Sweet Revenge lahm-1 Read online

  “Boring indeed,” remarked Gavin with a sardonic laugh.

  “You can’t begin to imagine. He thinks I’m too fast.” Her palm slid suggestively against his shoulder. Leaning a little closer, she let her breath tease against his ear. “Do you?”

  Beneath her touch, his muscles twitched. “I believe ladies should be able to . . . do as they please.”

  “Fay çe que vouldras,” said Arianna, drawing out the French phrase slowly, like a strand of melting sugar.

  “Precisely, Lady Wolcott.” Up close, the predatory gleam in his eyes blazed bright as an open flame. “How very interesting that you would choose that exact phrase.”

  “Oh, I heard someone mention it recently,” she said. “And thought it sounded . . . intriguing. French is such a sensual language, is it not?”

  “Deliciously so,” he answered. “It drips like melted butter from your tongue.”

  She tittered. “La, isn’t the mention of body parts strictly forbidden in Polite Society, Sir Gavin?”

  He glanced around the ballroom before locking his gaze with hers. “Among a select group of people, the rules don’t apply.”

  “Even more intriguing,” she whispered. She let a few more steps of the dance go by before adding, “Lord Concord mentioned a club. A very exclusive club. How does one apply?”

  “One doesn’t apply, Lady Wolcott. One is invited,” responded Gavin. “But seeing as Concord is in charge of the membership, I am sure that your name will be high on the list.”

  “I do hope you will put in a good word for me.”

  “But of course.” A series of tight twirls turned the ballroom into a kaleidoscope blur of colors. “I think you would fit in perfectly.”

  “So do I, sir.” So do I.

  18

  From the chocolate notebooks of Dona Maria Castellano

  I picked up several illustrated books on botany on my last shopping sojourn in Madrid, and now know there are three distinct types of cacao trees. Criollas are considered the “prince of cacao.” They are very delicate and prone to disease, but produce the highest-quality beans. Forasteros are the most common variety, and although they are very hardy, they are the least flavorful. Trinitarios, named for the island of Trinidad, are a hybrid, and offer an excellent balance of taste and ease of cultivation. . . .

  Mexican Chocolate Pudding

  ½ cup packed light brown sugar

  ¼ cup unsweetened cocoa powder

  2½ tablespoons cornstarch

  ½ teaspoon cinnamon

  ⅛ teaspoon salt

  2 cups plain unsweetened almond milk

  1½ tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into bits

  ½ teaspoon pure vanilla extract

  1. Mix together brown sugar, cocoa powder, cornstarch, cinnamon, and salt in a heavy medium saucepan, then whisk in almond milk. Bring to a boil over medium heat, stirring often, then boil, whisking, 1 minute.

  2. Remove from heat and whisk in butter and vanilla.

  3. Chill in a bowl, surface covered with a piece of buttered wax paper, until cold, at least 1½ hours.

  Fog floated through the chill night air, a sea of silver obscuring the rain-spattered cobblestones. The shower had passed, but the mizzled moonlight was too weak to penetrate the shadows separating the row of town houses. Darkness hid any sign of movement along the garden wall of Arianna’s rented residence.

  Saybrook slid his shoes over the damp grass, careful to avoid any stray twigs that might make a sound. The cloaked figure ahead of him was now only three steps away . . . two steps . . .

  Lunging forward, he caught his quarry by the shoulders. A half spin and hard jerk slammed the man up against the mossy brick.

  “Quiet!” he growled, whipping out a knife from his coat and angling its edge beneath the upturned jaw. “And don’t move.”

  His prisoner held very still. “Are you going to slit my throat?”

  “That depends,” said Saybrook. “What filthy game are you playing, Ashmun? Answer me now, and I might let your blood stay in your veins.” The blade pressed harder against the exposed flesh. “Why are you following Lady Wolcott?”

  “Because . . .” Ashmun drew a ragged breath and slowly lifted his chin. “Because I’m very concerned for her safety.”

  “Explain yourself,” ordered the earl.

  “I’m afraid that she’s gotten herself into deep trouble with you, and the men you have introduced to her.” His gaze flicked down to the knife. “I might ask the same question of you, Lord Saybrook. Why are you following her?”

  “What business is it of yours?” he demanded.

  “I . . . I would rather not say,” replied Ashmun.

  The sharpened steel twitched, drawing a drop of blood. “I’m afraid I must insist.”

  The night was still, save for the rasp of their breathing. The ghostly puffs of vapor twisted and twined together against the blurred shades of black.

  The earl waited, but Ashmun remained silent.

  “I applaud your courage, if not your common sense.” Saybrook eased back a touch. “If your motives are upright, you have nothing to fear from me.”

  Ashmun appeared uncertain. However, after a long moment he let out a soft sigh. “I suppose I really have little choice.” His lips pursed into something between a grimace and a smile. “I am Lady Wolcott’s godfather. Or rather, I am Lady Arianna Hadley’s godfather. For she is, I am sure, the daughter of my good friend Richard Hadley, who was forced to flee to the West Indies some time ago.”

  Saybrook slowly lowered the knife. “She thought you looked familiar.”

  “Did she?” Ashmun looked puzzled. “I wonder how that could be? I was present at her christening, of course, but spent years abroad so did not see her again before her father left the country. And while I visited Jamaica to speak with Richard, I would have sworn that Arianna knew nothing of it. He and I took great pains to make sure that she wasn’t aware of my visit.”

  “Lady Arianna has a knack of learning things that others might want to keep a secret.” The earl thought for a moment. “It is odd, though, that she didn’t recognize your name.”

  “Not necessarily. I was only the Honorable Mr. Josiah Becton at the time of her birth. I’ve since acceded to the title of Baron Ashmun.”

  “I see.”

  Ashmun pulled a rueful face. “Her father would have been unhappy to hear that she spotted me. We were trying to protect her.”

  “She wouldn’t thank you for it.” Saybrook sheathed his blade. “Protect her from what?”

  The baron fixed him with a searching stare. “Before I answer that, what is your interest in the lady?”

  “I, too, am anxious to keep her out of harm’s way,” answered Saybrook. “I am not at liberty to say any more than that.”

  “But—”

  A muffled crunch of leaves underfoot caused him to cut off his words.

  Saybrook whipped around, the knife flashing out from inside his coat. The sound came again, from beneath the overhanging ivy, and then Arianna slipped out from the muddled shadows of the recessed gate in the garden wall.

  “I thought I heard something,” she murmured, eyeing the earl’s weapon. Sliding a step closer, she saw that his other hand held a man pinned to the garden wall.

  “And so you decided to come investigate?” Saybrook did not sound pleased. “Alone and unarmed?”

  She revealed the small turn-off pocket pistol hidden beneath the folds of her India shawl. “I’m not quite so careless as you think.” She thumbed the hammer back to the half-cocked position but kept the barrel aimed at the baron’s head. “Once again, it seems you are following me, Lord Ashmun. Would you care to explain why? Or shall I be forced to reconsider using a more persuasive means of making you talk.”

  “I have the situation in hand, Lady Wolcott,” said Saybrook. Lowering his voice, he added, “Go back inside. It is likely that someone is watching your house, and it would be prudent to give him nothing to report.”

  She to
ok cover within the brick archway and then silently motioned for the men to follow her.

  “Damnation,” Arianna heard Saybrook swear softly. “We had better do as she asks, else she is capable of shooting both of us.”

  “A wise move, sir,” she said as he and the baron ducked into the garden. “As you know, I’m unpredictable.” A tug on the hasp clicked the lock shut. “Follow me. We’ll be more comfortable inside, away from prying eyes.”

  Crossing the terrace, Arianna led the way through a set of glass-paned doors and halfway down the corridor to a small study.

  “Help yourself to a drink,” she said, indicating the decanters on the sideboard as she stirred the banked fire to life.

  “May I pour you something?” asked the earl, measuring out a generous helping of brandy for both himself and Ashmun.

  “Thank you, but no. I’ve imbibed enough for one evening.”

  Saybrook lifted a brow. “Dancing does work up a thirst.”

  “So, it would seem, does skulking through the dead of night,” she replied. “Which raises the question of why you were lurking outside my town house.”

  “You mentioned your concern about Lord Ashmun. So I decided to have a look for myself.”

  Arianna had a feeling that there was more to the matter than met the eye, but put off confronting him for the moment. Instead, she turned to Ashmun.

  “And what have you to say for yourself, sir? I think it’s time you explained your interest in me.”

  The baron hesitated and cast a mute appeal at Saybrook.

  “You do not need the earl’s permission,” snapped Arianna. “He is not my guardian.” Her mouth tightened. “Or my protector.”

  The older man flushed, and then cleared his throat. “Very well. I’ve been following you because I believe you are the daughter of my very dear friend Richard Hadley.”

  She sat down rather heavily.

  “Are you Arianna?” he asked. “You look exactly like the miniature he showed me—the one he carried inside his watchcase.”

  For once, she couldn’t quite slip out of her real skin. “I knew I had seen you before—somewhere other than here in London.”

  “I met with your father in Jamaica the day before his death.” Ashmun pressed a hand to his brow. “I—I tried to find you the next day, after I learned of the attack. But you had already disappeared.”

  “I had no money to pay the landlord. And the barter he suggested was not a price I wished to pay for that hovel,” she replied.

  “I am so sorry, my dear.”

  She managed a careless shrug. “I wasn’t your responsibility, sir.”

  “But you were.” He regarded her sorrowfully. “You see, I am your godfather, and should have saved you from having to make such wretched choices.” His hands knotted together in his lap. “Did your father never mention my existence?”

  Oh, Papa—how many other secrets did you take to the grave?

  Arianna slowly shook her head. “It appears that there was much he did not tell me.”

  “You were about to tell me earlier why you undertook a journey all the way from England to speak with Lord Morse,” said Saybrook. “Please do so now, Ashmun. His daughter is anxious to learn everything there is to know about the circumstances surrounding his death.”

  “Before we get to that, I would like to be assured that you have a claim to her confidence,” said Ashmun. He slanted a questioning look at Arianna. “Do you trust him?”

  “You may speak freely,” she replied, carefully evading a more specific answer.

  Her response elicited a harried sigh. “Very well. But to be honest, my dear, I’m not sure that it serves any purpose to dredge up the past.”

  “I’m afraid that it does,” answered Arianna. “Indeed, it may prove very important in solving a present problem.”

  The baron shifted uneasily in his chair. “Then I assume you wish to hear the truth, and not some rose-tinted version of it.”

  Truth. That cursed word again. It seemed to taunt her at every turn.

  She signaled with a curt nod for him to go on.

  After wetting his lips with a sip of brandy, Ashmun set his glass aside. “I need not tell you, Arianna, what a charming, fun-loving fellow your father was. But for the earl’s sake, I will try to paint a quick sketch.” He closed his eyes, taking a moment to frame his thoughts. “Richard had a magnetism that is hard to describe, an innate ability to convince you that black was white, even if the evidence to the contrary was right in front of your nose.”

  Saybrook stretched his legs out toward the hearth.

  A wry smile tugged at Ashmun’s mouth. “Now don’t get me wrong—there was not a more loyal or generous friend in a pinch. But he also had a harder, sharper facet to his character.”

  Arianna stared at the freshly stirred coals, hot and cold points of ash and fire.

  “You see, Richard took great delight in being just a little cleverer than the rest of us,” Ashmun went on. “He was extraordinarily gifted in mathematics. And at times he used that talent to his advantage.”

  She quelled the urge to press her palms over her ears.

  “You are sure that you want me to go on?” Ashmun’s face was wreathed in concern.

  “Yes,” answered Arianna. Was there really a choice?

  The earl rose and went to pour a fresh glass of brandy. He placed it in her hands before resuming his place by the fire. “If it makes your story any easier, Lady Arianna already has reason to suspect that her father may have been involved in some questionable business dealings.”

  Ashmun looked relieved. “Then what I have to say will not come as a complete shock.” He puffed out his cheeks. “I do not know the specifics of the deal—it happened twenty years ago—but Richard had some sort of partnership with a group of gentlemen he knew from one of his gaming clubs. Concord, Ham—”

  “Yes, I know the names by heart,” interrupted Arianna.

  “Then I shall not pain you by constantly repeating them,” said Ashmun softly. “Suffice it to say, Richard had become their friend . . . he enjoyed the camaraderie of his fellow peers, and was flattered that a set of young, fast gentlemen courted his company. He found it easy to fit into the group.”

  Like a chameleon, thought Arianna. No wonder she found it so effortless to change her skin. If one simply shrugged off all questions of right or wrong when it suited one’s purpose, the transformation was quite simple.

  And apparently she had learned from a man who had mastered the art of amorality.

  Looking up, she found the earl watching her intently, his dark eyes like daggers against her flesh.

  “Yes, Papa enjoyed being the life of the party.” She summoned a cool smile, though her insides were twisting in a painful knot. “The center of attention.”

  “Even when he had to cut corners to get there,” murmured the earl.

  “That is a good way of putting it, I suppose. Richard didn’t see the harm in shaving a bit off the rules. I . . . but first, I should finish my story.” Ashmun crooked a tiny grimace. “In any case, he recounted to me how he had created a complex mathematical billing model for a company that his friends had invested in, one that allowed him to manipulate the numbers. Don’t ask me to explain it, but the formula created an extra profit for the company while shipping fewer goods than contracted for. So it proved extremely clever on both ends. And extremely lucrative for the investors. He was quite proud of himself for figuring it out.”

  “I assume he was rewarded for his brilliance,” said Saybrook.

  “Yes. A share in the partnership,” answered Ashmun. “But for a man who was a genius with numbers, Richard seemed to have no concept of money. He spent freely . . . or, rather, flagrantly. While his wife was alive, she managed to control his wilder impulses. But after her death . . .” He lifted his shoulders. “God knows, I tried to counsel him on the dangers of . . . of . . .”

  “Of cheating?” suggested Arianna. “Of consorting with criminals?”

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p; “Your father saw things far more abstractly,” replied Ashmun. “It is deucedly hard to explain, but Richard had great trouble seeing the connection between his actions and the consequences of them. He meant no harm—his calculations were simply an intellectual challenge, and he took boyish delight in solving them. It wasn’t until later . . .”

  Ashmun paused for a swallow of brandy. “But before I digress, let me finish with this part of the tale. To make a long story short, your father’s cleverness went a touch too far, for you see, he couldn’t help but add an extra equation that skimmed off a little extra for himself.”

  “In other words,” said Saybrook, “he cheated the cheaters at their own game.”

  “Precisely,” answered the baron. “It took them a year or so to discover it, and to be honest, I’m not quite sure how it came to light. Perhaps Richard admitted the joke one night when he was in his cups. That would be the sort of thing he would do—ha, ha, ha, no hard feelings, eh?”

  “Ha, ha, ha,” echoed Arianna.

  “However, his friends did not find it amusing and so decided to take revenge. They, too, were very clever men. Ruthlessly so, as you have good reason to know, my dear.”

  “So they concocted the accusation of cheating at cards,” murmured Arianna.

  “Which forced Lord Morse to leave the country,” finished Saybrook.

  “Aye.” Ashmun blotted his brow with his handkerchief and finished his brandy. “I believe that in the meantime, your father had constructed a few other ventures for them, and I suppose they felt they didn’t need him anymore.”

  “And he couldn’t very well reveal their wrongdoings,” mused the earl. “For to do so would have ruined his own name as well.”

  “Correct. My understanding is that they gave him a sum to leave quietly. Richard was in financial straits at the time and, well, he really had no choice but to accept his punishment. To have been publicly branded a cheat at cards would have been a fate worse than death. He would have been ostracized from Society and all the convivial company he so craved. In Jamaica, at least, he could pretend that he was still part of that world.”