“Ah, I see what you mean,” she murmured. “And yet, what you were working on seems awfully complex.”
“I thought it safe to assume that our enemy would be too clever to use a simple text cipher, so I’m trying out a few other schemes.” He shuffled back to his original page. “A Vigenère Square seemed a good choice.”
“What, precisely, is that?”
“A grid invented in the sixteenth century by Blaise de Vigenère, a French diplomat posted to Rome. It’s a method for encrypting that offers a mind-twisting array of possibility.”
He finished lettering in the alphabet both vertically and horizontally, forming two sides of a square. “You have twenty-six letters across, and twenty-six letters down, both of which begin with ‘a.’ ”
She nodded.
“Then you begin the next row with ‘b,’ and then ‘c,’ and continue on like that until you have filled out the square. Now, you have twenty-six possible cipher alphabets. You can encrypt using two or twenty-two. Oftentimes, a code word is used to tell the receiver what rows to use. For example, say ‘pen’ is the code word. The receiver uses the row that begins with ‘p’ to decode the first letter of his secret message. For the second letter, he would use the row beginning with ‘e,’ and so forth.”
Arianna blinked. “Ingenious.”
“There are, of course, a multitude of other systems. Breaking a code requires intuition, patience, time—and most of all, luck.” He made a wry face. “The odds of stumbling upon a solution for this cipher tonight are stacked against me. However, I am familiar with the way the French cryptographers think, and if our enemy is really a man named Renard, then perhaps I shall get lucky. In any case, it is worth a try.”
“I should like to learn more about this,” she mused. “I can see where mathematics would be a helpful skill. Probability and patterns—it’s very much like gambling.”
“An apt analogy,” he commented. “As it happens, I brought along a book on the subject that was recently published by a don at Oxford. It is on my dressing table.”
Arianna went into his room, returning with not only the book but also two glasses of brandy.
“What are you going to tell Charles about this?” she asked, watching his face from over the rim of her drink. Firelight swirled within the amber liquid, the play of molten sparks dancing along the ridge of his cheekbones.
His eyes remained shadowed. “I haven’t yet decided.” He looked tired. Pensive. “But come morning, I will have to make up my mind.”
She fingered the wads of discarded paper, wishing that she could help. “Is there nothing I can do?”
Saybrook shook his head. “Not at the moment. I just want to test a few more ideas . . .”
The scratch of his pencil took up where his voice left off.
Patterns and probabilities, intertwining with deceptions and betrayals. The brandy burned a slow, sinuous trail down her throat. She had lived most of her life within the murky netherworld of secrets and lies. Which perhaps explained why the prospect of matching wits with a dangerous traitor was more tantalizing than terrifying.
I suppose that Charles Mellon is right to think me a very odd sort of female.
Taking another mouthful of the spirits, Arianna savored the heat of it against her tongue as she cracked open the book and began to read.
* * *
“Your pardon, milord.” Saybrook’s valet discreetly cleared his throat as he poked his head into the dawn-dappled sitting room. “But Mr. Henning has arrived. Shall I show him up?”
“God yes, before he wakes the house with his bellows.” The earl yawned and stretched out his long legs. “He tends to be in an ill humor when he is hungry.”
“Ouch.” Arianna winced as she sat up. Her muscles were stiff and knotted with cold. “I shall likely have a bruise on my shin, though it probably serves me right for being such a nodcock as to fall sleep on the floor.”
“You had better order up a big breakfast too, Hobbs,” added the earl. “Eggs, gammon, kippers, along with plenty of rolls and jam. Henning isn’t the only one who turns snappish when his bread box is empty.”
“Wretch,” muttered Arianna, tossing the sofa pillow at his head. “Please bring pots of coffee and chocolate as well, Hobbs.”
“Yes, milady.” The valet disappeared.
“I had better go and make myself presentable,” she said, rising and retying the sash of her wrapper.
“An excellent suggestion,” said her husband drily, waggling a brow. “You did summon Henning to make an inspection of naked flesh. However, I’d prefer it wasn’t yours.”
“As would I, seeing as most of the bodies he ogles are dead.”
She returned—fully dressed—to find their friend Basil Henning warming his hands by the rekindled fire. His frayed clothing was rumpled and the expression on his angular face looked equally out of sorts—but that was nothing unusual. Henning always looked grumpy.
As if on cue, he gestured at the steaming silver pot set on the side table. “Auch, Sandro, ye roust me from a nice warm bed and drag my carcass halfway to Hades, only to greet me with naught but a puling cup of coffee?” The outspoken Scotsman had been a surgeon in the earl’s army regiment, and the two men had formed a fast friendship during the long, brutal Peninsular campaign, despite the difference of wealth and birth. “Ye gods, man,” he groused.
“It’s me you should be raking over the coals, Mr. Henning.” Arianna hurried over to brush a kiss to his leathery cheek. “Thank you for coming. We’ve ordered up plenty of hot food as well—eggs, gammon and your favorite kippers in cream sauce.”
“Bless you, lassie,” he said, patting his bony midriff. “A man cannot survive on Highland malt alone.”
“The marquess has an excellent malt from Dornach in his cellars,” said Saybrook. “I took the liberty of having a bottle sent up along with the coffee.”
“Pour me a wee tipple,” said the surgeon. “Then let us go see this body of yours.”
“It is not Sandro’s body,” said Arianna.
“A mere figure of speech, Lady S.”
“A cold corpse laid out on a slab seems awfully real to me,” she countered. “I say we ought to have some sustenance before we begin the task.”
“That might not be such a wise idea, considering what we’re about to do,” drawled Henning.
“I’ve a strong stomach,” she replied. “And I think better when it is full.”
“A frightening thought, considering how much you consume,” quipped Saybrook.
“Yes, yes, I know I have an unladylike appetite—along with a number of other shocking habits.”
“Heh, heh, heh,” chuckled Henning. “Are we about to have one of yer verbal fencing matches? It’s always entertaining when you two cross tongues.”
“Sandro has already lost enough blood without suffering any cuts from me,” said Arianna. “In all seriousness, we ought not waste our breath on jests. Over breakfast, we have much to tell you.”
8
From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks
Whisky-Soaked Dark Chocolate Bundt Cake
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened, more for greasing pan
2 cups all-purpose flour, more for dusting pan
5 ounces unsweetened chocolate
¼ cup instant espresso powder
2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder
1 cup boiling water
1 cup bourbon, rye or other whisky, more for sprinkling
½ teaspoon kosher salt
2 cups granulated sugar
3 large eggs
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
1 teaspoon baking soda
Confectioners’ sugar, for garnish (optional)
1. Grease and flour a 10-cup-capacity Bundt pan (or two 8–or 9-inch loaf pans). Preheat oven to 325 degrees. In microwave oven or double boiler over simmering water, melt chocolate. Let cool.2. Put espresso and cocoa powders in a 2-cup (or larger) glass measuring cup. Add enough boil
ing water to come up to the 1 cup measuring line. Mix until powders dissolve. Add whisky and salt; let cool.
3. Using an electric mixer, beat 1 cup butter until fluffy. Add sugar and beat until well combined. Beat in the eggs, one at a time, beating well between each addition. Beat in the vanilla extract, baking soda and melted chocolate, scraping down sides of bowl with a rubber spatula.
4. On low speed, beat in a third of the whisky mixture. When liquid is absorbed, beat in 1 cup flour. Repeat additions, ending with whisky mixture. Scrape batter into prepared pan and smooth top. Bake until a cake tester inserted into center of cake comes out clean, about 1 hour 10 minutes for Bundt pan (loaf pans will take less time; start checking them after 55 minutes).
5. Transfer cake to a rack. Unmold after 15 minutes and sprinkle warm cake with more whisky. Let cool before serving, garnished with confectioners’ sugar if you like.
Yield: 10 to 12 servings.
“Bloody hell, that’s quite a lot to digest,” muttered Henning as he pushed away his empty plate. “Theft, treason, murder.” Shaking his head, Henning refilled his glass with whisky. “And here I thought ye were savoring the idea of a quiet, peaceful autumn.”
“I seem to stir up trouble in His Lordship’s life,” observed Arianna.
“A toast to Trouble,” said the surgeon, raising his drink in salute. “Ye have to admit, it keeps things interesting.”
“If we have finished philosophizing, perhaps we could go have a look at my erstwhile assailant.” Saybrook scraped back his chair. “The body is being kept down near the kitchens—in the game room, aptly enough, though the chef is apparently not happy about it sharing the space with his dead birds and skinned rabbits.”
“Why?” quipped the surgeon. “The room’s sole purpose is to hang carcasses until the flesh is ripe enough to peel off the bone.”
“Thank you for the graphic explanation, Baz,” said Saybrook, leading the way into the servant stairwell.
“No point in mincing words, laddie.”
Arianna winced at the word “mince.”
As they descended in the gloom, Henning checked that the small chamois bag of surgical instruments was well hidden in his coat pocket. “We’ll just have a little poke around before the formal inquest begins.”
“Nothing overt,” cautioned Saybrook, as he peeked out from the landing to check that the corridor was clear. “I’ve enough to worry about without being accused of tampering with the evidence.”
“Don’t worry, laddie. I’m very good at what I do.”
Moving quietly, the three of them slipped past the pantries and entered a dark, stone-floored chamber, taking care to close the heavy oaken door behind them.
“Light the lanthorn,” whispered Henning.
Flint scraped against steel and a curl of smoke rose through the shadows. Arianna shivered as her husband shuffled forward and shone the beam on the dead man’s face. Though bronzed by the sun, the skin had turned yellowish-white. A dull sheen made it look as if the death-softened features were carved out of candle wax.
“Big fellow, eh?” grunted the surgeon. The man laid out on the slab of granite was over six feet tall. “Bring the light closer.” The surgeon leaned in and plucked up the corpse’s eyelid.
“Hmmph.” Next he drew back the dead man’s lips and examined his teeth. Seemingly satisfied, he brushed his fingers on the front of his coat. “Lady S, would ye take charge of the lanthorn while Sandro gives me a hand in looking at the wound.”
Swallowing hard, she watched as he and Saybrook gingerly peeled back the cloth hiding the slashed throat. Perhaps breakfast hadn’t been such a good idea after all.
“Hmmph.” After poking and prodding at the ghastly wound, the surgeon’s only remark was a curt grunt.
Setting aside his scalpel, he took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. “Help me remove his upper garments, laddie, and let us see what else we can learn about him.”
Arianna closed her eyes for a moment, finding the soft whisper of cloth against the lifeless flesh faintly obscene.
“Well, well, well. What have we here?” Henning sounded a little surprised.
Her lids flew open.
“A tattoo,” confirmed Saybrook. Like Henning, he was peering intently at the dead man’s bicep. “A rather distinctive one. An eagle and a crown . . .”
“It’s the mark of Les Grognards—the Grumblers,” announced the surgeon after a closer inspection.
Saybrook swore under his breath.
Looking up at Arianna, Henning quickly explained. “That’s the nickname of the First Foot Grenadiers Regiment. Along with the Second Foot Regiment, they made up the Old Guard, the most elite unit of Napoleon’s Grenadier Guards.”
“The Guards were Napoleon’s personal favorites,” added Saybrook. “A man had to have served in the army for ten years and distinguished himself in battle to win a place in their ranks.”
“Aye. And every detail of their service was personally approved by Boney—their pay, their uniforms, their insignias,” said Henning, slanting a meaningful look at the tattoo. “They were bloody good soldiers. Tough, disciplined, and fiercely loyal to their leader.”
“Dio Madre.” Saybrook peered more closely at the intricate design. “Are you sure about this?”
“At the Battle of Salamanca, I sawed off the arms of several wounded Grognards captured by our regiment. So yes, laddie, I am quite sure.”
Arianna noted a grimness tighten her husband’s expression, making the hollows under his eyes look deeper. Darker. “Can we please hurry?” she asked sharply. “It would be best if we weren’t found here. And Sandro needs to get some rest.”
“Arianna—” growled Saybrook
“Save yer breath te cool yer porridge. Lady S is right. Ye need te keep up your strength. Grentham has already bared his teeth and will be looking to go for the jugular.” Henning chafed his palms together and spoke softly to the corpse. “Alors, monsieur. What else can you tell me about yourself, eh?” He palpated the chest, and then took up a thin metal probe to push back the hair around the ears and check inside the canal.
“Nothing usual.”
“Save for his sun-colored face and forearms, don’t you think?” remarked Saybrook. “It’s been a very rainy summer here in England.”
“A good point, laddie.” Henning pursed his lips. “Have any of the locals been asked if they recognize the fellow?”
“Yes, several in fact,” replied the earl. “The ghillies helped carry the body out of the woods. None of them had ever seen him before.”
“Hmmph.” Frowning, the surgeon cleared his throat and gestured for Arianna to look away. “Avert your eyes, Lady S, while we pull down the fellow’s breeches for a moment.”
She arched her brows but complied. “What in God’s name do you hope to discover—or dare I ask?”
The surgeon bit back a chuckle. “Best leave no stone unturned, so to speak. Ye never know—perhaps he’s part of some exotic sect of Eastern eunuchs. Or boasts a second tattoo on his privy parts that points—”
“Men and their schoolboy humor,” Arianna gave the lanthorn an impatient shake. “Do get on with it.”
Something metallic fell to the floor. “Damn.” Henning quickly bent down. “It’s just a coin,” he muttered, shoving it into his pocket. A few more rustling noises, punctuated by the thud of flesh upon the stone slab.
“I’m finished here,” he announced, putting away his instruments and donning his coat. “Let’s be off.”
The earl chose to lead them through the deserted scullery and out to the back lawns. The early morning air, heavy with the scent of the mist-dampened grass and the ripening apples in the nearby orchard, helped flush the dank smell of decay from Arianna’s lungs. Breathing deeply, she tipped her head up to watch a skein of dark clouds scud across the sun. A gust ruffled through the leaves and tugged at her skirts.
“Rain is blowing in,” groused Henning. “The bloody roads back to London will be mired in mud.”
London. At the moment, the city and the sanctuary of their town house seemed very far away.
Arianna fisted the folds of flapping silk and held them close to her body. “So, what do you intend to do about the letters, Sandro?” she asked. “And Charles.”
“Before ye answer that,” said Henning. “Allow me te voice a few questions of my own, eh?”
The earl nodded for him to go on.
“Have ye considered that mayhap Grentham has planned all this? We know that he is diabolically clever. And when you look at how this web of intrigue weaves together, it’s clearly been created by a cunning spider.” Henning picked a loose thread from his sleeve. “He plants one of yer uncle’s documents along with incriminating evidence of a traitorous plot, turning suspicion on your family while he continues to hand over secrets to England’s enemy. Taking a shot at you only raises further questions about why someone would want you dead.”
“You are forgetting that Rochemont may well have been the target,” countered the earl. “That a Grognard—”
Henning cut him off with an impatient wave. “I grant you, it’s possible that one of Napoleon’s former officials has a grudge against Rochemont. He’s one of the leading Royalists, and by all accounts has made a number of enemies with his arrogance. Not to speak of his flagrant dalliances. But bear with me for now, and let us stay focused on Grentham for the nonce.”
“Very well,” agreed Saybrook. “Your theory is interesting, and it’s certainly devious enough for the minister’s mind. But I don’t really think it’s plausible. There is no way he could know Arianna would buy that book. It was pure chance.”
“It’s known that you make regular purchases at that rare book emporium,” countered Henning. “And how many rich aristocrats have an interest in chocolate?”
The earl didn’t answer.
“You still think that Grentham may be conniving with the French?” Arianna made a face. In their previous confrontation with the minister, they had reason to wonder whether he was corrupt to the core. “I thought we had answered the questions concerning his integrity.”
The Cocoa Conspiracy lahm-2 Page 8
