Recipe for Treason: A Lady Arianna Regency Mystery (Lady Arianna Hadley Mystery) (20 page)

“Do we know that he is, in fact, still there?” demanded the earl. “We need to put him under special guard until Renard has been captured. But we can’t afford to rush off on a wild-goose chase.” Under his breath he added, “I’ll be damned if I subject myself to yet another hellish carriage journey, only to find he’s flown the coop.”

“I’ve given the question top priority. My most trusted courier is already en route to verify the information,” answered Grentham. “The fellow is tough as steel and rides like the Devil. We should have an answer by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Let us hope it isn’t too late,” muttered the earl.

In response, the minister pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat and flipped open the engraved case. “We’ve wasted nearly an hour dithering over your so-called Bright Lights. Do you have any other leads to follow, Mr. Lawrance, or do I need to assign one of my own men to take over the task?”

“I don’t think that would be a wise move at this point, milord. It would require far too much time for a new member to establish himself at the Royal Institution,” replied Lawrance stiffly. “I’ve a morning meeting with Willoughby’s secretary and expect to turn up some new leads.”

A wink of gold, a snap of metal, sounding overloud in the grim silence. “Then it seems any further talk here is pointless,” said Grentham. “Let us hope tomorrow provides an opportunity for decisive action. So far, you all have been moving”—he slanted a sneer at the crocks of spices and condiments—“slower than molasses.”

“Why, bravo, sir. You actually recognize some of the contents of a kitchen,” murmured Arianna.

The flick of her husband’s dark lashes semaphored a clear message—
bite your tongue
. She looked away. “Speaking of which, is anyone else feeling peckish? The refreshments at the institution were inedible.”

“Thank you, but no. As the minister says, it is late, so I’ll join him in taking my leave without further delay,” said Lawrance.

“It’s best that you don’t leave together,” replied the earl. “If Lord Grentham would kindly wait here for a few moments, I will show you the way out through the mews.”

The minister chuffed an impatient grunt, but as it was obvious that Saybrook wanted a private word, he remained where he was.

“Would you care for some of my chocolate pastries, Lord Grentham?” The door to the larder swung open. “The ancient Aztecs considered
Theobroma cacao
a very healthful substance,” she added. Her first encounter with the minister had come when she was the prime suspect in the poisoning of the Prince Regent. That she, a lone female, had evaded his network of operatives still seemed to stick in his gullet—a fact that she couldn’t resist jamming down his throat.

“I don’t care for sweets,” he answered curtly.

“Aunt Constantina seems to think you weren’t so sour in your youth.” A low laugh echoed the rasp of the storage tin popping open. “Were you ever young, sir?”

“No—like Athena, I emerged fully formed from the forehead of Zeus.”

The quip took her by surprise. She must have betrayed her ignorance because Grentham was quick to add, “It is one of the core tales of Greek mythology, Lady Saybrook. Athena is the goddess of wisdom . . . and war.”

“Th-that sounds contradictory,” she said, carefully placing several pastries on a plate.

“The ancient Greeks had a keen understanding of human nature. It’s one of the reasons that we study the classics”—he allowed a tiny pause—“in our youth.”

Feeling a little off balance, Arianna drew in a steadying breath.
I must be weak with hunger to allow Grentham to put me on the defensive.

“I did not attend Eton, or any fancy English school, sir,” she replied, trying not to sound snappish. “My education was of a more pragmatic bent.”

“Ah yes, that’s right—you were taught far more practical skills by your swindler father.”

“Really, sir, such juvenile taunts ought to be beneath you.”

His response was another jolt to her equilibrium. Rather than fling further insults at her head, Grentham reached for the brandy bottle and poured a little more into his empty glass. “That is rather the pot calling the kettle black, is it not, Countess?”

His words struck home harder than she cared to admit. “True. But one of the lessons I learned very early in life was that I could either be intimidated by a bigger, stronger opponent—and therefore be crushed—or I could take the offensive and throw the first punches. A show of fearlessness is often a far more powerful weapon than actual force.”

“An interesting philosophy.”

“It wasn’t philosophy; it was necessity,” replied Arianna tartly.

“You appear to have led a rather serendipitous life.”

“No, I have led a desperate life, Lord Grentham.” She sliced one of the sultana-studded pastries into quarters. “Have you ever been hungry—truly hungry? Or so cold that you would have gladly sold your soul to the Devil if Hell would have warmed the ice from your bones?”

He stared at her unblinking.

“Well, now that we’re sharing intimacies with each other, I am curious, sir.” He had made her feel vulnerable and she wished to pay him back in kind. “Were you or weren’t you ever married? Saybrook seemed uncertain when I asked him.”

“Yes, I recall overhearing your question at Lord Trumbull’s house party. As you no doubt intended.”

He was right. She had, of course, made some highly unflattering speculations in querying her husband.

“Allow me to satisfy your curiosity. I
was
married,” said Grentham softly. “My wife died in childbirth, along with my newborn son.”

“A-and you are heartbroken?” she replied, covering the clench of her insides with a sardonic sneer.

“Precisely,” he answered, mimicking her tone. “Ah, but we are both forgetting—I don’t have a heart.”

Arianna wasn’t quite sure how to answer.

He rose and straightened the pleats of his trousers. “I am surprised you and your husband haven’t yet questioned whether I have
cojones
.”

“Why, Lord Grentham, you shock me.” Her mouth twitched in grudging acknowledgment of this new dimension to his character. “It seems you
do
possess a sense of humor. I shall have to inform Constantina.”

“While you are at it, you may tell the old dragon that if she ever threatens to burn my bum again, I shall lock her in a Newgate dungeon with no sweets for a month.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“No.” The minister turned at the sound of footsteps in the corridor, hiding his expression in the swirl of shadows. “Probably not.”

Saybrook halted in the doorway, as if the strange sparks of tension in the room had sent up a warning flare. “What wouldn’t the minister dare?” he growled at Arianna.

“To cross swords with Constantina,” she replied lightly. “Which shows he possesses at least half a brain.”

“You wished to discuss something with me, Lord Saybrook?” demanded the minister. “For however entertaining it is to hear your wife’s opinion of my intelligence—or lack thereof—I’ve other work to finish this evening.”

“I won’t keep you long,” said the earl. “I simply wanted to ask whether you are satisfied with Lord Mory’s explanation of the Foreign Office’s independent investigation.”

“I was not unaware of the fact they have their own agents. I have dealt with Mory on several occasions and have no reason to doubt his integrity,” answered Grentham. “Is there a reason you ask?”

“Merely to consider all the possibilities, however remote. The thought did occur that maybe it’s not an individual we are up against but a group of people. Maybe a faction within the Foreign Office is betraying the government,” suggested the earl.

“A cabal within Whitehall? Good God, you are even more suspicious than I am.” Grentham gave a thin smile. “But the answer is yes, I’ve thought of that too, and have done enough probing to feel confident that the threat is not coming from that quarter.”

“How very terrifying that my mind might spin in the same direction as yours.” Saybrook perched a hip on the worktable and watched Arianna cut one of the pieces of her pastries into bite-size morsels. “Is that your new recipe for sultanas and orange peel?”

“Yes. I let the textures and flavors mellow for a few days. Here, have a taste and see what you think,” she said, lifting a nibble to his lips.

Saybrook opened his mouth and she placed the chocolate on his tongue. Their eyes met, sparking spontaneous smiles.

Out of the corner of her eye, Arianna caught Grentham watching them share the moment. His expression was impossible to read.

“Mmmm.” The earl swallowed thoughtfully. “Excellent, though I think it could do with a teaspoon or two less sugar. That would let the orange peel have a little more bite.”

“I think you are right,” she murmured.

“Would that the two of you would devote as much attention to cooking up a recipe to catch Renard,” said the minister, reaching for his hat.

“We are doing our best to assemble the ingredients, Lord Grentham. We can’t crack eggs until we can add your courier’s information to the mix.”

“Which way out shall I use?”

“Follow me.”

As the sound of their steps receded, Arianna propped her elbows on the scarred wood and inhaled deeply. Maybe the exchange with Grentham had her unsettled, but all at once the smells of the kitchen—caramelized sugar, fragrant spices, steam infused with the sweet scent of chocolate—stirred sharp memories of her childhood. Tropical colors and voodoo shadows, lilting laughter and pitiful screams, languid days and frenzied nights.

Life.
Past and present seemed to bubble up from the copper cauldrons and wash over her, an ocean of memories surging, swirling, spinning. Strange, how her schemes now had a purpose, her relationships now had meaning. In years gone by, she had deliberately avoided commitment, caring only about surviving from day to day.

“I traveled wherever the whim took me,” she murmured. “Light as a feather, free as a sea breeze.”

Coals crackled in the stove.

“I’ve more substance, more depth, which I suppose is for the good.” Her mouth pinched in a rueful grimace. “But things back then were easier. Simpler.”

Love—love was oh so complicated, a coil of conflicting feelings twisting in her gut. A part of her resented the loss of emotional freedom . . .

“Ah, but would you rather be adrift on an ocean of loneliness, with no anchor to humanity?” Arianna asked herself. Freedom was not simple either.

Loss and compromise were part of both worlds.
Ebb and flow.
Like the sea, life had an elemental rhythm to it. And like the sea, there were shifting tides, dangerous rip currents, hidden shoals, ready to wreck the unwary sailor.

“Are you all right?”

Arianna looked up. She hadn’t heard Saybrook return.

“Just thinking.”

He bent down to pick up the knife that had slipped from her fingers. “About what?”

“Did you study Greek mythology?” she asked evasively.

“Of course. Every schoolboy does.”

“Tell me one of them.”

Saybrook raised his brows. “Murder, betrayal, rape—they aren’t exactly the most soothing of bedtime stories.”

“Nonetheless, I wish to become familiar with them,” insisted Arianna, feeling sharply aware of the void in her formal learning. Most of his friends—including Miss Kirtland—possessed a classical education.

“Very well, let me think of where to begin . . . Ah, let us start with the one about light. An apt subject for our present predicament.” He offered his arm. “But if you don’t mind, let us retire to more comfortable quarters.”

19

From
Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks

Chocolate-Dipped Shortbread Cookies

¹
/
₂
cup butter, softened

¹
/
₄
cup brown sugar

11/8 cups all-purpose flour

4 ounces semisweet chocolate, finely chopped

¹
/
₄
cup heavy cream

1. Preheat the oven to 300°F. Beat the butter with an electric mixer until creamy. Gradually add the brown sugar, beating until light and fluffy. Slowly add the flour, beating until blended. Chill for at least 1 hour.

2. Roll the chilled dough to
¹
/
₄
-inch thickness between sheets of parchment paper. Remove the top sheet of parchment paper. Cut the dough into desired shapes using a cookie cutter. Remove excess dough.

3. Place the cookies with the parchment paper on a baking sheet. Bake for 18 to 20 minutes, or until lightly browned. Remove immediately to a wire rack to cool.

4. In a small bowl set over a saucepan of hot water, melt the semisweet chocolate with the cream. Stir until smooth and keep warm.

5. When the cookies have cooled, dip one half of a cookie in the chocolate and return it to the cooling rack so the chocolate can set. Repeat with the remaining cookies.

“L
ift your hands.” Sophia’s breath formed pale puffs of vapor against the early-morning gloom. “You are allowing your horse to control you rather than the other way around.”

“Sorry.” Arianna straightened in the saddle and tried to keep her attention from wandering.

“You look tired. If you would prefer to curtail our ride, I know a shortcut back to your groom.”

“No, no, I could do with a bit of fresh air to clear my head.” She squeezed at the reins, still finding the sensation felt very awkward. “Besides, there have been a number of new developments that you ought to hear.”

Sophia listened in silence, waiting until the summary was done before letting out a low a whistle. “Henry Lawrance an agent for the Foreign Office? I suppose I must give him credit for being more than a foppish fribble.”

“So it would seem,” murmured Arianna, wondering whether there was a reason other than the biting chill that her companion’s cheeks were now a vivid shade of crimson.

“Exotic chocolates and daredevil aviators, a secret explosive and a missing inventor.” Sophia shook her head. “How does it all fit together?”

“I don’t know yet,” admitted Arianna. “One tiny piece of the puzzle eludes me right now. What’s frustrating is that I’ve a feeling that I’ve got it in my grasp”—she gestured to punctuate her point—“I just haven’t recognized it.”

Her horse shied at the sudden jerk on the reins.

Arianna lurched forward. Losing her grip on the leather, she ducked low and grabbed a handful of her mount’s glossy mane.

“Damnation,” she muttered, determined not to suffer an embarrassing fall. “I—”

The rest of her words were lost in a pelter of pounding hooves as a dark shape exploded from behind a thicket of holly bushes.

A frightened whinny, a skittish veer.
The ground began to spin and suddenly everything was happening so fast that all Arianna could see were bits and snatches of the whirling action.
A flash of steel, a foam-flecked stallion charging straight at her.

Abandoning the fight to keep her seat, she threw herself sideways, hoping against hope to roll free of the slashing strides of the big bay. Her heart was galloping faster than the oncoming beast. The chances were slim—she would likely be squashed like a bug.

Sophia reacted in a flash. Urging her mount forward, she cut off the attacker’s angle and forced the stallion to alter its path. Mere inches perhaps, but just enough that it raced harmlessly by.

Tucking into a tight roll, Arianna bounced over the hard, cold ground, dead leaves crunching loud as cannon fire in her ears. She looked up to see the stallion trying to wheel around, but Sophia had set her spirited gray flank to flank with the bay, and the two animals were jostling and kicking up great clots of earth.

Expelling a vicious oath, the rider threw up an arm to shield his masked face from the flurry of blows from Sophia’s crop.

“Watch out! He has a knife!” called Arianna.

Deaf to the warning, Sophia redoubled her attack, elbows flying like a whirling dervish as she added a barrage of slaps and punches with her other hand.

Scrambling to her feet, Arianna snatched up a rock and hurled it at the prancing bay. It hit square against the stallion’s withers, and with a frightened snort, the big beast danced back.

Between the bucking horseflesh and the thrashing rain of whip leather, their assailant lost his weapon. A last, strangled snarl, and he turned his mount and spurred away into the thinning mist.

“Good God, are you hurt?” cried Arianna between gasps for breath. Catching hold of the gray’s bridle, she ran a calming hand along its sweating neck.

Sophia blinked, and it took a moment for the blank look to clear from her face. “I—I don’t think so,” she said. “J-just a bruise or two.” The air leached from her lungs. “What about you?”

“The same,” answered Arianna. “Thanks to your intervention. Is Boadicea, the warrior queen of Britain, among your family forebears?”

“Not that I know of.” Her shrug ended in a wince. “Nor can I explain what came over me. It was like a haze—”

A question cut through the fog. “Does this horse perchance belong to you?”

Arianna turned slowly at the sound of the all-too-familiar voice. She had lost her shako, and smears of mud streaked the disheveled folds of her riding habit. “Yes, it does, Lord Grentham,” she said tersely.

The minister looked down his long nose, and then at Sophia, whose hair was hanging down in lopsided tangles from beneath the battered brim of her once-stylish high-crown hat. “Your mastery of eccentric skills does not appear to extend to equestrian pursuits, Lady Saybrook.”

Sophia huffed an indignant snort.

“You don’t appear to be much more comfortable in the saddle, Miss Kirtland.”

“Do forgive our unladylike appearance, sir,” said Sophia acidly. “Alas, fending off an attack by a knife-wielding military man requires such an
untidy
amount of exertion.”

His features immediately sharpened. “You were attacked?”

“By a man mounted on a big bay stallion,” replied Arianna. “Did you not see anyone riding off?”

Thinning his lips, Grentham flicked a hard stare off into the distance.

Ignoring the minister for a moment, she turned back to Sophia. “What makes you say he was a military man? A cloak and a mask covered most of his person.”

“I got a good look at his eyes when my crop cut a rip in the silk. It was Stoughton.”

“You are sure?” demanded Grentham.

“Absolutely,” answered Sophia without hesitation. “I would recognize his God-benighted orbs anywhere. Not to speak of the small scar that I put above his left brow the last time he attacked a companion of mine.”

The minister frowned.

“If you doubt me, track him down. I struck a solid blow to our assailant’s right eye.” Her voice was edged with savage satisfaction. “I’m quite sure it will be swollen shut.”

“I noticed that the horse had a white blaze on its forehead, and a stocking of the same color on its hind leg—” Arianna sucked in a sharp breath on spotting a small dark circle spreading just below the epaulette of Sophia’s claret-colored riding jacket. “Good Lord, you
are
hurt, Miss Kirtland!”

Sophia touched a gloved hand to her shoulder and looked in quizzical bemusement at the smear of blood on the kidskin. “Oh.”

“Dismount this instant and let me take a look at you.”

Grentham swung around. “I’ll summon help.”

“No! The last thing we want to do is attract attention to the attack.” Arianna grabbed the reins of Sophia’s gray and handed them to the minister. “Let’s get ourselves into the shelter of the bushes so that I can take a look at the wound. Then we can decide how to proceed.”

Taking Sophia by her uninjured arm, Arianna marched her to a secluded spot screened by the leafy branches. “Sit down,” she ordered, grateful to find a rock outcropping. Without further ado, she began peeling back the layers of fabric.

“Have you a handkerchief, Lord Grentham?”

The minister pulled a snowy white square of linen from his pocket and handed it over. “Surely we must summon a surgeon,” he said tightly.

“Not necessary,” said Arianna, folding the handkerchief into a thick pad. “It’s just a flesh wound. A bit of pressure will staunch the bleeding. Once I get Miss Kirtland home, I’ll have Mr. Henning come bandage it properly. But I doubt it will require stitches.”

Sophia swayed slightly.

“You are doing quite nicely, Miss Kirtland. Is this the first time you’ve been knifed?”

“Yes,” answered Sophia faintly. She glanced down at the makeshift bandage and blanched. “I can’t say that I wish to make a habit of it.”

A growl rumbled in Grentham’s throat.

“No, indeed not,” said Arianna quickly before he could comment. “I can assure you the experience does not improve with repetition.” Seeking to keep her companion distracted, she recounted several of her dockyard tales from the Caribbean. “The Malay captain was quicker than a snake. I thought I’d escaped his blade when I swung away on the rope, but he nicked my bum just as I cleared the ship’s railing.”

Sophia started laughing. “Do you have a scar?”

“Shaped like a half-moon.” She darted a glance at the minister, who was standing rather stiffly by her side. “Sorry if we are shocking you, sir.”

Scowling, he muttered something about “deucedly odd females.”

“Seeing as we offend your sensibilities, sir, you may feel free to leave,” said Sophia.

“Indeed, you ought to be pursuing that cur Stoughton, not wasting precious time with us,” added Arianna.

“But I can’t very well rush off and leave you two ladies here on your own,” exclaimed Grentham. “What if you were to . . . faint?”

Arianna and Sophia each fixed him with a coldly disdainful stare. “I’ve never fainted in my life,” they snapped in unison.

Looking uncertain, Grentham cleared his throat with a defensive cough. “Hmmph. Shock often sets in as a delayed reaction.”

“I’m well aware of that, but as far as shocks go, this one is really quite mild,” said Arianna. “There was a time off the island of Guadeloupe . . . Oh, but never mind that now.”

“I assure you, there is no need to kick up a dust, sir,” said Sophia, shooing him away with a wave of her bloodstained glove. “We are quite capable of managing on our own. I have every confidence in Lady Saybrook’s ability to patch me up and get me home without making a fuss about it.”

Seeing Sophia’s pale face, Arianna did not blame the minister for looking unconvinced.

“Speaking of making a fuss, how is it that you were here on the scene, Lord Grentham?” demanded her companion. “Are you still spying on us?”

His nostrils flared. “I was taking a shortcut through the park to my office at Horse Guards.” He paused for just an instant. “As I do every day.”

“At this early hour?” scoffed Sophia.

“I am often at my desk by this time in the morning.” A thin smile pinched at his mouth. “Trouble waits for no man.”

“Or woman,” quipped Arianna, wiping her hands on her skirts. “Saybrook is not going to be happy about this—”

“Oh, let’s not tell him,” exclaimed Sophia. “He’ll demand that we stop investigating.”

Arianna hesitated. Her thoughts were running in much the same direction, so she was sorely tempted to agree. However, a glance at Grentham slowed her scheming to a halt. “I’m afraid we can’t count on the minister not to spill the beans. With him, logic often seems to fall on deaf ears—he has a very low opinion of females and will probably do it simply out of spite.”

The minister’s cheeks turned a mottled red. She guessed it wasn’t because of the chill wind.

“You ladies aren’t frightened?” he demanded.

“We are not ninnies, Lord Grentham,” retorted Arianna. “Of course we are frightened. But that doesn’t mean we intend to flee and relinquish the field of battle to the enemy. We must fight and win.”

“And we can’t do that effectively if we are told to sit at home and work on our embroidery,” chimed in Sophia.

His brows rose. “You embroider?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, I did not mean it literally. Must you always be such a . . . a . . .”

“A martinet?” suggested Arianna.

“I was thinking of a far less ladylike word, but that one will do,” snapped Sophia.

Eyes narrowing, Grentham regarded them for a long moment, his lidded gaze lingering on the slash in Sophia’s spencer before looking down at his glove and smoothing a wrinkle from the pristine leather. “And if I agree to keep silent, what do I get from you in return?”

“Renard’s pelt to hang in your trophy room,” suggested Arianna.

“You are very sure of yourself, Lady Saybrook.”

“Does that frighten you, Lord Grentham?”

A pale blade of sunlight cut though the mists for a fleeting moment, catching the curl of a smile. “Like you, I’m not easily frightened.”