The Cocoa Conspiracy

by Andrea Penrose

  3. In a standing mixer, beat 1¼ cups sugar and remaining butter until fluffy; add remaining egg yolks one at a time. Add chocolate mixture and remaining vanilla; beat until smooth. On low speed, alternately add flour mixture and buttermilk until just combined; set batter aside.

  “Bravo, monsieur, bravo.”

  B Arianna didn’t have to turn around to know who had come up behind her. The Comte of Rochemont’s silky voice was unmistakable.

  “The enthusiasm of youth is always so . . . energetic,” he added, moving smoothly to stand by her side. “Mon Dieu, I confess that I feel exhausted just listening to such eloquence.”

  Kydd’s jaw tightened.

  “I find Mr. Kydd’s ideas very thought-provoking,” said Arianna.

  Rochemont winked. “I can think of far more interesting ways to provoke your thoughts than to prose on about politics, Lady Saybrook.” He gave an exaggerated look around. “Your husband is not here, is he?”

  “No,” she replied.

  “Thank God. I have suffered enough violence at his hands.” Rochemont rubbed meaningfully at the trace of a bruise on his brow. “The earl is a very dangerous man,” he said to Kydd. “A sauvage, as we say in French. Why, he knocked me to the ground during a grouse shoot at the Marquess of Milford’s house party. I fear that the rock may have left a permanent scar.”

  “A sauvage?” repeated Arianna. “That implies a primitive wildness, a lack of discipline. Saybrook is a highly trained soldier. His quick reaction probably saved your skull from being blown into a thousand little pieces.”

  “Alors, I cannot think of why the shooter would have been aiming at me,” he replied innocently. “It was your husband who was nicked by the bullet. Had he thrown himself in the opposite direction, I would not have suffered such a cut.” The comte made a face. “The mark is still there, despite my valet’s daily treatment with a slab of raw beefsteak.”

  Ass, thought Arianna.

  “Yes, I heard about the disturbing incident from Mr. Mellon.” Kydd’s mouth twitched. “Perhaps you would not have had a face to disfigure, Lord Rochemont, had not the earl knocked you down,” he suggested.

  Rochemont expelled a low hmmph.

  “I am sure you do not wish to be rude to Lady Saybrook, sir—” said Kydd. But before he could add any further chiding, he was called away by Mellon to escort the newly arrived Prussian envoy and his wife to the card room.

  The comte rolled his eyes as the Scotsman walked away. “A bit too earnest, isn’t he?”

  Arianna regarded him over the rim of her wineglass. “Mr. Kydd seems to believe very strongly in his ideas. You think that is a bad thing?”

  “Ca depend—that depends,” answered Rochemont. “He’s a puppy, and in their exuberance, puppies are easily led.”

  An interesting observation.

  “My husband’s uncle has great regard for Mr. Kydd’s intellect.”

  “Ah, well, who am I to argue with such a distinguished diplomat.” He lowered his voice to a silky murmur. “But let us leave politics to the men who find such discussions stir their blood. Moi—I prefer to talk of other things.”

  Arianna repressed a laugh. Good God, do most ladies find such ham-handed flirtations flattering?

  “Such as?” she inquired, deciding to play along for the moment. He was, after all, going to be involved in the upcoming Conference, and despite his professed laissez-faire attitude toward politics, he had a lot to gain or lose from the negotiations, depending on how the new French King viewed England and the émigré community in London.

  “Oh, take a guess,” he said.

  “I’m not very good at parlor games,” she replied.

  “Non?” His laugh had a teasing effervescence, like a mouthful of champagne tickling against the tongue. “I have a feeling you would be very good at anything you put your mind to, madame.”

  “Oui?” She held his gaze. “How so? The fact is, you hardly know me.”

  “Ah, but I am, with all due modesty, a very good judge of women—”

  “I daresay there isn’t a modest bone in your body,” interrupted Arianna.

  “Ha! You see! You have a certain spirit . . . a je ne sais quoi . . .” His chuckle stilled. “The truth is, you intrigue me. I sense hidden facets . . .”

  A chill skated between her shoulder blades. “What makes you say that?”

  Rochemont pursed his lips and subjected her to a lengthy study. “You have an aura of mystery about you. I find it very intriguing.”

  “You are mistaken, sir,” she said softly. “As I told you before, ladies are allowed little opportunity to do much of interest.”

  “Assuming they obey the rules,” he pointed out.

  “True.” The comte, she decided, was not quite as frivolous as he appeared. It would be wise to remain cool—but not too cool. A closer acquaintance could prove useful, especially if he was the prey referred to in the decoded document. Keeping an eye on him might allow her to see what wolves—or foxes—were stalking his steps.

  After another sip of her wine, Arianna asked, “You think society can function without rules?”

  “Ah, now that is a question we could discuss all night.”

  “I had the feeling that you prefer to spend the midnight hours engaged in activities other than talking.”

  He laughed again. “Conversation with you is so stimulating, Lady Saybrook.”

  “Be that as it may, I shall have to cut this one short. I see Mellon is about to ring the supper bell, and he has asked me to partner Mr. Kydd.”

  “Lucky dog,” said the comte. “I console myself with the fact that I overheard you tell the puppy that you will be traveling to Vienna after all. I hope that we may continue to get to know each other better there.”

  “We shall see,” murmured Arianna.

  “I will take that as a yes.”

  “Does that mean you never take no as an answer?” she asked.

  “I am so rarely asked to,” was his response.

  A man used to getting what he wants. No doubt Vienna would be filled with such hubris. Power, pleasure, privilege—a volatile mix if ever there was one.

  As Saybrook had said, they would have to dance a very careful pas de deux through the ballrooms of the Austrian capital—one small slip and the intrigue could ignite, like gilded gunpowder—a burst of flame, a sudden death, shattering of hopes for peace at last.

  The ormolu clock showed the hour to be well past midnight when the guests began to drift out to the curving staircase and down to the carriages waiting in Grosvenor Square.

  “Thank you for keeping Kydd company, Lady Saybrook,” murmured Mellon. In the candlelight, the tawny glow of his port reflected the mellow tone of his voice.

  From what she could tell, the evening had gone well, with cheerful toasts to camaraderie and cooperation punctuating the convivial dinner conversation.

  “He sometimes grows a trifle impatient during these affairs,” Mellon went on. “But I’m sure he will learn that they are important. Diplomacy depends on personal relationships, not just government policies.”

  “It was my pleasure,” she replied, watching the Scotsman take his leave. She had done her job—Saybrook and Henning should be done with their mission. “I find him quite interesting.”

  For reasons I can’t describe.

  “I hope you were not too bored. I know these gatherings are not to your taste either.”

  “There is much that I must grow accustomed to, sir,” said Arianna carefully. “If I appear to move slowly, it is because I do not want to make a misstep.” And fall flat on my arse.

  Mellon took a long sip of his port before answering. “A careful assessment of any situation is, in my opinion, always wise.”

  The conversation felt a little like moonlight and mist, silvery swirls of subtle nuances blending and blurring into one another. Dancing in and out of shadows, never quite touching.

  Angling her gaze to meet his, she asked, “Is it also your opinion that one should a
sk for help if that situation is proving hard to sort out on one’s own?”

  His expression remained neutral. “My opinion is that it is not a weakness to ask for help. In my work I’ve come to realize that new perspectives on a problem can often be of great help in spotting a solution.”

  “A wise reply,” she said softly. “But then, I expected no less from you.”

  Swirling the last of his wine, Mellon lifted the glass and watched the ruby-dark liquid spin in a slow, silent vortex.

  Arianna asked herself whether she was making an error of judgment. Perhaps it wasn’t her right to share family secrets . . .

  Ah, but I am family, she reminded herself.

  Drawing a deep breath, she made her decision. “Given your sentiments, I am hoping that you might consent to help me with a very delicate situation.”

  His expression remained polite but his eyes turned wary.

  God only knew what he expected—a confession of murder. Or infidelity?

  “It concerns . . . Sandro’s sister.”

  Mellon cleared his throat with a cough. “I fear you are confused, Lady Saybrook. Sandro has no sister.”

  “Actually, he does. Though whether she is a legitimate sibling or simply the late earl’s by-blow lies at the heart of the problem.” Arianna went on to explain Saybrook’s surprising discovery among his father’s papers concerning the young lady currently boarding at Mrs. Martin’s Academy in Shropshire. “Her name is Antonia, and she is registered as the daughter of a Spanish noble—a purely imaginary one, according to the letters left by Sandro’s father. He chose to disguise her identity while he decided how to make public his secret marriage to another foreigner—and a commoner at that.”

  Mellon expelled a harried sigh. “I confess, you could knock me over with a feather. My brother spent a great deal of time in Catalonia, but he never breathed a word about having another family.”

  “Sandro was equally shocked,” replied Arianna. “His father’s notes revealed that an Englishwoman has been set up with an annuity, and acts as Antonia’s guardian. The woman knows the truth of the girl’s birth, but has told her that Sandro is a distant relative. For now, he lives with this charade, but I know he would very much like to acknowledge the truth and see that she takes her rightful place in English Society.”

  A furrow had formed between Mellon’s brows. “Assuming she has a rightful place.”

  “Yes, that is certainly part of the problem.” Arianna paused. “As is the fact that I am just as much a foreigner to the Polite World as Antonia. I should like to see her accepted by the ton regardless of her birth, but I have little idea of how to go about it. Aunt Constantina, of course, will be a great asset, for I am sure she will relish the idea of orchestrating a debut Season. I—I am hoping you might consent to give me advice as well. Things like whose favor it is important to curry, which hostess has the most influence.”

  “Forgive me, but aren’t these the sort of activities you loathe?”

  “I have done a great many things in my life that I did not wish to do, sir,” she replied. “That did not prevent me from doing them very well. When I set my mind to something, I can be very stubborn.” Her lips quirked. “As you have no doubt noticed.”

  He acknowledged the quip with a tiny nod.

  “It would mean a great deal to Sandro. Though he keeps his feelings well hidden, I know that the matter is eating at his insides.” Though she considered herself good at reading people, she was having trouble trying to gauge Mellon’s reaction. For a skilled diplomat, masks were like a second skin.

  A fact that she must not forget during the coming weeks.

  “So, I was also wondering if, given your connections in the government, you might also consent to make a few discreet inquiries into your brother’s affairs while we are away in Vienna,” she went on. “It would be of enormous help to know whether there was indeed a marriage to Antonia’s mother, and whether England would recognize it as legal.” Arianna kept her eyes on his face. “I would like to surprise Sandro by making it possible for Antonia to come live with us when her school term is over next spring.”

  Mellon gave a rueful grimace, the first overt show of emotion he had allowed. “You know, I couldn’t in my wildest dreams have imagined any greater shock than this news.”

  I am afraid that you will soon have to confront an even worse nightmare, she thought to herself.

  “But yes, of course I can make some inquiries.”

  “Thank you,” she said simply. “I’m very grateful.”

  “And I, in turn, am happy that you took me into your confidences.” He stared meditatively into his port. “I assume that for now, you wish to keep this a secret from Sandro.”

  Secrets.

  She nodded. “I think it would be best.”

  “You may count on my discretion.”

  A short while later, Arianna stepped into the night and walked the short distance to where her carriage was waiting. Shadows flickered over the pavement as the mist-dampened darkness dueled with the bright blaze of the town house torchieres, mirroring her unsettled thoughts.

  There was much to think about. Kydd, Rochemont, Mellon . . . How ironic, she mused. Only a short time ago life had seemed a bit flat.

  If it was a spark of danger that she craved—that frisson of liquid fire pulsing through the blood—the coming few weeks promised to leave every nerve ending tingling with its burn.

  Lifting her face to the breeze, she inhaled and held the cool air in her lungs for a moment, waiting for the sudden pounding in her ears to subside. Ahead lay the unknown, and that should be frightening to any proper lady of the ton.

  A tiny gust tugged the corners of her mouth upward. Ah, but I’m not a proper lady, am I?

  “I trust your evening went well?” Saybrook stepped out of the shadows and opened the carriage door for her.

  “Very well. And yours?”

  “Baz and I made some interesting discoveries.” He offered her a hand. “Come, let us return home without delay, and I’ll explain it all over a cup of late-night chocolate.”

  The pale stone of the Horse Guards rose up like a square-shouldered ghost from the tendrils of morning mist. Despite the earliness of the hour, a troop of mounted soldiers emerged from the stables and wheeled into formation for their parade ground drills.

  His boot steps melding with the muffled beat of hooves and jangling of metal, Saybrook mounted the side stairs and made his way through the warren of corridors to Grentham’s office. He had spent the previous day and half the night following up on the information found in Kydd’s rooms, so the urgent summons from the minister had not been a welcome sight at the breakfast table.

  “How kind of you to respond so quickly,” said Grentham, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I would offer you coffee, but I assume you only drink the mouth-fouling sludge that you and your wife find so fascinating.”

  “You mean spiced chocolate?” replied the earl. He sat down without invitation. “Try adding sugar. Perhaps it would sweeten that sour phiz of yours.”

  “You’re awfully generous with your bon mots, Lord Saybrook. Would that you were half as forthcoming with information,” snapped the minister. “You were supposed to come by yesterday with an update on your visit to Kydd’s rooms.” He tapped his fingertips together. “I am tiring of giving you everything that you want and getting nothing in return.”

  “You wish a bon-bon?” Saybrook arched a brow. “Very well. I’ve discovered an interesting lead on how to learn more about Kydd’s clandestine political activities. Which in turn may lead me to whoever recruited him.”

  Grentham waited.

  The earl began buffing the chased silver knob of his walking stick on his sleeve.

  “I don’t find you amusing, Saybrook.”

  “I didn’t come here to entertain you by jumping through hoops.”

  The locking of their eyes produced a near-audible click. Both men tensed, as if they had heard the hammer of a pistol being drawn
to half cock.

  “In all honesty, Grentham, can you blame me for being less than eager to reveal my plans or my sources? Based on our previous investigation, I have good reason to have little confidence in you and your lackeys. It would seem that Renard, a French fox of a traitor, is still running tame in your own department. Until he is trapped, it would be foolhardy to be too forthcoming.” Saybrook crossed his legs. “I’m pursuing the matter. What more do you need to know?”

  Thinning his lips, Grentham countered with his own question. “That is all you intend to tell me?”

  “Yes.”

  “The information will not be shared with—as you so delicately put it—my lackeys.” A pause. “Or is it that you still suspect me?”

  Saybrook’s cool smile grew a touch more pronounced.

  “You are balanced on a razor’s edge, you know,” said Grentham. “Teetering between triumph and disaster.”

  “So are you,” retorted the earl. “Don’t waste your breath trying to blow me over the edge. I did not come here to waste time in bluster or bravado.” He stared for a moment through the tall windows overlooking the blue-coated riders, watching the raindrops form into sinuous snakes of water that slid down the glass. “I have been thinking over strategy, and I am concerned about a fundamental weakness in our plan.”

  Grentham leaned back in his chair and steepled his well-tended hands.

  “It has to do with Davilenko,” Saybrook continued. “Replacing the documents in the book may have fooled him into thinking that the treason is as of yet undetected. But he’s not stupid, and our appearance in Vienna might appear too much of a coincidence. I am not sure—”

  “I’ve already anticipated that problem, Lord Saybrook.” The minister allowed a self-satisfied smile. “Davilenko has been dealt with. He won’t be making any waves, so to speak, in Vienna.”

  “Might I inquire how you are so certain?” asked the earl.