“It began as a manufacturing company of—yes—sword blades crafted with smithing techniques brought to England by Huguenot refugees. The company failed, but Blunt, who was a mere scrivener at the time, put together a group of investors and turned it into a land bank, which granted mortgages, accepted deposits, and issued notes. In 1711, it won a lottery to raise two million pounds. Based on Blunt’s success in selling the subscription, the bank then went on to become the financial arm of the South Sea Company.”
“H-how do you know so much about all this, Mr. Henning?” asked Arianna, once the lengthy explanation was done.
The surgeon made a face. “Because my grandfather lost all of his blunt when the South Sea Bubble burst. Left him penniless. He had to sell his house, a lovely stone cottage with orchards and grazing lands, and find work in Edinburgh. My father was forced to take up a trade, rather than study at the university, as was always intended.”
So hers was not the only life ruined by a desire for instant riches. Oh, Papa. How was it that he never really learned a thing from his beloved John Blunt?
Her face must have betrayed a hint of what she was thinking, because Henning gave a gruff grunt. “Those caught up in a dream never think it can turn into a nightmare, eh?”
Arianna tucked her hands into her lap, trying to evade the memory of the shrieking wind and trembling fingers sticky with blood. “What has a century-old scandal to do with these current crimes?” she asked in a small voice.
“A good question,” answered the surgeon. He slanted Saybrook a questioning look. “Ye were rather good at solving conundrums for Wellington and his staff. Have ye got no ideas?”
Saybrook’s mouth quirked up at the corners. “I don’t have quite the freedom in London as I did in the Peninsula,” he pointed out. “There I had resources to call on, and an idea of what mission I was trying to accomplish. While here I feel as if I am spinning in circles. It’s unclear to me why, but I suspect that I’ve been put in motion for reasons that have little to do with uncovering the truth.”
Arianna tried to squelch the tiny stirring of guilt in the pit of her stomach. Truth, she told herself, was all relative. Its definition depended on what one was seeking. And the Earl of Saybrook was looking for something far different than she was.
“Tell me again exactly what you overhead, Lady Arianna,” said Saybrook. “Every word, precisely as you remember them.”
She did as he asked.
Henning scratched at his chin. “Gurney. That’s a litter fer carrying wounded men,” he said helpfully. “So maybe this is about some sort of business with military supplies.”
The earl nodded abstractly. “Given Kellton’s position with the East India Company, it raises a number of questions. Nitrates, which are essential for gunpowder, come to us from the east—”
“Sir.” She wasn’t even aware that she had spoken until Saybrook turned around.
“Yes?”
“Forgive me for interrupting, but . . .”
He waited, dark and silent as a storm cloud hovering on the horizon.
“But before you go on, there is something that you ought to know. It may have no bearing on your investigation, but along with the medallion, I . . . I also took a letter from Lady Spencer’s desk.” She met his eyes. “And it so happens that it was from Kellton.”
15
Like many of the most scrumptious flavorings for chocolate, praline—a sweetly crunchy almond concoction—was the result of a fortuitous kitchen accident in 1671. A bowl of almonds dropped into a pan of burnt sugar . . . in a panic, the last minute creation was served to the Duke of Plesslis-Praslin, a diplomat in the service of King Louis XIII of France, who adored it and gave the new dish his name. Today, praline is, of course, a very popular filling. I must remind Sandro to use Spanish Marcona almonds . . .
1 cup all-purpose flour
¼ cup unsweetened cocoa powder
½ teaspoon chipotle chile powder
½ teaspoon cinnamon
⅛ teaspoon salt
1 stick unsalted butter, softened
⅓ cup superfine granulated sugar
1. Preheat oven to 350°F with rack in middle.
2. Whisk together flour, cocoa powder, chile powder, cinnamon, and salt in a bowl.
3. Beat together butter and sugar with an electric mixer at medium speed until pale and fluffy. At low speed, mix in flour mixture until well blended. Divide dough in half and pat out into 2 (7-inch) rounds (¼ inch thick). Arrange rounds 2 inches apart on an ungreased baking sheet. Cut each round into 8 wedges (do not separate wedges). Prick all over with a fork.
4. Bake until dry to the touch, 16 to 18 minutes. Recut shortbread while hot, then cool on sheet (shortbread will crisp as it cools).
“How kind of you to share that information with us,” replied Saybrook with undisguised sarcasm.
“Sandro,” chided Henning.
“Dare I inquire as to its contents?” he went on, ignoring his friend’s warning. “Or is that too much to ask?”
“His Lordship has a right to be peeved,” she said to the surgeon. “But until this moment, I honestly did not see what the letter had to do with his investigation.”
“That is precisely the point of sharing information,” he said through gritted teeth. “Though it may come as a rude surprise, Lady Arianna, you are not always in the best position to judge what is relevant and what is not.”
“I am aware of that, sir. Just as I am aware of the fact that who I can and cannot trust is even more difficult to discern.”
“I don’t know what else I can do to prove that I’m not your enemy, Lady Arianna.”
Nor do I. Like truth, trust was a hard concept to capture in words.
“Yes, well, instead of debating our philosophical differences, milord, wouldn’t you rather hear about the letter,” she retorted.
“Por favor,” he muttered.
“It was mostly a passionate plea, bemoaning the loss of her favors in bed. I only took it because . . . well, Lady Spencer was careful to choose influential lovers. Having a bargaining chip with such men sometimes proves useful.” Arianna heard Henning add a splash of brandy to his glass. “As I said, I didn’t think it relevant.”
Saybrook released a pent-up breath.
“But in light of the present circumstances,” she went on, “his pleas about betrayal may have a more sinister meaning.”
“Before I comment on that, is there anything—anything—else you are holding back?”
Somehow, to give voice to the cryptic sheet of numbers and the folio of equations was to give them actual substance. And why? Her vague suspicions were absurd—absurd. To explain them would mean stripping away the last of her protective secrets.
“As far as I know, I possess no other information that may prove useful,” she replied carefully.
The earl looked less than satisfied with her answer, but he let it pass. “You are sure that the letter is from Kellton?”
“His hand is very legible. The signature reads, Your devoted servant Gideon Kellton. I wouldn’t imagine there are two rich men of that name.”
Clasping his hands behind his back, he began to pace the length of the kitchen. For some moments, the scuff of leather on stone overwhelmed all other sounds. Then it suddenly stopped.
“It seems to me,” he announced, “that it’s time to get reacquainted with Lady Spencer.”