A Question of Numbers Page 7

  Arianna and Sophia followed the man into the corridor and down to the next set of rooms. The door clicked open with a well-oiled snick and he stepped aside.

  “Thank you.” Arianna dismissed him with a fluttery smile. “You need not wait. We may need some moments to . . . to compose our emotions when we are done.”

  The porter made a discreet retreat, no doubt hastened by the prospect of feminine megrims.

  There was an orderly precision to the sitting room—papers perfectly squared on the desk blotter, the stack of books on the shelves aligned like a row of soldiers on parade. The only sign of individuality was a pipe and a half-open pouch of tobacco on the side table by the armchair near the hearth.

  Arianna felt a pang of sadness on seeing a scattering of errant grains on the polished wood. How quickly life could be snuffed out. The Grim Reaper’s scythe struck without warning—

  “Shall I have a look in the bedchamber while you read the note?” Sophia’s voice drew her back from her brooding.

  “Let’s see what it says before we begin our search.” She broke the seal and unfolded the paper.

  Several long moments of silence crackled through the air.

  “It seems you were right.” She looked up. “It says, My dear Lady Saybrook, I have recently arrived in Town and very much hope to rekindle our friendship. Might I invite you to accompany me to the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden next week to see a production of ‘The Taming of the Shrew’? I have just purchased a very lovely set of Shakespeare’s plays at Hatchards, and knowing your appreciation of exquisite craftsmanship and fine detailing, I look forward to showing the books to you.”

  Sophia was already moving to the desk. “Here, it looks like these must be the books.” She pointed to six volumes set in the center of the row. Bound in dark burgundy Moroccan leather, the spines gleamed with an ornate decorative design and title stamped in gold leaf.

  Arianna approached and leaned in to read over the lettering. She chose the third one and carefully picked it up.

  Sophia edged over to stand by her shoulder.

  The deckled pages fell open with a whispery sigh.

  “Act II, Scene 7.” Holding her breath, Arianna found the right spot . . .

  And felt a stab of disappointment at seeing nothing but the printed lines on the pristine white paper. No faint pencil tic marks above letters, no ghostly underlines . . .

  “Damnation,” muttered Sophia.

  Arianna refrained from comment until she had examined the entire scene. “Perhaps if I move closer to the window.” She shifted and angled the book to catch the sunlight.

  Still nothing. The flickers seemed to spin in a mocking dance over the open pages.

  Admitting defeat, Arianna started to close the book when a shadow from the fluttering ivy leaves outside the casement suddenly caught the tiny pinpricks in the paper.

  Sophia heard her sharp intake of breath. “Do you see something?”

  “I think so.” She adjusted the book. “Take a look.”

  “Is it merely wishful thinking,” murmured her friend after a moment, “or is there a pattern of tiny indentations in the paper?”

  “We’ll need a magnifying glass and a small lantern to tell for sure,” answered Arianna. She closed the book and tucked it with the folds of her Kashmir shawl. “Push the other volumes together, and let us hope von Bettendorf had no interest in English literature.”

  “Should we search anywhere else?” asked Sophia.

  Arianna hesitated. They wouldn’t have a second chance. “You take the bedchamber and I’ll take a look through the desk. But let us do it quickly, so as not to stir suspicions.”

  The drawers, she soon saw, had already been examined. Folders were empty, boxes of pen points and sundries sat with their lids off. Nothing was hidden beneath the blotter. It was no surprise, given Grunwald’s position on the diplomatic delegation, that all his papers and correspondence had been removed. And she sensed he wouldn’t have been careless enough to leave any obvious clues as to what he had discovered lying around.

  Rustling sounds from the bedchamber announced that Sophia was taking her task to heart. She rose was about to go call off the search when her friend emerged, a quizzical look on her face.

  “Nothing of interest—except this.” Sophia held up a crude black and white halfpenny print. “It was in a coat pocket.”

  Arianna studied the image. It was a roughly drawn sketch showing Napoleon riding into Paris on the back of an ass. The emperor was a favorite target of London’s satirical artists, and his escape from Elba had unleashed a flood of unflattering lampoons. This one was no different, save for the fact that someone had taken a pencil and scribbled over Napoleon’s famous cockaded hat. A few dark strokes and crosshatchings had altered the original into a broader, pointier shape.

  Her frown gave way to quirked grimace. “I’ve seen Sandro’s notebooks, and he often doodles during long and tedious meetings. I daresay Grunwald did the same.”

  Sophia started to crumple the paper.

  “But we might as well take it with us.” She plucked it from her friend’s fingers and slipped it into the hidden book. “Come, von Bettendorf is likely getting restless.”

  “Not to speak of the fact that Lady Sterling will be wanting her strawberry ice cream.”

  Saybrook unknotted his cravat and pour himself a brandy. “So, Shakespeare’s comedy held a note of drama?” he said, after settling into the one of the leather chairs by the hearth and savoring a long swallow.

  Arianna made a pained face. “You’re usually far less puerile with your quips.”

  “I’m usually far less fatigued.” He sighed and ran a hand through his unruly hair, the slight movement allowing the lamplight to catch the lines of exhaustion etched around his eyes.

  “I take it you had no luck earlier today with your military friend?”

  “He knew nothing more than we do about the current situation. Reports from Brussels are jumbled, as there’s no real chain of command.” Saybrook swallowed another mouthful of brandy. “That will change when Wellington arrives. But God only knows if his leadership will be enough. However great, I’m not sure The Beau can work miracles.” The Beau was what the Duke’s officers called him—out of his hearing—because of his eye for the ladies. “Without General Blücher and the Prussian army as allies, he’ll be outnumbered and outgunned by a more experienced French force.”

  “Then we must make sure that the conspiracy to prevent the alliance doesn’t succeed,” answered Arianna.

  “I’m not sure we can work miracles.” The note of raw vulnerability in his voice sent a sudden stab through her heart. She knew he was thinking more of Pierson than of the grand strategy of nations. For him, matters of honor were intensely personal.

  She loved him for it, though a part of her hated the toll it took on him. As he stared into the fire, the red-gold glow accentuated the bleak hollows beneath his eyes.

  “Let us not lose hope,” counseled Arianna. “We’ve pulled off our share of wizardry in the past.”

  That brought a shadow of a smile to his lips. “If you’ve got some powerful voodoo incantation or spell tucked away with your spices and chocolate, be sure to bring them with you to Brussels.” Saybrook pinched at the bridge of his nose. “But let us get back to Grunwald’s book—I’ve not yet let you explain about the hidden message.”

  “Alas, there’s precious little to tell. The pinpricks were positioned over individual letters in the text—a simple but effective code. They spelled out WATCH ANDRONOVICH. FOLLOW THE . . .” Her mouth thinned. “And ended there. I assume he was interrupted and never had a chance to go back and finish the message.”

  The earl’s expression tightened. “So we still have no idea whether he’s friend or foe.”

  Arianna thought for several moments, “Perhaps Grentham should have his operatives investigate Andronovich’s finances. Debt makes a man vulnerable to blackmail.”

  The earl nodded. “Or temptation. I
t’s a good suggestion. Clearly the fellow is a key to whatever mischief is afoot. But in what way?”

  Questions, questions.

  With answers proving damnably elusive.

  Coals crackled in the hearth as Saybrook uncrossed his legs and finished the last of his brandy. “It’s late and there’s much to do on the morrow. I think I’ll retire.”

  “Before you go, there’s one other matter we need to discuss.”

  He raised a dark brow. “Should I pour myself another drink?”

  “I’m not sure,” she admitted.

  Flexing his shoulders, he slouched back against the soft leather and muttered something in Spanish.

  “Oh, fie—that is a low blow! I swear, I don’t go out of my way to discover trouble.”

  “That’s because it’s constantly clinging to your skirts like a cocklebur.” The earl blew out his breath, a smile softening his sarcasm. “You might as well tell me and get it over with. And then let us go to bed.”

  “I thought you were tired of talking.”

  A glimmer of amusement danced on the tips of his lashes. “I wasn’t intending for us to talk.”

  Their eyes met and Arianna felt a shiver of heat tickle down her spine. At that moment, all the dangers they were undertaking took on a more visceral threat as she faced how much she had to lose.

  Shaking off the sudden stab of fear, she said, “It has to do with Sophia. She wishes—no, actually she has decided—to come to Brussels with us. And before you begin your objections—”

  “Objections?” He shrugged. “I have none. In fact, I think it an excellent idea.”

  “You do?” Arianna gave a wry grimace . . . which slowly gave way to a suspicious stare. “And here I had been steeling for a skirmish. What am I missing?”

  Saybrook chuckled. “Tsk, tsk, what a devious mind you have. However, in this case, my reasons are straightforward. Sophia is skilled with firearms and an expert rider. That she’ll be with you and Constantina is all for the good if trouble strikes.”

  He paused, an evil smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Besides, her presence will greatly annoy Grentham.”

  “Such sentiments should be beneath you,” she chided, trying to hold back her own amusement. But the seriousness of the decision facing them quickly reasserted itself.

  “You don’t worry that she’s too brave and too impetuous for her own good?” Arianna couldn’t hold back a sigh. “I confess, I do. Unlike us, she’s had little experience in the serpentine snarl of intrigue. And this mission will be more dangerous than most we have faced.”

  “She was steady under fire when you involved her in the balloon chase after Reynard,” he pointed out.

  Given her own inclinations, Arianna admitted the irony of acting the mother hen in regard to her friend.

  “And she’s no stranger to painful adversity,” added the earl, making reference to certain personal traumas in Sophia’s past. “I trust in her innate good sense. She’ll likely make some errors—we all do—but when danger demands a split-second decision, I think she’ll make the right one.”

  “I now have more sympathy for how you feel when I insist on crossing swords with the Grim Reaper,” she confessed. “My instinct is to try to keep someone for whom I care out of harm’s way.”

  “Like you, my love, Sophia wouldn’t appreciate the sentiment, however well-intended.”

  Arianna closed her eyes for an instant, recalling the time in her life when she had been alone, and cared for nothing save the burning need for revenge. It was easier emotionally—her heart had been invulnerable. And yet, oh-so empty. Yes, love was a weakness. But she had also come to understand it was her greatest strength.

  And the only thing that really mattered.

  “Then it’s settled,” she replied. “We shall be heading to Brussels with our band of allies.”

  “Let us hope that alliances, both large and small, prove more than a match for the forces of evil.” Saybrook held out his hand to help her up. “By the by, you had better ask Bianca not to dawdle over the packing . . .”

  As she rose, she felt a lick of chill air tease at her ankles.

  “Grentham sailed today, and I’ve arranged passage for us tomorrow on the evening tide.”

  Chapter 9

  The wind had kicked up, its gusty whistling through the ship’s rigging punctuated by the crack of canvas as the sailors reefed the sails. Arianna leaned over the rail, watching the whitecaps crest the roughening seas of the English Channel. A squall was blowing in and Constantina had gone below to her cabin, but the slap of cool air felt bracing as she lifted her face and drew in a deep, salty breath.

  Arianna was at home on the ocean, having spent a number of years sailing around the West Indies. Its vagaries were only one of the many hazards she had learned to weather. The lessons of how quickly calm could turn into chaos had been invaluable in learning the art of survival.

  “The skies look ominous.” Sophia joined her and shot a wary look up at the storm-dark clouds as she pulled her flapping oilskin cloak tighter around her shoulders.

  “I’ve seen much worse,” said Arianna. “It should pass quickly, though the seas will likely get jumpier. And if the weather turns truly foul, it may take several days to reach Antwerp.” After a glance at her friend’s face, she added, “If you’ve a delicate stomach, you might want to try looking at some distant point on the horizon, not down at your hands clutching the rail.”

  Sophia gave a halfhearted laugh, which quickly ended in a sickly swallow. “If this is how you feel atop a galloping horse, I shall show more sympathy in the future.”

  “We each have our strengths,” she murmured.

  “Apparently sea voyages are not one of mine.” Her friend drew in a shaky breath. “I . . .”

  A sudden lurch nearly sent her sprawling across the bucking deck. Arianna managed to catch hold of her arm and keep her upright.

  “Thank you,” said Sophia through gritted teeth. “I was about to say that I know you must have some doubts about whether I’ll be a help or a hindrance.” She made a face. “And here I am getting off on the wrong foot, so to speak.”

  “Seasickness can affect even the most experienced sailors on the first few days of a voyage. And then they find their equilibrium.” Arianna kept her gaze on the whitecaps frothing over the ink-black waters. “The ocean is an excellent teacher. It’s relentless. Remorseless. You must learn your own limitations, else you’re a danger to yourself, and to others.”

  Sophia managed a weak smile. “I think I’ve just been given some very wise advice. I shall mull over what you’ve said when my wits aren’t quite so waterlogged.”

  “Far be it for me to spout platitudes about restraint,” replied Arianna. “I know at times I must appear to act on impulse. However there’s a fine line between impulse and intuition. One that’s been honed by necessity, not hubris.”

  Not even Saybrook knew every ugly detail of her hardscrabble youth. When her father, a disgraced aristocrat who had been forced to flee to the West Indies, had been murdered, she had been forced to survive on her own.

  “I’m more careful than I may seem,” continued Arianna. “I’ve learned to weigh the risks quickly.” She paused, pondering a tactful way to go on.

  Sophia saved her the trouble. “While I, through inexperience, may be a loose cannon.”

  “Maybe just a pistol half-cocked and thus prone to go off when it shouldn’t,” replied Arianna dryly.

  Her friend shifted uncomfortably.

  “Your instincts are good,” she added. “I would simply caution you to guard against doing something dangerous simply because you feel you have to prove your worth. You have no need to do so with me or with Saybrook.”

  A ripple of emotion stirred in her friend’s eyes, but the light was too uncertain to gauge what it was.

  “I . . .”

  The deck heaved again, and Arianna decided that dancing around a delicate topic did neither of them any good.

&n
bsp; “However, I worry that you may feel impelled to do so with Grentham.”

  “G-Grentham!” stammered Sophia. “I wouldn’t . . . I don’t . . .”

  “One must never let pride override reason,” she added, ignoring the stutters. “As I said, I trust your judgment. I know you’ll think on what I’ve said and make the right decisions when the time comes.”

  Sofia’s face had gone white, save for two spots of hot color on her cheekbones.

  “I brought along some ginger in my culinary supplies. It’s very good for settling the stomach.” Arianna pushed away from the railing. “I’ll go have the ship’s cook brew a tisane for you.”

  As she had predicted, the clouds scudded off, but the sea remained choppy for the rest of the passage. Constantina and Sophia didn’t appear for supper in the captain’s cabin—Arianna sensed her friend was nursing more than a bout of nausea, and both of them stayed below the next day, when another squall hit. They were both looking quite green around the gills when finally the ship landed at Antwerp the following morning. However, their color quickly returned once they were on terra firma and were able to down a restorative pot of tea and pastries.

  Through Saybrook’s connections with the military, two dragoons met them at the bustling port with a supply wagon and took charge of loading their baggage for the overland journey to Brussels.

  “How did you manage to procure such comfortable-looking carriages?” murmured Arianna to the earl amid the cacophony of the arriving troops, snorting horses and swearing stevedores. Two well-sprung berline carriages, each pulled by a matched team of chestnuts, were slowly navigating through the stacks of crates and overloaded barrows.

  He quirked a sardonic smile. “Anything is possible, it’s simply a question of what one is willing to pay for it.”

  “In this case, I’m grateful you loosened the purse strings.” She looked around at the press of sweating, shoving men. Officers were bellowing commands, trying to instill some order to dazed troops spilling off the transport ships that had carried them across the Channel from England. “They look to be raw recruits.”