Saybrook turned slightly, his big body shielding her from the glittering lights and laughter. “I take it he told you who was responsible?”
“He said enough for me to figure it out on my own.” She steadied herself with a deep breath. “My father swore on his deathbed that he was innocent of the cheating charge, and I believe him. As for any other—”
A rustling of the leaves warned that someone was approaching.
“Lady Wolcott?” said a tentative voice.
It was Ashmun.
“Ah, here you are.” His hooded gaze lingered on the earl, and though the flickering light of the chandeliers did not quite penetrate the greenery, it caught the momentary pinch of a scowl. “Forgive me for intruding, but I believe we are slated for the next set, and I would be very disappointed to miss the pleasure of partnering you.”
Despite her misgivings about the man, she was not unhappy over the interruption. “Oh, there is no need for apologies. The earl and I were merely discussing a relative. But reminiscing can wait. I would much rather dance.”
“Excellent,” said Ashmun.
Saybrook yielded his place without objection. After a perfunctory bow, he turned and walked off.
In the direction of Lady Spencer, noted Arianna out of the corner of her eye. Whatever else his faults, the earl was a man of his word.
“I don’t mean to pry,” said Ashmun. “But it appeared as if the two of you were engaged in a rather heated exchange. I do hope the earl wasn’t upsetting you. He has the reputation of being . . . unstable.”
“It was simply an old family matter,” she replied brusquely. “There is no call for concern.”
Ashmun didn’t press, but even as the formations of the lively country gavotte drew them apart, she could sense that he was watching her like a hawk.
Silk swirled around her ankles, the paste jewel ear-bobs caressed her lobes, and for an instant she yearned to strip away the layers of lies, the practiced deceptions, the well-rehearsed lines, and flee from the past. Oh, to imagine that she might ever be free to be herself.
Whoever that was.
But as Lady Sterling had so wisely pointed out, there was no escaping history.
Another glass of champagne fortified her for the next set. And then another. Arianna was feeling a little light-headed when Gavin came out from the card room to claim his second dance with her.
“The Spanish Inquisitor seems to have shed his monk’s robe for the evening,” he remarked, eyeing the earl and Lady Spencer standing together in close conversation by the balcony doors.
“You mean Saybrook?” She made a pained face. “The man is a tedious bore. For propriety’s sake, I had to take a turn around the dance floor with him, but then he insisted on subjecting me to a lecture on proper behavior for a lady.”
“Boring indeed,” remarked Gavin with a sardonic laugh.
“You can’t begin to imagine. He thinks I’m too fast.” Her palm slid suggestively against his shoulder. Leaning a little closer, she let her breath tease against his ear. “Do you?”
Beneath her touch, his muscles twitched. “I believe ladies should be able to . . . do as they please.”
“Fay çe que vouldras,” said Arianna, drawing out the French phrase slowly, like a strand of melting sugar.
“Precisely, Lady Wolcott.” Up close, the predatory gleam in his eyes blazed bright as an open flame. “How very interesting that you would choose that exact phrase.”
“Oh, I heard someone mention it recently,” she said. “And thought it sounded . . . intriguing. French is such a sensual language, is it not?”
“Deliciously so,” he answered. “It drips like melted butter from your tongue.”
She tittered. “La, isn’t the mention of body parts strictly forbidden in Polite Society, Sir Gavin?”
He glanced around the ballroom before locking his gaze with hers. “Among a select group of people, the rules don’t apply.”
“Even more intriguing,” she whispered. She let a few more steps of the dance go by before adding, “Lord Concord mentioned a club. A very exclusive club. How does one apply?”
“One doesn’t apply, Lady Wolcott. One is invited,” responded Gavin. “But seeing as Concord is in charge of the membership, I am sure that your name will be high on the list.”
“I do hope you will put in a good word for me.”
“But of course.” A series of tight twirls turned the ballroom into a kaleidoscope blur of colors. “I think you would fit in perfectly.”
“So do I, sir.” So do I.
18
I picked up several illustrated books on botany on my last shopping sojourn in Madrid, and now know there are three distinct types of cacao trees. Criollas are considered the “prince of cacao.” They are very delicate and prone to disease, but produce the highest-quality beans. Forasteros are the most common variety, and although they are very hardy, they are the least flavorful. Trinitarios, named for the island of Trinidad, are a hybrid, and offer an excellent balance of taste and ease of cultivation. . . .
½ cup packed light brown sugar
¼ cup unsweetened cocoa powder
2½ tablespoons cornstarch
½ teaspoon cinnamon
⅛ teaspoon salt
2 cups plain unsweetened almond milk
1½ tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into bits
½ teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1. Mix together brown sugar, cocoa powder, cornstarch, cinnamon, and salt in a heavy medium saucepan, then whisk in almond milk. Bring to a boil over medium heat, stirring often, then boil, whisking, 1 minute.
2. Remove from heat and whisk in butter and vanilla.
3. Chill in a bowl, surface covered with a piece of buttered wax paper, until cold, at least 1½ hours.
Fog floated through the chill night air, a sea of silver obscuring the rain-spattered cobblestones. The shower had passed, but the mizzled moonlight was too weak to penetrate the shadows separating the row of town houses. Darkness hid any sign of movement along the garden wall of Arianna’s rented residence.
Saybrook slid his shoes over the damp grass, careful to avoid any stray twigs that might make a sound. The cloaked figure ahead of him was now only three steps away . . . two steps . . .
Lunging forward, he caught his quarry by the shoulders. A half spin and hard jerk slammed the man up against the mossy brick.
“Quiet!” he growled, whipping out a knife from his coat and angling its edge beneath the upturned jaw. “And don’t move.”
His prisoner held very still. “Are you going to slit my throat?”
“That depends,” said Saybrook. “What filthy game are you playing, Ashmun? Answer me now, and I might let your blood stay in your veins.” The blade pressed harder against the exposed flesh. “Why are you following Lady Wolcott?”
“Because . . .” Ashmun drew a ragged breath and slowly lifted his chin. “Because I’m very concerned for her safety.”
“Explain yourself,” ordered the earl.
“I’m afraid that she’s gotten herself into deep trouble with you, and the men you have introduced to her.” His gaze flicked down to the knife. “I might ask the same question of you, Lord Saybrook. Why are you following her?”
“What business is it of yours?” he demanded.
“I . . . I would rather not say,” replied Ashmun.
The sharpened steel twitched, drawing a drop of blood. “I’m afraid I must insist.”
The night was still, save for the rasp of their breathing. The ghostly puffs of vapor twisted and twined together against the blurred shades of black.