Sweet Revenge (11 page)

He returned to his chair—empty-handed, she noted. “And you appear to be doing your damnedest to make me change the balance.”

At that, Arianna smiled. “True,” she said, echoing his earlier comment. “But actually, I’d rather you hold off until I have a chance to finish reading Dona Maria’s chocolate notes.”

“Delicious, aren’t they? Especially for someone interested in nuances of cuisine.” He steepled his fingers. “A temporary truce might be negotiated. Assuming you are willing to offer something in return.”

She took a long swallow. “I didn’t poison the Prince, for I imagine that is your first question.”

“An astute guess, Miss Smith. Yes, it makes sense to start there.” He tapped his fingertips together. “If you didn’t do it, who else might have had the opportunity?”

Arianna meditated on the question for several moments, trying to decide just how much to reveal. She would have to feed him a few tidbits—he was too sharp to be fobbed off with nothing.

“The guests had gathered early that evening, and Lady Spencer made no secret of the fact that I was preparing a special delicacy for His Royal Highness,” she replied carefully. “One of the ladies—I don’t know her name—did come to the kitchen and ask what it was, but I chased her away. For reasons that should be obvious, I did not encourage anyone to enter my bailiwick.”

“The persona of temperamental chef helped disguise your secret,” he mused.

She nodded. “My impression was that she merely wanted to tease the Prince with hints of what was coming.”

“What about the kitchen help? Could one of the girls who helped you prepare the meal have slipped some substance into the chocolate?”

She shook her head. “As you saw, Lady Spencer isn’t plump in the pocket. One of the reasons she valued me was that I didn’t complain about working alone. As for the footmen who served the guests, I handed them the platters at the door.”

Tipping back his head, Saybrook stared up at the ornate plaster ceiling, apparently lost in contemplation of the carved rosettes. As the silence stretched on for what felt like an age, she began to fidget.

“Feel free to refill your glass,” he murmured, answering her unspoken question of whether he had fallen asleep with his eyes open.

As Arianna rose, he added, “You’ve stated that no one entered the kitchen while you were there. But did you perchance leave it untended at any time during the evening?”

Truth or lies?
She watched the swirling pattern of the thick Turkey carpet ripple beneath her stocking-clad toes. Could she slide by with a fib?

She looked up to find him watching her intently. “I was gone for a short while.”

“Why?”

“The reason is not relevant to your investigation, Mr. De Quincy—or, should I say, Lord Saybrook?”

“Call me whatever you wish. I’m not a stickler for propriety,” he replied. “However, as to the other matter, I’m afraid that I shall be the judge of that.”

Her jaw tightened. “All you need to know is that I was absent for maybe a quarter hour. In returning, I did see two of the gentlemen guests in the back corridor, near the door to the scullery. One I did not see well enough to recognize, but the other was Lord Concord.”

“You know his name?” It was half question, half statement.

“Yes,” she replied, but did not elaborate.

“Hmm.” Saybrook ran a hand over his thigh, kneading his palm against the injured flesh. A shock of his shoulder-length hair had fallen over his face, making it impossible to see his expression.

“You know, it would make things a good deal easier if you would tell me why you were working for Lady Spencer,” he said, easing back in his chair. “It doesn’t make sense, for a number of reasons. To begin with, you claim to have come to London in order to make a profit from its riches—and yet you sold yourself quite cheaply. A chef of your skills could have commanded far more money, not to speak of more comfortable working conditions.”

“It’s not my business to make things easier for you, Lord Saybrook. I overheard enough to know that your reasons for undertaking this investigation have nothing to do with me or my motivations.”

“Save when it comes to keeping your neck off the chopping block.”

“Why do you care about me?” challenged Arianna.

“I don’t, per se. I care about the principle of justice, even when it means defending a willful wench hell-bent on self-destruction.”

The set-down brought a faint rush of heat to her cheeks. “You are one to talk,” she countered. “And speaking of withholding information, Lord Saybrook, I heard you tell your uncle that man who attacked us was Major Crandall, a top aide to the Minister of State Security. Why was an officer of the Horse Guards trying to kill me?
And
you?”

The earl responded with a sardonic smile. “The reason is not relevant to your concerns. I am not at liberty to reveal any more than that.”

A chill snaked down her spine. Cupping her hands around her glass, Arianna wished that she could draw a touch of warmth from the amber spirits.

“Touché,” she murmured, unable to muster a sharper retort.

“I would prefer not to always be at daggers drawn with you.” Saybrook sighed as he ran a hand through his unruly hair. “Too bloody dangerous.”

The movement caused a momentary flicker of lamplight to play over his face. If anything, the bruised shadows under his eyes seemed to have grown deeper. Darker. He looked tired, and most of all, frustrated.

Not that she blamed him.

Swearing under his breath, the earl rose and made his way to the sideboard. It was only then that Arianna realized how badly his hands were shaking.

Her eyes narrowed. “If you are truly so concerned about solving this case, I’ll repeat what I said earlier—you ought not dose yourself with that vile drug. For now it might dull the pain, but it’s also dulling your senses, and creating a pernicious dependence that will eventually rot your mind.”

“Thank you,” he snapped, after returning to his seat. “In one subject, at least, you are a veritable font of information.”

Coals crackled in the banked fire, sending up a spurt of sparks.

“There are other ways to deal with pain. I have some knowledge of healing arts. I can give your cook a list of the ingredients, and if you allow me in your kitchen I’ll show her how to brew it.”

He made a face.

“Stubborn arse,” she muttered.

A glint of amusement lit for an instant in his eyes. “That’s rather like the pot calling the kettle black.”

She repressed an answering smile. “We seem compelled to thrust and parry tonight. Perhaps we ought to withdraw from the fray and lick our wounds.”

Saybrook set aside the drug untasted, and levered out of his chair. “Right. Let us both get some sleep. Perhaps in the morning we can come together with a fresh perspective and negotiate a meeting of minds.”

 

Sleep?
The idea seemed impossible. Her body was heavy with fatigue, as if it had seeped into the very marrow of her bones, and yet Arianna felt too restless to seek the comfort of the splendid bed. Cupping the glass of brandy that she had carried from the library, she moved to the diamond-paned window and stood staring out through the misted glass. The blackness of night was far preferable to the vivid images imprinted in her mind’s eye.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire
. She had heard the expression often enough, but it took on new meaning when one’s own flesh was hovering a hairsbreadth from the flames.

The liquor began to burn her throat—or perhaps it was only the sudden memory of black powder smoke, sharp and sour as it mingled with her scream. Setting aside the glass, Arianna turned abruptly and went to the armoire, where the contents of her valise sat folded on a single shelf. She had not called the maid to unpack her meager belongings. Her secrets were fast being stripped away, making it imperative to keep those she still had hidden for as long as possible.

Taking the pasteboard folder from inside the frayed pair of men’s breeches, Arianna carried it to the dressing table and drew the candle closer. Shadows danced over the age-worn top page, making the spidery writing even more difficult to make out. She wasn’t quite sure what had impelled her to add the papers she had stolen from Lady Spencer’s desk to her hastily collected jumble of clothing and face paints.

No, more likely an utter waste of effort,
she thought wryly.

It was the numbers. They intrigued her.

They always had.

Tracing a finger over the first equation, Arianna was reminded of her father and the idyllic games they had played throughout her childhood.

“Twenty-one, Papa,” she whispered, blinking away the sting of salt against her lids. There was something wonderfully pure about numbers and the abstract concepts they created. They were not intrinsically good or evil—they simply . . . were.

Arianna turned the first page, and then the second, and the third, losing herself in the intricacy of the equations.
Intriguing.
She wasn’t quite sure what they meant, but following the progression of logic had provided a welcome diversion from her own tangled emotions.

Oddly enough, numbers had always been a source of solace. She had come to think of them as friends, playmates for a lonely childhood that helped keep the pinch of poverty at bay. That her father had encouraged the games, and had taken great pleasure at her skills, only added to the allure. The connection—the time together working out mathematical puzzles—was the one thing that could keep him from seeking escape in a bottle. He had tried to stay lucid for their nightly games.

But those precious moments had become rarer and rarer, and as she got older, Arianna had become desperate to keep him from drowning in drink. The games turned into arguments. Bitter ones at times. . . .

Snapping the pasteboard covers shut, she rose and returned the folder to its hiding place. As the candle sputtered and died, throwing the room into darkness, she found her glass and quickly swallowed the last splash of amber spirits.

Don’t stir up painful memories of the past,
she chided herself.

To survive, she must focus all her thoughts on the problems of the present.

I
t must have been the brandy, for despite feeling sure that Morpheus would not be her bedfellow, Arianna was drawn out of a deep sleep by a discreet knock on the door.

Sitting up, she winced as a blade of sunlight cut across her face. No rest for the wicked, she thought wryly, squinting through the diamond-paned windows. She usually rose with the dawn, but the previous day must have . . .