Arianna let out a low laugh as she looked up from Dona Maria’s journal. The earl’s Spanish grandmother had a deliciously sly sense of humor. No wonder his expression betrayed a hint of sadness when he spoke of her. From her writings, it was obvious that the contessa had been a remarkable lady.
Setting the book aside, she loosened the sash of her silk wrapper. It was late, and yet her nerves were still wound tight. She had spent the evening at a staid musicale, with card games and a midnight supper following the program of Italian opera arias. The singers had been mediocre, the punch weak, and the conversation boring. However, Mellon had insisted that she attend several respectable parties to establish some sort of credibility in Society.
But tomorrow night . . .
She rose and went to stand by the windows. The patter of a passing shower echoed against the panes. Pressing her palms to the glass, Arianna drew a deep breath and let the dampness seep through her skin. The chill took the edge off the frisson of fire twisting in her belly. The idea of getting close to Concord had her feeling both hot and cold. So near and yet so far. She had dreamed of revenge for so long. Yet now that it was in reach, her emotions were hard to untangle.
One step at a time, she told herself.
One step at a time.
Turning away, Arianna moved to the chest of drawers, where her newly purchased accessories lay neatly folded on lavender-scented paper. Lacey corsets, silk stockings, lawn cotton shifts soft and sheer as a dappling of sunlight. . . . Lud, she had never possessed such frilly, feminine things. They were luxuries, far too costly for a vagabond on the run.
Her fingers lingered on a curl of satin ribbon, its softness teasing against the callused tips. Then, swearing under her breath, Arianna thrust them beneath the pile of new clothing and found several of her old male garments. Pulling out the canvas smock, she fished a small pouch from a hidden pocket in the seam and carried it over to the bed.
A square of pale ivory paper and wink of fire-tinged gold fluttered in the candlelight as she shook the contents onto the counterpane. Picking up the medallion first, she held it closer to the light in order to study the engraving. She hadn’t taken the time to scrutinize the items taken from Lady Spencer’s desk drawers, but now that she was to meet with Concord, she couldn’t afford to overlook any clue that might help bring her father’s murderer to justice.
For it had been a premeditated murder, and not some random robbery. On that she was willing to bet her life.
Forcing her focus back from the past to the present, Arianna squinted at the curling script phrase on the medallion.
Fay çe que vouldras.
Her brow furrowed as she mentally translated the French into English.
Do as you please.
Unsure what to make of the words, Arianna replaced the medallion and the list back in the pouch and unfolded the letter. The message here was less cryptic. Lady Spencer had another paramour who was unhappy about her liaison with the Prince Regent. Did all of this—the murderous attacks, the violent death, the government panic—boil down to a simple matter of sex?
She tucked the paper away and put the pouch back in its hiding place. The earl ought to be told about the contents of the letter. It would save him from running in circles, chasing phantom conspirators. This was most likely not about international politics, but a personal grudge against a Prince who couldn’t keep his pizzle inside his breeches.
However, sharing the information wasn’t to her advantage.
Arianna looked around the elegant room and gave a sardonic grimace. Saybrook’s goal was to end the investigation as soon as possible, while her role was simply to serve as a pawn—a pawn in a ruthless game where she was expendable. That he would not hesitate for a heartbeat to sacrifice her was a fact that she must never forget.
Kill or be killed. That was one of the cardinal rules of survival.
Indeed, it might be the only rule that mattered.
Because come hell or high water, she meant to survive long enough to taste the sweetness of revenge.
11
Senor Diego Martinez invited me to study some old books in his library, and in them I found the first mention that I’ve seen of chocolate in Italy! In 1606, Francesco d’Antonio Carlette, a merchant from Florence, submitted a report to Ferdinando de’ Medici, the Grand Duke of Tuscany, on his world travels. In it, he includes a whole section on the New World and its trade in cacao. . . .
½ cup golden raisins
⅓ cup gin
3 cups sifted confectioner’s sugar (sift before measuring)
⅔ cup sifted unsweetened cocoa powder, preferably Dutch-processed (sift before measuring)
1 teaspoon instant espresso powder
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour (unsifted)
⅛ teaspoon salt
3 large egg whites
½ teaspoon vanilla
8 ounces pecans, toasted, cooled, and coarsely chopped
1. Combine raisins and gin in a cup and let stand at least 8 hours to macerate.
2. Preheat oven to 350ºF. Butter and flour 2 large baking sheets, shaking off excess flour.
3. Mix confectioner’s sugar, cocoa powder, espresso powder, flour, and salt with an electric mixer at low speed. Add egg whites and vanilla and continue mixing until smooth.
4. Drain raisins in a sieve, without pressing, then add raisins to dough with pecans. Stir until thoroughly mixed. (Dough will be thick and sticky.)
5. Working quickly, drop ¼ cup dough for each cookie onto a baking sheet, spacing cookies at least 3 inches apart, and gently pat down each mound to about ½ inch thick.
6. Bake cookies, 1 sheet at a time, in middle of oven, rotating sheet halfway through baking, for 15 to 17 minutes total, or until cookies appear cracked and centers are just set. Cool cookies on sheet 1 minute, then transfer carefully to a rack to cool completely.
Too unsettled to sleep quite yet, Arianna took up the candle and made her way down to the kitchen. Its worktables and well-stocked pantries were now familiar territory, for several days ago, on learning that Arianna was studying the chocolate notebooks belonging to the earl’s grandmother, the cook had issued an invitation to help make up the week’s supply of cacao for hot chocolate.
Apparently Arianna had passed the test, for she had been given carte blanche to make use of the space and supplies whenever she wished.
After adding fresh coals to the stove, she lit a lantern and gathered the ingredients she wanted. Spices and almonds, cream and butter, flour and sugar, a ball of cacao paste . . . after measuring out the exact amounts of several ingredients, she set the copper pot on the hob to heat.
As the gloom came alive with soothing sounds and smells of cooking, she felt her tension melting away into the kitchen rhythms.
Lost in thought, Arianna wasn’t aware of the approaching footsteps until the scrape of a boot on the mudroom floor jarred her from her work. Pulse pounding, she grabbed up the long-bladed chopping knife and whirled around from the worktable.