Andrea Penrose - Sweet Revenge

“No amanita mushrooms?” he said softly.

The reference to the deadly poisonous species took her aback. Good God, did the man actually have a sense of humor?

Arianna grunted in reply. “Zees may be a joke to you, sir, but it eez my reputation at stake.”

“Not to speak of your life.”

She felt herself blanch, but remained silent.

Perching a hip on the stool, Saybrook watched her scoop up a handful of the vegetables and begin trimming off the tops. “You have the hands of an artist, Monsieur Alphonse,” he remarked, shifting his gaze to the heavy steel blades and graters arrayed around him and then back again. “One would not expect those fine-boned fingers to wield the tools of your trade with quite so much skill.”

Her throat seized and Arianna didn’t dare try to speak, fearing a feminine squeak would give her away. At this distance, the darkness of his eyes appeared due to the telltale dilation of his pupils—Mr. De Quincy clearly imbibed a goodly amount of laudanum to ease his pain. But apparently the drug had not dulled the sharpness of his wits.

She must not make the mistake of underestimating him. She had made too many errors already.

Willing herself to remain calm, Arianna took up a butcher’s knife. Chop, chop, chop. The familiar rhythm steadied her nerves, and in a matter of seconds, the carrots were reduced to a pile of uniform slices.

“If Prinny had been gutted and quartered instead of poisoned, you would be an even more obvious suspect,” he added conversationally.

“Does that mean that you have come to arrest me for attempted murder?” she demanded.

Instead of answering, he asked, “Have you always been interested in cooking?”

She lifted her shoulders. “From an early age I had to learn how to fend for myself, and at times I had to be creative in order to keep from starving. I discovered that I had a knack for working with food, and I find it interesting.” A sweep of the blade pushed the vegetable aside. “But you—you look like one of zose monkish men who subsist on bread and water—and ze thrill of hunting down dangerous criminals and eliminating them from society.”

“I’ve been recovering from an injury,” he answered brusquely.

Had she touched a sore spot? If so, Mr. De Quincy was quick to cover his discomfort. “As it happens,” he went on calmly, “I do have an interest in cuisine. And from what I have heard, you are very good at what you do.”

Another shrug.

“Did you learn your art in France? I am trying to place your accent. . . .”

“ Non , in ze islands of the Caribbean,” she growled. A head of garlic, finely diced, joined the carrots in a large copper pot. “Martinique, Guadeloupe, St. Barthelemy. Then I drifted to Jamaica for a time.” Arianna reached for a bowl of small white onions. “Do you require references?” she added with a sarcastic laugh.

“Not at present,” replied Saybrook politely. “So, what brought you to London?”

“I was bored and wished to expand my horizons.”

His dark brow notched up a fraction.

“Zhis is a city of great wealth and opportunity,” she went on. “People hunger for fine things, and I saw a chance to profit from it.”

“A very pragmatic assessment, Monsieur Alphonse,” murmured Saybrook.

“Unlike you fancy Ingleeze gentlemen, I did not grow up in a cosseted world of pampered privilege. I had to survive on my own wits, so yes, I am pragmatic. Is zat a crime in this country?”

“Not that I am aware of.” Saybrook shifted slightly, and Arianna guessed that he was trying to ease the pressure on his injured leg. “What makes you think I am a gentleman?”

“Your coat is tailored by Weston. He only caters to a wealthy, titled clientele.”

“You have a discerning eye, Monsieur Alphonse.”

“Cooking requires one to pay attention to the small details.”

Saybrook remained silent as he watched her pluck a bouquet of fresh herbs from the overhanging rack and methodically mince a handful of the leaves.

“Rosemary.” Saybrook sniffed the air. “As well as thyme and savory.”

She looked up in surprise.

“I spent time in my grandmother’s kitchen when I was a boy.”

“You are an odd agent of the government—a member of the upper class who chooses to get his hands dirty”—the chopping grew louder—“with desperate criminals, like moi .”

“Perhaps, like you, I am bored,” said Saybrook pleasantly. “By the by, are you a desperate criminal?”

“Ha! You don’t care about ze answer.” She flashed him a sardonic smile. “All you and your government care about is making an arrest. Voilà —the problem is solved, and be damned with the inconvenience of ze truth. N’est pas?”

Saybrook turned slightly, a pensive look shading his profile . The window draperies were drawn almost shut, and in the low light, shadows danced over the taut skin and harsh bones. The air was growing heavy with the warmth of the simmering pots on the stove, and Arianna saw a beading of sweat break out on his forehead.

Hell, what madness had possessed Whitehall to send a cadaver to confront her? Or was the government playing some diabolical game with her? Perhaps in some hideous twist of logic they had poisoned the man in order to confront her with her own supposed crime. . . .

Don’t panic , she told herself. The idea was insane . . . and yet, the man looked on the verge of dropping dead on the spot. Which would only lay another sin at her feet.

“Are you ill, sir?”

His lids flew open.

“You look pale. Here, have a morsel of my chocolate.” Arianna shoved a plate toward him. “It works wonders at reviving both body and spirit—assuming you are brave enough to try it.” A bitter laugh. “But of course, I may simply be seeking yet another victim for my poison.”

“Thank you.” Saybrook took a small chunk of the nut-brown confection. “I confess, I have been very curious to sample chocolate in an edible form. The Aztecs issued wafers of solid chocolate to their soldiers on long marches. It was believed to increase stamina.”

“How—how is it that an Ingleeze gentleman knows about such things?” asked Arianna. She was usually very good about reading a person’s strengths and weaknesses. But Mr. De Quincy was proving difficult to decipher. He was too . . . unpredictable. A strange mix of odd angles and unexpected contrasts. Now that she had had a chance to study him more closely, she saw that his eyes were not as black as she had first supposed. They were more of a toffee-gold amber, sparking the unsettling feeling of being trapped like a fly in their depths.

Arianna shifted uncomfortably, angry at herself for letting him put her off balance.

“Most men of your rank are indolent idlers, interested in nothing but superficial pleasures.”

“Perhaps I am not quite what I seem.” Placing the morsel of chocolate in his mouth, Saybrook let it dissolve on his tongue. “How interesting. You’ve flavored the cacao with vanilla, sugar, cinnamon, and a touch of nutmeg.”

An agent from Whitehall with an expertise in cooking? She ducked her head, trying to mask her confusion by peeling away the greased wrapping from a slab of beef.

“I recently came across an old Spanish recipe for a similar combination,” continued Saybrook. “However, I have not yet had a chance to try it.”

Arianna knew she shouldn’t bite, but curiosity overcame caution. “A recipe?” she echoed. “For chocolate?”

The crackling of the wrapping paper faded as her ears filled with a far more soothing sound.

“Cooking is a metaphor for life, ma petite . You must be bold, and use your imagination,” whispered her old cook’s voice. In her mind’s eye she could see gnarled brown hands spinning the molinillo faster and faster to froth the steaming milk and cacao. “Never cease to be curious. Never be afraid to experiment. That is the recipe for feeling alive.”