“And you didn’t recognize the fellow?”
Saybrook shook his head. “No, but I’m certain this is not him. The man I saw was dressed like a member of our shooting party, in heavy woolens and a broad-brimmed hat.” He felt inside the corpse’s moleskin jacket, and then made a check of the pockets. “There’s nothing that might help identify him.”
Mellon nudged the short-barreled gun lying half buried in the russet needles. “You were right about the rifle.”
“Yes.” The earl checked the firing mechanism and frowned. “And it’s equipped with the latest mercury fulminate percussion caps.” Flicking away a grain of gunpowder, he looked up at his uncle. “A design that is only available to our elite military regiments.”
“Christ Almighty,” whispered Mellon. “I fear something very sinister is afoot here.”
“As do I, Charles. As do I.” Thinning his lips, the earl wiped a bloody hand on his breeches. “You know, it might not have been me that the shooter was aiming at. Rochemont was right in the line of fire as well.” He paused. “Is there any reason our government might be unhappy with the French émigré community in London? Rochemont is one of its leaders, and while they were a useful wartime ally, now that the monarchy has been restored to France, their loyalty will lie with a foreign sovereign and a foreign country.” A pause. “So perhaps they are no longer viewed as a friend.”
Shouts rose from the edge of the grove before his uncle could answer.
“I sent our ghillie to raise the alarm,” explained Mellon. He stood and called an answer to the group.
A few moments later, a half dozen of their party were milling around the macabre scene, their shocked murmurs underscoring the agitated whine of the bird dog.
“Good God, what happened?” demanded a pale-faced Enqvist.
Mellon lifted his shoulders. “Someone shot at Lord Saybrook. We gave chase”—he shuddered—“and stumbled upon this.”
“The devil take it, you’re wounded, Saybrook!” exclaimed Bellis, one of Mellon’s associates in the Foreign Ministry.
All eyes fixed on the dark stain spreading over the torn fabric of his coat.
“The bullet merely grazed me,” replied the earl.
“I can’t say that I blame you for slitting the cur’s throat,” muttered Bellis, casting a look at the knife in Saybrook’s hand.
“No, no—Saybrook didn’t kill him,” protested Mellon. “As I said, we found the fellow with his throat already cut.”
One of the men coughed. Several shuffled their feet.
“We’ll need to bring the body back to the manor house,” said Bellis. “The local magistrate will have to be summoned and an inquest arranged, seeing as there’s been a violent death.”
Mellon gave a brusque wave to the ghillie. “Go, man, and bring back the cart, along with a few of your sturdiest fellows.”
“Aye, sir.”
The servant hurried away, and the others slowly followed.
Saybrook rose and carefully slid his blade back into his boot. When he looked up, it was to find Grentham watching him, a scimitar smile curled on his mouth.
“Tut, tut. You’re getting a little careless, Saybrook,” mocked the minister. “The last two times a man ended up dead from a knife wound, you made sure that no witnesses caught you at the scene red-handed.”
The earl’s expression remained impassive.
“If you recall, I did warn you to watch your step.” Grentham dropped his voice to a whisper as he brushed by. “But it seems you have slipped. And now you and your sharp-tongued wife have nothing to barter. You are on your own.”
6
6 ounces pitted dates, about 2 cups
¾ cup water
1¼ cups sugar
1 tablespoon pure vanilla extract
6 large egg whites
½ cup unsweetened cocoa powder
½ cup all-purpose flour
Confectioners’ sugar, for dusting
1. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F. Spray a 1½ quart soufflé dish with nonstick spray.
2. Put the dates and water in a pot over medium-low heat. Cook and stir for 10 minutes until the dates are very soft. Transfer the softened dates to a food processor and puree until smooth. Add the sugar and vanilla, puree again until well blended. Scoop out the puree into a mixing bowl. Sift together the cocoa powder and flour and add to the date mixture. Fold using a rubber spatula; combine gently until well mixed.
3. In a mixing bowl, whip the egg whites until they form stiff peaks. Fold the egg whites into the date mixture.
4. Pour the batter into the coated soufflé dish, spreading it evenly with a spatula. Bake on the middle rack for 25 minutes until the outside is just set. Cool to room temperature. Shake some confectioners’ sugar on top and serve.
The flames licked up from the burning log, teasing, taunting little tongues of fire. Do it. Do it. The smoky crackle of the red-gold coals added their own siren song.
Do it. Do it.
Arianna stared into the hearth, mesmerized by the seductive light and heat. It would be oh, so easy . . .
Whirling away from the burning logs, she rushed to the window, and pressed her palms to the glass panes, willing the chill to cool temptation.
“No,” she whispered.
But who would know? countered a devilish voice inside her head. She could consign the letters to the fire and nobody would know. Poof—the evidence would simply crumble to ashes.
The danger would disappear in a pale plume of smoke.
A papery sigh whispered as she unfolded the sheets yet again and read over the writing. Two of them contained naught but gibberish. It was the other one that raised a pebbling of gooseflesh up and down her arms.
There was—there had to be—a plausible explanation. However, in the wrong hands, the document could do great damage.
She drew in a measured breath, willing her heart to stop thudding against her ribs. In the past, the choice would have been a simple one for her. Concepts like right and wrong were mere abstractions when one was scrabbling hand over fist to survive. She would have done what was practical and pragmatic without a second thought.
But Saybrook was a man of unyielding honor, of unbending principle, she thought with a harried sigh. And strangely enough, she had come to believe in such platitudes.
Though how and why, I can’t explain—even to myself.
The damnable documents posed more than a personal dilemma. Their existence indicated a far more insidious danger. Saybrook would say it was their moral duty to show the evidence to the proper authorities, no matter the consequences.
Arianna bit her lip. She was very good at hand-to-hand combat—but she hated wrestling with her conscience.
“I much preferred it when I didn’t have one,” she whispered wryly.
The sudden clattering of a horse cart rolling into the courtyard interrupted any further philosophical musings.
Her breath had fogged the windowpanes, so it took a moment to wipe away the vapor. Through the blurred glass she saw that a length of canvas was covering something in the back of the cart. Two ghillies jumped down from the backboard and the horse was quickly led away to the back of the manor.
Craning her neck, she watched the procession of grim-faced hunters come marching up the drive. In contrast to the casual camaraderie of the morning bantering, they appeared silent, subdued.
Saybrook was not among them.