It must have been the brandy, for despite feeling sure that Morpheus would not be her bedfellow, Arianna was drawn out of a deep sleep by a discreet knock on the door.
Sitting up, she winced as a blade of sunlight cut across her face. No rest for the wicked, she thought wryly, squinting through the diamond-paned windows. She usually rose with the dawn, but the previous day must have . . .
The previous day.
Squeezing her eyes shut, Arianna pressed her palms to her brow. Was this living, breathing nightmare really less than twenty-four hours old? Burnt powder. Twisted screams. Spattered blood. The smell of death. A churning vortex of spinning, swirling memories stirred a sudden nausea.
No, no, no, it was hunger that had her feeling light-headed, not fear.
“Signorita?” The knock came again.
“Sí.” Throwing back the covers, Arianna reached for her wrapper. The maid had brought her nightclothes the previous evening, gorgeous silken garments that slid over the skin like a whisper of tropical air. And certainly far more costly than any clothing she had ever possessed, she reflected, catching sight of herself in the cheval glass.
Dear God, in such borrowed finery, I actually look like a real lady.
A wink of light. A mere illusion. From her father she had learned how easily perceptions could be manipulated.
Turning abruptly, Arianna called, “Come in,” then added in Spanish, “Pase, por favor.”
The door nudged open and a middle-aged woman entered, carrying a silver tray nearly as wide as her own ample girth. It was loaded with food, the aroma of fresh-baked rolls and fried York ham mingling with the sugared scent of steaming hot chocolate.
Despite her earlier queasiness, Arianna suddenly felt ravenous. “Thank you—Gracias,” she said as the woman set it down on a small table by the windows.
“De nada.” After carefully arranging a fork and knife atop a starched white napkin, the woman gestured for Arianna to sit.
Pausing only to pick up a folded sheet of paper from the dressing table, she hurried to comply. A full cup was already waiting, and as the first swallow swirled down her throat, she let out a little sigh.
“Ambrosial,” she murmured, savoring the rich taste of the cacao mingling with hot and sweet spices.
“Good?” asked woman in tentative English, her dark eyes watchful.
“Very good,” replied Arianna. “Cinnamon, anchiote, vanilla . . .” She took another sip. “And some spice I can’t quite place.”
The woman tapped a finger to a tiny dish beside the chocolate pot and mimed a sprinkling motion. “Nuez moscada.”
“Ah. Nutmeg.”
Nodding, the woman turned to leave, but Arianna placed a hand on her arm. “A moment, por favor.” Handing over a recipe that she had scribbled out earlier, Arianna managed, through a mixture of English, Spanish, and hand language, to communicate what she wanted.
The woman’s solemn expression gave way to a tiny smile. “Sí, sí. I understand, signorita. I will take this to Bianca.”
“Tell your cook that if she doesn’t have the ingredients in her pantries, they are all easily obtainable in London,” said Arianna. “I will be happy to come down to the kitchen if she has any questions.”
Tucking the paper in her apron, the woman bobbed her head and hurried away.
“A lost cause,” she muttered to herself. “But then, who am I to talk?” Her stomach growled in answer. “Right—let the condemned eat a hearty meal.”
After the first few bites, Arianna felt her mood brighten. The warmth of the chocolate, the dappling of the sun, the twittering of birds . . . a new day, and with it, she must look at her situation with a new perspective.
During the night, she had already decided on a change of plan. Her first impulse had been to escape, but on further reflection that seemed a bad choice. Flee now, and she would likely never get another chance at revenge.
Revenge. Her knife hovered for a moment over the plate. Strangely enough, she hadn’t yet decided what she wanted. Was it to coax a confession from him and then slide a blade between his ribs? Or somehow see him brought to justice for his crime?
Either way, what mattered was that when the time came, Concord would know that a Hadley had not allowed the truth to die along with her father. But to do that, I must get close. The trouble was, the earl had seen her as a woman, and whatever his other faults, he was not a man who would be fooled twice by any disguise.
No, if she wanted to pursue her quarry, she would have to improvise. And after careful consideration, a plan had started to take shape. . . .
Another tap on the oak interrupted her thoughts, but this time it was Saybrook, not a servant, who entered.
“I see you have broken your fast.” His expression conveyed an edge of irony as he surveyed the heaping platters.
“There is more than enough to share,” said Arianna.
The earl pulled up a chair. A night had done little to improve his appearance. He had shaved, and brushed his long locks into some semblance of order, but the burnished blackness only accentuated the sickly pallor of his gaunt face.
Bloody hell, she hoped he wasn’t about to expire. She needed him alive, at least for a little longer.
“I’m not hungry,” he murmured.
“No wonder you look like you should be knocking on death’s door, not mine.” Arianna forked a piece of pineapple onto her plate. “By the by, isn’t it highly improper for you to be visiting me in my bedchamber? My reputation would be in tatters if word got out.” She met his grim gaze and grinned. “As would yours, milord.”
“I think we can dispense with formalities, Miss Smith,” said Saybrook dryly. “Our secret should be safe enough. For now, that is. However—”
“However, we must decide how to deal with this situation,” she interrupted. “I agree, sir. I have been thinking . . . and I have a proposition.”
The earl crossed one booted foot over the other. “Indeed?”
“Yes, and I shall cut to the chase, sir,” said Arianna, deciding that coyness was a waste of time. “You need me. I have seen and heard certain things at Lady Spencer’s establishment that may be of utmost importance in unraveling your mystery. So I’ll help you—but only on certain conditions.”
“Which are?”
“I’ll tell you all I know, and I’ll help you pursue certain leads—as to how is a detail that I will get to in a moment.”
His face remained expressionless.
“But in return,” she went on, “you must allow me the freedom to follow up on my own concerns. I assure you, they do not conflict with yours.” Arianna paused for a fraction, giving him time to digest what she had said. “That is my offer. Take it or leave it.”
“But you won’t reveal what those concerns of yours are?”
She shook her head.
“You don’t trust me?”
“Good God, no,” she replied. “I’ve learned not to trust anyone.” She slanted a challenging look at him. “Why should I? You aren’t going to claim that you trust me, are you?”
“Good God, no,” he said with a sardonic smile.
“There, you see,” she said. “We are capable of establishing a certain level of honesty with each other. Within such a framework, we could be of use to each other.”
“Perhaps.” Saybrook folded his arms across his chest. “But since you are asking me to hang my cods over the fire, so to speak, I would appreciate a little more assurance that they will not end up burned to a crisp.”
She swallowed a bite of creamed kippers before replying, “That’s a fair request.” Pouring herself another cup of chocolate she added a grating of nutmeg. “By the by, your cook is not half bad. Cilantro and guindilla verde peppers add a piquant flavor to the shirred eggs.”