The Cocoa Conspiracy

by Andrea Penrose

  The fight drained out of her. “Sandro! How did—”

  “Never mind that now. Stay silent and follow me. When we get close to the palace, do exactly as I say.”

  Arianna pressed close to his side, grateful for the sudden warmth radiating through his overcoat. She fled wearing naught but her dark kitchen smock over her work clothes, and it was only now that she realized the night had turned chilly with the first hint of frost.

  “There is a door set on the outside of the left archway—do you see it?” whispered Saybrook as they cut behind a line of rhododendrons to shield their movements from the formal terrace overlooking the gardens.

  She squinted into the swaying light of the torches and nodded.

  “There are two uniformed soldiers standing guard there. I am going to distract them, but we can’t count on having more than a few seconds. When I say ‘God save the King,’ shoot for the door. It’s unlocked and Baz is just inside. I’ll join you shortly.”

  Baz? Arianna knew better than to ask—about that or any of the other questions that were jostling inside her head.

  “Stay behind the marble urn up ahead. From there you have a straight line to the doorway. Remember, on my signal, run like the devil.”

  She squeezed his arm to indicate her understanding and then dropped to a crouch, her cheek pressing up against the cold stone.

  Her body reacted to the loss of his touch by sending a shiver coursing down her spine.

  Saybrook mounted the shallow steps a trifle unsteady on his feet. “Lovely night for a dance, what ho,” he announced in a slurred voice.

  The two soldiers, a sergeant and a corporal in uniforms of the Austrian Imperial Guards, moved out from their station by the main set of glass-paned doors.

  Saybrook gave a drunken wave. “No, no, not looking to partner you fine fellows.” A stumble. “Ladies. I’m looking for the ladies.”

  The guards exchanged amused looks. “Sir, you will have to go around to the front entrance,” said the sergeant. “We are under orders not to admit anyone through these doors. The Tsar is very particular about keeping out uninvited guests.”

  “Quite right, quite right. No riffraff.” The earl sketched a clumsy bow that nearly landed him on his arse.

  Arianna hadn’t realized that her husband possessed such finely honed thespian skills.

  “Sir.” The sergeant caught hold of Saybrook’s elbow and pulled him upright. “You must circle back to the front of this wing. Just follow the gravel path.”

  “Eh?”

  “Drunk as a lord,” said the corporal. “What a pity he didn’t bring us a bottle.”

  Saybrook made a slight retching noise in his throat.

  “Bloody hell, if he’s going to puke, let’s have him do it off the terrace,” grumbled the sergeant. “Else we’ll probably be ordered to mop up the mess.”

  “Jez . . . jez show me the way, and I’ll be right as rain,” said the earl with a fuzzy grin.

  The sergeant darted a look through the doors, before nodding at his comrade. “Take his other arm, and let’s be quick about it.”

  “God save the King,” warbled Saybrook as he lurched into his escorts.

  Arianna took off like a shot and sprinted over the short stretch of tiles as fast as she could.

  The door cracked open, and closed just as swiftly.

  “Quickly!” Henning hustled her down a side corridor and through the first door set in the dark mahogany paneling.

  The cramped windowless space smelled of beeswax, lamp oil and tallow tapers. A closet for the lighting supplies, decided Arianna after another sniff. The faintly sulfurous odor had to be lucifer matches.

  “No offense, but Monsieur Richard is not nearly as attractive a character as your urchin boy,” whispered Henning.

  “Perhaps with a hair trim and a shave?” she quipped, brushing the lank wisps of scratchy hair from her cheek.

  “And a bath.” The surgeon stifled a chuckle. “Your clothing reeks of burned bacon and garlic, to put it mildly.”

  “Yes, well, a less than fastidious concern with my garments discouraged my fellow workers from seeking a closer acquaintance.”

  “I don’t blame them.” He shifted slightly. “We shouldn’t have to be in here too long. Sandro seems to know his way around the place. He brought me here through the side saloons without a hitch, so I daresay he’ll make his way back here in a trice. This part of the Amalienburg is not being used tonight.”

  “A stroke of luck,” said Arianna. “Speaking of which—”

  “Auch, let’s leave the questions until later, lassie. There’s much to discuss, I grant you, but for now, let’s devote our attention to getting you out of this coil.” He inhaled through his mouth. “Not to speak of that disgusting disguise.”

  “Have you any idea what Sandro has in mind?”

  “Nay, but I’m sure he is putting together a plan as we speak,” replied the surgeon. “The laddie’s brain box seems to function even more efficiently during the heat of battle.”

  Arianna felt the tension suddenly melt from her bones. Over the years, she had learned to be tough and to trust only herself in the fight for survival. That she now had—as Saybrook once jokingly quipped—someone watching her arse was a source of surprising comfort.

  Am I growing soft? Strangely enough, Arianna found she really didn’t care about the answer.

  “Yes, so I have noticed,” she murmured, her breath barely stirring the air.

  They both stiffened and went very still at the sound of approaching footsteps.

  Click, click, click. The martial strides stopped by the door.

  Arianna blinked as a sliver of light struck her eyes.

  “We must move fast.” All slurring was gone. Her husband’s voice carried a sharp note of command. “I spotted Rochemont entering through the main gates. It’s imperative that he see . . .” His hand drew her out from the closet. “I’ll explain as we go along.” To Henning, he said, “Baz, your part is done. Leave by the same way we came and return to our quarters. We’ll meet you there shortly.”

  Henning snapped a silent salute.

  Saybrook had already started down the dimly lit corridor, his grip keeping her close to his big body.

  “Shouldn’t we be trying to make our way outside, and slip away under the cover of darkness?” whispered Arianna.

  “Not the best strategy, under the circumstances,” he replied. “I’ve got a better idea.”

  His words were a welcome relief. Her body ached, her brain was muzzy, her resolve had gone a little weak at the knees. She was happy to let him take charge.

  At the turn, Saybrook marched her through a doorway hidden discreetly in the decorative paneling, and up a flight of steep stairs. Then they were in another corridor, the glass-globed wall sconces illuminating a parfait of painted pastel colors highlighted with touches of gleaming gold.

  “Good God,” she whispered.

  “This section of the Amalienburg was designed for the old Emperor’s sister,” said Saybrook. “Which explains the extravagantly feminine decor. The Tsar has quartered some of his female relatives here.”

  Arianna was still not sure what he intended.

  “One . . . two . . . three . . .” he counted under his breath. “In here.”

  He hurried her through a sitting room and into a large bedchamber swathed in a confection of frilly silks and satins. “Strip off your clothes.”

  “Sandro, I’m not sure this is the moment for amorous activities.”

  “It’s said that anger adds an edge to it.”

  Was he angry? It wasn’t as if she had deliberately disobeyed his admonition to avoid danger.

  “But you’re right.” He threw open the armoire and sorted through the selection of fancy gowns. “Here—try this. I’m assuming a corset can be found in one of the drawers. Don’t bother with stockings, or other fripperies. We just need to create a façade, if you will.”

  Arianna kicked off her boots and shed her smock
. “You aren’t worried that the rightful owner will suddenly appear ?”

  “The Baroness of Saxe-Gothe is currently taking the waters at the spa town of Baden, so we should be safe enough,” said Saybrook. More rummaging produced a set of slippers to match the gown. “If disturbed, we can always claim we were simply playing prurient games.”

  “You seem to have thought of everything.” Save, perhaps, for the choice of female from whom to purloin clothing. Apparently the baroness was molded along the lines of a petite porcelain doll for it took a fair amount of wiggling for Arianna to squeeze herself into the lady’s corset.

  “Is there anything you can do to adjust the lacing? I think I’m in danger of popping out of these cursed whalebone stays.”

  Saybrook did some fiddling with the strings, which seemed only to pinch tighter around her bosom. “I can’t breathe,” she complained.

  “Breathing is not necessary. All you are required to do is smile and simper.” He helped slide the gown over her head and stepped back to assess the effect. “Not bad. A few inches short, but it can’t be helped.” Gesturing at the dressing table, he added, “Fix your hair as best you can. Nothing fancy. I don’t intend to linger long.”

  Peeling off the false mustache and wig, Arianna unbound her tresses and shook them out with a sigh of relief. “Perhaps you had better tell me what you have in mind.”

  “Rochemont and his cohorts have chased Monsieur Richard here,” answered the earl.

  “How did you know that?” she interrupted.

  “Baz and I met one of his men in the street. I put two and two together and decided I had better come and check if my addition was correct.”

  “Mmmph.” With her mouth full of hairpins, she could do no more than grunt.

  “If Rochemont is Renard, or merely working for him, he may be aware that I was involved in investigating the Prince Regent’s poisoning. That incident involved a chef, so if I were him, I’d be thinking long and hard about the coincidence of having kitchen trouble here in Vienna.”

  Her mouth went a little dry.

  “So I think it imperative that people see the Countess of Saybrook here tonight, in all her feminine glory. The timing should quell any suspicions that Rochemont might have. Like most people, he will assume that it would take an act of God—or black magic—to effect such a transformation.”

  “Rochemont . . .” Arianna quickly jabbed a few fasteners into the hastily formed topknot and threaded a ribbon through it. “So you already know that Rochemont is the enemy.”

  He nodded. “Baz discovered some key information in Edinburgh. He refused to explain it all until you are present. But yes, he said enough to indicate that Adonis’s outward beauty masks an inner rot.”

  “Damnation, we do have much to talk about,” she murmured, taking up a comb to put the finishing touches on her hair.

  “An understatement, if ever there was one.” Saybrook began to gather up her discarded clothing.

  “Wait!” she exclaimed, catching his reflection in the looking glass. “There is a paper in the right pocket of the breeches. I went through a great deal of trouble to ensure that you see it.”

  “Ah.”

  She saw him tuck it away.

  “I thought you weren’t going to do anything risky,” he said softly.

  “Please don’t ring a peal over my head. I didn’t intend to, but when the unexpected arises, one is sometimes forced to improvise.”

  “Improvise,” he repeated. Opening one of the bureau drawers, he buried the chef’s clothing beneath a pile of petticoats. “Well, we are not quite done for the night. Are you ready for one more adventure?”

  Arianna drew on a pair of elbow-length kidskin gloves to hide her scraped hands. “But of course.”

  “At last! I finally meet the lovely countess in the flesh.”

  Arianna silently cursed her bad luck. Of all the rakes and roués dancing through the Austrian capital, His Imperial Highness, Tsar Alexander of Russia was perhaps the most blatant.

  “And what lovely flesh it is,” he added in silky murmur as he lifted her gloved hand to his lips.

  “Your Majesty is too kind.”

  The Tsar gave a lascivious wink. “I hear that the earl is writing a book on the history of chocolate. But really, why would he spend his hours in the Austrian Imperial Library studying moldering old documents when he has a wife that looks good enough to eat?”

  “Ha, ha, ha.” His entourage laughed at the witticism.

  “You would have to ask him,” answered Arianna with a provocative pout. She knew that she looked as though she had just tumbled out of bed. So I might as well play the role to the hilt. A saucy sway of her hips set her skirts in a slow swirl, the froth of lace and ruffles kissing up against the Tsar’s polished evening pumps. “When we are together, we don’t discuss his work.”

  Alexander ran the tip of his tongue over his plump lower lip. In his youth he had been called “the Angel” for his blonde good looks, but his dissolute lifestyle was turning his body to fat. “Boring stuff, work,” he announced, drawing another round of titters from his friends. “Come have tea with me, madam. I promise there will be no talk of books or manuscripts.” An exaggerated wink of his bright blue eye. “Ha! I will keep you entertained in other ways.”

  “I look forward to it,” she replied.

  “Excellent!” He bowed slightly and offered his arm, setting off the chink of gold on gold as his myriad medals brushed up against one another. “We shall discuss the details while we dance.”

  “Alas, I seem to have twisted my ankle during some vigorous activity earlier this evening,” Arianna flashed a coy smile. “My husband was just about to take me home.”

  “Lucky man,” murmured the Tsar. “When you are fully recovered—”

  “Are you ready, my dear?” Saybrook, who had been conversing with one of the English military attachés, turned and placed a proprietary hand at the small of her back. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I must get my wife to bed. If an appendage is left to swell, it can turn very painful unless properly treated.”

  Alexander nodded—a little hungrily, thought Arianna.

  “Do take care, Lady Saybrook. I look forward to meeting again when you are able to perform all the movements required of . . . the waltz.”

  Men, she thought wryly. No matter how civilized and sophisticated they were, rivalry to impress the opposite sex often brought out the most primitive instincts.

  Saybrook waited until the porter had brought him his overcoat and they had moved out to the entrance portico before saying in a low voice, “I saw Rochemont by the refreshment table watching your exchange with the Tsar.”

  “Let us hope he comes to the conclusion that the light-fingered chef was simply one of the many petty criminals who have come to Vienna to profit from all the wealthy people gathered here for the Conference.”

  Their breath formed pale puffs of vapor as they hurried down the line of carriages to their waiting driver.

  “We may have won a skirmish,” observed Saybrook, draping his coat around her shoulders. “But I am damnably worried about the outcome of the war. We may now have a better idea of who our enemies are, but the truth is, with Kydd dead we have lost our only real lead. So, barring a stroke of luck, I fear we are fighting a nigh impossible battle in trying to stop them.”

  The door clicked shut, throwing his face into shadow. “If only . . .” he muttered, sounding tense and tired. “If only I could break the damnable code . . . if only we knew their target . . .” His breath released in a harsh sigh. “If only I didn’t feel as if I was waltzing in damnable, dizzying circles.”

  Arianna settled back against the squabs, the slight movement drawing squeals of silent protest from her bruised body. And yet, despite the aches and scrapes, she managed a grim smile.

  “I can’t say for sure, but my own merry dance tonight may have led me to a bit of luck.” She winced as she rubbed at the back of her neck. “I trust you have that scrap of pape
r tucked safely in your pocket.”

  19

  From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks

  Chocolate Spice Cookies

  ½ cups (7 ounces) unbleached, all-purpose flour

  ½ cup unsweetened cocoa (not Dutch process)

  1 teaspoon ancho chili powder

  1 teaspoon cinnamon

  ½ teaspoon cayenne pepper

  ¼ teaspoon cloves

  ¼ teaspoon fine sea salt

  1 cup unsalted butter (2 cubes), at cool room temperature

  1 cup sugar

  2 egg yolks, lightly beaten, at cool room temperature

  finely grated zest of 1 large orange

  1 teaspoon espresso powder, dissolved in 1 teaspoon hot

  water

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  ½ teaspoon orange oil (or 1 teaspoon orange extract)

  1. In a medium mixing bowl, sift the flour, cocoa, chili powder, cinnamon, cayenne pepper, cloves, and salt together. Reserve.

  2. Using a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream the butter and sugar together thoroughly, about 3 minutes.

  3. Add the egg yolks and continue beating until creamy.

  4. Add the orange zest, dissolved espresso, vanilla, and orange oil, and incorporate.

  5. Add the flour mixture and mix very briefly, only until incorporated.

  6. Divide the dough into 3 equal portions and flatten each portion to a ½-inch thick disk on a sheet of plastic wrap. Seal the plastic wrap around each portion of the dough and refrigerate for at least 4 hours, or preferably overnight. (The sealed dough can be refrigerated for 2–3 days if necessary.)

  7. Remove one portion of dough at a time from the refrigerator so that the dough stays cold while you are working with it. With a floured, cloth-covered rolling pin, roll the well-chilled dough out thinly (¼-inch or less) on a generously floured pastry cloth. Cut out shapes with cookie cutters.

  8. Arrange on a parchment-lined baking sheet, decorate with clear sanding sugar if desired, and bake at 375º for 6–8 minutes. Watch closely to prevent cookies from overbrowning. It is difficult to tell when these cookies are done because color is not a cue.