The Cocoa Conspiracy

by Andrea Penrose

  “I’m afraid your favorite aphorism is falling on deaf ears,” said the earl drily.

  “Sandro!” Lowering her pistol, Arianna edged around the surgeon and touched a hand to her husband’s dirt-streaked cheek.

  “I suggest we all save the soulful sighs until later,” counseled Henning before she could say anything further. “In this case, discretion may be the better part of valor. The threat is over. If we leave now, the authorities will have a devil of a time ever piecing together what happened here tonight.” He shuffled his boot back from a trickle of viscous black. “Which I daresay is what our government would prefer.”

  Saybrook nodded grimly. “I agree. However, there is the matter of the Champion’s Prize. Much as I respect your scientific skills, Baz, I would rather not have that infernal bomb brought anywhere near Talleyrand and Wellington. God knows, we’ve worked hard enough to keep them safe—I would hate to see all our efforts go up in a cloud of smoke.”

  “Don’t worry, laddie. The eagle has had its talons removed.”

  “How?” demanded the earl.

  Henning took his arm. “Lady S, kindly grab yer husband’s other wing and help him fly.”

  Saybrook scowled but allowed himself to be hustled through the archway.

  “In answer to yer question, I heard the commotion and crept into the storeroom after you gave chase to the comte,” said the surgeon. “I removed the guts of the bomb and dumped the gunpowder in one of the fountains. The brass gears and bearings have been smashed with a farrier’s hammer. As for the acid . . .” Henning removed a vial from inside his coat. “If you don’t mind, I kept it. I’m curious to analyze the exact composition of chemicals.”

  “You were told to wait out in the main courtyard, away from trouble,” muttered the earl.

  Henning shot a sidelong glance at Arianna. “Yes, well, as you see, I’m not very good at obeying orders.”

  A glint of starlight flashed off the fancy pistol as she waggled a return salute. “Neither am I.”

  “You,” growled Saybrook. “You, too, have a good deal of explaining to do.” His eyes narrowed. “Beginning with where in the name of Hades you got that weapon. It’s one of Manton’s special models, if I’m not mistaken, and worth a bloody fortune.”

  “It’s a long story . . .”

  Arianna carried a glass of brandy over to where Saybrook lay stretched out on the sofa. He had listened to her account of the evening with surprisingly few interruptions. But on seeing his expression, she guessed that the silence was about to end.

  “I expect that it’s time for one of our jolly little councils of war, eh?” Henning clapped his hands together in anticipation. “But we had better make it quick, before I tend to my patient’s injuries and dose him with laudanum.”

  The earl made a sour face. “It’s naught but a few bruises.” He was, however, looking a little pale as he quaffed a swallow of the brandy. “So, Rochemont’s superior here was Lord Reginald Sommers?”

  “You were acquainted with him?” asked Henning.

  The earl pursed his lips. “Only in passing. His father is, of course, a prominent peer—and well liked, I might add—which helps explain Lord Reginald’s position on Castlereagh’s staff. But he had done nothing to distinguish himself from the crowd of other gentlemen who frequent the gaming hells and brothels.”

  “You think he was Renard?”

  The earl mulled over the question for a moment. “No. Something in my gut tells me that the cunning fox is still running free.”

  “Call it an instinct for survival,” said the surgeon. “So, we may have guarded the henhouse on this night—”

  “But a dangerous predator is still on the loose,” finished Saybrook. “However, we are beginning to pick up a scent. The government should start sniffing out the details of Lord Reginald’s life and acquaintances. Combined with the information you acquired on Rochemont’s activities in Scotland, Baz, they should be able to narrow the field of suspects.”

  “Especially as we now know for sure where his loyalty lies,” said Arianna.

  “Napoleon,” said Saybrook. And yet he didn’t sound entirely convinced.

  “You don’t agree?” she asked.

  “We can’t dismiss the possibility that his—or her—only Master is money.”

  The glitter of gold versus the fire of abstract ideals. It was, she mused, an age-old conflict. One that had consumed countless lives.

  Arianna fetched herself a glass of port, and settled into a cross-legged seat on the carpet, close to her husband’s head. “A mercenary rather than an idealist?” She thought for a moment about David Kydd and felt a slight pang of regret at the terrible waste of passions and intelligence. “You’re right of course.”

  “That’s a conundrum for the coming days,” remarked Henning. “I have a more mundane question about the present. We now have three deaths to explain. And while I don’t give a fig about leaving the Austrian authorities to chase their own tails, our government is going to have to offer some sort of explanation.” He rubbed at his jaw. “To wit, what do you propose to tell your uncle about Kydd? And what should the duke know of his son’s treason? Or Talleyrand and the émigré community in London about Rochemont’s perfidy?”

  Saybrook shifted his shoulders in a cynical shrug. “Remember, I am not in a position to make the final decision. But I would advise the Powers That Be to say nothing about the conspiracy. It serves no purpose. The parties involved are dead—there is no need for anyone to know of their betrayals.”

  As he lifted his wineglass, Arianna watched the candle flame refract off the cut crystal, sending shards of light winking in all directions.

  “The fewer people who know the truth, the better,” went on her husband. “Let Renard wonder just how his well-laid plans went so awry.”

  “Cat and mouse,” quipped Henning.

  “Yes. A game that is growing far too familiar.” The earl’s gaze found hers. “As is the one of masquerades.”

  Her chin rose a fraction. “I play it rather well, don’t you think?”

  Saybrook met the challenge with an unblinking stare. “It’s not your skills that I’m questioning. It’s the fact that I asked you to stay out of harm’s way and you didn’t.”

  “Seeing as I was dressed as a male, it could be argued that I didn’t actually ignore your request,” she murmured. “You made no mention that a London street urchin was to stay away from the action.”

  He tried to look angry but a telltale twitch crept to the corners of his mouth. “For someone who claims to have little regard for formal academic training, you parse philosophical points with the skill of an Oxford don.” He eyed her snug black breeches and lifted a brow. “And by the by, those look far fancier than your original urchin rags from Petticoat Lane.”

  “Yes, and they are far more comfortable,” she said. “No wonder you gentlemen are willing to pay Weston an arm and a leg for his services as a tailor.”

  Saybrook’s chuckle dissolved into a cough. Grimacing, he raised himself on his elbows. “I—”

  Henning quickly rose from his chair and placed a hand on the earl’s chest. “Don’t move until I get a few bandages wrapped around you, laddie. I think you have a few cracked ribs.”

  “Speaking of bones, I’m going to break every last one in Grentham’s body when we get back to London,” growled the earl. “I swear that this is the last time that any of us risk life and limb to do his dirty work.”

  25

  From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks

  Devil’s Food Cake

  15 tablespoons butter, softened

  1½ teaspoons baking soda

  ¼ cup boiling water

  2½ cups flour, sifted

  ½ teaspoon salt

  2 cups light brown sugar

  2 eggs

  1 cup buttermilk

  6 oz. unsweetened chocolate, melted and cooled slightly

  6 cups confectioners’ sugar

  ½ cup heavy cream
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  ¼ cup unsweetened cocoa

  2 teaspoons vanilla extract

  1. Preheat oven to 325°. Grease two 8-inch round cake pans with 1 tbsp. of the butter and set aside. Stir together the baking soda and ¼ cup boiling water in a small bowl and set aside.

  2. Whisk together flour and salt in a medium bowl and set aside. Combine 8 tbsp. of the butter and the brown sugar in a large bowl and beat with an electric mixer until fluffy. Add the eggs one at a time, beating briefly after each addition. Working in 3 batches, alternately add the flour mixture and buttermilk, beating briefly after each addition. Add the baking soda mixture (stir before adding) and chocolate and stir to make a smooth batter.

  3. Divide the batter between prepared pans and bake until a toothpick inserted in the middle comes out clean, 35–40 minutes. Set the cake pans on a rack to let cool.

  4. While the cakes are cooling, make the icing. Melt the remaining 6 tbsp. butter and transfer it to a large bowl. Add the confectioners’ sugar, heavy cream, cocoa and vanilla and beat until well combined and fluffy, about 2 minutes. Set aside.

  5. Loosen the cakes from their pans. Place 1 cake on a large plate and spread top evenly with about 1 cup of the icing. Top with the second cake and use the remaining icing to spread over the top and sides. Serve immediately or refrigerate until ready to eat.

  Grentham leaned back in his chair, his gunmetal gray eyes focusing on the far wall of his office rather than meeting Saybrook’s gaze.

  Arianna waited for a moment and then, matching his deliberate rudeness, twisted around in her chair. Rain pattered against the mullioned windows, the watery light blurring the details of the gilt-framed painting that the minister appeared to be studying.

  “Turner’s seascapes are far more interesting,” she commented. “But then, I suppose that one must have some artistic imagination to appreciate them.”

  Tap, tap, tap. Ignoring her barb, the minister continued to drum his fingertips together in echo of the passing shower. After allowing the silence to stretch a little longer, he finally spoke. “You mean to tell me that Talleyrand and Wellington were the intended targets?”

  “Yes,” replied Saybrook.

  “And you think the assassination attempt was all part of a plot that indicates Napoleon is planning to break out of Elba and retake his throne?” Grentham’s inflection on the former Emperor’s name added an extra measure of sarcasm to his tone.

  “Yes,” said the earl.

  “I’ve heard no such whispers from my sources in Europe,” sneered the minister.

  “It is not my problem that your sources have their heads wedged up their arses,” retorted Saybrook. “If they were so competent, you wouldn’t need me—or my wife—to clean up the mess they make of things.”

  Grentham’s nostrils flared, but he was quick to cover his anger with a mocking smile. “In case you have forgotten, England has an official observer stationed on the island precisely to prevent the former Emperor’s escape. His monthly reports say that nothing is out of the ordinary.”

  “Perhaps you ought to send in another set of eyes,” suggested Arianna. “As well as consider the purchase of a pair of spectacles to help sharpen your own vision.” She folded her hands in her lap. “Blindness is often a problem when a man approaches his dotage.”

  “My friend Henning knows a very skilled lens maker,” offered Saybrook.

  The minister’s face turned an ominous shade of puce. “Oh, yes, the two of you possess such a clever sense of humor. You are going to need it where you are going.”

  “More threats?” Saybrook sounded bored.

  A mocking smile. “Good heavens, no. Simply a statement of facts. The choice of what to do about them will, of course, be entirely up to you. But given your absurdly fierce sense of loyalty . . .”

  Determined to end the verbal duel between the two men before it turned truly ugly, Arianna intervened. “Get to the point, sir.”

  “The point?” Grentham’s gaze turned to her. “The point is, Mr. Henning’s nephew is in a British military prison in the Highlands. A rather cold, isolated place, with precious few comforts.” He made a low clucking noise. “Indeed, I’ve heard that few survive more than a short incarceration.”

  “We heard he was already dead,” said Arianna quickly. “Killed by Rochemont’s henchmen for wishing to resign from the group.”

  “As luck would have it, the lad was apprehended by my operatives, who were tipped off about a secret meeting. Unfortunately the others escaped, but thanks to me, young Mr. MacPhearson is still alive.” A deliberate pause. “For the moment.”

  “You bastard,” growled Saybrook. “You know he’s innocent. The lad was but a pawn, manipulated by lies. He’s no threat to England.”

  “What I know is that there is still a French spy loose within our government,” countered Grentham. “Root him out once and for all, and then we can negotiate.” A pause. “There is still the matter of Mellon’s reputation.”

  “Just as there is the matter of yours.”

  “True. But in this case I think I shall call your bluff. If you go public, I shall suffer some temporary embarrassment, but I daresay I shall survive. But Mellon would almost certainly be ruined.” Tap, tap, tap. “As for Henning, and his Scottish kin . . .”

  The earl clenched his jaw. “The lad goes free now rather than later?”

  The minister gave a tiny nod. “I’m willing to be magnanimous. That is, if you agree to pick up Renard’s trail in St. Andrews and follow it until you bring him to ground once and for all.”

  Arianna met his gaze as Saybrook muttered a curt assent.

  Fire and Ice.

  “Pack plenty of warm clothing.” It was Grentham’s turn to toss out a taunt. “The north of Scotland is quite chilly at this time of year.”

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  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Much of the action in this book takes place at the famous Congress of Vienna, which convened in the fall of 1814 in order to reorganize Europe after Napoleon’s exile to the isle of Elba. The gathering, an unprecedented convocation of rulers, influential diplomats and their entourages, was meant to be a grand ending and a grand beginning—the movers and shakers were looking to close the book on the strife and upheavals of the Napoleonic Wars and begin a new chapter of world peace. (In many ways, it was the precursor to the United Nations.) Countless books have been written on the complex negotiations and their ramifications—Henry Kissinger wrote his PhD thesis on the Congress—so I won’t attempt to delve into its nuances. Suffice it to say, it was an extraordinary attempt to consider a vast range of issues, both political and social, and to structure a “balance of power” to ensure that there would not be another world war. For those of you interested in an an overview of both the people and the politics, I highly recommend Vienna, 1814 by David King and Rites of Peace by Adam Zamoyski. In addition, Talleyrand, the classic biography by Duff Cooper, provides a fascinating look at the era.

  Many real people play minor roles in the book, for the cast of colorful real-life characters at the Congress of Vienna makes truth appear stranger than fiction. Prince Metternich, the powerful Austrian Foreign Minister, was a savvy negotiator, a polished diplomat—and a rakish lady’s man. Prince Talleyrand, the worldly and sybaritic French Foreign Minister, was perhaps the most brilliant—and cunning—statesman of the era. He really did bring the famous chef Antoine Carême to Vienna with him, not only for his own pleasure but to butter up potential supporters of French interests over sumptuous dinners and desserts. (At one point he wrote to Paris and wryly said he needed more saucepans, not more secretaries.) And then there was Tsar Alexander I of Russia. It seems he was also determined to seduce every female within arm’s reach. One of my favorite anecdotes involves him seeing the wife of a prominent diplomat at a party. As she was alone, he sidled up and asked if he could occupy her husband’s place for the evening—to which she replied coolly, “Does Your Majesty take me for a province?”

 
I have tried to stay true to their character in my story, and all the descriptions of the parties and the Carrousel are based on actual events. However, I have taken a few liberties with history. The Duke of Wellington was indeed serving as Great Britain’s representation in Paris at the time, and later replaced Castlereagh as the head envoy at the Congress of Vienna. But my having him make a secret visit to confer with Prince Talleyrand in Vienna is pure fiction, as is my elaborate assassination plot and the chemical concoction discovered by Saybrook and Henning.

  I hope you have enjoyed the history behind The Cocoa Conspiracy. For more fun facts and arcane trivia, please visit my Web site at www.andreapenrose.com. I love to hear from my readers and can be contacted at andrea@andrea penrose.com.

  Turn the page for a sneak peek at

  Lady Arianna’s next adventure in the

  upcoming Lady Arianna Regency Mystery.

  Coming in Fall 2012 from Obsidian.

  A jolt of the coach bounced the open book in her lap, rousing Lady Arianna Saybrook from a fitful half sleep. Wincing, she shifted against the leather squabs and flexed her aching shoulders, trying to loosen her knotted muscles as the wheels hit another frozen rut.

  Hell—this was truly the Devil’s own journey.

  Though instead of rolling through fire and sulfurous brimstone, they seemed to be entering a bleak realm of ice and frigid vapors. With each passing mile, the landscape looked more and more leached of all color.

  Touching her numb fingertips to the page, she couldn’t help but wish that the handwritten recipe for hot Spanish chocolate might transform from ink and paper into a large pot of steaming, spice-scented liquid. Despite the fur throw wrapped around her, she was chilled to the bone by the damp cold seeping in through the creaking woodwork.