“What words make your heart sing?”
“Freedom,” he answered without hesitation. “Equality. Democracy. Courage. Independence.”
“All very noble sentiments,” she murmured, making careful mental note of them as possible key words. It was a shot in the dark, but as Saybrook said, luck and intuition were major weapons in a code breaker’s arsenal.
A wry grimace tugged at Kydd’s lips. “You probably think me a pedant, to always be talking of principles and abstract ideas.”
“Oh no, not at all.” Keep talking, keep talking. “I want to hear all about what thoughts, what dreams are important to you.”
“Dreams,” he repeated. “I should like to see Scotland truly free, and in control of its own destiny. But at what cost?” Gravel crunched softly under his boots. “In a short while, I have a meeting in which I shall have to decide . . .”
His voice trailed off in a harsh sigh.
He seemed to be teetering on the edge of a precipice. Did she dare give him the last little nudge?
“You sound uncertain,” she said cautiously.
“I confess that I am. For the longest time, I was so sure that I knew what was right. And now . . .” Kydd raked a hand through his hair. “But enough of politics and philosophy.” His mood seemed to be veering wildly, from reflective to reckless in the blink of an eye. As he stepped closer, Arianna heard a different sort of intensity grip his tone. “Let us spend the rest of our time together enjoying each other’s company.”
The moonlight tipped his golden lashes with the flare of fire. He was leaning in, his breath hot on her skin. In another instant his mouth would capture hers.
Distraction. Diversion. Was there a way to deflect his advances without destroying his trust?
Deception was a dangerous game to play. Her husband understood that, thought Arianna as she steeled herself for Kydd’s kiss.
BOOM!
A sudden explosion ripped through the shrubbery, throwing up a shower of fiery sparks and burning leaves. The force of the blast knocked Arianna to the ground. Dazed, disoriented, she rolled to her knees and tried to shake the terrible ringing from her ears.
Flames shot up from the shattered hedge, forcing her to scramble back from the searing heat. A series of rapid-fire pops released plumes of colored vapors into the fire-gold glow, adding a mad, macabre beauty to the scene.
The wind swirled, driving the danger closer.
“Mr. Kydd!” she croaked, trying to see through the cloud of acrid black smoke.
On getting no response, she pulled her shawl up to shield her face and started to crawl forward along the edge of the gravel. “Mr. Kydd!”
Was that a whisper, or just the crackling of the branches?
Choking back a cough, Arianna felt her way over the soot-streaked grass. Above the roar of the fire, she was vaguely aware of shouts and the pounding of running feet. But they sounded very far away.
Her eyes began to water and the sour stench of gunpowder made it difficult to breathe. Damnation—
Another loud bang rent the air.
As she flinched, her hand grazed against a booted foot. Grasping the heel, she gave it a shake. “Mr. Kydd.” The blast must have knocked him senseless. “Wake up, wake up. There must have been an accident with the fireworks. We must move away from here.”
In answer, a pair of hands grasped her roughly around the waist and dragged her back from the raging fire.
“No! Wait! Put me down!” she protested as she felt herself lifted from the ground.
“For God’s sake, stop squirming,” ordered Saybrook. Gathering her in his arms, he stumbled down the hill and slid behind the shelter of a marble folly. “Stay down,” he growled, covering her body with his. “The rest of the explosives could ignite at any moment.”
“But Mr. Kydd—”
“Mr. Kydd is dead.” Soot blackened the earl’s face. Limned in the red glow of the burning bushes, he looked like the Devil’s own shadow from hell. “And you are bloody lucky to be alive.”
“Drink,” commanded Saybrook, placing a large mug of brandy-laced chocolate in her hands.
“I don’t need a posset.” Arianna nestled deeper into the armchair of their parlor and heaved a sigh before taking a sip. “I’m not about to fall into a maidenly swoon of shock.”
The warm, potent drink did, however, taste ambrosial. Closing her eyes for an instant, she savored its soothing sweetness. Gulps of water had already washed the smoky grit from her throat, but the sour dregs of fear still lingered—more than she cared to admit.
“Are you sure you aren’t hurt?” asked her husband. He had taken advantage of all the confusion and chaos of fighting the fire to slip away from the estate unnoticed.
“Just a few bumps and bruises.” She rubbed at a sore spot on her shoulder and winced. “But my wits were certainly wandering. Thank God you thought to whisk us away before anyone realized that I had been with Kydd at the moment of the accident.”
Saybrook’s scowl deepened as he plunged the poker into the hearth and stirred the coals to life. “If it was an accident,” he muttered. After seeing her to the safety of their carriage, he had returned to the grounds for a quick surveillance. “Steuer’s foreman was adamant that all possible precautions had been taken around that section of the fireworks. He’s known as a stickler for safety and claims that it would have taken an act of God to set off the canisters of gunpowder.”
“Or a far less Divine Being.”
Their eyes met over her mug.
“You noticed nothing suspicious in the area?” he asked after a long moment.
Arianna shook her head. “My attention was all on Kydd. He was oh so close to confiding in me. I think he was having second thoughts about his involvement . . .” She swirled the chocolate and watched the dark liquid form a silent, spinning vortex. “In any case, I still might have learned something important from the interlude. I got him to talk about words that had special meaning for him, thinking you might try them as keys for the code.”
“Clever thinking,” he conceded. But if anything, his expression grew more troubled. He moved to the sideboard and poured himself a large glass of brandy. Which he proceeded to down in one swift swallow.
“Sandro, is something bothering you?”
“Other than the fact that my wife was standing a scant foot away from a man who had half his skull blown to bits?” he shot back.
A chill snaked down her spine. “Gunpowder is a volatile substance. It could have been an accident.”
“The metal fragments I found embedded in his flesh were a thin gauge steel,” he said flatly. “The canisters are made of heavy lead.”
“So you think someone deliberately tossed a bomb to kill him?’
“And most likely you. I had only a quick look, but it appeared as if the killing arc—the spread of the lethal fragments—was thrown off. Perhaps he moved at the last moment and it struck his back instead of his chest.”
Arianna felt herself go pale.
“What?” he asked softly.
“Yes, Kydd did move.” She hurried on, hoping he wouldn’t ask her to explain. “But if what you suspect is true, why the big explosion? Wasn’t the assassin risking his own life by setting off such a conflagration?”
“He may have inadvertently dropped a lucifer. Or he may have planned to cover his crime by making it look like an accident, then set his fuse too short.” Saybrook lifted his shoulders. “There are many ways in which a plan can go wrong.”
A not-so-subtle warning. But then, her husband did not appear to be in much of a mood for nuances.
“Arianna, this masquerade you have undertaken—”
“If you are about to order me to abandon our plan, you may save your breath.”
“It’s too dangerous,” insisted Saybrook.
“I beg to differ. So far, there has been no hint of trouble. We both know that most people see only what they expect to see—and no one in his wildest dreams will imagine that Monsieur Richard is a female.”