The Cocoa Conspiracy

by Andrea Penrose

  “I hear he is called the Angel,” she said, affecting an air of nonchalance to hide her uncertainty. “Is he handsome? I only caught a glimpse of him from afar when he was in Town, so it was hard for me to judge.”

  “In his youth, he was considered ethereally attractive.” Saybrook’s expression finally betrayed a hint of humor. “But of late, he has been partying so hard that it is said he has put on a good deal of weight, so that a messenger had to be dispatched back to Moscow for a new set of uniforms.”

  “Ah—a glutton for pleasure? Perhaps I can ply him with chocolate and coax some useful tidbits of information out of him.”

  “Perhaps.” He turned pensive. “He and Talleyrand were close in the past, so it’s possible that he is in some way involved in this intrigue. However”—he ran a hand along the line of his jaw—“I think that we will find Talleyrand at the heart of this conspiracy. Of all the men coming to Vienna, he is the one to fear most.”

  “Come, open your eyes, Arianna. You should not miss seeing your arrival in Vienna.”

  Vienna.

  She shifted against the squabs and brushed a palm over the fogged window glass. “Vienna,” she murmured softly, now wide-awake as they rolled over the majestic stone bridge spanning the Danube River. The currents swirled, quicksilver flickers of sunlight dancing across the dark water.

  “ ‘The haunt of the Hapsburgs is famous for its parks,’ ” read Saybrook, quoting a passage from the guidebook they had purchased in London. “According to this, we should be passing the Augarten at any moment.”

  The coach lumbered past a vast swath of Baroque gardens, formal lawns and shaded walkways. “ ‘The flowering landscape is designed in the French style,’ ” Saybrook continued. “ ‘And its avenues are lined with stately chestnut, lime, ash and maple trees. Within the grounds are dining and dance halls for the public, as well as a grand palace.’ ”

  “Interesting,” she murmured, trying to read the elaborate inscriptions above the gate.

  The earl seemed to be enjoying his role as tour guide. As they rolled toward the center of the city, he thumbed to a new section in the book. “The walls of the old medieval town were said to have been built with ransom money from Richard the Lionheart.”

  The horses circled a large fountain, and then they were bumping over the cobbles of the narrow, twisting streets.

  “Look up and you will see St. Stephen’s Cathedral.” Saybrook pointed out the soaring limestone cathedral with its Romanesque towers and intricately patterned tile roof. “Its main bell is one of the largest in Europe and was cast out of cannons captured from the Muslim invaders in 1711.”

  “East versus West,” she said. “I daresay we will see our share of modern-day conflict.”

  The earl regarded the weathered stone for a moment before nodding.

  Arianna still felt a little like a wide-eyed child as she looked out at the elegant storefronts and the streets crowded with wealthy merchants and regal aristocrats. “Is every royal in Europe here?” she asked, watching a procession of gilded carriages drawn by prancing horses.

  “I doubt that any of them would wish to miss being part of such a glittering glamorous spectacle.”

  “Ha.” Her laugh turned into a yawn.

  “We are headed to our rooms now—not that we will have much time to recover from the rigors of travel,” apologized her husband. “We are invited to attend a soiree tonight given by our British envoy, and I think it best we begin work without delay.”

  “No rest for the wicked.”

  “Indeed, every night there will be drinking, dining and dancing until dawn.”

  “Not to speak of other activities,” added Arianna.

  “Intrigue never sleeps,” said Saybrook.

  “Let us hope that we are allowed a few hours of respite from time to time.” She yawned again. “A splash of cold water and I shall be ready to hunt a fox.”

  The earl cracked his knuckles. “Or slay a dragon.”

  “The party is being held at Lord Castlereagh’s residence on the Minoritenplatz, which is close by,” said Saybrook, as he stepped into Arianna’s dressing room an hour later. “The evening should end early, for Her Ladyship’s entertainments are thought to be rather dull.”

  “I would probably doze through a performance of whirling dervishes,” admitted Arianna. She arched her neck, so her maid could thread a seeding of pearls through the topknot of curls. “Gracias, Theresa. And thanks to you and Juan for putting our quarters in such perfect order so quickly.”

  “De nada, señora.” Her maid performed one last adjustment and then quietly withdrew from the room.

  “The entertainment will not be nearly so lively,” said Saybrook as he moved through the candlelight to perch a hip on the edge of the dressing table. “There will be no dancing. For Castlereagh, conversation is the center of attention, which is why we are going out of our way to make an appearance.”

  “I shall try not to be tongue-tied with fatigue.”

  Her quip drew a faint smile. “Not only is it polite to pay our respects, but hearing the latest gossip will give us a good idea of the lay of the land, so to speak.” Flexing his shoulders, he rose. “Are you ready to go down to the carriage ?”

  It was only a short journey through the smoke-scented night to the residence of Lord Castlereagh, the head of the British delegation.

  “Ah, Saybrook. I wasn’t aware that you and your lovely wife had arrived.” Castlereagh greeted them with a polite nod. “I trust that your uncle is well?”

  “Quite. Though I daresay a part of him regrets that he is not here taking part in the negotiations.”

  “Tell him that there is an old saying . . . Be careful what you wish for.” Castlereagh quirked a slight grimace after bowing over Arianna’s hand. “I fear that the talks are going to drag on far longer than anyone anticipated, and to what end, I would not hazard to guess.”

  Saybrook made a noncommittal sound.

  “Be grateful that you have come to enjoy the splendid cultural treasures of the city, rather than be mired in the mud of international politics. But I won’t rattle on about such boring matters—Mellon assures me that you have no interest in diplomatic wranglings.” Castlereagh gestured discreetly to a lady standing by the tea table. “My wife will be happy to introduce Lady Saybrook to her friends while I take you to meet some of my fellow diplomats. Several of them share your interests. Von Humbolt is here, and as you know, he is a serious scholar . . .”

  It was nearly an hour before Arianna could gracefully withdraw from the circle of chattering ladies and join Saybrook in perusing a set of botanical prints hung by the side parlor.

  “Did you know that the Countess of Sagan is called the Cleopatra of the North?” she murmured, accepting a glass of Tokay wine from one of the passing footmen. “And her rival, Princess Bagration, is known as the Beautiful Naked Angel because she wears only low-cut white dresses made of thin India muslin.”

  “You see what a font of interesting information these parties provide,” he replied with a cynical smile. “Both ladies are vying to establish themselves as the reigning hostess here. They look to attract the most influential men and then parlay that power into gaining their own objectives.”

  “In that they are no different than the opposite sex. The male leaders have come here to preen and prance around in their bejeweled and bemedaled finery, hoping to forge alliances and trade favors,” Arianna pointed out.

  “True. The ladies simply negotiate without the formality of written treaties, but are no less skilled at getting what they want.” The earl assumed an expression of cynical detachment. “The countess and the princess both reside at the Palm Palace, so word is that people will be watching with great interest to see who turns left and who turns right when entering the courtyard.”

  Arianna touched the rim of the faceted crystal to her lips. “And then there is Anna Protassoff, who allegedly served as the ‘tester’ for the guardsmen whom Catherine the Great chose for h
er bedmates.” She made a wry face. “Perhaps that explains why the Tsar has such an appetite for sex—he must have inherited his grandmother’s lust along with her throne.”

  “Do you know how Catherine the Great is supposed to have died?” asked Saybrook. “The rumors involve a horse, a scaffolding and . . .”

  He stopped abruptly as one of the English diplomats and his wife joined them in the alcove. “My dear, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Repton and his wife. They are friends of Charles and Eleanor.”

  “How delightful to meet you at last, Lady Saybrook,” said Mrs. Repton. She flashed a smile, though her tone implied a faint criticism. “La, I was beginning to wonder if you were merely a will-o’-the-wisp.”

  “His Lordship and I lead a very quiet life in London,” Arianna said.

  “Oh, well, it is not quiet here!” Mrs. Repton assured, ignoring her husband’s warning cough. “There are parties every night—balls, musicales, soirees! It’s so hard to choose, though often we attend two or three.”

  “Indeed,” replied Arianna.

  The other lady took it as a cue to elaborate. “You must be sure to visit the salons of Lady Sagan and Princess Bagration.” Mrs. Repton lowered her voice a notch. “Both ladies are reputed to have slept with Prince Metternich. Of late, however, the Tsar of Russia is said to be pursuing the princess.”

  “Alexander chases anyone wearing skirts,” muttered Repton, trying to stem his wife’s garrulous chatter.

  His wife went on, oblivious to the hint. “Everyone is betting on how long it will take for him to slip between her sheets,” she confided. “The men are equally outrageous . . .”

  Arianna listened politely. Cluck, cluck, cluck—the lady was a hen-witted goose. But as Saybrook said, gossip could be very useful, and clearly Mrs. Repton liked to gabble.

  “It is hard to imagine how anything serious is supposed to be accomplished here,” she remarked, when the descriptions finally came to an end. “It seems that all people are thinking about is drinking, dining and dancing one’s latest lover into bed.”

  Mrs. Repton gave a titter of laughter. “Oh, it is quite shocking all the things that go on.” She clicked open her fan and cooled her cheeks. “Now, allow me to offer a bit of guidance on where to go in order to see and be seen. Lord Castlereagh holds this soiree every Tuesday evening, so you must be sure to stop by.”

  “Monday is Metternich’s night,” offered Repton. “And of course Friday belongs to the Duchess of Sagan and her rival across the courtyard. As for the other evenings, there is no lack of entertainment, but I daresay you will discover that for yourselves.”

  “Oh, do be sure to visit the Apollo Saal.” Lady Repton clearly considered herself a font of knowledge on Viennese life. “You can waltz all night in the indoor gardens, which are decorated with faux stones and fairy tale grottos.”

  “Thank you,” replied Saybrook. “Now if you will excuse us, we should probably be taking our leave. We are tired from traveling and wish to be rested for the Emperor’s ball tomorrow night.”

  “Oh, that is definitely an evening not to be missed,” exclaimed Lady Repton. “It is said that the state dinner will include three hundred hams, two hundred partridges and two hundred pigeons, not to speak of three thousand liters of olla soup.”

  The mention of food set Arianna’s stomach to growling. “I have heard that the Viennese appreciate fine food.”

  “It’s tolerable, though they don’t know how to cook a proper joint of beef,” answered Mrs. Repton with a slight sniff. “For a special treat, you must try to garner an invitation to one of the French Minister’s dinners. He has brought the renowned chef, Monsieur Carême, with him from Paris to serve as his personal cook. Word is, the banquets are sumptuous—especially the pastries.”

  Now that interesting tidbit was certainly food for thought.

  “Sounds delicious,” said Arianna.

  “Talleyrand is a connoisseur of decadent pleasures,” said Repton, his face tight with disapproval. “And if we aren’t careful, he will gobble up power and influence that rightly belong to Britain.” He made a face. “After all, we were the victors, and he served the Corsican Monster.”

  “I am sure that our government will be keeping a close eye on the French,” replied Saybrook. “And that it will be vigilant in defending all that was won on the field of battle from diplomatic intrigue.”

  “Well said, sir. Well said,” enthused Repton. “Your noble military record is well known. It’s a pity that your uncle could not have convinced you to follow in his diplomatic footsteps. Whitehall could use more men like you.”

  “I’m afraid politics don’t interest me,” demurred the earl.

  “A man of action, no doubt.” Repton signaled for a footman to refill his wine. “Ha—too bad there are no wars left to wage.”

  Arianna watched his soft, fleshy hands cup the glass. Oh, how easy it was to spout such sentiments when you have never smelled the throat-choking stench of fear, of blood, of death.

  “There are always battles to fight,” said Saybrook softly. “But I, for one, am not unhappy that words are the weapons of choice these days.”

  Covering his discomfiture with a cough, Repton nodded. “Just so.”

  Without further ado, the earl bid their new acquaintances’ adieu, and wasted no time in escorting Arianna out to the stairway.

  “God save us from narrow-minded fools,” he muttered through his teeth.

  “I would rather that the Almighty help us with a far more dangerous threat,” remarked Arianna. “However unwittingly, his wife was actually of some help tonight.” As she drew in a breath, she could almost taste a hint of sugar wafting in the smoke-scented air. “A connoisseur of cuisine with a fondness for sweets . . . I think we must contrive to meet Monsieur le Prince Talleyrand without delay.”

  “That shouldn’t prove difficult,” said Saybrook. “Castlereagh just informed me that your other admirer, Comte Rochemont, is residing at the Kaunitz Palace as part of the French delegation. His family connections with the restored French King accord him such rank and privileges, though Talleyrand is not overly pleased with the arrangement.”

  “However, it suits our needs perfectly,” she replied. “I see that I will have to encourage the attentions of both Rochemont and Kydd.” Even though there is an old adage about burning the candle at both ends. “And yet, I must take care not to ignite a rivalry between them.”

  “On the contrary,” said her husband. “Jealousy will likely work in our favor. A man vying for the attentions of a beautiful woman will often allow passion to overrule reason.”

  Passion. A powerful, primitive force.

  Saybrook’s expression betrayed no emotion. Cool. Calm. Controlled. She had never met anyone so in command of his feelings. The only hint that he was not so detached was the slow, silent flick of his lashes, shadowy specters of black obscuring his chocolate-dark eyes.

  “I shall do my best not to embarrass you by stirring talk of my scandalous flirtations,” said Arianna slowly. “An unhappy wife, seeking amusements elsewhere—”

  “Is nothing out of the ordinary,” he interrupted. “Dalliances are de rigueur for the ton. Any speculation on your amorous activities will be lost in all the gossip about the royal transgressions.”

  “How very lowering to know that I merit so little interest,” she quipped.

  “Let us pray it stays that way.” Saybrook took her arm—possessively, or so it seemed. “The less our unknown adversary has reason to turn his eye on you, the better.”

  14

  From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks

  Chocolate-Almond Italian Cookies

  2 tablespoons unsalted butter, for greasing

  ½ teaspoon baking powder

  1 tablespoon lukewarm water

  1¾ cups finely ground plus 2 tablespoons roughly chopped

  almonds

  1½ cups plus 2 tablespoons flour

  1 cup sugar

  2 tablespoons chocolate
chips

  1 tablespoon cocoa powder

  1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil

  ½ teaspoon kosher salt

  ½ cup Strega or Galliano liqueur

  ⅓ cup coffee, at room temperature

  1. Heat oven to 325°. Grease 2 parchment-lined baking sheets with butter and set aside. In a small bowl, whisk together baking powder and 1 tbsp. lukewarm water until dissolved, 20 seconds.

  2. Combine ground and chopped almonds, flour, sugar, chocolate chips, cocoa powder, oil and salt in a large bowl. With a wooden spoon, vigorously stir in the baking powder mixture, liqueur, and coffee to form a wet dough.

  3. Divide the dough into 1-oz. portions. Using your hands, roll dough portions into balls and transfer to prepared baking sheets spaced about 1 inch apart. Bake until set, about 30 minutes. Transfer cookies to racks and let cool to firm before serving.

  “And here we are back at the Hofburg Palace.” David Kydd offered his arm to Arianna as they waited to cross the busy street. “Though here in Vienna, it is simply called the ‘Burg.’ ”

  “I still am amazed at how big it is,” said Arianna, placing a hand on his sleeve. It had proved easy to engage the young diplomat as her escort for sightseeing. For the last week they had been meeting almost daily to explore the city’s splendors. “I’ve been told that the main courtyard was designed as a jousting field.”

  “Yes, monarchs always wish to awe their subjects,” replied Kydd with a wry grin. “Some of the visiting rulers of Europe are here as the Austrian Emperor’s guests,” he went on, as they passed into the massive courtyard. “Tsar Alexander is quartered in the Amalienburg wing, while the King of Prussia is in the old Schweizerhof section.”

  “Thank you for serving as such a gracious guide,” she replied. They had spent the morning visiting the Belvedere Palace and the coffeehouses of the Prater park while Saybrook worked in the palace library. “I enjoyed it very much . . .” She deliberately added a tiny sigh. “But now, I’m afraid it’s time for me to go meet my husband.”