Recipe for Treason (25 page)

A spark flared as his sister struck a flint to steel.

Le Chaze screamed a warning. But at the same instant a strong gust rocked the French gondola, pitching Canaday backward. The lit torch fell against the wicker, and with its fire fanned by swirling wind, flames rose up and quickly set the rigging alight.

“Bloody hell!” Sadler tugged open a release valve on his own balloon, and the big Montgolfier began to lose altitude. “Hold tight, ladies!”

Ripples of molten red raced up the ropes, and it took only a handful of heartbeats for the fire to hit the French balloon’s skin with a sizzling crackle. The loud hiss of escaping gas hung for an instant in the night air, and then suddenly the sound exploded into a shuddering
BOOM
.

Arianna felt shock waves buffet her body as the hydrogen-filled sphere burst into a ball of golden fire. It burned for an agonizing moment—a brilliant, terrifyingly beautiful blaze against the black velvet sky—before disintegrating in a shower of red-gold sparks, the charred scraps plunging into the sea.

Wisps of smoke drifted above the dark waves.

There was, however, no time for the horror of what she had just witnessed to sink in. The reverberations had spun them around and their balloon was now caught in a downdraft.

“We need to shed weight,” called Sadler as he fought to stop them from losing altitude. “Get rid of the main ballast bags,” he added, indicating the ones to go.

Arianna and Sophia hurried to unknot the sand-filled canvas sacks and drop them overboard.

“More!” ordered Sadler after gauging the distance to the water. “Heave the rest of them!”

To Arianna’s eye, their descent slowed, but not by much. He seemed of the same opinion, for after a brief hesitation, he shrugged out of his coat and tossed it over the side. “You, too, ladies, I’m afraid. Sheepskin is heavy.”

“It’s also w-w-warm,” said Sophia through chattering teeth.

“Not when wet.” Sadler glanced down. “Overboard with all boots,” he ordered, kicking off his own footwear. “Hats and gauntlets as well. Leather is weighty.”

Shivering as the chill air lanced through her shirt, Arianna hoped they didn’t have to sacrifice every stitch of clothing. It was already colder than a witch’s cackle inside the windblown gondola.

“Ladies, I have to ask you to start feeding the fire again—and with gusto, if you please. Monty seems to be stabilizing . . . but it all depends on the air currents close to the sea. We may have to trim a bit more weight.” He let out a gusty chuckle. “With luck, we won’t have to go to the same extremes as Blanchard and Jeffries.”

“Who?” asked Sophia,

“The first aeronauts to cross the Channel. Things got a trifle testy as they approached France, and they were forced to jettison all their supplies and ended up stripping down to their drawers.”

Arianna smiled. Sadler was not only a skilled flyer but also a savvy leader. Employing humor to distract an untested crew from the danger at hand was a clever tactic.

“Er, not to be indelicate,” he went on, “but legend has it that the fellows saved themselves from a nasty crash by emptying their bladders, which relieved them of vital ounces.”

Above Sophia’s muffled snort, Arianna could hear the slap of the waves and hiss of salt spray coming, closer, closer. She had hidden the fancy dueling pistols under her shirt, fearing that their loss might spark an international incident if Tsar Alexander of Russia learned that his gift had been tossed into the sea. However, if their weight was the difference between life and death . . .

The balloon bobbed, a mere hairsbreadth from disaster, and then started to rise. From the rocky promontory she heard a faint cheer rise up.

“We’re leaking air from the punctures, but we should make it safely to shore,” said Sadler, his hands a blur as he tuned the rigging.

They cleared the cliffs and scraped over a stand of windblown trees. “There’s a clearing ahead,” he shouted. “Hold tight. I’m going to release all the air, so the landing may be a bit bumpy.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Arianna saw the vague shapes of figures running in pursuit. There were shouts—was one of them Saybrook?—then everything was a jumbled cacophony of snapping braches, skidding stones and cracking wicker. The gondola bounced over the rough ground and turned on its side as helping hands grabbed at the collapsing balloon to keep the wild tangle of ropes and cloth from dragging into the nearby hedgerow.

Wincing, Arianna rolled over and sat up in a patch of stubbled grass, her shaky gaze encountering Sophia’s soot-streaked face close by.

Do I also look like an imp of Satan who has just ridden the Devil to Hell and back?

They both began to laugh.

A pair of well-polished Hessians skidded to a stop beside them. “Miss Kirtland! Lady Saybrook!”

To her amazement, Grentham’s normally impeccable grooming was three sheets to the wind. His cravat tails were in knots, his coat was covered in brambles, his hair . . .

Good God, his hair is standing on end.

Equally startling was the stream of highly improper invectives that tumbled off his tongue.

“Why are you blistering our ears?” she demanded, rubbing at her bruised elbow. “Sorry we didn’t bring back a pelt to put on your wall. But the hunt is over. The Fox—or rather, the Foxes—are dead.”

The minister sucked in a breath to answer, but it was her husband who replied.

“Why is he blistering your ears?” repeated Saybrook, his voice so soft that it was barely audible. Starlight skittered over his face, but not even the sun at its blazing zenith could have dispelled the look of black rage in his eyes.

“Because,” the earl went on, “normal speech cannot adequately express the depths of his anger at your reckless disregard for risk.”

“But—” began Arianna.

“Ignoring all constraint of common sense, you tear off in pursuit of a cold-blooded killer . . .”

“But—”

“Putting not only your life in danger, but that of Miss Kirtland. It’s one thing for
you
to be so devil-may-care about your own personal safety, but she has no experience in skullduggery and depended on
your
judgment—”

“Or lack thereof,” interjected Grentham.

“—to keep her out of harm’s way,” finished Saybrook.

“That’s unfair.” Sophia tried speak up, but her protest was drowned out by the earl’s rising roar.

“No, it bloody well is
not
unfair. She is always so damnably afire to charge into the fray. She likes to taunt the Devil, regardless of the consequences.”

Arianna felt her throat tighten.
Roaring? Ranting?
She had never seen Saybrook this angry.

Levering slowly to her stocking-clad feet—which were as cold as ice—she brushed a hank of hair from her cheek. “Forgive me for putting Miss Kirtland in danger,” she said stiffly. “You are right. It was thoughtless and selfish of me to drag
her
into harm’s way.”

Her husband’s dark lashes flicked uncertainly. “I—I did not mean to imply . . .”

She brushed past him, blinking back the sting of salt. Through the glimmer of tears, she saw Henning stumble into the clearing. “Basil, might I borrow your c-coat?” A watery sniff. “I was
reckless
enough to lose mine over the sea.”

“Auch, but of course, lassie.”

The heavy wool felt wonderfully warm as it enveloped her body. To her chagrin, her limbs were trembling. “I don’t suppose you have a flask of your Scottish malt. F-for medicinal purposes, of course.”

“There’s one in the carriage,” said the surgeon, putting his arm around her shoulders. “Come along, the road is not far.”

At least someone seems to appreciate my efforts.
Arianna tried to summon up a surge of righteous anger to bolster her spirits. But the earl’s accusations had hit a vulnerable spot.

He is right—I’m impetuous and loath to obey orders.

Was this fierce determination to assert her independence a sign of strength? Or merely petulant weakness? Aching in both body and mind, she felt her shoulders slump.

“Arianna.” Saybrook caught up with them, his stride hitched and awkward as he stumbled for words. “What . . . what happened to your boots?”

“Oh, Sadler and I decided to dance a wild Druid jig to the full moon,” she said sarcastically. “Impulsive, I know, but good Lord, we were having such fun.”

His mouth thinned. “You have misinterpreted—”

“Have I?” she challenged. “This isn’t the first time you have voiced dismay over my actions. Though in all fairness to me, you cannot claim that I ever hid my so-called impulsive nature from you.”

“Arianna . . .” Saybrook halted in confusion.

Henning stopped too. Clearing his throat with a cough, he slipped away, leaving her standing facing her husband.

Avoiding Saybrook’s eyes, she drew a deep breath. “Had I received a more ladylike upbringing, a more formal education, perhaps the rough edges of my personality would have been polished off,” she said tightly. “But I doubt it.”

“For God’s sake—”

“I’m sorry if you are disillusioned. However, I did warn you.”

Whatever he was going to say was cut off by the scuff of steps on the footpath. The others were now filing out of the clearing, led by Sadler, Sophia, and a still-scowling Grentham. Lawrance was also among the group, and after dispatching several men to guard the balloon, he called out a greeting.

Unwilling to continue such a painful, private scene with her husband in public, Arianna stalked away.

* * *

“Sláinte.”
Henning handed her his silver flask. “Drink, and that’s a physician’s orders. Ye need a wee bit of malt to warm yer innards.”

“Thank you.” The fiery whisky helped burn the ice in her belly, and as a pleasant warmth began to spread through her limbs, Arianna felt the tension start to melt.

Clack, clack, clack.
The reassuring rhythm of the carriage wheels rolling over the road was a welcome reminder that she was back on
terra firma
.

Ah, but if only my emotions felt more grounded.

Saybrook leaned down to tuck the blanket around her toes. Sophia and Lawrance had gone in the minister’s carriage, leaving the three of them to follow along. “Miss Kirtland told me a little of what happened today. As did Grentham—who, by the by, has a great deal of explaining to do before I blacken his deadlights.”

“If you don’t mind, Sandro, I’m too tired to continue fighting with you.” Squeezing her eyes shut, she added, “Can’t it wait until morning?” A yawn, admittedly exaggerated. “Or maybe afternoon.”

“We are not fighting,” he said softly.

“Ha! Sounds to me like a thumping big battle,” said Henning, “with all the artillery belching smoke and cannonballs.”

“Would you care to walk back to London?” growled the earl.

“Nay, I’m quite comfortable here, watching the display of pyrotechnics.”

Burrowing deeper into the surgeon’s coat, Arianna bit back a fleeting smile. Friendship was far easier to understand than other relationships.

A jolt over the rutted road quickly exacerbated her physical bumps and scrapes.
And her mental bruises?
Decisions, dilemmas. The earl was right—she was independent and resented any reining in of her actions. Had that been a threat to friends? Perhaps so. But war wasn’t easy. One had to make split-second judgments in the heat of battle.

I am not perfect—but neither is he.

He was wrong and unreasonable to chide her with her faults.
Ye gods, he has enough of them of his own.

And yet, Arianna felt her spirits deflate. She couldn’t help but see a contrast between herself and Sophia. Strangely enough, danger had made the earl’s lady friend appear to blossom rather than wilt. The scholarly Miss Kirtland looked . . . different. Confident. And the adventurous edge only accentuated her physical beauty. Perhaps it had been a quirk of starlight, or her own jostled wits, but it had seemed that Lawrance, as well as her husband, had kept sneaking sidelong looks at Sophia.

So, for that matter, had Grentham, but likely for a different reason. The minister was probably trying to think of how he could use her very private personal secrets to bully her into doing some onerous task for him.

He might be surprised, mused Arianna. She had a feeling that Sophia wouldn’t allow herself to be intimidated, despite her past scandal.

As to what would become of their tentative friendship remained to be seen. Like a seedling exposed to the natural elements, it was still at a vulnerable stage in its development, so it was uncertain whether it would blossom or merely wither on the vine.

Too exhausted, too confused to wrestle with the conundrums, Arianna closed her eyes, and this time her yawn was unfeigned. An instant later, she was slumped against her husband’s shoulder, the carriage wheels echoing her steady breathing as the conflicts of the day drifted far, far away.

* * *

“Arianna.” A gentle shake roused her from sleep. “Come, we are home.”

She blinked, needing a moment to clear the muzziness from her head. Although he was close, the weak flickers of lamplight left Saybrook’s dark eyes pooled in shadows. “Basil—” she began.

“Preferred to be dropped at his residence,” he replied. “It has been a long and grueling day for all concerned.”

His voice was also impossible to read.

“Mmmm.” Arianna looked away, feeling too vulnerable, too fragile to engage in any further discussion of her actions. For now, she simply wanted to slip under her eiderdown coverlet and sink back into oblivion. “Would that I could summon a small balloon to float me up to the bedchamber,” she murmured, hoping a note of wry humor would, for the moment, lighten the mood between them. “I’m not sure my legs will consent to carry me up the stairs.”

“No need to ask them. I shall assume that duty.”

Duty.
Ah. That did not bode well for the morning.

He gathered her in his arms, but then hesitated. His breath was warm yet strangely fluttery against her cheek. “Arianna, about earlier this evening,” he said tentatively. “I . . . I spoke in anger.”