“Touché,” she murmured, unable to muster a sharper retort.
“I would prefer not to always be at daggers drawn with you.” Saybrook sighed as he ran a hand through his unruly hair. “Too bloody dangerous.”
The movement caused a momentary flicker of lamplight to play over his face. If anything, the bruised shadows under his eyes seemed to have grown deeper. Darker. He looked tired, and most of all, frustrated.
Not that she blamed him.
Swearing under his breath, the earl rose and made his way to the sideboard. It was only then that Arianna realized how badly his hands were shaking.
Her eyes narrowed. “If you are truly so concerned about solving this case, I’ll repeat what I said earlier—you ought not dose yourself with that vile drug. For now it might dull the pain, but it’s also dulling your senses, and creating a pernicious dependence that will eventually rot your mind.”
“Thank you,” he snapped, after returning to his seat. “In one subject, at least, you are a veritable font of information.”
Coals crackled in the banked fire, sending up a spurt of sparks.
“There are other ways to deal with pain. I have some knowledge of healing arts. I can give your cook a list of the ingredients, and if you allow me in your kitchen I’ll show her how to brew it.”
He made a face.
“Stubborn arse,” she muttered.
A glint of amusement lit for an instant in his eyes. “That’s rather like the pot calling the kettle black.”
She repressed an answering smile. “We seem compelled to thrust and parry tonight. Perhaps we ought to withdraw from the fray and lick our wounds.”
Saybrook set aside the drug untasted, and levered out of his chair. “Right. Let us both get some sleep. Perhaps in the morning we can come together with a fresh perspective and negotiate a meeting of minds.”
Sleep? The idea seemed impossible. Her body was heavy with fatigue, as if it had seeped into the very marrow of her bones, and yet Arianna felt too restless to seek the comfort of the splendid bed. Cupping the glass of brandy that she had carried from the library, she moved to the diamond-paned window and stood staring out through the misted glass. The blackness of night was far preferable to the vivid images imprinted in her mind’s eye.
Out of the frying pan and into the fire. She had heard the expression often enough, but it took on new meaning when one’s own flesh was hovering a hairsbreadth from the flames.
The liquor began to burn her throat—or perhaps it was only the sudden memory of black powder smoke, sharp and sour as it mingled with her scream. Setting aside the glass, Arianna turned abruptly and went to the armoire, where the contents of her valise sat folded on a single shelf. She had not called the maid to unpack her meager belongings. Her secrets were fast being stripped away, making it imperative to keep those she still had hidden for as long as possible.
Taking the pasteboard folder from inside the frayed pair of men’s breeches, Arianna carried it to the dressing table and drew the candle closer. Shadows danced over the age-worn top page, making the spidery writing even more difficult to make out. She wasn’t quite sure what had impelled her to add the papers she had stolen from Lady Spencer’s desk to her hastily collected jumble of clothing and face paints.
An intuitive flight of fancy?
No, more likely an utter waste of effort, she thought wryly.
It was the numbers. They intrigued her.
They always had.
Tracing a finger over the first equation, Arianna was reminded of her father and the idyllic games they had played throughout her childhood.
What’s seven times twelve, divided by four, poppet?
“Twenty-one, Papa,” she whispered, blinking away the sting of salt against her lids. There was something wonderfully pure about numbers and the abstract concepts they created. They were not intrinsically good or evil—they simply . . . were.
Arianna turned the first page, and then the second, and the third, losing herself in the intricacy of the equations. Intriguing. She wasn’t quite sure what they meant, but following the progression of logic had provided a welcome diversion from her own tangled emotions.
Oddly enough, numbers had always been a source of solace. She had come to think of them as friends, playmates for a lonely childhood that helped keep the pinch of poverty at bay. That her father had encouraged the games, and had taken great pleasure at her skills, only added to the allure. The connection—the time together working out mathematical puzzles—was the one thing that could keep him from seeking escape in a bottle. He had tried to stay lucid for their nightly games.
But those precious moments had become rarer and rarer, and as she got older, Arianna had become desperate to keep him from drowning in drink. The games turned into arguments. Bitter ones at times. . . .
Snapping the pasteboard covers shut, she rose and returned the folder to its hiding place. As the candle sputtered and died, throwing the room into darkness, she found her glass and quickly swallowed the last splash of amber spirits.
Don’t stir up painful memories of the past, she chided herself.
To survive, she must focus all her thoughts on the problems of the present.
8
We Spaniards were quick to make our own variations on the New World preparations of chocolate. Instead of frothing the drink by pouring it back and forth between two cups, as was the Aztec method, we created the molinillo, a type of wooden whisk that is submersed in the hot liquid and spun between the palms. It creates a lovely frothy foam, and I remember how Sandro loved to watch me in the kitchen, his tiny hands mimicking the rhythm of the whirling wood. . . .
1 cup all-purpose flour
½ cup plus 1 tablespoon unsweetened Dutch-processed cocoa powder
¼ teaspoon baking soda
¼ teaspoon salt
½ cup plus 1 tablespoon brown sugar
½ cup plus 1 tablespoon granulated sugar
3 tablespoons sweet butter, slightly softened
3 tablespoons stick margarine
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
generous pinch of ground black pepper
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 egg white
1. Combine the flour, cocoa, baking soda, and salt in a medium bowl. Mix thoroughly with a whisk. Set aside.
2. Combine the sugars in a small bowl.
3. In a medium mixing bowl, beat butter and margarine until creamy. Add sugar mixture, cinnamon, pepper, and vanilla. Beat on high speed for about one minute. Beat in egg white. Stop the mixer.
4. Add the flour mixture. Beat on low speed just until incorporated.
5. Gather the dough together with your hands and form it into a neat 9-to-10-inch log. Wrap in waxed paper. Fold or twist ends of paper without pinching or flattening the log. Chill at least 45 minutes, or until needed.
6. Place oven racks in the upper and lower third of the oven and preheat to 350ºF. Line cookie sheets with parchment paper or aluminum foil.
7. Use a sharp knife to slice rounds of chilled dough ¼ inch thick. Place 1 inch apart on prepared baking sheets. Bake 12 to 14 minutes. Rotate baking sheets from top to bottom and front to back about halfway through. Use a metal spatula to transfer cookies to a wire rack to cool.