The Cocoa Conspiracy by Andrea Penrose

continued. “Given what has happened, and the impending inquest, it is important to have Mr. Henning make a close inspection of the corpse.”
    “Your wife has a point,” murmured Mellon.
    Saybrook frowned but didn’t argue.
    “The angle of entry, the shape of the blade—Mr. Henning can give expert testimony that it wasn’t your knife,” she added.
    “Don’t be daft. Grentham is well aware that Baz is a friend and former army comrade of mine,” countered the earl. “He’ll do his best to discredit any such statements.”
    “Perhaps,” she replied, ignoring his sarcasm. “But Henning is still a qualified medical man, and his observations, expressed openly in a public inquest, will force the coroner to take a closer look at the evidence. Murder is a very serious charge to bring against a peer of the realm.”
    His brows rose. “You have this all figured out?”
    Arianna smiled sweetly. “As you once pointed out, I have a Machiavellian mind.”
    Her husband gave a grudging laugh. “And as you once pointed out, I should be extremely grateful for that fact.”
    “Yes.” She stood up and brushed the crumbs from her skirts. “You should be.”
    Saybrook finished the last morsel of chicken and set the plate aside. “Thank you, my dear. But I think the threat is not as real as you think.”
    Oh, yes. It is. Arianna rose and handed him the fresh shirt brought down by his valet. “If you are feeling better, shall we go up to our rooms? I think you will be more comfortable there.”
    He didn’t miss the subtle change in her voice. “Yes, of course.”
    “I should go dress for supper.” Mellon stood up as well. “I shall see you later, then.”
    Once they were halfway up the guest wing staircase, and away from prying ears, Saybrook murmured, “I take it you have something pressing that you wish to discuss in private.”
    “Yes,” replied Arianna. “And I fear . . .” Fear. The word raised a hot-and-cold prickling sensation at the nape of her neck. Fire and ice. “I fear you are not going to like it.”
    “Do go on,” he said drily. “The bullet didn’t kill me, but the suspense of waiting for this explanation might.”
    “Ha, ha, ha.” She gave a weak laugh as they turned down the corridor to their rooms. “I don’t mean to wax dramatic, but I’ve made a very disturbing discovery.”
    “What . . .” began Saybrook, only to turn the question into a growled oath. “What the devil?”
    Up ahead, a footman was fumbling with the door latch of their suite. The carpet must have muffled their footsteps, for he whirled around at the sound of their voices, a spasm of guilt pinching at his face.
    “Your pardon,” mumbled the man.
    To Arianna, he sounded more nervous than he should.
    “I—I was told to bring these freshly starched cravats to your rooms, milord.”
    The sconce light flared and she saw that despite the coolness of the corridor, a thin beading of sweat rimmed his upper lip. She tensed, her senses on full alert. “Does not the Marquess of Milford have a large enough staff for the household to function properly?” The menial task of delivering laundry was the job of an under maid, not a footman.
    “I—I wouldn’t know, madam,” stammered the servant. “I—I was merely doing as I was asked.”
    Arianna glanced at the folded linen that had fallen to the floor. “By the by, those are not His Lordship’s cravats.”
    The footman crouched down to gather up the neck-cloths. “They must have made a mistake downstairs. Forgive me for disturbing you.” Crabbing back from the door, he rose hastily and fled without further word.
    “Damnation,” said Saybrook under his breath, staring for a moment at the stretch of shadows before following her into their suite.
    The door fell closed with a soft snick.
    “What mischief is afoot here?” he went on. “The cursed fellow was clearly up to no good. But why would he be stealing into our rooms? The emeralds are valuable.” His mouth pursed.