Sweet Revenge by Andrea Penrose

cut short in the latest à la Brutus style. His clothing was elegant and exquisitely tailored as well, the folds precise, the lines faultless.
    Saybrook quaffed a long swallow of his drink and muttered something under his breath.
    Damn . Arianna inched forward, straining to hear.
    “But now that you have recounted the day’s events, I’m convinced that I should counsel you to wash your hands of the matter,” continued the other man.
    There was a sliver of silence, save for the faint hiss of the burning wick.
    “Oh, well done,” said Saybrook softly. “Holding out a temptation, and then taking it away is a very effective strategy. But then, the highly respected Right Honorable Mr. Mellon is known for his persuasive powers.” To Arianna, his voice sounded slightly slurred. “Tell me, did Whitehall ask you to make sure that I wouldn’t crawl away with my tail between my legs?”
    Mellon’s face tightened and his mouth went white at the corners. “I shall assume it was the drug speaking, not you, and so will forgive that remark. However, if you dare insult my integrity again, I will thrash you to a pulp—wounded leg be damned.”
    After draining the last bit of liquid from his glass, Saybrook pressed it to his brow. “Christ, forgive me. That was a rotten thing to imply.”
    “Yes, it was,” growled Mellon. “As if I would throw my brother’s son to the proverbial wolves.”
    “You would become the next earl if anything were to happen to me,” he pointed out. But as his uncle started to sputter anew, he held up a hand. “Cry pax . In Spain, one had to have a certain sense of gallows humor to survive with a modicum of sanity.”
    Arianna could scarcely believe her ears. The dark-as-the-devil specter was an earl ? She hadn’t paid any heed when he offered a second name, but she realized now that it must have been his title. Another slip on my part. She couldn’t afford to miss such details. All too often they could mean the difference between life and death.
    Mellon exhaled a long breath, interrupting her mental monologue and drawing her gaze to his face. “Well, seeing as you escaped slaughter in the wilds of the Guadarrama Mountains, I should hate to see you come to grief here in the heart of civilized London.” His tone was light, but beneath the conciliatory smile he looked troubled.
    Setting aside his empty glass, Saybrook gingerly shifted his outstretched leg. A spasm of pain pinched at his mouth, but he quickly covered it with a cynical grimace. “Death isn’t overly discriminating as to place or time, Uncle.” He smoothed out a wrinkle in his trousers. They were, noted Arianna, a new pair, fashioned out of dove gray superfine. “Just why do you advise me against remaining in charge of Whitehall’s investigation?”
    “Because I don’t trust Grentham farther than I can spit. By all accounts, he’s a devious, duplicitous bastard,” replied Mellon. “There’s no question that he’s extremely effective as head of security, but he’s also scheming, manipulative—and utterly ruthless when it serves his purpose.”
    “He would hardly be any good at his job if he weren’t,” observed Saybrook dryly.
    “I suppose that’s true.” Mellon rubbed at his jaw. “But I have been thinking . . . there might well be another reason, aside from your military intelligence experience and your knowledge of chocolate, that Grentham is anxious to have you handle the investigation of this case.”
    “Ah, yes.” Saybrook’s eyes fell half closed.
    Probably due to the drowsying effects of the narcotic he had added to his wine, thought Arianna.
    “Having a half-blood Spaniard in charge provides a convenient scapegoat if things go awry,” the earl went on. “It would be oh so easy to call my loyalties into question.”
    Interesting. She held herself very still, intent on not missing a single word. The more she knew about her captor, the better her chances of outwitting him.
    “I fear so,” admitted