“As a matter of fact, I do believe Renard is more than smoke and specters,” answered Saybrook slowly. “A few months after our investigation was over, I met with a former comrade in the upper echelon of military intelligence, who confirmed that the government had linked the name with several other instances of espionage. But then, Napoleon abdicated and the war was over, so I assumed that the threat had disappeared.”
“And yet it’s possible that Renard is still running free, teeth and claws as sharp as ever,” said Arianna.
“Yes, it’s possible,” he replied. “But so are a myriad of other speculations, ranging from the plausible to the absurd.”
Arianna didn’t blame him for sounding so sardonic. Regardless of his innocence, Mellon’s reputation would be blackened by her discovery—or worse. The evidence was awfully incriminating. Two of the papers seemed to be written in a secret code, but the third bore the official stamp of the Foreign Office. Written in Mellon’s hand, it summarized the progress of highly secret negotiations taking place with one of the German states. Knowing such privileged information would give any enemy of England a potent weapon at the upcoming Peace Conference in Vienna. The diplomatic jockeying for power would be intense as borders were redrawn, alliances reformed. And so, Europe was like a giant powder keg.
Just one spark could ignite chaos.
“Then we shall have to find solid proof of who is the real culprit,” said Arianna. “Or . . .” She hesitated, wondering whether to admit that her thoughts had sunk to such a shameful depth. “Or deal with it in a different way. I confess, I was sorely tempted to throw it all into the fire.”
That Saybrook said nothing was in itself eloquent of his own inner turmoil.
“It’s something to consider,” she went on in a near whisper. “We could warn your uncle of the danger, and together work discreetly on setting a trap for the traitor. Nobody else need be privy to the problem until the traitor’s capture is a fait accompli. Think on it—in many ways it’s the most logical tactic. The fewer people who know that the betrayal has been discovered, the better. A wary fox is harder to catch than one who thinks the henhouse is unguarded.”
“Like your sinfully seductive confections, your well-reasoned arguments are tempting, my dear,” replied the earl. He lifted his chocolate-dark eyes from the pages and she couldn’t quite see what lay beneath the shuttered gaze. A soldier must make himself impenetrable in order to survive, she reminded herself.
“Too tempting,” he added. “What you suggest would be easy, and I fear that there is going to be nothing easy about this affair.”
“Then what do you intend to do?” asked Arianna.
“I am not sure.” Saybrook carried the papers to the leaded window and angled them into the light. “It depends partly on what I can learn from these coded pages that you found enclosed with the document written by Charles.”
Codes.
She had guessed as much, but how the disjointed words could be turned into a meaningful message was its own puzzle. “They look like an opium eater’s wild ramblings,” she said. “It seems an impossible task to try to make sense of them.”
“I am surprised that you think that.” For the first time since he had returned from the moors, her husband allowed a small smile. “Codes are all based on a logical system. Some may be more complex than others, but the underlying principles are the same. As in mathematics, you simply have to see the patterns.”
Arianna’s father had been a mathematical genius, and she shared his knack for numbers.
“I hadn’t thought about it that way,” she murmured.
“You’ve had no need to,” replied Saybrook drily. “I, on the other hand, spent some of my time on the Peninsula working with George Scovell on cracking Napoleon’s military codes. The man was a veritable wizard.” Moving to the escritoire, he set the papers down and absently smoothed at the creases. “Let us hope some of his magic has rubbed off on me.”
She recognized the spark that had flared in his eyes. Like a moth drawn to a flame, the earl found a cerebral challenge impossible to resist. And danger seemed to make it only more alluring.
“They seem to be written in a different hand. Show me which one was folded together with the document from Charles’s files. I’ll start with that one.”
“Change into your dressing gown,” she ordered, after doing as he asked. “While I fetch a blanket and shift one of the armchairs closer to the fire.”
“I don’t need to be coddled,” he muttered.
“Go,” said Arianna, cutting off his protest with a martial glare. “I shall send word that we won’t be joining the party for the evening entertainments, and ask that a supper tray be sent up. But in return, you must humor me by not collapsing from loss of blood.”
“Good God, a small scratch has never slowed me down.”
“Pride goeth before a fall,” she countered.
“Women.” He surrendered to her demand with an ill-tempered grunt. “Hell, it is feminine fussing that will be the death of me.”
“I profoundly hope not,” she whispered, looking down at the rusty smudge on her apron and feeling her blood run a little cold.
The rhythmic tick of the longcase clock was the only sound stirring the deepening shadows. The embers in the hearth, silent specks of dying red, had burned down to naught but cinders, leaving the lamp as the lone flicker of light in the sitting room.
“It’s past midnight, Sandro.” Arianna tightened the sash of her wrapper against the chill. “Come to bed.”
“Hmmm?” Another sheet of crumpled paper joined the growing pile on the carpet. “Yes, yes, in a moment.”
“Yes, yes, and in the same space of time, pigs will spout wings and fly to Uranus.”
He looked up. “Hmmm?”
“Never mind.” Too restless to sleep, she padded over to the hearth and added a few fresh logs. Infused with new life, the fire sent up a blaze of bright flames, their cheery crackling a lighter counterpoint to the regimented marching of the minutes. “Any luck?”
He shrugged.
A cryptic answer.
After another quick jab at the coals, Arianna set the poker aside and seated herself on the carpet beside his chair. “You’re chilled,” she commented, slipping a hand beneath the blanket and running her fingers lightly over his leg.
At that he looked up. “Are you trying to distract me?”
“I doubt that I could.”
Saybrook chuckled. “Don’t underestimate your powers.” He flexed his shoulders and massaged the back of his neck. “I would far rather wrestle with your lovely limbs than these perverse little letters.”
“Even though I often drive you to distraction?” she teased. Leaning in for a closer look at the papers piled on his lap desk, she took a moment to study the strange diagram he was drawing.
“What’s that?”
“A Vigenère Square.”
“It looks like the ravings of a lunatic.”
His mouth twitched. “There is a method to the madness. As I mentioned earlier, all codes and ciphers are based on a logical system. One just has to be clever enough to figure them out.”
“So it’s a game of sorts.” Arianna thought of her father and his delight in making numbers do his bidding—no matter that the equations had dire results. “A mano a mano match of Machiavellian minds.”
Her husband gave a bark of laughter. “At times the challenge does feel personal. The code maker and the code breaker engage in an intellectual version of hide-and-seek. Competition can get fierce, for the stakes are often very high.” His pencil tapped softly against the paper. “Mary, Queen of Scots, was executed because England’s spymaster, Lord Walsingham, was able to decipher her secret correspondence with Babington and his group of Catholic conspirators. And then, of course, you have Scovell, whose skills helped Wellington drive the French forces from the Peninsula.”