The Cocoa Conspiracy

by Andrea Penrose

  Grentham’s expression pinched to a smirk. “Unlike you, I shall not indulge in childish hide-and-seek games. Davilenko met with an unfortunate accident on his crossing to Calais on the way to the Conference. The ship encountered a patch of rough weather, causing him to lose his footing on deck and fall overboard.”

  Saybrook lifted a brow.

  “Alas, the poor fellow drowned before the crew could fish him out of the water—and even the meticulous Mr. Henning, had he been there, could not have found evidence to the contrary.” The minister lowered his voice to a deceptively soft murmur. “Water in the lungs leaves no telltale bruising, you know.”

  “Ah. Thank you for the warning,” drawled the earl. “I’ve assumed that travel abroad is fraught with peril, but I shall be extra vigilant.”

  “It’s always wise to be on guard,” replied Grentham. “One never knows when Fate will strike, eh?”

  “Indeed. I will take care, especially on the journey home,” muttered the earl. “For some reason I have a feeling that getting to Vienna will not be as difficult as returning.”

  “Prevailing weather patterns in the Alps,” said the minister with a perfectly straight face.

  “That would explain it.” He spun his stick between his palms. “Anything else, milord? Much as I enjoy exchanging social pleasantries with you, I’ve better ways to spend my time.”

  Grentham’s nostrils flared, but he covered his annoyance with a sarcastic smile. “Let us hope so. It would be a pity to see your uncle’s reputation sunk into a stinking cesspool after all his years of stalwart service.”

  The only answer was a whisper of wool as the earl brushed a wrinkle from his trousers.

  “One last thing,” added the minister. “Before he fell overboard, Davilenko did confess to the ship’s captain that he had made no mention to his superiors of his temporary loss of the hidden documents. So as of yet, the conspirators have no reason to suspect that anything is amiss. Until, of course, you or your wife muck things up.”

  “Anything else?” repeated the earl

  Grentham took a moment to inspect his pristine white cuff before answering. “It was Davilenko who you spotted sneaking into the woods. He had arranged through a local contact to have the French Guard take a shot at you, but he confessed that the man threatened to expose him unless he paid more money. So he slit the fellow’s throat when your pursuit caused a moment of distraction.”

  “Who was the local contact?” demanded Saybrook.

  “Davilenko claimed not to know—it was arranged by leaving a letter at a prearranged spot.” A nasty smile. “And I believe him. Captain Leete is quite proficient at carrying out his duties.”

  “I thought your man left no evidence of trauma,” remarked the earl.

  “Oh, come—surely you know there are far more sophisticated ways of drawing out information than resorting to physical violence.”

  “Thank you for the enlightenment. It quite brightens my day.” Saybrook rose. “I do have another request of my own. I take it you have routine dossiers compiled on Talleyrand, Tsar Alexander and Metternich. I would like to read them before I leave for the Continent.”

  Grentham gave a brusque nod. “Come back this afternoon. You’ll find that their reputation as rapacious rakes is well deserved. So I should keep an eye on your wife, if I were you.” He opened one of the document cases on his desk and began reading through some papers. “She seems to enjoy the company of dissolute men.”

  “Unlike most of the pompous prigs of the ton, I don’t find an intelligent, clever female intimidating.” Saybrook curled a mocking smile. “Indeed, I find it quite attractive.”

  The minister didn’t look up. “If I want a sonnet on sex, I’ll visit a brothel.”

  “Which one do you prefer? I hear the Grotto of Venus is much favored by gentlemen who need help in rising to the occasion of having a spot of fun in life.”

  “I suggest you remove yourself from my office, Lord Saybrook.” Grentham picked up a pen and made a notation in the margin of the document. “While your pego is still attached to your person.”

  Arianna crossed off another item from her list as two footmen carried a large brass-latched case down to the entrance foyer. “Good God, you would think we were moving home and hearth to Cathay,” she muttered, surveying the growing mound of baggage with a baleful grimace. Saybrook had warned her that they might be away from home for as many as three months—and maybe longer. It was now the middle of September, so that meant they might not be home before the new year . . . which suddenly seemed very far away.

  “How many trunks are still upstairs, Juan?”

  “A half dozen more, madam.”

  She let out a sigh. “I fear that come tomorrow, we shall need a camel caravan.”

  “The baggage coach is designed to handle a heavy load,” said the footman tactfully.

  Yes, but I am used to traveling light.

  “There is a chest of books to be fetched down from the library,” called Saybrook as he came down the stairs.

  “Is all of this really necessary?” Arianna arched a skeptical brow as she read the first page of her list aloud to him.

  “We have a role to play,” Saybrook reminded her. “Several, in fact.”

  “You have a point,” she said, surrendering her protests with a rueful smile. Among the trunks of fancy clothing and fine furnishings was one that contained theatrical face paints and false hairpieces, along with a variety of disguises. “Maybe more than several.”

  When she and the earl had first met, she had been masquerading as a French chef. A male French chef who had ended up being the prime suspect in the poisoning of the Prince Regent. “Monsieur Alphonse” had disappeared into thin air. But the situation in Vienna might very well require a new persona to come to life.

  “It’s best to be prepared,” her husband said, as the footmen headed off for another load. “Mixed among my botanical books are a number of volumes on cryptology.”

  “I look forward to more lessons during the journey,” she replied.

  “There will be plenty of hours.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “My uncle has invited us for a farewell supper. In the morning, we shall leave at first light to catch the tide at Dover.”

  “So, the wheels are finally spinning into motion.”

  “Yes.” He fixed her with a searching stare. “No regrets?”

  Arianna shook her head. “I confess, I am probably anticipating the challenge more than I should be.”

  The subtle shift of his mouth was nearly lost in the soft light of the wall sconces. “As am I.” His lips suddenly possessed hers in a swift kiss. “Though I hate dragging you into danger.”

  “I would be kicking and screaming if you tried to leave me behind.”

  “I know. Not that it makes me feel any less guilty.”

  “Grentham has a grudge against me too,” Arianna pointed out. “I’m probably safer with you than I am staying here in London on my own. You know my ungovernable temper—I can’t seem to resist needling him whenever we meet.”

  “ Arianna . . .”

  She turned away before he could go on. “Ah, look! Bianca has sent up a sample of the new confection I found in your grandmother’s notebooks.” Taking the tray from the maid, she added, “There is a pot of chocolate as well. Let us retreat to the parlor and enjoy a respite from the chaos.”

  “Speaking of Grentham,” said Saybrook, toying with his spoon as a plume of steam wafted up from his cup.

  “I hope that duplicitous bastard hasn’t turned you up sweet,” growled a voice from the doorway.

  Arianna looked around, a smile wreathing her face. “Mr. Henning! Do come join us.” She offered him a plate. “The praline is made with Marcona almonds, a specialty from Spain.”

  The surgeon bit into one with an audible crunch. “I shall miss your treats while you are away.”

  “We shall hurry back,” she said drily. “And with any luck, we will bring some new recipes back with us.”


  “Assuming Grentham doesn’t sink your ship,” said Henning darkly. He had been told the previous evening about Davilenko’s demise. “Watch your arse, laddie.”

  “I shall depend on you to be the eyes in the back of my head,” said the earl.

  Henning made a strange face. “Alas, I fear my orbs will be turned elsewhere.” He withdrew a letter, much stained from travel, from his pocket and tossed it on the table. “My sister has just sent urgent word to me—my nephew has gone missing from his studies at the university and she fears that he’s the victim of foul play.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Arianna said.

  Saybrook took longer to reply. “I take it she gave a more detailed reason for her fears.”

  “Aye.” The surgeon looked grim. “Angus had apparently been recruited by a group of fellow students to join a secret political society.”

  Arianna felt her throat go a little dry.

  “The Dragons of St. Andrew?” asked Saybrook.

  “Aye, the very devils, as I just discovered.” replied Henning. “The lad was made head of the pamphlet committee—a bloody dangerous job, given the recent military crackdown on dissent—and his friends admitted that they haven’t seen him since he was summoned to attend an urgent late-night meeting.” His hands clenched into fists. “This is no longer an inquiry that I can entrust to someone else. Like you, I am readying myself for a trip. Desmond has promised to tend to my patients, so I shall be leaving for Scotland tomorrow.”

  The earl thinned his lips.

  “Auch, ye need not look guilty, laddie. It seems that Fate had decided I was going to be dragged into this tangle, whether you asked me or not.”

  “Fate,” repeated Saybrook. “Or some other sinister force?”

  “Who else other than Grentham knows that Mr. Henning is involved in our investigation?” mused Arianna aloud.

  “A good question,” replied her husband. “An even better one is who else other than Grentham knows that an investigation is taking place. Davilenko supposedly took that secret with him to a watery grave.”

  “You aren’t thinking fish have ears?” said Henning cynically.

  “No, I’m thinking rats have tongues,” answered the earl. “And it looks like it’s up to us to smoke the vermin out of the woodwork.”

  13

  From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks

  Honey Chocolate Chip Cookies

  2¼ cups all-purpose flour

  1 tsp. baking soda

  ½ teaspoon salt

  1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened

  1½ cups white sugar

  3 tablespoons honey

  2 eggs

  2 teaspoons vanilla extract

  2 cups bittersweet chocolate chips, or chopped bittersweet

  chocolate

  1. Preheat oven to 375º F. In a small mixing bowl, mix together the flour, baking soda, and salt.

  2. In a large mixing bowl, cream together the butter, sugar, honey, eggs and vanilla; gradually add the dry ingredients until a dough forms. Stir in the chocolate.

  3. Drop 1-tablespoon portions of dough onto cookie sheets lined with parchment paper; bake for 8–9 minutes, rotating the cookie sheets after 5 minutes. Cool on a wire rack.

  The brick warming her feet had gone cold and the blankets had slipped as the coach lumbered through a tight turn in the downward-spiraling road. Would her body ever be the same? Arianna shifted on the seat, trying to find a comfortable position. Every bone and bit of flesh felt bruised from the bumps.

  They traveled hard, pushing at a bruising pace through France and across the Alps. The snowcapped peaks, rising majestically against a brilliant blue sky, had taken her breath away. She had never seen anything like it.

  “This second coded letter is proving devilishly difficult to decipher,” muttered Saybrook, setting aside his notebooks with a sigh. “If you can tear your gaze away from the scenery, perhaps we should go over a few things, now that we are getting close to Vienna.”

  Despite the chill, her skin began to tingle. “Tell me more about the main people we are going to encounter. The ones who are likely involved in the conspiracy, unwittingly or not.” The names were of course familiar, but she wished to commit the details about their strengths and weaknesses to memory.

  “Let’s start with our prime suspect,” said Saybrook. “Ah, but where to begin with Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord?” The earl pursed his lips. “Some of this you already know, but it bears repeating.”

  She nodded.

  “He was born the eldest son of an ancient aristocratic family, but because of a lame leg, he was pushed into a Church career while his younger brother was anointed the heir of the family. Through the influence of his relatives, he rose to become a bishop, even though his faith was, shall we say, lax. Indeed, he quickly established a reputation for wit and charm in the drawing rooms of Paris—along with an appetite for fine wine, sumptuous cuisine and beautiful women.”

  “So, he is not a saint,” observed Arianna.

  “Hardly. A cat, perhaps, seeing as he appears to have nine lives. But most of all, he is the consummate diplomat—a master of manipulation, though to give the devil his due, he’s a brilliant statesman, and his views on world politics have much to admire.”

  “Then if he is our enemy, he is a formidable one,” she said.

  “Very,” agreed Saybrook. “To say he is clever and conniving is an understatement. You have only to look at his career to see he has an uncanny instinct for survival. Through the influence of friends and his own natural abilities, he managed to serve as a trusted advisor to the Ancien Régime, the Revolutionary fanatics, Napoleon and now the restored French monarchy.”

  “Does he believe in any abstract principle?” she asked.

  “Aside from pleasure and plumping his own purse?” Saybrook shrugged. “God only knows. It’s well known that Talleyrand lined his pockets with bribes throughout his career—not to speak of his double dealing with the Russian Tsar in ’08.” He blew out his cheeks. “I think we can assume that for the Prince—in 1806 the Emperor granted Talleyrand the title of Prince of Benevento as a reward for his services—his own personal objectives are sovereign.”

  Arianna took a moment to consider all she had heard. Talleyrand was cold, calculating. In her past life she had matched wits with many clever, unscrupulous men, but the thought of facing off against the Prince of Benevento sent a shiver snaking down her spine.

  “A formidable opponent,” she repeated. “It’s hard to imagine that anyone else is orchestrating this plot.” Carefully keeping her eyes on the passing mountain landscape, she added, “Now, tell me about the others.”

  Saybrook thumbed through the pages of his notebook. “Prince Metternich, the Austrian Foreign minister, is equally astute in the art of political negotiations. For the last decade, he has, by all accounts, been remarkably good at protecting Austria’s interests despite its daunting military defeats. And like Talleyrand, he’s known for his charm and smooth social graces.” A pause. “He also shares the Frenchman’s taste for seducing women.”

  “I may have to return to my old habit of wearing a knife strapped to my leg in order to defend my honor,” said Arianna lightly.

  “It might be a wise idea.” Her husband did not crack a smile. “Arianna, these men are used to getting what they want. Yes, they prefer to use charm, but don’t be deceived that they will graciously take no for an answer.”

  For a long moment, the only sound inside the coach was the clatter of the iron-rimmed wheels over the flinty rocks.

  “I’ve seen enough of deceit and depravity not to make such a naive mistake, Sandro,” she answered.

  The hazy half light seemed to accentuate his troubled scowl. “I have every respect for your formidable skills, my dear. And yet, I cannot forget that without my intervention, they would not have protected you from a horrible death.”

  “We have gone over all of this. I understand and accept the risks, Sandro,
” Arianna reminded him. “What else should I know about Metternich?”

  He hesitated, and then gave in with a grudging sigh. “At the upcoming congress, he will be intent on creating order and stability on the Continent. He’s enough of a realist to realize that means peace with France, so he will be open to Talleyrand’s ideas. My guess is he’s more concerned with the mercurial Tsar of Russia, who looms as a large and unpredictable power to his east.”

  “I see,” she said. “And Alexander? Is he really as bad as the picture painted in the English press?” The Tsar had recently paid a visit to London, and had earned scathing criticism for his arrogance and boorish manners.

  “The Tsar is a complex person,” replied Saybrook. “He’s a strange mixture of conflicting characteristics. He was greatly influenced by his grandmother, Catherine the Great, who had him tutored in the liberal ideals of the Enlightenment. After coming to the throne, he championed the idea of sweeping social reform in Russia. But as of yet, little change has really happened. A part of him is very autocratic and intolerant of criticism. He has a mystical side—some would call it messianic—and believes that God has chosen him to be a spiritual leader.”

  “And thus all should obey his commands?” remarked Arianna.

  “Precisely,” said her husband.

  “Men like that are . . . dangerous,” she mused. “Are the reports of his amorous exploits true?” Gossip about the Tsar’s rapacious pursuit of women had been a popular subject in London during his recent visit to England.

  “Alexander wants to feel loved,” answered Saybrook somewhat obliquely. “He flirts shamelessly and seems to feel that a woman’s physical surrender is an affirmation of his worth.”

  An astute assessment. The earl was a dispassionate judge of character, an ability that sometimes left her feeling a little uncomfortable.

  How does he see me?

  Tucking the fur-lined carriage blanket around her middle, Arianna leaned back against the squabs. It was, she decided, a question best left unspoken.