A Question of Numbers Read online

  She gave a wry grimace at his allusion to her expertise in mathematics. “Yes, the chances are slight. But somehow that’s not as reassuring as it should be.” The candles on her dressing table flickered in a draft of air from the open window. “I confess, there are times when I wish . . .” That mystical habble-gabble could exert a power over the fate of Mankind? “When I wish we possessed some sort of lucky talisman.”

  “We do,” he replied, tapping a finger to his temple. “And I would always wager on a brain being more powerful than a gaudy bit of gems and precious metal.”

  “You’re right, of course.” And yet . . .

  She shook off the strange thought and forced her attention to the coming evening. “Have you a strategy to suggest for how to deploy our forces tonight?”

  The earl came to stand behind her and placed his palms lightly on her bare shoulders. “I’ve learned Andronovich will be attending the ball, so I shall contrive to spend time in his circle. And a tête-à-tête with Wellington will be enlightening. I shall leave it to you to decide how you ladies can be most effective.”

  “Constantina plans on spending her time with Dampierre and the French Royalists, and Sophia will work on furthering her friendship with Harriet Capel and the elder Lennox sisters.” The warmth of his touch was helping to dispel her unsettled mood. “I shall seek out the Prussians, and see if I can learn more about Grunwald and his accusations.”

  “All are excellent ideas, my dear.”

  “Sandro . . .” Arianna caught his hand as he started to move away.

  He raised a questioning brow.

  “I am sorry . . .” She faltered, finding the words dauntingly hard to say.

  “My knees are now quaking,” he said lightly. “I take you’ve done something devilishly dangerous.”

  His smile sent a stab of guilt through her heart. “N-not as of yet,” she replied. “I have just been thinking of the fact that . . . that I haven’t given you a child.”

  “Don’t” he cut in. “Ye gods, don’t blame yourself.”

  Oh, but I do.

  “Anyone who pays the least attention to barnyard biology,” he went on, with his usual steady logic, “is aware that the problem doesn’t always lie with the female.”

  “But . . .” But now, she realized, was not to time to delve into painfully personal issues.

  Saybrook brushed a kiss to the nape of her neck. “Let us cherish what we have, rather than fret on what we don’t.”

  “You’re right.” Forcing a smile, she plucked a pair of emerald earbobs from her jewelcase and covered her shaky emotions by fastening them through her lobes.

  Is my brooding on Paloma and the child affecting my judgment? Arianna knew she couldn’t afford to dwell on past flaws or let guilt twist her focus. She averted her eyes from the looking glass, unwilling to let him see the doubts reflected in her gaze. Saybrook had always assured her that the issue of children was not a concern. But Nereid had sparked all manner of speculation. And recrimination.

  That was dangerous. To all of them.

  The thought of family and friends steadied her nerves. She could not—she would not—let her own failings put them at further risk.

  I must armor my heart and steel my emotions . . . until the present battle is over.

  After a last twist to the ribbon threaded through her topknot, Arianna rose and gathered her reticule. “Shall we go?”

  Dark and light. Pushing aside the shadows in her soul, Arianna surveyed the crowded ballroom, aglitter with the myriad candleflames winking off the bejeweled ladies and bemedaled gentlemen. The musicians had not yet struck up music for dancing. A Mozart sonata, played sotto voce, twined with the trilling laughter and clink of crystal.

  “History tell us that Nero fiddled while Rome burned,” murmured Saybrook, as he cast a cynical look at the gaudy show of pomp and splendor. “I wonder if most of the people here realize what a precarious position we’re in. If Napoleon seizes the initiative and marches east . . .” No word had come from Allied outposts regarding any movement of the Emperor’s army. “We shall be in grave danger if these diplomats and military men don’t cease their infernal squabbling and unite against him.”

  Arianna spotted the tall, ramrod-straight figure of Wellington, surrounded by a gaggle of gentlemen in uniform. They brought to mind a peacock’s tail fanned out to display the full splendor of their colorful plumage.

  But can—or will they—fight? wondered Arianna. “The Beau looks unconcerned about the situation.”

  “He always does, no matter how dire things may be,” replied the earl. “One can never tell what he is thinking by his outward demeanor.” He accepted a glass of champagne from a passing footman. “If you don’t mind, I’ll leave you to circulate on your own while I see if I can get a private word with him and hear the latest report from the border.”

  She nodded. The dowager had paired off with Dampierre to go mingle with the French diplomats-in-exile, and Sophia had joined Harriet Capel’s circle. “I’ll go have Dampierre introduce me to the Prussian delegation. With luck, there will be a familiar face from Vienna with whom to commiserate on Grunwald’s death.”

  “Take your talisman with you,” he murmured.

  Was it merely a quip, or has he noticed my unsettled emotions?

  “Be assured, I shall keep my wits sharp,” she replied.

  He gave her arm a quick squeeze before drifting off to join Wellington.

  “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players,” whispered Arianna. Taking her cue from Shakespeare, she put on a glittering smile and went to find Constantina and her paramour.

  After a polite round of chatting with his French compatriots, Dampierre offered to escort her to the refreshment table. She, too, had noted the group of gentlemen gathered around the punch bowl.

  One of them, a fresh-faced fellow whose soft, curling brown sidewhiskers looked as though they had only recently grown in, glanced up at their approach.

  “Why, Lady Saybrook,” he exclaimed, “I had heard you were in town, and was hoping your husband would tear himself away from his scholarly studies long enough for the two of you to join in the social swirl of the city.” Clicking his heels together, he bowed. “It is a great pleasure to see you again.”

  Arianna acknowledged the young man’s gallant greeting with a demure laugh. “Do not count on seeing the earl at many of the festivities, Herr von Steuben, as he is intent on his work. But as my great aunt and a lady friend from London are part of our traveling party, I’m looking forward to enjoying the balls here in Brussels with them.”

  “I’m delighted to hear that. Dare I hope you’ll tell me more about your culinary explorations with chocolate?” he responded. “My mother adored the recipe you gave me for almond-studded pastilles.”

  “I should be delighted to share some more of my secrets,” she replied with a flutter of her lashes. The son of an influential nobleman, von Steuben owed his position in the Prussian diplomatic corps to his family name rather than any actual experience. Her smile spread wider. Which made him perfect for her plans.

  “Then perhaps you would care to accompany me to the supper room?” replied the young man. “Our hostess has promised a sumptuous array of local delicacies, and I’m sure you will find them delicious.”

  “I can never resist the chance to taste new cuisine.”

  “Excellent,” said von Steuben, and hurried over to offer his arm.

  Navigating their way through the milling guests, they came to a series of side salons offering card games for those who didn’t care to dance, and a tempting assortment of food and drink.

  Arianna chose a selection of treats for both of them, which the young man dutifully put on two plates, and then they found a small table near the terrace doors.

  “The foie gras is superb,” murmured Arianna, after taking a small nibble.

  “Yes, but none of the local desserts cam match the sublime taste of your chocolate confections.” He paused
. “I don’t suppose you have any recipe that includes candied orange peel, which is one of my mother’s favorite treats?”

  “In fact, I do. Let me see if I have some stationery in my reticule, so I may write it out—”

  Von Steuben pulled a small sketchbook from his coat pocket. “I like to draw some of the new things I see in a foreign country, so I never go anywhere without the means to do so.” He carefully tore out a sheet of paper and passed it over, along with a pencil.

  As she wrote, she heard another discreet rip and looked up.

  “I inadvertently damaged one of the other pages.” An apologetic smile. “I prefer to keep my book in good order.”

  “Very commendable,” replied Arianna, as she returned to finishing the last of the instructions. “Organization is key to efficiency, as I’m sure you diplomats know.”

  “Just so,” he agreed. “Chaos and confusion make it difficult to accomplish one’s goals.”

  She handed over the recipe, which von Steuben folded twice to form a perfect rectangle and then placed inside the sketchbook. “Thank you. I know my mother will be very grateful to have it.”

  A sweet young man. Though Arianna rather doubted that he had the toughness or guile to be a savvy negotiator. However, his naiveté would work in her favor, and after a few more pleasantries, she turned the talk to Grunwald’s murder.

  “A terrible shock,” he replied. “He was a very honorable man, and well-liked by all of us. It’s hard to imagine what sort of quarrel . . .” His words trailed off in a mournful sigh.

  “Lord Mellon wonders if the reason might have been political, not personal.”

  The young man’s face tightened. “But he was in London, at a party among our allies.”

  Arianna toyed with a morsel of creamed chicken. “And yet the rulers of Russia, Austria and your country are in a bitter struggle for power among themselves.”

  The young man’s expression didn’t change, but his shoulders went rigid. “Are you suggesting we’re not all on the same side?”

  “Diplomatic negotiations no doubt require the participants to keep their intentions well-guarded. One must try to read the meanings within meanings and discern the true intentions of the other parties.” Arianna kept a close watch on his face. “I understand Grunwald stopped here for a few days before coming to London. Did he give any hint as to being concerned about the motives of the two other delegations?”

  The young man dropped his gaze to his plate of delicacies. “Y-You think he suspected someone was trying to disrupt an alliance?”

  Arianna allowed a heartbeat of silence, then glanced around before saying, “I wouldn’t know. But murder is always unsettling, especially when one can’t see a clear motive.”

  He looked about to say something in response, then seemed to reconsider and instead took a sip of his wine.

  “Grunwald was a friend,” she went on. “We shared some very interesting conversations on Shakespeare—”

  “And mathematics,” interrupted von Steuben. “He told me you had quite an expertise in the subject.”

  She smiled, recalling several fascinating conversations with Grunwald on whether Sir Isaac Newton or the German philosopher Gottfried Leibnitz deserved credit for inventing calculus. “It’s unconventional for a lady, I know, but my father excelled at mathematics, and passed on his love of the subject to me. The count and I enjoyed some very spirited debates during my time on Vienna on the equations regarding objects in motion.”

  “Vienna,” repeated von Steuben, furrowing his brow. “I can’t help but wonder . . .” He sat in silence for several long moments before fixing her with a probing look. “You and Lord Saybrook were in Vienna at the same time as the mysterious death of an English diplomat. Given that your husband served in the Peninsula in military intelligence, there were rumors—”

  “Yes, we’ve heard them, too—and each new whisper was more wildly absurd than the previous ones,” interjected Arianna. “I believe at one time it was suggested that I broke into the Russian Tsar’s private quarters . . .”—she let out a light laugh— “and stole his prize dueling pistols in order to hunt down a traitor.”

  “Ha, ha, ha,” echoed von Steuben. Still, his face remained pensive.

  “My husband and I prefer to devote ourselves to scholarly endeavors rather than international intrigue—he with his botanical studies, and I with my culinary studies in chocolate.”

  He looked away for a long moment. “And yet . . .” His gaze shifted back to meet hers. “ . . . You and your husband are here in Brussels, and so is Wellington.”

  The young man was more perceptive than she had thought. “And so are a number of interesting specimens of Eupatorium.” Seeing von Steuben’s blank look, she added, “As I said, my husband is a noted botanist, and it so happens he’s doing a study on medicinal plants that help reduce fever. Common boneset is much used in America, and he’s learned that are some local varieties of the genus in this area that he wishes to gather for further study.”

  Knowing he would need a story to cover his forays, Saybrook had come up with the explanation during the Channel crossing. And while he wasn’t sure whether boneset grew in the Low Countries, he doubted whether anyone else would have the expertise to question him on it.

  “A worthy endeavor,” murmured von Steuben. “Men of science like Alexander von Humboldt and your husband look to improve life rather than order countless thousands of men to their deaths on the battlefield.”

  “As do men like you, sir,” she replied. “If you and your Prussian compatriots here in Brussels can help finalize an Allied alliance, Napoleon will likely be forced to the negotiating table rather than daring to fight against our combined armies.”

  ‘I fervently hope we may do so,” he replied. “Though to be honest, it won’t be easy.”

  Given an opening, Arianna decided to venture a question on the diplomatic negotiations taking place in Brussels. “Saybrook’s uncle seems to think that the Russians may not be quite as enthusiastic about supporting your country in its dispute with Austria as they want everyone to believe.”

  She sliced the remaining bit of foie gras into two pieces. “I’m acquainted with Prince Orlov from my time in Vienna—and I know you are, too. As deputy chief of the Russian delegation, he’ll have a great deal of influence on the outcome. What do you think he has in mind?”

  The young man quaffed a long swallow of his champagne before replying. “Orlov is a difficult man to read.”

  A careful answer. Which perhaps said more than it first appeared. Seeing that other guests were beginning to drift into the supper room, Arianna decided she had asked enough questions for the moment. “But enough serious talk—we are here to enjoy an evening of gaiety.” Putting aside her plate, she flashed a smile. “Shall we return to the ballroom?”

  He rose hastily and offered his arm. “Forgive me for taking you away from the dance floor.”

  “I prefer to watch,” she replied as they crossed through the connecting corridor, “so I shall leave the waltzing to you and the young ladies, Herr von Steuben.”

  He paused in the shadows of the archway and gazed out at the couples spinning by in a blur of sparkle and color. “The young ladies prefer to dance with a dashing officer, not a bland bureaucrat, so I too, will watch.”

  “If they’re wise, they’ll soon learn that appearances can be deceiving.”

  His mouth twitched as von Steuben took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Again, thank you for the recipe,” he said loudly as a group of gentlemen moved past them, heading for the card room.

  A sudden tickle teased against her palm.

  He released her with a courtly bow.

  “I do hope your mother enjoys it,” she replied, squeezing her fingers around the scrap of paper he had slipped inside her glove.

  A polite nod, and then the young man turned away and was quickly lost among the crowd.

  Though the note felt like a red-hot coal against her flesh, Arianna resisted t
he urge to pluck it free and read it on the spot. Instead, she took a glass of champagne from the refreshment table and went in search of Sophia.

  “How were the supper offerings?” asked her friend, as she edged away from Harriet Capel and a circle of cavalry officers whose extravagant gold-threaded finery made most of the ladies look like drab sparrows.

  With their snug-fitting coats dripping with silken tassels, ornate braid and oversized medallions, God forbid they ever tried to swing a saber, thought Arianna.

  Oh, the folly of youth. For them, war is still just a pretty game. Parade ground prancing by day and shameless flirting by night.

  But they were too close for her to make a cynical comment to Sophia. “The fois gras is commendable,” she answered, “but the sweets are a trifle disappointing, which surprises me, as I’ve heard the Belgians are very fond of pastries.”

  “Ah, but you must try the cream tarts at La Colombe d’Or patisserie on rue de St. Laurent,” piped up one of the toy soldiers. He was dressed in the uniform of a captain attached to the Prince of Orange’s staff, and judging by the straining seams of his skintight pantaloons, it seemed he had sampled more than a few of the sweets. “They are sublime.”

  ‘”Indeed they are, but your horse will be very grateful if you don’t eat any more of them before we ride into battle,” quipped one of his comrades.

  “Y-you think we will really be called on to f-fight?” stammered the captain.

  “I devoutly hope so,” shot back his comrade.

  “That is Lord March,” murmured Sophia. “He’s frothing at the bit to charge into battle.”

  The Duke of Richmond’s son, who served as aide de camp to the Prince of Orange, Arianna reminded herself.

  “He and the prince have organized a regular series of horse races that draw spectators from all the military encampments, as well as Polite Society,” continued her friend. “We’re invited to the one taking place tomorrow.”

  “Ah.” Arianna tried to muster some enthusiasm, but the prospect of thrashing hooves and a raucous crowd mixed with the pungent scents of sweat and manure was not appealing.