Sweet Revenge lahm-1 Page 3

  “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.

  Finished with the bills, Arianna paused, taking a moment to study the decorative strip of paneling above the drawers. Reopening the center one, she pulled it out all the way and slid her hand into the opening, feeling for any ridge or groove hidden at the back.

  There were other, darker rumors, too. Whispered hints about Lady Spencer’s involvement with men far more debauched than Prinny. It was said that she had been introduced to the Royal Rake by several of his cronies from the Carlton House set, men who sought to use the royal connection for—

  Snick. The paneling sprung open, revealing two hidden compartments.

  The first one held a sheaf of folded letters tied with a length of red velvet. Billet-doux, by the look of them. Arianna thumbed through them, pausing over several from the same gentleman. After a slight hesitation, she slipped one of them into her sleeve before retying the ribbon and returning all the others to their original position.

  The second one contained an assortment of keys. Buried amid the jumble of wrought iron and silvery steel was a small drawstring pouch made of tan chamois. Inside were a handful of identical reddish gold medallions engraved with an image and several lines of ornate script. Arianna tucked one in her pocket before returning the rest to the little bag.

  Intrigued by what she had found so far, Arianna spent a moment longer exploring the depths of the hidden compartment. Sure enough, there was something else there—her fingers brushed over a slim pasteboard folder wedged against the grained wood. She fished it out and found it contained a sheaf of papers covered with mathematical equations. The top sheets appeared yellowed with age, while the ones beneath them seemed—

  Suddenly aware of the rustle of heavy silk in the corridor, Arianna hesitated, but curiosity won out over caution. No doubt it would prove useless, but the idea that Lady Spencer had a hidden interest in something besides men was too tantalizing to ignore.

  Stuffing the folder beneath her stomach padding, she quickly tidied up the telltale signs of her snooping, then spun away and took up a position by the marble mantelpiece.

  “Why, Monsieur Alphonse, what a surprise to see you in the light of day!” Lady Spencer paused in the doorway to smooth out her skirts. “Like a mushroom, you seem to favor dark places.”

  “Alors,” replied Arianna, casually replacing the Sevres snuffbox that she had been examining. “Seeing as our little world has been turned topsy-turvy, I thought I had better come up and fetch the week’s menus. You have not yet sent me your list—or have you lost your appetite for my cooking?”

  Lady Spencer smiled, showing off a set of dimples. Arianna could understand the widow’s appeal to the pleasure-loving Prince Regent. Everything about her had an earthy lushness, from her bulging bosom and rounded hips to her throaty purr, which oozed sensuality. As she moved closer, the air thickened with the honeyed scent of lilacs.

  “No, monsieur. I vow, I cannot imagine life without your gateaux aux chocolat.” Fanning her cheeks, she gave Arianna a wink. “Are you sure I can’t seduce the recipe out of you?”

  For a moment, Arianna wondered how Lady Spencer would react if she were allowed to uncover the shocking truth . . . and then promptly decided that the Prince’s mistress might not be as horrified as she should be.

  “Quite sure, madame,” growled Arianna, retreating a step at the unwelcome thought of being invited to make up a royal ménage à trois.

  “What a pity. I adore plump men.”

  “Not when they haven’t a feather to fly with, madame.” Arianna folded her arms across her goose-down stomach. “I couldn’t afford you.” In more ways than one.

  “True,” agreed Lady Spencer, a note of regret shading her voice. “But you have a rather . . . unique charm.”

  Choking back the insane urge to laugh, Arianna dipped into a formal bow. “The supper menu, madame?”

  “Ah, yes. Supper.” Lady Spencer licked her lower lip. “Something simple, Monsieur Alphonse. After all you have been through lately, I don’t want to put you through any further trouble.”

  The carriage wheels spun through a sharp turn, the iron rims jolting over the cobblestones as the driver urged the team to a quicker pace. Saybrook and his escort had exchanged few words since the earl had agreed that a visit to Lady Spencer’s town house should be the first order of business. However, the Major’s displeasure was eloquent in his body language. He was sitting pressed against the far panels, creating as much space as possible between them. As if fearing that Saybrook’s friction with Grentham might rub off on him.

  “Tell me,” asked the earl slowly. “Why wasn’t the cook placed under arrest right away? Your superior seems sure he is the culprit.”

  “As I’ve tried to explain, we did not wish to draw any undue attention to the incident,” answered Crandall with a martyred sigh. “Lord Grentham wishes to handle the interrogations discreetly, so for the moment, no one will be taken into official custody. But be assured, the entire household staff is under strict orders not to leave the premises.”

  “You are not afraid that he might escape?”

  “Let him try. Naturally, we have men watching the place to ensure that no one slips away.” The Major smoothed a thumb over his mustache. “Personally, I should not be surprised if he attempted to flee. There is something very havey-cavey about the fellow.”

  “How so?” inquired Saybrook.

  “To begin with, he is French.”

>   “So are most of the chefs who serve the ton,” he observed.

  “I wouldn’t know,” replied Crandall stiffly.

  The rest of the ride proceeded in rigid silence.

  Saybrook stepped down awkwardly from the carriage, his cane catching in the iron rung of the bottom step.

  The Major watched the earl’s stumbling with an ill-concealed smirk. “If you will follow me, Lord Saybrook, I shall show you the way to—”

  “Actually, that won’t be necessary.”

  The smirk slid from Crandall’s face.

  “I prefer to conduct my inquiries alone. In my experience, people are more apt to speak freely when they aren’t surrounded by strangers.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” argued the Major.

  “Perhaps not. However, you heard Lord Grentham—he has given me the authority to do as I see fit.” He held out his hand. “I shall keep the files on the staff and the guests, if you please.”

  Crandall passed over the document case, although he looked none too happy about it.

  “Thank you for your briefing. If I have any other questions, I know where to find you.”

  An angry flush of red mottled the Major’s cheeks at the unexpected dismissal. “Would you care to keep the carriage?” he asked through gritted teeth.

  “No, I would rather you take it.” Saybrook glanced up and down the quiet street. “As you so kindly pointed out, the less attention we draw to the place, the better.”

  Turning on his heel, Crandall stalked back to the waiting vehicle.

  In response to several sharp raps of the knocker, the heavy oak-paneled front door opened a crack, and a pair of wary eyes fixed the earl with a basilisk stare. “If you are soliciting money for a wounded war veterans’ fund, we cannot help you, sirrah. The lady of the house cannot be disturbed.”

  “I’m not here about money,” said Saybrook, smiling slightly as he shrugged his bony shoulders. “As for Lady Spencer, I’m afraid that I’ll have to trespass on her hospitality,” he added. “I’ve come from Whitehall.”