The Cocoa Conspiracy

by Andrea Penrose

  “He also stole a book,” she added. “I saw it hidden under his coat.”

  “B-but he has made several purchases recently, all properly paid for,” protested the clerk. Another glance, another sniff. “You must be mistaken. By all appearances, he is a perfect gentleman; no matter that he is a foreigner.”

  “Well he’s not,” shot back Arianna. “You may take my word for it.”

  His mouth thinned. “And who, might I ask, are you?”

  “The Countess of Saybrook.” Arianna held out the chocolate book. “Now, before you toss me out on my arse, kindly wrap that and write up a receipt. And do make it quick. My carriage is waiting and the earl does not like for his prime cattle to take a chill.”

  2

  From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks

  Coconut Hot Chocolate

  2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder

  ⅓ cup boiling water

  1 15-ounce can coconut milk

  ¼ cup dark brown sugar

  Pinch kosher salt

  1 ounce bittersweet chocolate, chopped (about ¼ cup)

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  For the meringue (optional)

  1 large egg white

  3 tablespoons superfine sugar

  1. Whisk cocoa into ⅓ cup boiling water.

  2. In a saucepan, combine coconut milk, brown sugar and salt. Simmer, stirring, until sugar is dissolved, about 2 minutes. Whisk in hot cocoa and chopped bittersweet chocolate until smooth. Stir in vanilla.

  3. In bowl of an electric mixer, beat egg white on medium speed until it begins to foam, about 1 minute. Add superfine sugar tablespoon by tablespoon as mixer is running. Beat until egg white stiffens to soft peaks and is shiny, 5 minutes. Dollop onto cups of hot chocolate.

  Heels clip-clopping over the black and white marble tiles of the entrance hall, Arianna crossed to the side table and tossed down her bonnet. It was, she admitted, a hideous head covering. But until now, she hadn’t noticed the smudge of green slime on the peak of its poke.

  No wonder the shop clerk continued to eye me suspiciously, even after I passed over a large wad of banknotes to pay for the book.

  “You are looking very fetching, my dear.”

  As she turned abruptly, several hairpins slipped free, loosening a lopsided spill of curls across one cheek.

  “And is that a new perfume you are wearing?” Alessandro Henry George De Quincy, the fifth Earl of Saybrook, gave an experimental sniff. “Eau de Rotten Cabbage, perhaps ? Or is it turnip?”

  “Oh, please. Don’t ask.”

  “Very well.” His gaze moved to the neatly wrapped package tucked under her arm. “What have you there?”

  “Never mind,” she said tartly to her husband. “It’s a surprise.”

  He made a face. “I am not overly fond of surprises.”

  Neither am I.

  “This one is perfectly harmless,” Arianna assured him. Anxious to change the subject, she gestured for the maid who had accompanied her on the shopping expedition to take the baskets of fresh produce down to the kitchens. “Elena, tell Bianca that there were no cèpes to be had,” she instructed. “Though I do think she will find the goat cheeses a perfect match for the Seckel pears she purchased yesterday.”

  Her husband raised a teasing brow as he surveyed her disheveled appearance. “Did you have to battle a regiment of Soult’s cavalry for the last wedges?”

  “The market was crowded this morning,” she answered evasively. “I know I look a fright.”

  “You would look ravishing wearing a burlap grain sack,” he replied with a grin. “Still, you may wish to change before joining Charles and me in the library for tea.”

  “Your uncle is coming by? Good Lord, then I’d better hurry.”

  Saybrook coughed. “Actually, he arrived just a few moments before you did.”

  It was only then that Arianna noticed the tall, elegantly attired figure standing in the shadows of the marble staircase.

  “Forgive me for intruding without notice at this early hour.” Charles Mellon stepped forward and bowed over her hand.

  Some perverse imp of Satan must be intent on making mischief for me today.

  “Nonsense, sir. You know that you are always welcome here.” Despite the quick assurance, her smile was a little tentative. She suspected that Mellon was not very pleased about her recent marriage to his nephew, though he was too much of a gentleman to be anything but scrupulously polite in her presence.

  “Thank you, milady,” he replied with grave formality.

  That he hadn’t approved of her at the beginning of their acquaintance was no secret. And with good reason, Arianna thought wryly. At the time, she had been a fugitive from justice, and because of her, Saybrook had been drawn into a tangled web of corruption and conspiracy. It was only by the grace of God—and their cleverness—that they had escaped with their lives.

  “It is always a pleasure to see the two of you,” Mellon went on.

  More than a few men may have been less sincere in such sentiments. After all, with the earl’s demise, the Saybrook title and fortune would have passed to Mellon. However, Arianna had never doubted the affection that the older man had shown for his nephew.

  “I won’t take up too much of your time,” he finished.

  “It’s nearly noon—you must join us for nuncheon,” she said. “Bianca will be bitterly disappointed if you miss her special Serrano ham.”

  “Tempting.” Mellon allowed a faint smile. “But a meeting at the ministry demands my presence. I cannot stay for long. I’ve simply stopped by to ask a favor . . .” His pause was barely perceptible. “Of you both.”

  “Anything—” began Saybrook.

  Mellon cut him off with a quick wave. “It’s never wise to agree to a proposal before knowing all the details. I would rather that you and your wife hear me out before giving an answer.”

  “I’ve already rung for the refreshments, my dear,” said Saybrook, an oblique reminder for her to make haste.

  “I shall only be a few minutes in freshening up,” promised Arianna.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, she couldn’t help but wonder what help her uncle-by-marriage could possibly need from her. For the most part, they moved in very different circles. A senior diplomat in the Foreign Ministry, Mellon spun effortlessly through the gilded splendor of London’s haute monde. While she preferred . . .

  No use speculating. Arianna expelled a harried sigh. She would find out soon enough.

  “Attend a country house party?” Saybrook stirred a pinch of grated nutmeg into his cup of hot chocolate. “For a fortnight ?”

  Mellon nodded. “I am aware of how little you—both of you—like such frivolous entertainments. But the Marquess of Milford has kindly consented to hold a shooting party at his estate in Wiltshire. There will be a number of foreign diplomats present, including a delegation from Spain.”

  “I see,” murmured Saybrook.

  His expression, noted Arianna, gave nothing away. As a former military intelligence officer attached to the staff of Arthur Wellesley—now the Duke of Wellington—during England’s Peninsular campaign to drive Napoleon’s armies out of Spain, he was well trained in keeping his thoughts to himself.

  “Given the upcoming Peace Conference in Vienna, our government is, of course, anxious to work in harmony with all of our wartime allies,” continued Mellon.

  “And, of course, it would be a help to know what the Spaniards are thinking,” said Saybrook.

  Another confirming nod. “That your mother was a Cata-lonian noblewoman will be a great mark in your favor. As will the fact that you have spent your childhood summers in their country and so are at home with their language and their customs.”

  “A mark in my favor,” repeated Saybrook, a note of sarcasm edging his voice. “How ironic that my own countrymen see my mixed heritage as a stain on an ancient and venerable title.” Seeing Mellon frown, he quickly went on, “Oh, come, Charles, you know I’ve heard
the whispers behind my back—how could the old earl have tainted the precious De Quincy blood by producing a mongrel as his heir?” He took a long sip of his drink. “A new batch of spice?”

  “Yes,” said Arianna, knowing the question was directed at her. “I discovered a small shipment from the isle of Grenada at the market. Along with a sack of coffee from the Blue Mountains of Jamaica.”

  Her husband took a moment to savor another taste. “It’s slightly more piquant than the nutmeg from Martinique.”

  “Sun and altitude,” she pointed out. “Which do you prefer?”

  Saybrook smiled. “As you know, I tend to choose bold over mild in most things.” Adding a pinch of powder from a dish on the tea table, he continued. “The mace looks to have a bit of bite as well.”

  Mellon waited patiently for the discussion of food to end. “My palate is not nearly discerning enough to sense such nuances and how best to blend them together,” he remarked when they were done.

  “Your expertise lies in judging the complexities of character, and how best to convince a group of conflicting personalities to come to a common consensus,” said Saybrook.

  “It is all a matter of training, I suppose,” replied Mellon.

  “And passion,” said Arianna softly. “I believe that one must care deeply about something to do it well.”

  Mellon regarded her for a long moment. “I know your opinion of Society, Lady Saybrook—”

  “It’s the same as mine,” interrupted Saybrook. “We both abhor the mindless conformity, the vicious gossip, and the gleeful attacks on anyone who dares to defy the petty-minded rules.”

  His uncle expelled a sigh. “I—”

  “But that said,” Saybrook went on, “we will be happy to attend the Marquess of Milford’s party, if you feel that our presence will be of any help to you and your negotiations.”

  “It would be extremely helpful,” answered Mellon, looking much relieved. “Don Pedro Gomez Havela de Labrador, Spain’s envoy to the Conference, is a very proud man, and quick to take offense at any imagined slight. He and Lord Castlereagh, our representative, don’t rub together very well.”

  “So in other words, if an English lord who happens to understand the quirks of Castilian character could manage to flatter Labrador’s vanity, he might be more amenable to supporting our government’s proposals.”

  “Clearly you understand politics just as well as you do cuisine,” replied his uncle.

  “More than I care to,” muttered Saybrook, threading a hand through his dark hair. “When should we be ready to leave for Gloucestershire?”

  “In two days,” said Mellon apologetically. “It wasn’t until yesterday evening that we received final word that the Spaniards had consented to come.”

  “It doesn’t matter. We have no other plans,” Arianna lied. The trip to visit a noted botany expert and his conservatory of rare tropical plants in Cornwall would simply have to be postponed to a later date, no matter that Saybrook had been looking forward to it. “If you send over the list of expected activities, I shall have Maria begin packing our trunks.”

  “Oh, it will be the usual array of superficial entertainments,” replied Mellon. “The men will spend much of the day slaughtering birds on the marquess’s grouse moors while the ladies will amuse themselves indoors. There will be riding, picnics and scenic walks. And at night, there will be endless eating, drinking and dancing.”

  “Put that way, how can we resist?” she said.

  Mellon let out a brusque chuckle. “Quite easily, I imagine. Nonetheless, I am very grateful.” He rose. “In truth, you might not be as bored as you think. With such an international array of guests, the interlude is bound to offer some interesting diversions.”

  “I shall cancel next week’s appointment at Kew Gardens,” said Arianna, looking up from her list as Saybrook returned from seeing his uncle to the waiting carriage. She then added another notation. “And I shall write to Professor Turner and tell him we must put off our visit.”

  “I would much rather be scrabbling in the dirt of his hothouses than dancing attendance on a crowd of overfed aristocrats,” groused Saybrook as he settled into his favorite armchair and propped his booted feet on the hassock.

  “As would I.”

  “And what about my manuscript?” he said. “I need to consult some of Turner’s reference books to complete the current chapter.” Drumming his fingers on the worn leather, he scowled up at the ceiling. “How the devil can I write a book when I have such distractions?”

  Arianna remained tactfully silent, as did the painted putti overhead.

  He expelled a harried sigh. “But I couldn’t very well refuse Charles, could I?”

  “Have another cup of chocolate,” she suggested. “Perhaps it will help sweeten your mood.”

  A laugh rumbled in his throat. “Forgive me. I’ve been in a sour frame of mind all morning, and my uncle’s request was like . . . a splash of vinegar.”

  “Is your leg hurting you?” she asked.

  Saybrook had suffered a serious saber wound during the Battle of Salamanca. Invalided out of the army, he had been a morose, opium-addicted specter of his former self when first they had met. It was Mellon who had suggested that his nephew rekindle some interest in life by helping the Ministry of State Security investigate the attempted poisoning of the Prince Regent—though she suspected that he had quickly come to regret it.

  The best laid plans of mice and men . . . Arianna repressed a rueful smile. She had been the prime suspect, but luckily for her, Saybrook was one of those rare individuals who valued truth over expediency. Smelling a rat, he had refused to rush to judgment. Together, they had formed a wary alliance to pursue a common enemy; no matter that at first, they each had far different reasons and far different notions of justice.

  Mistrust had slowly softened into respect, and then . . .

  Her husband shifted and stood up. “It’s not my leg,” he quipped. “It’s the prospect of a fancy house party that’s a pain in the arse.” Moving to the sideboard, he spun the molinillo in the chocolate pot and poured himself a fresh cup. “As you see, my limp is gone—and I shall soon be losing my manly figure as well if you and Bianca keep stuffing me with sweets.”

  “She thinks you are still far too thin.”

  “Ha! Between the two of you, I fear I will grow as fat as Prinny and have to wear a corset.”

  Arianna rolled her eyes. His long, lithe frame had fleshed out considerably since their initial encounter, but it was all lean muscle and whipcord sinew. “I should think twice about that, if I were you. Corsets are horribly uncomfortable. And they creak.”

  “Ah, well, the sound would simply be another quirk added to my list of eccentricities.”

  “In that, we are two peas in a pod.” She made note of yet another errand to be done and then looked up. “Is there any other reason you are in such an oddly maudlin mood?”

  The dark fringe of his lashes hid his eyes. “Is it that obvious ?”

  “Only to me.”

  Saybrook shuffled to the bank of leaded windows and stared out over the gardens for several moments before answering. “A letter arrived from my sister Antonia this morning.”

  “Has something happened?” she asked quickly. “Is she unwell? Unhappy?”

  “On the contrary, she sounds quite cheerful.” He, on the other hand, did not. “She is enjoying her tour of the Lake District with Miss Arnold, and is looking forward to the new school term.”

  “You must not feel guilty. For the moment, this arrangement is probably the best for her.”

  “I know, I know,” he muttered. “And yet it seems cowardly to let her believe I am merely a distant relative, who takes a casual interest in her well-being.” It was only a year ago, on the death of the old earl, that Saybrook had discovered he had a younger sister. “Damn my father for never explaining the situation to me. Whatever was he thinking, to leave such important matters unspoken?”

  “He undoubtedly thou
ght he had time to do so,” answered Arianna. “He did not expect to fall from his horse during a fox hunt.”

  Saybrook replied with an exasperated oath. “Having lost both his first wife and second wife—or lover—to sudden illness, he, of all people, should have understood how quixotic life can be.” His mouth thinned to a grim line. “If he was indeed married to Antonia’s mother, why did he keep the relationship a secret, and hide her away in a school after her mother’s death, instead of acknowledging her as his legitimate daughter?”

  “We can only speculate as to his motives,” said Arianna softly. “I imagine that at first he was worried about how English society would react. Your mother was of noble birth, and still she was not accepted by many in the ton. Antonia’s mother was a commoner, and according to the notes you found among his papers, the ceremony took place in a small Papist chapel, rather than an English church. It seems that he meant to straighten things out, and prove it was a proper marriage. But”—she heaved a sigh—“fathers often keep secrets from their children.”

  Her own father had been a prime example of that, she reflected. A brilliant but mercurial man, the late Earl of Morse had been forced to leave England with his young daughter after being accused of cheating at cards. He had been innocent of that crime, but his murder, and her subsequent quest to clear his name, had led to unexpected revelations.

  “Whether it is out of guilt or shame or some emotion that eludes words, they don’t know how to explain their actions,” Arianna went on. “Your father may have feared that you would resent a sibling, or think her unworthy of the family name.”

  “I should have been delirious with delight to discover I had a sister,” he said gruffly.

  Arianna nodded. “I know that.” She paused, recalling the horrors of her own adolescence—an orphaned girl, alone and unprotected . . .

  “I would be more than happy to have Antonia come live with us, if that is what you wish,” she assured him. “No matter what the gossips might whisper.”