Andrea Penrose - The Cocoa Conspiracy

“I can’t help but wonder, Sandro . . .” Arianna could no longer keep from asking a question that had been bothering her for some time. “Mr. Henning makes a good point. If Grentham is not a traitor, the depth of his enmity is hard to fathom. Granted, we did not allow him to control us during the previous investigation, but in the end, we saved him from a great deal of public embarrassment.”

The alteration of Saybrook’s face was almost imperceptible. His expression didn’t change—it simply hardened just enough to appear as if it were carved out of stone.

Ignoring the oblique warning to retreat, she pressed on. “Is there a reason I don’t know about as to why the two of you dislike each other so intensely?”

“Yes,” he replied curtly.

Arianna waited for him to go on.

“But at the moment, I don’t care to discuss it. The details aren’t really relevant.”

His refusal hurt more than she cared to admit.

“Far more important are the questions concerning Charles and the incriminating documents.”

“If the decision of how to deal with the damn papers were mine, I know what I would do,” said Henning.

Metal rasped against metal as a gust of wind swung the lanthorn in her hand.

“Like Lady S, I’d be tempted to fight fire with fire, and turn them into ashes.” The surgeon slanted a challenging look at Saybrook. “But then, my morals have always been a trifle more flexible than yours.”

“And if they aren’t a trap?” asked the earl.

“Auch, well, then I suppose the trouble is very real,” conceded Henning.

“Trouble,” repeated Arianna.

Saybrook appeared to be staring at some far-off spot on the heathered moors. His brow suddenly creased, and with a muttered oath, he turned abruptly, gravel crunching under his boots. “I must return to our rooms. I’ve just had an idea.”

Arianna took yet another turn around the perimeter of the sitting room, taking great care to step as lightly as she could in order not to wake Henning, who was dozing on the sofa. Rain drummed against the windowpanes, echoing her inner turmoil. Truth and lies. Henning’s cynical suggestions concerning their present predicament had stirred her own imagination to life. A pelter of possible explanations were spinning inside her head—none of them good.

Did I push Grentham over the edge?

Guilt nibbled at the edges of her consciousness. In the past, her temper and her tongue hadn’t been cause for concern. She had been willing to suffer the consequences of her actions. But now, her decisions were no longer so simple. Like a stone striking water, they sent waves rippling out far from the original point of impact.

Which stirred an even more unsettling ripple in her head.

Had marriage been an impetuous mistake? The thought had been niggling at her for some time now. Having experienced the unfettered freedom of a vagabond nobody, she would never be entirely happy living within the gilded cage of aristocratic London. But she couldn’t simply unlatch the door and fly away. She had obligations. Commitments. Responsibilities.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

Looking away from the gloom outside the glass, Arianna stared at the closed door of her husband’s bedchamber. Not that Saybrook had any taste for the superficial glitter and glamour of Polite Society. He too seemed happier in his own private world.

A growl of thunder rumbled over the distant moors.

“Eh?” Henning opened an eye. “Did ye say something, Lady S?”

“The storm seems to be gathering force,” she murmured. “I shall send down a request for a room to be made up for you tonight. I’ll not have you traveling in such nasty weather.”

The surgeon rubbed at his bristly chin. “I fear the atmosphere here may become even nastier.”

She heaved a sigh. “You think I should have destroyed the documents?”

He shook his head. “Auch, let’s not piss in that pot, lassie.”

“Aye, hold your water, everyone.” Saybrook emerged from his room and padded across the carpet, a sheaf of papers in his hands.

“Any luck?” asked Henning.

“Aye,” replied the earl with grim satisfaction. “Luck, Chance, Fate—whatever you wish to call the fickle force, it has worked in our favor today.”

In spite of her misgivings, Arianna felt a spark of excitement. “You mean to say you actually deciphered the code?”

“Aye,” he repeated. “As I told you, intuition plays a key role in the process. Baz’s discovery of the military tattoo and his mention of the Grenadiers at Salamanca got me to thinking. It seemed worth a try to test some of the basic ciphers used by Soult’s forces during the last campaigns of the Peninsular War. I figured that a French operative would be familiar with that system, and likely to adopt it for his own use. After all, he had to train others, and coming up with a whole new system is no easy task.”

“Clever lad.” Henning swung his legs off the sofa, making room for the earl and Arianna.

“Unfortunately, cleverness is a two-edged sword.” Saybrook sat down and dragged the tea table around for his papers. He spread them out, then traced a finger over the lines of jumbled lettering. “The encrypted message indicates that the person responsible for stealing the government document from my uncle’s files is the young man he has been mentoring for the past several years.”

Arianna felt her throat tighten. “David Kydd? The young man from Scotland?”

He nodded.

“But he seems so . . .”

“Incapable of betrayal?” suggested Saybrook grimly.

She stared down at her hands, recalling her encounters with the young diplomat at several of Mellon’s soirees. Unlike many of the junior members of the Foreign Ministry, who seemed to think that being bland and boring was a virtue, Kydd had not been afraid to express his individuality. He was earnest, intelligent, articulate, and yet possessed a sly sense of humor. Character and conviction . No wonder he had been the only person she had actually enjoyed conversing with during the long and tedious evenings.

“To me, he appeared to be a man of lofty principles,” Arianna finally answered. “His ideas and enthusiasms were interesting. And I got the impression that he admired Charles very much.”

“Appearances can be deceiving,” said Saybrook, echoing one of Henning’s favorite sayings.

The surgeon grimaced. “You took the words right out of my mouth.”

“Merde,” muttered Arianna.

“You too.”

Saybrook quirked a humorless smile. “It is indeed a cesspool, and a foul one at that.” Just as quickly, his expression tightened. “For along with passing on the details of Mellon’s activities, Kydd also included a brief update on a meeting he had with a coconspirator. It says”—the earl picked up one of his note papers and read—“ ‘ Met with R and all is going according to schedule. I’ve been appointed to the English delegation and our contact in Sx is also in place. Expect me in V by October. By the last week in November, the Deux will be dead. It will happen by the Night. ’ ”

He let the paper drop back onto the table, as if unwilling to soil his hand with it a moment longer than was necessary.

“R for Renard?” Arianna asked.

Her husband shrugged. “As we said before, it’s possible. But we ought to be careful about making such an assumption.” He looked at Henning. “Baz might say Grentham is merely being extra diabolical in eliminating my uncle’s protégé.”

The surgeon made a face. Shifting on the sofa, he shoved his hands in his pockets, then took them out again. “Aye. It’s possible,” he grumbled, fiddling with the coin he had picked up earlier. “It’s . . .” His voice stopped abruptly as he stared at the markings on the coin. “Bloody hell.”