A Question of Numbers

by Andrea Penrose

  Frowning, she paused for a moment in the shadows of the garden, watching the glittering procession of guests arriving for the duchess’s gala ball.

  “Remind me again . . .” Diamond-bright light spilled through the windows of the makeshift ballroom—rumor had it that the cavernous space was formerly a workshop for building carriages. It seemed to wink off every bit of gold braid, polished medal and precious gem, setting fire to the night with a blaze of brilliant colors.

  “. . . Why the devil are we here?”

  “Because Grentham asked us to perform a small favor for him,” answered Saybrook, repeating her response from the night of his uncle’s diplomatic reception. “And neither of us would be so churlish as to refuse.” He raised a brow. “Would we?”

  “How very annoying to have my own words thrown back in my face.” She listened to the heady laughter and lilting music, recalling the elegant evening that had set their mission in motion. Had it really only been a few short weeks ago? It felt like they had been stumbling over the shrouded squares of a giant chessboard for an eternity, trying to discern black from white.

  Her gaze remained locked on the show of splendor. The gentlemen, resplendent in their uniforms, the ladies bedecked in their finery—the games of power and manipulation, both personal and on a grander scale, seemed so alluring in the abstract. But soon, so many of these officers would be plunged into the chaos and confusion of the battlefield, to be butchered amid the screams of terror and agony.

  Her breath caught in her throat. “Ye gods, what a sordid world we live in, that mankind is so eager to slaughter one another.”

  “Yes.” Saybrook touched her shoulder in a fleeting caress. “Which is why we do our best to make it a better place.”

  His calm resolve helped to banish the moment of helpless cynicism.

  “I know you wish to be part of the hunt for Randolph,” he went on. “But it wouldn’t be wise. You have no connection to the working neighborhoods, and the bargemen won’t talk to a stranger. A wrong step might alert him that we know of his presence.”

  He was right, and she didn’t try to argue.

  “More to the point, Grentham needs to know what talk is swirling through the ballroom—both gossip and actual information—and for political reasons he can’t show his face in public. So it’s important that we be here.”

  Arianna nodded. “I know.” Word was already reaching the city that the French army was on the move, but exactly where they were was a matter of wild conjecture. Given that the Duke of Wellington had promised to attend the duchess’s ball—and the fact that her son was aide de camp to the Prince of Orange—the ballroom would be the best spot in the city for learning what was really happening.

  And the Duke’s presence, she reminded herself, had to mean there was no imminent danger.

  The stomp of boots and ring of clashing steel drew her back to the moment. She shot him a questioning look as an instant later the skirling moan of bagpipes rippled through the greenery.

  “The duchess has arranged for a group of Scottish soldiers to perform a Highland Fling to welcome her guests,” explained Saybrook. “Her father is the Duke of Gordon, and the regiment is the Gordon Highlanders. Come, it’s a spectacle not to be missed.”

  Arianna let herself be led into the crowded entrance foyer. A group of muscled sergeants, dressed in their dark kilts, distinctive red and white checked stockings and black-plumed tam o’shanters, were indeed a sight to behold. Jumping, twirling, stomping in perfect unison, their sabers flashing through the candlelight, they performed the traditional dance to the applause of their delighted audience.

  “Swordplay is a unique part of the Highlander’s Fling,” murmured the earl. “It requires a great deal of skill and athleticism to avoid spilling blood.”

  The dance was mesmerizing in its lethal beauty. But Arianna couldn’t help feeling a wave of sadness wash over her, wondering how many of these beautiful young men would soon be shattered corpses, lying on the battlefield far from home.

  More cheers and laughter, and suddenly she could watch no more. Her hold on Saybrook’s arm tightened. “Shall we go inside?”

  It was late, and the ballroom was thrumming with near palpable cracking of electricity. The dance floor was crowded with couples spinning by in a frenzied blur of color and laughter. But a more somber tone gripped the perimeter of the room as the officers exchanged whispers, some of them discreetly melting away into the night.

  After passing through the doorway, Saybrook left her for a moment to speak with an acquaintance. When he returned his expression was grim. “The French have crossed the Sambre river and are moving—”

  His words were cut short by a commotion behind them.

  Arianna turned to see Wellington and the Prince of Orange make their entrance, drawing an effusive greeting from the duchess.

  “The Beau looks unconcerned,” she observed. “Perhaps your friend is misinformed. As we well know, rumors can take on a life of their own.”

  Saybrook’s gaze was on the duke as he exchanged polite pleasantries with Lady Georgiana, who had broken away from the dancing to speak with him. “Wellington’s composure is always unflappable, especially when a battle is looming. But I fear the report must be true, for he’s not quite as calm as he appears.”

  That fact that Lady Georgiana had gone pale seemed to confirm the earl’s words. Fisting her skirts, the duchess’s daughter hurried away, and Arianna noted that she sought out her oldest brother, and the two of them made their way out of the ballroom.

  The duchess, however, quickly cajoled the musicians into playing a lively gavotte, and the mood once again turned festive. Laughter rang out, punctuated by the soft popping of champagne corks.

  The horrors of war seemed a world away.

  “Surely we’ve seen what we need to see,” she murmured, “and can return and make our report to Grentham.”

  The earl was still watching Wellington. “Not just yet. Now that we are here, it would be remiss to leave before I get a better sense of what the duke is thinking. Supper will be served shortly. Let us wait until then.”

  “Very well. Just as long as you don’t expect me to twirl through the steps of a waltz.” Arianna couldn’t stomach the idea of such frivolities with Death dancing ever closer.

  “No waltzing,” agreed Saybrook, his voice echoing her own sentiments about the spectacle of heedless pleasure. Shifting his stance, he added, “I see an acquaintance among the crowd around the prince. If you’ll excuse me . . .”

  “Of course.” Arianna edged back into a shadowed recess as he walked away and scanned the room for anyone she might approach for information. Lady Georgiana hadn’t returned and Henrietta Capel was nowhere to be seen. As she turned her gaze to the refreshment table, she saw a messenger rush in and hand a note to the Prince. He read it quickly and passed it to Wellington.

  The duke put it in his pocket without a glance and continued to chat with duchess and her friends.

  Unable to muster the resolve to seek out strangers, Arianna drifted out into the corridor and found a deserted side parlor that looked out over the back gardens and dark silhouettes of the sprawling tree-dotted grounds.

  Moving to the mullioned window, she pressed her forehead to one of the glass panes and closed her eyes. The night sounds softened the music drifting in from the ballroom, and for an interlude she stood simply savoring the solitude. It felt almost . . .

  Peaceful.

  She lost count of the moments, but then suddenly the snap of a twig jarred her from her reveries. Holding herself very still, Arianna peered into the gloom and saw a flutter of movement. Someone was moving through the bushes, and with a cat-footed stealth that stirred all her senses to full alert. Keeping her eyes on the cloaked figure, she felt for the pocket pistol hidden in the elaborate decorative sash of her gown and glanced at the door leading out to a narrow footpath between the hedges.

  She took a quick step, and then hesitated, conceding her nerves were on ed
ge.

  Quite likely it was merely an assignation. The beau monde was rife with husbands and wives betraying their marriage vows.

  A moment later, Arianna felt foolish when a scudding of moonlight revealed a peek of skirts beneath the hooded cloak. A lady skulking through the midnight shadows of a fancy party could be looking for only one thing . . .

  Aha!

  She bit back a cynical smile as she spotted someone else—a gentleman, also garbed in a concealing outer garment—making his way toward the cloaked lady. Games within games—he seemed intent on taking her by surprise.

  Uninterested in observing whatever intimate play they had in mind, she was about to retreat to another room, when the moon once again flickered out from behind the clouds, setting off a wink of steel as the gentleman drew a knife from his pocket.

  Arianna was out the door in a flash, fear pulsing like fire through her veins. The pale light had also illuminated the cloaked lady’s face for just an instant.

  “Run, Paloma!” she cried, darting down the footpath and plunging into the bushes. This part of the garden had been left untended, and the overgrown plantings were now a tangle of jagged shadows and unpruned branches.

  Chest burning, she paused for breath and to get her bearings. All was ominously still.

  Damnation.

  Swallowing a spurt of panic, she crept forward, trying to see through the swaying leaves. Up ahead was one of the small outbuildings that dotted the gardens. And behind it loomed the high stone wall separating the grounds from the neighboring property. Uncertain of which way to head, she paused again.

  A faint cracking sounded to her left. Arianna waited. It came again.

  She turned and slowly circled back toward the hide-and-seek light of the ballroom.

  And then she saw it—the clouds broke just enough to catch a quicksilver flicker of steel within the shadows beneath an oak tree. Raising her pistol, Arianna crept closer.

  “You witch.” Randolph had Paloma’s arms twisted behind her back and the knife pressed to her throat. “What are you doing in Brussels?”

  “Simply living a quiet life,” she responded.

  “Liar,” he snarled. “First Lisbon, and now here? It’s no coincidence—I’ve always suspected you were involved in espionage. And the fact that I’ve followed you here confirms it.”

  The señora shrugged.

  “You can’t be working for the French, or I’d know about it,” continued Randolph. “The Prussians? The Russians?”

  Instead of answering the question, she said, “And I’ve always suspected you had the morals of a reptile. What sort of man betrays the country that’s gifted him with a life of power and privilege?”

  “The sort of man who’s paid a pretty penny to do so. The Allies are weak, their armies inexperienced and in disarray. I prefer to be on the winning side.”

  Paloma flinched in pain as he yanked her arms upward.

  “Now, tell me why you were spying on me, or I swear, I’ll cut the answer out of you, inch by inch of your entrails.”

  Damnation. Hemmed in by the bushes, Arianna couldn’t shift to get a clear shot at Randolph without giving herself away.

  “Very well,” said the señora. “I earn an occasional payment by passing on information.”

  “To the British?” demanded Randolph. He couldn’t quite disguise the note of urgency in his voice. “Do they know I’m here?”

  Lifting her chin, Paloma turned her head ever so slightly. “Does it matter?” Though the darkness prevented Arianna from seeing her friend’s eyes, she was suddenly sure that Paloma sensed her presence and was doing her utmost to loosen Randolph’s tongue.

  He slapped her. “Not really. As an added reward to the money I’ve received from the French, I’ve had the personal pleasure of taking revenge on my holier-than-thou superiors. With Grentham and Pierson out of the way, I stand to move up to a very senior position in the office of state security . . . which will earn me even more riches from Napoleon for the secrets I can pass on.”

  “You may think yourself very clever,” said the señora with deliberate disdain. “However, you’ve made a critical mistake.”

  The taunt earned her another punishing jerk.

  “Liar!” snarled Randolph. “Both Grentham and his lapdog George Pierson are now prisoners of the French because of my cleverness.”

  Randolph’s smug tone made Arianna’s skin crawl. She looked again for a way to take the dastard by surprise.

  “I don’t believe you.” Paloma was experienced enough in human nature to know that men like Randolph enjoyed boasting about their accomplishments.

  “Oh, it was far easier than you think. For all his supposed ruthlessness, Grentham has an elemental weakness.” A pause. “Loyalty.”

  Arianna itched to pull the trigger and silence the sneering laugh. Instead she slid a step to her right, using the sound to cover the faint crackle of fallen leaves.

  “Working right under his nose, I gained access to his private files and learned that Pierson had been dispatched to Elba. My warning to the French, though it came too late to prevent an assassination attempt on Napoleon, ensured that he was captured. And won me the esteem of the emperor himself.”

  One more step, and she would have a decent angle for a shot.

  “Better yet, they’ll both soon be dead, as the French will no longer have any use for them.” Randolph’s tone turned even smugger. “I’ve just come from delivering a secret weapon to Napoleon. In another few days, he’ll once again be the ruler of Europe, and it will be me, not the weak-willed Prince Regent, who is the real force in Britain—”

  The rustling of the leaves came the sound of voices from the main path. Lady Georgiana and her brother were returning to main house.

  “But enough talking.” Randolph suddenly shifted to the other side of the tree and slammed Paloma up against the rough-barked trunk. “It doesn’t matter if Saybrook or his damnable she-bitch know I’m here. I’ll outwit them—and anyone who tries to stand in my way.”

  Her line of fire still blocked, Arianna had no choice but to make a desperate break from the bushes and pray she could squeeze off a shot in time.

  The thrashing sound of her steps over the brambles and twigs was agonizingly loud. And yet, she seemed to be moving in slow motion. Her feet felt as though they were mired in viscous mud.

  Randolph raised his hand.

  Too late, too late! Tears of frustration were coursing down her cheeks as she tried to take aim—

  A blinding flash exploded just to her right, causing her to stumble and fall to the ground, a shower of white-gold sparks singing her skin.

  A grunt sounded.

  Arianna pushed up to her knees to see a skein of pale smoke curl around Randolph’s shattered skull as his lifeless body spun in a lazy half circle and toppled to the ground.

  “Forgive me, Señora.” Grentham’s voice sounded unruffled as he moved out of the shadows and tucked his pistol back into his pocket. “I didn’t have a clear shot until just now.”

  Arianna scrambled to her feet and rushed to steady her slumping friend. “Ye gods–you’re hurt!” Paloma’s neck was streaked with blood and a dark stain was spreading over the shoulder of her cloak.

  “It’s naught but a nick from Randolph’s knife.” Paloma winced. “The worse blow is to my pride. Dio Madre! How could I have been such a gudgeon as to give myself away in surveillance and allow that dastard to follow me here.”

  “Never mind that now,” said Arianna. “Come inside and let me tend to your wound.”

  “No!” Paloma caught her hands and pushed her away. “You heard Randolph. He’s put the talisman in place!” She drew in a ragged breath. “You have make sure Napoleon doesn’t get his hands on it.”

  Arianna watched the dark crimson beads of blood meander down the pale flesh of her friend’s throat. “Your safety is more important—”

  “Damnation, you don’t believe that!” Paloma’s eyes blazed with a martial spark. “Not
for an instant.”

  “Bloody Hell, Señora! Don’t be a fool—” began Grentham.

  “Yes, yes, I know you think it’s madness, milord,” shot back Paloma. “But that’s because you’re a man. We women know that there’s a power that comes from here . . .” she touched her heart, “that cannot be explained. Nor can it be ignored.”

  Arianna opened her mouth to argue and then shut it.

  “Some things are worth whatever risk is required,” continued Paloma “It’s a matter of principle. We can’t let Evil triumph over Good because the fight is hard or dangerous. If we do so, then we’re no better than the enemies who twist Right and Wrong to serve their own self-interest.”

  Arianna knew what she ought to reply—but alas, she had never been one to allow prudence to take precedence over principle. Flashing a smile of surrender, she touched the señora’s shoulder. “Let me take you to our carriage, then I’ll fetch Saybrook.”

  “Get him now,” insisted Paloma. “There’s not a moment to lose. Lord Grentham can see me to the carriage.” She fixed him with a challenging look. “Or I’ll find my own way. I’ll recognize your coachman.”

  Grentham closed his eyes for an instant. “I’d appeal to the Almighty, but I doubt if even He has any control over you Furies.”

  An apt analogy, realized Arianna. In Greek mythology, the Furies were feared as implacable avengers, who punished the misdeeds of mortals.

  Expelling a log-suffering sigh, Grentham offered the señora his arm.

  “Gracias,” said Paloma. “For your impeccable manners.” A smile. “And for saving my life.”

  “Please don’t make me regret it.”

  Chapter 28

  The musicians had switched from the lively gavottes and reels for dancing to the softer melody of a Haydn string concerto for the supper interlude. Arianna could hear the chink of plates and cutlery floating down from the galleries overlooking the ballroom, where the duchess was serving the late evening repast.

  And yet, some couples still lingered on the dancefloor, clinging to each other as if their tearful endearments could silence the drums of war for just a little while longer.