“Then you had better move quickly. Otherwise you will be needing to dig up a crew of resurrection men to accompany Peterson.”
“Yes, milord.” His face turning pale as death, the young man scuttled for the door.
“And Jenkins . . .”
“Sir!”
“I want the information that I requested on the East India board of governors on my desk within the hour.”
Jenkins bobbed a nod and disappeared before any other order could be issued.
His place was taken by a red-coated officer, who snapped to attention and saluted. “Lord Saybrook is here, milord.”
“You may dispense with the parade ground theatrics, Colonel Saunders,” growled Grentham. “Send him in.”
The earl entered a few moments later and without invitation seated himself in the chair facing the minister’s desk. That Grentham was still standing by the map seemed to make no impression.
“Seeing as you have made yourself comfortable, dare I hope that you have a lengthy report to make on how you have solved the case?” asked Grentham with exquisite politeness.
“Alas, no,” replied Saybrook with equal formality.
The minister waited for further explanation, but Saybrook appeared engrossed in polishing a speck of dirt from the silver knob of his cane. Fixing the earl with a critical eye, he slowly circled around to his desk. “Perhaps your social engagements have distracted you from the assignment.” His gaze lingered on the earl’s face, which no longer looked like a death mask. The sharp-edged gauntness had softened and a touch of color had replaced the earlier stone-cold pallor. However, the improvements only seemed to elicit further sarcasm. “You seem to have regained an appetite for frivolous pleasure.”
“Family obligations occasionally require that I appear in Society. If you are referring to Lady Wolcott’s introduction into London Society, be assured that the duty did not interfere with my investigation.”
“No?” Grentham lifted a well-groomed brow. “Then there must be some other compelling reason why you have made no progress in finding the Prince’s poisoner.”
“I didn’t say that I had made no progress,” murmured the earl. “You of all people ought not jump to conclusions, milord.”
Grentham sucked in a silent breath. He took a moment to shift a folder from a desk drawer to the top of the stack on his blotter before replying, “The government is growing hungry for results, Lord Saybrook. And I am loath to keep serving up the same old excuses.”
“I am well aware that my own head will end up on a platter if I fail,” said the earl.
“That will be after your ballocks are fried in Spanish olive oil and offered to the cabinet ministers as amuse-bouches.”
“I suggest that you season them with Andalusian rosemary and a sprinkling of Mediterranean sea salt. Otherwise they will taste a trifle bland.”
Grentham thinned his lips. “You think it amusing to cross verbal swords with me? Be assured, it’s no laughing matter—”
A knock on the door interrupted him.
“Yes, what is it, Jenkins?” called the minister.
“Sorry, milord, but you asked me to alert you as soon as the document for the Swedish minister was ready for your signature.”
“Excuse me for a moment.” Pivoting on his heel, Grentham left the room.
Saybrook shifted, then rose and flipped open the top folder on the desk. He quickly skimmed through several papers before closing the cover and returning it to the exact position as before.
Taking his seat, the earl resumed his position of studied nonchalance.
A moment later, Grentham came through the half-opened door and drew it shut behind him.
“Now, where were we, Lord Saybrook?”
“Discussing what spices to use on my ballocks when you serve them to the Prime Minister. However, I have been thinking—perhaps he would prefer them stewed, not fried.”
“Let us not mince words,” said Grentham slowly. “You may not care about having your already suspect reputation cut to shreds . . .” He paused for just a fraction. “But what of your half sister? Or, rather, your bastard sister, though the lovely young lady currently residing at Mrs. Martin’s Academy for Ladies in Shropshire is registered as the legitimate offspring of some fictitious Spanish count—a highborn relative from the Spanish side of your family, rather than your father’s by-blow.”
Saybrook’s grip tightened on the shaft of his cane.
The minister did not miss the subtle gesture and a glint of malice sparked in his eyes. “Oh, yes, I know all about that, Lord Saybrook. Did you really think your private family peccadilloes would escape my notice?” Tracing a finger along the slim blade of his letter opener, he added, “Fifteen is an age of hope and dreams for a girl, is it not? The daughter of a Spanish noble, especially one with a family connection to the high and mighty Earl of Saybrook, can look forward to making a splendid match, and living a life of privilege here in England.” The pause was perfectly timed. “But then again, the slightest stain on her name would ruin any hope of acceptance into the ton.”
The earl’s expression didn’t alter. “Harm her in any way and you are a dead man,” he said conversationally.
“You are in no position to be making threats,” replied Grentham.
“Nor are you,” countered Saybrook. “A good many people might be very curious to know more about the recent activities of dear, departed Major Crandall.”
Grentham went very still.
“He was, after all, your senior military aide, and as such, your wish was his command.”
“I confess that I, too, am very curious to hear where you are going with this.”
“At the moment, I’m not far enough along on the trail to make an announcement on where it leads. However, I promise that you will be the first to know when I get there.”
“I’m afraid you have lost me, Lord Saybrook.”
“You—who know every twist and turn, every cesspool and hellhole in London?” A smile ghosted over Saybrook’s lips. “I think not. Indeed, I’d be willing to wager you could find your way blindfolded through the scum and the dung, no matter how deep.”
“How very poetic.” Grentham perched a hip on the corner of his desk. “But unlike you, I do not possess an artistic temperament. I prefer practical, pragmatic speech. So if you have an accusation to make, please do so.”
“An accusation? Oh, I’m not quite as clumsy as you seem to think.” Saybrook rose, and suddenly the slender length of ebony was a blur of black as it cut a series of feints through the air. “Swords—verbal or otherwise—are something I’m quite familiar with. A soldier never really loses touch with the art of war.”
The silver ferrule stopped a scant half inch from Grentham’s throat.
“You, no doubt, prefer a more cerebral weapon,” continued the earl softly. “But there is a certain primitive pleasure in the feel of steel in your hand.”
The minister slowly pushed the point away. “As you say, primitive. There are far less sweaty ways of destroying an enemy.”
“Yet nothing is quite so supremely satisfying as going mano a mano with an opponent,” replied Saybrook.
“Swordplay to rescue a damsel in distress? You’ve read too many romantic tales, Lord Saybrook,” mocked Grentham. “Noble heroes are naught but a dribble of ink on paper.”
“Then consider me a spawn of Satan. For if you ever threaten my sister again I shall follow you to the hottest hole in hell and slice off your cods,” said the earl. “And then ram them down your gullet, uncooked and unspiced.”
Grentham flicked a mote of dust from his lapel. “Would that you could show this much zeal in pursuing the fugitive chef.”
Saybrook tucked the cane under his arm and walked to the door unaided. “I think we both know there are bigger fish to fry.”
. . . I’ve found yet another reference from the early 1600s, recounting an incident when English privateers stopped a Spanish galleon loaded with cacao. This time, they didn’t burn the cargo, but dumped it into the ocean, once again thinking the beans were sheep turds! Oh, how I shall tease Sandro with this nugget of information—really, the Inglieze have no appreciation of fine food and wine. . . .