The Cocoa Conspiracy

by Andrea Penrose

  His boudoir laugh was low and lush as fire-warmed brandy. “I have always been lucky with ladies.”

  “Oh?” She curled her mouth in a teasing, taunting challenge. “Have you never suffered a defeat?”

  “No, never,” replied the comte. “I—”

  But before he could go on, the music ended and a booming voice intruded on their tête-à-tête. “Ah, Lady Saybrook, you have yet to come visit me!” The Russian Tsar snatched her hand from Rochemont and lifted it to his lips. “Our delegations may be at odds over politics, but that is no reason for us to avoid being friends on a personal level, eh?”

  “Your Majesty is most magnanimous,” responded Arianna. “But then, you are known as a Champion of Peace.”

  His rosy cheeks flushed with pleasure at the flattery. “Da, I love peace!” A wink. “Though perhaps not quite so much as pretty women.”

  And judging by his growing girth and the recent drawing room gossip, his appetite for pleasure was growing more rapacious by the day, thought Arianna sardonically.

  “I am giving a private party next week,” Alexander continued. “In the interest of bringing our two countries closer together, I command that you come.”

  “Well then, I dare not disobey.”

  The comte shifted his stance, seemingly impatient to escape the Imperial shadow. “Alors, France is also anxious to promote international harmony. So I am sure you won’t object if I escort Lady Saybrook away from the crush of the crowd and fetch her a glass of champagne.”

  The Tsar did not look pleased at having his flirtations cut short, but Rochemont was already nudging her toward the grand central staircase that led to the upper galleries.

  “Pompous buffoon,” he growled, taking two glasses of wine from a passing waiter. “He struts around as if God has anointed him the world’s Savior.”

  “I’ve heard that Alexander has a mystical side, and thinks that the Almighty speak directly to him,” mused Arianna as she looked up at the folds of red and gold velvet draped over the balconies. A profusion of exotic flowers were woven around the gilded balustrades, their petals perfuming the air with a heady sweetness. Surrounded by such sumptuous displays of pomp, privilege and power, she could begin to see how a mere mortal monarch could delude himself into thinking he was a deity.

  “Yes, he has some charlatan fortune-teller babbling nonsense in his ear about Divine Destiny,” replied Rochemont.

  “You don’t believe in such notions?”

  His sinuous mouth snaked up at the corners. “I’ve a far more pragmatic view of life, Lady Saybrook. I believe man makes his own destiny.”

  As do I.

  “An interesting philosophy,” said Arianna, deliberately catching his gaze and holding it for an instant before starting up the carpeted steps.

  “Does that frighten you, Lady Saybrook?”

  Arianna chose her words carefully. “Not particularly.” She lowered her voice. “I was not raised amid the pampered luxuries of the indolent rich. I’ve had to make my own way in the world, so I have a—shall we say—more practical understanding of what it takes to survive.”

  Quickening her steps, she crossed the landing and found a secluded spot at the far end of the balcony railing.

  Rochemont joined her a moment later. “You intrigue me.” He ran his gloved knuckles along the line of her jaw. “From the first time I saw you, I sensed you were different. Tell me, why were you so cool to me at the Marquess of Milford’s party?”

  “The climate in England was decidedly chilly at that time, especially with my husband and his disapproving uncle clinging like icicles to my skirts.”

  “So, you married the earl for money?” asked the comte.

  A sardonic sound rumbled in her throat. “Really, sir, I didn’t expect such a naive question from you.”

  “So the climate has thawed, so to speak?” he said.

  “I find Europe much more to my liking. I may linger here for a while. I have always wanted to visit Paris.”

  “A city renowned for its joie de vivre,” replied Rochemont. “We French have made an art out of appreciating beauty and pleasure. I think you would enjoy yourself there.”

  “And what of you sir?” asked Arianna. “Now that the war is over, do you plan to return to Paris?”

  His mouth curled into a scimitar smile. “Most definitely.”

  “Will you be taking a position in the new government? I have heard my husband mention that your service to your country during Napoleon’s reign will likely be rewarded.”

  “I believe that my loyalty will be recognized.” His mouth took on a sharper curl. “Perhaps we shall soon be waltzing in the ballroom of the Louvre.”

  “Perhaps,” replied Arianna.

  But I wouldn’t wager on it, if I were you. The only dance I wish to see you perform is the hangman’s jig on the gallows of Newgate.

  From one of the side saloons, she heard the faint chiming of a clock. An hour until midnight. Surely with just a little more fancy footwork, she could maneuver him into making a slip of the tongue.

  With a soft snick, the lock released.

  “Stay close,” cautioned Saybrook. “And tread softly. According to my source, there are no guards posted, but let us not take a chance.” Easing the heavy iron-banded door open, he quickly squeezed through the sliver of space and then signaled Henning to follow.

  The creak of the closing hinges seemed unnaturally loud as it echoed through the cavernous interior of the Spanish Riding School. The earl froze, but the faint spill of starlight from the high windows showed that the vast rectangular arena was deserted. After a moment, when no challenge rang out from the gloom, he released a pent-up breath and started forward.

  Sand crunched under his boots as he ducked into the shadows of the low planked wall rimming the equestrian arena.

  Henning glanced back but saw that their tracks were lost in a pelter of other footprints.

  “Work began yesterday to prepare the place for the Carrousel,” whispered Saybrook. “Our steps won’t be noticed.” He stopped to get his bearings, then pointed to the far end of the building. “The storage rooms are there, next to where the tack is kept for the horses. Uniforms and banners, along with the various draperies and cushions, are kept in a row of small chambers running along the left corridor. The armory sections will be on our right. We’ll start there.”

  “Ye seem to know yer way around,” murmured the surgeon.

  “I found the architect’s plans for this place in the library.” The earl paused by one of the massive columns to cock an ear for any sound of movement up ahead. Looking up at the soaring arched ceiling and the magnificent chandeliers hanging down from the central beam, he added, “It was designed by Josef Emanuel Fischer von Erlach in 1735, and is quite a splendid work of art.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” The surgeon eyed the bristling display of medieval weapons that hung just above their heads. “Though all I see is an ode to man slaughtering his fellow man.” Armor, swords, pikes and crossbows—an arsenal of old decorated the arena in honor of the upcoming Carrousel.

  The earl took one last look around. “Come on.”

  They entered the storage section of the school through another set of locked doors. Saybrook veered to the right, and took a small shuttered lanthorn from inside his coat.

  “We can risk a light in here,” he said. A lucifer match flared for an instant. “I had an interesting chat with one of the Austrian officers in charge of arming the participants in the pageant. All of the weaponry for the martial displays of prowess is being kept in the old munitions chamber.” The pinpoint beam of light probed through the darkness, revealing a wrought iron gate guarding an oaken portal black with age.

  Snick. Snick.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d actually think you were enjoying this, laddie,” said Henning as he carefully drew the door shut behind them.

  “Bloody hell.” The earl grunted as he lifted the lid of a massive chest and peered inside. �
��My wife is at the heart of the danger, dancing with a depraved murderer in another part of the palace while I am merely tiptoeing around the fringes of the action.” Metal scraped against metal. “Trust me, I am not in a jocular mood, so kindly stubble the humor and help me shift these crates.”

  “Lady S is more than a match for any miscreant, Sandro.”

  Another grunt, followed by several words in Spanish that made the surgeon blink.

  “Any idea what we’re looking for?” asked Henning once they had sorted through the assortment of polished broadswords and jeweled scimitars.

  Saybrook was standing by the rack of lances, methodically running a hand over the lengths of varnished wood. “Not precisely,” he answered. “My gut feeling tells me that they won’t try to strike at Talleyrand and Wellington with a simple blade or lance. The odds are against the chances of killing both men outright, not to speak of the fact that the attacker would be sacrificing himself. The chances of escape are virtually nil.”

  “So?” prodded Henning as he moved over to a tall wooden cabinet and unfastened the latch.

  “So, I suspect that Rochemont has something else in mind. Something he considers a surefire method of success.” The earl finished fingering the decorative hilts and hand guards. “No hidden gun barrels, no concealed triggers—not that I thought that a likely possibility.” Perching a hip on one of the sword crates, he made a slow, silent survey of the room. “Let us keep searching, Baz. I may not be certain what we are looking for . . .” In the murky shadows, his expression appeared grim as gunpowder. “But I’m sure that I’ll recognize it when I see it.”

  22

  From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks

  Chocolate-Rum Imperial Drink

  ½ gallon milk

  3 whole star anise

  2 sticks cinnamon

  Zest of 1 orange

  5 whole allspice berries

  6 tablespoons brown sugar

  ½ lb. bittersweet chocolate

  1 cup aged dark rum

  Whipped cream

  1. Combine milk, star anise, cinnamon sticks, orange zest, allspice berries and brown sugar in a large, heavy saucepan over medium heat.

  2. Scald milk, stirring to dissolve sugar. Lower heat and cook 10 minutes. Remove from heat; steep 10 minutes. Strain into a large pot.

  3. Heat gently, then add bittersweet chocolate and dark rum. Whisk briskly until chocolate dissolves, about 5 minutes. Serve topped with whipped cream.

  Setting her hands on the railing, Arianna leaned out and watched the crowd below forming the figures for a Hungarian csárdás.

  Rochemont came up behind her and placed his hands on her bare shoulders. “Have a care, Lady Saybrook. That’s a little dangerous. What if you lost your balance?”

  “Oh, but what fun is life if you don’t take a few risks?” She turned into him and made no protests as his palms slowly slid down her arms. “All these balls are becoming tiresome. I am looking forward to the Carrousel. I hear it is going to be quite a display of pomp and pageantry.”

  “Having some knowledge of the arrangements, I can promise you that the evening will be unforgettable.”

  Arianna looked up at him through her lashes. “Alas, Saybrook has refused Lord Castlereagh’s offer of tickets. He wishes to work.” A coy flutter. “While I wish to play.”

  His gaze seemed to sharpen.

  “I don’t suppose I could ask you to take me as your guest?” she asked. “As the head of the French delegation, your Prince must have a private box.”

  “Indeed. It is in a place of honor, right in the front row,” replied Rochemont. “Unfortunately, the seats are all taken, for Talleyrand has a special guest coming.”

  “Oh?” Arianna assumed a petulant pout. “Who?”

  “It’s a secret,” said the comte is a low voice.

  “I promise not to tell.”

  “Perhaps . . .” The soft leather of his gloves slid down her bare arms. Turning, he drew her into the shadowed corridor leading to the side saloons. The sound of muted laughter swirled in the smoke-scented air, its music melding with the faraway melody of the violins. “Perhaps I could arrange a favor, Lady Saybrook. But tell me, what are you willing to give me in return?”

  “That would depend on how special the favor is,” she countered.

  “What would you say to being part of the pageantry?”

  The slithering sensation on her skin had nothing to do with his touch. “You could arrange that?” she asked. “I’ve heard that the program has been worked on for months, and that every detail has been carefully planned. Surely the organizers won’t allow a last-minute change.”

  “True. However there has been one change concerning the presentation of the grand prize to the winning knight. Due to the importance of the Prince’s guest, Von Getz, the secretary of the Conference, has appointed me to be in charge of arranging a slight variation to the original ceremony.”

  A change to the ceremony? Arianna felt her pulse begin to quicken. “That must have cost you a fortune—it’s said that von Getz’s influence does not come cheap.”

  “The secretary likes money—but he also has a weakness for chocolate bonbons.” Rochemont smirked. “Monsieur Carême recently hired a pastry chef who created some unique treats. No matter that the man turned out to be a criminal and was forced to flee when we caught him robbing the palace. There were enough of the sweets left that I was able to assemble a very sweet bribe.”

  Nearly overcome with the insane urge to dissolve into giggles, she managed to keep a straight face. “How clever of you.”

  A rough laugh, and suddenly Arianna felt herself shoved deeper into the alcove between the archway colonnade. Cold marble kissed against her back as the comte pivoted and pressed his body against hers. “I’m clever at a great many things, Lady Saybrook. Including seducing a woman into my bed. You’ve led me on quite a chase, but I sense that I’m getting close . . .” His lips were now hovering a hairsbreadth from hers. “Close enough to taste triumph.”

  Touching her fingertips to his chest, she forced a fraction more space between them. “I was under the impression that men like the thrill of the hunt.”

  “We like the thrill of the kill even more—metaphorically speaking, of course,” replied Rochemont.

  “Of course.” Arianna met his gaze without flinching. “So, what part do you have in mind for me?”

  “It’s been decided that Talleyrand’s guest will present the prize to the champion, instead of the Austrian Emperor. I’ve been wondering just how to orchestrate the ceremony, and then it suddenly occurred to me that you, my dear Lady Saybrook, would be the perfect person to carry out the trophy,” explained Rochemont. “What say you? Is that a sweet enough enticement?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said.

  Oh, yes. Did the fox think he was pursuing a helpless rabbit? Ha! She intended to lead him right into the snapping jaws of Saybrook.

  A low, feral sound rumbling in his throat, he sought to capture her mouth.

  She evaded the embrace with a sly turn of her cheek. “Tut, tut, my dear comte. You’ll have to wait until late night hours after the Carrousel. A smart lady never lifts her skirts until she has been paid in advance.”

  Rochemont allowed her to slip free. “You drive a hard bargain. Lady Saybrook.” He brushed a wrinkle from his sleeve and patted his cravat into place. “I shall expect you to come to me then—and to make the experience worth my while.”

  “You may count on it being unforgettable,” replied Arianna, her voice a silky, smoky whisper. “I perform at my best with men like you.”

  “Nothing.” Henning grimaced as he put the papier-mâché head of a snarling Saracen back in the cabinet. In the wavering light, the grotesque teeth seemed to gleam in mockery. “Twenty-four of the bloody grinning Infidels, and not a single suspicious hinge or hollow space that I can make out.”

  Saybrook shook the head he was holding before placing it on its rack. “I agree that they appear harmless�
��the layers of paper are so thick that the space left inside isn’t big enough to hide much of a threat.”

  “Ye think Lady S’s suggestion that they are planning to use some sort of gunpowder bomb is bang on the mark?”

  “Actually I do,” answered the earl. “Rochemont’s burned hands are too much of a coincidence to dismiss. Besides, the other alternatives are too hit or miss. Even if they convinced one of the knights to charge Talleyrand’s box with scimitar flashing or lance lowered, the chances of him killing both men aren’t very good. Wellington is, after all, a man much experienced in war. He won’t sit there like a petrified pigeon waiting to be slaughtered.” Vapor rose up from the stone floor in slow, serpentine swirls. Chafing his hands together to ward off the chill, Saybrook watched a ghostly tendril wrap itself around the metal lantern. “No, a man as clever as Renard would choose a more reliable method.”

  “Think of the Grognard,” said Henning suddenly. “If I were Renard, I’d put a marksman in the crowd. Be damned with a bomb—a well-aimed bullet and the deed would be done in a flash.”

  Saybrook shook his head. “I might agree if it were only one target. But two?” His fingers twined and tightened together into a fist. “No, there are too many variables working against gunfire. Even with the crush of the crowd, a rifle would be hard to smuggle in. And then there is the time it would take to reload.”

  “A brace of pistols,” suggested the surgeon, loath to give up his idea. “They are easily hidden inside a coat, and at close range it would be hard to miss.”

  “It won’t be all that easy to get close to the section reserved for the dignitaries,” argued the earl. “It’s possible that one of the diplomats has been recruited to be the assassin, but still . . . the first shot would set off a panic. In the chaos, aiming a second shot would difficult, even for a battle-hardened soldier.”

  “Bloody hell, Sandro. If you’re so convinced it’s a bomb, how the devil is Renard going to deliver it?” He scowled. “And then detonate it? We’ve gone over the weaponry with a fine-tooth comb.”