“Which were all main points of embarkation for the old Spanish treasure fleets,” mused Saybrook.
The surgeon ran his hand over a cloth sack, stirring up a swirl of spicy sweetness. “So, we have merchandise coming from the New World, all of it with the potential to be highly profitable.”
“But none of it in enough quantity to justify the cost or hazards of a long journey,” added the earl.
“Not yet, not yet. But I tell you, this new Devil’s Delight is already turning an obscene profit. The canister we just found will go a long way to paying the expenses of the voyage.”
Silence, save the sudden scurrying of a rat among the burlap bales.
Saybrook tucked the sprig of coca into his pocket and sat back on his haunches. “Who owns the ship?”
Henning cracked his knuckles. “I’m working on that.”
“Well, spread your tentacles even wider, Baz. We need to know the names of those involved.”
“The pieces of the puzzle seem to be coming together, eh?” mused the surgeon. “Kellton was murdered with curare, a New World poison, and here we’ve just discovered evidence of an enterprise worth killing for. Then we have Concord, whom we know to have been involved in dirty dealings in the past.” He pursed his lips. “Like Lady Arianna’s father, Kellton must have become a threat to the operation, and so they eliminated him.”
“Perhaps. But I’m not as certain as you are.” Dusting his hands, Saybrook rose and squeezed his way through the bales to another row of crates. “As of yet, the pieces are still too damn amorphous to show any pattern, or any way they interlock.”
“Auch, we’re getting close, laddie. I feel it in my bones,” muttered Henning.
The earl swore as his knee banged up against a brass urn.
“And ye know damn well how my intuition saved our skin on several occasions in—”
A grunt cut short the surgeon’s point.
“Well, well, well.” Saybrook had dropped to a crouch and was shifting a burlap sack. “Come see what we have here, Baz.”
Arianna set aside the book she had been reading and rose from her chair. From across the room, her bed beckoned, a sumptuous stretch of quilted satin and down-filled pillows that were whispering a Siren song.
Crash upon these gilded rocks and find oblivion in sleep.
“Tempting,” she muttered. But instead she sought a spot by the bank of diamond-paned windows.
Think! she cajoled, forcing herself to review all the complex financial data she had been studying for the last few hours.
Her two footmen had been dispatched that morning, one to Hatchard’s bookstore and one to Lady Sterling’s residence, with orders to buy or borrow all books related to the South Sea Bubble. Despite her denial to the earl and his great-aunt, the name was painfully familiar. When drunk, her father had often extolled—albeit with a slur of envy—the cleverness of men who could create value out of thin air.
Value. Like most words, its definition seemed to depend on what tongue gave it voice.
A glance back at the stack of gold-stamped spines heightened the feeling that somewhere buried among all the mind-numbing array of facts and statistics lay some vital key to unlocking the current mystery.
“But what it is, I haven’t a clue.” Pressing her fingertips to her temples, Arianna paused and squeezed her eyes shut.
Mathematics was all about logic, order, precision. . . .
Perhaps she did have a clue. In any case, it was the only tangible thing she had to go on.
Fetching the paper that Saybrook had left, along with the documents taken from Lady Spencer’s desk, Arianna spread them all out on her escritoire and smoothed out a fresh sheet of foolscap. Patterns, my dear poppet. Her father’s brandy-warm laugh echoed through the deepest recesses of her head. Numbers are supremely simple to understand if you know how to speak their language.
“What are you trying to tell me?” she murmured, ordering the old and new papers from the folder into two neat piles. In between the piles she placed the single sheet of paper that the earl had discovered. It bore a list of numerical sequences, each line made up of three sets of pairs, separated by dashes.
“What is it that I am missing?”
The papers sat in taunting silence.
Taking up her pencil, she made yet another copy of the age-worn mathematical equations, then leaned back and studied the sequences.
Patterns, patterns, patterns. For all his weaknesses in seeing the repetitive themes in his own life, her father was a genius at understanding the core concepts of mathematics. Numbers, like letters, told a story, he always said.
Losing herself in the abstract challenge of making order out of chaos, Arianna tried not to think of the reality of what he had done. In some ways, perhaps a part of her vehemence for vengeance had stemmed from a fear that he was guilty of some crime. Perhaps a part of her secretly believed that such efforts could somehow atone for his wrongs.
A gust of wind rattled the window casement and a chill finger of air seemed to squeeze at her throat.
I’ve been as guilty as Papa of denials and delusions.
The pencil point dug into the paper, tearing a tiny rip.
“Damn.” She was about to ball up the sheet in disgust when a certain section caught her eye. Leaning closer, she gave them a more careful study.
Patterns. Logic, repeated Arianna, giving yet another glance at the three sets of papers. What was the connection? They must be related—
Related.
Good God, how could she have overlooked the obvious until now? Seeing as Lady Spencer’s grandfather was connected to the South Sea stock manipulation, it was logical to assume that the old papers in the folder were his. And if that were the case, the modern papers might be . . .
Her heart began to thump a touch faster.
Sliding a fresh piece of paper across the polished wood, Arianna scribbled out a series of equations.
Excitement kicked up another notch.
Working a hunch, she gathered the books she had been reading and found the pages she needed for reference. Slowly, methodically, she worked through a progression of calculations.
Yes, yes, it was all beginning to add up. Page by page, she carefully compared the old documents with the new ones. After rechecking the numbers and copying the final results, she looked up, the first pale rays of dawn illuminating a small smile.
“Eureka.”
“The South Sea Bubble?” Grentham set down his pen beside the silver coffee service on his desk and fixed the earl with a pointed stare. “Pray, explain to me why, when time is of the essence in solving the Prince’s poisoning before our Eastern allies arrive, you interrupt my morning libation wishing to discuss a century-old scandal, Lord Saybrook.” He carefully capped his inkwell. “Has the opium addled your brain?”
“If you wish to relieve me of my duties in this investigation, you are welcome to do so,” replied the earl. “But somehow, I don’t think you will.”
The minister’s eyes narrowed. “You keep making veiled threats.”
“As do you.”
Their gazes remained locked for several long moments before Grentham leaned back and tapped his fingertips together in a gesture that was smooth and soundless, despite the hint of impatience. “I am waiting for your explanation.”
“I’ve reason to believe that the Prince was not poisoned because of a personal grudge,” said Saybrook. “Nor do I think that the motive was purely political.”
“Then what, in your expert opinion, is the motive?”
“I’m not yet prepared to say.”
The tapping ceased.
In response, Saybrook took a piece of paper from his pocket and read over it before looking up. “I would like a look at some of the government files from December 1720, including the private notes of Mr. Robert Walpole’s meetings with the Bank of England and the East India Company, along with the Parliamentary records concerning corruption charges against John Aislabie, Sir John Blunt, and the other directors of the South Sea Company.” He paused for another glance at his list. “I also want access to the records on how the conversion of government debt to private stock was handled by the Sword Blade Bank.”