Recipe for Treason (21 page)

She raised her chin. “So do we have a deal?”

A heartbeat passed, and then another, the thrum of her blood tickling against her ribs.

“Very well,” he said softly. He looped the reins of the two horses over a branch. “I trust you won’t make me regret it.”

* * *

Saybrook marched through the door a half step ahead of the minister’s secretary.

“Milord, I did try—” began the harried young man.

“You may leave us, Jenkins,” said the minister, cutting off the apology. “Close the door behind you.”

“I take it that ‘urgent’ means your messenger has arrived back from Middlesbrough?” said Saybrook once they were alone.

“No.” As the earl started to protest, Grentham raised a hand. “His information doesn’t matter anymore,” he explained coolly. “I’ve just obtained a new whole set of revelations which should finally allow us to run the clever fox to ground.”

“And how did you suddenly obtain them?” asked the earl, a touch of skepticism shading his voice. He gestured at an ancient Greek urn set on the bookshelf. “Did the Oracle of Delphi suddenly decide to grant our wish for answers in this case?”

“I haven’t been talking with mythical seers or prophets,” replied Grentham a little smugly. “I have just come from a private chat with Colonel Stoughton, who decided to tell me a story—a rather long story—in return for a reprieve from the hangman’s noose.”

Saybrook took a seat in the proffered chair. “I’m listening.”

“I shall, however, endeavor to keep it short. To begin with, it was Stoughton who arranged the ambush on you as you traveled to Scotland, but not for the reasons we suspected. He’s been running a highly profitable business stealing naval supplies that land at Inverness harbor from Scandinavia, and then reselling them to the fleet at Middlesbrough for an obscene profit. His partner in the scheme is Lord Mather.”

“Who works here in your department,” mused Saybrook.

“Yes. He’s privy to naval movements in the Baltic, and used that information to target the convoys carrying costly goods. With Stoughton in charge of the military, it was an easy matter to arrange the theft of materials.”

The earl tapped his fingertips together.

“I had been suspicious of Mather for a while but unsure what he was up to,” went on Grentham. “So I included him in the secret meeting about sending you North. It was he who passed your name to Stoughton.”

“And yet I can’t help but wonder—why bother attacking me? I wasn’t going to Scotland to investigate military corruption. The odds were quite good that I’d not stumble on their scheme.”

A sour smile appeared on the minister’s face. “Two reasons. Firstly, I was deliberately vague on the reasons why I was dispatching an investigator to Scotland. They couldn’t afford to take a chance that you weren’t already alerted to their misdeeds.” He rose and went to stand in front of the mullioned windows. Backlit by the silvery winter light, his profile was dark. Impossible to read.

“But more importantly, they couldn’t afford to have Mr. Henning’s nephew go free from the prison,” he went on. “You see, Stoughton uses the inmates as slave labor to repackage the stolen goods and move them to various warehouses around the Highlands. Even if you weren’t aware of the scheme, Stoughton knew that the young man would ruin everything by telling what he had seen.”

“Bloody hell,” muttered Saybrook. “What a cursed coincidence. So Angus MacPhearson’s death had nothing to do with Renard.”

“Actually, that’s not precisely true,” said Grentham.

“Ah.” The earl grimaced. “I should know better than to think anything is clear-cut when
you
are involved.”

The minister ignored the barb. “Stoughton arrested men as a favor to his cousin, Lord Reginald Sommers. He knew something sinister was afoot, but he was happy to take money for his favors and not ask questions. He’s admitted to arranging several executions and kidnappings for his cousin. However, he swears that he knew nothing about a conspiracy to betray the country. For him, Renard was simply the code name of Lord Reginald’s associate in London.”

“You believe him?” asked Saybrook.

“Let’s just say, my men in the Horse Guards interrogation rooms are quite persuasive.”

“Be that as it may, I have several questions of my own to ask of Stoughton,” replied the earl. “Let me talk to him as well.”

“I’m afraid the colonel is in no condition to receive visitors,” said the minister.

Silence shrouded the room, as if mirroring the dark, rain-thick mist that had suddenly swirled up against the windowpanes.

“How did you finally unmask him?” asked Saybrook, after thinking over what he had heard. “Stoughton must have done something to give himself away.”

Grentham moved away from the window, an odd expression tightening his features. He picked up a pen from his blotter and inspected the nib, as if looking to find a carefully worded reply engraved on the steel. “I can’t tell you that. I’m sworn to secrecy,” he finally growled. Tossing the pen aside, he gave an impatient wave. “The informer’s identity isn’t important. What matters is that on account of his dealings with Lord Reginald, Stoughton was blackmailed by Renard into arranging the abduction of Cayley, who was taken two days ago from the outpost near Middlesbrough.”

Saybrook swore. “Is he still alive?”

“According to Stoughton, the answer is yes. He says there is no plan to kill Cayley. On the contrary, the inventor is being held captive at an abandoned watchtower near Dover and the plan is to take him to France, though Stoughton claims not to know when or how.”

The earl shot to his feet. “Then we haven’t a moment to lose. I take it you have the exact location of the place.”

Grentham pulled a piece of paper from his document case. “The directions are written down here.”

“I don’t suppose you were able to extract any other details about Renard or how Stoughton contacted him.”

Grentham shook his head. “All messages between them were passed through a system of blind drops. Our fox has been very careful to cover his tracks, but even the most canny creature cannot run forever without making a stumble. This time, I trust we are finally close—close enough to snap our teeth shut on his traitorous tail.”

The tic of a tiny muscle tightened Saybrook’s jaw. Shifting his stance, he asked, “Have you a map of the area where Cayley is being held?”

The minister handed over a leather portfolio of large-scale military sketches. “One last thing,” he said as the earl flipped open the covers. “Mather is not the only member of my department that I’ve been watching. One of the troubling aspects of this investigation is the fact that at times it feels like we are dealing with two different enemies.”

“You’ve just explained why,” cut in the earl.

“Perhaps, but I’m not yet totally satisfied that it answers for all the anomalies. So I placed a bit of bait out at a meeting I had with the man several days ago—a hint that Mr. Brynn-Smith had requested a meeting with me over concerns of suspicious activity at the Royal Institution.”

“Damnation.” The earl looked up. “Why the Devil didn’t you tell me this before now?”

The minister’s face might have been carved of marble for all the emotion it showed. “Because, Lord Saybrook, like you, I don’t care to share all of my methods or thoughts with others.” He brushed a mote of dust from his immaculate sleeve. “Suffice it to say, I’m pursuing the matter. Interestingly enough, the man in question has a mistress . . . I’m not yet ready to reveal any conjectures, but it may prove relevant.”

“You and your prurient speculations,” muttered Saybrook. “I will leave the peeping into bedchambers to you, while I deal with Cayley.” After poring over the details of the map, the earl tapped a finger to a stretch of woodlands edging the cliffs. “As a precaution, I want you to dispatch a force of your men to take up position here. They are to stay well hidden along this ridge and wait for my signal to move in.”

“I’ll give you twenty-four hours, Saybrook,” said Grentham after eyeing the mantel clock. “After that, I can’t risk the chance of having Renard spirit Cayley away. The orders will be to storm the ruins.”

“No matter who gets caught in the cross fire?”

“Cayley cannot—I repeat,
cannot
—be allowed to fall into the hands of the French. When you returned from Vienna, you blistered my ear with a wild story about Napoleon planning to escape Elba and retake his throne. If that is true, well, use your imagination . . .”

“Fair enough,” agreed Saybrook after a long moment.

“Do you wish to have Lawrance accompany you? Or some of my most skilled operatives? I have men who are experts with knives and hand-to-hand combat.”

“I’ll take Henning with me,” he replied. “We are used to working together, and I plan on depending on stealth, not force, to free Cayley.”

“Always the altruist,” sneered Grentham.

The earl tucked the map and directions into his coat pocket. “Unlike you, I take no pleasure in crawling through the cesspools and muck of the espionage world.”

“Mock me all you want,” countered the minister as Saybrook turned for the door. “But for all your noble speeches and squeamish sentimentalities, we are more alike than you think.”

20

From
Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks

Chocolate Nut Chews

1
¹
/
₂
cups sugar

¹
/
₄
cup cocoa

¹
/
₂
cup evaporated milk

¹
/
₃
cup butter

¹
/
₃
cup peanut butter

1 teaspoon vanilla

1
¹
/
₂
cups quick rolled oats

¹
/
₂
cup salted peanuts

1. Mix the sugar, cocoa, milk and butter in a heavy 2-quart saucepan. Stir over medium heat until the mixture bubbles. Boil and stir 2 minutes more. Remove from the heat.

2. Stir in the peanut butter until melted. Add the vanilla, uncooked quick rolled oats, and nuts. With 2 teaspoons, drop on waxed paper. Let stand until set.

U
ncurling the cat’s tail from the around the crystal decanter, Arianna poured a measure of sherry and carried it to the sofa. “Drink this,” she ordered, placing the glass in Sophia’s hands, “while I dispatch a servant to fetch Mr. Henning from his surgery.”

“There is really no need for that,” protested Sophia. “I have a well-stocked medicine chest. A sprinkling of basilicum powder and a clean bandage is all that is required . . . and you seem as skilled as any medical man in treating wounds.” She took a swallow of the wine. “Not to mention the fact that Mr. Henning might feel morally obligated to tell the earl.”

“Basil’s scruples are a trifle flexible on certain things, but you have a point,” conceded Arianna. “Slip off your jacket and let me have a better look at you before I decide.”

The chest was brought in, along with a basin of hot water, and for the next few minutes, Arianna worked in methodical silence, cleaning bits of dirt and dried blood from the jagged cut. “The blade didn’t cut in too deeply,” she announced, setting aside the sponge and tweezers. Rising, she made another quick trip to the sideboard.

“I would prefer to keep a clear head,” murmured Sophia, eyeing the bottle in Arianna’s hands. “Besides, I
hate
brandy.”

“Grit your teeth. A splash of spirits is good for warding off infection.”

A sharp hiss leaked from Sophia’s lips as the brandy doused the raw flesh, but other than that, she remained stoically silent as a bandage was fastened into place.

“Well-done, Miss Kirtland—”

“Oh please, won’t you call me Sophia?” Smoothing at the torn edges of her chemise, she gave a tentative smile. “Considering all we’ve been through together in the last little while, it seems rather absurd to stand on formality.”

“I would be happy to.” In England, calling someone by her given name was a mark of intimate friendship. “But only if you will do the same.”

“Agreed . . . Arianna.”

“Finish your sherry, and then I imagine you will wish to change into some fresh clothing and lie down for a nap—”

“Be damned with a nap,” swore Sophia. “We need to have a council of war. Stoughton is a filthy swine, especially when it comes to women, but I don’t think he would be stupid enough to risk attacking us for purely personal reasons. He
must
be involved with Renard. So while Grentham goes after him, we must figure out how to pursue the Fox.”

“The scent has been maddeningly hard to pick up,” said Arianna. “Even Saybrook and Lawrance feel that despite all their sniffing, the trail remains elusive.”

“Surely we can be clever enough to think of new ground to cover,” insisted Sophia.

“I confess, I have tried, but at this point I feel a little lost as to which way to turn.”

Talk of the hunt seemed to have brought a touch of color back to Sophia’s cheeks. Raising herself from the pillows, she flexed her shoulder and reached for her discarded riding jacket. “Well, then, we have to retrace our steps and look more closely . . .”

Her words stopped abruptly.

“What is it?” asked Arianna.

“I—I’m not sure.” Frowning, Sophia extracted a small object snagged in the fold of the woolen cuff. “How odd,” she murmured, leaning in for a closer look at it. “It must have caught on the metal button when I was punching at Stoughton’s gut.” A wink of gold. “Hmmm, it’s a fob of some sort . . . I wouldn’t have thought the colonel had any interest in the classics, but this is written in Greek.”

“Greek?” repeated Arianna. She felt a sudden spark of excitement flare to life.

“Lumos,”
translated Sophia. “That means ‘lamp.’”

“And a lamp gives light.” She felt a burning in her chest. “May I see that, if you please?”

Sophia handed it over.

The red flash of the ruby confirmed her suspicions. “Lady Urania and Canaday wear identical designs.”

Their gazes met. “The Bright Lights,” whispered Sophia, echoing the whirring of Arianna’s own mental gears.

“It seems a logical deduction,” she agreed. “Though there still are a number of shadowy questions to answer.” A flicker of the candles, stirred by the cat’s movement on the sideboard, suddenly set off a thought. “
Dio Madre,
just last night, Saybrook was telling me the Greek myth about how man received the gift of fire.”

“The story of Prometheus is a core tale—”

“Theus!” exclaimed Arianna. “Good God, do you know the viscount’s full given name?”

“No,” answered Sophia. “But I’ve a copy of
Debrett’s Peerage
in the library.”

A quick check of the book revealed the sought-for entry halfway down page ninety-two—

PROMETHEUS PERICLES MORTLEY, VISCOUNT CANADAY, OF OXFORDSHIRE . . .

“Eureka,”
intoned Sophia, staring at the black-and-white image for a long moment. “Now what?”

“This certainly changes everything.” Arianna thought for a moment. “Get dressed quickly. We need to hurry to Grosvenor Square. Saybrook may still be at home.”

* * *

The earl nearly collided with Henning as he darted inside the entrance to the surgery.

“Sandro!” His friend shifted the leather rucksack from hand to hand. “I was just going out for a bit.”

“So I see.” Saybrook thinned his lips. The butt of a pistol was poking out from beneath the buckled flaps. “Baz . . . ,” he said tightly. “I speak as a friend, not as a lackey of Whitehall, when I say you are—”

“Indulging in the Scottish penchant for holding a grudge?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way.”

“Auch, neither would I.”

The earl let out a harried sigh. “Look, Baz, I’ve some important news to tell you.”

But before he could go on, Henning countered with a humorless laugh. “As do I, laddie. I was just on my way out to collect one last piece of evidence from a friend who arrived late last night from Inverness. And then I was coming to see you.”

“Me?” Saybrook’s voice held a note of surprise. “I had the distinct feeling you had been doing your best to avoid me of late.”

“I didna want to tell you what I was doing, for fear that you would think my wits addled by grief. I wanted to have proof, and now I’ve got it. Proof that the high-and-mighty Stoughton has been running a thieving ring for several years. A treasonous one, for stealing supplies from the navy hampers the war effort and is considered a crime against King and country. He’s murdered other prisoners, not just Angus, and this will ensure that he pays for those crimes.”

Saybrook opened his mouth to speak.

“Nay, hear me out. I’ve documents and sworn statements, and incriminating letters in the colonel’s own hand. Ye might have thought I was deaf to yer counsel that justice is the best form of revenge, but I was listening. I dunna have to pull a trigger to put a period to the smarmy weasel’s existence. This packet of proof ”—he gave the rucksack a little shake—“will have the government do it for me, all right and tight.”

“I know, Baz. Grentham arrested Stoughton this morning and convinced him to confess to his misdeeds.”

It was Henning’s turn to evince surprise. “Well, I’ll be a blue-faced Pict. How did he come to suspect the colonel?”

“The minister wouldn’t tell me,” answered the earl with a wry grimace. “He said he had made a promise.”

“To the Devil, no doubt.”

“I don’t know whether Grentham is on intimate speaking terms with Lucifer, but he certainly had a lengthy discourse with Stoughton. Or rather his inquisitors did. Never fear, justice will be served.” Saybrook paused. “In addition we also now know that Cayley has been abducted, by order of Renard, and is being held near Dover while they arrange to have him smuggled over to France.”

“Merde,”
muttered Henning. “Any idea precisely where?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Saybrook cocked a nod at the sack. “I’m glad to see you are carrying a firearm, for I was hoping to enlist your help in freeing Cayley. The minister has granted me twenty-four hours to do it. After that, he will send in an armed force to ensure that no one makes the trip across the Channel to France.”

“This pistol is part of my proof,” said the surgeon, pulling a face. “It bears the crest of the Swedish Royal Armory and was meant as a gift for the Admiral of the North Sea Fleet stationed at Middlesbrough. Stoughton kept it and was foolish enough to have his own initials engraved on the silver cap.”

“Let us put it to better use,” replied the earl. “Assuming you are willing, there is no time to waste.”

“Give me several minutes to exchange these papers for my knives, laddie, and then let’s be off.”

* * *

“Gone?”
said Sophia. “Gone where?”

“Sandro doesn’t say.” Arianna reread the hastily scribbled note. “He just writes that Grentham seized Stoughton and discovered that Cayley has been abducted and is in danger of being taken to France. He’s rushed off to find Mr. Henning and see if the two of them can rescue the inventor.”

Sophia bit at her lower lip. “Surely we must tell someone.”

“Tell them what?” she responded. “I’ve seen how the wheels of bureaucracy turn—with a leaden slowness that often crushes what is in its path.” Pacing to the parlor window, she stared out at the scudding gray clouds. “Renard
will move quickly once he—or she—knows about Stoughton. But the question is, what will he do?”

A patter of raindrops tapped against the leaded glass, the watery blur catching the reflection of Sophia’s grimace. “Well, we can’t very well stroll into Canaday’s drawing room and politely ask him and his sister what their little group of conspirators is intending to do.”

The casement creaked in the gusty breeze.

Arianna turned slowly, a smile taking shape at the corners of her mouth. “Actually, that’s exactly what we are going to do.”

“I—I was jesting!”

“But I was not.” She hurried to one of the breakfront cabinets and pulled open the bottom drawer. “We are indeed going to pay the twins a visit, but it won’t be a purely social call. However, for my plan to work, you are going to have to be willing to play a dangerous game.”

“Just tell me what I have to do.”

“Simply be yourself,” answered Arianna. “I want you to pay a morning call on the Mortleys and keep them occupied while I sneak in through the rear of the house and have a look around their private quarters.”

“But—”

“Follow me to my dressing room. I’ll explain as I change into more comfortable clothing.”

Sophia watched the rapid transformation from elegant lady to tattered street urchin in wordless wonder. “How do you do that?” she finally asked as Arianna tucked her coiled hair under a floppy wool cap.

“Through years of practice.” She flexed her knees. “Breeches and boots are much more practical for movement than yards of flapping fabrics.”

Peering into one of the open bandboxes, Sophia let out a wistful sigh. “I used to borrow breeches from our youngest groom so I could ride astride. It was very . . . liberating.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” Arianna slid a slim-bladed knife and several picklocks into the hidden sheath of her boot. “I think men are desperate to keep it a secret from our sex. Allowing such physical freedom might encourage us to shed our mental corsets as well. And that has them quaking in their Hessians!”

Sophia smiled as she fingered the napped wool.

Eyeing her companion’s figure, Arianna quickly picked out a full set of men’s clothing and rolled the garments into a tight bundle. “Better take these with us, just in case things take an unexpected turn.”

As they hurried out to the mews, where a carriage was being readied, she explained what she had in mind.

“Once we’re close to Canaday’s town house, we’ll leave the carriage on a side street and proceed on foot. You will march right up to the front steps and knock on the door, as befits a perfectly ordinary social call, while I will get into the back garden from the alleyway and find a window or door to force open.”

She gestured for Sophia to climb into the small, shabby cabriolet. “As you see, we keep several nondescript vehicles for moving around Town unnoticed.”

“Wh-what if you’re caught?” asked Sophia.

“I won’t be,” assured Arianna. “I’m very good at moving around quickly and quietly. And if worse comes to worst, I daresay I can outrun any servant.”