Recipe for Treason by Andrea Penrose Page B

either of us is remotely conventional.
    Rubbing a hand to his stubbled jaw, the earl refilled his glass and drank it down in one swift swallow.
    “What are you going to tell him?” Shaking off her own dark musings, her own niggling uncertainties, Arianna turned the talk to practical matters. Matters of the heart were an enigma, but they were both very good at solving practical conundrums.
    “The truth,” replied her husband. “Baz deserves no less.”
    “I agree,” she said. “And yet, somehow I suspect that the truth isn’t simple.”
    “It never is.” The whisky had brought a strange glitter to his gaze. Or perhaps it was merely an optical illusion created by the flames as he picked up the candelabra and carried it to the side table.
    “What is your impression of Stoughton? Do you think he is lying about Angus?”
    Saybrook sat heavily in the armchair facing hers and tipped his head back to contemplate the ceiling. The chunks of burning peat in the fireplace gave off a smoky hiss, filling the small parlor with a pungent odor of burnt earth. “A difficult question. He could be simply an overzealous tyrant, whose position of authority has gone to his head. Power often brings out a latent streak of cruelty.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Or he could be acting on Grentham’s orders to double-cross us. Or he could . . .”
    Her husband chuffed a harried sigh, his face looking gray with exhaustion in the hazy light. “Bloody hell, he could have his own nefarious reasons for what he did. At this point, it would be foolish to hazard a guess.”
    “Perhaps we will find something in the papers we took from Girton’s laboratory that will give us a clue as to what is going on here in St. Andrews,” she said. Mention of the papers suddenly reminded her of the small journal she had fished out from the ashes of the murdered professor’s home hearth. With all the excitement, she had not yet had a chance to mention the discovery.
    “It may be worthless, but just before we left Girton’s house, I found a half-burned book buried in the coals of the fire.” She shifted and felt the corner dig into her side.
    Before she could take it from her pocket, Henning’s friend Murray came into the parlor. “I’ve removed the bullet and sewn up his shoulder. His body is beginning te look like a lady’s embroidery sampler, what with all the stitch marks te his hide. But I daresay he’ll survive.”
    “Thank you,” said Saybrook. “I am sorry for drawing you into our troubles. I hope you shall not suffer any consequences for helping us.” He gestured toward the front entrance, where outside the door two soldiers were standing guard.
    “Auch, it dunna matter. Basil is one of us, and we Scots look after our own.” Murray absently wiped his hands on his tweed pants, leaving a tiny trace of blood on the wool. “I’ve dosed him with laudanum, so he’ll sleep like a babe until morning. Best get some sleep yerselves.” His gaze lingered for an instant on Arianna’s breeches and boots, his face betraying a tiny tic of curiosity. But he looked away without comment.
    “I’ll see my wife back to our lodgings and then return, if you don’t mind. I’d like to keep an eye on Baz, to make sure there are no further accidents.”
    “No need. I plan te sleep in a chair by his side.” Murray took a pistol and a nasty-looking dirk from a wooden box tucked back on the bottom shelf of his malt cabinet. “And I won’t be alone. If the residents close by hear a shot, they will be out in a flash, and the Sassenach soldiers know there will be a riot in the street. So I think Basil will be safe enough for now.”
    The earl nodded. “How long before he can travel?”
    “At least a few days, and maybe more. The roads be rough this time of year, and I wuddna like te see the wound reopened.”
    Saybrook thanked him again and led the way out into the night.
    Wincing as a gust of cold air slapped against her cheeks, Arianna