“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.”
A sweet memory—ah, but Oribe had been wise beyond words.
Shaking off the reverie, she added, “Considering your official duties, you have very strange interests, Mr. De Quincy.”
“True.” Saybrook’s mouth softened into a faint smile. “I inherited them from my late grandmother. Chocolate was her passion. She scoured the antiquities shops of Madrid and Barcelona, looking for manuscripts and diaries from the New World. She left me several notebooks filled with the recipes and legends she collected.”
“What a treat it would be to read them,” mused Arianna.
“Perhaps you’ll have a chance.” He made a wry face. “I have been working on translating them into English, with the hope of finding an interested publisher.”
“Unlikely,” she scoffed. “They are far more interested in horrid novels, with fainting heroines, talking swords, and dastardly villains.”
“Stranger things have happened,” he replied with an enigmatic look. His gaze lingered on her face, and then suddenly cut down to the chopping board, where she was slicing the beef into small pieces for the stew.
Arianna felt a strange prickling, like dagger points dancing down her spine.
Dangerous. Though she had hardened herself to emotion, she felt a clench of fear squeeze the air from her lungs. There was something deceptively dangerous about the man. She had the feeling that despite his mild manner he was ruthlessly probing her defenses, looking to deliver the coup de grâce.
She closed her eyes for an instant, trying to master her momentary weakness. But when she opened them, she saw that Saybrook had taken up one of her paring knives and was testing the edge of its blade against his thumb.
“Could I convince you to give me the recipe for your chocolate wafers?” he asked.
“Non.” Arianna edged a step into the shadows. “I don’t share my secrets, sir.”
Perhaps it was merely a quirk of light, but Saybrook’s lidded gaze seemed to sharpen. “Is there a reason you work in such darkness, monsieur?” he asked abruptly. “I would have thought that a man so conscious of detail as you are would prefer a brighter room.”
A serving spoon clattered to the floor. “I—I worked aboard ships, and have become used to it.”
He suddenly shifted the knife to his other hand. And then—
And then it cut through the air, a quicksilver streak against the gloom.
Dear God, the man was mad!
“Monsieur!” Arianna tried to parry the blow, but Saybrook, anticipating the move, slid his blade up and under her guard. The sharp point sliced through her linen smock and sunk smack into the middle of her belly.
“Ummph!” Her jaw went slack as she stared down at the quivering steel.
He drew in a sharp breath and held absolutely still, watching, waiting . . .
Slowly, a snowy white feather spilled from the slash, then another.
Saybrook jerked the knife free and with a quick flick of his wrist knocked the toque from her head. A slice severed the ribbon tied around the tightly wound mass of curls.
Recovering from her initial shock, Arianna let fly with a dockyard curse. “You bloody bastard,” she added, sliding hard to her left. Lifting her own weapon in a quick feint, she whipped it down in an angry arc.
Saybrook pivoted just in the nick of time, causing the blade to brush over his trousers.
Damn the man. Arianna used a few more moves from her arsenal of filthy tricks, yet he managed to elude the stabs aimed at his injured leg. She was good with a knife. But so was he.
A flurry of wild slashes drove him back several steps. Steel rang against steel as he parried her blows. Regaining his balance, he countered with a series of probing jabs. He handled his weapon with expert ease—it was clear that he wasn’t trying to draw blood, merely to disarm her. Which somehow made her temper flare. Did he think he could toy with her, simply because she was a woman?
Steady, steady. Reminding herself that fighting a mano a mano battle was foolhardy, she edged closer to the curtained window. Saybrook shifted his stance to match her movement, opening up an angle to an iron-banded door, a tradesmen’s entrance, set to the left of the mullioned glass.
Arianna drew a quick breath and darted forward.
With a spinning lunge, he moved to block her path. His boot came up, lashing a well-aimed kick that buckled her knee. As she stumbled, he flicked a chop with the flat of his hand, sending her weapon flying across the room.
“Damn you to hell!” she spat out, rubbing at her bruised leg and then at her wrist. Dropping the French accent, she added a perfectly irate English curse.
“I’ve been there and back,” replied Saybrook calmly, watching a few more downy fluffs seep from the gaping wound in her padded middle. “But be assured, mademoiselle, that I’m not going anywhere until I get some answers from you. And nor are you.”
She shot him a daggered look.
“No need to stare like that. I’m well aware that you would like to cut out my liver and make it into pâté. However, having left a small chunk of myself on the battlefields of Spain, I would prefer to keep the rest of my body intact.”
“I—I was not really trying to hurt you,” she muttered. “I was simply—”
“Trying to escape,” he finished for her. “I don’t really blame you for trying. But I cannot permit that to happen.”
She looked away, expelling a sigh. “How did you know?”
“Like you, I try to be observant, and pay attention to the small details. You are good—very good—but there are certain subtle ways in which a woman is different from a man.”
Her mouth formed a mocking curl. “How very clever of you to have noticed, Mr. De Quincy.”
“Your hands, for one thing,” he went on pleasantly, ignoring her sarcasm. “By the by, how did you learn the art of disguise?”
“I had a friend in a theater troupe in Barbados. It seemed a useful skill to know.” She hugged her arms to her chest. “Though binding your breasts is cursedly uncomfortable. So is walking around with a wool stocking stuffed in your crotch.”
“I shall take your word for it,” replied Saybrook dryly.
She twitched a grudging smile. “You are a very odd man, Mr. De Quincy.”
“That is rather the pot calling the kettle black, Miss . . . or is it Missus?”
“Miss.” Her chin rose a fraction. “Smith.”
“Smith,” repeated Saybrook. “Ah, I should have guessed.”
She merely shrugged. “Speaking of taking my word, sir, I’ll have you know that I had nothing to do with poisoning the Prince Regent.”
“I hope, for your sake, that is true.” Reaching over with his knife, he speared a morsel of chocolate from the worktable and lifted the blade to his lips. “It would be a great pity if your sweet secrets went with you to the grave.”
“I know it looks rather suspicious, sir, but I can explain my masquerade,” said Arianna. “However, it has no relevance to your investigation. . . .” She paused.
“I’m afraid I must judge that for myself,” responded Saybrook.