A Northern warrior, thought Arianna, spying the jagged scars sliced on his brow and cheek.
The heavy Scots burr confirmed the surmise. “Yer housekeeper said ye were engaged in a private meeting, but I assured her that ye wuddna mind the invasion.”
Arianna saw him slant a sidelong glance her way.
“I take it this laddie is yer lady.”
“Lady Arianna, allow me to introduce Basil Henning, former surgeon to the Third Regiment of His Majesty’s Dragoons,” said Saybrook. “Baz, this is indeed our master of disguise.”
Lamplight winked off his spectacles as Henning subjected her to a lengthy stare. “Ye make a very fetching male, milady.”
“Thank you,” she murmured. “I think.”
“You’ve saved me the bother of traipsing through St. Giles to find you,” said Saybrook without further preamble. “I’ve some important news—”
“As do I, Sandro,” interrupted the surgeon.
The two men locked gazes, and Arianna sensed that they did not need words to communicate.
“Very well, you first,” said the earl, resuming his seat. “Would you like some coffee? Or chocolate?”
“I’d rather have good Highland malt, but as I know ye only have Spanish brandy, I’ll settle for that.” Heaving a sigh, Henning fetched the bottle and poured a generous splash of the spirits. “Slainte Mhath, milady.”
“Baz,” began Saybrook.
“A man must remember his manners,” replied the surgeon before quaffing another long swallow. “Ahhh, now I feel a touch more civilized.”
The earl said something under his breath that drew a hoot of laughter from his friend.
“Hold yer water, Sandro,” said the surgeon, once his amusement had died away. “After running me ragged all night, ye could at least have the courtesy to allow me a wee dram.”
“Baz.”
“Oh, very well.” The impish grin gave way to a more sober expression. Drawing three small vials from his coat pocket, he carefully stood them in a tight row on the table. “Take a good look at these.” The first appeared to contain a clear liquid, the second was colored a deep Prussian blue, and the third cadmium red.
“I take it we are not here to admire a new formula for watercolor pigment,” said Saybrook dryly.
“No, not pigment.” Henning placed another item on the table.
In the lamplight, it seemed to glow with an inner fire. . . .
“Don’t touch it!”
Arianna jerked back her hand. “I wasn’t about to steal it, Mr. Henning.”
“Yer pardon, milady. But I didna want ye to prick yer finger.”
“I’m not some delicate English rose. I don’t wilt at a mere touch.”
“Trust me, ye might shrivel up and die from that thorn,” he growled. “I canna be sure that I’ve removed all the poison, so I would rather be safe than sorry.”
Poison. For an instant, she felt a little light-headed. First the Prince, and now . . .
Saybrook frowned. “So you were right in your suspicions?”
“Aye,” replied Henning. “The froth of his spittle and the clawing of his hands indicated an unnatural death, as did the color of the contusion on the victim’s chest. That was the key clue. I suddenly recalled where I had read about a magenta aureole around the purple and green of a normal bruise—it’s very distinctive and very rare. So I decided to make a few tests.” He sat back with a look of grim satisfaction. “And you’ll never guess what I discovered.”
“I’m in no mood for playing parlor games, Baz,” replied the earl. “Like Lady Arianna, I’ve had precious little sleep, so kindly get to the point.”
“All right, all right.” The surgeon looked a little hurt, but that quickly faded as he took a wad of crumpled notes from his coat. “Ye remember in Spain how we was reading that book on Alexander von Humboldt’s discoveries in the New World?” He turned to Arianna. “Sandro studied botany at Oxford, so we often enjoyed studying scientific—”
“Baz, Lady Arianna is not interested in my educational history,” interrupted the earl.
Strangely enough, Arianna realized that wasn’t entirely true. A scholar and a soldier? He was an intriguing mix of contrasts and conundrums.
But this was hardly the time or place to sort them out.
Henning made a face. “You might at least let me crow a little about my cleverness.”
“Go on, Mr. Henning,” she said. “I’m anxious to hear about it.”
“Thank you, Lady Arianna.” He shuffled through his notes. “Getting back to von Humboldt—who was, by the by, a renowned scientific observer of the natural world—Sandro and I were reading his account of a trip through Brazil and Amazonia. While Sir Walter Raleigh and other early explorers had heard about certain indigenous toxins used by the native peoples, von Humboldt was the first European to observe its making.”
Saybrook frowned. “Do you mean curare?”
The surgeon nodded. “It’s an extremely lethal substance,” he explained to Arianna. “But to be precise, the name is used for a variety of poisonous plant concoctions. However, the most common source is the bark of Strychnos toxifera mixed with Chondrodendron tomentosum.” He blotted his brow with his sleeve, which Arianna noted was already mottled with a number of dubious smudges.
It was a wonder, she thought, that he hadn’t expired from his own experiments.
“Sometimes they add snake venom to the mix. Quite inventive, I must say,” he went on. “But I digress. The usual method of preparation was to boil the bark scraping and other plant material in waters for several days, reducing it to a viscous paste. It’s not dangerous if swallowed, but if introduced directly into the bloodstream by a prick or cut from a tainted object, death is swift and sure.”
She felt herself pale.
“I must say, the effect is quite unique,” he mused. “Last year, Sir Benjamin Brodie noted that during curare poisoning the heart continues to beat, even after breathing stops.”
“I doubt that is any consolation for the victims,” murmured the earl. “All of this is very interesting, Baz. But how can you be sure that it’s curare on the stickpin?”
“I assumed that would be your first question.” The surgeon allowed a tiny triumphant smile. “The subject intrigued me, so I had done some further reading on it after my return to London. Knowing what chemical compounds are in the barks used for curare, it was not all that difficult to do some specific tests.” A tap, tap set the colored liquids inside the vials to swirling. “These reactions prove without a doubt what killed Kellton.”
“I wouldn’t presume to question your scientific skills,” said the earl. “But unfortunately, that stirs up a whole new . . .”
As his words trailed off, he flicked a look at Arianna, and though the movement was subtle, she sensed immediately what was coming.
Damn the man.
Sure enough, the slight hesitation gave way to a brusque cough. “Lady Arianna, there’s really no need for you to stay,” he went on. “Why not go home and get some sleep. For the moment, there’s nothing more you can do.”
In other words, leave the thinking to the men.
She fisted her hands, feeling a surge of fury well up in her throat. “Ah, right. Females are only useful for cooking and cleaning. Oh, and swiving.”
Henning blinked.
“I’d rather not argue with you,” began Saybrook.
“I don’t intend to argue.” Arianna crossed her arms. “Nor do I intend to be sent off to bed like a helpless child.”
“You misunderstand me—”
“Do I?” she challenged.
The earl’s eyes narrowed. “Willfully.”
The surgeon appeared to be following the argument with great interest. Setting down the vials, he leaned forward on his elbows, clearly awaiting the next exchange of words.