“There is a library at the far end of the corridor. Feel free to choose a book to occupy your mind. But be advised that the main doorway will be locked, and the servants have strict orders that you are not allowed to leave.” Saybrook let the words linger as he carefully lit a branch of candles. “And in case you are wondering, they are quite loyal to the owner of this place, so don’t bother trying to bribe them.”
Arianna gave a bitter laugh. “Unfortunately I have nothing to barter, save myself.”
He turned away and gestured at the massive armoire. “Feel free to place your belongings in there. If you are in need of anything else, you may ring for a maid and she will attend to it.”
The opulence was overwhelming. Everything about the house—the look, the feel, and even the smell—exuded refinement. Delicate colors, feathery silks, the sweetness of lavender. Arianna blinked back the sting of long-ago memories, refusing to be intimidated. Be damned if the Polite World considered her naught but a verminous insect. She would show them that an insect’s bite was cause for alarm.
“Where am I?” she demanded.
Saybrook didn’t answer.
“Bloody hell, Mr. De Quincy, I think I’m entitled to some answers.”
That drew a gruff laugh. “So do I, Miss Smith,” he replied as he drew the door shut. “So do I.”
7
Having discovered so many interesting facts in my missionary’s journal has led me to explore other Church records, and I have just learned some new information. In 1569, chocolate became widely popular in Catholic countries because Pope Pius V ruled that drinking the beverage did not break the fast, and so it could be taken as nourishment on Holy Days. However, I doubt such news will be of any interest to Sandro. He shows little reverence for organized religion. . . .
2 cups milk
2 ounces sweet chocolate
½ teaspoon cinnamon
2 beaten egg yolks
1. Stir the milk with the chocolate and the cinnamon over low heat until the chocolate dissolves.
2. Add the egg yolks and beat the mixture until it becomes thick, taking care not to boil.
3. Serve in coffee mug.
“So that, in a nutshell, is what happened, Uncle.” Saybrook paused just long enough to chuff a mirthless laugh. “Thank you for drawing me back into the King’s service.” Raising his glass, he cocked a salute. “For God and country. Huzzah.”
Stealing closer to the library door, Arianna crouched down and eased it open a touch wider. Minutes earlier, the sound of footsteps and the low murmur of masculine voices in the corridor had drawn her attention from the book she had borrowed. Her curiosity piqued, she had given them time to settle in before following along.
The room was unlit, save a single argent lamp set on the sideboard next to a tray of crystal decanters. Appearing as stark silhouettes against the pale marble of the hearth, the two men were seated facing each other, their dark leather armchairs drawn close to the banked fire.
“I considered it my duty to pass on Grentham’s request,” said the earl’s companion.
De Quincy’s uncle? Arianna craned her neck for a better look. In contrast to her captor’s angular features and coal-black hair, the other man had a smooth patrician profile and silvery curls cut short in the latest à la Brutus style. His clothing was elegant and exquisitely tailored as well, the folds precise, the lines faultless.
Saybrook quaffed a long swallow of his drink and muttered something under his breath.
Damn. Arianna inched forward, straining to hear.
“But now that you have recounted the day’s events, I’m convinced that I should counsel you to wash your hands of the matter,” continued the other man.
There was a sliver of silence, save for the faint hiss of the burning wick.
“Oh, well done,” said Saybrook softly. “Holding out a temptation, and then taking it away is a very effective strategy. But then, the highly respected Right Honorable Mr. Mellon is known for his persuasive powers.” To Arianna, his voice sounded slightly slurred. “Tell me, did Whitehall ask you to make sure that I wouldn’t crawl away with my tail between my legs?”
Mellon’s face tightened and his mouth went white at the corners. “I shall assume it was the drug speaking, not you, and so will forgive that remark. However, if you dare insult my integrity again, I will thrash you to a pulp—wounded leg be damned.”
After draining the last bit of liquid from his glass, Saybrook pressed it to his brow. “Christ, forgive me. That was a rotten thing to imply.”
“Yes, it was,” growled Mellon. “As if I would throw my brother’s son to the proverbial wolves.”
“You would become the next earl if anything were to happen to me,” he pointed out. But as his uncle started to sputter anew, he held up a hand. “Cry pax. In Spain, one had to have a certain sense of gallows humor to survive with a modicum of sanity.”
Arianna could scarcely believe her ears. The dark-as-the-devil specter was an earl? She hadn’t paid any heed when he offered a second name, but she realized now that it must have been his title. Another slip on my part. She couldn’t afford to miss such details. All too often they could mean the difference between life and death.
Mellon exhaled a long breath, interrupting her mental monologue and drawing her gaze to his face. “Well, seeing as you escaped slaughter in the wilds of the Guadarrama Mountains, I should hate to see you come to grief here in the heart of civilized London.” His tone was light, but beneath the conciliatory smile he looked troubled.
Setting aside his empty glass, Saybrook gingerly shifted his outstretched leg. A spasm of pain pinched at his mouth, but he quickly covered it with a cynical grimace. “Death isn’t overly discriminating as to place or time, Uncle.” He smoothed out a wrinkle in his trousers. They were, noted Arianna, a new pair, fashioned out of dove gray superfine. “Just why do you advise me against remaining in charge of Whitehall’s investigation?”
“Because I don’t trust Grentham farther than I can spit. By all accounts, he’s a devious, duplicitous bastard,” replied Mellon. “There’s no question that he’s extremely effective as head of security, but he’s also scheming, manipulative—and utterly ruthless when it serves his purpose.”
“He would hardly be any good at his job if he weren’t,” observed Saybrook dryly.
“I suppose that’s true.” Mellon rubbed at his jaw. “But I have been thinking . . . there might well be another reason, aside from your military intelligence experience and your knowledge of chocolate, that Grentham is anxious to have you handle the investigation of this case.”
“Ah, yes.” Saybrook’s eyes fell half closed.
Probably due to the drowsying effects of the narcotic he had added to his wine, thought Arianna.
“Having a half-blood Spaniard in charge provides a convenient scapegoat if things go awry,” the earl went on. “It would be oh so easy to call my loyalties into question.”
Interesting. She held herself very still, intent on not missing a single word. The more she knew about her captor, the better her chances of outwitting him.
“I fear so,” admitted Mellon. “Not that anyone in his right mind could question your commitment to your country. Good God, you’re a decorated war hero who served as an officer of army intelligence in the most brutal campaign of the Peninsular War.” He rose and went to pour himself another brandy. “Not to speak of holding one of the most distinguished titles of the realm.”