister free to deal with any trouble that might arise. She and Grentham, who had been dropped by carriage several streets away, would make t
heir own way back to the house.

  “I, too, have done this before,” he drawled.

  Arianna checked that her pistol was snugged in one pocket and a second length of rope in the other. “Then let us get on with it.” Looking up again to gauge the distance, she began to swing the grappling iron.

  Swoosh, swoosh—the hooked metal cut through the air like a raptor taking to its wings. “Godspeed, milord,” she said, and let it fly.

  The iron hit with a brittle thump and began to scrabble over the weathered tiles.

  Arianna darted sideways, and with a hard flick of her wrist yanked the rope taut.

  The sounds ceased.

  She pulled again, leaning back to set her full weight on the hooks. They held. Without a glance at Grentham, she began a shimmying climb up the wall, her rope-soled shoes moving with barely a whisper over the mortised stone. It took only a few moments to reach the narrow parapet and jump over to the steep slant of the roof.

  So far, so good. A quick scramble halfway up would allow her to slide over and gain access to the bell room of the tower. From there, the circular stairs would lead down to the courtyard.

  The rope still in hand, Arianna followed it to the iron and used her heel to lodge its prongs more firmly into the crannies before releasing her hold and leaving the rope in place for the escape. Crouching low, she crossed the tiles and swung herself up and through the opening in the tower. The massive bells hung in weighty silence, their leaden shapes all but filling the small space. As she brushed up against the nearest one, the night-chilled metal felt cold as death.

  She shook off the thought. Specters be damned. A mission had no room for distractions.

  Pausing only long enough to hoot the arranged signal, Arianna eased the arched door open and started down the steps. Perhaps it was the earlier events of the day playing games with her mind, but a sudden prickling—like a knifepoint dancing down her spine—caused her to slow down and shift her weight to the balls of her feet as she came to the last turn before the bottom landing. Drawing a breath, she held herself very still.

  Specters. It was dangerous to allow—