Recipe for Treason (15 page)

“Lawrance? I’ve known him since we were adolescents, riding neck and leather over the hills of Somerset.” Her face screwed in thought as she considered the question more carefully. “As you see, he has an easy manner and tends to play the role of careless fribble. But beneath the
bon mots
and bantering flirtations, I think he is a good deal sharper than he lets on.” The slivered shapes of the leafy shadows made her eyes appear to narrow. “Why do you ask?”

Arianna quickly explained about the encounter at Chittenden’s soiree, and her chance discovery of Lawrence’s interest in aeronautics.

“You think he may be Renard?”

“I am not leaping to any conclusions yet,” she replied. “However, I do think he merits careful scrutiny. Sandro is making inquiries through his contacts. Now that you are aware of our concerns, it would be helpful if you could see what information you can tease out of him.”

Was that a frown flitting across Miss Kirtland’s face?
The uncertain light was making it difficult to gauge her reactions.

“Lawrance seems to like you,” went on Arianna, “so he may be coaxed into making a slip of the tongue.”

Sophia looked away. “Nonsense. We are simply familiar with each other; that is all.”

“It’s more than that,” she pressed. “I am used to reading the subtle shifts of expressions on a man’s face—at times I depended on that ability to save my life. Lawrance admires you. And though you may think me callous or conniving to suggest it, that is something a female may turn to her advantage.”

“Y-you may possess that skill,” said Sophia in a halting voice. “I certainly don’t.”

“Trust me, you have far more power than you imagine, Miss Kirtland.”

“I doubt—” Sophia suddenly broke off in midsentence, the shadows accentuating the fact that in the space of a heartbeat, her face had gone as pale as ashes.

“What is it?” Arianna turned to see what had caught Sophia’s eye.

A tall, broad-shouldered officer in a scarlet tunic dripping with gold braid had just joined a trio of ladies standing at the edge of the dance floor, and his elaborate greeting set off a flutter of fans and a tittering of giggles.

Clearly enjoying the attention, he threw back his head and joined in the laughter.

Bloody hell.
Arianna sucked in her breath.

It was Sophia who whispered the name. “Stoughton.”

“You know him?” asked Arianna.

Her companion continued to stare straight ahead in unblinking silence.

“Miss Kirtland . . . Sophia.”

Sophia finally turned her head, but a glassy look still glazed her eyes.

Shaking off her own shock, Arianna took Sophia’s arm and drew her back through the archway and past the card room.

“This way,” she ordered, turning down a dimly lit corridor. “Let us find the withdrawing room and splash some water on your face.”

Sophia stumbled along unresisting, as if in a daze.

Spotting a half-opened door, Arianna stopped to peek inside. It appeared to be some sort of game room—there were several backgammon boards stacked atop a storage chest, and a chess set was arrayed on a black-and-white checkered table, waiting for someone to come along and make the first move.

“In here,” she ordered, pulling the door shut behind them and turning the key in the lock.

“W-what . . .” The fog seemed to be clearing from her companion’s head.

Arianna shoved her down into one of the leather armchairs and rushed to the sideboard, where she quickly poured a large measure of brandy.

“Drink!”
she ordered.

Sophia obediently gulped down a long swallow. “Arrgh!” The color came rushing back to her face as she sputtered a choked cough. “Good God, that is
ghastly
stuff.”

“Yes, but it clears the cobwebs from your head.” Picking up a poker, Arianna stirred the banked fire to life. “Feeling better?”

“Yes, much.” Sophia took a tiny sip this time, and it seemed to go down more smoothly. “Thank you.”

“De nada,”
she murmured in Spanish, then added an unladylike oath in the same language. “Whenever you are ready, would you kindly explain what the devil that was all about?”

* * *

Getting no answer to his soft knock, Saybrook eased the latch open and let himself inside the surgery. All was still inside, save for the usual creaking of the ancient beams and the scurrying of mice within the woodwork. The silence seemed to indicate that Henning was asleep. And yet, on approaching the building, he had seen the hint of a candle burning behind the window draperies, which stirred a flicker of unease. An untended flame could so easily tip over in the breeze, and with the assortment of chemicals lying around . . .

He moved quietly over the stone tiles of the entrance hall and down the short passageway to the private parlor. Sure enough, there was a faint spill of light showing from beneath the closed door. Pressing his hand to the rough planking, he gave a small push.

“Sandro!” Henning spun around in his chair, a look oddly akin to guilt spasming across his features. “I didna hear you come in.”

“I should have knocked louder,” said Saybrook. “But I didn’t wish to wake you if you were sleeping.” He glanced at the other man half-hidden in the surgeon’s shadow. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your meeting. I’ll come back another time.”

“Nay, nay.” Henning gave an airy wave. “William was just leaving.”

The earl couldn’t help but notice that with the other hand, the surgeon was surreptitiously sliding some papers from his blotter into his desk drawer.

“Gud night te ye, Major.” The man gave a ragged salute as he sidled by and melted into the darkness.

“One of the riflemen from the Third Regiment of Foot Guards,” explained Henning with a smile that seemed a trifle forced. “Needed a salve for a boil on his leg. Nasty things, boils are, especially if left untreated.”

The floorboards groaned as the earl shifted his stance. “Indeed,” he answered blandly, taking a packet from his coat pocket. “I, too, have medicines to dispense. Arianna sends an assortment of chocolate wafers and almond confections. She and Bianca are concerned that you don’t starve during your convalescence.”

“Tell Lady S that I—and my bread box—are always happy to receive her prescriptions.” The surgeon shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “But I would guess ye didna come here at this hour simply to deliver chocolate.”

“Correct,” said Saybrook. “I thought you might be interested in accompanying me on a late-night visit to a man of science.” He dropped the packet on the desk. “But never mind. I can see that you have other concerns on your plate.”

“Hold yer water, laddie.” The surgeon rose and hastily tugged his rumpled coat into place. “As if a bloody scratch would keep me from lending ye a hand.”

“I don’t want to tax your strength, Baz.”

Henning dropped his gaze and began rooting through the pasteboard boxes piled on his desk. “Auch, I’m tough as nails.” A coil of string and a small scalpel went into his pockets, followed by a pocket pistol and an extra charge of powder and bullets. “There—best to be prepared for trouble whenever I venture out with you.”

The earl didn’t smile at the jest. “On second thought, it might be best if I went alone.”

Their eyes met.

“I’ve drawn you into enough trouble,” Saybrook added softly. “I need to pursue this lead, for it may bring me closer to Renard. But be assured I haven’t forgotten your nephew or the fact that his death is a mystery that needs to be resolved.”

A gruff exhale stirred the air between them. “Trouble is rarely simple, laddie, or rarely black-and-white. It wasn’t your fault Angus made decisions that put him into danger. Ye must, in good conscience, do yer job. As must I.”

“I trust that those two things are one and the same, Baz. And that we will do them together.”

Henning remained silent.

“Patience, Baz,” counseled Saybrook. “As for tonight, I don’t expect trouble—”

“Aye, but ye never know when it will creep up and try to bite ye on the arse,” replied his friend. “So ye need someone ye can trust to be watching yer back.”

Saybrook lifted a dark brow.

Ignoring the implied question, Henning added a narrow roll of linen to the other items, then blew out the candle. “Let’s be off.”

The scuff of their steps was quickly lost in the scrabbling sounds of the back alleyways. The earl led the way through a series of narrow streets to a small square of shabby but respectable buildings grouped around a small, unpruned garden.

“Who are we here to see?” asked Henning, gazing around at the darkened windows.

“A chemist by the name of Brynn-Smith. He works on gases used to propel the big balloons used for manned flight.”

The surgeon chafed his hands together as a frigid gust swirled through the night. “Is he working with Cayley?”

“That,” answered Saybrook, “is what I intend to find out.”

1
4

From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks

Coffee Crunch Bars

2 cups all-purpose flour

¹
/
₂
teaspoon baking powder

¹
/
₄
teaspoon salt

1 cup (2 sticks) plus 2 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature

1
¹
/
₄
cups firmly packed dark brown sugar

2 tablespoons instant espresso powder

¹
/
₂
teaspoon almond extract

1 cup semisweet chocolate chips

¹
/
₂
cup sliced almonds

1. Preheat the oven to 325°F. Whisk the flour, baking powder, and salt in a medium bowl to blend.

2. Using an electric mixer, beat the butter and sugar in another medium bowl until blended, about 2 minutes. Add the espresso powder and almond extract; beat 1 minute.

3. Stir in the flour mixture in 3 additions, mixing until just absorbed after each addition. Stir in the chocolate chips and almonds (dough will be thick).

4. Turn the dough out onto an ungreased, rimmed baking sheet. Using your hands, press the dough into a 12-inch square. Pierce all over with a fork at 1-inch intervals.

5. Bake until the edges are lightly browned and beginning to crisp, 45 to 50 minutes. Cool on the baking sheet for 1 minute. Cut into 48 bars. Immediately transfer to a rack to cool. The bars will crisp as they cool.

“D
evil,” repeated Sophia. She swallowed hard. “That is an apt word for such a . . . creature from Hell.”

Arianna remained silent, waiting for her to go on at her own pace.

“Though perhaps I am maligning Lucifer.” Sophia gave a sardonic grimace. “For the Devil makes no bones about who he is, while Stoughton cloaks his evil behind an array of gaudy medals and gold braid.”

“Would you like some more brandy?” Arianna asked, for in the guttering light of the candelabra, it seemed that her companion’s face had once again gone as cold and white as Carrara marble.

“No.” A sigh. “I—I have never talked about this with anyone.”

“If you would rather not . . .”

“You did say it was important to know each other’s vulnerabilities.” Sophia’s mouth quirked. “On second thought, perhaps I do need another small splash of brandy to loosen my tongue.”

Arianna wordlessly refilled her glass.

Lifting it to the red-gold flames, Sophia slowly spun it between her fingers, watching the slivered shades of amber dance across the darkened wall. “Oh, it is hard to know where to begin. I was a fool, I suppose.”

“Aren’t we all at times?” said Arianna. “If it makes you feel any better, I have done more than a few things that would make your cockles curl.”

Sophia flashed a wry smile. “Do females have cockles?”

“I haven’t a clue.” Arianna grinned back at her. “Look, why not just spit it out? Whatever it is, I promise you that I won’t fall into a fit of megrims.”

“Very well.” Another sigh, another swallow of spirits.

Arianna was beginning to wonder whether she might have to find a footman to help carry her companion out to the carriage.

“To make a long story short, when I was seventeen I fell in love,” began Sophia, “with a young man my father deemed beneath our family’s notice. He wanted me to marry money, a title—all the trappings that would give him the power and prestige he thought he deserved. You see, he had squandered his own inheritance, and my grandfather refused to go on paying for his profligate spending. Younger sons were expected to make their own way in the world, but my father thought that grossly unfair.”

“This is, you know, an oft-told tale,” murmured Arianna.

“Yes, I know. And my story follows the usual plot of a horrid novel—I surrendered my virtue to my true love, and we made plans to elope to Scotland. Indeed, we were nearly at the border when my father caught up with us.” Her voice tightened. “He had bribed the local militia commander to accompany him—and to keep the affair silent.”

“Stoughton?” asked Arianna, though she was certain of the answer.

“Stoughton,” confirmed Sophia. “Who proceeded to knock Edward from the perch of our rented gig and slowly, methodically,
gleefully
thrash him to a bloody pulp.” Her eyes squeezed shut. “It was horrible. Neddy was barely more than a boy. He was slight and slender—a gentle-natured poet who planned on going into the Church. While Stoughton was a big-muscled brute who clearly took pleasure in inflicting pain.” The dregs in the glass swirled slowly, silently. “My father dragged me back home, cursing all the way about damaged goods. I learned that Neddy died within hours of the beating.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“To add insult to injury, Stoughton had the nerve to suggest to my father that he take me off my father’s hands.” Sophia shuddered. “Though God knows why. I had only a modest dowry, and the fact that my grandmother was leaving me a generous bequest was not yet known.”

Arianna found it interesting that Sophia seemed unaware of her striking looks and their effect on men. But she didn’t know her well enough to broach such a personal subject. Instead, she merely pointed out a more mundane fact of life. “A duke’s influence could be important for an ambitious military officer.”

“His motive didn’t matter. Needless to say, I refused—and informed my father that I had no intention of marrying anyone. Ever.”

Ah, youthful pride.

Sophia lifted her gaze. “So now you know my sordid little secret.”

“There is nothing sordid about being young and desperately in love,” replied Arianna gently. “Now is not the time, but at some point I shall share some stories that will assure you I know what ‘sordid’ truly means.”

“Oh.” Setting the glass down on the chess table, Sophia plucked at the folds of her skirts, as if smoothing the silk could put her emotions back into order. “I hope that I have not stirred unhappy memories for you.”

Arianna shook her head. “I am slowly learning to live with my mistakes—not to say that it is easy. It isn’t. But it helps to keep moving forward, rather than to allow your feet to remain mired in the past.”

“Wise words,” said Sophia thoughtfully. After a moment of meditation, she pressed her palms together. “How is it that you know Stoughton?”

“Because he is the murderous bastard responsible for the death of Basil Henning’s nephew. Sandro had several confrontations with him.” Arianna clarified the details of the Scottish trip.

“Why is he here in London?” mused Sophia.

“A good question. I mean to find out, for along with trapping Renard, I intend to learn the truth of why Basil’s nephew was shot. It seems too great a coincidence to be merely a random act of fate.” She looked over at the black-and-white chess figures ready to square off in combat on the checkered field of battle. Pawns and knights, rooks and queens . . .

Ah, the most powerful figure is a female.

“I’ve an idea.” Arianna rose and began to pace back and forth in front of the hearth. “First, let me help you down to the carriage so José can drive you home—”

“Bollocks,” exclaimed Sophia, her chin taking on a mulish jut. “I’m not going anywhere. I may not be as experienced as you are in intrigue, but I can learn.”

“Miss Kirtland, you’ve suffered a severe shock.” A shade of amusement crept into Arianna’s tone. “Not to mention the fact that you’re a trifle foxed.”

“I’m not foxed. I’m just pleasantly tipsy.” A pause. “Just because you know all manner of clever tricks to deal with men doesn’t mean I should be trundled off to bed like a helpless child.”

The momentary truce seemed over as Sophia’s prickliness reasserted itself.

Like me, she does not like letting anyone get too close.

Heaving an inward sigh, Arianna said, “I wasn’t implying any such thing. The choice is, of course, yours.”

Her companion’s scowl softened.

“If you stay, it will mean facing up to your Devil. Are you sure you are ready for that?”

“Yes,” answered Sophia stoutly. “It’s time for me to finally take a stand and fight back.”

“You need not throw any punches this evening,” replied Arianna. “We are simply going to reconnoiter, so to speak. All I need for you to do is introduce me to Stoughton. He caught only a glimpse of me dressed as a male, so I doubt he’ll recognize me in my present persona.” She took another turn in front of the fire. “I should be able to learn what has brought him to London.”

“But once he sees Saybrook, he can’t help but realize that it was the two of you who were overseeing Lord Grentham’s investigation in St. Andrews.”

“You’re right. However, for the moment we hold the advantage of surprise, so I mean to use it. If we have to change tactics later on, so be it. Sandro has stressed to me that a good field general always remains flexible.”

“I am looking forward to hearing more about the art of warfare.” Sophia slowly clenched and unclenched her hands. “Will you . . . will you help me learn how to strip off my gloves and get my nails dirty?”

“If you will help me learn how to structure a more formal course of education. I should like to put together some reading lists, on subjects like literature and philosophy.”

Sophia quirked a rueful smile. “I think you will have the harder of the two teaching tasks.”

“Don’t be so sure of it. I have a feeling you have a natural aptitude for clandestine intrigue.” With a flick of her finger, she knocked the black king from the chessboard. “Shall we return to the ballroom and make the first move in this game?”

* * *

“Ye know, it would be nice if we could ever pay a visit to someone at a civilized hour,” groused Henning as he blew out a puff of vapor and followed Saybrook’s careful circuit of the garden’s wrought-iron fence. “Lud, it’s colder than a witch’s tit out here.”

“You are welcome to come back with me and warm your gizzard with hot chocolate when we are done here,” said the earl. “But for now, stubble the bellyaching.”

“Let us hope that we’re not going to find another dead body,” said the surgeon mournfully. “Though that is likely wishful thinking.”

Saybrook stopped to count the doorways. “It’s that one,” he said, pointing to a dark portal topped by a classical pediment carved out of marble. Moonlight fluttered over the stone, showing that soot had darkened it to a dingy gray. “Look, if you’ve no stomach for the task, there’s no need to come any farther. I simply wish to talk with Brynn-Smith without anyone knowing of the visit.” He made a wry face. “And as we know, night covers a multitude of sins.”

A frosty grunt was the only reply.

“Perhaps I should abandon the idea of writing a book about chocolate in favor of one about the locks of London,” muttered the earl as he slid a steel probe from his boot.

“I know a number of people who would eat that up,” quipped the surgeon. “I trust you would include diagrams for those who can’t read.”

“Very humorous.”
Click.
“Our quarry’s rooms are up one flight and at the back, overlooking the alleyway.”

The landing was muddled in shadows, and Saybrook took a moment to strike a lucifer match.

“Oh, bloody hell,” swore Henning under his breath as a flame sparked to life. The flare showed that the door to Brynn-Smith’s rooms was slightly ajar. No light was visible through the crack.

“Hand me your pistol and stand back,” whispered Saybrook as the match fizzled out.

“The devil I will.” The surgeon slipped both the firearm and the scalpel from his pocket. “You go in first with the bullets, and I’ll back you up with my blade.”

Taking the weapon without argument, the earl crept forward, with Henning right on his heels. He was only a few steps from the threshold when the door banged open and a dark shape came barreling out.

As a lowered shoulder slammed into his gut, Saybrook twisted and threw out an arm to shove Henning clear. The force of the impact knocked him down, but he scrambled to his knees just as the assailant regained his own footing and leapt for the stairs.

The earl’s lunge caught the man’s coattail, spinning him off balance. Snarling, he lashed a kick at Saybrook’s head, forcing him to let go of his hold.

Ducking low, the earl made one last desperate grab as the attacker stumbled, but his fingers snagged only a pinch of fabric.

A curse, echoed an instant later by the hiss of a fresh match igniting.

Wrenching free, the man tore off, leaving Saybrook holding a scrap of silk.

“Ye all right, laddie?” Pushing up to a sitting position, Henning held the lucifer aloft.

The earl sucked in a deep breath and nodded. “Did you get a look at him?”

“Just a wee glimpse. Not quite your height . . . lean . . . fair hair showing beneath his hat.” He bit back a grunt as he gingerly got to his feet. “And his coat looked expensive.”

“Not much to go on,” muttered Saybrook. He looked down at the strip of fabric in his hand, then tucked it into his pocket and bent down to retrieve the dropped pistol.

Grimacing, Henning flexed his injured shoulder. “Sorry. Yer shove knocked me arse over teakettle, and I’m not moving as fast as usual these days.”

“Let us check the rooms,” said the earl after a long moment. “Though I fear we shall find Brynn-Smith in no condition to talk.”