Arianna heard a desk drawer open and shut. “You need not concern yourself with the chef,” said Concord. “It does not affect our arrangement.”
“Bloody hell, our arrangement didn’t include sticking a blade up Grentham’s arse. I’m willing to take risks, but only reasonable ones, Concord. I’ve got a good mind to . . .”
“To what?”
She caught a quick glimpse of the man’s face as he turned away from the leaded glass. Sweat sheened his skin. He was not only angry. He was frightened.
“To reconsider my position,” he answered tightly.
“You’re overreacting. Sit down and have a brandy.” Concord’s voice had smoothed to a mellow flow. “The incident at Lady Spencer’s had nothing to do with our arrangement.”
Try as she might, Arianna could catch only fleeting words as the two men settled into the two armchairs by the hearth.
Blunt . . . sword blade . . . letters of exchange . . . Overend . . . Gurney . . .
As their tone dropped even lower, Arianna decided that there was little more to be learned, and the risk of discovery was growing too great. Retracing her steps, she made her way back to the room of erotic art. Something sinister was at play here—that Concord was involved in some sordid game for profit was no surprise. The question was how to unknot the serpentine tangle of lies and deception.
“Why, Lady Wolcott, surely you don’t mean to deprive us of your company any longer.” Gavin joined her, a fresh goblet of punch in each hand. “Can I entice you to return to the drawing room?”
“Of course,” she murmured. “I should like nothing better.”
Concord rejoined his guests shortly after her return, bringing with him several servants bearing a pair of ornate Indian water pipes that emitted a low gurgling along with a cloud of sweet smoke. The laughter grew more languid after that, and one or two couples withdrew into the shadowed alcoves.
Arianna managed to appear an eager participant in the revelries, though much of her punch was discreetly dumped into the potted plants.
Despite his smiles, Concord seemed on edge. He made no move to renew his flirtations, and disappeared again after perhaps a half hour.
As it was now nearing dawn, she felt that she could take her leave without drawing any suspicion. Saybrook had, after all, demanded a report on the evening, and while she did not mean to dance to his tune, she had her own reasons for sharing what she had overheard.
Her carriage was waiting on the side street. A breeze ruffled through the ivy leaves on the garden walls, and aside from the swish, swish, swish of her skirts on the walkway, the creak of the harness leather mingled with the raspy snores of the drivers were the only other sounds.
Lost in thought, Arianna dropped her reticule in fumbling for the door latch. Swearing to herself, she turned to retrieve it from the cobblestones.
Damn.
As she crouched down, a movement in the shadows of the nearby linden tree caught her eye. A clatter of steps, and the figure darted into the alleyway, but not before the fleeing face was limned for an instant in the scudding moonlight.
Rising slowly, she felt a frown pinch her brow.
Why was Lord Ashmun lurking outside Concord’s residence?
It was, she reflected, yet another question to which she had no answer.
13
Although there is some debate about how chocolate was introduced into France, I believe the credit most likely belongs to Anne of Austria, the daughter of King Philip III of Spain. My research has turned up evidence that she gave her husband an engagement present of chocolate, packaged inside an ornately decorated wooden chest. Whether it is true or not, it makes a very sweet story. . . .
¾ cup sweetened flaked coconut
¾ cup unsweetened dried coconut
⅓ cup sweetened condensed milk
3½ to 4 ounces fine-quality bittersweet chocolate (preferably 70% cacao), finely chopped
1. Line bottom and 2 opposite sides of an 8-inch-square metal baking pan with a sheet of wax paper, leaving a 2-inch overhang on both sides.
2. Mix together flaked and dried coconut and condensed milk with your fingertips until combined well, then firmly press into pan in an even layer with offset spatula. Chill, uncovered, 5 minutes.
3. Melt chocolate in a metal bowl set over a saucepan of barely simmering water or in top of a double boiler, stirring until smooth. Spread chocolate evenly over coconut layer with offset spatula and chill until firm, 5 to 7 minutes.
4. Lift confection onto a cutting board using overhang and halve confection with a sharp knife. Sandwich halves together, coconut sides in, to form an 8-by-4-inch rectangle, then discard wax paper. Cut rectangle into 32 (1-inch) squares. Arrange paper cups (if using) on a platter and fill with candies. Chill, covered, until ready to serve.
“Another dead body.” Straightening from his examination, Basil Henning absently wiped his fingers with a frayed handkerchief. In the murky light of early morning, the library was dark as a crypt. “I dunna like the look of it, Sandro.”
“Nor do I.” Saybrook slowly circled the large pearwood desk, taking in every detail of the scene. The gentleman’s corpse was seated in a rattan-backed chair, and he appeared to have expired just as he was beginning to write a note on the sheet of paper that lay on the blotter. The pen had slipped from his fingers, spattering ink over an illegible scrawl, but otherwise it was hard to tell that anything was amiss.
A closer look, however, revealed hands curled like claws and a grimace frozen on the bloodless lips.
“Do you think he died of natural causes?” asked the earl, once he had returned to his starting point.
“Hard to say.” Henning ran a hand over his stubbled jaw. “I see no sign of foul play, but the coincidence of yet another death among the people you are investigating strikes me as awfully suspicious, laddie.”
“Indeed,” agreed the earl. He gave another long look at the body. “You could, of course, have a much better picture of what happened if you were to get a more thorough look.”
The surgeon grunted. “Lock the door. Then help me get his coat and shirt off. It’s a damnably tough job once rigor mortis has set in.”
They worked in silence for several minutes, wrestling the garments from the rigid limbs.
“An interesting design,” observed Saybrook, before setting the intricate stickpin atop the rumpled cravat.
“Looks to be a blood ruby,” said Henning, not bothering to hide his disdain. “Such a bauble could feed a regiment of hungry men for a year.”
“Few people are as altruistic as you are, Baz.”
“Hmmph.” A last hard tug pulled the shirt free. “Draw the draperies,” said Henning as he lit the argent desk lamp and angled its light over the marble-white flesh. “And then tell me again how ye happened to be having a dawn appointment with a cadaver.”
“I tracked down the gentleman in question at his club yesterday afternoon,” began Saybrook. “And asked if I might have a chat with him about some recent bills of lading from the Madras trade route.”
The surgeon’s bushy brows rose in question.
“His Lordship is—or was—an under-governor with the East India Company, and oversaw trade from the southern part of the country,” he explained.