Grentham looked thoughtful.

The Major’s gaze narrowed to a crafty squint. “Yes, I was just going to say that I think it an excellent idea to look outside our own circle of intelligence officers,” he said quickly. “They are all personally acquainted with the Prince, and we wouldn’t want any question of impartiality to color the conclusion of the investigation. I mean, sir, if anything were to . . .” He let his voice trail off.

Grentham flashed a semblance of a smile. “Good God, I may actually have a body or two around me with a brain.” Setting down his pen, he contemplated his well-manicured hand for a bit before slowly buffing his nails on his other sleeve.

Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. The sound was soft as a raptor’s wing-beat, as the bird homed in on its kill.

“Send a messenger to Lord Charles Mellon. Tell him that I wish to see him as soon as possible.”

Arianna added a spoonful of sugar to her morning coffee and slathered a scone with butter. The condemned ought to eat a heartier meal, she thought sardonically as she broke off a morsel of the still-warm pastry and let it crumble between her fingers.

If Luck was indeed a Lady, the traitorous bitch had a perverse sense of humor.

Biting back a grim smile, Arianna had to admit the irony of the situation. After all her meticulous plotting and carefully calculated moves, one unfortunate little slip had wreaked havoc with her plans.

The best-laid schemes of mice and men go often askew, and leave us nothing but grief and pain.. . . Her father, who had carried a love of poetry—and precious little else—with him from England to Jamaica, had enjoyed reading Robert Burns to her on the rare evenings when he wasn’t sunk too deep in his cups. Arianna had cherished those times together, curled in the comforting shelter of his arms.