The Cocoa Conspiracy by Andrea Penrose Page B

of Salamanca, I sawed off the arms of several wounded Grognards captured by our regiment. So yes, laddie, I am quite sure.”
    Arianna noted a grimness tighten her husband’s expression, making the hollows under his eyes look deeper. Darker. “Can we please hurry?” she asked sharply. “It would be best if we weren’t found here. And Sandro needs to get some rest.”
    “Arianna—” growled Saybrook
    “Save yer breath te cool yer porridge. Lady S is right. Ye need te keep up your strength. Grentham has already bared his teeth and will be looking to go for the jugular.” Henning chafed his palms together and spoke softly to the corpse. “ Alors, monsieur . What else can you tell me about yourself, eh?” He palpated the chest, and then took up a thin metal probe to push back the hair around the ears and check inside the canal.
    “Nothing usual.”
    “Save for his sun-colored face and forearms, don’t you think?” remarked Saybrook. “It’s been a very rainy summer here in England.”
    “A good point, laddie.” Henning pursed his lips. “Have any of the locals been asked if they recognize the fellow?”
    “Yes, several in fact,” replied the earl. “The ghillies helped carry the body out of the woods. None of them had ever seen him before.”
    “Hmmph.” Frowning, the surgeon cleared his throat and gestured for Arianna to look away. “Avert your eyes, Lady S, while we pull down the fellow’s breeches for a moment.”
    She arched her brows but complied. “What in God’s name do you hope to discover—or dare I ask?”
    The surgeon bit back a chuckle. “Best leave no stone unturned, so to speak. Ye never know—perhaps he’s part of some exotic sect of Eastern eunuchs. Or boasts a second tattoo on his privy parts that points—”
    “Men and their schoolboy humor,” Arianna gave the lanthorn an impatient shake. “Do get on with it.”
    Something metallic fell to the floor. “Damn.” Henning quickly bent down. “It’s just a coin,” he muttered, shoving it into his pocket. A few more rustling noises, punctuated by the thud of flesh upon the stone slab.
    “I’m finished here,” he announced, putting away his instruments and donning his coat. “Let’s be off.”
    The earl chose to lead them through the deserted scullery and out to the back lawns. The early morning air, heavy with the scent of the mist-dampened grass and the ripening apples in the nearby orchard, helped flush the dank smell of decay from Arianna’s lungs. Breathing deeply, she tipped her head up to watch a skein of dark clouds scud across the sun. A gust ruffled through the leaves and tugged at her skirts.
    “Rain is blowing in,” groused Henning. “The bloody roads back to London will be mired in mud.”
    London. At the moment, the city and the sanctuary of their town house seemed very far away.
    Arianna fisted the folds of flapping silk and held them close to her body. “So, what do you intend to do about the letters, Sandro?” she asked. “And Charles.”
    “Before ye answer that,” said Henning. “Allow me te voice a few questions of my own, eh?”
    The earl nodded for him to go on.
    “Have ye considered that mayhap Grentham has planned all this? We know that he is diabolically clever. And when you look at how this web of intrigue weaves together, it’s clearly been created by a cunning spider.” Henning picked a loose thread from his sleeve. “He plants one of yer uncle’s documents along with incriminating evidence of a traitorous plot, turning suspicion on your family while he continues to hand over secrets to England’s enemy. Taking a shot at you only raises further questions about why someone would want you dead.”
    “You are forgetting that Rochemont may well have been the target,” countered the earl. “That a Grognard —”
    Henning cut him off with an impatient wave. “I grant you, it’s possible that one of Napoleon’s former officials has a grudge against Rochemont. He’s one of the