Recipe for Treason (6 page)

In the pale, oily light, the slash of red across the man’s throat looked like a spill of claret wine. The garnet-colored liquid was quickly soaking into the white shirt points.

A gurgling rattle indicated that he was still alive.

“Is it Girton?” she asked.

Crouching down, Saybrook leaned close to the man’s fluttering lips. “Are you Girton?”

A feeble nod.

“Who did this to you?”

The professor’s face spasmed as he tried to speak. “R-r-r . . .”

Was he trying to say Renard?
wondered Arianna.

“R-royal . . .” A gasp. “In-inst . . .”

“Institution?” finished Saybrook.

Another nod.

“What’s there?” prodded the earl.

“D-d-danger.” The effort of speech brought a beading of blood to Girton’s lips.

“From whom?”

The man’s hand twitched against the floor.

“I think he’s trying to draw something,” said Arianna. She watched his finger trace three short strokes. “It looks like . . . a letter?”

Girton tried again.

“It might have been a ‘P,’” said Arianna tersely. “Or a symbol of some sort.”

“Girton.” Saybrook leaned in closer, his long, windblown hair grazing the man’s blood-soaked shirt. “Girton.”

The professor lay as still as stone.

Her husband felt for the pulse point at the base of the man’s jaw. “Damn,” he muttered, letting his fingers fall away.

“We must have missed the murderer by mere minutes,” said Arianna, staring down at the professor’s lifeless body.

“Yes, Renard seems to have an uncanny ability to stay one step ahead of us,” said the earl tightly. Wiping his hands on his coat, he began to search through the papers on the desk. “Let’s see if we can spot anything of interest before we go.”

“Are we going to summon the authorities?” she asked. “Or leave his colleagues to discover the body for themselves?”

“A good question. I’ll decide shortly.”

Leaving him to deal with the alcove, Arianna set to work in the main room. She made a methodical circuit of the outer counters, gathering every piece of paper that bore any writing.

I had better let Sandro and Basil decide what is important.

While even the most complex mathematical equations and theorems were child’s play to her, she found the simplest scientific formulas baffling.

On the main worktable, several half-filled beakers sat by a small gas burner. A brass microscope was close by. She hesitated, not daring to disturb anything. “Sandro,” she called. “Should we summon Basil? There’s something here that he might wish to examine.”

Her husband came out of the alcove and took a long look at the setup. “I’d rather not linger overlong here.” He glanced up at the storage shelves. “I’ll bottle the contents and seal them with beeswax.”

“Be careful,” she cautioned, stepping aside to allow him room to work.

“I dabbled in chemistry at Oxford, my dear,” he replied, donning a pair of leather gloves that were lying beside the burner. “I’ve a healthy respect for the fact that potions and powders can maim and kill.”

“But we are dealing with an unknown here,” she pointed out, “and have reason to fear that it may be a very volatile explosive.”

He leaned in cautiously and gave an experimental sniff. “Hmmph. Actually, there is no need to take it with us—one is simple sulfuric acid and the other nitric acid.”

“You are sure?” she asked.

“Quite.” He took a quick look through the microscope and seemed satisfied. “Yes, it’s a standard experiment, used to instruct students who are just beginning to study chemistry. Girton was, after all, a teacher in addition to whatever darker pursuits he was involved with.”

Arianna gazed at the crystalline powder in the glass vials and felt a shiver skate down her spine.

Eyeing the papers in her hand, Saybrook added an approving nod. “Well-done. Tuck them away inside your coat. I’ve found some things that may prove interesting as well. As soon as I fetch them—”

A gunshot suddenly rattled the windowpanes, followed by two more in quick succession.

“Bloody hell,” he swore. “That’s a Brown Bess—the standard military musket!”

“Basil!” Arianna snatched up her weapon from the table.

The earl raced back to the alcove to retrieve a folder of papers, then returned and grabbed her arm. “Hurry!”

Relying on speed, not stealth, Saybrook flew down the stairs. Rather than exit by the porter’s door, he turned and sprinted down the corridor until he came to a portal opening out to the seaside lawns. “We’ll skirt around the end tower and see if we can tell what is going on.”

Pressing close to the stones, they crept to the corner of the building.

“Good God.” Arianna drew in a hiss of air. The swath of grass was lit by a half dozen red-coated soldiers holding flaming torches. Another six, armed with muskets and fixed bayonets, had formed a line aimed at the porter’s entry. Several more men were standing guard over . . .

“Basil!” she cried, breaking away from their hiding place and running for where their friend lay motionless on the ground.

* * *

Cursing in Spanish, Saybrook hurried after her.

“I must ask you to step back, Mr. Castellano.” A black ripple stirred in the darkness, but as the figure stepped into the ring of torchlight, the flames lit the gold braid and medal adorning his scarlet tunic. “You are intruding on military business that does not concern you.”

“The devil it doesn’t,” he replied, brushing past Colonel Stoughton’s upraised arm without slowing a step. “You’ve just shot my colleague.”

“Indeed?” Stoughton’s face betrayed not a flicker of emotion. “Perhaps you would care to explain why he was skulking around the town with a firearm at this hour.”

The earl ignored the question. Dropping down beside Arianna, he placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “How bad is it?” he murmured.

Taking care not to look up, she replied in a low whisper. “A bullet to the shoulder. I think I’ve staunched the bleeding, but I can’t tell whether any bones are broken. It needs proper care as soon as possible.”

“The first order of treatment is a flask full of whisky,” rasped Henning. His voice was weak but steady.

“And you shall have it,” replied Saybrook. “Where shall we take you to be sewn up, Baz?”

A cough. “Murray. On Hope Street.”

“Make a stretcher with your coats and muskets,” he snapped at the soldiers. “And be bloody quick about it.”

“I’ll go along with them,” said Arianna. He saw that she had had the presence of mind to hide her weapon. “To ensure that he is settled safely there.”

Their eyes met for an instant. “Yes, a wise idea,” he said softly.

“You are not the one giving orders here, Mr. Castellano.” Stoughton approached with a leisurely stride.

“Call it a strong suggestion, Colonel,” said the earl, not looking up from his friend. “I am sure that you and your government would not wish for an innocent man to perish because of this unfortunate incident. It might provoke trouble.”

Stoughton hesitated for a half moment, then gave a brusque wave at his sergeant. “Take the man to the surgeon.” A pause. “Post a guard there to ensure there are no further mishaps.” To Saybrook, he added, “I shall, of course, wish to speak with your man in the morning.”

The earl rose and stepped away, allowing the soldiers to ready Henning for the short trip. After pressing the pad of cloth torn from Henning’s shirttails a little tighter to his wound, Arianna did the same, though she was careful to edge back out of the light. Her heavy cloak hid her shape, and she kept her head down so that the broad-brimmed hat blocked a view of her face.

They did not speak.

Henning remained stoically silent as the soldiers shifted him onto the makeshift stretcher. With a torchbearer leading the way, they trooped off into the night, Arianna at the surgeon’s side, her hand protectively on his wounded shoulder.

Saybrook waited until the skirl of smoky light melted into the fog before turning to the colonel. “If you wish to do something useful, you will send the rest of your men to the laboratory on the first floor of the far tower. There’s another body there to be carried away—though that one has no need for medical attention.”

A glimmer of gold flickered as the colonel smoothed the braided cuff of his glove. After a long moment, deliberately drawn out, he barked an order to his remaining men.

“Now, perhaps you would be kind enough to explain what you and you friends were doing here, Mr. Castellano,” said Stoughton, sarcasm shading the last few words.

“I think it’s you who owe an explanation for your presence,” countered the earl. “And for the fact that your men fired on an unidentified individual without provocation. Do you make a habit of shooting first and asking questions later? If so, it’s no wonder the Scots wish to throw off the yoke of English rule.”

“My, my, you sound as if you sympathize with the rabble,” sneered Stoughton. “Force is needed to keep these Highland brutes in order. London has sent me here to ensure there will be no trouble from the north, and I do what is necessary to see that they have no cause for complaint.”

“That doesn’t explain what you and your men were doing here tonight,” said Saybrook.

“We had word that there was a disturbance around the university.” His flash of teeth was clearly not meant to be a smile. “Given that it’s a hornet’s nest of sedition, it was my duty to investigate.”

“And yet, you are headquartered in Dundee. So unless the horses here in Scotland have sprouted wings, I fail to see how such news reached you—or how you were magically transported over such a distance.”

The colonel shifted his stance, the gilded
clink
of his sword punctuating the scuff of his boots on the grass. “As a matter of fact, it was merely fortuitous coincidence that I was already here in St. Andrews. You see, I was coming to personally inform you of some unfortunate news. It is not within my power to deliver the prisoner whose release you requested.”

“Then send to London for additional orders,” said the earl.

“Alas, that won’t help.” A glint of gold-flecked malice seemed to spark in the colonel’s eyes. “The fellow was shot dead while trying to escape.”

The only show of emotion from Saybrook was the tic of a tiny jaw muscle. He stood, still and silent as stone, for several moments before saying slowly, “Ill luck seems to strike people who cross your path.”

A careless shrug. “I would have thought that you, as a former officer, would understand that the best way to defeat one’s enemies is to give no quarter on the field of battle.”

“England is no longer at war, Stoughton.”

“Not technically, perhaps. But from what I have heard, the diplomats and royalty gathered in Vienna care more about drinking, dancing and trading mistresses than they do about forging alliances or reordering borders. How long do you think peace will reign in Europe?”

“It isn’t my duty to speculate on politics, either here or abroad. Nor is it yours,” replied Saybrook.

A wink of starlight hung on the colonel’s sandy lashes as he narrowed his eyes. “Quite right—my duty lies in keeping the powder keg that is Scotland from exploding. So it would be exceedingly helpful if you were to tell me why you wished to have a student revolutionary released.”

“Sorry, but if Grentham did not choose to enlighten you on that matter, then I see no reason to reveal the information.”

The colonel tapped his gloved palms together several times in succession, as if seeking to ward off a chill. “Ah, but the trouble is, when one hand does not know what the other hand is doing, it can result in dangerous misunderstandings. As you see from tonight, it really is in the best interests of you and your companions to keep me informed of what is going on.” The taps grew a little louder. “By the by, was that your wife hiding beneath the masculine attire of breeches and boots?”

“My wife?” answered the earl very deliberately. “Your eyes must be playing tricks on you.”

“If I were you, I would be very careful about how you—and she—go on here in St. Andrews. It’s easy for those who are strangers here to stray into trouble.”

“Thank you for the warning. My wife will certainly be on guard against any further mishaps. As will I.”

Stoughton set a hand on the pommel of his sword. “A wise move.” He paused. “Though I daresay you are making a foolish mistake not to share information with me. It always pays to have an ally when one is in enemy territory.”

“I work best alone,” replied the earl. “And as London entrusted me to handle this mission as I see fit, I shall continue to do so.” He fixed Stoughton with a level gaze. “If I change my mind, I shall let you know.”

“We’re a far way from the civilized streets of London,” said the colonel softly. “Horse Guards won’t be sending the Oxford Blues galloping to your rescue if things go awry.”

Saybrook’s laugh was hardly louder than the wind ruffling through the gorse. “As I said at our previous meeting, I am very good at looking out for myself.”

6

Fr
om Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks

Chocolate-Dipped Dates Stuffed with Spiced Nuts

36 salted roasted almonds

2 teaspoons finely grated orange peel

1 teaspoon honey

¹
/
₂
teaspoon ground cinnamon

¹
/
₄
teaspoon ground allspice

12 Medjool dates

³
/
₄
cup bittersweet chocolate chips

1. Toss 24 of the almonds, 1 teaspoon of the orange peel, the honey, and the spices in a small bowl.

2. Cut a slit in each date and remove the pit. Press 2 spice-coated almonds into each slit and enclose the nuts in the date.

3. Line a small baking sheet with foil. Melt the chocolate chips in a double boiler. Grasp the end of 1 stuffed date and dip three-quarters of it into the melted chocolate. Shake off excess chocolate. Place the date on the foil. Repeat with the remaining dates.

4. Sprinkle the remaining orange peel over the chocolate-dipped dates. Dip 1 plain almond halfway into the chocolate; place atop 1 date. Repeat with the remaining almonds and dates. Chill until the chocolate sets, 30 minutes.

A
t first the chill was just a tickle at the tips of her fingers, but with each passing word it crept stealthily downward, turning her hands to ice.

“Basil’s nephew is dead?” Arianna cupped the glass of whisky between her palms, wishing beyond reason that its fiery copper color could spark a note of hope in her voice. “Perhaps Colonel Stoughton is mistaken and Angus was just wounded.”

“Believe me, I pressed him for the details before taking my leave,” said Saybrook. “Granted, there is no body, for the lad was supposedly fleeing along the cliffs and fell into the sea when shot. But barring a miracle, Angus MacPhearson is buried in a grave, no matter that it is a watery one.” Her husband took a long swallow of the spirits. The guttering candles darkened the deep lines etched around his eyes, and his mouth pinched to a grim line. “Despite the Christmas season, I don’t see God giving us such a gift,” he added cynically.

“Oh, Lord,” she whispered. “Basil is going to take the news very hard. With his sister a widow, he considers it his responsibility to look after her and her family.” Arianna edged a bit closer to the hearth. Ever since crossing into Scotland, the cold had been a constant companion—it seemed to have seeped into her very marrow. “I . . . I can’t help but wonder whether we bear—”

“Don’t,” interrupted Saybrook roughly. “Don’t second-guess or let guilt gnaw at your innards. It does no good.”

Regrets. Recriminations.
Arianna had experienced enough of them on her own to know that his admonition made sense. But one’s heart did not always listen to one’s head.

“You may be right.” She set aside her glass and pressed her fingertips to her temples. A dull ache pulsed against her flesh.
Sorrow, anger, exhaustion.
And some nebulous thrum she couldn’t quite name. “And yet it doesn’t make things any easier to bear.”

“No,” agreed her husband. His eyes were opaque, shutting her out from whatever emotion was swirling beneath the chocolate-dark surface. His grief must be sharp. He and Henning had been close friends for some years.

A fact that reminded her of how little she and Saybrook really knew each other. Death had brought them together in the first place, reluctant allies with little choice but to help each other fight against a cunning enemy. Their marriage had been spurred by equally pragmatic reasons. And while the relationship had grown from regard and respect to something far deeper, there was much left unsaid between them.

Biting back a sigh, Arianna slanted another look at Saybrook’s brooding profile. At times it still felt as if the Grim Reaper were a silent, shadowy partner in their short marriage. A
ménage à trois,
she thought wryly, with murder and mayhem such a constant presence in their life that there had been little time to develop a conventional life together.

Not that either of us is remotely conventional.

Rubbing a hand to his stubbled jaw, the earl refilled his glass and drank it down in one swift swallow.

“What are you going to tell him?” Shaking off her own dark musings, her own niggling uncertainties, Arianna turned the talk to practical matters. Matters of the heart were an enigma, but they were both very good at solving practical conundrums.

“The truth,” replied her husband. “Baz deserves no less.”

“I agree,” she said. “And yet, somehow I suspect that the truth isn’t simple.”

“It never is.” The whisky had brought a strange glitter to his gaze. Or perhaps it was merely an optical illusion created by the flames as he picked up the candelabra and carried it to the side table.

“What is your impression of Stoughton? Do you think he is lying about Angus?”

Saybrook sat heavily in the armchair facing hers and tipped his head back to contemplate the ceiling. The chunks of burning peat in the fireplace gave off a smoky hiss, filling the small parlor with a pungent odor of burnt earth. “A difficult question. He could be simply an overzealous tyrant, whose position of authority has gone to his head. Power often brings out a latent streak of cruelty.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Or he could be acting on Grentham’s orders to double-cross us. Or he could . . .”

Her husband chuffed a harried sigh, his face looking gray with exhaustion in the hazy light. “Bloody hell, he could have his own nefarious reasons for what he did. At this point, it would be foolish to hazard a guess.”

“Perhaps we will find something in the papers we took from Girton’s laboratory that will give us a clue as to what is going on here in St. Andrews,” she said. Mention of the papers suddenly reminded her of the small journal she had fished out from the ashes of the murdered professor’s home hearth. With all the excitement, she had not yet had a chance to mention the discovery.

“It may be worthless, but just before we left Girton’s house, I found a half-burned book buried in the coals of the fire.” She shifted and felt the corner dig into her side.

Before she could take it from her pocket, Henning’s friend Murray came into the parlor. “I’ve removed the bullet and sewn up his shoulder. His body is beginning te look like a lady’s embroidery sampler, what with all the stitch marks te his hide. But I daresay he’ll survive.”

“Thank you,” said Saybrook. “I am sorry for drawing you into our troubles. I hope you shall not suffer any consequences for helping us.” He gestured toward the front entrance, where outside the door two soldiers were standing guard.

“Auch, it dunna matter. Basil is one of us, and we Scots look after our own.” Murray absently wiped his hands on his tweed pants, leaving a tiny trace of blood on the wool. “I’ve dosed him with laudanum, so he’ll sleep like a babe until morning. Best get some sleep yerselves.” His gaze lingered for an instant on Arianna’s breeches and boots, his face betraying a tiny tic of curiosity. But he looked away without comment.

“I’ll see my wife back to our lodgings and then return, if you don’t mind. I’d like to keep an eye on Baz, to make sure there are no further accidents.”

“No need. I plan te sleep in a chair by his side.” Murray took a pistol and a nasty-looking dirk from a wooden box tucked back on the bottom shelf of his malt cabinet. “And I won’t be alone. If the residents close by hear a shot, they will be out in a flash, and the Sassenach soldiers know there will be a riot in the street. So I think Basil will be safe enough for now.”

The earl nodded. “How long before he can travel?”

“At least a few days, and maybe more. The roads be rough this time of year, and I wuddna like te see the wound reopened.”

Saybrook thanked him again and led the way out into the night.

Wincing as a gust of cold air slapped against her cheeks, Arianna couldn’t decide which was worse—the prospect of staying in cold, cheerless Scotland or another interminable coach journey.

Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.

The Devil was proving to have a perverse sense of humor.

Once in their rooms, her husband went through the motions of splashing water on his face and undressing without a word, his normally graceful movements stiff and awkward. Despite his earlier chidings, she guessed that he blamed himself for the shooting of both Henning and his nephew. The weak light from a single taper played over his bare back, making his olive skin appear as dark as bronze. His body was beautiful, the lithe contours reminding her of the engravings she had seen of classical Greek gods.
Mythic warriors, epic heroes.

Yet tonight, his muscles were taut with tension. Arianna found herself longing to reach out and touch him. She lifted a tentative hand, wondering whether the press of flesh on flesh, heat on heat, would help dispel the knots.

But then he moved away, and she let the moment pass. When Saybrook retreated into himself, she wasn’t quite sure how to follow. The path appeared daunting—deeply shadowed, guarded by thorns, its footing made precarious by the shards of sharp-edged stone.

Rather like the roads here in Scotland,
she thought wryly. But then, her whole life had not been an easy journey. She was used to traversing treacherous stretches . . .

“Come to bed, Arianna.” Her husband slipped beneath the eiderdown coverlet. “It’s been a long, exhausting day, and we both need to keep up our strength.”

She blew out the candle and watched the ghostly wisp of smoke dissolve in the darkness. “Yes, I know. I’m coming.”

* * *

The page crackled, tingeing her fingers with soot. Shifting her chair closer to the window, Arianna picked up a book knife from the desk and gingerly turned another page.

“What secrets are you hiding?” she murmured, squinting at the spidery script through her magnifying glass.

Saybrook had gone to see Henning, saying that as the two of them had experienced death together on the battlefields, it was best for him to break the news about Angus MacPhearson alone. To keep herself distracted, she had decided to have a look at the half-burned journal.

“I wonder,” she continued, “was it Girton or his murderer who sought to turn you into ashes?”

Either way, she felt there was a good chance that the little book contained some vital clue that would help with their investigation.

“Or perhaps I’m merely grasping at swirls of Scottish mist,” added Arianna. So far, any tangible evidence had proved maddeningly elusive. Save for dead bodies, of course.

Frowning, she hunched closer in concentration, pencil and fresh paper close at hand for making notes. But after an hour of poring over the pages, her hopes of finding anything important began to fade. The writing seemed to be nothing but a daily log of mundane laboratory labors—microscope calibrations, notations on student performance, records of supplies used.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Arianna sat back and stirred at her now-cold cup of tea. Perhaps someone more skilled in scientific study would see more. Her own formal schooling was spotty at best. A smattering of literature, learned in her father’s lap on the rare nights when he wasn’t submerged in a sea of brandy, comprised her education in English. And mathematics. Her father had been a genius, and apparently his knack for numbers had been passed on to her. They had spent hours playing complex games with equations, and the concepts came naturally.

But as for normal feminine skills, there had been no governess to oversee instruction in deportment and embroidery, no masters to teach the rudiments of art, music or dancing. Her classroom had been the hardscrabble streets of the Caribbean harbors, her instructors the few trusted friends she had made along the way.

In contrast, Saybrook was an erudite scholar, an expert botanist, a connoisseur of the classics, an avid reader of science and philosophy who had studied at Oxford. He had then been offered a military commission to serve as one of Wellington’s intelligence officers for the war in Portugal and Spain because of his knowledge of the languages and customs.

Her grip tightened on the spoon as she recalled one of Grentham’s nasty comments, made during one of their confrontations. The revelation that her husband had regular meetings with a reclusive female scholar was meant to cause pain.

I wasn’t hurt—merely surprised,
mused Arianna. Saybrook hadn’t mentioned the arrangement. “Nor was he beholden to do so,” she muttered under her breath. “I was no dewy-eyed innocent, with girlish illusions of making a love match.” Theirs was a relationship of mutual respect and growing friendship. That was far more than most aristocratic couples had. As for the past, she and Saybrook had, by mutual consent, avoided discussing their private lives before their marriage. She assumed that he had taken lovers. He was rich, handsome, titled . . .

Forcing her thoughts back to the journal, Arianna carefully turned the page. But her mind kept wandering from the smoke-streaked paper. Was Saybrook regretting his impetuous offer, made to save her from bearing the brunt of Grentham’s retribution? Did he long for a wife who shared his bookish knowledge?