Sweet Revenge Read online

  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.”

  The butler stepped back and allowed him to enter the town house. “If you would wait in the drawing room, sir . . .” A wave of a white-gloved hand indicated a pleasant, light-filled room to his right. “I will fetch Her Ladyship.”

  Saybrook shuffled over the brightly colored carpet, eyeing the jade dragons on the mantel and bright silk pillows embroidered with unicorns nestled on the window seat. Next to it, a pair of faux-gold monkeys danced atop a brass tea chest.

  “Do you like my menagerie, sir?”

  Saybrook turned from his study of an alabaster lion. “You have collected quite a kingdom of wild animals,” he answered slowly. “Including the King of the Jungle.”

  Her laugh was low and sultry, making her sound as if she had just tumbled out of bed. “Thank God that someone from Whitehall actually has a sense of humor. You cannot imagine how tedious that stiff-rumped Major Crandall has been this last week, glowering at me and my staff like we were a vile plague about to infect his private parts.”

  Saybrook nodded gravely, though a tiny twitch did seem to play at the corners of his mouth. “I confess that I am also included on his list of noxious diseases.”

  “I’m delighted to hear it,” she said cheerfully. “May I offer you some refreshment—tea, sherry, or something stronger—so that we may toast to the prospect of his phallus falling off in the near future?”

  “Thank you, but no. Though I do second your sentiment.”

  She smiled.

  “As you can guess, this is not a purely social call, Lady Spencer.”

  Sighing, she brushed an errant curl off her cheek. “Oh, very well. I suppose that you, too, have a barrage of questions you wish to fire at me, Mr. . . .”

  “I’m Saybrook,” he said softly. “The—”

  “The new earl?” exclaimed Lady Spencer.

  His nod drew another peal of laughter. “How delicious—that is, once we put some meat on your bones.” She winked. “I would recommend my chef, who really does create the most divine delicacies, but I dare-say you might not find the suggestion a tasty one, given the circumstances.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but perhaps some other time,” he answered. “For now, I will settle for having a few words with the man.”

  Lady Spencer’s gaze lingered for an instant on his cane. “Please make yourself comfortable on the sofa, Lord Saybrook. I shall send someone to fetch Chef from his quarters.”

  “No need,” replied Saybrook, though a sudden spasm of his leg seemed to say otherwise. “I would, in fact, prefer to go to him.”

  “Unfortunately, that will entail a trip down a rather steep set of stairs, sir. You see, Chef resides in a small room off the kitchen.”

  “Indeed? It’s a bit odd that he would choose to live with the likes of the boot boy or coal monkey.”

  “Oh, he doesn’t permit anyone else to live downstairs with him.” Seeing Saybrook arch a brow, she explained, “He’s a trifle eccentric—or perhaps temperamental is a better word. But then, most great artists are.”

  “Ah.”
r />   “Truly he is—an artist, that is,” she assured him. “I do hope you haven’t come to arrest him. Even the Prince expressed hope that Monsieur Alphonse doesn’t end up on the chopping block. Prinny is very fond of the man’s boeuf en croûte and crème brûlée.” Her lips twitched. “And, entre nous, he is heartily sick of the beef tea and broths that Whitehall insists on sending.”

  “England does not employ the guillotine, Lady Spencer,” the earl replied dryly. “If your Cook is innocent, he has nothing to fear from me.”

  “Chef,” she corrected. “He is very particular about all the little details.” Her skirts fluttering with a silky swoosh, she turned for the door. “Come this, way, sir.”

  4

  From the chocolate notebooks of Dona Maria Castellano

  Legend has it that Quetzalcoatl, the god of civilization and learning, was banished from Earth for bringing the gift of chocolate to mankind. The Aztecs believed that he would one day return in glory—and when Hernan Cortez and his fleet of galleons sailed over the horizon in 1519, he was thought to be the ancient god. Alas, poor Montezuma! Though it is recorded that he drank fifty cups of chocolate a day, his magical military elixir proved no match for the Spanish guns and horses. Cortez plundered Tenochtitlan and carried back a wealth of treasures to Spain, including gold, silver, and cacao. . . .

  Guatemalan Cacao-Chile Balls

  3 ounces (about ⅔ cup) cacao nibs

  3 ounces (about 1 cup) piquin chiles

  1 1-inch stick soft Ceylon cinnamon, coarsely chopped

  ½ teaspoon allspice berries

  1 teaspoon salt

  1 teaspoon Spanish smoked paprika

  1. Heat griddle or medium cast-iron skillet over medium heat. Add cacao nibs and dry-roast for 2 minutes, until fragrant, stirring constantly with wooden spoon. Turn into separate container and set aside.

  2. Add chiles, cinnamon, and allspice berries to the griddle and roast the same way, stirring, for 2 minutes. Scrape into electric spice mill or coffee grinder with salt and paprika and grind to a fine powder.

  3. Combine spice mixture and roasted cacao nibs in a mini food processor and process into a sticky paste, 3-4 minutes, stopping to scrape down sides of bowl. Turn onto a work surface and shape into 12 small balls. Let sit until thoroughly dried.

  4. Store in tightly sealed jar. When ready to use, grate over any dish to add a piquant seasoning.

  Thump, thump, thump. The sound of the graceless descent gave Arianna ample warning that her bailiwick was about to be invaded.

  Sure enough, several moments later a man appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. He was tall and broad-shouldered, though at present his big body was slightly hunched in pain. Taking in the cane and the awkward shift of his weight, she guessed that his stiff left leg was its source.

  She looked up. His face might once have been called handsome, but its chiseled planes had sharpened to the point of gauntness. Black lashes framed eyes dark as volcanic ash. Yet as his gaze met hers, she was almost certain that she saw a burnt-gold spark smoldering in their depths.

  She had expected another soldier. Instead they had sent . . . Satan incarnate.

  No need to let my imagination run wild, she chided herself. Not when an all too real Hell was already erupting around her.

  Shaking off her flight of fancy, Arianna quickly slipped into her role of aggrieved Frenchman.

  “Sacre bleu, not another attack on my integrity,” she muttered, cutting an angry little swish through the air with her fillet blade. “I am fast losing my taste for London. It is clear zat my talents are not appreciated here.”

  “I shall try not to take up too much of your time with my questions,” said the intruder, his ash-black eyes following the flight of her hands.

  “Hmmph!” Scowling, she waved him on. “Come, if you wish to talk, you will have to do it while I prepare ze stew for supper, Monsieur . . .”

  Who the devil was he?

  “De Quincy,” he answered. After a fraction of a pause, he added, “Or Saybrook, if that comes easier to your tongue.”

  “Given a preference, sir, the only word I would be saying is adieu,” she shot back.

  “Unfortunately, that is not possible quite yet. But as I said, I will endeavor to keep our talk brief.” Strangely enough, his gaze remained focused on her hands. “And to the point.”

  Her grip tightened on the hilt. “Ze household must eat, n’est-ce pas, Monsieur De Quincy?”

  “But of course,” murmured Saybrook.

  Arianna led the way to a massive worktable set in the center of the space. “Have a seat, monsieur,” snapped Arianna, indicating the lone stool at one end of the steel-scarred length of maple. She set aside the fillet blade and took up a paring knife. “While I peel and dice the carrots.”

  “No amanita mushrooms?” he said softly.

  The reference to the deadly poisonous species took her aback. Good God, did the man actually have a sense of humor?

  Arianna grunted in reply. “Zees may be a joke to you, sir, but it eez my reputation at stake.”

  “Not to speak of your life.”

  She felt herself blanch, but remained silent.

  Perching a hip on the stool, Saybrook watched her scoop up a handful of the vegetables and begin trimming off the tops. “You have the hands of an artist, Monsieur Alphonse,” he remarked, shifting his gaze to the heavy steel blades and graters arrayed around him and then back again. “One would not expect those fine-boned fingers to wield the tools of your trade with quite so much skill.”

  Her throat seized and Arianna didn’t dare try to speak, fearing a feminine squeak would give her away. At this distance, the darkness of his eyes appeared due to the telltale dilation of his pupils—Mr. De Quincy clearly imbibed a goodly amount of laudanum to ease his pain. But apparently the drug had not dulled the sharpness of his wits.

  She must not make the mistake of underestimating him. She had made too many errors already.

  Willing herself to remain calm, Arianna took up a butcher’s knife. Chop, chop, chop. The familiar rhythm steadied her nerves, and in a matter of seconds, the carrots were reduced to a pile of uniform slices.

  “If Prinny had been gutted and quartered instead of poisoned, you would be an even more obvious suspect,” he added conversationally.

  “Does that mean that you have come to arrest me for attempted murder?” she demanded.

  Instead of answering, he asked, “Have you always been interested in cooking?”

  She lifted her shoulders. “From an early age I had to learn how to fend for myself, and at times I had to be creative in order to keep from starving. I discovered that I had a knack for working with food, and I find it interesting.” A sweep of the blade pushed the vegetable aside. “But you—you look like one of zose monkish men who subsist on bread and water—and ze thrill of hunting down dangerous criminals and eliminating them from society.”

  “I’ve been recovering from an injury,” he answered brusquely.

  Had she touched a sore spot? If so, Mr. De Quincy was quick to cover his discomfort. “As it happens,” he went on calmly, “I do have an interest in cuisine. And from what I have heard, you are very good at what you do.”

  Another shrug.

  “Did you learn your art in France? I am trying to place your accent. . . .”

  “Non, in ze islands of the Caribbean,” she growled. A head of garlic, finely diced, joined the carrots in a large copper pot. “Martinique, Guadeloupe, St. Barthelemy. Then I drifted to Jamaica for a time.” Arianna reached for a bowl of small white onions. “Do you require references?” she added with a sarcastic laugh.

  “Not at present,” replied Saybrook politely. “So, what brought you to London?”

  “I was bored and wished to expand my horizons.”

  His dark brow notched up a fraction.

  “Zhis is a city of great wealth and opportunity,” she went on. “People hunger for fine things, and I saw a chance to profit from it.”


  “A very pragmatic assessment, Monsieur Alphonse,” murmured Saybrook.

  “Unlike you fancy Ingleeze gentlemen, I did not grow up in a cosseted world of pampered privilege. I had to survive on my own wits, so yes, I am pragmatic. Is zat a crime in this country?”

  “Not that I am aware of.” Saybrook shifted slightly, and Arianna guessed that he was trying to ease the pressure on his injured leg. “What makes you think I am a gentleman?”

  “Your coat is tailored by Weston. He only caters to a wealthy, titled clientele.”

  “You have a discerning eye, Monsieur Alphonse.”

  “Cooking requires one to pay attention to the small details.”

  Saybrook remained silent as he watched her pluck a bouquet of fresh herbs from the overhanging rack and methodically mince a handful of the leaves.

  “Rosemary.” Saybrook sniffed the air. “As well as thyme and savory.”

  She looked up in surprise.

  “I spent time in my grandmother’s kitchen when I was a boy.”

  “You are an odd agent of the government—a member of the upper class who chooses to get his hands dirty”—the chopping grew louder—“with desperate criminals, like moi.”

  “Perhaps, like you, I am bored,” said Saybrook pleasantly. “By the by, are you a desperate criminal?”

  “Ha! You don’t care about ze answer.” She flashed him a sardonic smile. “All you and your government care about is making an arrest. Voilà—the problem is solved, and be damned with the inconvenience of ze truth. N’est pas?”

  Saybrook turned slightly, a pensive look shading his profile. The window draperies were drawn almost shut, and in the low light, shadows danced over the taut skin and harsh bones. The air was growing heavy with the warmth of the simmering pots on the stove, and Arianna saw a beading of sweat break out on his forehead.