Sweet Revenge lahm-1 Page 13

  Arianna pointed to the sheet of paper by the grater. “I copied one of your grandmother’s recipes for a chocolate and almond confection. I was too restless to sleep, so I thought I would try it. I find cooking relaxing.”

  “Sounds delicious.” He went to a tall cabinet by the larder and took down a bottle. She heard a soft splash, and when he returned he was cupping a rounded glass filled with a dark amber liquid.

  “Spanish brandy,” he said, catching her questioning look. “Simpler and sharper than the French style. But I’m not in the mood for complexity tonight.”

  She looked away from his shadowed face. “What are you doing here?”

  “I don’t need an invitation to enter my uncle’s house. I am family, and welcome at any hour.”

  Family. For a fleeting moment Arianna found herself wondering what it would be like not to be always alone.

  “What about you, Lady Wolcott?” His dark eyes seemed to pierce her private thoughts. “Or whoever you really are. You must have family somewhere.”

  “No.” Arianna scooped up a handful of almonds and set them on the chopping block. “Not all of us are privileged enough to have loving relatives. I’m on my own in this world, naught but a nomad.”

  “Even a nomad has a family name, one that roots her to the past, whether she likes it or not.”

  “I have a family name,” she shot back. “I told you, it’s Smith.”

  “I think not.”

  “It’s of no concern to me what you think, sir.”

  “I beg to differ, Lady”—there was a quiver of silence before he spoke the next words—“Arianna Hadley.”

  The blade slipped, nicking her finger. “I—I don’t know what you are talking about,” she stammered as a bead of blood welled up from the cut. In the low light, the color appeared more black than crimson.

  Saybrook passed her his handkerchief. “To be more specific, Lady Arianna Hadley, the only child of Richard Hadley, the fourth Earl of Morse, who left England for Jamaica in ’02. The rumors hint at some dark scandal. Would you care to illuminate it?”

  Arianna answered with a low curse.

  “I can easily find out all the details,” he went on. “But it would save me time if you told me yourself.”

  “Why does it matter?” she demanded.

  “I don’t know that it does. However, experience has taught me that in any investigation, it’s important to have all the facts at hand, no matter how irrelevant they may seem.”

  She heaved a harsh sigh and resumed chopping. “He was accused of cheating at cards. One of his so-called friends confronted him with the charge, and another bloody bastard corroborated it. My father was given a choice—leave the country or have the incident made public.” The staccato sound of the blade hitting wood grew louder. “You know the aristocracy and their precious code of honor. Had he stayed, he would have been forced to put a bullet through his brain.”

  “Again, I ask why?”

  “Why did they frame him?” Arianna lifted her shoulders. “How in Hades should I know? Perhaps they were bored, like so many indolent aristocrats. Or perhaps they resented that my father had a knack for winning.” She caught his expression and quickly added, “And before you ask—no, he was not guilty of cheating!”

  Saybrook said nothing.

  Unwrapping the ball of cacao paste, she began to dice it into tiny pieces. Thwock, thwock, thwonk. The rhythmic rap helped calm her temper. “My father was very clever with numbers,” she went on. “He had a system of counting—the cards, that is—which allowed him to work out patterns of probability. He said it gave him an edge in calculating the odds.”

  “A helpful skill for a gamester.”

  Arianna measured out some flour, then took the mixture of melted sugar and butter from the stove. “How many eggs?” she asked abruptly, after stirring in the chopped cacao paste.

  Saybrook consulted the recipe. “Four. The yolks are to be separated and the whites whisked until they form soft peaks.”

  Before she could reach for the egg crate, he pulled it to him and deftly cracked them one by one.

  “What the devil are you doing?” she demanded.

  The wire whisk was already thrumming against the bowl. “I, too, find cooking relaxing,” murmured the earl.

  She chuffed a sigh. “Yet the last time we were together in the kitchen, someone ended up dead.”

  “Let’s try to avoid any more bloodshed,” he replied, casting a glance at her hand. “For now, at least.”

  “I’m innocent of any misdoing—save to be in the wrong place at the wrong time,” she countered.

  “So you keep telling me.” He quickened his strokes. “By the by, this is just about ready.”

  Arianna added the chopped almonds to her mixture, then gently folded in the whipped egg whites. After spooning it into a pan, she placed it in the oven.

  “And now?” asked Saybrook.

  “We sit,” she said, perching herself on one of the kitchen stools. “And wait. But you need not stay, sir. Obviously, you are not happy unless you are poking your nose into some dark, disgusting hole, in hopes of stirring up the muck.”

  “On the contrary, I take no pleasure in unearthing painful memories, Lady Arianna—”

  “Lady Arianna,” she interrupted bitterly. “I did not give you leave to use my given name, sir. There is no intimacy between us.”

  “None was intended,” answered Saybrook mildly. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten the all the complex rules of aristocratic address. As the unmarried daughter of an earl, the proper form of address is Lady Arianna, not Lady Hadley. When you marry, you will take your husband’s name, or title if he has one. I, on the other hand, am never called Lord Allessandro, but Lord Saybrook, or simply Saybrook—”

  “Spare me the prosy lecture on Polite Society’s asinine rules,” she snapped.

  “If you mean to be successful in your charade, you cannot afford to ignore them.”

  Arianna hesitated, and then heaved a reluctant sigh of surrender.

  “Look, like it or not, we have both been sucked into a cesspool of troubles,” pointed out the earl. “And if we wish to better our odds of emerging unscathed, it would behoove us to cooperate.”

  “Ha!” She let out a mocking laugh. “You have some nerve to talk of trust when you have been spending your efforts digging up dirt on me, rather than pursuing the real culprit.”

  “If you had been more forthcoming with me, I should not have had to waste my time.”

  “So far, I’ve had precious little offered to me in return.”

  Saybrook lifted a brow. “You’ve been swathed in expensive silks and satins, and introduced to the crème de la crème of Society. On the day after tomorrow you move into your own spacious town house, complete with a retinue of servants. So do forgive me if I fail to see how you have been left holding the short end of the stick.”

  “I was referring to information, sir,” she said. “You aren’t any more eager to share your secrets than I am.”

  He picked up a stray almond and absently popped it into his mouth. “It seems that past experience has taught both of us to be wary.”

  “Have you a fresh reason to fear?” she asked, not really expecting a serious answer.

  “Perhaps.” Saybrook gathered up a few more nuts and arranged them in a neat row before going on. “I paid a visit to my friend Henning earlier this evening, and learned that Lord Grentham is sending someone to have a look at Crandall’s body—even it if means exhuming the corpse.”

  Arianna felt the color drain from her face. “Good God, how did your friend hear about that?”

  “The minister is not the only one with a network of informers,” answered the earl. “Henning provides a great service for those who could not otherwise afford medical treatment. In return they keep him informed of what is going on in Town.”

  Despite the warmth of the kitchen, a chill skated down her spine. “H-how will that affect us?” she asked—then quickly corrected herse
lf. “I mean me. Will they guess it was murder?”

  “Hard to say. Henning is very skilled with repairing flesh, and the body is, to put it delicately, losing its ability to tell a clear story.” The earl appeared engrossed in reordering the almonds. “That people do not take kindly to having their graveyards despoiled by resurrectionists also works in our favor. Word has been sent. Grentham’s man may not find his task an easy one.”

  The knot inside her belly relaxed somewhat. “Thank you.”

  Saybrook looked up through his lashes, the momentary spark of topaz mirroring the exact hue of the caramelized sugar. “There are some benefits of working together, Lady Arianna. When you are surrounded by danger, it is not a bad thing to have a comrade in arms watching your arse. Unless, of course, you have eyes in the back of your head.”

  Perhaps. Arianna acknowledged the observation with a slight nod. And yet, she thought cynically, in her experience when a man was watching her arse, it was not for altruistic reasons.

  The earl let the silence stretch out a moment longer before adding, “But of course, you are certain that you can look out for yourself.”

  The aroma of the baking chocolate—sweet, seductive—wafted up from the oven. Trust. It was a tantalizing notion to lower her guard just a little, realized Arianna.

  A flare of light illuminated his profile, and she saw more clearly the tiny lines of tension etched around his mouth. Something else was upsetting him. A sixth sense, a finely honed instinct of self-preservation, allowed her to pick up on a person’s inner conflict. Weakness could often be turned into a weapon.

  “Grentham did more than threaten to exhume the body, didn’t he?” she asked.

  Arianna couldn’t quite describe it in words, but as Saybrook turned, his expression hardened. The change was subtle, but in that split second, his face became a mask that might well have been sculpted out of hard, cold stone.

  “It’s none of your concern, Lady Arianna.”

  “Did he threaten your family?” she prodded.

  “Enough,” he said softly.

  “Or perhaps you have siblings?”

  A faint ridge of color darkened his cheekbones. “You wish to initiate a conversation on family genealogy?” he asked. “By all means. That should prove a very interesting topic.”

  “Very well, let us not open Pandora’s Box, as it were.”

  His response was a gruff growl. “God only knows what other secrets you are keeping locked away in a dark place.”

  “I had better check the cake,” she said, turning abruptly and taking up a chamois cloth to protect her hand. “Overcooking will ruin it.”

  “And it would be a great pity to waste all our cooperative efforts,” murmured Saybrook.

  Arianna didn’t reply. Setting the hot iron pan on a trivet, she nudged it to the center of the worktable and dipped a fork into its center. The tines came away with a slight coating of the batter.

  “Not bad,” she mused, taking a moment to taste the medley of spices. “But naturally, it must cool for a bit before any final judgment can be made.”

  “You are cruel and heartless, Lady Arianna.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “I am.”

  Saybrook rose and went to pour himself another brandy. He returned with a glass for her. “À su salud.” The liquid swirl spun from pale gold to fiery bronze as he raised his drink in salute.

  Arianna couldn’t help but remark the odd twinkle in his eye. In spite of her resolve to remain at odds with him, she smiled. “Yes, I suppose we should toast to the fact that we are still alive.”

  “Ah, as the Roman emperors said—eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow you die.” The earl quaffed a long swallow of the brandy. He seemed to be sinking into an even more strangely reflective mood. Or perhaps he was simply getting a little drunk. “Though I prefer the phrase carpe diem. It sounds so much more elegant.”

  “However you dress up the sentiment, the meaning remains the same. In truth, I think Thomas Hobbes said it best—the life of man is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.”

  “You have studied political philosophy?”

  “No, Lord Saybrook, I have studied the everyday realities of life in the streets, not some fancy leather-bound book.”

  “The two are not always at odds with each other.”

  She slowly sipped her brandy while mulling over his meaning.

  The earl, too, seemed lost in his own thoughts. It wasn’t until his glass was empty that he spoke again. “I do not normally give in to my baser appetites, Lady Arianna, however, I find my willpower weakening in the face of that sinful-looking confection.”

  “I think we may go ahead and test it.” Cutting two thin slices, she placed them on a plate and pushed it toward him. “You ought to have the first taste of your grandmother’s recipe.”

  He broke off a small piece and took an experimental bite.

  “Well?”

  “Excellent. The flavor of the nuts is a nice complement to the smokiness of the trinitario beans.” The earl took another morsel and chewed thoughtfully. “I’m also thinking that the addition of sultanas would make for an interesting contrast of textures. What is your opinion?”

  She took a taste. “Hmmm . . . yes, the softness of dried fruit would be a good counterpoint to the crunchiness of the almonds.” Her tongue began to tingle. “Sweet and salty . . . I like the combination. It’s unexpected.”

  “Layers of complexity add interest to food,” he murmured.

  Arianna let the last of the chocolate melt in her mouth. She meant to remain distant, detached, but the seductive warmth of the brandy, the sugar, and the mellifluous sound of his voice nibbled away at her resolve.

  “Does the phrase Fay çe que vouldras have any significance to you?” she suddenly said.

  The earl’s expression didn’t change but she sensed that he was suddenly on full alert. “Why do you ask?”

  She considered a lie, but then decided against it. “Sorry. I can’t tell you that right now.”

  “You know, trust is an essential ingredient in any successful partnership.”

  “We are not partners,” she pointed out.

  “Yes, and your stubborn refusal to consider it is likely to land both of us in the fire.” His fist suddenly smacked the table, rattling the dishes. “Damn it all, Lady Arianna, against all common sense, I have shown some faith in you.”

  True. Arianna stared down at her half-eaten cake. It was hard to swallow her misgivings. But she did need his help, so she decided that it wouldn’t hurt to feed him a crumb or two.

  “The morning after the Prince was poisoned, I decided to do a little snooping in Lady Spencer’s study. I found a medallion hidden behind a false panel in her escritoire. It had those words engraved on it.”

  His jaw unclenched. “Thank you.”

  “Have you any idea what it might mean?” she asked.

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  Arianna waited.

  “But I need to make a few inquiries before I explain.”

  It was her turn to express outrage. “I should have known better than to think you would be fair—”

  Saybrook touched a finger to her lips. “Must you always assume the worst?”

  As if there was any other choice.

  “Your anger is always so quick to boil over. As a chef, you should know that a judicious application of heat yields far better results.”

  “I don’t need a cooking lesson,” she muttered. “I know my way around a stove, milord.”

  “You are about to step out of the kitchen and into a world where the flames are far more dangerous.”

  Arianna’s low laugh sent a ripple of lantern light dancing across the tabletop. “I’ve been to some hellholes that would make the devil’s hair curl, sir. Nothing in London can hold a candle to them.”

  “Don’t bet on it,” he growled.

  They locked eyes, and the air seemed to echo with the silent clash of steel on steel. Neither of them seemed wil
ling to yield an inch.

  And then, to her surprise, the earl suddenly sheathed his sword. “Christ Almighty, I suppose if I don’t tell you something, you’ll get yourself into trouble by charging in where angels should fear to tread.”

  “I’m no angel,” she said, tentatively accepting the truce.

  “True. If I had to compare you to any heavenly body, it would be one of the figures from ancient mythology—an Avenging Fury, or the Goddess of Revenge.” Saybrook thought for a moment. “There must be one, though the name eludes me at the moment.”

  “Nemesis,” she whispered. “It derives from the Greek word νἐμειν, which means ‘to give what is due.’ Or, more simply, divine retribution.”

  “With you as the self-appointed Almighty?”

  When she didn’t answer, the earl slowly spun his empty glass through several rotations. “You made mention of the Hellfire Club that first morning at my uncle’s town house.”

  “Yes, and you dismissed it as a harmless ghost story from the past.”

  “So I did. But that phrase you just recited, Fay çe que vouldras, was the motto of the original members.” He hesitated, as if carefully choosing his next words. “For you see, those gentlemen considered themselves above any moral restraints.”

  “Do what you please,” said Arianna.

  “Just so.” He took a deep breath. “As I told you then, the embers were said to have been stamped out long ago. However . . .”

  “You think they may have come back to life?”

  “I don’t know,” admitted Saybrook. “I will need to poke my nose into a few more deep, disgusting holes in order to answer that.”

  Recalling the flicker of the burnished gold, Arianna added, “I suppose I should also mention that there were a handful of the medallions. I took one of them with me.”

  “I would like to see it, if you don’t mind.”

  “Very well.” In for a penny, in for a pound. “I’ll fetch it from my room.”

  She returned shortly and handed the medallion to him. As for the letter and the other items, she had decided to keep that information to herself. It was always wise to have bargaining chips in reserve.

  Saybrook studied it for a long moment. “May I keep this for a while?”