The Stolen Letters Page 8

  “Trouble,” murmured Sophia, “seems to follow you around as if it were your shadow.” She made a wry face. “Speaking of which, I daresay we’ll all be subject to some uncomfortable questions if we don’t return to the other guests very soon.”

  “Quite right,” agreed the dowager. She gestured to Arianna. “Step over here, and let Sophia and me put your gown and hair to rights.”

  Arianna was surprised to find her legs a little wobbly as she obeyed the dowager’s command. Now that the heat of the fight was over, she felt utterly spent.

  “I don’t think the other guests will have trouble believing that Arianna was feeling ill,” said Constantina as she began to expertly adjust the gown’s fastenings and smooth the creases from the silk. To Arianna she added, “You look like death warmed over. What happened?”

  Arianna gave a terse account of the interlude, earning a wince from Sophia as she described Orlov’s embrace.

  “The scurvy scoundrel,” muttered Sophia.

  “A thoroughly dirty dish,” agreed Constantina. “I’m so sorry you were subjected to his pawing. But I’m grateful beyond words.” The dowager glanced at the fire. “I confess, knowing the letters went up in smoke is a relief beyond words. To my mind, the result is the best possible end to the unfortunate incident.”

  Grentham would likely not agree entirely, but she had accomplished the main objective. As for the complexities of the secondary conundrums . . .

  A tiny smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I confess, when forced to make a decision, the thought did occur to me that the simplest solution was likely the best one.”

  “In my scientific experience, that usually proves to be true,” observed Sophia as she captured a number of errant curls and refastened them with the hairpins.

  Life was rarely as neat as a carefully controlled laboratory experiment, reflected Arianna. And yet, however complicated it appeared, the universe did seem to run on elegantly simple paradigms.

  “Ye God, what a ham-fisted, clumsy brute Prince Orlov is,” muttered the dowager, working with great care to untangle the delicate beribboned sash of Arianna’s gown. “It’s a wonder that any lady allows him to come within arm’s reach.”

  “We all know a title and a fat purse cover a multitude of sins,” said Arianna.

  Sophia’s expression hardened. “Men, whether they are rich or not, shouldn’t be entitled to treat females as if they were mere objects for their pleasure.”

  “Mary Wollstonecraft’s manifesto on the rights of women makes great sense,” said Arianna. “But unfortunately, I don’t see such thinking gaining any favor with lawmakers in the foreseeable future.”

  “No,” agreed Sophia. “So it makes any triumph over a bullying lout seem all the more satisfying.”

  So it does, thought Arianna.

  Constantina stepped back and cast a critical squint over her handiwork. After reaching up and rearranging one last errant curl, she nodded in satisfaction.

  “That will do,” she said. “Now allow Sophia to take your arm, and let us return to the soiree.”

  Chapter 10

  Arianna released a sigh as they turned from the dimly lit corridor into the glare of the side salon. The bright lights and cacophony of voices were jarring after the mano-a-mano confrontation with Orlov. All her senses had been focused on him, while now a whirling blur of sights and sensations buffeted her consciousness—the humid heat of the crowd, the swirling sweetness of the myriad perfumes, the diamond-sharp glitter of the chandeliers . . .

  She closed her eyes for an instant, feeling a little dizzy.

  “Arianna.”

  Her wits must be more addled than she realized, for she could have sworn it was Saybrook’s voice.

  A hand grazed against her arm, and at the familiar touch her lids flew open.

  “Constantina just told me you were feeling unwell,” continued her husband.

  “I—I think I may have eaten a bad lobster patty,” she replied. “But I sat for a bit in the library and the queasiness has now passed.”

  “Are you certain?” he asked, studying her face with some concern. “You still appear awfully pale.”

  Arianna kept herself from flinching with guilt. “Absolutely certain,” she assured him.

  Sophia joined them and signaled to a footman to bring over his tray of refreshments.

  “Are we celebrating something?” asked Saybrook dryly.

  “Your return from the wilds of Kent?” suggested Sophia. “Though I’m not sure there ever needs to be a reason to drink fine champagne.”

  Arianna accepted a glass. The effervescence of the wine prickled her tongue, helping to wash away the unpleasant memory of Orlov’s snabbering embrace. “Speaking of which, Sandro, I thought you were going to remain there for another day or two.”

  “There wasn’t nearly as much to review as Constantina thought.” The corners of his mouth rose in a teasing smile. “Perhaps age is making her see problems where there are none.”

  “Don’t let her hear you say such a thing,” advised Arianna.

  “Quite right, you young jackanapes!” Constantina had come up behind him and rapped her cane against his shin. “I haven’t yet lost all my marbles.”

  Saybrook inclined an apologetic bow. “I beg your pardon, Aunt. It’s just unusual for you to make a mountain out of a molehill.”

  “Hmmph.” A mischievous twinkle lit in her eyes. “There was a very pressing reason why I wanted you to go.” A pause. “But I can’t seem to remember it now.”

  He chuckled. “The next time you send me on a wild goose chase, kindly do so when it’s not the very dead of winter.”

  “Oh, pish—don’t claim it was a terrible hardship. I sent word to Jenkins to serve you a very fine brandy.”

  “I convinced him to uncork several fine clarets as well,” replied Saybrook. “I assumed you wouldn’t begrudge an extra measure of spirits to warm the chill from my bones.”

  “I suppose my wine cellar shall survive.”

  “Barely. You have some very valuable Madeira, but I showed a modicum of restraint.”

  Arianna was watching her husband’s face. His expression rarely gave anything away, but at that moment, a glint of playfulness softened the chiseled planes of his features. Most people found the earl intimidating. Few saw past his austere visage and caught a glimpse of the love he felt for his family and close circle of friends.

  They were awfully alike, she mused, two wary souls who had learned to layer armor over armor to protect their innermost vulnerabilities.

  Both of them were outsiders, square-cut pegs who didn’t fit into the smoothly rounded holes of Polite Society—she because of her disgraced father, he because of his Spanish mother. In some ways, the bond forged an elemental closeness, an understanding and appreciation of seeing the world from a different perspective. But perhaps it was also a two-edged sword. They didn’t find it easy to express their emotions.

  Arianna was aware that Saybrook was still brooding about their last investigation and the risks she had taken. God only knew what he would think of this evening’s actions. It was best he never know of them, and yet she regretted the need for hiding the truth from him—keeping secrets was a dangerous habit for man and wife. It could lead to . . .

  He caught her stare and raised his brows in question.

  Arianna smiled and shrugged. “It’s nice to see you here,” she murmured. “Though how did you know where to find us?”

  “I stopped at Constantina’s townhouse to report on my findings, and her butler told me you had all gone to Stockhausen’s soiree. So I decided to head home, change into my evening clothes and join you.”

  He surveyed the room. By now, most of the gentlemen were thoroughly foxed, their movements unsteady, their voices slurred. “But I’m not sure it was worth the trouble. It looks like it’s been a very boring evening.”

  “Yes, you know how these diplomatic evenings go,” she replied. “Boring, indeed.”

  “Indee
d,” chuffed the dowager. “Where is Charles? I am ready to go home.”

  Saybrook leaned in close, his breath tickled against her ear. “What say you we take also our leave?”

  Her hand found his, and the solid warmth of his palm sparked a mellow glow deep within her chest. Despite the conundrums and complications, despite the rough edges that sometimes rubbed a little raw, on the whole, they fit together very well.

  “An excellent suggestion.”

  The candlelight’s soft flickering flames turned the pale yellow walls of her dressing room to a muted shade of gold. Arianna unpinned her coiled topknot and slowly brushed out her hair. The rhythm of the nightly ritual was relaxing, allowing the tension in her muscles to ebb away.

  They had been lucky. Very lucky. In retrospect, so many things could have gone disastrously wrong.

  She shuddered to think of the damage that might have been done. Perhaps Saybrook was right to call her reckless . . .

  “Are you chilled, my dear?” He came up behind her and brushed his fingertips to the slope of her shoulder before taking a seat on the corner of the dressing table.

  “Just a little fatigued,” she answered.

  He began unknotting his cravat. “Was it as tedious a party as it appeared?”

  “You know how diplomats are.”

  The looking glass caught the quirk of his mouth. “Yes. Which makes me wonder what perverse sense of duty prevailed on you to attend.”

  “Charles asked me to go—along with Constantina and Sophia,” replied Arianna. “He seemed to feel the presence of ladies would have a civilizing effect on the guests and keep any international bickering from breaking out.”

  “And did it?”

  “I didn’t witness any blood being spilled,” she said. Knowing that he might very well hear of Orlov’s presence, she added, “Prince Orlov was there. Apparently he arrived in London a fortnight ago.”

  Her husband finished unwinding the length of linen from his neck and let it fall to the carpet before asking, “For how long?”

  “I didn’t ask.” She drew in a silent breath. “I believe he’s been sent as a special representative, but what his mission is, I couldn’t say. Let’s hope his stay is a short one.”

  His gaze turned shuttered. “I trust he didn’t make himself disagreeable to you.”

  “Our encounter was not cordial,” answered Arianna. Seeing as it was she who had initiated both the faux flirtations and the outright hostilities, it didn’t feel like a total lie. “But I think he understands that there is nothing to gain from stirring up any overt trouble.”

  “And yet, Orlov doesn’t strike me as a man governed by reason and restraint,” remarked Saybrook as he rose and began unfastening the cuffs of his shirt. He paused, his gaze locking on one of the ruffles trimming her gown. “You have a tiny tear in your sleeve.”

  “I—I must have snagged it in the crowd.” She reached up and fingered the rent in the silk. “All those pompous medals the gentlemen wear have very sharp edges.”

  “One would not guess that drawing rooms could be such perilous places for a lady,” he murmured.

  “Yes, but Bianca is very skilled with a needle. I’m sure she’ll be able to mend it.” Arianna quickly shifted back to the subject of Orlov, anxious to put an end to it. “As for the prince, he may not know the exact reason, but he’s aware that Tsar Alexander holds us in high regard. My sense is he’ll avoid me.” She set down her brush. “And you.”

  “That would be wise of him.” Saybrook resumed fiddling with his cuff. “Unless he wishes to be thrashed to a bloody pulp.”

  She turned in her chair, surprised at the dangerous edge to his voice. “It’s unlike you to be roused to thoughts of violence.”

  He shifted, just enough that the fall of his dark hair threw his face in shadow. “You think me unmoved by threats to those I love?”

  Love. Arianna went very still. It wasn’t a word he said often.

  “Not at all,” she replied softly. “I think you the most loyal, honorable man I know. It’s just that . . .” She took a moment to frame her reply. “It’s just that I think you are very careful and controlled with your feelings. Primitive passions rarely get the better of you.”

  His expression was unreadable.

  “While I, on the other hand, all too often let my emotions overrule pragmatism.”

  “I may be controlled with my emotions, but that doesn’t mean I have none. And I’d like to think I’m not oblivious to the feelings of others.” Finished with his cuff, Saybrook began undoing the fastenings of his shirt placket. For a moment there was naught but the soft whisper of the flickering candle flames. “Indeed, I would almost be tempted to think Constantina was up to her usual scheming and for some reason wanted me out of Town. And that you, caught on the horns of a very difficult dilemma, felt compelled to go along with her.”

  Arianna froze.

  “However, I know that you value the honesty and trust between us as much as I do. So I know that you would never do such a thing . . .” Linen rustled as Saybrook pulled his shirt off over his head. So she might only have imagined that he added “Again.”

  “Yes.” Arianna felt her throat constrict. “I treasure nothing in this world above our love, and I understand that absolute honesty is part of that bond.” She hesitated, then added, “You may rest assured that I will never be dishonest with you . . .” A last word hovered on her lips and then slipped out on a zephyrous sigh too faint to be heard. “Again.”

  Or was it?

  Saybrook’s face betrayed no outward reaction. “Then we understand each other perfectly.” But as he brushed the hair back from his brow she felt the breath catch in her throat—his emerald eyes seemed to light for just an instant with a spark of . . .

  Amusement? Exasperation? Something in between the two?

  “It’s late, and we’ve both had a tiring day,” he murmured. “Come to bed, Arianna.”

  Chapter 11

  Hunching her head deeper into the fur-lined hood of her cloak, Arianna muttered an oath as another frigid gust whistled through the narrow lane leading into Covent Garden market.

  “Damn Grentham for being so bloody enamored with intrigue,” she said, her breath turning to puffs of muddled vapor before dissolving into the winter-dark shadows. She and the minister had agreed to meet the morning after Stockhausen’s soiree, but he had insisted on a new location, and so she once again was required to meet his minion at the spice stall.

  At this rate, the very proper Mr. Joost was going to suspect she was indulging in some havey-cavey amorous tryst.

  “You must be creating some very special confections to be braving the weather today,” greeted the merchant. He slapped his mittened hands together. “Lud, it’s colder than the devil’s heart.”

  “Yes, but your nutmeg and cinnamon are well worth the discomfort.” She gave him her order, all the while scanning the surroundings for her contact.

  The sooner she could put an end to the unpleasant affair with the stolen papers, the better. And it seemed that Grentham was of the same mind. His insistence on such secrecy was yet another indication of how gravely concerned he was that word of his involvement never leak out.

  Which gave her a bargaining chip, she reflected. Something that was always useful to have when dealing with a man as ruthless as the minister.

  “Here you are, milady.” Joost handed over a small paper sack, still looking a little bemused that she would venture out from the cozy confines of her well-heated townhouse for spices.

  Arianna thanked him and stuffed the package in her reticule. She had spotted Steel-Eyes in the next row of stalls and wished to intercept him before her friend recognized the fellow. Moving quickly, she turned the corner and ducked through the flapping canvas.

  “Sir,” murmured Arianna, once she was shoulder to shoulder with him.

  He gave a low grunt of laughter. “Not sir—just the lowly dogsbody.” A gruff nod indicated a turn to the right. “This way.”
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  They made their way swiftly and silently to the eastern edge of the market and crossed to a narrow alleyway, which led through a twisted maze of criss-crossing footpaths before emerging into a crooked lane shrouded in slate grey shadows.

  At its far end, she could barely make out the silhouette of a carriage.

  “He’s waiting there,” said Steel-Eyes.

  He halted and let her go on by herself. He’s guarding the entrance against any unwanted observers, she thought, as she saw him draw a pistol from inside his coat. The realization stirred a niggling sense of unease.

  What the devil had been in those documents?

  “I wouldn’t have guessed you to have such a flair for the melodramatic, Lord Grentham,” she said as she climbed into the dimly lit interior. “Guard dogs, darkened alleys—all we need are clanking chains and a ghostly moan to be a scene straight from one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s horrid novels.”

  The minister gave her a sour look. Perhaps he, too, had suffered through a long and harried night.

  “Let us dispense with our usual insults, Lady Saybrook,” he replied tersely. “Much as you take pleasure in waving your verbal sword and trying to draw blood, I am pressed for time.”

  He held out a gloved hand. “Kindly hand them over.”

  “The documents?” drawled Arianna. Perhaps it was childish, but she took a measure of satisfaction in seeing his eyes narrow in irritation. “What makes you so sure that I have them?”

  “Because,” he snapped, “you are diabolically clever and care enough about Lady Sterling not to let Stockhausen get the better of you.”

  “That’s all very well to say,” she replied. “But you’re assuming Stockhausen was my main adversary . . . and that I got to his study first.”

  Grentham’s ramrod-straight spine went even more rigid. “Who?” he demanded.

  “Prince Orlov.”

  A very un-Grentham obscenity slipped from the minister’s lips. “How do you know that?” he added.