So often, it all comes down to money, thought Arianna.
“As Grentham pointed out, if certain factions within Russia and Britain rise to power and work together as allies, they would, in effect, control the flow of goods through the Continent—and be able to profit from it.” Saybrook had also learned that Major Prescott’s uncle, Lord Cruft, was a senior administrator within the Foreign Office section dealing with Baltic trade agreements. “Austria and Prussia aren’t strong enough to stand up to them,” he continued. “And France, which is already saddled with paying war reparations to the Allies, would also be at their mercy.”
Arianna took a moment to think over what he had just said. “Did Charles happen to know anything about Major Prescott’s Russian mother and her family background?”
“No.” Saybrook’s mouth twitched in grim humor. “But funny you should mention it. Charles will introduce me to the visiting Russian trade envoy and his delegation when they arrive here, and I intend to do some probing.”
Glancing down to the gardens, Arianna saw Saybrook’s uncle raise a hand in greeting to a group of six gentlemen with curling sidewhiskers and neatly trimmed beards. By their colorful sashes and glittering medals, she guessed who they were. Perhaps it was because of the long, dark winters, but Russians were very fond of flash and sparkle.
“You had better go join Charles now.”
“I fear you will have to fend for yourself,” he apologized. “As you know, gentlemen are loath to talk politics if a lady is present.”
“Don’t worry, Sophia will be arriving shortly,” replied Arianna. “Constantina also sent word that she’s coming with Gerard, and I need to tell her the latest news about the Orlov family.” The earl’s great-aunt Constantina, the dowager Marchioness of Sterling, had also been intimately involved in the nasty confrontations with the late Prince Orlov. As had her paramour, the French diplomat, Gerard Dampierre. “And then we shall find Sophia and do some sleuthing of our own.”
“Do be careful,” he murmured. “The stakes are incalculably high, which will make the enemy ruthless.”
Quelling a flare of irritation, Arianna made herself smile. “And you worry that I’m not as sharp as I should be?”
Saybrook held her gaze. “I didn’t say that.”
You didn’t have to.
“Let us both exercise caution,” she responded, seeking to defuse the tension between them.
“Very sage advice,” he agreed.
“Do you think Grentham will put in an appearance?” she quickly added. The minister rarely attended social functions.
“Perhaps as one of the hired help tending the ice buckets in the champagne pavilions, or one of the gardeners raking the graveled walkways,” he said lightly, his attention shifting back to the gardens below.
Grentham’s skill at disguise was nearly as good as her own.
“I imagine there will be any number of interesting conversations on which to eavesdrop,” she replied.
“Indeed.” The earl touched her arm. “I shall find you when I’m finished with the Russians,” he murmured, and then headed for the stairs leading down to the lower terrace.
Arianna remained at the railing, watching the swirl of costly silks add a blaze of jewel-tone colors to the more muted hues of early autumn. The buzz of people enjoying themselves floated through the sweet-scented air.
Along with the whispers of intrigue and lies.
A pebbling of gooseflesh prickled down her bare arms. Drawing a deep breath, she sought to steady her suddenly jumpy heartbeat.The laughter, the crush of people, the sidelong stares—this was the first social function she had attended since her miscarriage, and for a moment she feared that her nerves weren’t up to the challenge.
No, I’m stronger than that—
She turned abruptly, relieved to hear Sophia’s greeting as her friend crossed the flagstones to stand beside her.
“Shall we join the revelers?” suggested Sophia, a brittleness lurking beneath her smile. “A glass of champagne would be welcome. My mood could use a bit of effervescence.”
“I take you spoke with Grentham,” murmured Arianna as they started down the stairs, “and it did not go well.”
“It was excruciatingly polite,” replied her friend. “And as cold as the ice surrounding those bottles of sparkling wine.”
She didn’t like the glitter in Sophia’s eyes. The flash of sparks warned that her temper might explode at the slightest provocation.
“The future of Europe is perched atop a powder keg.” Her friend’s turmoil helped draw her back from her own doubts. “So perhaps he may be forgiven for appearing . . . distracted.”
Sophia drew in a sharp breath—and surrendered it in a wry sigh. “In other words, I’m acting like an arse.”
