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

tight-lipped unless well lubricated with brandy or other strong spirits.
    Reaching the end of the lane, she turned and squeezed in between two covered stalls selling medicinal powders and potions. Half-hidden by a stack of barrels was a display of dried Highland herbs that looked interesting . . .
    A rustling behind the sailcloth screen of the near stall interrupted her musings. Then a muffled voice, distinctly female, rose above the faint crackling of the canvas.
    “By the bones of St. Andrew hisself, the bang frightened me near te death, Mavis.”
    Bang. Arianna went very still and cocked an ear. Had she heard right? The Scottish burr was hard to understand.
    “Auch, he claimed it was but a wee bit o’ liquid on the burner.” The woman dropped her voice a notch. “But it blew the copper pot clear through the ceiling. There must have been flames as well—the woodwork was singed something awful.”
    “I wuddna want te work fer such an odd employer, Alice,” said Mavis. “No matter that he pays a few pence more fer a maid.”
    “Aye, likely all that fancy study at the university has addled his head,” replied Alice. “They say he be a very learned man, but he frightens me. Strange mumblings, locked doors, shadowy visitors late at night—I dunna like it at all. Mayhap he’s a warlock, or a . . .”
    A blustery breeze ruffled the canvas. Swearing silently, Arianna inched closer to the cloth, straining to catch the whispers.
    “Bessie may know of another position,” offered Mavis. “Let Professor Girton find someone else willing te put up with him and his quirks. I swear, it be the Devil’s work if a man uses his own house fer brewing up mischief.”
    The Devil? Arianna pursed her lips and slipped back into the shelter of the barrels. Then perhaps they were on the right trail after all.
    * * *
    “I feel as if we’re trying to trudge through a vat of boiled oats.” Saybrook hung his coat and hat on the clothes pegs. “It just sits there, thick as glue, resisting every effort to make headway.”
    “I warned ye that the Scots are slow te warm up te strangers,” said Henning. “My friend Connery is doing his best to sniff out what’s going on in the laboratories. But he must be discreet in his questions. We don’t want to spook our quarry.” He moved to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of whisky. “Sláinte.”
    The earl let out a disgruntled sigh. “At this rate, it will be the next century before their reserve thaws.”
    “Try some oatcakes.” Hearing the men return from their meeting, Arianna came into the sitting room from the bedchamber. A gesture indicated the platter on the tea table. “They are fresh from the market.”
    “I’d rather you feed me some useful information,” grumbled the earl as he took a seat in one of the worn leather armchairs. “I’m starved for progress.”
    “I may have something that will sweeten your mood, but I thought I would let you eat first—you are always snappish when your bread box is empty.”
    “And we are all aware that you claim to think better on a full stomach, Lady S.” The surgeon lifted his glass in salute. “Actually, it makes perfect medical sense. Just as a stove needs fuel to keep the fire burning, a body needs sustenance to perform at its best.”
    “Then my wife must be a veritable genius.” The earl raked a hand through his damp hair. “Though how someone so slender can consume so much without becoming as fat as the Prince Regent is a scientific conundrum.”
    “I like food,” said Arianna. “A fact for which both of you ought to be profoundly grateful.”
    The earl sat up a bit straighter.
    “You see, I was able to melt some of that flinty Scottish suspicion of strangers with a few of my chocolate recipes.”
    “Chocolate is fast becoming England’s secret weapon,” quipped Saybrook. “Though it’s really my Spanish ancestors who deserve the credit.”
    Henning downed his whisky in one quick swallow. “Much