As we all know, the Italians take the art of life very seriously. So it doesn’t surprise me to learn that Francesco Redi, the personal physician to Cosimo III and one of the leading scientists of his day, spent time experimenting with the creation of decadent recipes for chocolate. Some of his concoctions included drinks perfumed with ambergris, musk, and jasmine. I don’t think they would be to my taste. . . .
2¼ cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
1 stick unsalted butter, softened, plus 2 tablespoons, melted and cooled
1 cup sugar, divided
2 large eggs
1¼ cup mashed very ripe bananas (about 3 medium)
⅔ cup plain whole-milk yogurt
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 (3½- to 4-ounce) bar 70% cacao bittersweet chocolate, coarsely chopped
1 cup walnuts, toasted, cooled, and coarsely chopped
½ teaspoon cinnamon
1. Preheat oven to 375°F with rack in middle. Butter a 9-inch-square cake pan.
2. Stir together flour, baking soda, and salt.
3. Beat together softened butter (1 stick) and ¾ cup sugar in a medium bowl with an electric mixer at medium speed until pale and fluffy, then beat in eggs 1 at a time until blended. Beat in bananas, yogurt, and vanilla (mixture will look curdled).
4. With mixer at low speed, add flour mixture and mix until just incorporated.
5. Toss together chocolate, nuts, cinnamon, melted butter, and remaining ¼ cup sugar in a small bowl. Spread half of banana batter in cake pan and sprinkle with half of chocolate mixture. Spread remaining batter evenly over filling and sprinkle remaining chocolate mixture on top.
6. Bake until cake is golden and a wooden pick inserted in center of cake comes out clean, 35 to 40 minutes. Cool cake in pan on a rack 30 minutes, then turn out onto rack and cool completely.
Propelled by the crescendoing music, the ladies around her whirled faster and faster, their laughter echoing the capering notes of the violins.
Closing her eyes for an instant, Arianna tried to bring her skeetering emotions under control. Now that the time for snaking off to Concord’s party was drawing near, her heart was beating so loudly that it nearly drowned out the music.
“The waltz is exhilarating, is it not, Lady Wolcott?” remarked Sir Leete, dabbing a sleeve to his brow. His protruding belly and beet-red face seemed to signal that he rarely indulged in anything more strenuous than lifting a fork.
“Quite,” replied Arianna, grateful that the dance excused the breathless hitch of her voice. Beads of sweat trickled beneath the laces of her corset, teasing a flare of fire to every tiny nerve ending.
“Might I fetch you a glass of ratafia punch?”
“Yes, thank you.” She turned, angling her gaze across the crowded room. One, two, three . . . There, in the fourth arch of the colonnading, stood Concord and several of his friends. Catching her eye, he nodded ever so slightly, a signal so subtle that she would have missed it if she hadn’t been expecting it.
A moment later, the men were gone, leaving naught but a smudge of shadows between the white marble columns.
Dark and light. Despite what she had said to Saybrook, Arianna felt a frisson of fear.
“May I take the liberty of inquiring as to how you are enjoying London, Lady Wolcott?”
A voice, uncomfortably close, jerked her thoughts back to the present moment.
“We were introduced at the Averills’ soiree,” continued the gentleman, who was now standing by her side. “Though I daresay you don’t remember.”
“Yes, of course I do,” said Arianna, covering her flinch with a polite smile. He looked vaguely familiar.
“You are too kind—I imagine you’ve met far too many strangers to keep all the names straight,” he murmured. “I am Lord Ashmun.”
“Thank you for your inquiry, Lord Ashmun. I am enjoying the city and its activities immensely,” she answered. Now go away, she added to herself.
“I can’t help but wonder,” he went on. “Are you perchance related to the Wolcotts from Somerset?”
“No,” responded Arianna, hoping the curt reply would discourage any further questions.
Ashmun didn’t take the hint. “No?” he echoed. “Then are you from farther north?”
Something in his tone stirred a sense of unease. “My husband’s family is from Yorkshire, sir. The village is too small for anyone to recognize its name.”
His hazel eyes narrowed, and his long nose seemed to quiver, like a bird dog looking to pick up a scent. “Oh, but having hunted in Yorkshire, I am very well acquainted with the countryside.”
“I doubt you are familiar with this particular place.” She looked away, anxious to escape further interrogation. “Ah, there is Lord Leete with my drink. If you will excuse me . . .”
To her dismay, Ashmun followed. “Might I have the pleasure of taking you in to supper, Lady Wolcott? I should very much like the chance to converse with you—I believe we may have . . . mutual acquaintances.”
“I think you must have me confused with someone else,” said Arianna coolly, though her insides were starting to clench in alarm.
He sidled closer. “I—”
“My apologies for the delay, Lady Wolcott!” exclaimed Leete. “There was quite a crowd around the punch bowl.”
Arianna heaved an inward sigh of relief. “Thank you,” she said, accepting the glass and quickly raising it to her lips.
“Our hostess is renowned for her lobster patties and creamed quail.” Ashmun was proving relentless in his pursuit. “Allow me to escort you to a table.”
“Tempting,” she replied. “But the last week has been awfully fatiguing, so I’m going to take my leave early. Good evening, gentlemen.” Before either of them could reply, she turned and took her leave from the ballroom.
It was foolish to let her imagination run wild, she reminded herself. Her nerves were on edge, that was all. Lord Ashmun was simply a nosy old man, not a specter of impending danger.
Still, try as she might, Arianna couldn’t shake the feeling that she had seen him somewhere other than last week’s soiree. Had he been a guest at one of Lady Spencer’s parties? He didn’t seem the type.
But appearances could be deceiving.
Reminded of her own charade, Arianna forced her thoughts to the coming encounter.
Turning up the hood of her cloak, she stepped out into the night shadows and hurried to her waiting carriage. She must hide her jitters, mask her doubts . . .
Play her role.
“How delightful that you decided to join us, Lady Wolcott,” called Gavin as she entered the drawing room of Concord’s town house. “May I offer you a welcoming libation?” Detaching himself from a group of men by the hearth, he glided over to greet her. “It’s a unique concoction, a specialty of the house, if you will.”
“How can I resist?” The ornate goblet, made of spangled Murano glass, was filled with a dark garnet-red liquid. “I trust that it’s more potent than the watery punch that was served at the earlier party.”
“Much,” assured Gavin. “Can you guess at some of the ingredients?”
“Something very sweet,” she answered with a throaty purr. “Whatever it is, I like it.”
“Ah, I see you have a palette for pleasure,” he said. “The ingredients come from the Caribbean tropics.”
“A world which is unfamiliar to me,” said Arianna. “But I am looking to expand my horizons.”
“You have chosen a good place to start,” said Gavin smoothly.
Before she could reply, a voice interrupted their tête-à-tête.
“Now, now, Gav, don’t be a naughty boy and try to keep our new guest all to yourself.”
Arianna didn’t need to turn around to recognize the chiding laugh.
“Do introduce us.”
“But of course, my sweet.” Gavin pulled back a touch, allowing Lady Spencer to come closer. “Allow me to present Lady Wolcott, who has just arrived in Town from—”
“A dreadfully dull little town in Yorkshire.” Arianna lowered her gaze. A liberal application of kohl had altered the shape of her eyes and darkened her lashes. And as a false mustache had always disguised the shape of her mouth and chin, she had no reason to fear that the other lady might see shades of the fugitive Monsieur Alphonse in her face.
“Oh, I assure you that London is never, ever dull,” said Lady Spencer. “Especially if you know the right people.”
“I am counting on that,” replied Arianna.
“I have a feeling we are going to become very good friends.” Her erstwhile employer flashed a conspiratorial wink and looped an arm through hers. “Come, let me show you some of our host’s Eastern art collection while we get better acquainted.”
Better acquainted? Arianna repressed the urge to laugh.
Waving off Gavin’s offer to accompany them, Lady Spencer pursed her carefully colored lips. “No, no, no, I must insist on having a private interlude with Lady Wolcott. It’s only fair that she be warned about the dangers of consorting with rogues like you.”
Gavin smiled, showing a brief flash of teeth.
“I hope I am not frightening you with such talk, my dear.”
“Not at all,” murmured Arianna, knowing exactly what words and tone would pique the other lady’s interest. “After all, they say that danger adds a certain spice to life.”
The reflection of the candle flames glittered off the gilt scrollwork of the wall sconces, tantalizing flickers of gold on gold. A mere illusion, Arianna reminded herself. And a reminder that here she was surrounded by gleaming lies.
“My diet has been bland for so long,” added Arianna, “that I find myself craving something bold, something unexpected.” She cocked her head. “That is, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, I understand you,” assured Lady Spencer, drawing her into the oak-paneled corridor. “La, what a pity my cook has disappeared. You would have adored his creative confections.”
“Disappeared?” she repeated, taking care to sound surprised. “You mean he left your employment?”
“Yes.” Lady Spencer seemed to regret her slip of the tongue. “Rather abruptly. It was quite inconvenient. . . .” She looked away and pressed her palm to a door, which swung noiselessly open. “Come, I think you will find this interesting.”
Two ornate brass candelabras, their curling arms made up of arched cobras, flanked an arrangement of display shelves and art on the far wall. “Lord Concord is a connoisseur of Indian art,” said Lady Spencer, leading the way across the room. Flickers of light danced over carved wood and polished metal set with semiprecious stones. “His connections in the country allow him access to some very special treasures.”
“Impressive,” murmured Arianna, eyeing a series of black jade sculptures, which depicted men and women engaged in a variety of explicit—and exotic—sexual positions. “Imaginative.”
“Yes, aren’t they?” A sly smile spread across her companion’s face. “It takes a special individual to appreciate imagination and creativity. Alas, most people are so . . . ordinary. Their minds are constrained by such rigid notions of morality.”
“True,” replied Arianna. Recalling some of the comments she had heard her erstwhile employer make on the subject, she carefully paraphrased the same sentiments. “They have little curiosity to experience all that life has to offer.”
The smile stretched wider, and as Lady Spencer edged closer, the undulating candle flames made it appear as if the snakes had come alive. Medusa. Arianna quickly averted her eyes. According to ancient legend, any onlooker who dared to look directly at the gorgon’s terrifying beauty would turn to stone.
“Oh, I see that you do understand, Lady Wolcott.” A whisper of breath teased against her cheek. “You know, we are very selective about whom we invite into our inner sanctum.”
“I am honored.” Lady Spencer was now a little too close for comfort. Under the guise of examining one of the woodcuts, Arianna slid a step to her left. “I look forward to learning more about the nuances of art from such experts.”
She could sense that Lady Spencer was watching her intently. Push and pull. They were engaged in a complex dance of manipulation, and her companion must not guess at who was really seducing whom.
“Have we met before, Lady Wolcott?” asked Lady Spencer suddenly. “You look . . . familiar, though I can’t quite place your face.”
Arianna gave a little laugh. “I’m afraid that you must be confusing me with someone else.”
A tiny frown furrowed Lady Spencer’s brow, then just as quickly relaxed. “Oh, I daresay it’s your eyes. They are the exact shade of green as those of the Marchioness of Quinley.”
“Actually, I would say our guest’s eyes are a darker, more complex hue.” Lord Concord moved out of the shadow of the curio cabinet. “Like melted emeralds swirled with smoke.”
“I am flattered that you noticed the color of my eyes, sir,” said Arianna, fluttering her lashes.
He flicked a gesture at the erotic art. “I consider myself an expert on the human form, so I make it a point to study such nuances.”
“Have you a specialty?” she murmured.
His laugh was low, like distant thunder. “Oh, the female body is a particular interest.”
Rather than answer, Arianna turned her gaze back to the carved figures.
“My dear Catherine, why don’t you return to the drawing room? I believe Hastings and his party will be arriving at any moment, and I don’t trust Tipton or Gavin to make them feel welcome.”
Lady Spencer drew in a breath, the light catching the flare of her nostrils. However, she quickly covered the look of annoyance with a dimpled smile. “Of course, Robert. I’m always happy to play mistress of the house for you.” Sauntering off with a slow, provocative sway of her hips, she quit the room.
Leaving the door wide open, observed Arianna with inward amusement. Her former employer did not like being asked to play a secondary role in the proceedings, but was too shrewd to voice any open displeasure.
“Be careful of Cat. Beneath the soft purrs, she has very sharp claws.” Concord had a very sensuous mouth, in contrast to the obsidian hardness of his eyes. There was a flat blackness there that reminded her of a cold-blooded reptile. “And often takes pleasure using them on other females.”
All those chats over chocolate with Lady Spencer were now bearing fruit. Arianna knew that Concord and his friends were hunters at heart and liked the excitement of a chase. Lifting her chin, she fixed him with a challenging look. “She said much the same thing about you.”
“Did she?” He opened a small box on the shelf and took out a slim cheroot. “Does that alarm you, Lady Wolcott?”
“Should it?” she countered.
“You intrigue me.”
Arianna felt her chest tighten in anticipation. Slowly, slowly, she warned herself. One false move would ruin everything.
“Indeed?” she responded, keeping her voice cool.
“I look forward to—”
Before he could go on, an agitated call sounded from the corridor. “Damnation, Concord, I must have a word with you.”
“I’m occupied at the moment,” he answered.
“I don’t care if you are swiving the Queen of Sheba, we need to talk!” A fair-haired gentleman of medium height hurried in, his bootheels beating a staccato tattoo on the parquet floor. His face was ruddy, but whether it was from anger or prolonged exposure to the sun was hard to discern.
“Calm yourself, Kellton,” warned Concord. “As you see, I am entertaining guests.”
“Let them wait,” growled the other man. He gave Arianna a cursory look, then turned his attention back to Concord. “The devil take it, we had a deal.”
“Let us not bore the lady with our personal business.” The words were said softly but there was no mistaking the note of command. Flicking a bit of ash from the tip of his cheroot, Concord offered her an apologetic shrug. “If you will excuse me, I must take a moment to deal with a business matter.”
“But of course.”
“Feel free to stay here and admire the art for as long as you like. There are some books on the side table that you might also enjoy.”
“Thank you,” said Arianna. “I think I shall—stay here for a bit, that is.” Taking up a thin volume bound in snakeskin, she perched herself on a settee upholstered in plum-colored velvet. “So please, don’t trouble yourself about me.”
“You’ve chosen the most interesting work,” he observed with a lascivious wink. “I believe you’ll be here for some time.” Taking the other man’s arm, Concord ushered him back the way he had come. “We’ll discuss this in my study.”
Arianna waited for several minutes, then tossed aside the book and hurried to the door. There were no wall sconces lit in this stretch of the corridor. Standing very still, she thought she could detect a faint buzz of voices from the right. In the opposite direction lay only deep shadows, heavy with silence.
And a fleeting whiff of smoke.
It was a risk, but she could always feign confusion and claim she had become disoriented in the darkness. . . .
The scent of spiced tobacco led her through an archway and down another passage. Up ahead, a narrow sliver of light at floor level alerted her to the presence of a door set in the paneling.
She pressed a palm to the polished oak. Damn. It was firmly shut and she didn’t dare fiddle with the latch.
Looking around, she spotted a set of glass-paned doors leading out to the back garden. Easing the lock open, she slipped outside and picked her way through the shrubbery. As the evening was pleasant, the study windows might well be open to the evening breeze.
Had the gentlemen been conversing in normal tones, her efforts would have gone for naught. At that moment, however, Concord’s visitor was expressing his displeasure in a near shout.
“Don’t try to fob me off with some farrididdle, Concord! My source at Whitehall informs me that Grentham plans to exhume the body. What the devil is he looking for?”
The slight silence was amplified by the stillness of the garden. And then, “What body?”
The question triggered another explosion. “Damn you! Are you pretending not to know that the minister’s top military lackey was stabbed to death by Lady Spencer’s chef, who has so far eluded capture despite the princely ransom on his head?”
“Ah.” The word was punctuated by another pause. “So you, too, have access to sensitive information within the department of security. I wasn’t aware of that. The public announcement was that Crandall choked to death on a piece of beefsteak.”
“Of course I have ears within Whitehall. Like you, I have my interests to protect.” Concord’s visitor sounded a little shaken. “I don’t appreciate being played for a fool.” Arianna shrunk back into the bushes as he approached the windows. “I take it you have the chef well hidden somewhere safe.”
Arianna heard a desk drawer open and shut. “You need not concern yourself with the chef,” said Concord. “It does not affect our arrangement.”
“Bloody hell, our arrangement didn’t include sticking a blade up Grentham’s arse. I’m willing to take risks, but only reasonable ones, Concord. I’ve got a good mind to . . .”
“To what?”
She caught a quick glimpse of the man’s face as he turned away from the leaded glass. Sweat sheened his skin. He was not only angry. He was frightened.
“To reconsider my position,” he answered tightly.
“You’re overreacting. Sit down and have a brandy.” Concord’s voice had smoothed to a mellow flow. “The incident at Lady Spencer’s had nothing to do with our arrangement.”
Try as she might, Arianna could catch only fleeting words as the two men settled into the two armchairs by the hearth.
Blunt . . . sword blade . . . letters of exchange . . . Overend . . . Gurney . . .
As their tone dropped even lower, Arianna decided that there was little more to be learned, and the risk of discovery was growing too great. Retracing her steps, she made her way back to the room of erotic art. Something sinister was at play here—that Concord was involved in some sordid game for profit was no surprise. The question was how to unknot the serpentine tangle of lies and deception.
“Why, Lady Wolcott, surely you don’t mean to deprive us of your company any longer.” Gavin joined her, a fresh goblet of punch in each hand. “Can I entice you to return to the drawing room?”
“Of course,” she murmured. “I should like nothing better.”
Concord rejoined his guests shortly after her return, bringing with him several servants bearing a pair of ornate Indian water pipes that emitted a low gurgling along with a cloud of sweet smoke. The laughter grew more languid after that, and one or two couples withdrew into the shadowed alcoves.
Arianna managed to appear an eager participant in the revelries, though much of her punch was discreetly dumped into the potted plants.
Despite his smiles, Concord seemed on edge. He made no move to renew his flirtations, and disappeared again after perhaps a half hour.
As it was now nearing dawn, she felt that she could take her leave without drawing any suspicion. Saybrook had, after all, demanded a report on the evening, and while she did not mean to dance to his tune, she had her own reasons for sharing what she had overheard.
Her carriage was waiting on the side street. A breeze ruffled through the ivy leaves on the garden walls, and aside from the swish, swish, swish of her skirts on the walkway, the creak of the harness leather mingled with the raspy snores of the drivers were the only other sounds.
Lost in thought, Arianna dropped her reticule in fumbling for the door latch. Swearing to herself, she turned to retrieve it from the cobblestones.
Damn.
As she crouched down, a movement in the shadows of the nearby linden tree caught her eye. A clatter of steps, and the figure darted into the alleyway, but not before the fleeing face was limned for an instant in the scudding moonlight.
Rising slowly, she felt a frown pinch her brow.
Why was Lord Ashmun lurking outside Concord’s residence?
It was, she reflected, yet another question to which she had no answer.