“It was my pleasure, Lady Saybrook,” said Kydd. “Perhaps tomorrow you would like to see the famous zoo.”
Arianna smiled. Her thinly veiled complaints about the earl’s selfishness and neglect seemed to be bearing fruit. The Scotsman’s reserve was melting, and he was growing warmer in expressing his sympathies. She in turn was becoming increasingly vocal in expressing admiration for his political ideas. With just a little coaxing on her part, their conversations were turning more and more to mutual criticisms of the aristocracy and its arrogant assumption of entitlement.
“I would like that very much.”
Kydd inclined a small bow. “Until tomorrow, then.”
Arianna quickly entered the palace and requested that one of the Imperial footmen lead her through the maze of corridors to the library wing.
That Kydd saw her as a kindred soul stirred a slight twinge of guilt—until she reminded herself of how he had betrayed Mellon.
If one lives by the sword, one must be prepared to die by the sword.
Speaking of which . . .
Rochemont added yet another twist to the tangle of truth and lies. Biting back an unladylike oath, Arianna turned her thoughts to her other admirer. The comte was becoming more aggressively amorous. A billet-doux had arrived for her just after Saybrook’s departure from breakfast. Along with a flowery—and rather racy—love poem, it contained a last-minute invitation to join him in dining with Talleyrand that evening.
The suggestion was that she might consent to serving as dessert after the meal.
Sugar and spice.
Arianna felt her mouth pinch to a cynical smile. Unlike Eve and her rosy red apple, she must somehow manage to dangle temptation in front of a hungry male without allowing him a bite.
“This way, madam,” intoned the footman, his voice holding a note of faint reproach for her lagging pace.
Quickening her steps, Arianna followed him through several more turns before coming to a set of iron-banded double oak doors, their panels black with age.
“The Botanical Room,” announced her guide, as the oiled hinges swung open without a sound. “His Lordship is working in here.”
Glass-globed wall lamps cast a softly flickering glow over the sherry-colored paneling and carved acanthus leaf moldings. Framed by the decorative woodwork, towering bookcases rose up from the parquet floor to the painted plaster ceiling.
Looking around from one of the Italianate work tables set along the bank of leaded windows, Saybrook took an instant to blink away a look of intense concentration. He brushed a lock of his long hair back from his brow. “How did your morning walk with Kydd go?”
“I think I am moving forward,” she said. “He is becoming increasingly vocal about his frustrations with the British government and its rigid notions of superiority. I’m fanning his feeling of discontent with my own rantings about the oppressive tyranny of Society. With a few more hints about how much I long to strike a real blow against the Old Order instead of simply talking about it, I might get him to confide in me.”
“Excellent, excellent.” And yet the earl looked strangely pensive.
“That’s not all.” Arianna took the gold-embossed invitation out of her reticule and placed it on the table. “Rochemont has invited me to a dinner party hosted by Talleyrand tonight—sans you, of course.”
“Let us hope the Prince serves up some useful information along with his chef’s decadent nougat desserts. I am growing damn tired of watching him start to salivate every time you enter the room.”
Was there an odd edge to his voice?
Oh, surely he didn’t think that she was enjoying her role as taunting temptress.
Suddenly defensive, she stiffened, recalling Grentham’s nasty innuendos. Your wife enjoys the company of dissolute men. It was true that in her first investigation with the earl, she had also played the role of wanton jade. Not because she took any pleasure from it, but because it had been the only way to bring about justice.
But perhaps he was tiring of her unorthodox skills. Most men wanted wives who were . . . respectable.
Which I am decidedly not.
“That reminds me—I’m famished,” said Saybrook, seemingly oblivious of the subtle change in her stance.
“No doubt because you dined on naught but tea and toast this morning.” Arianna glanced down at his jumbled work papers and realized that he too must be feeling frustrated. He had been working like the devil to decipher the remaining coded letter, but it did not appear that he was making much headway. The sheets were covered with cryptic squiggles and scrawls, all scratched out with slashes of black ink. “I take it that your work is going slowly.”
Although they were alone in the room, the earl lowered his voice to a taut whisper. It was well known that the Burg’s magnificent walls possessed an uncanny ability to see and hear through wood and stone.
“As I’ve said before, finding the key to unlock our conundrum could take weeks. Months. Years.” He tapped a long finger to a set of small leather-bound books hidden beneath the illustrated folios on Theobroma cacao. “I found several obscure Renaissance texts on cryptology in the Mathematics Room. They contain some interesting new permutations to try, but . . .” He flexed his shoulders. “Let me finish this one section and then we’ll walk to the Café Frauenhuber for some refreshments.”
Her own moodiness forgotten, Arianna was quick to agree. “Take your time. I noticed that one of the galleries along this corridor has a lovely collection of chocolate pots on display. I shall wait for you there.”
Saybrook nodded vaguely, his attention already back on the diabolical little string of coded letters that he had copied into his notebook.
Leaving the earl to his solitary struggles, she quitted the room and began to retrace her steps. The Emperor was generous in allowing access to his priceless collections of art, as well as his rare books and maps. She passed by a gallery of Quattrocento Italian art and one of classical coins before turning into an airy room devoted to decorative Limoges porcelain.
The Spanish princess Anne of Austria had introduced chocolate to France in 1615 as part of her wedding trousseau—and judging by the beauty of the vessels on display, her new subjects had enthusiastically embraced the new beverage.
“Exquisite,” murmured Arianna, leaning in so close that her breath misted the glass case. All worries dissolved for the moment as she stood in rapt study of the small treasures. The pots showcased a dazzling variety of elegant designs, their delicate colors and gold leaf highlights set off to perfection by the black velvet backdrop. Most were crowned by a distinctive pierced lid, which allowed the handle of a molinillo to protrude.
“Exquisite,” she murmured again, captivated by the elegant simplicity of a pot formed in the shape of a swan.
“Not as exquisite as you.” Rochemont’s silky whisper caressed the nape of her neck. His breath was warm, and yet its tickle raised a prickling of gooseflesh along her bare arms. “Though I confess,” he went on, “the curves have a certain voluptuous shape that makes my mouth water.”
Arianna felt his hand graze her hip. Willing herself not to flinch, she waited a moment before drawing back from his touch. “Why, sir,” she drawled. “Clearly you have a taste for fine things.”
“Yes.” He placed his palms on the glass and slanted her a sly look. “I’m insatiable when it comes to sampling the best.”
Arianna reacted to the innuendo with a carefully calculated smile. “Oh? Then you must be looking forward to this evening. I hear that Monsieur Carême is a true artist with food.”
Her teasing provoked a sinuous smile.
“Imagine butter and cream, meltingly warm in your mouth.” Rochemont kissed his fingertips. “The French have a way of creating sublimely sensual pleasures, Lady Saybrook.”
As well as grimly horrific wars.
The comte made a face. “Alors, perhaps too much so. Poor Carême is very unhappy that the King of Wurttemberg just lured away his sous-chef, leaving him shor
thanded for the duration of the Conference.”
A sudden tingle started to snake down her spine.
“Indeed?” replied Arianna. Hot and cold, hot and cold—men like the comte were tantalized by a challenge. “Then perhaps his performance will not rise quite as high as promised.”
Their eyes met for a molten moment before she deliberately looked away.
“Like all Frenchmen, Carême will have no trouble performing at his peak for a beautiful lady.” Rochemont sidled closer, his soft leather boots stirring nary a sound on the thick carpet, until they were standing thigh to thigh. “I am looking forward to introducing you to a sinfully seductive experience.”
“I appreciate your kind offer to keep my wife amused while I attend a meeting of scholars tonight, Rochemont.” Saybrook could move as lightly as a prowling panther when he so chose. “However, might I ask that you unglue yourself from her skirts so that she might accompany me to tea.”
The comte smiled, though a telltale ridge of red on his cheekbones betrayed his pique at the interruption. “But of course,” he replied. Bowing to Arianna, he said, “Until later, chérie.”
The earl didn’t react to the blatant endearment. Emboldened by the silence, Rochemont tauntingly added, “Don’t spoil your appetite.”
“A toast.” As the servants cleared the platters of viands and sauced vegetables from the dining table, Talleyrand raised a wine goblet, his bejeweled fingers winking like brilliant bits of fire in the fluttery light of the gold candelabras. “To friends old . . .” His lazy, lidded gaze fixed upon Arianna. “And new.”
The crystalline clink of glass rang out over the muted chink of silver and porcelain.
“A divine meal. Absolutely divine.” The Russian attaché leaned back in his chair and blew out a satisfied sigh. “Carême is a God of the Kitchen. I don’t suppose the Tsar could trade you a province for his services, eh?”
“A country perhaps,” replied Talleyrand lightly.
Everyone laughed.
“I swear, Carême is more valuable than my entire staff when it comes to melting old enmities and solidifying new friendships,” murmured the envoy from Bavaria.
“Indeed. I have told Paris that I don’t need secretaries, I need saucepans.”
More laughter.
The Prince took a sip of his Burgundy wine. “And how did you enjoy the chef’s menu, Lady Saybrook?”
“Superb,” she replied in all honesty. “I have never had such a magnificent meal.”
“It is not quite over. I have heard that your husband has a scholarly interest in Theobroma cacao, so I asked Monsieur Carême to create a special chocolate confection in your honor.”
At the flick of his finger, the door opened and a pair of liveried footmen marched in, bearing an enormous platter between them.
A collective gasp greeted the elaborate pastry.
“He is a master of what we French call pièces montées,” explained Talleyrand, a smile taking shape on his sensual mouth. “A form of edible architecture meant to surprise the senses.”
Arianna felt her jaw drop ever so slightly as the servants set the creation down on the center of the table. Formed of molded chocolate, marzipan and sugar, the towering creation stood nearly two feet high and was a replica of Westminster Abbey.
“Chef studies architectural books for his inspiration,” Talleyrand went on. “He chose a London landmark in your honor.”
“You see, chérie. I promised you a treat,” whispered Rochemont. “I have some influence with the minister, and so . . . voila!”
Someone let out a little moan as a knife sliced off a piece and set it on Arianna’s plate.
“Art is meant to be savored,” said Talleyrand as the servant added a dollop of nougat and meringue to the pastry. “Enjoy.”
The room went silent, save for the crunch of spoons cutting through the sugary chocolate and almond paste.
Talleyrand tasted a small bite, his smile stretching wider as he watched the expressions of bliss form on the faces of his guests. Setting aside his serviette, he tapped his perfectly manicured fingertips together. “Does it meet with your approval, madame?”
“Carême deserves his reputation as a genius,” she replied. “I wonder . . . might I get the recipe?”
“Perhaps you had better ask him yourself.” The Prince’s eyes lit with a twinkle of unholy amusement. “I consider myself a skilled negotiator, but I’ve yet to extract such privileged information from him. Carême guards his culinary creations more carefully than most countries do their secret alliances. But the appeal of a beautiful lady may win a concession.” A lazy wink. “He is, after all, French.”
“I would at least like to thank him for such an ambrosial treat,” said Arianna.
Talleyrand lifted a hand to summon the servant stationed by the door. “Ask chef to come—”
“Actually, might I see him in the kitchens?” She accompanied the request with a flutter of her lashes. “That is, if you don’t mind me spying on your territory. I am curious as to what sort of graters and molds he uses.”
“Seeing as the Peace Conference is all about creating international accord and harmony, I give you my blessing to look around my palace to your heart’s content, madame .” A clap set the spill of creamy lace at his cuffs to dancing in the buttery light. “Send Monsieur Jacques to escort Lady Saybrook to chef’s inner sanctum.”
A plume of steamy air wafted up the stairwell, its warmth redolent with the spicy scent of caramelized sugar and roasted cacao nibs.
Arianna breathed in deeply and smiled, the sweetness stirring old memories of—
“Non, non, NON!” The pained shout from the main kitchen was punctuated by the whack of a cleaver. “You must never grate ginger! It must be minced!” Whack, whack. “Like so!”
“Perhaps this is not the best time to ask chef a favor,” she murmured to the under butler who was accompanying her.
“Monsieur Carême possesses a . . . very sensitive nature,” replied her guide. “And delicate nerves. It is difficult to predict what will, and will not, upset him.”
“Ah.” She nodded sagely. “You mean he is a tyrant, prone to tempestuous tantrums.”
The under butler did not bat an eye. “Precisely, madame .” He stopped in front of the half-open door. “Would you mind terribly if I allowed you to, er, introduce yourself to Le Maitre? I have not yet had my supper, and if he blames me for the interruption of his artistic genius, I might very well have to go to bed hungry.”
Arianna repressed a wry grin. “Not at all. I am experienced in dealing with temperamental chefs.”
Looking grateful, the man bowed and hurried away.
“Into the frying pan—or is it the fire?” she murmured to herself.
The door yielded to her touch and as she crossed the threshold, she was immediately assaulted by a swirl of delicious smells.
Hearing the swish of her silken skirts, Carême whirled around. With the cleaver still clutched in his fist and his toque falling rakishly over one eye, he looked a little like a demented pirate about to commit unspeakable acts upon anything within arm’s reach.
“Mmph,” he grunted, eyeing her finery. “You have taken a wrong turn, madame. The withdrawing room for ze ladies is up ze stairs and to ze left.” The information was accompanied by a shooing gesture of the steely blade. “Bonsoir.”
Arianna stood her ground, inwardly amused by her first sight of the celebrated chef. “Forgive me for intruding on your atelier, Monsieur Carême. I know that great artists dislike any disturbance of their creative process. But I couldn’t resist coming to offer my humble admiration for your prodigious talents.”
Like butter placed in a warm pan, Carême’s scowl was softened by the egregious flattery.
“Merci, madame.” The cleaver dropped a notch. “Not everyone understands how difficult it is to turn food into a form of art.”
“One of the ingredients is, of course, genius,” she murmured.
“Oui, oui, zat
is true.” The chef preened. “Also the freshest meats, fruits and vegetables. Prince Talleyrand understands this, and never quibbles about the cost of my supplies.”
“Might I have a quick tour of your kitchens?” asked Arianna. “I should love to see what it takes to achieve perfection.”
His smile was turned even rosier by the overhead rack of hanging copper pots. “Alors, I rarely allow anyone to see my works in progress. But for you, madame, I shall make an exception.” With a Gallic flourish, Carême turned to the chopping table. “Follow me.”
For the next quarter hour, Arianna was subjected to a lengthy explanation of stove temperatures, proper chopping techniques and the merits of iron versus copper for cooking. Prompted by her questions, the chef also revealed that the recent defection of his sous-chef had thrown his well-ordered kitchen into disarray.
“I should like to slice out his liver for leaving me in the lurch,” grumbled Carême. “Zat is the thanks I get for teaching him some of my special secrets?” His hand flew to his heart. “I am hurt.”
“How disloyal,” she agreed. “Was his specialty pastries ?”
“Oui,” answered the chef. “Thanks to God, my helpers with meats and vegetables are devoted to me. Zat part of the meals shall not be affected. But as for my desserts . . .” He blew out a mournful sigh. “I shall have to work very hard to see that they don’t suffer.”
“Speaking of desserts, I don’t suppose you would consent to give me the recipe for tonight’s creation. My husband adores chocolate.”
He pursed his lips. “Ask me almost anything else, madame , and I should be happy to oblige. However, my recipes I share with no one—not even Prince Talleyrand.”
“I understand,” said Arianna. She had expected no less. But it didn’t really matter. She was leaving with exactly the information she had come for.
“Merci for that,” he responded. “Some ladies resort to tears. And much as I hate to see females cry, I never yield to such ploys.”
“Don’t worry. You will never see me trying to use weeping to make men surrender their secrets,” Arianna assured him.
The Cocoa Conspiracy Page 18
