“Some people consider that a sacrilege, rather than a mark in my favor.” Saybrook made a face. “Oh, yes, I’ve heard the murmurs—What a pity that the august earldom of Saybrook has fallen to an olive-skinned foreigner.”
Saybrook, she repeated to herself, trying to recall whether Lady Spencer and her dissolute friends had ever mentioned the name. But nothing came to mind.
“And while you are up, you may bring me another glass of port. With a generous splash from the vial beside it, if you please.”
Mellon frowned but did as he was asked. “The blood you spilled on the battlefield of Salamanca flows back to William the Conqueror.”
“All the more reason that many sticklers of the ton resent me.” He took a sip of the laudanum-laced spirits. “But never mind that. There is an old adage—sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me.”
“With Grentham, I would not be so sure,” said Mellon. “He wields them with all the skill of a Death’s Head Hussar.”
“Thank you for the warning, but I am familiar with the shadowy underworld in which he moves,” replied Saybrook. “Lies and innuendo. Deception and duplicity.”
Oh, yes, thought Arianna. I’m familiar with that world, too, milord.
Lifting the cut crystal glass to the candle, he spun it in his fingers. “Grentham may wish to maneuver me like a pawn on his chessboard, but he won’t find it quite so easy to control my every move.”
“You might not find it quite so simple to slip free from his iron-fisted control,” said his uncle.
“Perhaps not.” A hint of humor seemed to creep into the earl’s voice. “But as you pointed out when you first came to me with this proposal, maybe I need a challenge to rekindle a spark of life.”
“Just as long as you don’t end up being burned to a crisp.” Mellon grimaced. “Speaking of which, how is your leg? You said you suffered a fresh wound?”
“Naught but a scratch,” replied Saybrook. “Henning stitched it up for me. He’s quite clever with a needle, a skill that I trust he will put to good use on the late Major Crandall. Grentham has not yet sent round one of his lackeys to take a look at the corpse, but I daresay he will.”
“Do you trust this fellow?” asked his uncle in a near whisper.
“With my life,” responded Saybrook without hesitation. “Henning and I fought together during Wellington’s campaign to push Massena out of Portugal, as well as the attack on Ciudad Rodrigo.” Despite the low light, Arianna saw his body tense and a sheen of sweat lick across his brow. “A man shows his true mettle when he’s plunged into the very deepest pits of hell. There’s no comrade I would rather have watching my arse.”
“Just so long as he doesn’t stick a knife in your back. Grentham has ways of convincing a fellow to betray his friends.”
“I’m confident that my luck in dodging sharpened steel will hold.” He gestured at his thigh. “Don’t forget, you are the one who admonished me to crawl out of my cave of self-pity and stand on my feet again.”
“So I did. And while I don’t regret the spirit of my words, I fear that I was wrong in suggesting you get involved in this sordid mess.” Shadows hid his expression as Mellon shook his head. “This is too dangerous, Sandro. There is something havey-cavey going on here. Ask yourself, why did Crandall try to kill the Cook? If they wanted him—or her—dead, they had only to arrest her and do the deed quietly somewhere in the depths of Newgate.”
“Yes,” mused Saybrook. “I agree. It makes no sense.”
“All the more reason to distance yourself,” pressed Mellon. “Turn the woman over to Grentham and be done with it.”
Arianna shot an involuntary glance down the darkened corridor. How many guards did he have posted beyond the door? And were they armed? Her skill at picking locks was quite good, but dexterous hands—and quick feet—would be no match for loaded pistols.
Looking back, she saw Saybrook press his fingertips to his temples and begin a slow massaging. “Good God, you can imagine what they’ll do to her, knowing she stabbed the Major.”
Mellon stared into his brandy.
“She did it to save my life. I can hardly in good conscience hand her over to suffer for my own ineptitude.”
His uncle’s lips thinned. “What the devil is your alternative?”
There was a long silence. “I haven’t decided,” he admitted. “I will think about it tonight. And in the morning, I will have another talk with Miss Smith. Perhaps she will be more forthcoming after sleeping on the fact that right now she’s the most hunted criminal in England.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. From what you described, I’d say the woman has brass balls.”
A chuckle rumbled in Saybrook’s throat. “Actually, brass is far too soft a metal. I would say that her cojones are made of Toledo steel.”
“It’s nothing to laugh about.” Mellon rose. “Try to get some rest yourself, Sandro. You look like hell.”
Lost in thought, Arianna was slow to react.
“I’ll see myself out,” he added, seeing the earl awkwardly lever to his feet.
“I’m not so crippled that I can’t walk you to the door, Uncle,” muttered Saybrook.
Gathering her skirts, Arianna spun around and, after gauging the distance to her room, ran for the closest door.
The closing thud of the oak doors was echoed by the sharp metallic snick of a key turning in the lock. Arianna held her breath, waiting for the sound of the earl’s shuffling steps to recede. Surely he would lose no time in returning to the library. She had seen the hungry look in his eye as he had glanced at the sideboard. Pain must be gnawing at his leg—
He stopped, mere inches away from her hiding place, and in the stifling silence she could hear the soft whisper of wool as he shifted his stance.
“You can come out now.”
Arianna slipped out of the linen closet. “Whatever else is ailing you, it appears there is nothing wrong with your ears,” she muttered.
“Nor with yours,” he replied. “I assume you heard everything.”
She nodded.
Saybrook closed his eyes for an instant as a spasm of pain pinched at his mouth. Arianna felt a clench of guilt—then quickly shook it off.
Sympathy was a weakness she couldn’t afford.
Averting her gaze, she reminded herself to remain detached. Don’t allow it to get personal. The earl was just another obstacle blocking her road to redemption.
Or was it the path to perdition? She had been traveling for so long that perhaps she could no longer discern the difference.
“Come along,” he finally said. “We may as well have a talk now.”
“It can wait until morning, if you wish,” replied Arianna. “You look to be dead on your feet. And I daresay your uncle would have no qualms about handing me over to the government if you shuffle off this mortal coil.”
“Are you intending to sleep?” he demanded.
“No,” she admitted.
“Nerves still on edge? It’s a common reaction after the heat of battle. A drink can help dull the memory.” He turned away. “I intend to have another glass of port before I retire. . . .”
Liberally doused with opium, no doubt.
“Whether you choose to join me is entirely up to you.”
After a slight hesitation, she followed along. Why refuse when the drug might further weaken his defenses?
“Sherry?” His voice was muffled by the clink of the crystal.
“I would prefer brandy, assuming it’s a decent vintage.”
“It is.” More sharp-edged sounds seemed to betray an unsteady hand. Yet somehow he managed to cross the carpet without spilling a drop.
“Thank you,” she said, accepting her drink. Eyeing the viscous, garnet-colored liquid in his glass, she said, “Did you pick up your dependence on opium in the Peninsula?”
Saybrook settled himself and propped his leg up on the hassock before answering. “You know a good deal more about me than I know about you.”