A splash of liquid sloshed over the leather. Oddly enough, though his gaze still held a dangerous glitter, the crackling energy of earlier seemed to have suddenly ebbed. His movements seemed mired in a heavy languidness.
She, too, was suddenly having trouble keeping her eyes open. “How . . .,” she began, but all her questions had turned terribly fuzzy.
“Drink,” he urged.
Damn. All at once, his voice sounded very far away.
“Drink.” His clammy hands were now on her throat.
As his face turned blurry, she was only dimly aware of the glass slipping from her fingers.
23
The Church figures into yet another bit of chocolate lore—although this time the situation takes on a far more sinister shade. It is said that Pope Clement XIV was murdered in 1774 by the Jesuits, who poisoned his cup of chocolate in retaliation for his persecution of the Order in earlier years. It is true that chocolate’s rich flavor provides an excellent mask for lethal substances, so perhaps the story is true. . . .
4 ounces 60%-cacao bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped
2 tablespoons dulce de leche at room temperature
2 tablespoons well-stirred natural almond butter or peanut butter
¼ to ½ cup unsweetened cocoa powder (preferably Dutch-processed)
2 ounces 60%-cacao bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped
1. Melt 4 ounces chocolate in a heatproof bowl set over a saucepan of barely simmering water, stirring occasionally until smooth. Remove bowl from heat and stir in dulce de leche and nut butter. Cool slightly, then roll level teaspoons of mixture into balls and place on a tray. Chill completely, about 30 minutes.
2. Sift cocoa powder into a medium baking pan or onto a tray. Melt 2 ounces chocolate in a shallow heatproof bowl set over a saucepan of barely simmering water, stirring occasionally until smooth. Remove pan from heat, leaving bowl over water. Dip truffles, 1 at a time, in chocolate, lifting out with a fork and letting excess drip off, then immediately transfer to cocoa, turning to coat. Let stand until coating is set, then shake off excess cocoa in a sieve. (Remaining cocoa can be sifted and returned to container.)
Darkness drifted in and out of her consciousness, shadows twining with shards of light.
What a bloody stupid fool I am.
After all the years of plotting and planning, to fail so miserably . . .
How very, very ironic that she, who had sworn not to repeat the mistakes of her father, had in the end proved less clever than Concord.
Recriminations were, she knew, a little late. Yet oddly enough, the sharpest pinch of regret was that she had let Saybrook down. He had been willing to risk his life for a higher purpose than personal vendetta. While she—
A light slap to her cheek jarred her eyes open.
“Lady Wolcott?”
“I . . .” She blinked, trying to clear the wooziness from her head.
“Let me help you sit up.” Gavin was kneeling by the divan, his grip steadying her slumping shoulders. Propping her against the pillow, he brought a glass to her lips. “Here, drink this.”
She tried to pull away.
“It’s just water,” he assured her.
The liquid was blessedly cool and clean, washing the sour taste from her mouth. “Thank you,” she croaked.
“Don’t try to speak quite yet,” said Gavin. “You’ve had a nasty shock.”
“Concord . . .,” she began, trying to clear the fog from her head. The question died on her lips as she spotted her nemesis sprawled on the floor.
“Won’t be bothering you again.” With a casual prod of his boot, Gavin nudged the body faceup. A circle of darker red was fast spreading over the scarlet jacket. Centered in it was a dagger, sunk to the hilt in the baron’s left breast.
“Or anyone else for that matter.”
“I think he meant to kill me,” she whispered.
“Actually, his intention was most likely just to rough you up a bit,” replied Gavin, touching a hand to his pocket. He had changed out of his snowy white garb and was now clad in a black coat and trousers. “Sex had an extra edge for him when the women were frightened.”
Fear—a primal, primitive emotion. Drawing a steadying breath, Arianna looked up to thank him again.
Only to find the snout of a pocket pistol hovering inches from her forehead.
“It is I who you really need to fear,” he said conversationally. “Get up, Lady Wolcott—or rather, Lady Arianna Hadley.”
A fresh wave of dizziness washed over her.
“Get up!” The slap was a good deal harder than his first one.
“How . . . why . . .” A myriad of questions tangled on her tongue.
“You’ll learn all that later.” Gavin grasped her arm and hauled her to her feet. “Move.” Cold steel hit hard against her temple. “And quickly, or I’ll put a bullet through your brain.”
What brain? thought Arianna groggily. Still half dazed by the drug, she stumbled along unresistingly. A slave to her own obsession, she had been too stupid to see the truth.
“This way.” Gavin unlatched a set of glass-paned doors and shoved her outside. A damp breeze ruffled through the dark foliage of an overgrown garden.
Gravel crunched underfoot as he hurried their steps away from the house.
“Where are you taking me?” asked Arianna, the chill and the sharp stabs of the stones helping to restore her wits. Up ahead in the shadows, she saw a team of horses harnessed to a covered carriage.
“To a cozy little spot where we won’t be disturbed.” His low laugh echoed the rumbled wash of the nearby river. “Don’t worry, Lady Arianna. It’s not far away.”
Grentham let the draperies fall back in place and stepped away from the window. Half hidden by a grove of trees, the abandoned gamekeeper’s cottage overlooked the ghostly ruins of Medmenham Abbey. “Has Lord Cockburn arrived?”
“Yes,” assured the man who had just come in from the darkness. “He is waiting at the entrance of the caves.”
“Excellent, excellent.” The minister turned to the other two people in the room. “What of Lady Wolcott and Lord Saybrook?”
“The lady left London just after dusk, milord, and arrived at the Wooburn Moor according to schedule,” replied the spy appointed to keeping her under surveillance.
“The earl followed shortly afterward, alone and on horseback,” reported the other man. “His friend, the surgeon Henning, is coming by coach, along with four other former soldiers.” A pause. “All cripples.”
“Saybrook has considerable hubris, to face off against the unknown with such a paltry force.” The spark of a flint scraping steel caught the slight upward curl of Grentham’s mouth. “But then, that doesn’t really surprise me.”
He lit a single candle and set it by the map on the table. Motioning for the three men to come closer, he then indicated the paper. “Martin, you and your group will keep watch on the London road here, while Finley, you are to station your forces by the Abbey ruins, in this part of the gardens.”
Tap, tap. The minister punctuated his orders with a well-tended finger. “Beckham, you will come with me. Your weapons are loaded?”
One of the men nodded.
“A reminder to you others—stay well hidden. No one—no one—is to move unless I give the signal.” Grentham drew on a pair of black gloves. “I’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to set this trap. So need I say that there will be hell to pay for anyone who cocks it up?”