Recipe for Treason (4 page)

“Are you taking Basil with you?”

The hesitation was so brief that she might only have imagined it. “Yes. Without him I would likely stumble around all night, trying to find my way through these dark, twisting streets. And as we have been saying, we can’t afford even the smallest misstep.”

* * *

A light touch eased the warehouse door open, its well-greased hinges yielding nary a sound. Saybrook quickly slipped inside, followed by Henning, who drew it shut. Darkness enveloped them, the dank air thick with the briny smell of fish and dried seaweed.

“You made good time from London.” A voice rumbled within the shadows, followed by the metallic scrape of a lanthorn shutter being lifted. But rather than illuminate the speaker’s features, the beam of light was deliberately directed at Saybrook’s face. “Any trouble along the way?”

The earl blinked, blinded by the sudden glare. “None to speak of,” he replied slowly.

Behind him, Henning quietly backed up a step and shifted out of the flickering light.

“I’m glad to hear it,” went on the speaker. “The roads here in the north can be awfully rough, especially if one is unused to the hardships demanded by a clandestine mission.”

Saybrook ignored the man’s faintly mocking tone. “Lord Grentham appears to think me up to the challenge.”

The mention of the minister’s name silenced the other man’s sneer.

“Lower that damn light and let us get down to business,” the earl went on brusquely. “I daresay both of us will be happy to keep this rendezvous as short as possible.”

“It would help if I knew why you and your companions were sent here,” said the man. It was evident that he was not happy at having strangers trespassing on his turf.

The earl answered obliquely. “I am hoping you might have some useful information to share with us. We’ve been told that you have been in place here for several years as the proprietor of a bookstore near the university, and as such I would imagine that you hear whispers if there is any unusual intellectual activity taking place.”

Grentham’s operative took a step closer and lifted the light higher, revealing a long, thin face and pale gray eyes that accentuated the beady gleam of his dark pupils. “What sort of intellectual activity?” he asked, his nose twitching like that of a bird dog seeking to catch a scent in the air.

“Alas, I am not at liberty to tell you the specifics,” answered Saybrook coolly. “Just tell me of all that you have noticed over the last several months, and leave me to decide if it helps narrow my search.”

“Who the devil do you think you are, snapping orders like a bloody lord at me?”

“I imagine Grentham informed you of my identity. I’m Castellano, and during the Peninsular War, I was a liaison from the Spanish army working with Wellington’s staff. My work seems to have satisfied the duke, because he dispatched me from Paris to Lord Grentham for this mission,” said the earl. “In case you haven’t been informed, I am visiting the university because of my interest in Highland botany.”

The man’s lips pinched to a scowl. “I have been running intelligence operations for the ministry since my arrival here. I don’t need a lecture from some snotty-nosed Spaniard telling me how to do my job.”

“And yet, London felt compelled to send me here, Mr. Rollins,” answered Saybrook softly.

“I’ve accomplished quite a lot,” he said defensively. “Thanks to my surveillance, a number of dangerous revolutionaries have been arrested and are now languishing in Inverness prison, awaiting execution.” A low laugh. “That is, assuming they live that long.”

Henning drew in a sharp breath as if he meant to speak, but then let it seep out in a long exhale.

“Who’s your companion?” asked Rollins, finally deigning to acknowledge the surgeon’s presence.

“You haven’t answered my question about scholarly activity,” said Saybrook.

A shape shifted in the deep shadows, a ripple of black on black. “Indeed, Rollins, our visitor from London is right. It’s our duty to cooperate with the minister’s investigators.” As a figure materialized from the gloom and came to stand next to Rollins, a wink of scarlet and gold flashed from beneath his dark cloak. “I’ve been informed that you have a third member of your party. A female, registered as your wife at the lodging house. An odd arrangement given your mission . . .” A fraction of a pause. “Mr. Castellano.”

Saybrook regarded the newcomer for a long moment. “On the contrary, I think it reinforces the story that we are here on a purely scholarly trip.”

“Perhaps.”

The earl ignored the shrug. “I take it you are Lord Stoughton, colonel in command of this region?”

The military officer smoothed at the fancy frogging of his cloak, setting off a muffled jingling of metal beneath the thick wool. “At your service.” His smile did not belie the sarcasm shading his reply.

“Excellent, Colonel.” Saybrook parried with his own edge of steel. “You have a young man by the name of Angus MacPhearson incarcerated in Inverness prison. I want him released without delay.”

Stoughton’s eyes narrowed. “That would require an order from the highest authorities at Horse Guards.”

“So it would.” The earl took a packet from his coat pocket, its outer wrapping festooned with ornate wax seals, and held it out. “I trust you will find everything in order here.”

The colonel reluctantly took it.

Saybrook returned his attention to Rollins. “You have yet to answer my question about the university.”

Grentham’s operative flicked a quick look at Stoughton, who gave a barely perceptible nod to proceed.

Clearing his throat, Rollins grudgingly complied. “It’s been fairly quiet since we rounded up the rabble and locked them away. I’ve caught wind of some conversations that make me think a new print shop for seditious pamphlets is being set up somewhere by a new group of student radicals.”

“Anything else?” prodded the earl.

Another sullen silence. “As I said, it would help if I knew what, specifically, you were looking for.”

“And as
I
said, that is confidential information.” The earl made to turn. “If you’ve nothing more to add, I suggest we call an end to this meeting. Neither of us will be of any use to the ministry if we are spotted in a clandestine meeting by the locals.”

“But first we had better set a time for the next rendezvous—” began Rollins.

“There will be no set meetings,” interrupted Saybrook. “If I have need of anything from you, I shall contrive to pass you a message in your bookstore without attracting undue attention. And if you have any urgent information to convey to me, send a book to my lodgings, along with a note inviting me to share a wee dram at a certain hour. We are, after all, going to pretend to form a scholarly friendship over your inventory of books.”

He paused, drawing out the sliver of silence. “By the by, I’ve read several of the dispatches you have sent to London. You really ought to use a less primitive code than a simple Caesar shift.”

Rollins spit on the earthen floor. “It’s not as if the local Scots would have a clue as to how to puzzle out the meaning. They are naught but hairy savages . . .” He grunted some low, feral animal sounds. “A primitive people, little better than animals. It’s a pity that the Duke of Cumberland didn’t slaughter them all after the Battle of Culloden.”

Stoughton laughed, leaving Saybrook and Henning standing in stony silence as he and Rollins traded a few more disparaging quips.

“Shutter your light. We are leaving,” snapped the earl at Rollins, as soon as the last chortle died away. To Stoughton, he said, “I shall expect to have MacPhearson delivered to me without delay.”

The colonel wordlessly tucked the packet from London into his cloak pocket.

Saybrook waited until darkness shrouded the warehouse before moving to the door, with Henning right on his heels.

A blade of light appeared for an instant and then disappeared, followed by a soft
snick
as the latch fell back into place.

Outside, fog swirled over the narrow walkway in silvery waves, muddling the scudding moonlight with the yawing shadows of the buildings. The sound of the sea breaking against the rocky shore drowned the sound of their steps on the cobblestones as Saybrook and Henning hurried across the deserted street. Hats pulled low, heads bent to the gusty wind, they passed through several winding alleys before pausing to survey the surroundings.

Satisfied that they hadn’t been followed, they slipped out onto Pends Road, keeping close to the looming cathedral walls.

It was only after they turned yet another corner onto South Street that the surgeon expelled a low hiss through his clenched teeth. The vapor rose like steam from a kettle on hot coals.

“God rot their damnable Sassenach bones.”

“I understand your outrage—”

“Nay, you don’t,” said Henning bitterly. “Not by half.”

“Baz, I’ve been called a degenerate mongrel more times than I can count,” replied Saybrook. “That the heir to one of the oldest earldoms is half-Spanish sends shudders of disgust through the mansions of Mayfair. Trust me, the high sticklers of Society think their blue blood is far too precious to be tainted by dark-skinned Mediterranean scum. So yes, I do understand your feelings concerning such pompous prejudices.”

His friend blew out his cheeks. “My apologies, laddie.”

“None are necessary.”

“It’s just that such insufferable arrogance makes my blood boil,” growled the surgeon.

“Don’t let them ignite your emotions, Baz,” counseled the earl. “Keep a cool head and we shall beat them at their own game.”

“Those two bastards put Angus in prison.”

“And we are going to get him out.”

His friend looked away into the night, masking his craggy face in the shadows.

“Rest assured that I intend to stay well away from Rollins and Stoughton from now on,” added Saybrook. “I had no choice but to make contact with them on our arrival, but like you, I don’t trust them.”

The pungent scents of tobacco smoke and spilled ale drifted out from a tavern as two men bumped through the door and stumbled off into the night. The surgeon stopped abruptly. “Bloody hell, I need to wash the sour taste from my mouth.”

Saybrook hesitated, his gaze shifting from his friend’s grim profile to the iron-studded door. A light mizzle had begun to fall, and in the spill of lamplight from the windows, the fine mist looked like a shower of sparks. “As you wish,” he said softly.

“Not here,” said Henning, shaking the beads of water from his shoulders. “There’s a place on High Street that caters more to the university lecturers. I may as well begin renewing my acquaintances with old friends. The sooner we can make contact with the chemistry professor I have in mind, the better.” He turned up his collar. “Before this whole bloody trip blows up in our faces.”

4

From
Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks

Chocolate Oatcakes

¹
/
₄
cup hazelnuts, finely chopped

²
/
₃
cup all-purpose flour

¹
/
₃
cup Dutch-process cocoa powder

¹
/
₄
cup wheat germ

¹
/
₂
cup rolled old-fashioned oats

¹
/
₂
teaspoon freshly ground cardamom

¹
/
₄
teaspoon ground cinnamon

1/8 teaspoon fine salt

¹
/
₂
cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, softened

³
/
₄
cup sugar

2 large egg yolks

1. Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line 2 mini muffin tins with mini muffin liners, or set out 20 mini muffin liners on a baking sheet. Lightly spray the liners with nonstick spray and sprinkle the hazelnuts into the bottom of each muffin liner.

2. Whisk the flour, cocoa, wheat germ, oats, spices and salt together in a medium bowl.

3. With an electric mixer on medium speed, beat the butter and sugar in another bowl until combined, about 2 minutes. Add the egg yolks and beat together. Add the dry ingredients and mix until just combined.

4. Scoop 1 tablespoon of dough (about
³
/
₄
ounce) into each mini muffin liner, on top of the nuts. (Alternatively, drop heaping tablespoons of the dough onto a parchment-lined baking sheet and top with chopped nuts.) Bake until the cookies are cooked through and the nuts are toasty, about 15 minutes (drop cookies will bake slightly faster). Transfer the cookies to a rack to cool.

T
urning away from the sting of salt, Arianna pushed the flapping bonnet ribbons from her cheeks and continued walking along the pebbled path. A gust kicked up a spray of sand from the nearby strip of beach, tangling her skirts and tugging at the wicker basket looped over her arm.

Wind, water, weathered stone.
Scotland had a bleak beauty, she admitted, watching a pewter gray skirl of fog dance around the ancient stones of St. Rule’s Tower. However, the dull, heavy dampness felt oppressive. As if a lead weight had settled on her shoulders.

She tried to shrug off the feeling and lift her spirits.
Chin up—every little step is bringing us closer to our goal.
As Henning had warned, it was slow going, but after nearly a week in St. Andrews, they were beginning to make some progress. Her husband and his friend were meeting this morning with one of the visiting lecturers in chemistry, while she was making another foray to the market stalls off High Street.

A flock of gulls swooped overhead, their raucous calls interrupting her thoughts.

“You know on which side your bread is buttered,” murmured Arianna, as they wheeled and dove for the scaly scraps tossed aside by the fishmongers. “As for me . . .”

She paused for a moment, surveying the jumble of carts and barrows clogging the street. Her interest in the local produce and baked goods had helped break the stony reserve of the local women. Food was a universal language among females, she thought wryly. As were recipes.

“Gud dae te ye, Mrs. Castellano,” called an elderly crone with a face nearly as fissured as the harbor breakwater. “Did ye and yer husband enjoy my scones?”

“Delicious,” she replied. “You must tell me your secret for plumping the sultanas.”

“Uisge beatha,”
she said with a throaty cackle. “Ye soak them in gud Scottish malt—or whisky.”

Arianna reached into her pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “Here is the recipe I promised for my spiced chocolate cake.” Her many unorthodox talents included finely honed cooking skills. In fact, she was an expert, as was the earl, in the uses of
Theobroma cacao
—or chocolate. While Saybrook was writing a scholarly treatise about its history and uses, she was compiling a cookbook based on his grandmother’s journal and notes.

The crone’s eyes winged up in skepticism. “I still canna quite believe that one may
eat
chocolate as well as drink it.”

Wrapping her tartan shawl tighter around her shoulders, a woman from the neighboring stall edged closer. “Chocolate as an ingredient in pastries? I think ye be pulling me leg.”

“I promise you that I am not. Please try it,” replied Arianna. “I think you will be pleasantly surprised.”

“Sounds too foreign fer my taste,” chimed in one of her friends.

“Well, we strangers to Scotland find haggis a trifle odd,” she said with a smile.

The comment elicited hoots of laughter.

“We invented it specially to poison the Sassenach invaders,” piped up the fruit seller.

“I don’t blame you. We in the New World have no love for the English either.” She moved on a few steps and picked up a small sack of nutmegs, then a jar of candied orange peel. “I should very much like to learn how to make your Dundee cakes, Mrs. MacDonald.”

“Auch, with pleasure. I’ll scribble out the instructions. Stop back and see me afore ye leave the market.”

“And I wud be happy te share my draught for a cough,” added the woman tending a barrow full of herbs. “Yer potion for soothing aching joints worked wonders fer me Pater.”

“Oh, well, I have another one that is good for gout . . .” After trading recipes, Arianna continued to meander through the crowded stalls, taking her time to sort through the offerings and make her purchases. Smoke from the warming peat fires drifted in the air, mingling with the scents of the foodstuffs and murmur of voices. The women were now comfortable with her presence, and all around her, the talk was not just haggling over prices, but also local gossip.

Gossip.
In her experience, if one wanted to learn all the secrets of a place, one had only to find a spot where its females gathered. Cooks, maids, washerwomen—they knew the intimate details of a household’s daily life. By keeping her eyes and ears open, mused Arianna, she just might learn more than Saybrook and Henning would within the male bastion of the university.

Men tended to be more tight-lipped unless well lubricated with brandy or other strong spirits.

Reaching the end of the lane, she turned and squeezed in between two covered stalls selling medicinal powders and potions. Half-hidden by a stack of barrels was a display of dried Highland herbs that looked interesting . . .

A rustling behind the sailcloth screen of the near stall interrupted her musings. Then a muffled voice, distinctly female, rose above the faint crackling of the canvas.

“By the bones of St. Andrew hisself, the bang frightened me near te death, Mavis.”

Bang.
Arianna went very still and cocked an ear. Had she heard right? The Scottish burr was hard to understand.

“Auch, he claimed it was but a wee bit o’ liquid on the burner.” The woman dropped her voice a notch. “But it blew the copper pot clear through the ceiling. There must have been flames as well—the woodwork was singed something awful.”

“I wuddna want te work fer such an odd employer, Alice,” said Mavis. “No matter that he pays a few pence more fer a maid.”

“Aye, likely all that fancy study at the university has addled his head,” replied Alice. “They say he be a very learned man, but he frightens me. Strange mumblings, locked doors, shadowy visitors late at night—I dunna like it at all. Mayhap he’s a warlock, or a . . .”

A blustery breeze ruffled the canvas. Swearing silently, Arianna inched closer to the cloth, straining to catch the whispers.

“Bessie may know of another position,” offered Mavis. “Let Professor Girton find someone else willing te put up with him and his quirks. I swear, it be the Devil’s work if a man uses his own house fer brewing up mischief.”

The Devil?
Arianna pursed her lips and slipped back into the shelter of the barrels. Then perhaps they were on the right trail after all.

* * *

“I feel as if we’re trying to trudge through a vat of boiled oats.” Saybrook hung his coat and hat on the clothes pegs. “It just sits there, thick as glue, resisting every effort to make headway.”

“I warned ye that the Scots are slow te warm up te strangers,” said Henning. “My friend Connery is doing his best to sniff out what’s going on in the laboratories. But he must be discreet in his questions. We don’t want to spook our quarry.” He moved to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of whisky.
“Sláinte.”

The earl let out a disgruntled sigh. “At this rate, it will be the next century before their reserve thaws.”

“Try some oatcakes.” Hearing the men return from their meeting, Arianna came into the sitting room from the bedchamber. A gesture indicated the platter on the tea table. “They are fresh from the market.”

“I’d rather you feed me some useful information,” grumbled the earl as he took a seat in one of the worn leather armchairs. “I’m starved for progress.”

“I may have something that will sweeten your mood, but I thought I would let you eat first—you are always snappish when your bread box is empty.”

“And we are all aware that you claim to think better on a full stomach, Lady S.” The surgeon lifted his glass in salute. “Actually, it makes perfect medical sense. Just as a stove needs fuel to keep the fire burning, a body needs sustenance to perform at its best.”

“Then my wife must be a veritable genius.” The earl raked a hand through his damp hair. “Though how someone so slender can consume so much without becoming as fat as the Prince Regent is a scientific conundrum.”

“I like food,” said Arianna. “A fact for which both of you ought to be profoundly grateful.”

The earl sat up a bit straighter.

“You see, I was able to melt some of that flinty Scottish suspicion of strangers with a few of my chocolate recipes.”

“Chocolate is fast becoming England’s secret weapon,” quipped Saybrook. “Though it’s really my Spanish ancestors who deserve the credit.”

Henning downed his whisky in one quick swallow. “Much as I appreciate your expertise in chocolate, might you continue?”

“Of course.” Her expression turned serious. “For the last few days, I’ve been spending time at the market, for you see, cooking provides a common ground for women.”

“Trial by fire,” murmured the earl.

Her mouth quirked up at the corners. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose. The point is, the locals here have come to accept me as a kindred soul, despite my strange accent. And as they don’t view my presence among them as a threat, they feel comfortable talking among themselves.”

Saybrook steepled his fingers and placed the point beneath his chin. “Go on.”

“I’ve made a point of taking my time in wandering through the stalls. I look at the goods for sale, I buy . . . and I listen.”

“I take it you have heard something interesting,” said Henning.

“Very.” Arianna moved to the door and took a quick peek into the corridor. “Perhaps we should take a walk on the strand. Seeing as Grentham arranged our quarters, there is a possibility that the walls have ears.”

Her husband nodded. “A prudent suggestion. Baz?”

The surgeon poured himself another measure of whisky and drank it down. “Aye. I don’t trust the minister or his lackeys farther than I can spit.” He pursed his lips. “No word yet from that gold-braided donkey’s arse about Angus?”

Arianna bit her lip. The malt had lit a dangerous glint in Henning’s eye. For the present it was only a small spark, but it wouldn’t take much to fan it into a flame.

“You know military bureaucracy,” counseled Saybrook. “These things often move at a snail’s pace, despite orders.”

“We don’t even know what Grentham wrote in those fancy sealed papers,” retorted the surgeon.

“It is not in the minister’s interest to make enemies of us,” pointed out the earl.

“That,” said Henning darkly, “depends on what his true interests really are.”

“Instead of spinning round and round in circles on this, let us try to move forward.” Arianna put on her coat and bonnet. “Put the arrogant Colonel Stoughton and his scarlet regimentals out of your mind. The only shade of red that ought to concern us is the cinnabar flash of a cunning fox.”

Bundled up against the biting wind, the three of them cut across the golf course and took the footpath down to the rocky stretch of beach. The tide was ebbing, leaving pools of dark, foam-flecked water among the smooth stones. Storm clouds hovered on the horizon, ominous bands of charcoal smudging the steel gray sea.

As they picked their way along the high-water line, Saybrook linked arms with Arianna and signaled for his friend to do the same. “I think we’re now safe enough from being overheard,” he said dryly. “Feel free to be succinct. I feel a sudden craving for hot chocolate coming on, fortified with a generous splash of rum.”

“I shall,” she said through chattering teeth, and quickly recounted what she had overheard.

“Girton,” mused Henning. “Just this morning Connery suggested that we add his name to our list of people who merited a closer look. Though I confess, I did not put it at the very top.”