The Cocoa Conspiracy

by Andrea Penrose

  “I hadn’t thought of it in that light.” Arianna pursed her lips, finding it hard to understand the allure of the political world. As Saybrook said, it must all come down to a craving for power.

  While, I, on the other hand, satisfy my innermost desires with chocolate.

  “What has stirred such a cat-in-the-cream-pot smile?” inquired Saybrook, arching a dark brow.

  “I was giving thanks to God that we will not have to be involved in all the sordid machinations.”

  “Amen to that,” replied her husband. He plucked two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and handed one to her. “A toast to the quiet life of cooking and scholarly study.”

  The wine’s effervescence prickled against her tongue. “You are sure that it’s not too quiet?” she asked softly. “I sometimes fear that you miss having a complex conundrum to solve.”

  “I don’t miss whizzing bullets and slashing steel,” he quipped.

  And yet, she wondered . . .

  “Ah, there you are, sir!” Their host, the Marquess of Milford, flashed a genial smile at Arianna. “Lady Saybrook, would you allow me to take your husband away to the terrace for a moment? Mellon tells me he knows something about plants, which is a godsend. The Spaniards are asking me all sorts of questions about my ornamental gardens, and I haven’t a deuced clue as to the answers.”

  “His Lordship is indeed an expert in botany,” she replied. “I’m sure he’ll be able to help. In the meantime, I won’t wilt while he’s away.”

  “Wilt . . . Oh, ha! ” The marquess gave a bark of laughter. “Clever gal you’ve married, Saybrook.”

  “Yes,” said Saybrook drily. “Isn’t she?”

  Left alone once again, Arianna looked around, wondering if there was a familiar face among the guests. Other than Saybrook’s uncle—and the odious Lord Grentham—she had seen naught but strangers.

  The marquess’s wife had led a group of ladies into the adjoining salon and Arianna decided that it would be rude not to join them. Steeling herself for a detailed discussion on the state of the weather, or whether cerise or plum was a more fashionable color for autumn, she started to make her way across the room.

  “Please forgive the demands on Sandro.” Mellon appeared by her side and offered his arm. “His attentions will make the Spaniards happy, though it rather leaves you in the lurch.”

  “You need not keep apologizing, sir. We are here to help you foster the bonds of international friendship.” She dutifully smiled at a passing foreigner. “If there is anything I can do, you have only to ask.” Knowing his reservations, she decided to confront them head-on. “I can behave like a perfectly proper lady when I put my mind to it.”

  His arm stiffened beneath her gloved hand.

  Apparently I was much mistaken. A proper lady would have known better than to express such frankness . . .

  To her surprise, Mellon actually chuckled. “I imagine that you could do just about anything that you put your mind to.”

  “I’m not sure if I should take that as a compliment,” replied Arianna lightly. Or perhaps as an olive branch?

  Mellon had no chance to reply for he was accosted by a very large and very plump gentleman with the most extraordinary set of side-whiskers that Arianna had ever seen. The wild frizz, heavily sheened with Macassar oil, covered all but a scant strip of smooth flesh at the tip of his chin. It gave him the look of a slightly demented bear.

  “For shame, Mr. Mellon! You are taking unfair advantage of your foreign visitors.” The heavily accented English was punctuated by a waggling finger. “Do you mean to keep your lovely relative all to yourself?”

  Mellon acknowledged the accusation with a courtly shrug of surrender. “Not now that I’ve been caught out, Grimfeld. But can you blame me?”

  “Nein,” responded the Bear with an appreciative look her way. “I would do the same if I were in your sows.”

  “Shoes, Heinrich, not sows,” corrected one of his companions. “Sows are schwein.”

  “Lady Saybrook,” said Mellon, keeping a straight face. “Allow me to present Herr Grimfeld, who is part of the Prussian contingent visiting London, and Count Kostikov, who represents His Imperial Highness, the Tsar of Russia.”

  Both gentlemen bowed low over her hand.

  “May I also have the honor of introducing my countryman,” said Kostikov as he straightened and stepped back to permit the third member of their group to approach. “Mr. Davilenko has served this past year as our government’s attaché in London, but he will be traveling with me to Vienna as part of our peace delegation.”

  “What a great pleasure it is to make your acquaintance, madam,” said Davilenko, moving quickly to perform the gentlemanly ritual of brushing a kiss to her glove.

  Arianna stared in mute shock at the top of his head. The curling russet-colored hair, the bald spot on his crown, the jug-shaped ears . . .

  For an instant she wondered whether she had drunk too much champagne for the floor suddenly seemed to be spinning beneath her feet.

  “It is a privilege to be in the presence of such a lovely English rose,” Davilenko went on.

  And yet last time we met, you called me a poxy slut.

  Ending his gallantries with a flourish, he clicked his heels and looked up.

  Arianna held her breath in her lungs.

  “A rose,” he repeated, his broad smile mirroring the upturned slant of his cheekbones. “And one of the most exquisite, enchanting blooms of this island’s beauty.”

  Apparently, beauty was in the eye of the beholder, she thought sardonically, realizing that he didn’t recognize her. Tonight she was swathed in costly silks, with a king’s ransom in emeralds dangling just above her décolletage. While during their previous encounter in Messrs. Harvey & Watkins Rare Book Emporium she had been wearing a drab bonnet and ill-fitting work gown.

  Looking somewhat bemused by her wide-eyed silence, Mellon gave a discreet cough. “A very pretty compliment, sir.”

  “Yes, how kind of you, sir,” she murmured, roused from her initial shock by the gentle reminder. Quelling the insane urge to laugh—and then give the leering Russian a good, swift kick in the crotch, Arianna fluttered her lashes. “Have you an interest in plant life, Mr. Davilenko?”

  “I consider myself a connoisseur of beautiful blooms,” he replied jovially, oblivious to her subtle barb. Casting an appreciative glance at her bosom, he added, “If you would allow me to escort you to the refreshment table, we might discuss the subject at greater length.”

  Accepting his arm, she let him guide her around an arrangement of potted palms.

  “I have noticed that English ladies are very fond of flowers,” said Davilenko. “Have you a favorite, Lady Saybrook ?”

  “Actually I tend to favor more exotic species of flora. Like Theobroma cacao.”

  His smile turned a trifle tentative. “Oh? I am not familiar with such a plant.”

  “No?” said Arianna. Another little flirtatious flutter. “And yet you seemed so very anxious to get your hands on the volume of cacao engravings I was buying for my husband.”

  His jaw went slack.

  Recalling the embarrassing incident set off a fresh spark of indignation inside her. “Steal any more books lately?” she asked tartly.

  The blood drained from Davilenko’s face.

  “Oh, yes. I saw the other one tucked inside your coat,” she said in a low whisper. “I don’t imagine your embassy would be happy to hear that you engage in petty thievery.”

  Pivoting on his heel, he hurried away without uttering a word.

  “Barbarian.” The comment came from just behind her.

  Arianna gave an inward wince, realizing that the exchange must have been overheard.

  “Ja, the Russians have a well-deserved reputation for boorish behavior,” chimed in another voice. “Do come join us, Lady Saybrook. We promise to be more congenial company.”

  She turned slowly, forcing a smile as she found herself face to face w
ith three diplomats whom she had met earlier in the evening.

  “Stealing books?” Le Notre, a member of the French émigré community in London, raised a questioning brow. “Why, whatever did you mean, Lady Saybrook?”

  “It was more of a misunderstanding.” Arianna had no intention of explaining what had really happened at the book emporium, and quickly deflected the conversation to a more mundane topic. “I understand that the marquess’s estate offers some of the best shooting in Gloucestershire. Do you gentlemen enjoy hunting?”

  “Indeed,” said Enqvist, the Swedish military attaché. “I am particularly fond of grouse . . .”

  Henkel, an aide to the embattled King of Saxony, followed the paean to birds with a lengthy tale of a Black Forest boar hunt. Then, to her relief, Saybrook reappeared and saved her from further stories by asking for her company on a stroll out to the terrace.

  “If you will excuse us, there are some plants that I know my wife will find very interesting,” he explained.

  “But of course.” Le Notre gave an apologetic bow. “Forgive us, Lady Saybrook. I hope we haven’t upset your delicate sensibilities with all our talk of bloodshed.”

  Covering his amusement with a small cough, the earl offered Arianna his arm. “Thank you for your concern, gentlemen. However, I am happy to report that my wife is not nearly as fragile as she looks.”

  Arianna waited until they passed the refreshment table before responding to her husband’s quip.

  “And yet, we all know that looks can be deceiving.”

  4

  From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks

  Tropical Milk Chocolate–Banana Pudding

  5 ounces milk chocolate, finely chopped

  3 tablespoons sugar

  2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder

  2 tablespoons cornstarch

  Pinch salt

  2 egg yolks

  1½ cups whole milk

  ½ cup heavy cream, plus 1 cup whipped

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  2 large bananas, thinly sliced

  14 whole chocolate wafer cookies, plus 4 crushed,

  for garnish (see note)

  1. Place chocolate in a bowl. In a separate large bowl, sift together sugar, cocoa, cornstarch and salt; whisk in egg yolks and ½ cup milk until smooth.

  2. In a large saucepan over high heat, bring remaining 1 cup milk and ½ cup cream to a simmer. Pour over chopped chocolate and whisk until smooth. Whisking constantly, slowly pour hot chocolate mixture into egg mixture until completely incorporated and cocoa is dissolved.

  3. Return custard to saucepan. Cook, stirring constantly, over medium heat, until thickened, about 10 minutes. Do not let mixture reach a simmer. If custard begins to steam heavily, stir it, off the heat, a moment before returning it to stove top. Strain through a fine-mesh sieve. Stir in vanilla.

  4. Spread several tablespoons pudding evenly into an 8-inch square pan (or a glass bowl). Top with an even layer of bananas; arrange whole cookies on top of bananas. Cover with remaining pudding. Top with whipped cream and sprinkle with crushed cookies. Chill at least 3 hours or overnight before serving.

  (Note: Nabisco Famous Chocolate Wafers work very nicely.)

  Saybrook laughed. But then, on seeing Arianna draw in a lungful of garden-scented air as they passed through the French doors, he eyed her askance.

  “Are you feeling a trifle faint?” he asked. “You look as though you have seen a ghost.”

  “A specter,” she replied, avoiding his gaze.

  “Would you care to elaborate?”

  “Not at the moment.” Arianna essayed a smile. “I—I shall explain it all shortly.”

  “That has a rather ominous ring.”

  “No, no,” she assured him. “It’s quite the opposite, actually.”

  His dark brows angled up. “Now you have me intrigued.”

  As a gust of wind ruffled through the ivy vines, a sudden chill teased down her spine. Shaking off the sensation, she turned abruptly and braced her palms on the stone railing. “Don’t be silly.”

  The earl came to stand beside her. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, after taking a sip of his champagne. “I should have guessed that Grentham would be here.” The set of his jaw betrayed his inner tension. “If you wish, we can find a reason to leave. A sudden illness is a perfectly plausible excuse.”

  “You need not worry, Sandro. Grentham doesn’t frighten me.”

  “He should,” replied Saybrook tersely.

  Yet again, she wondered what private clashes had provoked such a tone of loathing. She had a sense that he was holding something back.

  But so am I.

  “We may have piqued his insufferable pride, but he has no real reason to do us harm.” Arianna shrugged. “Besides, I am not certain what weapon he could wield, even if he wished to. You said yourself that he has agreed not to talk about my sordid past in return for you keeping silent about his own shortcomings. He is pragmatic . . .” She paused for a fraction. “As well as a being a prick. So I doubt he will be any trouble.”

  He allowed a grudging grin. “I suppose you are right.”

  “I confess, it may be petty, but I rather enjoy tweaking his nose.” She smiled. “It turns a ghastly shade of puce when he is angry.”

  “All jesting aside, don’t push him too hard. I, for one, don’t underestimate him. He is a diabolically cunning man, and if he wishes to exact revenge, he will figure out a way to do so.”

  She lifted the wine to her lips. “I shall be careful.”

  Whatever he was about to say was swallowed in a harried sigh. “It seems any moment of privacy will be all too fleeting,” he said under his breath as footfalls on the stone announced that someone was approaching.

  “Sandro, might I take you away again?” Mellon lifted his shoulders in apology. “Labrador has a question . . .”

  “Of course,” replied Saybrook.

  “You need not worry that your lovely wife will be left alone in the dark, Lord Saybrook.” Rochemont stepped forward with a gallant flourish. “I told Mr. Mellon that I should be delighted to keep the countess company.”

  “How kind of you,” drawled Arianna.

  “Indeed,” muttered the earl. Setting down his drink, he let his fingers graze her glove before turning and following his uncle across the shadowed terrace.

  Rochemont watched them for a moment, then assumed Saybrook’s place at the railing.

  Arianna quelled a flare of annoyance as he sidled closer. Temper, temper. For Mellon’s sake she would do her best to be polite.

  Tilting his head to the light, he ran a hand through his hair, leaving the blond curls artfully tousled. “Will you and your husband be traveling to the Peace Conference in Vienna, Lady Saybrook?”

  Oh, well done, sir. She wondered how many hours it had taken to perfect the deliberately careless gesture.

  “No,” she replied aloud. Actually, I would rather be dropped into the hottest hole in Hell. “My husband and I have no interest in politics.”

  “Ah, but it promises to be a spectacle, the likes of which the world has never seen before.” The torchieres danced in the evening breeze, gilding his face with a reddish gold glow. “Kings, emperors, archdukes, margraves—why, with all the bejeweled splendor and dazzling finery, Vienna will sparkle brighter than the heavenly stars. Every night there will be dancing and feasting.” He looked up at the night sky. “And of course, flirting.”

  “It sounds . . . delightful.”

  “Demand that your husband take you there, milady.” Rochemont smiled and winked. “A newlywed man does not dare deny a beautiful bride a heartfelt request.”

  “Really?” She let the question dance away on the breeze before asking another one. “Are you married, sir?”

  “But of course.” He shrugged. “However, it is—as you English so delicately phrase it—a marriage of convenience.”

  Which most likely meant the lady’s family gained the prestige of allying with an ancie
nt and august title, while the comte gained a great deal of money.

  As for the lady herself, no one much cared whether or not she benefited from the arrangement. She was simply a pawn.

  “How convenient for you,” she murmured.

  “That is how I look at it.” His gaze slid down to her cleavage. “All very civilized, n’est pas?”

  “That all depends on how you choose to define the word,” she replied.

  “Ah, a lady who is interested in philosophy. How very intriguing.” His handsome mouth curled up at the corners. “Pray, how would you describe your marriage, Lady Saybrook ?”

  As something infinitely more complicated than the bartering of wealth and power.

  Arianna decided to deflect his intimate probings with a show of humor. “It is still so new to me that I’ve not yet had a chance to form any definite opinions.”

  His laugh was low and throaty, a sound suggestive of rumpled silk and whispered passions. “You,” he said slowly, “are a fascinating female. Pray, tell me more about yourself.”

  What would you like to know? That my father was a disgraced earl who was forced to flee from England to the West Indies? That from the age of fourteen I had to fend for myself, working as an actress with a traveling theater troupe, a cutpurse, a cardsharp and a faux French chef?

  She brushed an errant lock of hair from her cheek. “Really, sir. We ladies live such boring lives. The rules of Society allow for little adventure.”

  “Don’t tell me that you haven’t ever wanted to break the rules, Lady Saybrook,” he teased.

  Arianna was quickly growing bored with his blatant flirtations.

  Rochemont interpreted the meaning of her silence in a far different way. “Come to Vienna,” he urged with a flash of his pearly white teeth. “I promise that you will enjoy yourself.”