“The angle of entry, the shape of the blade—Mr. Henning can give expert testimony that it wasn’t your knife,” she added.
“Don’t be daft. Grentham is well aware that Baz is a friend and former army comrade of mine,” countered the earl. “He’ll do his best to discredit any such statements.”
“Perhaps,” she replied, ignoring his sarcasm. “But Henning is still a qualified medical man, and his observations, expressed openly in a public inquest, will force the coroner to take a closer look at the evidence. Murder is a very serious charge to bring against a peer of the realm.”
His brows rose. “You have this all figured out?”
Arianna smiled sweetly. “As you once pointed out, I have a Machiavellian mind.”
Her husband gave a grudging laugh. “And as you once pointed out, I should be extremely grateful for that fact.”
“Yes.” She stood up and brushed the crumbs from her skirts. “You should be.”
Saybrook finished the last morsel of chicken and set the plate aside. “Thank you, my dear. But I think the threat is not as real as you think.”
Oh, yes. It is. Arianna rose and handed him the fresh shirt brought down by his valet. “If you are feeling better, shall we go up to our rooms? I think you will be more comfortable there.”
He didn’t miss the subtle change in her voice. “Yes, of course.”
“I should go dress for supper.” Mellon stood up as well. “I shall see you later, then.”
Once they were halfway up the guest wing staircase, and away from prying ears, Saybrook murmured, “I take it you have something pressing that you wish to discuss in private.”
“Yes,” replied Arianna. “And I fear . . .” Fear. The word raised a hot-and-cold prickling sensation at the nape of her neck. Fire and ice. “I fear you are not going to like it.”
“Do go on,” he said drily. “The bullet didn’t kill me, but the suspense of waiting for this explanation might.”
“Ha, ha, ha.” She gave a weak laugh as they turned down the corridor to their rooms. “I don’t mean to wax dramatic, but I’ve made a very disturbing discovery.”
“What . . .” began Saybrook, only to turn the question into a growled oath. “What the devil?”
Up ahead, a footman was fumbling with the door latch of their suite. The carpet must have muffled their footsteps, for he whirled around at the sound of their voices, a spasm of guilt pinching at his face.
“Your pardon,” mumbled the man.
To Arianna, he sounded more nervous than he should.
“I—I was told to bring these freshly starched cravats to your rooms, milord.”
The sconce light flared and she saw that despite the coolness of the corridor, a thin beading of sweat rimmed his upper lip. She tensed, her senses on full alert. “Does not the Marquess of Milford have a large enough staff for the household to function properly?” The menial task of delivering laundry was the job of an under maid, not a footman.
“I—I wouldn’t know, madam,” stammered the servant. “I—I was merely doing as I was asked.”
Arianna glanced at the folded linen that had fallen to the floor. “By the by, those are not His Lordship’s cravats.”
The footman crouched down to gather up the neck-cloths. “They must have made a mistake downstairs. Forgive me for disturbing you.” Crabbing back from the door, he rose hastily and fled without further word.
“Damnation,” said Saybrook under his breath, staring for a moment at the stretch of shadows before following her into their suite.
The door fell closed with a soft snick.
“What mischief is afoot here?” he went on. “The cursed fellow was clearly up to no good. But why would he be stealing into our rooms? The emeralds are valuable.” His mouth pursed. “But I would not have thought them worth the risk of murder.”
“I don’t think he was after the emeralds.” Arianna took the volume of engravings out from its hiding place. “I think he was after this.”
7
2 cups heavy cream
1 cup milk
½ cup sugar
⅛ teaspoon kosher salt
8 ounces dark chocolate (preferably 72 percent cacao), roughly chopped
1 tablespoon whisky or rum
1. In a saucepan over medium-low heat, simmer cream, milk, sugar and salt, stirring occasionally until sugar dissolves.
2. In the bowl of a food processor, pulse chocolate until finely chopped. Add one cup hot cream mixture and process until smooth.
3. Transfer to a large bowl. Slowly pour in remaining hot cream mixture and the whisky or rum, whisking constantly. Place bowl in refrigerator or set in an ice bath to chill.
4. When cold, pour into the bowl of an ice cream machine and churn according to manufacturer’s directions. Transfer to a container and freeze until solid, at least 2 hours. Let sit at room temperature for 5 to 10 minutes before serving, or in refrigerator for 15 to 30 minutes.
Yield: About a quart.
“A book.” Saybrook took it from her and thumbed through the pages before adding, “Quite a lovely book, in fact. But delicious as it is to us, Theobroma cacao is not something that ought to attract the violent interest of others.”
“It’s not the book, per se.” Arianna drew a deep, unhappy breath, knowing her revelations were about to entangle them in a new web of secrets and lies. Spiders and serpents. Sinister, silent predators.
The thought of them made her skin crawl.
“But I had better start at the beginning.” She quickly recounted what had happened in the bookstore, and the unexpected encounter with her assailant the previous evening.
“You didn’t think an attack on your person was something I ought to know about?” he interrupted softly. “Or the fact that the man who assaulted my wife is present here?”
“The book was meant to be a special birthday present, Sandro. Any mention of the incident would have spoiled the surprise,” she answered. “And besides, I thought Davilenko was simply one of those eccentric, obsessed book collectors that you mentioned to me. A boor and a bully, but not any real threat.” The papers seemed to hiss and crackle beneath her fingertips as she pulled them out from behind the marbled endpaper. Is it my imagination, or did a whiff of brimstone suddenly taint the air? “Until I found these hidden in the binding.”
Saybrook stared at the folded sheets for a long moment before reluctantly holding out his hand. “I take it they are not recipes,” he muttered.
“Not unless you are looking to cook up chaos.”
One by one, he carefully unfolded them, his face remaining expressionless as he read over the contents. The only sign of emotion was a tiny tic in the muscle of his jaw. But even that was quickly controlled.
Arianna waited for a reaction, but he simply reshuffled the sheets and appeared to begin a second round of study.
Finally, when she could stand the silence no longer, she cleared her throat. “Well, what do you think?”
The earl didn’t look up. “If you are asking whether I think my uncle is capable of betraying his country, the answer is no, I don’t.”
“Nor do I,” she said tightly. “But someone with access to his confidential files is.”
“Renard?” During their previous investigation, they had uncovered a rumor about an elusive French spy called Renard. The fox. If the whispers were true, he was a very cunning individual who moved within the highest circles of Society.
“The name certainly leaps to mind when speaking of documents stolen from the inner sanctum of Whitehall.” She paused. “Do you think he actually exists? We had only a criminal’s word to go on, but . . .”