The Cocoa Conspiracy

by Andrea Penrose

“Any luck with your champignons?” asked the comte, stumbling slightly as he turned to look at Saybrook.

  “I found one interesting specimen,” he replied gruffly, turning to steady Rochemont’s footing. “I plan to come back for a closer look at the woods behind us—”

  The glint of sun on steel lasted only an instant as the barrel of a gun shifted ever so slightly within the gray-green foliage.

  On instinct, the earl shoved the Frenchman down and dove for cover, just as sharp crack rent the air.

  A gorse branch shattered close by his face, the splinters nicking his cheek.

  “Damn,” he grunted, clapping a hand to his shoulder as he rolled up against the thorns. His fingers came away sticky with blood.

  Silence.

  And then the sound of running footsteps thrashed through the bushes. “Sandro!” Mellon must have seen the earl fall, for he had cut away from his place in the shooting line and was rushing to help.

  “Get down, Charles,” he ordered, grabbing his uncle’s legs and pulling him to the ground. “You too Rochemont. Don’t move.”

  The comte gave a dazed moan. A purpling bruise on his forehead showed that he had struck his head on a rock. “My face, my face,” he whined. “I fear I shall have a permanent scar.”

  “Stop squirming,” snapped Saybrook. “And stop mewling, unless you wish to draw another round of fire.”

  “What the devil—” wheezed Mellon as the comte froze.

  “Stay here.” Slipping a long-bladed knife from his boot, Saybrook scrambled to his feet and set off at a run.

  Arianna didn’t linger long over her tea and toast. Discreetly avoiding the main drawing room, where her hostess was busy organizing a shopping trip to the nearby village, she hurried up one of the side staircases and took refuge in her chambers. Looking at lace or plumes held absolutely no interest for her. Feminine frills were more often than not a cursed nuisance. She much preferred the freedom of men’s garb—breeches and boots—rather than yards and yards of suffocating skirts and delicate slippers.

  Arianna thought longingly of her buckskins back in Grosvenor Square, and the many times in her previous life that she had ventured into public dressed as a boy. Ha! The other guests, both male and female, would most likely swoon on the spot if she were to gallop across the marquess’s manicured lawns riding astride.

  Not that she would give rein to any such unladylike urges. She had vowed to herself that Mellon would have no cause to regret his invitation.

  Still, her spirits were brightened by the mere notion of shocking the ton.

  Humming a cheerful Bach fugue, Arianna began gathering up her projects. There was Dona Maria’s journal, with its deucedly difficult German script to decipher—not to speak of measurements and ingredients that sounded even more foreign. Without a kitchen close by for constant experimenting . . .

  Huffing a sigh, Arianna set the notebook aside in favor of starting with a simpler task.

  Coward, she chided herself.

  But she quickly assuaged all twinges of guilt by reminding herself that tomorrow was Saybrook’s birthday, so it made sense to take advantage of his absence and wrap his gift now.

  Perhaps the magnificent engravings of the cacao fruit would help assuage whatever ill was plaguing him, she mused. Chocolate was, after all, considered to have potent medicinal benefits. Even Saybrook’s good friend Basil Henning, the highly skeptical Scottish surgeon, conceded that its effects on both body and spirit were intriguing.

  Taking up her purchase from the rare book shop, as well as a colorful pasteboard box, scissors and ribbon, she carried them to the escritoire.

  Once the brown paper wrapping had been stripped off the leather-bound volume, Arianna paused to once again admire the exquisite detail and subtle hues of the colored illustrations. They were truly lovely works of art, and she looked forward to seeing Saybrook’s expression when he opened the cover—

  Her own face suddenly fell as her fingers touched upon the inside of the back binding. A corner of the marbled end paper had come loose.

  “Damnation,” she muttered under her breath. It must have been snagged during the scuffle.

  Setting the book down on the blotter, she angled it to the light and smoothed at the rough edge. The damage appeared to be minor, so perhaps if she could find a glue pot in the marquess’s library . . .

  How odd.

  There seemed to be a bulge beneath the decorative paper. She took a moment to check the front cover.

  Yes, yes, there is a distinct difference.

  Frowning, Arianna fetched Saybrook’s silver book knife from the adjoining room. Sliding the slim blade into the opening, she ever so gently worked it up and down.

  A bit more of the paper popped up.

  Sure enough, she could now see that several sheets of folded paper had been tucked inside the binding. Slowly, slowly, she eased the sharpened metal down the edge of the marbling, loosening the glue. When finally the gap seemed big enough, she gingerly extracted the hidden papers.

  Secret chocolate recipes? A smile tweaked on her lips. Oh, wouldn’t that be a delicious discovery. Or perhaps it was a pirate map, with a skull and crossbones marking buried plunder. Or . . .

  Or perhaps I should stop reading Mrs. Radcliffe’s horrid novels.

  The reality would likely prove much more mundane. A packing list, a notation of expenses, tucked away for safekeeping during a trip.

  A faint crackling teased at her fingertips as she unfolded the sheets. There were three in all—two were grouped together, while the third was on its own. Sitting back, she skimmed over them quickly.

  “Oh, bloody hell.”

  Arianna closed her eyes for an instant, and then read them again. “Bloody, bloody hell.”

  Like the hapless grouse flushed into flight on the moors, all notions of a peaceful country interlude had just been blasted to flinders.

  Saybrook crossed the clearing in a flash and darted into a stand of oaks. Pressing up against a gnarled trunk, he held his breath and peered into the gloom, looking and listening for any sign of movement within the grove.

  He detected nothing, save for the silent, shifting shadows. The air was very still, the earthy musk of damp decay tinged with lingering traces of burnt gunpowder. The earl waited a moment longer before heading deeper into the trees.

  Leaves crunched softly beneath his boots, punctuating the whispery brush of the pine boughs against his coat. He stopped every few steps and listened for footfalls up ahead, but heard only the distant cackle of a raven and muffled cracks of gunfire out on grouse moor.

  “Damn.” After surveying the tangle of underbrush and the dense thickets ahead, he swore again.

  “Sandro?”

  “Over here, Charles,” he answered. As Mellon crashed through the brambles, the earl added an exasperated warning. “For God’s sake, man, try not to rouse the dead.”

  “Sorry.” Mellon stumbled up beside him, gasping for breath. He had lost his hat and his normally impeccably groomed hair was standing on end. “I haven’t as much experience in this sort of thing as you do.”

  “Which is exactly why I ordered you to stay where you were,” snapped Saybrook.

  “What the devil is going on?” Mellon’s expression pinched in shock. “Christ Almighty, you’ve been shot!”

  The earl touched his shoulder. “It’s naught but a scratch.”

  “It is hard to believe a poacher would be so bold—or stupid—to be shooting with our party close by.”

  “It wasn’t a poacher, Charles. A poacher would not possess a rifle,” replied Saybrook grimly. “Such a weapon is very expensive.”

  “H-how do you know it was a rifle?”

  “The sound. It’s quite different from that of a musket.”

  “But who . . . ?” Mellon left the rest of the question unsaid.

  “I haven’t a clue.” The earl swung his gaze back to the forest. “And there’s no point in trying to chase after the fellow. He’ll have no trouble los
ing himself in the forest.”

  Mellon blinked, suddenly noting the blade in Saybrook’s hand. “You were going after the fellow armed with naught but a knife?”

  “As you say, I am experienced in warfare.” He shifted his grip on the hilt. “You, on the other hand, have no such excuse.”

  “I couldn’t very well let you charge off into danger on your own,” muttered Mellon.

  “We’ll argue the fine points of battlefield strategy later,” said Saybrook. “Come, let us return to the hunt.”

  But as he edged back to let his uncle go first, his eyes narrowed. “A moment,” he murmured, angling another look through the overhanging leaves. Several quick strides took him over a fallen tree and through a screen of young pines. An outcropping of weathered granite rose up from the center of a tiny clearing. It was the spattering of bright crimson on the gunmetal gray stone that had first caught the earl’s gaze. However, as he came closer, he saw what had caused it.

  Crouching down, Saybrook placed a finger on the side of the man’s slashed throat. “No pulse,” he murmured as Mellon came up behind him. “But the flesh is still warm.”

  Mellon closed his eyes and, repressing a gag, quickly looked away. “Why would someone deliberately shoot at you?” he croaked, once he had recovered his voice. “Have you been stirring up any trouble?”

  “Not that I know of.” Saybrook sat back on his heels. “And yet, trouble seems intent on rearing its ugly head.” Expelling a grunt, the earl went on to explain about seeing a man sneak into the woods just before the shot.

  “And you didn’t recognize the fellow?”

  Saybrook shook his head. “No, but I’m certain this is not him. The man I saw was dressed like a member of our shooting party, in heavy woolens and a broad-brimmed hat.” He felt inside the corpse’s moleskin jacket, and then made a check of the pockets. “There’s nothing that might help identify him.”

  Mellon nudged the short-barreled gun lying half buried in the russet needles. “You were right about the rifle.”

  “Yes.” The earl checked the firing mechanism and frowned. “And it’s equipped with the latest mercury fulminate percussion caps.” Flicking away a grain of gunpowder, he looked up at his uncle. “A design that is only available to our elite military regiments.”

  “Christ Almighty,” whispered Mellon. “I fear something very sinister is afoot here.”

  “As do I, Charles. As do I.” Thinning his lips, the earl wiped a bloody hand on his breeches. “You know, it might not have been me that the shooter was aiming at. Rochemont was right in the line of fire as well.” He paused. “Is there any reason our government might be unhappy with the French émigré community in London? Rochemont is one of its leaders, and while they were a useful wartime ally, now that the monarchy has been restored to France, their loyalty will lie with a foreign sovereign and a foreign country.” A pause. “So perhaps they are no longer viewed as a friend.”

  Shouts rose from the edge of the grove before his uncle could answer.

  “I sent our ghillie to raise the alarm,” explained Mellon. He stood and called an answer to the group.

  A few moments later, a half dozen of their party were milling around the macabre scene, their shocked murmurs underscoring the agitated whine of the bird dog.

  “Good God, what happened?” demanded a pale-faced Enqvist.

  Mellon lifted his shoulders. “Someone shot at Lord Saybrook. We gave chase”—he shuddered—“and stumbled upon this.”

  “The devil take it, you’re wounded, Saybrook!” exclaimed Bellis, one of Mellon’s associates in the Foreign Ministry.

  All eyes fixed on the dark stain spreading over the torn fabric of his coat.

  “The bullet merely grazed me,” replied the earl.

  “I can’t say that I blame you for slitting the cur’s throat,” muttered Bellis, casting a look at the knife in Saybrook’s hand.

  “No, no—Saybrook didn’t kill him,” protested Mellon. “As I said, we found the fellow with his throat already cut.”

  One of the men coughed. Several shuffled their feet.

  “We’ll need to bring the body back to the manor house,” said Bellis. “The local magistrate will have to be summoned and an inquest arranged, seeing as there’s been a violent death.”

  Mellon gave a brusque wave to the ghillie. “Go, man, and bring back the cart, along with a few of your sturdiest fellows.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The servant hurried away, and the others slowly followed.

  Saybrook rose and carefully slid his blade back into his boot. When he looked up, it was to find Grentham watching him, a scimitar smile curled on his mouth.

  “Tut, tut. You’re getting a little careless, Saybrook,” mocked the minister. “The last two times a man ended up dead from a knife wound, you made sure that no witnesses caught you at the scene red-handed.”

  The earl’s expression remained impassive.

  “If you recall, I did warn you to watch your step.” Grentham dropped his voice to a whisper as he brushed by. “But it seems you have slipped. And now you and your sharp-tongued wife have nothing to barter. You are on your own.”

  6

  From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks

  Chocolate Date Pudding Cake

  6 ounces pitted dates, about 2 cups

  ¾ cup water

  1¼ cups sugar

  1 tablespoon pure vanilla extract

  6 large egg whites

  ½ cup unsweetened cocoa powder

  ½ cup all-purpose flour

  Confectioners’ sugar, for dusting

  1. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F. Spray a 1½ quart soufflé dish with nonstick spray.

  2. Put the dates and water in a pot over medium-low heat. Cook and stir for 10 minutes until the dates are very soft. Transfer the softened dates to a food processor and puree until smooth. Add the sugar and vanilla, puree again until well blended. Scoop out the puree into a mixing bowl. Sift together the cocoa powder and flour and add to the date mixture. Fold using a rubber spatula; combine gently until well mixed.

  3. In a mixing bowl, whip the egg whites until they form stiff peaks. Fold the egg whites into the date mixture.

  4. Pour the batter into the coated soufflé dish, spreading it evenly with a spatula. Bake on the middle rack for 25 minutes until the outside is just set. Cool to room temperature. Shake some confectioners’ sugar on top and serve.

  The flames licked up from the burning log, teasing, taunting little tongues of fire. Do it. Do it. The smoky crackle of the red-gold coals added their own siren song.

  Do it. Do it.

  Arianna stared into the hearth, mesmerized by the seductive light and heat. It would be oh, so easy . . .

  Whirling away from the burning logs, she rushed to the window, and pressed her palms to the glass panes, willing the chill to cool temptation.

  “No,” she whispered.

  But who would know? countered a devilish voice inside her head. She could consign the letters to the fire and nobody would know. Poof—the evidence would simply crumble to ashes.

  The danger would disappear in a pale plume of smoke.

  A papery sigh whispered as she unfolded the sheets yet again and read over the writing. Two of them contained naught but gibberish. It was the other one that raised a pebbling of gooseflesh up and down her arms.

  There was—there had to be—a plausible explanation. However, in the wrong hands, the document could do great damage.

  She drew in a measured breath, willing her heart to stop thudding against her ribs. In the past, the choice would have been a simple one for her. Concepts like right and wrong were mere abstractions when one was scrabbling hand over fist to survive. She would have done what was practical and pragmatic without a second thought.

  But Saybrook was a man of unyielding honor, of unbending principle, she thought with a harried sigh. And strangely enough, she had come to believe in such platitudes.

  Though how and why,
I can’t explain—even to myself.

  The damnable documents posed more than a personal dilemma. Their existence indicated a far more insidious danger. Saybrook would say it was their moral duty to show the evidence to the proper authorities, no matter the consequences.

  Arianna bit her lip. She was very good at hand-to-hand combat—but she hated wrestling with her conscience.

  “I much preferred it when I didn’t have one,” she whispered wryly.

  The sudden clattering of a horse cart rolling into the courtyard interrupted any further philosophical musings.

  Her breath had fogged the windowpanes, so it took a moment to wipe away the vapor. Through the blurred glass she saw that a length of canvas was covering something in the back of the cart. Two ghillies jumped down from the backboard and the horse was quickly led away to the back of the manor.

  Craning her neck, she watched the procession of grim-faced hunters come marching up the drive. In contrast to the casual camaraderie of the morning bantering, they appeared silent, subdued.

  Saybrook was not among them.

  Arianna turned away from the window, trying to quell a sense of unease.

  A dog began barking in high-pitched yips that echoed sharply off the stately limestone walls.

  Her nerves on edge, she nearly jumped out of her skin when an urgent knock suddenly sounded on the suite’s entryway. Sliding the papers back inside the book, she rushed to open the door.

  “Madam, there seems to have been an accident involving the earl. I was told to tell you that”—the agitated footman paused to catch his breath—“that you had best come quickly.”

  Dio Madre.

  Arianna rushed to retrieve her shoes, which she had slipped off while sitting at the escritoire. As she shoved aside the chair, her gaze fell on the chocolate book and its hidden secrets.

  On impulse, she carried it to the bed and shoved it beneath the mattress before hurrying down the stairs.

  “There is no need to fuss, Arianna.” Saybrook tried to fend off her hand. “It’s naught but a scratch.”