Recipe for Treason Part 2

"You know I've no interest in doing Grentham's dirty work for him regarding the Dragons of St. Andrews or any other secret society dedicated to democratic ideals and independence from the Crown," a.s.sured the earl. "I'm only after Renard and his cohorts. The ident.i.ties of any other people I meet will be safe with me."

"I don't doubt you, Sandro."

"But you are uncertain of whether that is good enough protection for your Scottish friends?" pressed Arianna.

Henning gave a cryptic shrug.

"Grentham has given me the name of the government's contact in St. Andrews, who will help arrange the release of your nephew and provide any other local a.s.sistance that we may need. I shall be discreet in my dealings with him."

"You have to be discreet about a lot of things, laddie," said Henning flatly. "First and foremost, if it becomes known that you and Lady S are fancy English aristocrats, I could beg until I am blue in the face and the Scots won't talk to ye. Never forget, they hate the Sa.s.senach."

"You have been very diligent in reminding us of that," said Arianna softly.

The surgeon blew out his cheeks. "Lady S, ye grew up in the New World, so I daresay it's hard for you to comprehend the bitter hate and distrust ingrained in the Scots, the Welsh and the Irish by centuries of subjugation by the English. In many ways, the mighty British Empire is a seething powder keg, ready to explode."

"You've always said that violence is not the right way to effect change," said Saybrook. "If your beliefs have changed, tell us now, Baz. I respect your feelings and will not ask you to go against your conscience. But on the other hand, I must know whether I can count on you as an ally."

The silence seemed to grow louder with every pa.s.sing heartbeat.

"Aye," Henning finally answered. "You can count on my loyalty. I am a radical when it comes to abstract notions of freedom and equality, but I'm not a revolutionary. France has shown us the horrors of writing change in blood rather than ink."

"Thank you." Saybrook was quick to move on. Taking a small object from his pocket, he handed it to Henning. "Earlier, you said you recognized this."

"Yes," replied the surgeon, fingering the silver fob. "It's the badge of the Dragons of St. Andrews."

Arianna craned her neck for a closer look. She knew that the Dragons were a secret society dedicated to creating an independent Scotland, governed by democratic rule and the principles of individual freedom. Its members were mostly idealistic university students, but during their last mission, they had learned that the group had come under the control of Renard, who had used the young men for his own objectives. "Your nephew was arrested by the English for being a cell leader."

The surgeon nodded. "Sandro and I found a similar one in David Kydd's rooms before you two left for Vienna."

She closed her eyes for an instant, trying not to picture the blinding flash, the grisly explosion of blood and bone. The young diplomat, a brilliant protege of Saybrook's uncle, had been a friend. He had also been an unwitting p.a.w.n in Renard's sinister games.

"You think that the French still control the group?"

"It seems a logical place to start," answered Saybrook. "Especially given what Baz remembered reading in the technical journal from the university at St. Andrews."

Henning nodded his a.s.sent, though he didn't look overly happy about it. "Speaking of starting places, once we cross the border into Scotland, I think it best for you two to a.s.sume the new ident.i.ties we've agreed on. As I said, my friends won't be keen to confide in an English earl or countess, no matter how much I a.s.sure them that you are trustworthy. Presenting you as an old Spanish comrade from the war will raise far fewer hackles, Sandro . . . though as I said, the Scots tend to be wary of all strangers."

"That should present no problem," said Saybrook. "I would hope that an air of lordly arrogance and ent.i.tlement has not yet attached itself to my person."

Arianna smiled. Her husband was perhaps even more radical than most revolutionaries when it came to his views on inherited wealth and privilege. "Nor mine either," she added. "But then, I've had far less practice."

Though the daughter of an earl, Arianna had lived most of her life in poverty, her aristocratic birth of no consequence in the day-to-day struggle to survive. "My Spanish is excellent, as is my American accent . . ." She switched to a flat drawl. "The role merely requires me to slide into one of my old skins." There were three-maybe four-to choose from.

"The skills acquired during your stint with the theatrical troupe in Barbados have certainly proved useful," said Saybrook.

"Most husbands would not find the fact that their wife is a master of disguise and deception a mark in her favor," replied Arianna, her gaze locking briefly with his.

The smoky flicker of the carriage lamp caught a momentary ripple of amus.e.m.e.nt in his chocolate-dark eyes. It was gone in an instant, for despite his Spanish blood, which proclaimed itself in his raven-dark hair, olive skin and lean features, it was his more reserved English nature that dominated the expression of his emotions. She had never met anyone quite so in command of his feelings as the earl.

"One man's poison is another man's pleasure," he quipped.

"I never tried to poison you," she protested. "I just tried to p.r.i.c.k you with a knife so you couldn't chase after me."

"Just," murmured her husband.

The scuff of Henning's boots on the floorboards interrupted their teasing exchange.

"Dio Madre, Baz, you are jumpy as a cat on a hot griddle," said Saybrook. "We've been perilously close to the fire before and danced over the coals without being burned. I've every intention of coming through this adventure unsinged as well."

Folding his arms across his chest, the surgeon only grunted.

That Henning refused to take part in his usual hard-edged banter with the earl was not a good omen, thought Arianna.

"If something is bothering you, I wish you would tell us what it is," she said. Like her husband, his friend hid his feelings very well. At times, both of them reminded her of hedgehogs, rolled tightly into little b.a.l.l.s with p.r.i.c.kly bristles pointing outward to fend off any touch.

"Are you worried about something specific?" she went on.

"Aye," he said glumly, "I'm worried about when the next body is going to appear. And whose it will be."

3.

From Lady Arianna's Chocolate Notebooks Double Chocolate Scones 3 cups all-purpose flour 1/4 cup sugar 4 teaspoons baking powder 1/4 teaspoon salt 1/2 cup (1 stick) b.u.t.ter 3 large eggs 1/2 cup milk 3/4 cup mini chocolate chips 1 tablespoon grated orange peel 1/4 cup white chocolate chips 1. Preheat the oven to 450F. Grease a large cookie sheet. Stir the flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt in a large bowl. Use a pastry blender or two knives to cut the b.u.t.ter into the dry ingredients until coa.r.s.e crumbs form.

2. Beat the eggs and milk in a small bowl with a wire whisk or a fork. When thoroughly blended, stir this mixture, along with 1/2 cup of the mini chocolate chips and the orange peel, into the flour mixture just until blended.

3. Shape the dough with lightly floured hands into an 8-inch round on the prepared cookie sheet; dust with flour. Score the top of the dough into 8 wedges with a sharp knife.

4. Bake for 20 to 25 minutes, until golden. Cool completely on a wire rack. Meanwhile, stir the remaining 1/4 cup mini chocolate chips and the white chocolate chips in separate small, heavy saucepans over very low heat until melted and smooth. Drizzle each chocolate from the tip of a spoon in random lines over the tops of the scones. Let stand for 15 minutes to set the chocolate. Cut the scones into wedges along the score lines.

Gray on gray, the distant church spire was silhouetted against the sky, a dark needle piercing the gloomy mists. Below it, the ancient rooftops of the town floated in and out of view, hide-and-seek spectres. Dark, slightly menacing.

The university town of St. Andrews did not appear very welcoming. Perhaps it senses that we are intruders, mused Arianna. Hostile forces, come to make war.

Heaving an inward sigh, she watched as their coach rolled closer and closer.

To the left, beyond the dark swaths of rain-swept gra.s.s and gorse, the pewter gray ocean was rising and falling in sullen swells, with occasional whitecaps foaming like flashes of teeth. The wash of the waves. .h.i.t upon the rocky strand with a rough, rasping sound, so unlike the tropical lilt of the Caribbean waters.

Oh, at times how she missed those faraway islands-the spicy warmth, the vibrant colors, the humid breezes, humming with music.

Much of her childhood in the West Indies had been grim. Her father, forced into exile for his less-than-honorable business gambles, had been murdered when she was fourteen, leaving her alone in the world and forced to fend for herself. Jamaica, Barbados, Martinique . . . She had floated around more rum-drenched h.e.l.lholes than she cared to count before returning to England.

And a chance for revenge.

But strangely enough, she had come to care more for justice than for retribution.

A glance at Saybrook's profile, his aquiline nose and slanted cheekbones sharp in the muted light, provoked a tiny smile as she recalled that from the very first, she had been struck by his unyielding sense of honor. They had clashed-and still did-she the cynic, he the idealist, though he would likely bristle at the notion.

Her eyes moved to Henning, who sat slouched on the far side of the seat staring moodily out the window, and her smile faded.

Grim. Gray.

Another sigh, this one audible. The last two days, which had been spent visiting his sister in Edinburgh, had not been a comfortable interlude. The surgeon's relatives were not unfriendly, just . . . dour. Chiseled faces, burred voices, granite dwellings, hardscrabble landscape-everything in Scotland seemed hewn out of rain-lashed stone.

"What are those men doing?" asked Saybrook, pressing closer to the window to get a better look at the pair poking at a gorse bush with long wooden sticks. "Hunting rabbits?"

A gruff chuckle sounded from Henning. "Hunting featheries-that is, a st.i.tched leather ball filled with feathers. They are playing golf."

"Golf?" repeated Arianna.

"Aye. It's a game. One whacks a ball around a course filled with hazards, like sand bunkers, streams and bushes. The object is to knock it into a small hole in the ground with as few strokes as possible."

Wind whipped against the coach, the pelter of rain rattling like a hail of bullets against the window gla.s.s. "And that is considered amus.e.m.e.nt?" she asked, raising a skeptical brow.

"It's quite popular here in the north. Indeed, it's considered a national sport of sorts."

The Scots seemed even more incomprehensible, she thought.

"St. Andrews is considered the birthplace of the game." He made a face. "So fer G.o.d's sake, don't ridicule it in public."

Had Henning taken offense at her teasing? It was so unlike him to have such a thin skin.

"On the contrary, I have a great respect for your game of golf," said Saybrook, quick to smooth any ruffled feathers. "I have heard that it requires careful strategy and precise execution, for so many variables affect the outcome of each shot. One must plan ahead, exercise patience, and be ready to improvise." A pause. "Rather like the game we are playing."

Henning leaned down to fasten the buckles of his valise. "In golf, the loser forfeits a pint of ale, while we will pay for defeat in blood." Metal c.h.i.n.ked against metal. "Make yourself ready to begin the chase in earnest. We're almost at our appointed lodgings."

Arianna drew in a lungful of the damp, salt-roughened air. Time to start sniffing out the scent of a very clever-and very dangerous-fox. One who meant to wreak death and destruction at the heart of the British Empire, not merely within a country henhouse.

Arianna watched her husband break the wax seal on the note that had just been slid under their door. He quickly skimmed over the contents and then dropped it into the fire.

"Let us hope Grentham's operative is as well-informed about other things here in St. Andrews as he is about our arrival," he murmured as the paper turned to ash.

"If he was, Grentham would have had no need to blackmail us into his services," she replied darkly. "Will you be going out?"

"Yes." Taking a seat at the small dressing table, he donned a fresh shirt and began to knot a cravat around the upturned collar. Their lodging-at a small, spartan hotel catering to visiting scholars and lecturers-had been arranged by the minister. Arianna a.s.sumed the proprietor was part of Grentham's extensive network of spies and informers. Like some great, sinister spider, the minister had probably woven his web into every corner of the globe, she thought. And from there the strands likely dipped down into the deepest pits of h.e.l.l.

"The note invited me to come at the usual time to share a wee dram at the Rock," went on Saybrook. "As you know, Grentham set up a code name for the rendezvous point and time before we left London."

"I trust you will not go unarmed," she said softly.

His dark eyes met hers in the wavering reflection of the looking gla.s.s. "From here on, I shall always be carrying a turn-off pocket pistol somewhere on my person." The small Italian weapon was designed to fit into the palm of a hand. While useless at long range, it was highly effective in close quarters. "I suggest you do the same."

She nodded and continued unpacking her trunk. "My knife shall keep it company." The flutter of thick-woven wool stirred a sigh as she shook out the skirts of her gowns and hung them in the painted pine armoire. "Be on guard," she murmured after another moment. "I can't quite put my finger on it, but something feels wrong about all this. Even the shadows here in Scotland seem steeped in malice."

Saybrook tweaked the folds of starched linen into perfect alignment before answering. "That's because they have been colored by centuries of blood and betrayal, my dear. We'll find no easy answers in this country. As Baz has warned us, getting information will be as hard as chiseling at Scottish stone with a silver spoon."

"I'm not convinced we'll find any answers here in the north. We've no real evidence to go on, merely suspicions-which at the moment feel flimsier than the finest Chinese silk."

"It may be a wild-goose chase," agreed Saybrook. "But we can't afford to leave any stone unturned in the hunt for Renard."

Arianna chuffed a low, harried exhale in response.

"It's not like you to sound so uncertain," observed her husband. He turned and fixed her with a searching look. "We've faced other complex conundrums, each just as nebulous as this one."

"I know, I know." Her husband's reasonable words only exacerbated her unsettled mood.

"And yet . . . ," he pressed, giving voice to the doubts that she had left unsaid.

"And yet, I keep feeling that in this case we are letting emotion dictate our actions, rather than logic. That's dangerous."

His mouth tipped up at the corners. "Allow me to remind you that the reason we met was because you were h.e.l.l-bent on seeking revenge for your father's murder."

She allowed a reluctant smile. "Put that way, I sound like a flighty female, who flits from one extreme to another."

"No one in his right mind would ever accuse you of being a featherhead. If you have concerns, I wish to hear them."

"I can't quite explain it . . ." Stirred by a draft of air, the double branch of candles flared, the two flames like malevolent eyes peering out from the devil-dark gloom. "But I simply have a bad feeling about being here."

His flicker of amus.e.m.e.nt disappeared. "My wartime experience has taught me to trust intuition. We must both be extra vigilant. If trouble means to strike, let us try to get in the first blow."

His voice, strong and steady despite the softness of its tone, helped calm her nerves. "It's likely just the unremitting cold and damp that has me on edge," she replied, chafing at her arms. "And the haggis."

The previous evening, Henning's sister had served them the national dish of boiled oatmeal and minced sheep organs, encased in a length of chewy intestine. It was not a meal she cared to repeat.

"Many things about Scotland are an acquired taste," he quipped, a brief smile flitting over his lips. "Look, should you wish to return home while I continue-"

Arianna silenced him with a rude oath. "What I wish to do is go over what we learned in Vienna, to make sure we aren't overlooking a vital clue." She paused to refold a paisley shawl and place it in the chest of drawers next to the armoire. "We started to do that with Basil but were distracted. Perhaps it's better that we continue on our own-it may allow for a more frank discussion of the situation."

"Is that a polite way of saying that you are worried about his loyalties?" asked her husband.

"I've no doubt that the bond between the two of you is incredibly strong. But there are a number of conflicting forces pulling at his conscience, and he is, after all, only human. Something may eventually snap."

"I shall do my best not to tug too hard on him." The earl made a careful check of his coat pockets. "d.a.m.n Grentham for maneuvering us into this situation. I'm aware that we must tread very carefully around our friend as well as our enemy."

"The devious b.a.s.t.a.r.d is determined to see that none of us escape from this mission unscathed," muttered Arianna. "He would be just as happy if we perish along with Renard. There is an old adage about killing two birds with one stone-well, in this case, he hopes to hit four."

"Even Grentham doesn't have such an accurate aim," replied her husband lightly. "If he hurls a missile at us, I'll make sure that the ricochet hits him in the a.r.s.e."

"Ha, ha, ha." Her halfhearted attempt at mirth sounded awfully hollow. "In all seriousness, Sandro. If it were up to you, would we be here in Scotland? Or would we be concentrating our efforts on investigating the Duke of Lampson's wayward son? After what happened in Vienna, it seems to me that Lord Reginald's world is where we will find the key to unlocking this conundrum."