“More’s the pity,” snapped Grentham’s military attaché, who was standing by his superior’s desk, arranging the daily surveillance reports. “Bloody hell, if Prinny can’t control his prodigious appetites, he could at least have the decency to fall victim in his own establishment.”
The assistant didn’t dare respond.
Leaning back in his chair, Grentham tapped his elegant fingertips together and stared out the bank of windows overlooking the parade ground. Rain pelted against the misted glass, turning the vast expanse of gravel to a blur of watery gray. Beyond it, the bare trees in St. James’s Park jutted up through the fog, dark and menacing, like the jagged teeth of some ancient dragon.
“How long until he can be moved from Lady Spencer’s town house?” he asked slowly.
“Er . . .” The assistant consulted the sheaf of papers in his hands. “Another two or three days.”
“Bloody, bloody hell,” swore the attaché. “If word of this reaches the newspapers—”
“Thank you, Major Crandall.” The tapping ceased—as did all other sounds in the room. Turning to his assistant, Grentham continued with his inquiries. “I take it that the other guests have been sworn to absolute secrecy, Jenkins?”
“Yes, milord. And they’ve all promised to be silent as the grave.”
“Excellent,” he replied mildly. “Oh, and do remind them that they had better be, else their carcasses will be rotting on a transport ship bound for the Antipodes.”
“Y-yes, milord.” The young man was new to the job and hadn’t yet dared ask what had become of his predecessor. Rumors of Grentham’s ruthlessness were rife throughout the halls of the Horse Guards building, and it was whispered that even the Prime Minister feared to provoke his ire.
Taking up his pen, Grentham jotted several lines on a fresh sheet of foolscap. “Do we know for certain what poison was used?”
“Not as yet, sir. The physician says it is difficult to discern, on account of the, er . . . substance that the Prince ingested.” The young man paused, looking uncertain of whether to go on.
“Well, do you intend to keep me in suspense all afternoon?” asked Grentham softly. “Or is this meant to be an amusing little guessing game, seeing as I have nothing else to do with my time?”
“N-n-o, sir.” The assistant gave another glance at his notes. “It was . . . chocolate.”
“Chocolate?” repeated Crandall incredulously. “If this is your idea of a joke, Jenkins—”
“It’s n-no joke, sir, it’s the God-honest truth.” Jenkins held out a piece of paper with a suspicious-looking stain streaked across its bottom. “You may see for yourself.”
Grentham waved away the offending document with a flick of his wrist. “I am a trifle confused, Jenkins,” he murmured. “I thought you said Prinny ate the stuff, not drank it.”
“He did, sir. It says here in the physician’s report that the Prince Regent collapsed after eating a disk of solid sweetened chocolate.” Seeking to forestall another acerbic attack, he quickly went on. “Apparently the confection is a recent culinary creation, developed in France. It is said to be very popular in Paris.”
“Chacun à son goût,” said Grentham under his breath.
“Sir?”
“Never mind. Go on—anything else of interest in the report?”
“Well, milord, the man does mention the possibility that the Prince might have sickened from overindulgence, and not from any toxin.” Jenkins swallowed hard. “But the Prince’s private physician questions whether chocolate in this new, solid form might have naturally occurring poisonous properties.”
Grentham thought for a moment. “So in fact, we don’t have a clue as to whether this was an attempt on the reigning sovereign’s life, or merely another example of his appetite for pleasure getting him in trouble.”
Looking unhappy, Jenkins nodded. His superior was known as a man who preferred to view the world in black and white. An infinite range of grays merely muddied the subject—which did not bode well for whoever presented the ill-formed picture.
“I should be tempted to let him stew in his own juices . . . ,” began the Major, but a sharp look from Grentham speared him to silence.
The minister fingered one of the leather document cases piled on his desk. “Given the current situation, it is imperative— imperative—that we ascertain whether foul play was involved. What with the upcoming arrival of the Allied delegation and our troubles with the upstart Americans, the death of the Prince Regent could be catastrophic for the interests of England.”
The assistant instinctively backed into the shadows of the dark oak filing cabinets, though he had a feeling that the basilisk stare of his superior could see straight through to the deepest coal-black pit of hell.
“And so,” he mused, “however unpleasant a task, we must extract the truth from this sticky mess.”
Jenkins gave a sickly smile, unsure whether the minister had just attempted a witticism.
“The question is, who among our operatives is best equipped to handle such an investigation?” Grentham pursed his lips. “Any suggestions?”
The Major quickly shot a look at Jenkins.
“Well, milord, I . . . I . . .”
“Spit it out, man,” ordered the Major. “We haven’t got all day.”
Sweat beaded on the assistant’s brow, though his throat remained bone-dry. “I was just going to say, perhaps one of our Peninsular allies might prove u-u-useful. Seeing as it was the Spanish who brought cacao to Europe from the New World, it would seem logical that they would be the most knowledgeable on the subject.”
Grentham looked thoughtful.
The Major’s gaze narrowed to a crafty squint. “Yes, I was just going to say that I think it an excellent idea to look outside our own circle of intelligence officers,” he said quickly. “They are all personally acquainted with the Prince, and we wouldn’t want any question of impartiality to color the conclusion of the investigation. I mean, sir, if anything were to . . .” He let his voice trail off.
Grentham flashed a semblance of a smile. “Good God, I may actually have a body or two around me with a brain.” Setting down his pen, he contemplated his well-manicured hand for a bit before slowly buffing his nails on his other sleeve.
Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. The sound was soft as a raptor’s wing-beat, as the bird homed in on its kill.
“Send a messenger to Lord Charles Mellon. Tell him that I wish to see him as soon as possible.”
Arianna added a spoonful of sugar to her morning coffee and slathered a scone with butter. The condemned ought to eat a heartier meal, she thought sardonically as she broke off a morsel of the still-warm pastry and let it crumble between her fingers.
If Luck was indeed a Lady, the traitorous bitch had a perverse sense of humor.
Biting back a grim smile, Arianna had to admit the irony of the situation. After all her meticulous plotting and carefully calculated moves, one unfortunate little slip had wreaked havoc with her plans.
The best-laid schemes of mice and men go often askew, and leave us nothing but grief and pain.. . . Her father, who had carried a love of poetry—and precious little else—with him from England to Jamaica, had enjoyed reading Robert Burns to her on the rare evenings when he wasn’t sunk too deep in his cups. Arianna had cherished those times together, curled in the comforting shelter of his arms.
She sucked in her breath, her lungs suddenly filled with the memory of his scent—an earthy mix of tobacco, leather, and citrus-spiced sandalwood.
Oh, Papa, she thought, expelling a slow sigh. So brilliant, yet so naïve. Scandal had stripped him of all his rightful honor, forcing him to survive on his wits. But even his enemies admitted that Richard Hadley, the Earl of Morse, was a charming dreamer. Like fine brandy, his mellifluous laugh was smoothly seductive, making even the most grandiose schemes seem plausible. The earl was so convincing that over the years he had come to believe his own lies.