That she felt safe and secure in Saybrook’s arms had her feeling confused. Conflicted.
Fighting against devils like Rochemont felt like second nature, while wrestling with her own inner demons seemed to sap her of all strength.
Should I surrender to trust? Her mouth quirked. That felt a little like donning a blindfold and stepping off the edge of a precipice.
“I suppose that is what is meant by a leap of faith,” she murmured. And yet, she never trusted in anyone but herself.
Sandro was just as guarded, but he has taken the first tentative stride . . .
Arianna spun around as the earl and Henning entered the parlor. “Thank God you are safe—I was beginning to imagine the worst,” she said.
Henning hurried on to the sideboard and poured out a generous measure of brandy. “For once, I think even your colorful mind would fall short of the task.” He drained his glass in one swallow.
That didn’t sound good.
She looked at her husband and noticed several new cuts and scrapes on his hands. “I’ve some interesting news, but I think you had better go first. Did you run into trouble during your search?”
Saybrook made a wry face. “That depends on how you define trouble.” Waving off the surgeon’s offer of a drink, he dropped into the nearby armchair and ran a hand through his hair. “No, we did not have any problem entering the Spanish Riding School. Nor did we encounter any guards.”
Her clenched hands relaxed ever so slightly.
“And in fact, we discovered how Rochemont means to kill Talleyrand and Wellington. It’s a bomb—a diabolical bomb.”
“Aye,” chimed in the surgeon. “For it’s likely to reduce them and a good many people close by into fragments of flesh no bigger than mincemeat.”
“Good God,” intoned Arianna. “But I thought you said a bomb would be unlikely, given the smoke and smell of a burning fuse—”
“This bomb doesn’t need a conventional fuse. It’s a brilliant piece of chemistry,” said Henning. His face pinched to an unhappy expression. “Like mathematics, science can be used for good—or for evil.”
“How—” she began.
Anticipating her question, Saybrook was quick with an answer. “Another bit of cunning. It’s hidden inside the Champion’s Prize. I’m not sure how he means to arm the infernal thing. Timing is critical, but somehow I am sure he has that worked out. Someone is going to serve as his pigeon, offering the Eagle to Wellington for the special presentation.”
“That would be me.” She sat down rather heavily on the arm of his chair and let out a little laugh. “And here I thought I was being so clever, teasing him into allowing me to be part of the ceremonies.”
“He asked you carry the Eagle?” In contrast to the expressionless ice of his face, her husband’s voice shivered with molten fire. “He’s a dead man.”
“Sandro . . .” she began, then fell silent as their eyes met.
“We’ve sabotaged the bomb, but still, on second thought, I prefer not to take any chances,” Saybrook went on. “I’ll need to catch him in the act of trying to arm it with the acid, and then . . .”
“And then prevent him from carrying out the dastardly deed,” said Henning blandly. “An excellent plan. Any ideas how we’re going to do it?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I have.”
Arianna felt his big hand clasp hers in a hard, possessive hold.
“To begin with, Arianna is not going anywhere near the Spanish Riding School.”
His gaze glittered in challenge.
After a long moment, she looked away.
“Thank you for not arguing,” said her husband softly. “As for you, Baz, I want you positioned by the rear gate a half hour before the Carrousel is scheduled to begin, while I . . .”
Arianna listened in silence. It was a good plan.
But she had a better one.
23
2½ cups all purpose flour
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
½ teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1 cup oats
6 tablespoons butter, melted and cooled
1 large egg
¾ cup yogurt
½ cup milk
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
1½ cups chocolate chips, dark or semisweet
¾ cup candied ginger, finely chopped
1. Preheat oven to 375°. Line a muffin pan with paper liners (I simply buttered my silicone muffin pan).
2. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, salt, ground nutmeg, and oats.
3. In a medium bowl, whisk together melted butter, egg, yogurt, milk and vanilla extract until smooth. Pour into dry ingredients and stir just until no streaks of flour remain. Stir in chocolate chips and candied ginger.
4. Divide batter into prepared muffin pan, overfilling each muffin cup so that the batter slightly rises above the top of the pan.
5. Bake for 20–25 minutes, or until muffins are lightly browned and a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean.
6. Cool on a wire rack. Serve slightly warm. Makes 12 muffins.
Ah, well. It is not the first time I’ve ignored an order, thought Arianna as she crouched in the shadows and tucked her breeches more securely into the tops of her boots. And likely not the last. No matter that Saybrook’s display of pyrotechnics on learning of her foray would no doubt put the famed Steuer fireworks to blush. Lucifer could light up all of Hell and she would still crawl through the burning sparks and flaming cinders to be part of the action.
Rolling her shoulders, she gave a mental salute to the earl’s expensive London tailor, who despite his initial reservations, had crafted a sturdy set of dark masculine garments for her that fit like a glove. No rustling lace, no whispering silk—a predator had to move sleekly, silently through the night.
A carriage rattled over the cobbles, causing her to duck deeper into the murky alleyway. Arianna quickly squeezed through the sliver of space and then hesitated as she reached a gap in the buildings. A left turn would take her directly to the Spanish Riding School, while a right turn would lead to a more circuitous path past the Amalienburg wing of the Emperor’s palace.
Risk and reward. She patted her empty pockets, loath to face off against a dangerous enemy with naught but the slim knife in her boot. Saybrook had taken his pistols with him, leaving her bereft of gunpowder and bullets. But she knew from the Russian Tsar’s garrulous boasting that he possessed a pair of deadly accurate dueling weapons, recently purchased on his visit to London.
And of all the pompous party-goers, Alexander was sure to be at the Carrousel.
The chiming of the astrological clock echoed through the courtyard of the Amalienburg wing as Arianna edged around the towering fountain and peered up at the pale stone facade. Lights blazed in the windows of the first-floor salons, but on the floors above, where the Tsar was quartered, all was dark.
A side entrance for servants yielded to her hairpin, and it took no more than a minute to gain access to Alexander’s sumptuous suite of rooms. All was quiet, and in the corridor leading to the monarch’s private chambers, the gilded moldings gleamed in silent splendor, lit by only a single wall sconce flickering on the far wall.