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From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks
Chocolate Oatcakes
1/4 cup hazelnuts, finely chopped
2/3 cup all-purpose flour
1/3 cup Dutch-process cocoa powder
1/4 cup wheat germ
1/2 cup rolled old-fashioned oats
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground cardamom
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/8 teaspoon fine salt
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, softened
3/4 cup sugar
2 large egg yolks
1. Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line 2 mini muffin tins with mini muffin liners, or set out 20 mini muffin liners on a baking sheet. Lightly spray the liners with nonstick spray and sprinkle the hazelnuts into the bottom of each muffin liner.
2. Whisk the flour, cocoa, wheat germ, oats, spices and salt together in a medium bowl.
3. With an electric mixer on medium speed, beat the butter and sugar in another bowl until combined, about 2 minutes. Add the egg yolks and beat together. Add the dry ingredients and mix until just combined.
4. Scoop 1 tablespoon of dough (about 3/4 ounce) into each mini muffin liner, on top of the nuts. (Alternatively, drop heaping tablespoons of the dough onto a parchment-lined baking sheet and top with chopped nuts.) Bake until the cookies are cooked through and the nuts are toasty, about 15 minutes (drop cookies will bake slightly faster). Transfer the cookies to a rack to cool.
Turning away from the sting of salt, Arianna pushed the flapping bonnet ribbons from her cheeks and continued walking along the pebbled path. A gust kicked up a spray of sand from the nearby strip of beach, tangling her skirts and tugging at the wicker basket looped over her arm.
Wind, water, weathered stone. Scotland had a bleak beauty, she admitted, watching a pewter gray skirl of fog dance around the ancient stones of St. Rule’s Tower. However, the dull, heavy dampness felt oppressive. As if a lead weight had settled on her shoulders.
She tried to shrug off the feeling and lift her spirits. Chin up—every little step is bringing us closer to our goal. As Henning had warned, it was slow going, but after nearly a week in St. Andrews, they were beginning to make some progress. Her husband and his friend were meeting this morning with one of the visiting lecturers in chemistry, while she was making another foray to the market stalls off High Street.
A flock of gulls swooped overhead, their raucous calls interrupting her thoughts.
“You know on which side your bread is buttered,” murmured Arianna, as they wheeled and dove for the scaly scraps tossed aside by the fishmongers. “As for me . . .”
She paused for a moment, surveying the jumble of carts and barrows clogging the street. Her interest in the local produce and baked goods had helped break the stony reserve of the local women. Food was a universal language among females, she thought wryly. As were recipes.
“Gud dae te ye, Mrs. Castellano,” called an elderly crone with a face nearly as fissured as the harbor breakwater. “Did ye and yer husband enjoy my scones?”
“Delicious,” she replied. “You must tell me your secret for plumping the sultanas.”
“Uisge beatha,” she said with a throaty cackle. “Ye soak them in gud Scottish malt—or whisky.”
Arianna reached into her pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “Here is the recipe I promised for my spiced chocolate cake.” Her many unorthodox talents included finely honed cooking skills. In fact, she was an expert, as was the earl, in the uses of Theobroma cacao—or chocolate. While Saybrook was writing a scholarly treatise about its history and uses, she was compiling a cookbook based on his grandmother’s journal and notes.
The crone’s eyes winged up in skepticism. “I still canna quite believe that one may eat chocolate as well as drink it.”
Wrapping her tartan shawl tighter around her shoulders, a woman from the neighboring stall edged closer. “Chocolate as an ingredient in pastries? I think ye be pulling me leg.”
“I promise you that I am not. Please try it,” replied Arianna. “I think you will be pleasantly surprised.”
“Sounds too foreign fer my taste,” chimed in one of her friends.
“Well, we strangers to Scotland find haggis a trifle odd,” she said with a smile.
The comment elicited hoots of laughter.
“We invented it specially to poison the Sassenach invaders,” piped up the fruit seller.
“I don’t blame you. We in the New World have no love for the English either.” She moved on a few steps and picked up a small sack of nutmegs, then a jar of candied orange peel. “I should very much like to learn how to make your Dundee cakes, Mrs. MacDonald.”
“Auch, with pleasure. I’ll scribble out the instructions. Stop back and see me afore ye leave the market.”
“And I wud be happy te share my draught for a cough,” added the woman tending a barrow full of herbs. “Yer potion for soothing aching joints worked wonders fer me Pater.”
“Oh, well, I have another one that is good for gout . . .” After trading recipes, Arianna continued to meander through the crowded stalls, taking her time to sort through the offerings and make her purchases. Smoke from the warming peat fires drifted in the air, mingling with the scents of the foodstuffs and murmur of voices. The women were now comfortable with her presence, and all around her, the talk was not just haggling over prices, but also local gossip.
Gossip. In her experience, if one wanted to learn all the secrets of a place, one had only to find a spot where its females gathered. Cooks, maids, washerwomen—they knew the intimate details of a household’s daily life. By keeping her eyes and ears open, mused Arianna, she just might learn more than Saybrook and Henning would within the male bastion of the university.
Men tended to be more 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.”
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 as I appreciate your expertise in chocolate, might you continue?”
“Of course.” Her expression turned serious. “For the last few days, I’ve been spending time at the market, for you see, cooking provides a common ground for women.”
“Trial by fire,” murmured the earl.
Her mouth quirked up at the corners. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose. The point is, the locals here have come to accept me as a kindred soul, despite my strange accent. And as they don’t view my presence among them as a threat, they feel comfortable talking among themselves.”
Saybrook steepled his fingers and placed the point beneath his chin. “Go on.”
“I’ve made a point of taking my time in wandering through the stalls. I look at the goods for sale, I buy . . . and I listen.”
“I take it you have heard something interesting,” said Henning.
“Very.” Arianna moved to the door and took a quick peek into the corridor. “Perhaps we should take a walk on the strand. Seeing as Grentham arranged our quarters, there is a possibility that the walls have ears.”
Her husband nodded. “A prudent suggestion. Baz?”
The surgeon poured himself another measure of whisky and drank it down. “Aye. I don’t trust the minister or his lackeys farther than I can spit.” He pursed his lips. “No word yet from that gold-braided donkey’s arse about Angus?”
Arianna bit her lip. The malt had lit a dangerous glint in Henning’s eye. For the present it was only a small spark, but it wouldn’t take much to fan it into a flame.
“You know military bureaucracy,” counseled Saybrook. “These things often move at a snail’s pace, despite orders.”
“We don’t even know what Grentham wrote in those fancy sealed papers,” retorted the surgeon.
“It is not in the minister’s interest to make enemies of us,” pointed out the earl.
“That,” said Henning darkly, “depends on what his true interests really are.”
“Instead of spinning round and round in circles on this, let us try to move forward.” Arianna put on her coat and bonnet. “Put the arrogant Colonel Stoughton and his scarlet regimentals out of your mind. The only shade of red that ought to concern us is the cinnabar flash of a cunning fox.”
Bundled up against the biting wind, the three of them cut across the golf course and took the footpath down to the rocky stretch of beach. The tide was ebbing, leaving pools of dark, foam-flecked water among the smooth stones. Storm clouds hovered on the horizon, ominous bands of charcoal smudging the steel gray sea.
As they picked their way along the high-water line, Saybrook linked arms with Arianna and signaled for his friend to do the same. “I think we’re now safe enough from being overheard,” he said dryly. “Feel free to be succinct. I feel a sudden craving for hot chocolate coming on, fortified with a generous splash of rum.”
“I shall,” she said through chattering teeth, and quickly recounted what she had overheard.
“Girton,” mused Henning. “Just this morning Connery suggested that we add his name to our list of people who merited a closer look. Though I confess, I did not put it at the very top.”
“I suggest you reconsider,” said Arianna.
The surgeon looked pensive. “What—”
Saybrook swung around, turning them all back in the direction of town. “Let us get out of the cold, before Arianna turns into a block of ice,” he counseled. “We can discuss strategy at a coffeehouse. But it seems to me that we ought act on this without delay. A late-night visit to his residence for a private audience might be in order.”
“Aye.” Henning’s voice was muffled by the knitted scarf wound around his neck and the lower part of his face. “I’m sure that with the right encouragement we can convince him to be candid about his current activities.”
Arianna quickened her pace. Her feet were going numb despite her sturdy half boots. “I agree. The sooner we move, the better.”
* * *
“I am not sure your new lady friends in the market would approve.” Saybrook arched a brow as he eyed her snug-fitting black breeches and coat. “Scots are rather rigid in their notions of traditional propriety.”
“I’m sure that according to their rules, I’m guilty of a multitude of sins.” She checked the sharpness of her blade before sliding it into her boot. “One more won’t matter.”
The earl opened a small traveling case, revealing several more small pocket pistols. He chose a pretty pearl-handed model and after checking the action of the hammer held it out on his palm. “Manton had this in his shop. It was made by a craftsman in Italy who specializes in discreet weapons for ladies and should fit perfectly in the hidden breast pocket of your coat.”
“I prefer the Tsar’s dueling pistols,” replied Arianna. “As you pointed out, these tiny toys are only effective at very close range.”
“Take it,” he said softly. “You’ll have the other weapons as well, but I prefer that you carry a spare. One can’t be too careful, my dear.”
“You are growing cautious in your old age,” she replied, smiling slightly.
“Call it wiser.” Click, click. The well-oiled steel moved with perfect precision as he examined the priming of his own pair of firearms. “Though many people would question my sanity for allowing my wife to be part of these little adventures.”
“On the contrary. You are smart enough to know the futility of forbidding me to be involved in the action. I don’t take orders well.”
Click, click. “And yet the traditional vows of marriage include a promise to honor and obey.”
“I lied,” said Arianna without a hint of hesitation. “Which should come as no surprise to you, given my background.” Click, click. She made her own quick examination of the tiny pocket pistol and tucked it away. “If you wanted a traditional wife, alas, you made the wrong choice.”
Candlelight glinted off the polished metal, catching
the spark of amusement that lit in his eyes. “Ah, well, there are benefits to being leg shackled to a lady who refuses to conform to convention. Life is rarely dull.”
She put on her hat and tugged the wide brim down low. “It’s time to go. Henning and his friend will be waiting.”
The surgeon had suggested that he ask his friend Connery to accompany them to Girton’s residence, explaining that the chemistry professor might be more forthcoming if a colleague were there to urge cooperation. Both she and the earl had agreed that it could do no harm, for Henning had sworn that his friend could be trusted to keep their secrets.
Easing the bedchamber window open, Saybrook angled a look up and down the alleyway. Signaling for her to follow, he slipped out to the ledge and slid along to the corner of the inn, where the corniced stone allowed enough of a foothold to climb up to the slated rooftop. Crouching low, he moved stealthily to the adjoining building, using the chimney shadows for cover.
The moon was naught but a thin crescent, noted Arianna as she slid her gloved hands over the rough tiles. Even if Grentham’s lackeys were spying on them, they should have no trouble evading pursuit.
At the end of the block, the earl dropped down to a deserted storage pen, and from there they emerged onto a quiet side street.
“This way,” he whispered, drawing her toward the harbor.
Henning and Connery were waiting in the lee of the cathedral’s east wall. “It’s colder than a witch’s tit,” grumbled the surgeon.
“Auch, London living has made ye soft, Baz,” whispered his friend. “It’s balmy fer this time of year.”
“Let’s hurry,” advised the earl. He did not introduce Arianna to the professor.
Yes, some things were best left unsaid, she thought, falling in step behind her husband.
Connery led the way, threading a path through a series of narrow, twisting alleyways before pausing in front of the ivy-covered back gate of a walled garden. “It’s locked,” he whispered, “but Baz told me that won’t be an obstacle.”
Recipe for Treason: A Lady Arianna Regency Mystery (Lady Arianna Hadley Mystery) Page 5
