Sweet Revenge Read Free Page A

play was involved. What with the upcoming arrival of the Allied delegation and our troubles with the upstart Americans, the death of the Prince Regent could be catastrophic for the interests of England.”
    The assistant instinctively backed into the shadows of the dark oak filing cabinets, though he had a feeling that the basilisk stare of his superior could see straight through to the deepest coal-black pit of hell.
    “And so,” he mused, “however unpleasant a task, we must extract the truth from this sticky mess.”
    Jenkins gave a sickly smile, unsure whether the minister had just attempted a witticism.
    “The question is, who among our operatives is best equipped to handle such an investigation?” Grentham pursed his lips. “Any suggestions?”
    The Major quickly shot a look at Jenkins.
    “Well, milord, I . . . I . . .”
    “Spit it out, man,” ordered the Major. “We haven’t got all day.”
    Sweat beaded on the assistant’s brow, though his throat remained bone-dry. “I was just going to say, perhaps one of our Peninsular allies might prove u-u-useful. Seeing as it was the Spanish who brought cacao to Europe from the New World, it would seem logical that they would be the most knowledgeable on the subject.”
    Grentham looked thoughtful.
    The Major’s gaze narrowed to a crafty squint. “Yes, I was just going to say that I think it an excellent idea to look outside our own circle of intelligence officers,” he said quickly. “They are all personally acquainted with the Prince, and we wouldn’t want any question of impartiality to color the conclusion of the investigation. I mean, sir, if anything were to . . .” He let his voice trail off.
    Grentham flashed a semblance of a smile. “Good God, I may actually have a body or two around me with a brain.” Setting down his pen, he contemplated his well-manicured hand for a bit before slowly buffing his nails on his other sleeve.
    Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. The sound was soft as a raptor’s wing-beat, as the bird homed in on its kill.
    “Send a messenger to Lord Charles Mellon. Tell him that I wish to see him as soon as possible.”
     
    Arianna added a spoonful of sugar to her morning coffee and slathered a scone with butter. The condemned ought to eat a heartier meal, she thought sardonically as she broke off a morsel of the still-warm pastry and let it crumble between her fingers.
    If Luck was indeed a Lady, the traitorous bitch had a perverse sense of humor.
    Biting back a grim smile, Arianna had to admit the irony of the situation. After all her meticulous plotting and carefully calculated moves, one unfortunate little slip had wreaked havoc with her plans.
    The best-laid schemes of mice and men go often askew, and leave us nothing but grief and pain. . . . Her father, who had carried a love of poetry—and precious little else—with him from England to Jamaica, had enjoyed reading Robert Burns to her on the rare evenings when he wasn’t sunk too deep in his cups. Arianna had cherished those times together, curled in the comforting shelter of his arms.
    She sucked in her breath, her lungs suddenly filled with the memory of his scent—an earthy mix of tobacco, leather, and citrus-spiced sandalwood.
    Oh, Papa, she thought, expelling a slow sigh. So brilliant, yet so naïve. Scandal had stripped him of all his rightful honor, forcing him to survive on his wits. But even his enemies admitted that Richard Hadley, the Earl of Morse, was a charming dreamer. Like fine brandy, his mellifluous laugh was smoothly seductive, making even the most grandiose schemes seem plausible. The earl was so convincing that over the years he had come to believe his own lies.
    Blood must run true, mused Arianna, for it seemed that she had inherited his gift for deception.
    Raising a defiant finger, she traced the burnt-cork stippling that darkened her jaw. A short stint with a theater troupe in Barbados had taught her the art of disguise. Paint and glue. False hair and