Arianna turned away from the window, trying to quell a sense of unease.
A dog began barking in high-pitched yips that echoed sharply off the stately limestone walls.
Her nerves on edge, she nearly jumped out of her skin when an urgent knock suddenly sounded on the suite’s entryway. Sliding the papers back inside the book, she rushed to open the door.
“Madam, there seems to have been an accident involving the earl. I was told to tell you that”—the agitated footman paused to catch his breath—“that you had best come quickly.”
Dio Madre.
Arianna rushed to retrieve her shoes, which she had slipped off while sitting at the escritoire. As she shoved aside the chair, her gaze fell on the chocolate book and its hidden secrets.
On impulse, she carried it to the bed and shoved it beneath the mattress before hurrying down the stairs.
“There is no need to fuss, Arianna.” Saybrook tried to fend off her hand. “It’s naught but a scratch.”
Ignoring his protest, she turned to a footman. “Have a basin of hot water, scissors, bandages and basilicum powder brought to the West Parlor—and quickly.”
“Yes, madam!”
“And a vial of laudanum.” Noting that her husband’s face looked as pale as the surrounding Portland stone, she gestured at Mellon. “Charles, please assist His Lordship.”
“I don’t need any help,” muttered Saybrook. But in truth, he looked a little unsteady on his feet as he started up the entrance stairs. “And I would prefer to go to my own rooms, if you please.”
“The parlor, Charles,” ordered Arianna. The bloodstain spreading over the singed wool was alarming.
Once inside the room, she had him strip off his coat and take a seat on the sofa. After propping a pillow behind his shoulders, she drew the side table closer and took up the scissors to cut away his shirt.
A hiss escaped her lips as she stared at the jagged wound. “You thick-headed man. Why, it’s a wonder you didn’t bleed to death! Did you not think to put a pad on the wound to staunch the bleeding?”
“I was . . . distracted,” he answered.
Mellon, who had retreated several steps to give her room, cleared his throat. “What did Grentham say to you?” he asked tautly.
Grentham. Arianna felt a chill snake down her spine. “How is the minister involved in this?” she asked, carefully sponging the gore from Saybrook’s shoulder.
“He was among the men who found us with the body,” replied the earl.
“Body,” she repeated.
“A man was murdered in the woods near the hunt. We found him,” replied the earl.
“Let us not read too much into Grentham’s presence,” said Mellon quickly. “Our ghillie raised the alarm, and the shooters closest to us came to investigate.” He shifted his stance. “It was coincidence that the minister was among them.”
“I don’t put much faith in coincidence,” she said softly. “Especially when it involves that bastard.”
She felt Saybrook’s muscles tense as she bandaged the wound. And yet, he remained stoically silent.
“Now, kindly explain to me exactly what happened,” Arianna insisted.
Mellon gave a terse account of the action.
“Charles, will you please bring me a glass of brandy?” Arianna added a few drops of laudanum and handed it to the earl. “Drink this.”
“I don’t need any damnable narcotic,” he growled.
“Ordinarily, I would agree with you.” She considered opium a pernicious substance. “However, in this case, I’ve no ingredients to brew a more effective painkiller, and I want you to rest for a bit before I allow you to move.”
“Bloody hell, I’m not at all tired. But I suppose it will be more trouble than it’s worth to argue with you.” Making a face, he swallowed the brandy in one gulp.
She made him lie down and arranged a blanket over his chest. Despite his protests, the earl quickly dozed off.
“It looks like he lost of lot of blood.” Mellon looked down at the crimson-soaked remains of Saybrook’s shirt. “Is he in danger?”
“I know, it looks gruesome,” replied Arianna. “But Sandro was right. It’s just a flesh wound, though the bullet cut a nasty gash.” She let out a pent-up sigh, thinking how close the bullet had come to splitting open his skull. “Thank God his soldier’s instinct for survival is still sharp.”
Mellon returned to the sideboard and poured himself a drink. “Amen to that.” He held up the decanter. “May I offer you one as well?”
Arianna shook her head. She needed to think clearly.
He stared meditatively into the spirits before taking a sip.
“Charles, I . . .”
I wish that I could coax a spark of warmth in your eyes. You are so cordial. And so cold. Is there nothing I can do to win your trust?
“I . . . am concerned,” she finished, deciding this was not the right time to broach their uneasy relationship.
“As am I.” Mellon sucked in his cheeks. “Grentham is a dangerous enemy to have.”
“I know that.” Arianna hesitated. “Just as I know that I am the cause for the friction between them. I am sorry—you have every right to be upset with the situation.” And with me.
It was several long moments before Mellon replied. “Sandro is a complex man. Most people find him hard to understand. He is intensely introspective—perhaps too much so. And prone to fits of brooding.”
Aren’t we all, she thought.
“But you seem to be drawing him out of himself. He seems . . . happy.”
“Thank you,” said Arianna softly. “I imagine that was not easy for you to say.”
His mouth quirked. “A diplomat is trained to say the correct thing, regardless of his personal feelings.”
An oblique statement if ever there was one. Especially considering the contents of the hidden letters. But negotiating any terms of a personal truce would have to wait for a less volatile time.
“We will need every bit of eloquence we can muster to counter whatever maliciousness Grentham has in mind,” she said in reply.
Mellon’s expression turned grim.
“Might I leave you to sit with Sandro for a short while?” she went on. “I have a few things I wish to arrange while he is napping.”
“You sent for Henning? Blast it all, there was no need for that.” Saybrook awoke from his nap in an irritable mood. “He’s got patients who have far more need of him than I do.”
“His friend Desmond can take care of them in his absence,” answered Arianna. Their good friend Basil Henning was an irascible Scottish surgeon who held clinics for former soldiers too poor to pay for medical care. “There is no point in arguing. I have already sent a messenger, mounted on one of the marquess’s fastest stallions.”
She offered Saybrook a plate of cold chicken and rolls, knowing he tended to be snappish when his stomach was empty. “I’ve also dispatched our coach to wait in Andover. In order to save time, I’ve asked Mr. Henning to hire a private conveyance in London and travel with all possible haste to meet it there.”
“Baz doesn’t have much money,” grumbled Saybrook after taking a reluctant bite of food.
“Along with the message about your injury, I included a note for him to give our housekeeper. Bianca will supply him with funds,” replied Arianna. “I expect that he will be here by morning.”
The earl shifted against the pillows. “You’ve already patched up the scratch. And if there is any need for further care, we could have summoned a local physician.”
She carefully smoothed a crease from the blanket. “I would rather not trust a stranger to mix any powders or potions for you.”
Saybrook muttered an oath.
“It’s not simply a question of your treatment,” Arianna continued. “Given what has happened, and the impending inquest, it is important to have Mr. Henning make a close inspection of the corpse.”
“Your wife has a point,” murmured Mellon.
Saybrook frowned but didn’t argue.