Sweet Revenge Part 2

"Non, iz not amusing. Not in ze least," she agreed, deliberately drawing out her French accent. "Iz grave, very grave."

The captain glared, uncertain as to whether he was being played for a fool. Snapping open a leather-bound ledger, he scanned over several pages of notes before speaking again. "I have sworn statements that you were the only one working in the kitchen the night the Prince was poisoned. Is that true?"

"ca depend-that depends," answered Arianna calmly. "The servants who carried the dishes up to the dining room were in and out all evening." She paused. "I'm sure you have been told that the supper was a lengthy affair, with numerous courses."

"Did you see anyone tampering with the food?" he asked quickly.

"Non."

"Nor anyone lingering below stairs?" It was the officer by the window who asked the question.

"Non," replied Arianna, not looking his way. While her first response had been the truth, this one was a lie. She had seen someone, but she had no intention of sharing that information with the Crown.

Shoving back his chair, the captain rose abruptly, setting off a jangle of metal. Arianna watched the flutter of ribbons and braid as the gaudy bits of gilded bra.s.s and enameled silver stilled against his chest. Did the man have any notion how ridiculous he looked, strutting about in his peac.o.c.k finery? His martial scowl was belied by the fleshiness of his hands as he braced them on the polished wood. They looked soft as dough.

A bread soldier, thought Arianna. A staff flunky. Put him in a real fight and a b.u.t.ter knife would cut through him in one swift slice. As for the other one, he looked to be made of sterner stuff. She guessed that he was the man in command.

"Mr. Alphonse!" Raising his voice to a near shout, the captain leaned in and angled his chin to a menacing tilt. "Did you try to murder the Prince Regent?"

Arianna ducked her head to hide a smile. Conceited c.o.xcomb-I've been bullied by far more intimidating men than you.

"If you answer me honestly, it will go a lot easier for you," he went on. "Otherwise future interrogations could become quite unpleasant." His mouth twitched into a nasty smile. "For you, that is."

"I have told you ze truth. I did not poison the Prince," she said. "If you don't believe me, why don't you search the kitchen?"

The draperies stirred, echoing a low laugh. "What do you think my men are doing as we speak?" The officer there moved to stand in front of the windows. Limned in the morning light, his silhouette was naught but a stark dark shape against the panes of gla.s.s-save for the halo of ginger fire.

"I have nothing to fear," she answered calmly. The bag containing her disguises was well hidden beneath a pantry floorboard, with the weight and odor of the onion barrel discouraging too close an inspection of the dark corner. "I am innocent of any attack on your Prince."

The captain replied with a vulgar oath.

"Am I under arrest?" asked Arianna, deciding it was to her advantage to end the interview as soon as possible. She had overheard two of the guards discussing their orders earlier, and was aware that Whitehall was sending another interrogator later in the day. She would save her strength for that confrontation.

"Not yet, you stinking little piece of-"

"Leave us for a moment, Captain Mercer." The other officer cut off his cohort with a clipped command.

The captain snapped a salute. "Have a pleasant chat with the Major, Froggy," he muttered under his breath.

The Major's boots clicked over the parquet floor, echoing the sound of the door falling shut. Approaching the captain's vacated chair, he picked up a penknife from the table and slowly began cleaning his nails.

Snick. Snick. Snick. The faint sc.r.a.pings were meant to put her on edge, thought Arianna as she watched the flash of slivered steel. Like her, the Major understood the importance of theatrics.

The noise ceased.

Bowing her head, she remained silent.

"I think you are lying to us, Mr. Alphonse," he said in a deceptively mild tone.

She lifted her shoulders in a Gallic shrug. "What can I say? Iz hard to offer proof for an act that I haven't committed."

"Oh, I don't expect you to speak right now. I am perfectly happy to let you stew a little longer about your fate." He stroked at his side whiskers, and his fingers came away with a trace of Maca.s.sar oil on their tips. "You see, I expect you to die. But if you give us the information we want, the process will be a good deal less painful for you."

Arianna kept her expression impa.s.sive.

"What's the matter, cat got your tongue?"

"Arguing with you would only be a waste of breath," she murmured. "Am I excused? The household expects to eat at noon."

"Go." He placed the blade atop the captain's sheaf of notes. "But be a.s.sured, you haven't heard the last from me."

3.

From the chocolate notebooks of Dona Maria Castellano The cacao tree was a symbol not only of health but of wealth. A prized commodity, the beans were used as currency by Aztecs. The missionary mentions seeing a local doc.u.ment that listed some of the trading values-a tomato cost one cacao bean, an avocado cost three beans, and a turkey hen cost 100 beans. . . . The next few pages of his journal show some sketches of various drinking vessels for cacao. Oh, how I should like to find one of the ceremonial cups, made from a hollow gourd, that were used to serve the army its elixir. It would make a special gift for Sandro, and perhaps keep him safe. . . .

Chocolate Stout Cake 1 stick ( cup) unsalted b.u.t.ter, plus 2 melted tablespoons

cup stout, such as Mackeson or Guinness (pour stout

slowly into measuring cup; do not measure foam)

cup packed soft pitted prunes (6 ounces), chopped

3 ounces fine-quality bittersweet chocolate

(not unsweetened or extra-bitter), chopped

1 cups all-purpose flour

teaspoon baking soda

teaspoon salt

2 large eggs

1 cup packed dark brown sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla

1. Put oven rack in middle position and preheat oven to 350F. Lightly brush 6-cup Bundt pan or 8-by-3-inch ovenproof ring mold with half the melted b.u.t.ter and chill 2 minutes. Then b.u.t.ter again and chill while making batter.

2. Bring stout to a boil in a small saucepan and add prunes. Remove from heat and let stand until most of liquid is absorbed.

3. Meanwhile, melt chocolate and remaining stick b.u.t.ter together in a small heavy saucepan over low heat, stirring constantly. Sift together flour, baking soda, and salt into a bowl.

4. Beat together eggs, brown sugar, and vanilla in a large bowl with an electric mixer at high speed until thick, about 2 minutes. Add chocolate mixture and beat until just combined. Reduce speed to low and add flour mixture, mixing until just combined. Stir in prune mixture until combined well. Spoon batter into pan and bake until a wooden skewer inserted into middle of cake comes out clean, 40 to 45 minutes.

5. Cool cake in mold on a rack 10 minutes, then invert onto rack to cool completely, at least 30 minutes.

"Thank you for coming to see me, Lord Saybrook." Grentham didn't look up from the doc.u.ment he was reading. "I trust that the request did not inconvenience you."

Without waiting for an invitation, Alessandro Henry George De Quincy, the fifth Earl of Saybrook, shifted his cane and sat down in the chair facing the desk. "Not at all. I am always at the beck and call of the government."

Grentham dipped his pen in ink and wrote a lengthy notation in the paper's margin before setting his work aside. "How kind." Narrowing his gunmetal-gray eyes, he subjected Saybrook to a lengthy scrutiny.

The earl stared back, seemingly unconcerned that he looked like he had just crawled out of the deepest, darkest corner of h.e.l.l. His long black hair was neatly combed and his face freshly shaven, but no brush or razor could disguise the ravages that pain and narcotics had wrought on his body. Sallow skin stretched over bones sharp as sabers, bruised shadows accentuated his hollow cheeks, and his clothes hung loosely on his lanky frame.

Grentham, on the other hand, was immaculately attired in a charcoal coat of superfine wool, which set off the starched folds of his snowy cravat to perfection.

"But now that we have met," the minister went on, "I cannot help but wonder whether your trip here was a waste of both your time and mine."

"My uncle has explained the task at hand," replied Saybrook, matching the other man's sardonic tone. "If I did not feel myself up to its rigors, I should not have bothered coming here." After allowing a fraction of a pause, he added, "One of the first lessons I learned as an army intelligence officer was that appearances can often be deceiving."

Grentham's nostrils flared for an instant, but he covered his displeasure with a bland smile. "So, you think that you are capable of rising to the occasion, Lord Saybrook?" Again the gunmetal gaze raked over the earl's legs. "Despite your infirmity?"

"I a.s.sure you, sir, my infirmity does not affect my performance."

The minister folded his well-tended hands on his blotter. "And yet, according to the surgeon's report on you, the French saber cut perilously close to your manhood. I wonder . . ."

Saybrook maintained a mask of indifference. "Do you antic.i.p.ate that the job will entail swiving one of the witnesses?" He paused for a fraction. "Or b.u.g.g.e.ring the cook?"

"Are you fond of boys, Lord Saybrook?" countered Grentham.

"Not unnaturally so," he answered.

"And women?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Let us just say that I am curious," replied the minister.

"And let us just say that I am not inclined to satisfy your curiosity."

"You are very clever, Lord Saybrook. But cleverness can sometimes lead a man into trouble."

"So can stupidity." Appearing to tire of the cat-and-mouse word games, Saybrook regripped his cane. "If you wish to speak about the a.s.signment, let us do so. Otherwise, I will return to my town house. You have obviously read a thorough dossier on me, so I imagine you have already decided whether you think me fit for the job."

"A written report can tell only so much about a man," replied the minister. "I prefer to judge for myself before making a final decision."

Saybrook started to rise.

"Please sit, Lord Saybrook." Papers shuffled. "I've been told that you are-for lack of a better term-an expert in chocolate. Might I inquire how you came to be so?" An edge of sarcasm crept into his voice. "a.s.suming that I am not offending your delicate sensibilities with my questions."

"My Spanish grandmother pa.s.sed on her knowledge to me," replied Saybrook. "In Andalusia, she was renowned for her healing skills, as well as her cooking talents."