Nothing.

  Drawing a measured breath, Arianna leaned back against the pillows. “Sandro is of the opinion that there’s nothing more we can do—other than accept the truth, and allow the government to act as it sees fit in order to protect the country.”

  “But . . .”

  “I don’t like it any more than you do.” Her hands knotted together in her lap. “However, it’s hard to argue with him.”

  Light winked off the dowager’s polished lens. “Men see things through a prism of pragmatism. A quick glance and they are inclined to simply move on. While we ladies understand that what we see can sometimes be altered by our perspective. We’re willing to take a more nuanced view of things.”

  A wise observation. But in this case, Arianna feared they were grasping at mere illusions.

  “If I could think of any lead to pursue . . .” She let her voice trail off.

  “Hmmph.” Constantina lowered her quizzing glass. “Gerard will of course keep his eyes and ears open among his fellow French diplomats,” she mused, referring to her French paramour. “And once he leaves for Paris and the conference with the Allied delegations, there may be further opportunity for sleuthing.”

  “Sandro accepted Charles’s invitation to attend a diplomatic dinner tonight,” she replied. “Given how much he loathes that sort of affair, I imagine that he, too, will be hoping against hope that he might hear something useful.”

  The dowager smoothed at the pleats of her silken skirts. “By the by, I’m also going to be traveling to Paris. Not with Gerard, of course. I will be staying with an old friend, but he and I will have ample opportunity to circulate within the diplomatic circles.” A pause, as Constantina’s expression turned wistful. “I confess, I am also looking forward to the food and the fashions. I have youthful memories of Paris as a city of magical splendors. It will be lovely to experience them again.”

  Arianna forced a smile. “It’s important to celebrate the pleasures of life. We cannot let the darkness squeeze all the light from this world.”

  “You’re right. And yet . . .” The dowager lapsed into a troubled silence. “How has Sophia taken the news?”

  “Not well, I fear. She refused an invitation to tea, but come tomorrow I shall pay her a visit. Brooding is corrosive to the spirit.” As I know well, she added to herself.

  Regripping her cane, the dowager rose. “We all must do our best to stay positive. I still say there may be an explanation that we’re just not seeing.”

  “Given that Grentham’s world is a devil-dark place of twisted lies and duplicitous intrigue, it’s possible,” said Arianna dryly. “However, I’m inclined to think the worst. That way I’m rarely disappointed.”

  After seeing Constantina to the door, Arianna spent the next few hours in the kitchen, experimenting with some new chocolate recipes she had discovered among the private journals of Marie Antoinette’s personal physician. The act of cooking—the careful preparation of ingredients, the magic of mixing them together, the heady aromas—always had a calming effect. Her mind relaxed, allowing her worries to slip away for an interlude.

  After fixing herself a plate of the freshly baked almond-studded confections infused with essence of orange, she retired to her study to read more on the history of cacao cultivation in the New World. The rain had stopped, and the occasional glimmers of moonlight through the scudding clouds gave the lingering mist a silvery glow. With the warmth of the sugar-spiced chocolate melting on her tongue, Arianna settled into an armchair by the window and opened the leather-bound book.

  But the words soon began to drift in and out of focus on the page as her concentration began to wander. She tried to shake off the niggling sensation that some key clue was hovering at the edge of her consciousness.

  What am I missing?

  “Damnation.” Snapping the covers shut, she set the book aside. “Stop stewing,” she muttered. “Ye gods, Grentham doesn’t deserve our concern. He intended to kill me the other night.” She made a face. “Yet again.”

  The chiding, however, did nothing to settle her jumpy nerves. Perhaps it was because she felt like a fool for having misjudged his character so badly. The fault lay with her. A cold-blooded cobra did not shed its true skin and deadly fangs.

  Rising, she began to pace the perimeter of the room. Her skirts swirled around her legs, kicking up shadows that dipped and darted through the gloom. As if sensing the agitation, the lamp flame shimmied, throwing flickers of light over the bookcases and curio cabinet.

  Arianna stopped short, a gleam of gold from an ancient Aztec artifact catching her eye.

  Gold.

  And suddenly the elusive memory spun into vivid clarity.

  “Oh, you scheming dastard.” The more she thought about it, the more she considered it likely. “You’re clever enough to think you can get away with adding insult to injury.”

  The minutes were creeping closer to midnight. Mayfair’s mansions had settled into slumber, with only the usual late-night sounds from the alleyways flitting through the air. Arianna had quickly changed into men’s pantaloons and soft-soled boots—determined that no skirts would tangle her limbs if it came down to another mano a mano confrontation. Satisfied that no movement was afoot in the mist-shrouded back garden, she tugged up the hood of her black cloak, and took up a small metal lantern, its flame shuttered for now.

  A last pat to her pocket adjusted the butt of her new pistol before she slipped through the half-open scullery door and picked her way along the grassy border of the graveled path to the back gate.

  Its well-oiled latch yielded to her touch with a noiseless release.

  Across the alleyway, the mews sat in stillness, the horses and carriages resting peacefully beneath the velvety blanket of darkness.

  Ah, but peace could be deceiving. Arianna lingered within the shadows of the garden wall, watching, watching . . .

  The memory that had come to her was of a casual conversation during their Channel crossing from Antwerp to London . . .

  Has it really been only a fortnight ago? The world felt as if it had been turned upside down in the interim.

  Shaking off such distracting thoughts, she forced herself to concentrate on the present moment. Which, if her intuition was right, might very well bring her face to face with the traitor.

  Closing her eyes for an instant, she recalled Grentham’s chuckle as Saybrook had mentioned that the subterranean passageway that ran from the mews to their townhouse’s wine cellar was not only an excellent escape route, but also a perfect place to leave a stash of gold in case a quick flight was necessary. The minister had agreed that that it was clever planning—one never knew when Trouble would strike, so it was always best to be prepared.

  A check of the passageway several nights ago had shown no sign of entry. The sack of gold was untouched. But Grentham, who by the very nature of his occupation never scrupled to seize any advantage that presented itself, was a ruthless master of intrigue. Money would be extremely useful for a man on the run. Arianna felt it in her bones that he wouldn’t pass up the chance to grab it.

  Moving swiftly, she approached the mews and slipped around to the side wall, where the square iron door, which appeared to be naught but a grain chute, was set close to the ground. She ran her fingers around the outer edge and felt it was slightly ajar.

  In for a penny, in for a pound.

  Arianna stripped off her cloak and set the lantern aside. She would need stealth and silence to catch the intruder off guard.

  And a weapon, of course. The pocket pistol fit perfectly in her palm.

  Thankful that no moonlight reached into the slivered recess between the buildings to give warning of her entrance, she eased the door open and maneuvered herself inside.

  Scuff, scuff. The sound of movement was slight but unmistakable. As was the faint pooling of light up head. A half dozen steps brought her to where the narrow passageway took a sharp bend. Pressing her cheek to the cold stone, she ventured a quick peek.

  The figure crouched down and opening the carefully concealed hiding place was unshaven and dressed in the tattered clothing of a vagrant. But she, too, knew the tricks of how to turn oneself into a chameleon. She would have recognized Grentham through any disguise.

  A tiny click-click reverberated through the damp gloom as Arianna cocked the two hammers of her weapon.

  “I should have guessed you would remember a few random sentences.” Grentham sat back on his haunches and slowly looked up. “You have a knack for recalling uncomfortable facts.”

  “A bomb has a way of jogging one’s memory.”

  He ignored the retort. “Not to speak of having an unfortunate habit of sticking your nose in nooks and crannies where it doesn’t belong.

  “Actually, this isn’t about me,” said Arianna, as she slid a step closer. “What the devil are you up to?”

  A lordly sneer. “I should think that’s abundantly clear.”

  “Not really,” she replied. “You wish for me to believe you’re doing it for money?”

  “Money is, after all, the root of all Evil.” Grentham shrugged. “But no, of course it’s not about money.”

  “Then what?”

  “I have my reasons, Lady Saybrook,” he drawled, “which I’m certainly not going to share with you.”

  “I may not deserve an explanation,” responded Arianna. “But what about Sophia?”

  Was it merely the flicker of the lamp flame? Or did a shadow of emotion darken his eyes?

  Regardless, it was gone in the next instant.

  “What of her?” he said coldly. “She longs for a hero. Both you and I know she chose the wrong man.”

  Deciding that any further probing of personal feelings was useless—unless she used a hammer and chisel—she chose to try a different line of questioning. “I take it you’re heading to Paris?”

  “At some point, yes,” replied Grentham. “But for now, I have urgent business in Scotland, then a ship to catch from Newcastle to Hamburg. And from there, on to Berlin.”

  “No doubt spinning an intricate web of deceit and double-crossing along the way.”

  “But of course.” He sounded amused. “You, of all people, know I’m not happy unless I’m casting my sticky threads hither and yon.”

  Arianna took deliberate aim at his heart. “You know damn well I can’t let you go.”

  “Do be sensible for once and withdraw,” he shot back. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “What’s this—an attack of conscience?” She scowled at him. “How very touching. And yet, you tried to kill us all.”

  Arianna wasn’t sure what she expected—remorse, perhaps, or at least a tacit apology —but the barb drew naught but a careless shrug. “My underling was a trifle overzealous. It was meant to frighten you.”

  “Frighten us? Us?” She made a rude sound. “Oh, don’t be an arse.”

  He laughed. “Hope springs eternal.”

  Their gazes met. In the shaky light, Grentham’s eyes were hard and black as polished obsidian.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” Turning back to the wall, he jiggled out the last loose stone in the wall, revealing the hidden compartment, and fished out the leather bag of coins. “I’m in somewhat of a hurry.”

  Her grip tightened on her weapon. “Drop the money and move away from the wall, milord.”

  “You’re not going to make this pleasant, are you?”

  “Slowly, sir,” she warned.

  “Or what—you’ll shoot me?” His brow rose in a mocking arch. “Unlike me, you don’t have the killer instinct.”

  “Try me,” she said coolly.

  He released a mournful sigh. “Very well.”

  Arianna tensed, alert for any hint of trickery. He was right—she didn’t have the stomach to put a bullet in his heart, but a shot to the thigh would bring him to his knees.

  Smiling, he raised his hand in mock surrender and took a step—and gave a lightning quick flick of his wrist.

  Metal hit metal, the heavy weight of the coins knocking the pistol from her hand. He was on her in a flash, his long, lithe hands grabbing her arms and pinning them behind her back.

  “Bastard,” she swore, twisting and trying to ram her knee up between his legs. But he dodged the move with ease.

  “How very unladylike,” drawled Grentham. “But you forget, I’m aware that you fight like a Fury from Hell.

  She landed a hard kick to his shins, which only brought a nastier grin to his face.

  “My apologies,” he murmured, giving her arms a painful wrench, then spinning her to face him. “But our encounter, however entertaining, must now come to an end.”

  Arianna felt one of his hands loosen and tried to break away.

  He jerked her back and raised a fist.

  No, no, no! She couldn’t believe her eyes.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She opened her mouth to scream—too late! The sound was lost in a clap of thunder.

  And then everything went black.

  Chapter 8

  “Arianna, Arianna!”

  The whisper, though faint and coming from very far away, was like a spike lancing through her skull.

  Her lashes fluttered, sending a wave of exquisite pain crashing over her brow.

  If she wasn’t yet dead, Arianna found herself hoping that she would be in the next instant. Surely Hell couldn’t be as torturous as whatever netherworld currently had her in its clutches.

  “Arianna!”

  “Milady!”

  The two voices, coming from opposite directions, stirred a hazy realization that she must still be in the passageway and hadn’t yet shuffled off her mortal coil. Though when Saybrook got his hands on her . . .

  A groan slipped from her lips. She wasn’t looking forward to his calling her a hen-witted fool. Her pride was bruised enough for one night.

  “Arianna.” Saybrook’s voice was barely more than a shaky breath as he brushed his lips to her brow. “Dio Madre, are you all right?”

  The gentle touch caused her to wince. “Yes.” She forced her eyes open. “Other than the fact that my head hurts like the devil.”

  The memory of what had happened came flashing back in her mind’s eye—a coiled fist, a glint of steel.

  “Oooo, the bloody, bloody dastard,” she added after another wince. “Grentham is wrong about my killer instinct. If he were here right now, I’d murder him on the spot.”

  “That wouldn’t be necessary,” growled her husband. “He would already be dead.”

  She started to sit up, only to have Saybrook hold her down. “Lie still. A hard blow to the head is a serious matter. Rest easy for a bit longer, and then I’ll carry you back to our bedchamber.”

  “The only real injury is to my pride,” replied Arianna. “I was watching him like a hawk, and yet he still got the better of me.” She made a face. “My reflexes must be getting slow.”

  “It appears he hit you with something other than his fist.” The earl finished examining her wound and wiped the traces of blood from his fingers. “I take back my earlier statement. I would first cut out his liver piece by miniscule piece before sending him to meet Satan.”

  “With a rusty razor, I hope.” She gingerly touched the lump on the side of her head. It felt like the size of an ostrich egg. “It was a short length of metal—steel, I think.”

  A growl.

  “But never mind that now,” Arianna added. She explained about the encounter and the sack of gold—which, she had noted, was no longer lying on the flagstones. “I let him escape with the money.”

  “I’d rather that than have had you pay for the encounter with your life.” The earl added a few words in Spanish as he sat back on his haunches. “The question is, what’s he aiming to do with it?”

  “You don’t believe the itinerary he mentioned?”

  The question elicited a very rude sound.

  “Actually, we shouldn’t dismiss it as merely a ruse.” Arianna watched the shadows from the earl’s lantern play over the rough stones, the helter-pelter skitters making her feel a little queasy. “He’s clever enough to expect us to do just that.”

  “A double double-cross?” He shifted position. “That you’re starting to think like him is rather alarming. I had better get you to bed without further delay.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of walking on my own,” she protested, hastily getting to her feet.

  And promptly retched as a wave of dizziness hit her.

  “Right,” murmured Saybrook, catching her before she fell face-first back to the flagging. “And pigs can fly.”

  “Consider yourself lucky, lassie.” Finished with his examination, Henning returned his medical instruments to their battered leather satchel and let out a grunt. “Had he hit you on the temple, you would be getting fitted for a pair of snow-white wings rather than sitting up amid your downy bed pillows, sipping a cup of spiced chocolate.”

  “You’re far more optimistic than I am about my chances of making it through the Pearly Gates, Baz.” Arianna savored a mouthful of the rich beverage. “Not that I’m yearning for Heaven. I doubt St. Peter and his minions know how to brew a pot of chocolate to my taste.”

  That made the surgeon laugh.

  Saybrook, she noted, was not smiling. “Much as I agree with maintaining a sense of humor in the face of adversity,” he said slowly, “this is not a matter for jesting or bon mots.”

  Henning cleared his throat with a cough and turned to help himself to the pot of coffee that had just been delivered along with the chocolate.

  “You came within a hairsbreadth of death, and all because you chose to ignore the obvious danger of challenging Grentham—a man whose lifeblood depends on repressing the smallest twinge of conscience—on your own.” The earl’s expression betrayed exasperation. But the look of raw fear beneath it made Arianna ashamed of herself.

  “I would ring a peal over your head that would rattle your skull,” he added, “if I didn’t know it would fall on deaf ears.”

  “I . . .” She hesitated. I simply couldn’t bring myself to believe that he would harm me. “I didn’t think he would—”