The Cocoa Conspiracy

by Andrea Penrose

  Another sound slipped from Henning’s lips, this one far ruder than the last.

  “Dio Madre, Baz, if you are suffering from gout or gas, kindly pour yourself a medicinal draught of whisky.”

  “Sorry,” muttered the surgeon. “The antics of the aristocracy never cease to give me a pain in the gut.”

  “Well, stubble your stomach’s sensitivity if you please. All of Europe will be hurting if we can’t figure out a way to beat Rochemont at his own game.”

  “Sandro, that begs the question . . .” Arianna finished riddling the stove and dusted the soot from her hands. “Why not simply tell Talleyrand and Wellington what is planned and ask them to stay away?”

  “For a number of reasons,” answered the earl. “First of all, it’s imperative to catch Rochemont in the act. Much as I hate to admit it, the evidence against him is flimsy enough that I don’t think he can be charged with a crime.” His gaze angled up, just enough for her to see the simmering anger in his eyes.

  “You mean because I’m the only one who has actually uncovered the coded documents. The book, the hidden paper in the jewel case—it’s my word against his and most government officials will believe a titled gentleman over a lady whose background is, shall we say, somewhat uncertain.”

  “That sums it up in a nutshell,” said her husband tersely.

  “Bloody bastards.” It wasn’t clear to whom Henning was referring. She assumed it was everyone who moved within the exalted circles of the ton, that special place where wheels turned smoothly within wheels, greased with the drippings of privilege and pedigree.

  The earl signaled the surgeon to silence and went on. “Secondly, I want to catch his cohorts. I’m not convinced Rochemont is Renard—there is a weakness about him, despite his cleverness. So if there’s a chance to catch the real fox, I don’t want to miss it.” He tapped his fingertips together. “And thirdly, being intimately acquainted with Wellington, I know exactly how he will react if I suggest a retreat from the enemy. He’ll look down that long nose of his and tell me to go to the Devil.”

  “Men,” murmured Arianna with a slight shake of her head. “In this case prudence ought to override pride.”

  “It won’t,” said Saybrook flatly. “Trust me, you could light a barrel of gunpowder under his bum and he wouldn’t budge—” He stopped abruptly, the rest of the sentence still hanging on the tip of his tongue.

  Arianna had been sweeping the dark grains of crumbled toast into a neat pile but her hand stilled.

  Henning straightened from his slouch.

  “Gunpowder,” repeated Saybrook.

  “Medieval knights did not have gunpowder,” Henning pointed out.

  “Thank you for the history lesson, Baz. But I’m not suggesting they are going to ride in dragging a battery of cannons behind their warhorses. However . . .” Picking up his notebook, he thumbed to the center section and read over several pages. “The preliminary drills will include the pas de lance—riding at full gallop and tilting at rings hanging by ribbons—as well as throwing javelins at fake Saracen heads and displaying prowess with a sword on horseback by slicing apples suspended from the ceiling.”

  “An apple is the same size as a small grenade—like the one used to kill Kydd,” said Arianna softly.

  “An interesting observation.” The earl added a notation to the page.

  “How would he ignite it?” asked Henning quickly.

  “For the moment, let’s not discard any idea,” said Saybrook. “No matter how outlandish it might seem.”

  “Fair enough,” replied the surgeon with a solemn nod. “You’re right—we need to keep an open mind about how they intend to do the murderous deed. We know they are devilishly clever, so we must be too.”

  “I suggest we backtrack for a bit, and go through the whole program,” offered Arianna.

  “Right.” The earl took a moment to consult his notes. “Twenty-four gentlemen have been chosen to be a knight in the extravaganza. All are from prominent titled families—Prince Vincent Esterhazy, Prince Anton Radziwill, Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld, to name a few. As I mentioned, twenty-four highborn ladies have also been invited to be a Queen of Love. Metternich’s daughter Marie is one of them, as is the Duchess of Sagan, Dorothée de Talleyrand-Perigord and Sophie Zichy. Each will carry her knight’s colors and sit in a special section”—the earl’s voice took on a note of sardonic humor—“where she will cheer her champion on to glory.”

  “With any luck, several of the idiots might manage to kill themselves,” quipped Henning.

  Saybrook grimaced. “Not likely. Though it’s been dubbed a medieval joust, the participants will be wearing snug hose, fancy velvet doublets and plumed hats decorated with diamonds rather than awkward and uncomfortable armor.”

  Arianna stifled a snicker on imagining the absurdly elaborate spectacle.

  Her husband’s brows waggled in silent agreement. “Oh, it gets even better. At precisely eight in the evening, there will be an opening procession, complete with squires toting shields, and pages waving banners. Our noble nodcocks will follow their minions, mounted on black Hungarian chargers. They will gather in front of the sovereigns and give a flourishing salute with their lances. Then the games will begin.” He paused. “After the pageant, there is a banquet for the guests of honor scheduled, but that need not concern us. Talleyrand and Wellington have already indicated that they do not plan to attend.”

  “How many spectators are expected?” asked Henning.

  The question prompted a harried sigh from the earl. “The official guest list has around twelve hundred names. But judging by all the forged tickets that have shown up at other events, I think we can expect double that number.”

  “A horde of onlookers, a gaggle of Love Queens, a troupe of prancing knights in bloody velvet, a skulking pack of vermin looking to commit murder . . .” mused Henning. His chair scraped back as he shifted and helped himself to another sultana-studded muffin. “I take it you have some ideas on how to spike their guns, metaphorically speaking, that is?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” Saybrook turned to a fresh page in his notebook. “Arianna, perhaps you could brew up a pot of your special spiced chocolate. We may be here for a while.”

  21

  From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks

  Chocolate Peanut Butter “Bullets”

  2 cups sifted confectioners’ sugar

  ¾ cup smooth peanut butter

  4 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted

  ½ teaspoon vanilla extract

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  6 oz. semisweet chocolate chips

  ½ teaspoon vegetable shortening

  1. Put sugar, peanut butter, butter, vanilla and salt into a mixing bowl and beat well with a wooden spoon. Roll peanut butter mixture into 1-inch balls and transfer to a wax-paper-lined cookie sheet in a single layer. Freeze until firm, 15–20 minutes.

  2. Melt chocolate and shortening in a small heat-proof bowl set over a small pot of simmering water, stirring often. Remove pot and bowl together from heat.

  3. Working with about 6 peanut butter balls at a time, insert a toothpick into the center of a ball and dip about three-quarters of the ball into the melted chocolate, leaving about a 1-inch circle of peanut butter visible at the top. Twirl toothpick between your finger and thumb to swirl off excess chocolate, then transfer to another wax-paper-lined cookie sheet, chocolate side down. Slide out toothpick and repeat dipping process with remaining peanut butter balls and chocolate, reheating chocolate if necessary.

  4. Freeze “Bullets” until firm. Smooth out toothpick holes left in peanut butter. “Bullets” will keep well sealed in cool place for up to 1 week and up to 2 weeks in refrigerator. Serve at room temperature or chilled.

  “Damnation, I still don’t like this.”

  It was the next evening, and in the smoky light of the carriage lamp, Saybrook’s face looked even more forbidding than it had the previous day, when the preliminary plan had
been drawn up. Shadows accentuated the chiseled angles, but made any hint of expression impossible to discern.

  “I know you don’t,” intoned Arianna, using her best Voice of Reason. “But we all agreed that Rochemont must have no reason to think that his devilry has been discovered. If I suddenly turn cold and start to avoid him, it will stir up his suspicions. Besides, you need me to keep him distracted for the next few hours.”

  The seat suddenly shifted, a rasp of leather and wool rippling through the swirling shadows as her husband turned and braced an arm on the squabs. “Yes, I know that cold logic dictates that we proceed on a certain course. But at the moment I am not talking about reason, I am talking about emotion.”

  Arianna didn’t quite dare meet his gaze. She remained in awe of his ability to be so in command of his feelings. Calm, controlled. And yet his voice seemed to crackle with an intensity that made her feel a little uncertain.

  A little uneasy.

  “Arianna, look at me.”

  Reluctantly, she raised her chin a notch. When she had first met him, her immediate impression had been that his eyes were an opaque, impenetrable shade of charcoal black. She had, however, quickly seen that she was wrong. The depths of their chocolate brown hue reflected a range of subtle nuances, from dark brewed coffee and molten toffee to fire-flecked amber at moments like now, when his passions were aroused.

  “Danger lies all around us, coiled like a serpent,” he said slowly. “And ready to strike without warning.”

  “I’m always on guard,” she assured him.

  His expression softened, in a way that defied description. “I know that. And I’m not sure whether I take comfort in the fact, or whether it makes me want to gnash my teeth and howl at the moon.”

  “The moon is playing hide-and-seek,” she quipped, indicating the silvery scudding of clouds just visible through the window glass.

  “So are you,” he said softly. “Always dancing in and out of black velvet shadows. Sometimes it feels you are as far away as Venus or the North Star.”

  “Sandro, I . . .” Arianna hesitated. “I have learned from experience to be careful. Sentiment . . . can make one weak,” she whispered.

  “It can also make you strong.” He closed his hand over hers and held it for a heartbeat before slowly releasing his hold. “So much is unknown and unresolved about this mission. But be assured of one thing: I will never, ever allow any harm to come to you.”

  A rash, reckless promise. Nobody could make such absurd assurances.

  And yet the words sent her heart skittering against her ribs.

  Thud, thud, thud. To her ears, the sound seemed as loud as gunpowder explosions.

  Saybrook was silent for a moment longer and then reached up and framed her face between his hands. “Earlier this year, a friend recited one of Byron’s new unpublished poems to me. I committed it to memory because it reminds me of you.”

  Arianna heard his soft intake of breath. “She walks in beauty, like the night; Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright.”

  Dark and bright. She sat very still, mesmerized by the glimmer of sparks swirling in the shadows of his lashes.

  “That is indescribably lovely,” she stammered.

  “Yes, isn’t it?” His kiss, though swift, took her breath away.

  Reaching up, she twined her fingers in his long hair, savoring for a fleeting instant the silky softness against her skin.

  “I love you.” The whisper, like the embrace, was like a quicksilver sear of heat, imprinting itself on her skin. On her heart. On the terrible tangle of nameless fears that dwelled deep, deep inside her.

  Just as quickly it was gone.

  “Never forget that.” Pulling back, he added, “I shall see you later,” and then disappeared out the door before the carriage had rolled to a halt.

  Moonlight played over the empty spot on the seat.

  Arianna chafed at her arms, but strangely enough, her bare skin did not feel chilled by the night air.

  Perhaps because as Sandro said, I am more a creature of the Moon than of the Sun.

  But much as it was tempting to linger alone in thought, she reminded herself that she must slide into her third—or was it fourth?—skin and make ready to act out her role for the evening.

  An aristocratic wife, bored with the tedium of married life. A jaded lady, tempted to play naughty games.

  Drawing on her gloves, like a warrior of old donning his gauntlets for battle, she assumed a martial frame of mind.

  Mano a mano. Saybrook had learned that Rochemont would definitely be there tonight, so the upcoming encounter promised to be a cerebral fight with the enemy. One on one, stripped down to the bare-bones clash of will against will.

  The comte would observe that she had come alone to the ball. Her mission was to keep him occupied until midnight. Feint and parry, that was all. But if given an opening, she was determined to seize the offensive and see if she could maneuver him into making yet another mistake.

  One that would leave more than a mere scratch on his diabolically perfect face.

  Snapping her fan open and shut in rhythm with the melody of the pianoforte, Arianna sidled up to one of the colonnaded archways of the Redoutensaal—the main ballroom of the Hofburg Palace.

  “Why, Lord Rochemont, where have you been? Is it true that you have been unwell?” The sonata, a prelude to the upcoming set of dances, played softly over the smooth marble, its notes muffled by the swirl of silks and satins. “Or have you been deliberately avoiding me?”

  The comte turned as she tapped the sticks lightly against his sleeve. He was wearing his customary smug smile—along with a pair of dove gray gloves that did not fit quite as smoothly as usual. “I was kept abed . . .” he answered, allowing a fraction of a pause before adding, “by a slight indisposition and not some more interesting companion.”

  She arched a brow at the provocative comment. “La, how boring.”

  “Boring, indeed.” High overhead, the massive crystal chandelier blazed with a hard-edged brilliance, the creamy white candles catching the pearly glow of his smile.

  The smile of an angel, the soul of a serpent. The palace was filled with glittering illusions, Arianna reminded herself. Medals hiding cowardice, gems masking poverty, crowns covering betrayals.

  Ah, but I too am wearing false colors.

  Light gilded the curl of his lashes, Rochemont leaned closer and offered her arm. “I find myself in need of physical stimulation after such a prolonged period of inactivity. Come, partner me in a dance.”

  The pianoforte had given way to the flourishing sounds of the violins. A waltz had begun, and already the vast expanse of polished parquet was crowded with couples spinning through the steps. Skirts flaring, baubles flashing, they lit up the ballroom with jewel-tone flashes of color.

  The comte shifted his hand on the small of her back, pulling her a touch closer than was proper. After glancing around the room, he asked, “Is your husband here tonight ?”

  “No,” replied Arianna. “He has decided that such entertainments are too frivolous for his liking.”

  Through his glove, she felt a pulse of heat. “And you do not share his sentiments?”

  Pursing a pout, Arianna released a sulky sigh. “I find that his scholarly obsession has become”—dropping her voice, she whispered—“exceedingly boring.”

  The caress of her breath against his cheek provoked a flash of teeth. “So the bloom is off the rose of marriage?”

  “Let’s not talk of marriage,” said Arianna, casting a casual glance at the sumptuous surroundings. Slowly, slowly—to lead him in circles was a carefully choreographed strategy, but she knew she must not rush her steps. “Oh, look. Is that the Duchess of Sagan standing by the punch bowl? What a magnificent gown.”

  Rochemont waggled a lecherous grin. “I daresay her bevy of admirers are not admiring the stitching or the silk.” His glove dipped down to the swell of Arianna’s hip. “The man holdin
g her glass is Prince von Windischgratz. It’s said he’s replaced Metternich as her latest lover.”

  The duchess tittered over something the handsome officer whispered in her ear.

  “Look how Metternich stands in the corner, making calf’s eyes at her.” The comte gave a grunt of contempt. “What a besotted old fool.”

  “Affairs of the heart seem to be far more important than affairs of state here in Vienna,” quipped Arianna.

  “Oh, it’s not the heart that is motivating most of the pairings.” Another lascivious leer as his thigh brushed up against hers. “It’s a different bodily organ.”

  She looked up at him through her lashes. “Isn’t it against the rules of Polite Society to make any mention of anatomy in the presence of a lady?”

  “Oh, yes, it’s strictly forbidden.” They twirled in a tight circle. “Does it offend you, Lady Saybrook?”

  “Perhaps my sensibilities are not quite so refined as they should be.”

  He led her through a few more figures of the dance before speaking again. “A pity about Mr. Kydd. The two of you appeared to be close friends.”

  “As you were saying about anatomy . . .” She let the suggestive remark trail off. “Poor David—he was amusing up to a point, but I confess, his prosing on about politics was beginning to grow tiresome.” A tiny pause. “Dear me, that sounds rather coldhearted, doesn’t it?”

  Rochemont looked amused, which was what she intended.

  “I am, of course, sorry that he fell victim to such an unfortunate accident,” she added. “How very unlucky for him to have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Fortune is a fickle lady,” said the comte carelessly. “She did not choose to smile on him.”

  “And what about you, Lord Rochemont?” murmured Arianna. “How does Fortune favor you?”