Sweet Revenge (4 page)

“T
hank you for coming to see me, Lord Saybrook.” Grentham didn’t look up from the document he was reading. “I trust that the request did not inconvenience you.”

Without waiting for an invitation, Alessandro Henry George De Quincy, the fifth Earl of Saybrook, shifted his cane and sat down in the chair facing the desk. “Not at all. I am always at the beck and call of the government.”

Grentham dipped his pen in ink and wrote a lengthy notation in the paper’s margin before setting his work aside. “How kind.” Narrowing his gunmetal-gray eyes, he subjected Saybrook to a lengthy scrutiny.

The earl stared back, seemingly unconcerned that he looked like he had just crawled out of the deepest, darkest corner of hell. His long black hair was neatly combed and his face freshly shaven, but no brush or razor could disguise the ravages that pain and narcotics had wrought on his body. Sallow skin stretched over bones sharp as sabers, bruised shadows accentuated his hollow cheeks, and his clothes hung loosely on his lanky frame.

Grentham, on the other hand, was immaculately attired in a charcoal coat of superfine wool, which set off the starched folds of his snowy cravat to perfection.

“But now that we have met,” the minister went on, “I cannot help but wonder whether your trip here was a waste of both your time and mine.”

“My uncle has explained the task at hand,” replied Saybrook, matching the other man’s sardonic tone. “If I did not feel myself up to its rigors, I should not have bothered coming here.” After allowing a fraction of a pause, he added, “One of the first lessons I learned as an army intelligence officer was that appearances can often be deceiving.”

Grentham’s nostrils flared for an instant, but he covered his displeasure with a bland smile. “So, you think that you are capable of rising to the occasion, Lord Saybrook?” Again the gunmetal gaze raked over the earl’s legs. “Despite your infirmity?”

“I assure you, sir, my infirmity does not affect my performance.”

The minister folded his well-tended hands on his blotter. “And yet, according to the surgeon’s report on you, the French saber cut perilously close to your manhood. I wonder . . .”

Saybrook maintained a mask of indifference. “Do you anticipate that the job will entail swiving one of the witnesses?” He paused for a fraction. “Or buggering the cook?”

“Are you fond of boys, Lord Saybrook?” countered Grentham.

“Not
unnaturally
so,” he answered.

“And women?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Let us just say that I am curious,” replied the minister.

“And let us just say that I am not inclined to satisfy your curiosity.”

“You are very clever, Lord Saybrook. But cleverness can sometimes lead a man into trouble.”

“So can stupidity.” Appearing to tire of the cat-and-mouse word games, Saybrook regripped his cane. “If you wish to speak about the assignment, let us do so. Otherwise, I will return to my town house. You have obviously read a thorough dossier on me, so I imagine you have already decided whether you think me fit for the job.”

“A written report can tell only so much about a man,” replied the minister. “I prefer to judge for myself before making a final decision.”

Saybrook started to rise.

“Please sit, Lord Saybrook.” Papers shuffled. “I’ve been told that you are—for lack of a better term—an expert in chocolate. Might I inquire how you came to be so?” An edge of sarcasm crept into his voice. “Assuming that I am not offending your delicate sensibilities with my questions.”

“My Spanish grandmother passed on her knowledge to me,” replied Saybrook. “In Andalusia, she was renowned for her healing skills, as well as her cooking talents.”

“Cooking,” repeated Grentham as he plucked a page from his notes and reread it. “Your grandmother was a countess—is that not correct?”

“Yes. But in Spain, highborn ladies have a different notion of what is—and isn’t—beneath their station. Cuisine is not menial labor—it is an art. As is healing,” said the earl. “She was interested in the medicinal properties of many foods and plants, including
Theobroma cacao
.”

The minister frowned.

“The Latin name for the tree that yields cacao beans,” he explained. “I studied botany at Oxford before joining the army.”

“A strange combination.”

“Not as strange as you might think,” said Saybrook. “The ancient Aztec soldiers used chocolate as a stimulant—”

“I am not interested in a scientific lecture,” snapped Grentham. “What I want to know is this—in your learned opinion, could chocolate in and of itself have poisoned the Prince Regent?”

“No,” replied Saybrook without hesitation. “If, perchance, the Prince had an intolerance to the cacao fruit, he would have suffered an adverse reaction from drinking a beverage made from the beans. And according to my uncle, Prinny has enjoyed his morning chocolate for years.”

“True,” mused the minister. “So, who would you consider the prime suspect?”

“I do not yet know enough about the case to form an opinion.”

“Well, we don’t have a great deal of time to ponder the question, Lord Saybrook.” Grentham steepled his well-tended fingers. “I assume Mr. Mellon has explained the situation.”

The earl inclined his head a fraction. “Next month, a secret delegation of our Eastern allies is due to arrive in London for talks on how to end this interminable war. Napoleon’s counteroffensive in Spain may be losing ground, but he has rebuilt the army shattered by the retreat from Russia into a formidable force and has taken personal command of the troops. Once again he is marching east, looking to crush any resistance to his domination of the Continent. It’s critical that England coordinates its efforts with those of Tsar Alexander, the Austrians, the Swedes, and the Prussians. However—”

“However, the death of our nominal ruler would throw the alliance into disarray,” interrupted Grentham. “The result could be catastrophic.”

“An English breakfast might soon consist of
oeufs aux champignons
and
café au lait
,” observed Saybrook.

The minister fixed him with a frigid stare. “There is likely an assassin on the loose, and rather than make clever quips about cuisine, I expect you to apprehend him before the Allied delegation arrives in England.”

“Assuming I agree to take the assignment,” reminded Saybrook softly.

Grentham’s expression remained impassive, but clearly he was unused to having anyone refuse to bow to his authority. “Let me phrase it differently, Lord Saybrook. It would be a great service to the government if you could help us apprehend the miscreant, and assure the Prime Minister that the threat has been eliminated,” he said with syrupy sweetness. “For a man of your reputed talents, it should prove a simple task. Your expertise in chocolate should allow you to quickly identify the poison tainting the wafers. From there you have only to ascertain who had access to the kitchen.” He gave a dismissive wave. “And
voilà
.”

“You seem rather certain that the case won’t be a hard nut to crack.”

“The cook is the logical suspect, but we need to know if he has any coconspirators. I am sure if you apply some heat to the fellow, you will get some quick answers.”

“Do you want a confession?” asked Saybrook. “Or do your want the truth? For in my experience, torture elicits naught but what the prisoner thinks his tormentor wishes to hear.”

“Torture is such an unpleasant word. I prefer to call it persuasion.” Grentham’s lip curled ever so slightly. “Surely, Lord Saybrook, you would agree that to be an effective investigator, one must be persuasive.”

“Among other things,” answered Saybrook. “But should I undertake this assignment, I would have to have
carte blanche
from you to handle it as I see fit. There is an old adage about too many cooks spoiling the broth.”

“That could be a recipe for disaster.”

“You’ll just have to trust my skills in the kitchen.”

Grentham considered the request for several long moments before giving a curt nod. “Very well. It is in the best interest of the government to have an independent investigator handle the matter. The military men assigned to my department are too close to the Prince Regent. I would not want it said that their judgment was clouded by personal feelings.”

He tugged on a small cord beneath his desk, and within seconds a young man opened the office door.

“Milord?”

“Ask Major Crandall to join us, Jenkins,” said the minister. Without another word to Saybrook, he turned away and began flipping through a stack of papers set on the far corner of his desk.

“Sir!” The Major marched in and clicked his heels. “You wished to see me?”

“You will be in charge of briefing Lord Saybrook on the facts that have been gathered so far concerning the poisoning of the Prince Regent. Give him the background information on the other guests present that evening, on Lady Spencer’s staff—anything he wants.”

“Shall I call a carriage and escort His Lordship to Lady Spencer’s town house?”

Grentham answered with a thin-lipped smile. “That is entirely up to him. He demanded complete autonomy in this case, and given the circumstance, I felt I had no choice but to agree.”

Crandall shot Saybrook a look that left little doubt where his loyalties lay.

“You will soon discover, Crandall, that Lord Saybrook is a very unusual fellow.” The smile turned a touch malicious. “For one thing, he likes cooking, and—Oh, forgive me. I neglected to ask if you also enjoy embroidery.”

“Alas, no,” responded Saybrook politely. “The only sliver of sharpened steel I’ve ever wielded is a saber—Oh, and a stiletto.” He tapped a finger to his chin. “Come to think of it, though, I did embroider a rather distinctive design on a man’s chest once. It was the words ‘COWARDLY CUR’ spelled out in large capital letters. Seeing as he liked to rough up women before forcing himself on them, I thought it only sporting to give the weaker sex fair warning.”

He and Grentham locked eyes. Neither one blinked.

It was Crandall who broke the tense silence with a cough. “Will that be all, milord?”

“Yes, yes.” A drawer clicked open. “On your way out, ask Jenkins to bring me the file on the Swedish ambassador’s brothel visits.”

“This way, Lord Saybrook,” growled Crandall.

 

Slipping out from the stairwell, Arianna hurried down the dimly lit corridor and eased open the door to her employer’s study. Lady Spencer was upstairs entertaining the Prince Regent as he dined on his midday meal, and despite the strict restrictions on the royal appetite, the interlude ought to last at least another hour.
In and out.
With the servants gathered for their own repast, the chances of being caught seemed slim.

It was worth the risk, she decided. At any moment the military might return to begin holding her balls to the fire—metaphorically speaking. When it came to that, she had an idea of how to escape the heat, but she would hate to flee empty-handed.

Hearing the crunch of gravel, Arianna ducked behind the draperies and watched as a guard dressed as a gardener marched past the window.

Bloody hell.
With disguises and deceptions running rampant, the situation bordered on pure farce. Her father, whose favorite Shakespeare play was
As You Like It
, would have roared with laughter at seeing his daughter tweak the noses of the authorities by playing a modern-day Rosalind. Her mouth gave an involuntary twitch.
Aye, and it would be even more amusing were my life not dangling by a thread.

Reminded of the danger in dallying, Arianna quickly crossed to the Chinoise escritoire set in the far corner of the room. Like its owner, the striking piece was designed to draw the eye. The exotic bamboo legs, twined with sinuous serpents, gleamed with gilded gold. In bold contrast, the ebony-trimmed drawers and writing surface were lacquered in a deep shade of vermilion.

The color of blood,
thought Arianna, riffling through the sheets of scented stationery that lay in careless disarray beside the crystal inkwell. Finding them all blank, she moved on to the row of drawers, whose contents proved to be just as uninteresting.

Moving on, she found only stubs of sealing wax and a vial of musky perfume in the last compartment.

Damn.
There
must
be something. Her employer’s reputation for pursuing profligate pleasure was the reason she had spent weeks of manipulation to gain a position here.

The pigeonholes were stuffed with various bills, most of them unpaid for some time, judging by the shrill tone of the shopkeepers. As she sorted through them, Arianna mentally reviewed what she knew about the mistress of the house. A buxom blond widow of moderate means, Lady Spencer was no stranger to dalliances with rich men. The Prince Regent was her latest paramour, and by all accounts, the affair had started six months ago, when the two of them had met during a weeklong party at the Prince’s Royal Pavilion in Brighton.