Sweet Revenge Read Free

overlooking the parade ground. Rain pelted against the misted glass, turning the vast expanse of gravel to a blur of watery gray. Beyond it, the bare trees in St. James’s Park jutted up through the fog, dark and menacing, like the jagged teeth of some ancient dragon.
    “How long until he can be moved from Lady Spencer’s town house?” he asked slowly.
    “Er . . .” The assistant consulted the sheaf of papers in his hands. “Another two or three days.”
    “Bloody, bloody hell,” swore the attaché. “If word of this reaches the newspapers—”
    “Thank you, Major Crandall.” The tapping ceased—as did all other sounds in the room. Turning to his assistant, Grentham continued with his inquiries. “I take it that the other guests have been sworn to absolute secrecy, Jenkins?”
    “Yes, milord. And they’ve all promised to be silent as the grave.”
    “Excellent,” he replied mildly. “Oh, and do remind them that they had better be, else their carcasses will be rotting on a transport ship bound for the Antipodes.”
    “Y-yes, milord.” The young man was new to the job and hadn’t yet dared ask what had become of his predecessor. Rumors of Grentham’s ruthlessness were rife throughout the halls of the Horse Guards building, and it was whispered that even the Prime Minister feared to provoke his ire.
    Taking up his pen, Grentham jotted several lines on a fresh sheet of foolscap. “Do we know for certain what poison was used?”
    “Not as yet, sir. The physician says it is difficult to discern, on account of the, er . . . substance that the Prince ingested.” The young man paused, looking uncertain of whether to go on.
    “Well, do you intend to keep me in suspense all afternoon?” asked Grentham softly. “Or is this meant to be an amusing little guessing game, seeing as I have nothing else to do with my time?”
    “N-n-o, sir.” The assistant gave another glance at his notes. “It was . . . chocolate.”
    “Chocolate?” repeated Crandall incredulously. “If this is your idea of a joke, Jenkins—”
    “It’s n-no joke, sir, it’s the God-honest truth.” Jenkins held out a piece of paper with a suspicious-looking stain streaked across its bottom. “You may see for yourself.”
    Grentham waved away the offending document with a flick of his wrist. “I am a trifle confused, Jenkins,” he murmured. “I thought you said Prinny ate the stuff, not drank it.”
    “He did, sir. It says here in the physician’s report that the Prince Regent collapsed after eating a disk of solid sweetened chocolate.” Seeking to forestall another acerbic attack, he quickly went on. “Apparently the confection is a recent culinary creation, developed in France. It is said to be very popular in Paris.”
    “Chacun à son goût,” said Grentham under his breath.
    “Sir?”
    “Never mind. Go on—anything else of interest in the report?”
    “Well, milord, the man does mention the possibility that the Prince might have sickened from overindulgence, and not from any toxin.” Jenkins swallowed hard. “But the Prince’s private physician questions whether chocolate in this new, solid form might have naturally occurring poisonous properties.”
    Grentham thought for a moment. “So in fact, we don’t have a clue as to whether this was an attempt on the reigning sovereign’s life, or merely another example of his appetite for pleasure getting him in trouble.”
    Looking unhappy, Jenkins nodded. His superior was known as a man who preferred to view the world in black and white. An infinite range of grays merely muddied the subject—which did not bode well for whoever presented the ill-formed picture.
    “I should be tempted to let him stew in his own juices . . . ,” began the Major, but a sharp look from Grentham speared him to silence.
    The minister fingered one of the leather document cases piled on his desk. “Given the current situation, it is imperative— imperative —that we ascertain whether foul