Free The Cocoa Conspiracy by Andrea Penrose Page A

horse was quickly led away to the back of the manor.
    Craning her neck, she watched the procession of grim-faced hunters come marching up the drive. In contrast to the casual camaraderie of the morning bantering, they appeared silent, subdued.
    Saybrook was not among them.
    Arianna turned away from the window, trying to quell a sense of unease.
    A dog began barking in high-pitched yips that echoed sharply off the stately limestone walls.
    Her nerves on edge, she nearly jumped out of her skin when an urgent knock suddenly sounded on the suite’s entryway. Sliding the papers back inside the book, she rushed to open the door.
    “Madam, there seems to have been an accident involving the earl. I was told to tell you that”—the agitated footman paused to catch his breath—“that you had best come quickly.”
    Dio Madre.
    Arianna rushed to retrieve her shoes, which she had slipped off while sitting at the escritoire. As she shoved aside the chair, her gaze fell on the chocolate book and its hidden secrets.
    On impulse, she carried it to the bed and shoved it beneath the mattress before hurrying down the stairs.
     
    “There is no need to fuss, Arianna.” Saybrook tried to fend off her hand. “It’s naught but a scratch.”
    Ignoring his protest, she turned to a footman. “Have a basin of hot water, scissors, bandages and basilicum powder brought to the West Parlor—and quickly.”
    “Yes, madam!”
    “And a vial of laudanum.” Noting that her husband’s face looked as pale as the surrounding Portland stone, she gestured at Mellon. “Charles, please assist His Lordship.”
    “I don’t need any help,” muttered Saybrook. But in truth, he looked a little unsteady on his feet as he started up the entrance stairs. “And I would prefer to go to my own rooms, if you please.”
    “The parlor, Charles,” ordered Arianna. The bloodstain spreading over the singed wool was alarming.
    Once inside the room, she had him strip off his coat and take a seat on the sofa. After propping a pillow behind his shoulders, she drew the side table closer and took up the scissors to cut away his shirt.
    A hiss escaped her lips as she stared at the jagged wound. “You thick-headed man. Why, it’s a wonder you didn’t bleed to death! Did you not think to put a pad on the wound to staunch the bleeding?”
    “I was . . . distracted,” he answered.
    Mellon, who had retreated several steps to give her room, cleared his throat. “What did Grentham say to you?” he asked tautly.
    Grentham. Arianna felt a chill snake down her spine. “How is the minister involved in this?” she asked, carefully sponging the gore from Saybrook’s shoulder.
    “He was among the men who found us with the body,” replied the earl.
    “Body,” she repeated.
    “A man was murdered in the woods near the hunt. We found him,” replied the earl.
    “Let us not read too much into Grentham’s presence,” said Mellon quickly. “Our ghillie raised the alarm, and the shooters closest to us came to investigate.” He shifted his stance. “It was coincidence that the minister was among them.”
    “I don’t put much faith in coincidence,” she said softly. “Especially when it involves that bastard.”
    She felt Saybrook’s muscles tense as she bandaged the wound. And yet, he remained stoically silent.
    “Now, kindly explain to me exactly what happened,” Arianna insisted.
    Mellon gave a terse account of the action.
    “Charles, will you please bring me a glass of brandy?” Arianna added a few drops of laudanum and handed it to the earl. “Drink this.”
    “I don’t need any damnable narcotic,” he growled.
    “Ordinarily, I would agree with you.” She considered opium a pernicious substance. “However, in this case, I’ve no ingredients to brew a more effective painkiller, and I want you to rest for a bit before I allow you to move.”
    “Bloody hell, I’m not at all tired. But I suppose it will be more trouble than it’s worth to argue with