Sweet Revenge (21 page)

“A
nother dead body.” Straightening from his examination, Basil Henning absently wiped his fingers with a frayed handkerchief. In the murky light of early morning, the library was dark as a crypt. “I dunna like the look of it, Sandro.”

“Nor do I.” Saybrook slowly circled the large pearwood desk, taking in every detail of the scene. The gentleman’s corpse was seated in a rattan-backed chair, and he appeared to have expired just as he was beginning to write a note on the sheet of paper that lay on the blotter. The pen had slipped from his fingers, spattering ink over an illegible scrawl, but otherwise it was hard to tell that anything was amiss.

A closer look, however, revealed hands curled like claws and a grimace frozen on the bloodless lips.

“Do you think he died of natural causes?” asked the earl, once he had returned to his starting point.

“Hard to say.” Henning ran a hand over his stubbled jaw. “I see no sign of foul play, but the coincidence of yet another death among the people you are investigating strikes me as awfully suspicious, laddie.”

“Indeed,” agreed the earl. He gave another long look at the body. “You could, of course, have a much better picture of what happened if you were to get a more thorough look.”

The surgeon grunted. “Lock the door. Then help me get his coat and shirt off. It’s a damnably tough job once
rigor mortis
has set in.”

They worked in silence for several minutes, wrestling the garments from the rigid limbs.

“An interesting design,” observed Saybrook, before setting the intricate stickpin atop the rumpled cravat.

“Looks to be a blood ruby,” said Henning, not bothering to hide his disdain. “Such a bauble could feed a regiment of hungry men for a year.”

“Few people are as altruistic as you are, Baz.”

“Hmmph.” A last hard tug pulled the shirt free. “Draw the draperies,” said Henning as he lit the argent desk lamp and angled its light over the marble-white flesh. “And then tell me again how ye happened to be having a dawn appointment with a cadaver.”

“I tracked down the gentleman in question at his club yesterday afternoon,” began Saybrook. “And asked if I might have a chat with him about some recent bills of lading from the Madras trade route.”

The surgeon’s bushy brows rose in question.

“His Lordship is—or was—an under-governor with the East India Company, and oversaw trade from the southern part of the country,” he explained.

“What in the name of God does that have to do with the Prince’s poisoning and a dead military man from Whitehall?”

“I’m not sure,” answered the earl. “But when I was in Grentham’s office, he was called away for a few minutes and I happened to spot a file from the Madras office of the Company on his desk.”

“Odd.”

“Very.” Their eyes met. “And yes, I’m thinking the same thing you are. The minister is far too clever to have left a sensitive document out in the open by mistake. I am assuming he wanted—nay, expected—me to see it. The question is why.”

Henning rummaged in the canvas satchel by his side and withdrew a large magnifying glass, along with a blunt wooden probe. “Too many bleeding conundrums in this case, if ye ask my opinion.” He lifted the man’s lips away from his teeth and had a quick look at the traces of spittle. “Go on.”

“Our friend here seemed on edge and claimed to have a pressing engagement that prevented his granting my request. He put off setting another time to talk until later in the week. But then, late last night, a note was delivered to my town house, requesting that I come by before first light, for he didn’t wish for it to be known that we were meeting.”

“I take it he didn’t admit you himself.”

“No,” replied Saybrook. “The note told me to come in through the back entrance, which would be unlocked. I was directed to proceed up the stairs and come to the library.”

From outside in the alleyway, the faint rattle of a coal cart sounded. “The household will soon be stirring to life,” remarked Henning wryly. “Come around here and hold the light for me.”

The earl took up a position by the corner of the desk and lifted the lamp. “See something?”

Henning bent lower, until his lens was nearly touching the thick peppering of hair on the dead man’s chest. “Higher,” he muttered, using the probe to part a tangle of coarse curls.

The oily flame illuminated a small round bruise, less than a quarter inch in circumference, just above his breastbone. In its center was a pinprick of darker purple.

“The fellow appears to have stuck himself with his fancy piece of jewelry,” remarked Saybrook.

The surgeon canted the magnifying glass one way and then the other before replying. “Perhaps. But the contusion beneath the skin seems to indicate a tad more force was used than one would normally require for pushing a pin through linen. And as for its color . . .” He pursed his lips and shook his head after taking a closer look. “Hmmph.”

“What—”

Henning waved him to silence. “We don’t have long before the servants start to notice something is amiss.” Setting aside the probe, he skimmed a hand down to the dead man’s belly and palpated the now cold flesh. “Help me shift him, so that I can get a look at his back.”

Together they tilted the corpse forward. Saybrook steadied the body, while Henning did a quick check. “Nothing of note here,” he growled. Dropping to his knees, he lifted the man’s trouser legs. “Or here.” A pause. “He was out earlier this evening. There is mud on his shoes, and it’s still wet.”

The earl took a look. “I don’t suppose there is any way to tell from where it came?”

Henning rolled his eyes. “Bloody hell, Sandro. Do you think me a magician?”

Saybrook’s lips quirked. “As a matter of fact . . .”

A low snort, then the sound of scraping. “Hand me your handkerchief. I’ll be damned if I’m going to dirty mine.” After stuffing the folded silk into his satchel, Henning stood and shook the wrinkles from his canvas pants.

“If you have finished,” murmured the earl, “we had best get him dressed before taking our leave.”

“Right.” Henning glanced at the desk, then gingerly picked up the stickpin and wrapped it in his own pocket square. “If ye dunna mind, I’d like to take a closer look at this.”

“I was hoping you would.”

Working quickly, they managed to get the corpse dressed in some semblance of normalcy and propped back in the chair. “Leave off the damned cravat,” muttered Henning. “It’s natural that he might have removed it while sitting down to work.”

The earl nodded. “An observant eye will notice that there’s nothing natural about this, but perhaps the physician who is summoned will not care to look too closely.”

“Then you don’t mean to report this yourself?”

“Not at present, Baz,” replied Saybrook softly.

“Aye, I didn’t think so.” Henning picked up his bag. “In that case, we had better take our leave.”

 

The taste of the steaming chocolate—strong, sweet, and hot—helped wake Arianna’s sluggish senses. “Thank god for
Theobroma cacao
,” she murmured. “The life of an indolent aristocrat is harder work than I thought.”

Moving to the windows, she looked down on the back garden. The earl had chosen a charming town house for her on South Audley Street. She could almost imagine herself at home here, reading, cooking, relaxing. . . .

She spun around and set aside her empty cup.
Wishful thinking made one weak.
And she had made a vow to be strong.

A glance at the mantel clock showed that she had only slept for several hours since returning from the party. Saybrook could not complain if she took another interlude of rest before making her report. But in truth, she was anxious to tell him all that had happened during the evening.

Concord’s late-night visitor added yet another shadowy figure to the specters of evil. It seemed that the baron had lost little time in finding a new crony in crime after Hamilton had stuck his spoon in the wall.

Fetching a bandbox from the top shelf of the armoire, Arianna drew out an assortment of ragged garments and a floppy wool cap, along with her bag of cosmetics and face paints. It was short work to transform herself into a street urchin. Satisfied with the results, she stepped away from the cheval glass, feeling a rush of anticipation at once again having the freedom to move unnoticed through the streets of London. She didn’t envy highborn ladies, who couldn’t twitch a skirt without someone watching that the gesture conformed to the rules of propriety.

Arianna shuddered, unable to imagine living such a constricting, confining life. She, at least, could choose her own path . . . even if it led to perdition.

Saybrook had assured her that the small staff he had assembled for her were utterly trustworthy, so she didn’t worry about crossing through the pantries and exiting the house through the scullery door. It was a short walk to the earl’s town house, where she went around to the tradesmen’s entrance and was admitted by a dark-eyed maid who immediately escorted her to the kitchen.

Bianca greeted her with a broad smile and an offer of hot chocolate topped with whipped cream. “Too
magro
,” she clucked. “Too thin.”

“Thank you, but I would rather have coffee,” said Arianna.

“I shall have the same,” said Saybrook from the archway of the corridor. His hair was windblown and a stubbling of whiskers darkened his jaw.

“Magro, magro,”
repeated Bianca, fixing him with a critical squint.

“You may bring some buttered rolls and jam as well,” he said, taking a seat at the worktable. “And perhaps some of your almond cakes. Our visitor has a very healthy appetite.”

Arianna observed the smudged shadows under his eyes. He, too, appeared to have had little sleep. “Enjoying a night of revelries, milord?”

“Only if you count dancing with death a form of entertainment.”

Her mouth went a little dry. “Good God, who? Does it have anything to do with us?”

“No one you would know,” he answered. “As for the connection, I cannot say.” He pressed his fingertips to his temples. “And before you take umbrage at that, it is because I don’t know. I may have a better idea after Henning has a chance to examine the evidence that we removed from the body. At the moment it’s unclear whether the deceased was murdered or died from natural causes.”

She made a wry face. “I take it there were no knives.”

“No knives.” His expression, however, looked a bit odd.

“What?” she pressed.

He shook his head. “It’s nothing, really. Henning sometimes has very strange notions.”

Before Arianna could ask him to elaborate, the cook approached with the coffee and a platter of food.
“Buen apetito.”

Saybrook poured two cups and passed one to her. “What about your evening? Did you learn anything of note?”

“Other than the fact that Concord possesses a private collection of erotic art that would put a whore to blush?” Arianna paused for a sip of the steaming brew.

If the earl had any reaction, he hid it well.

“My discoveries may not have been as dramatic as yours, but I think you will find a few things very interesting.” She went on to recount the details of her night, from Ashmun’s probing, to Lady Spencer’s veiled innuendos, building up to Concord’s quarrel with the stranger. “And then, as I was climbing into my carriage,” she went on, “I happened to see Ashmun hiding in the bushes. He must have followed me, but it’s a mystery as to why.”

Saybrook had listened without interruption. She waited for him to speak now, but instead he picked up a pastry and took a taste.

Arianna bit back a caustic comment. The earl had some nerve to criticize
her
eating habits.

“These are superb,” he murmured, nudging the platter her way. “I was under the impression that you needed sustenance in order to think properly.”

The scent of almonds tickled her nose. “And I was under the impression that you found my appetite offensive.”

“Compromise is the essence of a good battle plan.” He helped himself to a roll. “One would be a fool not to learn from one’s allies.”

She realized she was famished. “I’ve never thought you a fool, Lord Saybrook.” Arianna broke off a buttery wedge and popped it into her mouth. “An ass, but never a fool.”

He smiled and refilled her cup. “Now, tell me again about the argument.”

“As I said, I could only hear bits and snatches. The stranger was agitated, and confronted Concord with Crandall’s death and my disappearance. He seemed to feel that some deal had been broken.”

Saybrook stared meditatively into his coffee. “Try to remember exactly what was said.”

She thought for a moment. “The stranger assumed Concord was responsible for the Major’s demise and asked if the chef had been smuggled out of the country. Concord didn’t correct him, but merely said not to worry about the chef because it didn’t affect their business arrangement.”