The dowager opened the package and gingerly picked up a buttery brown cube dusted with cocoa powder. “Pray, what is it?”
“Chocolate. Go ahead—taste it.”
Her brows rose a notch higher. “My dear boy, I wasn’t born yesterday. If you wish to play puerile pranks on someone, please poison someone younger. My constitution is far too delicate to survive a mouthful of mud.”
Saybrook laughed. “What fustian! You are hearty as a horse. And given your fondness for confections, you will be missing a rare treat if you refuse to be adventurous.”
After a long look, she gave an experimental nibble. “Mmmm.” The rest of the morsel disappeared in a flash and the purr turned into a sigh. “Edible chocolate! Lud, how divine. Is this something you discovered in your grandmother’s journals?”
“The journals hold a number of fascinating secrets,” he replied obliquely. “But speaking of stories . . .”
Lady Sterling popped another piece of chocolate into her mouth. “Very well, now that you have sweetened me up, you may go ahead and tell me the real reason for your visit.”
“I am hoping that your memory is as sharp as your sense of humor, Aunt Constantina. For I need help in unearthing some information from the past.” The earl shifted his outstretched leg. “You have always kept au courant with the gossip in Town. Do you recall an old scandal in which a gentleman of the ton was forced to emigrate to the West Indies?”
“More than a few,” she replied dryly. “Jamaica and Barbados have long been popular spots for disposing of wayward sons. Can you be more specific?”
Saybrook made a face. “Not really. I would say we are talking about something that happened between ten and fifteen years ago, but that’s merely a guess. The only thing I know for sure is that the gentleman involved had a young daughter who accompanied him to the islands.”
“Hmmm.” Looking pensive, the dowager fingered the rope of pearls resting at her bodice. “Why do you want to know?”
“I would rather you didn’t ask.”
“A romantic interest?” she pressed, looking hopeful.
He shook his head. “Sorry to disappoint you but it’s nothing personal. I’m merely interested in solving a mystery, and if I could put a name to my conjecture, it would be extremely . . . useful.”
“Let me think about it for a bit.” A sigh, almost imperceptible, fluttered between them. “I can also pay a call on Lady Octavia Marquand. When it comes to peccadilloes of the peerage, she puts even my knowledge to blush.”
“A frightening thought,” observed Saybrook. He waited for the maid to place the tea tray on the table and leave the room before going on. “In all seriousness, Aunt Constantina, you must be absolutely discreet about making any inquiries. Not a soul must guess that you are trying to uncover information on a member of the ton.”
Light winked off her spectacles. “Does this have anything to do with your military activities in the Peninsula?” She leaned forward. “Are you still a spy?”
“I’m simply an invalid, with far too much idle time on my hands,” he replied.
A wisp of steam floated up as she filled two cups. “And pigs have suddenly sprouted wings and can fly rings around the moon.”
“Can they?” he replied without batting an eye. “Then perhaps the War Office ought to think of forming an aerial brigade to bombard Bonaparte’s army as they march east. God knows, the Russian tsar could use some help from Above to keep the French from invading his country.”
The dowager emitted a low snort. “A clever try, but diversionary tactics won’t work on me, dear boy.” She wagged a finger. “For heaven’s sake, Sandro, I am very good at keeping a secret.”
“If I didn’t believe that, I wouldn’t be here,” he said quietly. “However, the less you know, the better.”
“You mean to say it might be dangerous?” she demanded.
He stirred a lump of sugar into his tea. “Yes. So you must be very careful. God knows, I’ve enough on my conscience without drawing you into harm’s way. But time is of the essence, so I must set aside my personal scruples.”
“Don’t worry about me, Sandro. I’ve a lifetime of experience in navigating through the shoals and crosscurrents of the ton,” replied Lady Sterling. “I’m more concerned about you. The waters can be very treacherous for those who are unfamiliar with the shifting tides and hidden whirlpools.”
“I’m a strong swimmer, Aunt Constantina.”
“So are the sharks, Sandro. And they are quick to scent even a single drop of blood in the water.”
“The warning is duly noted. Be assured that I will take great care to preserve what little I have left.”
“See that you do.” After a pointed look at his leg, she set down her beverage untasted. “Come back this evening. By that time I should have some answers for you.”
Arianna opened the pasteboard folder that she had taken from Lady Spencer’s desk and studied the topmost page. Then, pulling out a fresh sheet of paper from the escritoire drawer, she copied the equations and began working through their permutations.
Her father had loved the magic of mathematics, saying that it represented the essence of the universe. For him, numbers were gods.
Or devils. She sighed. No, it was only humans who embodied them with positive or negative forces. In and of themselves, they were purely functional, though to her, their limitless possibilities for combinations and complexities held a certain abstract beauty.
Looking back at her calculations, Arianna tapped the pencil to her chin. There was something familiar about the sequences, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
Tap, tap, tap.
However, further calculations would have to wait. A discreet knocking reminded her of an appointment with a modiste in Bond Street.
“Yes, I must swathe myself in fancy silks and satins,” she muttered, reluctantly returning the papers to their hiding place. “For I’ve a far more pressing challenge to meet than the task of solving a mathematical conundrum.”
“Here is the dossier you requested, milord.”
Grentham made no move to open the folder. “And what, pray tell, ought I know about its contents, Jenkins?”
The young man cleared his throat. “Mr. Henning served as an army surgeon with the Third Regiment of Dragoons under Wellington in the Peninsula—as did Lord Saybrook. He resigned at the same time as the earl sold his commission on account of his injury, and both men returned to London on the same transport vessel.” The shuffling of feet was muted by the thick Turkey carpet. “As for earlier background, Henning’s father is an apothecary in Edinburgh, and is known for his outspoken views on social reform. His mother works at a local orphanage teaching the children to read and write.”
“So we have a Scot who was suckled on idealism instead of whisky.” A mirthless smile curled at the corners of Grentham’s mouth. “Go on.”
Jenkins rattled off a few more facts about the man’s military service before moving on. “At present, Henning resides in a modest set of rooms at number six Queen Street and runs a clinic for wounded war veterans.”
“Finances?” asked Grentham.
“Precarious at best, sir.”
The minister squared the folder with the edge of his tooled blotter. “Any private patients?”
“One,” replied the young man. “He seems to be Lord Saybrook’s personal physician.”
“Now why does that not surprise me?”
Jenkins did not venture an answer.
Rising, the minister moved to where a massive gilt-framed map of the city hung against the dark wood paneling. After studying a small section of snaking streets, he turned around. “Has Crandall’s family claimed the body?”
“Y-yes, milord. Several days ago.”
“Arrange for Peterson to have a look at it. I should like to have a second opinion.”
“But, sir, the burial is scheduled for tomorrow in the family plot in Colchester.”