A Tangle of Serpents, page 28
Bloody hell. A glint of steel drew her eye back to her assailant.
His fumblings inside his coat revealed not only a book hidden in the waistband of his trousers but a slim-bladed knife.
“Try to use that on me, and you’ll find your cods cut off,” she warned softly.
He blinked, looking torn between anger and fear.
The sliver of silence was broken by the sound of hurried steps in the adjoining room. “Is someone in need of assistance?” called a shop clerk loudly.
Her assailant hesitated for an instant, then whirled and darted for the archway, bumping into the other man as they crossed paths.
Smoothing the wrinkles from his sleeve, the clerk frowned at Arianna. “This is not a place for sordid assignations, Miss,” he chided, looking down his long nose at her chipped straw bonnet and drab serge gown. As his gaze slid to the fallen books, he added a sharp sniff. “I must ask you to leave—immediately. We cater to a very dignified clientele who expect an atmosphere of decorum when they visit us.”
Ah, no good deed goes unpunished, thought Arianna sardonically. On her way home from the rough-and-tumble markets, she had stopped her carriage on impulse to browse through the fancy books. Better to have waited until she had swathed herself in silk and satin for the requisite morning calls in Mayfair.
“First of all, it is Missus,” she corrected. “And secondly, I am quite aware of what sort of patrons frequent your shop.”
The clerk winced at the word “shop.”
“However, you might want to take a closer look at the so-called Quality you allow through your door,” went on Arianna, assuming an air of icy hauteur. “That man was certainly no gentleman. He had a knife, and was probably cutting prints out of your precious volumes.” Her husband had explained how some unscrupulous collectors sliced up rare books for the maps or prints, which were sold individually to art dealers for a much higher profit.
The clerk’s look of disdain now pinched into one of horror.
“He also stole a book,” she added. “I saw it hidden under his coat.”
“B-but he has made several purchases recently, all properly paid for,” protested the clerk. Another glance, another sniff. “You must be mistaken. By all appearances, he is a perfect gentleman, no matter that he is a foreigner.”
“Well he’s not,” shot back Arianna. “You may take my word for it.”
His mouth thinned. “And who, might I ask, are you?”
“The Countess of Saybrook.” Arianna held out the chocolate book. “Now, before you toss me out on my arse, kindly wrap that and write up a receipt. And do make it quick. My carriage is waiting and the earl does not like for his prime cattle to take a chill.”
* * *
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Excerpt: RECIPE FOR TREASON
Book Three in the Lady Arianna Regency Mystery Series
CHAPTER ONE
* * *
A jolt of the coach bounced the open book in her lap, rousing Arianna, Lady Saybrook, from a fitful half sleep. Wincing, she shifted against the leather squabs and flexed her aching shoulders.
“Hell,” she muttered as the wheels hit another frozen rut. This was truly the Devil’s own journey.
Though instead of rolling through fire and sulfurous brimstone, they seemed to be entering a bleak realm of ice and frigid vapors. With each passing mile, the landscape looked more and more leached of all color.
Touching her numb fingertips to the page, Arianna couldn’t help but wish that the handwritten recipe for hot Spanish chocolate might transform from ink and paper into a pot of steaming, spice-scented liquid. Despite the fur throw wrapped around her, she was chilled to the bone by the damp cold seeping in through the creaking woodwork.
And the weather looked to be turning worse.
December was not an auspicious time to be traveling from London to Scotland. Not that there had been any choice, Arianna reminded herself with an unhappy sigh.
Peering out the windowpane, she saw that large flakes of snow had begun to fall, smudges of dull white against the grim grayness of the windswept moors. A shiver skated down her spine. There was something about the dark, desolate surroundings that stirred a prickling of unease.
Her two companions, however, appeared untouched by worry. Alessandro Henry George De Quincy, the fifth Earl of Saybrook—and her husband of little more than a year—was slumbering quietly on the facing seat, his long legs wedged against her bench to steady himself against the bumps. Basil Henning, his good friend and former military comrade, was not quite so peaceful in repose. His raspy snores were growing louder by the minute.
But then, Henning was always a little rough around the edges—stubbled chin, wrinkled clothing, irascible temper . . .
A clench of guilt squeezed at her chest. He wouldn’t be forced to make this miserable trek if it hadn’t been for his loyalty to her and Saybrook in previous adventures.
“Damn Grentham,” swore Arianna under her breath, tucking the wrap tighter around her middle. The government’s Minister of State Security was renowned as a ruthless, manipulative master of intrigue. Most people feared him and didn’t dare to challenge his authority.
But not me.
“He is not a good man to have as an enemy,” she acknowledged in a wry whisper. A fact that hadn’t stopped her from jabbing a needle into his puffed-up vanity on several occasions.
She had won those skirmishes. But as for the war . . .
Another lurching bump. And then all went very still.
“Why are we stopping?” she asked in a louder voice.
Saybrook came instantly awake. Leaning close to the opposite window, he brushed a hand to the fogged pane and squinted into the swirling shadows. “Perhaps a tree has fallen across the road.”
Henning was slower in opening his eyes. “Auch, or perhaps a bloody rein has snapped, or a spoke has cracked,” he grumbled, rubbing at his unshaven chin. “There are a hundred—nay, a thousand—things that can go wrong on these miserable rutted roads of Yorkshire.”
“Thank you for the cheery note of optimism, Baz,” quipped Saybrook.
“If you want sweetness and light, you should have headed south and caught a ship to the balmy shores of Catalonia,” retorted his friend. The earl was, in fact, half-Spanish, a fact that only added to his reputation for eccentricity among the Polite Society of London. “Heaven knows, we would all be far more comfortable there than in this godforsaken wilderness.”
“I’ll step outside and see what the problem is. If there is an obstacle blocking the way, José may need a hand.” Saybrook buttoned his overcoat and, after a hint of hesitation, eased the carriage pistol from its holster by the door before reaching for the latch.
Arianna frowned. “You expect trouble?”
“It is always wise to be prepared—”
CRACK!
One of the windowpanes suddenly exploded in a shattering of silvery shards.
“Get down!” ordered the earl calmly as he ducked low and shoved the door open with his shoulder. “Arm yourselves. The dueling pistols are in their case under the chess set, and the cavalry weapons are in my valise,” he added. “Baz, you guard the left while I reconnoiter on the right.” And with that, he rolled out into the gloom.
Henning’s sleepy scowl vanished. Like Saybrook, he was a battle-toughened veteran of the Peninsular War. The bullet did not spark panic, merely a short, sarcastic laugh.
“Ah well, we did ask for things to get a bit warmer.” His lips pursed as he pulled out the rosewood box and checked the priming of the sleek pistols. “Here, you had best keep one of these fancy barking irons, Lady S. You’ve already proved you know how to use it.” The matched pair had been a gift from the Russian Tsar, who had professed his undying admiration for her marksmanship during their recent stay in Vienna. Her shot had saved . . .
Be damned with old enemies—there were new ones to face.
Arianna took the pistol and then slipped a sheathed knife from her reticule and pushed it into her pocket. The long, slim blade was deceptively dainty looking. Its steel was lethally sharp.
“There is something to be said for possessing an unladylike expertise with deadly weapons,” she replied.
Henning’s chuckle died away in the sound of splintering wood as another bullet smashed through the casement. “Stay here and keep low.” He crawled over her tangled skirts and unlatched the far door. “I’ll go cover Sandro. Whoever is out there is in for a rude surprise.”
“Rude, indeed,” she echoed before following on his heels.
Cold spiked through her as she hit the ground and slithered into the shelter of the spoked wheel. The light, gray and grainy as gunpowder, was fast fading behind the weathered clefts of granite, leaving the narrow road through the ravine shrouded in shadows.
Squinting, she tried to bring the hazy shapes into focus. Sounds were just as muffled—all she could hear above her pounding heart was the nervous snorts of the horses and the rush of a nearby mountain stream tumbling down through the rocks.
Damn. Arianna drew in a deep breath and held herself very still. No sign of movement up ahead, no stirring of . . .
A scuff—and then a step, coming from the rear of the carriage.
Easing back the weapon’s hammer to full cock, she moved forward for a better angle of view.
Swoosh, swoosh. The faint whisper of wool brushing against leather. A moment later, the dark flutter of a greatcoat, skirling around a pair of well-worn boots.
Not those of her husband or his friend.
Arianna tightened her grip on the butt. Her hands were so cold that she could barely feel any sensation in her fingers.
“Ha.” With a low hiss, the stranger dropped to a crouch by the wheel and raised a rifle. “I see you now, behind that rock,” he muttered under his breath. “One . . . two . . .”
“Drop your weapon before I count to three,” said Arianna, moving the pistol to within a hairsbreadth of his temple. “Or you are a dead man.”
His jaw twitched in shock.
“And in case you are wondering, I’m an excellent shot,” she went on. “Not that any aim is required at this distance to blow your skull to Kingdom Come.”
Snarling a low, savage oath, he tried to swing around, but the rifle barrel knocked against the iron rim and went off with a deafening bang.
At the same instant a sharper shot rang out, and a gurgle of blood spurted from the man’s jugular as the earl’s shot tore open his throat. He pitched forward and fell facedown on the hardscrabble ground, a viscous black pool quickly spreading over the snow-dusted stones.
Wrenching her gaze up from his lifeless form, Arianna spotted Saybrook moving along a ridge of rock.
“Sandro—behind you!” she cried in warning as a second silhouette rose from the murky shadows, too close for her to dare a shot.
The earl whirled and lashed out a kick that caught his assailant’s knee, knocking him to the ground. The man rolled out of reach and sprang to his feet, flinging a rock at Saybrook’s head. It missed by a hair, the echoing ricochet sounding like gunfire in the swirling wind.
“Bloody hell, Jem—what are you waiting for! Shoot the bastard,” cried the assailant to some unseen cohort as he whipped a hand up from his boot and cut a slash at Saybrook’s chest.
“He’s got a knife, Sandro,” called Arianna.
“Yes, yes, don’t worry,” he responded, parrying a thrust with a quick flick of his forearm. “Stay where you are.”
Ignoring the order, she edged along the side of the carriage, alert for any other sign of movement. Where was Henning? she wondered. And what of their coachman? A low groan from the driver’s perch seemed to indicate that José had survived the first attack.
Question, questions—but they would have to wait.
A flurry of wild thrusts had forced Saybrook back several steps, giving her a clearer shot at his assailant.
“Tírate al suelo,” she called to him in Spanish, ordering him to duck down.
“Aim for his knee and not his heart,” called her husband. “I want him alive for questioning.”
“Jem!” cried the assailant, his voice turning shrill.
A shot rang out from somewhere on the other side of the coach, followed by a scream. One of the horses whinnied in fright, spooked by the flash of fire.
“Ye’ll be getting no help from Jem.” Henning’s voice rose above a wispy plume of gun smoke.
“I suggest you throw down your blade,” said Saybrook to his attacker. “The lady is a crack shot.”
“As if any bloody female could hit the broad side of a barn,” jeered the assailant, but he sounded a little shaky.
“Oh, I assure you, my wife is no ordinary female.”
Arianna angled the pistol’s barrel a fraction. “I’ll aim a touch high. If I miss, it will hit his cods rather than his knee. Either way, he won’t be walking very steadily for quite a while.”
Her sangfroid seemed to spook the man. Cutting a last halfhearted jab at Saybrook, he suddenly turned and bolted for the tangled wildness of the looming moor.
“Dio Madre!” She was about to pull the trigger and drop him with a shot to the leg when her husband took off after him. Cursing her flapping skirts, she scrabbled up to the top of the ledge and followed as fast as she dared.
* * *
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Excerpt: THE STOLEN LETTERS
A Lady Arianna Regency Novella (Book 3.5 in the Lady Arianna Regency Mystery Series)
The muted tap-tap on the paneled oak door caused Arianna, the Countess of Saybrook, to look up from studying a sheet of age-faded parchment. A frown pinched at the corners of her mouth, but she quickly banished it with a sigh. The household staff was too well trained to disturb her without good reason.
She set reluctantly aside her quill pen. “Come in.”
“Your pardon, milady.” Her husband’s longtime Spanish butler opened the door just wide enough for his low, sonorous voice to be heard. “Lady Sterling apologizes for the lateness of the hour, but wonders if you might have a moment to speak with her.”
“But of course.” Annoyance gave way to a frisson of alarm. Her husband’s great aunt was a lady of feisty independence—and uncommon good sense. A night time visit could only mean one thing.
Trouble.
Ah, but Trouble seems to run in the family.
Arianna quickly rose and gathered her skirts. Though in all fairness, she thought, it was usually her and her husband who found themselves tangled in a nest of vipers.
“She’s waiting in the Blue Parlor,” murmured Sebastian as she hurried past him into the corridor, the swoosh-swoosh of silk stirring a skittering of dark-on-dark shadows.
“Forgive me for disturbing you, my dear.” The dowager Marchioness of Sterling shifted in her seat.
A great beauty in her youth, she was still a striking woman, exuding an aura of elegance and strength of character that transcended her advancing age. Arianna noted that the dowager had chosen one of the highback leather armchairs closest to the hearth, but despite the cheery glow of the fire reflecting off the polished white marble, her fine-boned face looked pale beneath the dappling of red-gold light.
“I know you’re in the midst of translating the diaries of Sandro’s grandmother, and I wouldn’t interrupt your work unless—”
“As if you ever have to stand on ceremony with me, Aunt Constantina,” interrupted Arianna as she bent to brush a kiss to the dowager’s cheek. Up close, the shadows beneath the luminous aquamarine eyes looked deeper and darker than she had first supposed. Like bruises that lay festering beneath the fragile skin.
“A visit from you is always welcome,” she finished.
Constantina flashed a wry smile. “You may wish to hear me out first before saying that.”
“Well now, this sounds intriguing.” Taking care to mask her concern, Arianna matched the dowager’s note of dry humor as she took a seat in the facing chair. “And thank God for that. Much as I enjoy the quiet world of scholarly books and papers, I confess things have seemed a little too quiet of late.”
The dowager’s brows arched up in surprise. “Indeed? According to Sandro, it was only several days ago that you were involved in a harrowing aerial chase of a dangerous traitor—one that it left you hanging by the skin of your teeth over the English Channel, a mere hairsbreadth from certain death.”
“True,” confirmed Arianna. In fact, it was still a matter of discord between them. “I fear he hasn’t yet forgiven me.”
“Oh, pish.” Constantina flicked an airy wave. “For all their bluster, men are strangely sensitive creatures when it comes to seeing ladies in danger. Just give him a little time to get over the shock.”
She wasn’t quite as sanguine as her great aunt by marriage. Saybrook hadn’t merely been angry, he had been furious, and in an uncharacteristic venting of his ire—in front of an audience, no less—he had called her reckless and all too willing to spit in the Devil’s eye.
That he had later apologized had taken some of the sting out of his words. And yet Arianna couldn’t help but wonder whether he was beginning to regret legshackling himself to such an unrepentantly unconventional wife . . .
Constantina seemed to read her thoughts. “If Sandro rang a peal over your head, it was out of fear, not anger. I think it would drive him half-mad if he were to lose you.”
“I’m not so sure,” she replied softly. “But be that as it may, you haven’t come here to discuss my marital stresses.”
“No.” There followed a very un-Constantina hesitation. The dowager possessed a very sharp mind—and an even sharper tongue. Her outspokenness was legendary throughout the beau monde, and few people dared to provoke her ire.
