Sweet Revenge by Andrea Penrose Page A

Mellon. “Not that anyone in his right mind could question your commitment to your country. Good God, you’re a decorated war hero who served as an officer of army intelligence in the most brutal campaign of the Peninsular War.” He rose and went to pour himself another brandy. “Not to speak of holding one of the most distinguished titles of the realm.”
    “Some people consider that a sacrilege, rather than a mark in my favor.” Saybrook made a face. “Oh, yes, I’ve heard the murmurs—What a pity that the august earldom of Saybrook has fallen to an olive-skinned foreigner . ”
    Saybrook, she repeated to herself, trying to recall whether Lady Spencer and her dissolute friends had ever mentioned the name. But nothing came to mind.
    “And while you are up, you may bring me another glass of port. With a generous splash from the vial beside it, if you please.”
    Mellon frowned but did as he was asked. “The blood you spilled on the battlefield of Salamanca flows back to William the Conqueror.”
    “All the more reason that many sticklers of the ton resent me.” He took a sip of the laudanum-laced spirits. “But never mind that. There is an old adage—sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me.”
    “With Grentham, I would not be so sure,” said Mellon. “He wields them with all the skill of a Death’s Head Hussar.”
    “Thank you for the warning, but I am familiar with the shadowy underworld in which he moves,” replied Saybrook. “Lies and innuendo. Deception and duplicity.”
    Oh, yes, thought Arianna. I’m familiar with that world, too, milord.
    Lifting the cut crystal glass to the candle, he spun it in his fingers. “Grentham may wish to maneuver me like a pawn on his chessboard, but he won’t find it quite so easy to control my every move.”
    “You might not find it quite so simple to slip free from his iron-fisted control,” said his uncle.
    “Perhaps not.” A hint of humor seemed to creep into the earl’s voice. “But as you pointed out when you first came to me with this proposal, maybe I need a challenge to rekindle a spark of life.”
    “Just as long as you don’t end up being burned to a crisp.” Mellon grimaced. “Speaking of which, how is your leg? You said you suffered a fresh wound?”
    “Naught but a scratch,” replied Saybrook. “Henning stitched it up for me. He’s quite clever with a needle, a skill that I trust he will put to good use on the late Major Crandall. Grentham has not yet sent round one of his lackeys to take a look at the corpse, but I daresay he will.”
    “Do you trust this fellow?” asked his uncle in a near whisper.
    “With my life,” responded Saybrook without hesitation. “Henning and I fought together during Wellington’s campaign to push Massena out of Portugal, as well as the attack on Ciudad Rodrigo.” Despite the low light, Arianna saw his body tense and a sheen of sweat lick across his brow. “A man shows his true mettle when he’s plunged into the very deepest pits of hell. There’s no comrade I would rather have watching my arse.”
    “Just so long as he doesn’t stick a knife in your back. Grentham has ways of convincing a fellow to betray his friends.”
    “I’m confident that my luck in dodging sharpened steel will hold.” He gestured at his thigh. “Don’t forget, you are the one who admonished me to crawl out of my cave of self-pity and stand on my feet again.”
    “So I did. And while I don’t regret the spirit of my words, I fear that I was wrong in suggesting you get involved in this sordid mess.” Shadows hid his expression as Mellon shook his head. “This is too dangerous, Sandro. There is something havey-cavey going on here. Ask yourself, why did Crandall try to kill the Cook? If they wanted him—or her—dead, they had only to arrest her and do the deed quietly somewhere in the depths of Newgate.”
    “Yes,” mused Saybrook. “I agree. It makes no sense.”
    “All the more reason to