Free Recipe for Treason: A Lady Arianna Regency Mystery (Lady Arianna Hadley Mystery) by Andrea Penrose

trouble . . . The words of Shakespeare’s Scottish trio of witches cackled in her head. Macbeth had been a great favorite with her father. Perhaps because the themes of crime and guilt and punishment struck a chord—
    A touch to her arm jerked her out of her momentary reveries. Stay focused, she chided herself, giving a quick nod to her husband’s signal to advance and cover the right side of the doorway.
    The sound came again, a little louder.
    Saybrook darted into the laboratory and took cover behind a tall storage cabinet.
    Pistol raised, Arianna watched for any flicker of movement within the shadows. All was still, save for the slight wavering of the lamp flame within its glass globe. The light was sitting atop a long, thin worktable set in the center of the large space. Counters crammed with bottles and scientific instruments lined the side walls, their shadows casting menacing patterns across the stained plaster. Above them were shelves crammed with books and ledgers. The sharp scent of chemicals hung heavy in the air.
    Her husband took a small coin from his pocket and rolled it toward the table.
    The tiny sound drew no reaction. He waited a moment longer and then moved to a new position by a wrought-iron rack of metal canisters.
    The pistol butt began to feel a little slippery against her palm, despite the chillness of the room. Her blood was pounding in her ears, setting off a strange, spooky echo. Swallowing hard, she tightened her grip and made a quick check of the corridor behind her.
    Sssssssssss. A ghostly sound seemed to flit through the shadows.
    Her eyes flew back to the laboratory as a groan—one that sounded distinctly human—rent the air. It seemed to be coming from an alcove at the rear of the room.
    “H-h-help me.”
    Saybrook flicked his pistol, indicating he meant to investigate.
    Following his silent orders, Arianna slipped inside and took up a position to cover his advance. A veteran of the guerrilla conflicts in Spain, he needed no reminder from her that it could be a trap. Still, she felt as if her heart had leapt into her throat as he started forward.
    No bullet, no blade flashed out of the gloom.
    Inch by inch, the earl crept toward the sound. Without thinking, she eased up to a spot by the table, giving her a better angle into the alcove. Within the muddled shades of black, she thought she could make out a solid shape sprawled on the floor beneath a desk.
    Saybrook suddenly stood and rushed over the remaining distance. He reached down, and his hand was swallowed by the shadows. “Bring the lamp here,” he called after a moment.
    Arianna grabbed it and hurried to his side.
    In the pale, oily light, the slash of red across the man’s throat looked like a spill of claret wine. The garnet-colored liquid was quickly soaking into the white shirt points.
    A gurgling rattle indicated that he was still alive.
    “Is it Girton?” she asked.
    Crouching down, Saybrook leaned close to the man’s fluttering lips. “Are you Girton?”
    A feeble nod.
    “Who did this to you?”
    The professor’s face spasmed as he tried to speak. “R-r-r . . .”
    Was he trying to say Renard? wondered Arianna.
    “R-royal . . .” A gasp. “In-inst . . .”
    “Institution?” finished Saybrook.
    Another nod.
    “What’s there?” prodded the earl.
    “D-d-danger.” The effort of speech brought a beading of blood to Girton’s lips.
    “From whom?”
    The man’s hand twitched against the floor.
    “I think he’s trying to draw something,” said Arianna. She watched his finger trace three short strokes. “It looks like . . . a letter?”
    Girton tried again.
    “It might have been a ‘P,’” said Arianna tersely. “Or a symbol of some sort.”
    “Girton.” Saybrook leaned in closer, his long, windblown hair grazing the man’s blood-soaked shirt. “Girton.”
    The professor lay as still as stone.
    Her husband felt for the pulse point at the base of the man’s jaw. “Damn,” he