“Given your ideas of late, perhaps I should be quaking in my boots,” retorted her husband.
“Ha! You may have to eat those words.”
A short while later, the sultana-and-almond-filled chocolates consumed, the glasses refilled, Henning sat back and cleared his throat. “Well, now, it seems we are to have another one of our councils of war. Shall I start it off? Sandro has been pestering me for hours to explain why I am here.”
The earl gave an impatient little wave.
“Don’t rush me,” retorted the surgeon. “It’s a long and complicated story. But I shall try to keep it short.”
“Do,” growled the earl.
“As you know, I headed north to Scotland on the same day you left for Vienna. When I arrived in Edinburgh, my nephew was still missing, so . . .” He shifted uncomfortably. “I haven’t spoken much to you about this, but I’ve kept up ties with a group of old friends who espouse the idea of independence from England. The Crown brands their ideas sedition, while I . . . I support many of their aims, even if I don’t agree with some of their more radical efforts to achieve them.”
“Dio Madre, you need not explain yourself to us,” said Saybrook. “I guessed as much, and respect your choices.”
“Auch, I know that, laddie, and am grateful. But this is about more than me and my personal feelings.” He blew out his cheeks. “Suffice it to say, I’m trusted enough in the underworld of Scottish patriots that people are willing to talk.” The air leaked out slowly. “And what I heard made my hair stand on end.”
Saybrook was staring down at his glass, a habit that hid his dark eyes.
“We know that Whitehall has long suspected that the French have had agents in both Scotland and Ireland, looking to encourage unrest—and perhaps even rebellion,” continued Henning. “And of course they are right. Money has been funneling in from the Continent for years. Most of it has been spent to buy loyalty from the locals, who in turn use it to support their families.” He looked up, the harsh shadows accentuating the lines that furrowed his face. “Poverty is rampant, for many of the English lords treat their Scottish tenants as a lower form of life than their hounds or horses. That’s why I’ve turned a blind eye on what was going on.”
“But with the war over and Napoleon exiled on Elba, it seems that the threat should be over,” said Arianna.
“You’re right, lassie. The threat should be over,” replied Henning. “But the more I delved beneath the surface, the more it became apparent that friends and foes were not what they seemed—which is why we have been chasing the wrong scent in our hunt for Renard.”
“Let me guess,” said Saybrook slowly. “You’re about to tell us that conceited coxcomb, Comte Rochemont is, in truth, a cunning conspirator who has spent years betraying both the Royalist cause and Britain, correct?”
“Correct,” confirmed Henning. “For nearly a decade, the duplicitous bastard has been running a network of agents provocateurs for Napoleon in Scotland. I was away on the Peninsula for some of those years, and then living in London. So I’ve kept at arm’s length from the activities, and never knew the identities of the men in charge. Had I paid greater attention to what was going on in the North, I would have also learned that Rochemont wielded an iron hand within his fancy French velvet glove.”
“That would explain Rochemont’s many so-called hunting trips across the border,” mused Saybrook. “Under the guise of a frivolous sportsman, he was overseeing his network.”
Henning made a face. “Aye. And it seems he ran a clever operation. Recruits were flattered and stroked. Those who showed intelligence and idealism were brought up through the ranks and assigned ways to weaken England. All very comradely, right?” The sardonic laugh couldn’t quite cover the pain in his voice.
Arianna felt her throat constrict.
“Except those who disagreed with the methods or tried to resign were beaten into line by Rochemont’s henchmen,” Henning went on. “Or they simply disappeared.”
“I am sorry about your nephew, but you cannot blame yourself, Baz,” said Saybrook softly. “You have read history—from the very first, rulers and demagogues have always found it easy to seduce young men with fire in their bellies.”
“I should have had my eyes and ears open. Then I would have been able to counsel Angus,” said Henning bleakly.
“Yes, and he would have ignored you,” countered Arianna. “When you were his age, would you have listened to your elders?”
The surgeon frowned, and then crooked a grudging smile. “No, I would have told them to go to hell.”
“There, you see.” She set down her glass. “But before we go on about Rochemont’s past, I think you had better hear what I have to say about tonight.”
Her husband looked at Henning and then gave a gruff nod.
Arianna quickly detailed what she had seen in the kitchen.
“His hands were burned?” said Saybrook.
“Yes,” she answered without hesitation. “Which has to mean he killed Kydd. Any other explanation seems absurd.”
“But why?” mused Saybrook.
“He must have suspected that Kydd was having second thoughts. And perhaps he feared that things were getting too cozy with me,” she said.
Her husband took his time in answering. “Perhaps. And yet, an assassin, be it Rochemont or one of his cohorts, could not have known that you and Kydd would be walking that way.”
“A good point,” said Henning.
Arianna thought back over her encounter with the young Scotsman. “Kydd was quick to suggest we walk that way,” she said carefully. “He hinted that he had an important meeting. He was nervous and on edge, so I would guess that he had a rendezvous planned with his killer for later in the evening.”
“Pure speculation,” the earl pointed out.
“As is your guess that someone lobbed a bomb at us with the intention of murdering both of us.”
“The evidence of a lethal metallic sphere—what we in the military called a grenade—is inarguable,” said Saybrook. “How it came to explode by Kydd’s head is, I grant you, not something we know for sure.”
“There are too damn many unknowns in this bloody case,” muttered Henning. “One would almost think Grentham manipulated you into taking this assignment because he was sure you would fail.”
Arianna swallowed hard, the lingering sweetness of the wine turning sour on her tongue.
“Another speculation,” said Saybrook curtly. “We could sit here and spin conjectures all night. What facts are we missing?”
Her head jerked up. “I—I was just getting to that. After Rochemont went out, I decided to have a look around his quarters. Hidden inside his jewel case was a coded letter.”
A sound—a snarl?—vibrated deep in Saybrook’s throat.
“For God’s sake, give me a little credit for clandestine conniving,” she snapped, feeling a little defensive. “I was exceedingly careful about leaving no trace that it had been tampered with. I made a copy and put the original back exactly as I found it.”
He leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “Then how did you come to be chased within an inch of your life by the comte and his hellhounds?”
“As it happens, I heard him returning and knew I didn’t have time to put his desk back in order and escape. So I threw some things around, including the jewel case, and pocketed the baubles to make it look like a robbery.”
Without further comment, Saybrook extracted the paper from his pocket. Slowly, precisely, he unfolded the creases and began studying the contents.
“Bravo, lassie,” said Henning. “Perhaps your clue will help us figure out what Rochemont and that bastard Talleyrand are up to. I don’t know what new mayhem the two of them are planning together. But mark my words, I think we’ll find that Talleyrand is at the heart of all this. He just has to be.”
The earl kept on reading.
Arianna bit her lip, uncertain whether to feel angry or guilty. Had she been stubbornly reckless simply to prove her independence?