Sweet Revenge (30 page)

“I
trust there is a damn good reason for dragging me out here.” Saybrook turned up the collar of his coat to the cold, clammy breeze. “I had only a few hours of sleep last night and spent most of the day haring over the city, tracking down several leads.”

His boot made a small sucking sound as the earl shifted his stance in the mud. “So if this proves to be a wild-goose chase, I shall not be pleased.”

“No rest for the wicked, eh?” quipped Henning. He edged to the corner of the warehouse wall and peered into the gloom. Fog was drifting in from the inky waters of the East India docks, the thick swirls of vapor heavy with the grit of salt and soot. Rising up from the sea of silver, the rigging of the tall ships rocked back and forth against the scudding clouds, looking like a tangled web woven by some giant rum-drunk spider.

“You mean to say that you would rather be at Almack’s than the Isle of Dogs?” added the surgeon.

“Not at all—dancing through the muck with you is far more fun that waltzing with an heiress,” said the earl dryly.

“We must wait another five minutes,” murmured Henning, after a quick look at his pocket watch. “Then move quickly. But based on what I heard from my friend, you won’t be disappointed.

“You’ve more tentacles than an octopus, Baz. I hadn’t realized that your reach extended to the merchant fleets.”

“Illness and poverty are everywhere,” replied the surgeon dourly. “People are anxious to repay my help as best they can.” Hugging close to the shadows, he leaned his back to the wall. “The curare got me curious about recent shipments from the New World, so I asked around. And sure enough, a recently arrived sailor confided to my contact that his captain had been strangely secretive about the unloading of their cargo. A special crew of stevedores had been hired to work under the cover of darkness, rather than during the day. And the crew was paid off early, and replaced with a cadre of private guards. Tough-looking men who were strangers to the docks.”

The earl gave a noncommittal grunt.

“We’re in luck that there’s no moon,” murmured the surgeon over the low gurgle of the ebbing tide. “We turn left once we cross through the loading area. The warehouse we want is the third one on the south side.”

“What about watchmen?” asked Saybrook.

“The one guarding that section has been asked to ignore any activity he might notice for the next hour. But we still must be careful not to be spotted by any of the other patrols.” He pressed a finger to his lips and then signaled for the earl to follow.

Moving stealthily through the shadows, they traversed the narrow passageways.

“This is the one.” Henning stopped by a recessed door set within the blackened brick. He felt along the iron bands reinforcing the rough-cut oak until his hands encountered the hasp and padlock. Metal rasped against metal for just a moment. “Quick, get inside.”

He pulled the portal shut behind him. “Go ahead and light the lantern.”

Saybrook struck a lucifer and set it to the wick. After adjusting the metal shutters, he angled the beam around the cluttered room.

“This is the back office. The storage area is through there.” Henning indicated another door. “My source says there aren’t any important papers kept here, but if you wish, we can have a look. Our time, however, is limited. The watch changes in an hour, and we must be gone by then.”

“Let’s have a look at the cargo first,” said the earl. “That is the reason we are here, isn’t it?”

“Correct.” Henning ventured a quick peek into the darkness, and then added, “Stop sounding so peeved, laddie. I had expected more gratitude for my cleverness.”

“Sorry, but the only thing I’d give thanks for at the moment is a night of uninterrupted sleep.” Saybrook ran a hand over his bristled jaw. “On second thought, I shall shower you with several cases of your favorite malt if this turns out to be worth the trip.”

“I shall send my request to yer agent at Berry Brothers and Rudd first thing in the morning,” shot back the surgeon. A grunt sounded as his boot hit upon a metal object. “Shine the light over here.”

The oily glow pooled over a small chest. A padlock secured the hasp, but the earl drew a thin, flexible length of steel from his pocket and within moments the mechanism released with a soft
snick
.

“I see ye haven’t lost yer touch from our times with the partisans.”

“My skills are a bit rusty,” said Saybrook. “But it’s all beginning to come back to me.” Throwing open the lid, he pulled out several burlap bags. “Dried leaves,” he murmured, handing a sprig to Henning. A sniff was followed by a tentative nibble. “
Erythroxylum coca
.”

“Aye,” corroborated the surgeon after taking a taste. “A favorite stimulant of the ancient Aztec armies.”

“As was chocolate,” murmured the earl. He opened one of the canisters at the bottom of the chest, revealing a quantity of snow-white powder.

“Careful, laddie,” warned Henning as the earl inhaled a small pinch. “That’s a potent drug, assuming it’s what I think it is.”

The earl passed him the container. After a tentative taste, the surgeon nodded. “Lumley and I did some experiments in his laboratory at Oxford, distilling the coca plant’s essence.” He refastened the lid and placed the powder back in the trunk. “When reduced to a crystallized form and ground into a fine powder, it has a powerful effect on the senses, stimulating a rush of energy and euphoria.”

“You speak from experience?”

“A scientist must have empirical knowledge,” replied Henning. “So aye, I tried it.” He thought for a moment. “Interesting. I’ve heard rumors of a new elixir being offered within certain circles of the aristocracy. A special pleasure drug, an elixir called the Devil’s Delight. It costs a fortune for a small vial, but there are many willing to pay the price.”

“Interesting,” echoed the earl. He dropped to his knees and began examining the contents of the canvas sack next to the chest. “Speaking of chocolate . . . There are several bales of cacao beans here, and they appear to be rare
criollas
of the highest quality, rather than the common
trinitario
variety.” There was a rustling as he edged the lantern along the planking. “Along with dried vanilla pods and what looks to be a half dozen crates of silver bullion.”

Henning made a face. “An odd assortment. Granted, all the items are valuable, but it’s not as if there is enough of any one thing to make the long voyage worthwhile.” He picked his way along a line of assorted barrels and boxes, poking and prodding at the deeply shadowed shapes. Beyond the weak pool of light, the darkness was impenetrable. “Perhaps they are simply a sample. A taste to whet the appetite.”

Wood scraped against wood as the earl shifted a stack of crates. “Did your contact say where the ship picked up this cargo?”

“There were three ports of call. Veracruz, Portobelo, and Cartagena.”

“Which were all main points of embarkation for the old Spanish treasure fleets,” mused Saybrook.

The surgeon ran his hand over a cloth sack, stirring up a swirl of spicy sweetness. “So, we have merchandise coming from the New World, all of it with the potential to be highly profitable.”

“But none of it in enough quantity to justify the cost or hazards of a long journey,” added the earl.

“Not yet, not yet. But I tell you, this new Devil’s Delight is already turning an obscene profit. The canister we just found will go a long way to paying the expenses of the voyage.”

Silence, save the sudden scurrying of a rat among the burlap bales.

Saybrook tucked the sprig of coca into his pocket and sat back on his haunches. “Who owns the ship?”

Henning cracked his knuckles. “I’m working on that.”

“Well, spread your tentacles even wider, Baz. We need to know the names of those involved.”

“The pieces of the puzzle seem to be coming together, eh?” mused the surgeon. “Kellton was murdered with curare, a New World poison, and here we’ve just discovered evidence of an enterprise worth killing for. Then we have Concord, whom we know to have been involved in dirty dealings in the past.” He pursed his lips. “Like Lady Arianna’s father, Kellton must have become a threat to the operation, and so they eliminated him.”

“Perhaps. But I’m not as certain as you are.” Dusting his hands, Saybrook rose and squeezed his way through the bales to another row of crates. “As of yet, the pieces are still too damn amorphous to show any pattern, or any way they interlock.”

“Auch, we’re getting close, laddie. I feel it in my bones,” muttered Henning.

The earl swore as his knee banged up against a brass urn.

“And ye know damn well how my intuition saved our skin on several occasions in—”

A grunt cut short the surgeon’s point.

“Well, well, well.” Saybrook had dropped to a crouch and was shifting a burlap sack. “Come see what we have here, Baz.”

 

Arianna set aside the book she had been reading and rose from her chair. From across the room, her bed beckoned, a sumptuous stretch of quilted satin and down-filled pillows that were whispering a Siren song.

“Tempting,” she muttered. But instead she sought a spot by the bank of diamond-paned windows.

Think!
she cajoled, forcing herself to review all the complex financial data she had been studying for the last few hours.

Her two footmen had been dispatched that morning, one to Hatchard’s bookstore and one to Lady Sterling’s residence, with orders to buy or borrow all books related to the South Sea Bubble. Despite her denial to the earl and his great-aunt, the name was painfully familiar. When drunk, her father had often extolled—albeit with a slur of envy—the cleverness of men who could create value out of thin air.

Value.
Like most words, its definition seemed to depend on what tongue gave it voice.

A glance back at the stack of gold-stamped spines heightened the feeling that somewhere buried among all the mind-numbing array of facts and statistics lay some vital key to unlocking the current mystery.

“But what it is, I haven’t a clue.” Pressing her fingertips to her temples, Arianna paused and squeezed her eyes shut.

Mathematics was all about logic, order, precision. . . .

Perhaps she
did
have a clue. In any case, it was the only tangible thing she had to go on.

Fetching the paper that Saybrook had left, along with the documents taken from Lady Spencer’s desk, Arianna spread them all out on her escritoire and smoothed out a fresh sheet of foolscap.
Patterns, my dear poppet.
Her father’s brandy-warm laugh echoed through the deepest recesses of her head.
Numbers are supremely simple to understand if you know how to speak their language.

“What are you trying to tell me?” she murmured, ordering the old and new papers from the folder into two neat piles. In between the piles she placed the single sheet of paper that the earl had discovered. It bore a list of numerical sequences, each line made up of three sets of pairs, separated by dashes.

“What is it that I am missing?”

The papers sat in taunting silence.

Taking up her pencil, she made yet another copy of the age-worn mathematical equations, then leaned back and studied the sequences.

Patterns, patterns, patterns
. For all his weaknesses in seeing the repetitive themes in his own life, her father was a genius at understanding the core concepts of mathematics. Numbers, like letters, told a story, he always said.

Losing herself in the abstract challenge of making order out of chaos, Arianna tried not to think of the reality of what he had done. In some ways, perhaps a part of her vehemence for vengeance had stemmed from a fear that he was guilty of some crime. Perhaps a part of her secretly believed that such efforts could somehow atone for his wrongs.

A gust of wind rattled the window casement and a chill finger of air seemed to squeeze at her throat.

The pencil point dug into the paper, tearing a tiny rip.

“Damn.” She was about to ball up the sheet in disgust when a certain section caught her eye. Leaning closer, she gave them a more careful study.

Patterns. Logic,
repeated Arianna, giving yet another glance at the three sets of papers. What was the connection? They must be related—

Good God, how could she have overlooked the obvious until now? Seeing as Lady Spencer’s grandfather was connected to the South Sea stock manipulation, it was logical to assume that the old papers in the folder were his. And if that were the case, the modern papers might be . . .

Her heart began to thump a touch faster.

Sliding a fresh piece of paper across the polished wood, Arianna scribbled out a series of equations.