“It’s a rather lengthy story.”
“Nonetheless, I must insist on hearing it,” he said.
“What if I were to tell you that I possess information that could help lead you to the real culprit?” she countered.
“Then I should suggest it would be greatly to your benefit to share it with me.”
Her jaw tightened. “Not without getting something in return from you.”
“You are hardly in a position to bargain,” pointed out Saybrook. Shifting his weight, he began to massage his thigh. “Might we sit down and negotiate over a plate of your special chocolate,” he suggested. “I am willing to listen—” His voice cut off abruptly.
Arianna followed his gaze and caught sight of a shape—more of a shadow—through the light-colored weave of the window draperies. It moved again, a blur of dark against the coarse linen.
“What—”
Reacting at the same split second, Saybrook grabbed her and flung her to the floor, just as one of the glass panes exploded and a bullet whizzed overhead.
5
Intrigued by the missionary’s journal, I have begun to search for other old papers documenting the first reactions to cacao here in Spain. So far, the earliest mention I have found occurs in 1544, when a delegation of Dominican friars returned from Guatemala and presented Prince Philip with a pot of hot, frothed chocolate. His reaction is not recorded, but I have learned that the Spanish found the Aztec preparation too bitter and spicy for their taste, and so began adding sugar from the cane plantations in the Caribbean islands, along with old-world spices like pepper instead of chiles. . . .
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
⅔ cup confectioner’s sugar
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
2 cups all-purpose flour
¼ cup Dutch-processed cocoa powder
½ teaspoon salt
1. Preheat oven to 350ºF.
2. Using an electric mixer, beat butter and sugar until creamy, about 2 minutes.
3. Add vanilla and beat well.
4. Mix in flour, cocoa, and salt on low speed until just combined. Form dough into disk, wrap in plastic, and chill for at least 2 hours.
5. Roll dough between 2 sheets of wax paper to a ¼-inch-thick rectangle. Use a sharp knife to cut shortbread into 2-inch squares.
6. Place squares on baking sheet 1 inch apart and prick tops with fork. Bake 15-18 minutes. Cool completely on wire rack.
With the sound of the gunshot still echoing in her ears, Arianna crabbed toward the side door.
“Stay down,” barked Saybrook, seeing her push up to her hands and knees.
A plume of smoke wafted in through the gaping hole, and with it the acrid tang of burnt powder. Arianna gagged, the smell triggering another rush of memories. Blood. Screams. Death. Kingston was a notoriously violent port of call, and escaping the clutches of a slave ship captain had sparked a horrifying brawl.
Arianna’s pulse kicked up a notch, and as she pressed a palm to the wainscoting, she could feel her heart pounding against her ribs. No matter which way she turned, the Grim Reaper seemed intent on shadowing her steps.
Get hold of yourself, Arianna, she thought with an inward grimace. However, the warning was unnecessary. Already her instinct for survival had taken charge and her mind was racing to assess her options.
A quick glance showed that Saybrook had crawled to the door and was lifting the iron latch.
It released with a soft snick.
At the same instant, a force outside slammed into the door, flinging it open. A man burst in, the smoking pistol still grasped in one hand. With the other, he raised a second weapon, its hammer already cocked, and took dead aim at her.
A mirthless laugh welled up in her throat as she stared into the unblinking eye of the gun barrel. Of all the damnable ironies—she had survived on her own in some of the most brutal hellholes on earth, only to stick her spoon in the wall in a nondescript London kitchen.
Oh, Papa, I’m so sorry for failing—
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Saybrook lunge with his knife, and the blade, still sticky with chocolate, cut across the assailant’s sleeve.
The pistol fired, echoing her scream.
Dazed and half deafened by the explosion, Arianna fell back against the wall. Through the haze of smoke, she saw a cloud of feathers floating in the air, but as her hands flew to her stomach, she found that only her padding had suffered a mortal wound. Save for a nick on her cheek from a shard of glass, the rest of her was unscathed.
“Buggering bastard.” The assailant cursed and slammed the butt of the spent weapon into Saybrook’s ribs, knocking him back against the worktable.
Biting back a grunt of pain, Saybrook threw himself sideways, narrowly avoiding a vicious smash aimed at his head. The tabletop shivered, and a pewter tray crashed to the stone tiles, along with a basket of cutlery.
A kick caught him flush on his injured leg, and Arianna saw his face contort in pain. “Duck!” she cried, casting a look at the spent pistol just out of arm’s reach. If the fight shifted just slightly, she would have a chance. . . .
Saybrook’s hands clenched and somehow his fingers closed around his cane. Blocking a punch, he countered by ramming the silver knob into his assailant’s groin.
The man dropped to his knees with a strangled snarl. “You’re a dead man,” he rasped, sweeping up a bigbladed butcher’s knife from the floor. His voice was further muffled by the black silk mask covering his whole head. There was a slit for his mouth and two rough-cut holes for his eyes, which blazed with a malevolent gleam. “You and that nosy little she-bitch will soon be feeding the fish in the Thames.”
The slim ebony stick wasn’t much of a match for the length of murderous steel. Saybrook shuffled back, darting a sidelong look at the cleavers hanging at the far end of the overhead rack. Arianna saw it, too—another step or two would bring them within his reach.
“De Quincy!” she warned.
The assailant had scrambled to his feet, and with a roar of rage launched into a head-on charge.
Bracing himself, Saybrook managed to block the first stab. He held the advantage in height, but the other man was built like a bull, with thick limbs and slabs of solid muscle. The blade flashed again, slicing the cane in two.
“The next one will sever your jugular.”
Saybrook ducked the slash and spun around, raking the jagged wood across the man’s knuckles.
Blood welled up from the furrow, but the assailant kept hold of his weapon. Its steel danced through the air, sleek and sinuous as a snake ready to strike.
Anticipating the blow, Saybrook quickly dodged to his left, but his leg, weakened by the struggle, was slow to react. The knife cut through his trousers, scoring a gash in his thigh.
Arianna bit back a cry.
The momentum of the attack sent both of them sprawling to the floor. Saybrook landed awkwardly, his head hitting hard against the stone tiles. The other man fell on top of him, flailing, cursing, kicking.
The blood pounding in her ears, Arianna watched with a strangely detached sense of calm. It was over. Saybrook was trying to fight off the attack, but it looked as though his strength was ebbing fast. In another moment, she, too, would be dead.
With a savage snarl, the assailant reared up. His upraised arm hovered for a heartbeat in the hazy shadows. . . .