The Cocoa Conspiracy

by Andrea Penrose

  “A tempting offer.” Lifting a gloved hand, Arianna slowly uncurled a finger and turned his chin. “However, you will have to look elsewhere for amusement. I’ve no desire to travel at the moment—I am quite satisfied with my life here in London.”

  “A pity.” He captured her hand and with a lazy grace, turned it palm up and brushed his lips over the soft kidskin. “But life is . . . how do you say . . . quixotic. One never knows when things may change, non?”

  The echo of his question gave way to the silvery sound of a bell, signaling that it was time to move into the dining salon.

  “Enjoy your stay in Vienna, Lord Rochemont,” said Arianna, coolly disengaging herself from his hold and steering the conversation to a blandly impersonal subject. “I wish you luck in your diplomatic dealings.”

  The oblique rebuff seemed to take him by surprise. Light winked off his lashes, gold sparking with gold as he narrowed his eyes. Clearly he was used to women falling in worship at his feet.

  His hubris, however, quickly reasserted itself. “I am always eager to pursue a new challenge, Lady Saybrook.”

  “I imagine you will encounter more than enough of them in Austria to keep you satisfied.” It was her husband who responded to Rochemont’s assertion. Amusement shaded the earl’s voice, along with a sharper undertone that Arianna couldn’t quite identify. “Are you ready to go in to supper, my dear? Charles has just informed me that you will be seated between Herr Grimfeld and Colonel Lutz of the Bavarian delegation.”

  “Are they friend or foe? I confess, it is hard to keep track of all these German factions,” she said drily.

  He chuckled. “Perhaps we should have our host hand out a primer on all the European rivalries, along with the menu.”

  “Ignorance is bliss,” she said under her breath.

  And with that, they returned to the glitter and gaiety of the stately manor house.

  “Dio Madre, I thought the evening was never going to end.” Stepping through the door connecting their bedchambers, Saybrook unwound his cravat and stripped off his coat.

  As was their habit at home, they had dismissed their valet and maid, preferring to undress themselves at night.

  “You, at least, enjoyed a bottle of superb port with your cigars, while I and the other ladies were served tea.” Arianna tossed her shawl on the dressing table. She was very fond of the Portuguese wine, so it rankled that ladies were never permitted a taste in Polite Society.

  Her necklace followed.

  Saybrook winced slightly. “My great-great-great-grandmother was given those baubles by Queen Elizabeth. After passing through wars and pestilence unscathed, we should try to keep them in one piece to pass on to the next generation.”

  She watched the candlelight play across the faceted gems. “Your uncle seemed to unbend just a little tonight. I wonder, do you think he will ever come to like me?”

  “He doesn’t dislike you,” said Saybrook, taking a seat on her bed.

  She was still getting used to habits of the English aristocracy. It was de rigueur for husband and wife to have separate bedchambers, both at home and when visiting.

  Especially when visiting, she thought a little sardonically. The discreet name cards on all the doors were apparently to help late-night trysts go smoothly.

  “No, he simply disapproves of your marriage,” replied Arianna.

  “He”—her husband seemed to be searching for words— “worries about the family. He has no children, and I have no brothers, so—”

  “So he thinks me unfit to continue the line?” Tired and tense from the evening’s complicated social demands, she interrupted more sharply than she intended.

  “I didn’t say that,” he answered calmly.

  His reasonableness somehow made her even pricklier. “You didn’t have to.”

  Silence greeted the reply

  Family. When they had first met, Arianna had envied Saybrook and his relationships. His grandmother’s journals, brimming with chocolate lore and her earthly observations on life, had been a source of solace during his illness, while a loving uncle and aunt had provided the affection and support of surrogate parents.

  But perhaps being all alone was easier, she thought sardonically. One could be supremely selfish.

  The world is so much simpler when seen only through the prism of one’s own needs and desires.

  “I am sorry,” said Arianna, her voice still a little rough around the edges. “It should have occurred to me when you offered marriage that you would expect an heir.” An uneasy pause. “I—I should have thought to inform you that . . . I may not be able to produce a child.” She sat down, and as she began combing out her hair, she tried to catch his reflection in the looking glass.

  But he had withdrawn into the shadows.

  Retreated into himself. They were both very private people, who kept their feelings well guarded.

  “I have had a previous liaison, one that went on for nearly a year, and I never conceived.” Oh, this was damnably hard. “I should have told you.”

  “Why?” he replied calmly. “I never felt obliged to discuss my previous life or relationships with you. How we lived and what we did before we met is not an issue in our marriage.”

  “But it is,” insisted Arianna. “You had a right to know of any flaw before entering into a bargain.”

  “I was not making a purchase at Tattersall’s,” he said softly.

  “Your peers would disagree,” she said with a brittle laugh. “That’s exactly why aristocratic gentlemen enter into marriage—they need a bride to use as a brood mare.”

  “I think you know by now that my views on life rarely march in step with those of my peers.”

  “Oh, God.” Arianna put down her brush and felt tears prickle against her lids. The conversation had taken a strange turn, leaving her feeling confused. Conflicted. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  Arianna looked down at her hands, feeling awkward and unable to articulate her sentiments coherently. In the flickering candlelight, the glint of the gold ring was like a dagger point pricking against her conscience. “No wonder your uncle had reservations about such an impetuous marriage. You should have refused to be rushed. I should have insisted that you take time to consider the ramifications.”

  “Arianna, nobody held a pistol to my head,” he said drily.

  True.

  And yet, Arianna couldn’t help feeling that circumstances had forced his hand. For all his cynicism, the earl had a stubborn streak of chivalry when it came to damsels in distress. His offer of marriage had saved her from Lord Grentham’s wrath.

  It had been a purely practical solution.

  Love?

  The word hadn’t been mentioned during the discussion of her options.

  No, they weren’t in love—they were both too pragmatic, too dispassionate for that. Trust didn’t come easily, for at heart, both she and Saybrook did not wish to be vulnerable. They did, however, have a great deal in common—a cynical sense of humor, an open-minded curiosity, a love of chocolate . . .

  “Arianna.” Saybrook had come up behind her. His hands settled on her shoulders and as his long, lithe fingers began kneading her tense muscles, she felt her anger start to melt away.

  A pleasurable heat spread through her as his palms chafed against her bare skin. Physical attraction was not a problem between them. Her lips quirked as she watched his movements in the looking glass. That part of their relationship seemed to be going smoothly. They both enjoyed the intimacies of marriage, finding the fleeting joining of their bodies eminently satisfying.

  As for a meeting of minds . . .

  Arianna let out a silent sigh, finding it hard to explain. Somehow it chafed to be beholden to someone else’s whims. It felt as though she had lost some small but essential piece of herself.

  As for Saybrook, she sensed a detachment in him. A distance. As if, at times, he was miles away. He was a complex man, hard—nay, maybe impossible—to understand. Layer
s within layers. It was not easy to peel away the protective covering around his innermost emotions.

  He was prone to black spells of brooding.

  As am I, she admitted. Like Sandro, I can be difficult. Prickly.

  “Let us not quarrel.” His words interrupted her musings. After brushing a light kiss to the nape of her neck, Saybrook straightened and tugged off his shirt. Light dipped and darted over the chiseled contours of his chest, accentuating the sculpted muscles, the coarse curls of dark hair.

  “Come to bed,” he murmured.

  She did so.

  And yet, even after the tension had been coaxed from her limbs, Arianna lay awake for a long time before falling into a troubled sleep.

  5

  From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks

  Chocolate Pistachio Fudge

  12 ounces 70 percent dark chocolate, chopped, or 12 ounces

  semisweet chocolate, chopped

  1 14-ounce can condensed milk

  Pinch salt

  1 cup shelled pistachios

  1. Melt the chopped chocolate, condensed milk and salt in a heavy-based pan on low heat.

  2. Put the nuts into a freezer bag and bash them with a rolling pin, until broken up into both big and little pieces.

  3. Add the nuts to the melted chocolate and condensed milk and stir well to mix.

  4. Pour this mixture into a 9-inch square foil tray, smoothing the top.

  5. Let the fudge cool and then refrigerate until set. Cut into small squares.

  A rianna watched the morning mists drift in low, leaden skirls over the heathered moor. The sun had not yet broken through the clouds, leaving the hills looking a little sullen and bruised.

  “So, the gentlemen are leaving early for their shooting?” she asked, turning away from the breakfast room windows.

  A chorus of masculine voices rose in assent from the long table.

  “Splendid morning for birds,” said Enqvist as he wolfed down the last bite of his shirred eggs.

  Arianna gave silent thanks that she was not venturing out of the marquess’s well-feathered nest. Judging by the puffs of breath rising from the group of ghillies waiting with the gun wagons, it was quite chilly.

  “Jawohl,” agreed Lutz, and his comment was quickly echoed in several different languages.

  The prospect of gunpowder and blood seemed to have stirred a convivial mood, despite the early hour. From outside came a flurry of barking as the kennel master and his assistants led the pack of bird dogs across the lawns. Several of the men quickly finished their coffee and pushed back their chairs, eager to get under way.

  “Enjoy your day,” she said as Saybrook and Mellon joined the group trooping out the door.

  The earl shrugged. He had come down earlier and was already looking bored. “I can think of better ways to spend my morning,” he murmured.

  “As can I,” added his uncle. “However, I feel we must show the English flag, so to speak.”

  “I doubt the poor grouse give a fig for what nationality is blasting them out of the air,” she replied. “Though given the amount of spirits that were consumed last night, the aim of the hunters might be a bit erratic.”

  “Yes, and the flasks of hot coffee will be fortified with brandy,” said Saybrook. “So it’s not likely to improve.”

  Mellon chuckled.

  “Have a care,” she joked.

  “You appear to be alone,” observed Mellon as Saybrook gathered up their hunting coats. Arianna was the only female who had come down to breakfast. “I fear that most of the other ladies won’t appear until noon.”

  “I have plenty to keep me occupied,” she assured him. “I have brought a notebook of Dona Maria’s chocolate recipes to transcribe.”

  Saybrook’s late grandmother had spent years researching the history of Theobrama cacao, and her collection of historical documents pertaining to the plant was a treasure trove of fascinating information. The earl was writing a history of chocolate and its various uses, from ancient Aztec times to the present, while she was compiling a cookbook.

  “However, it’s deucedly difficult to work out the proper measurements,” she went on. “Especially when the ingredients are written out in German.”

  Her husband quirked a sympathetic look. “Ah, I take it you have brought her journal on Austria and the Holy Roman Empire?”

  “Yes, and I am learning that Charles VI and his daughter Maria Theresa were immensely fond of chocolate. She had her personal chef experiment with adding a number of flavorings, including the essence of certain fruits.”

  “Chocolate was very popular among the Hapsburgs,” explained Saybrook to his uncle.

  Mellon nodded abstractly.

  “Don’t let me keep you,” said Arianna, thinking the poor man was growing tired of their constant commenting on cuisine. “The wagons look ready to set off.” Gathering her skirts, she seated herself at the table and signaled for tea. “After my breakfast, I intend to curl up in a cozy spot with my flora while you men pursue your fauna.”

  Saybrook slapped his hands together in mock enthusiasm. “Indeed, the age-old masculine rite of spilling blood should put everyone in a jolly mood for the rest of the day.”

  She shot him a look of silent reproach.

  With that, the two men moved off, leaving her alone with the sumptuous smells wafting up from the line of silver chafing dishes.

  A fortnight of playing aristocratic games? An unappetizing thought, especially as she dared not upset convention by asking if she might spend some time in the marquess’s kitchens, experimenting with the contessa’s Austrian recipes.

  Highborn ladies do not soil their dainty little hands with manual labor.

  Arianna cracked her knuckles. Thank God she had brought plenty of books to keep herself occupied.

  The sudden whir of wings filled the air as a brace of birds exploded from the thicket up ahead.

  “Lord Saybrook?” Rochemont, who had been paired with the earl for the morning beat, cleared his throat with a low cough. “I believe it is your turn to shoot.”

  “Hmmm?” Saybrook lifted his gaze from the patch of mossy ground beneath his boots. “Ah, sorry. I was distracted . . .”

  The ghillie carrying the cartridge bags gave him an uncomprehending look before squinting into the hide-and-seek sunlight. “A plump pair,” he said somewhat accusingly. “But no matter, milord. The beaters will flush more.” He shaded his eyes. “The line of the hunt is shifting, sirs—we had better move to keep our proper place in line.”

  “Are you not enjoying the shooting, milord?” asked Rochemont. “Your skill with a firearm is quite evident, and given your military background . . .” He let his voice trail off as he gave a Gallic shrug.

  “As you say, I’ve spilled enough blood—the thrill of the hunt no longer seems exciting.” The earl hesitated, and then suddenly handed his fowling gun to their grizzled guide. “You go ahead and take my shots, Rochemont. I’ve just spotted an interesting species of mushrooms and wish to have a closer look. I shall catch up with you shortly.”

  The comte raised a brow. “Mushrooms?”

  “An uncommon variety for this part of England. I should like to examine the soil and surroundings, so that I may make proper note of the details,” answered Saybrook.

  Shaking his head, the ghillie uncocked the gun and blew the priming powder from the pan—along with a few mumbled words about aristocrats being queer in the attic.

  “Good hunting,” said Rochemont, his voice mildly mocking as he stepped over to take the earl’s position. “I shall try not to disgrace myself in your stead.”

  Saybrook was already hunched over a patch of mossy ground, carefully picking away at a tangle of damp, decaying leaves. “Yes, yes,” he said absently. “I won’t be long.”

  As the two other men moved off, he dug up one of the small speckled mushrooms and wrapped it in his handkerchief. “Morchella esculenta,” he murmured to himself. “And given their preference for limestone-base
d soil . . .” He swung around to survey the surroundings.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  The shooting party had moved well past the copse of trees that fringed the denser strip of forest growing up the hillside. Placing the specimen in his pocket, he began to pick his way through the brush, intent on examining the mulch beneath the canopy of leaves and pine needles.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  As he paused to unsnag a twist of thorns from his coat, a movement on the far side of the moor caught his eye. Flitting in and out of the gorse was a man, heading in a hurry for the dark shadows of the trees.

  It appeared that someone else found the bird shooting as boring as he did. And yet . . .

  Saybrook quirked a frown. There was something strangely furtive about the man’s movements.

  The earl watched for a moment longer, then continued on his own way—but quietly, his steps lighter, his gaze sharper, his senses on full alert.

  Like all the hunters of their party, the man was wearing a thick tweed shooting coat and oilcloth hat. The collar was turned up and the broad brim tugged low, making it impossible for Saybrook to make out his quarry’s identity.

  Whoever he was, the figure suddenly looked around and then quickened his steps. Ducking low, he disappeared beneath the branches.

  “Dio Madre, Arianna’s talk of specters has me imagining the worst,” muttered Saybrook under his breath.

  The leaves stirred in the breeze, the dark greens going gray in the shifting shadows.

  “Don’t be a birdwit. The fellow simply prefers privacy for a call of nature.” He straightened from his crouch, feeling a little foolish.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  Recalling that he had promised to join Mellon at the next break for refreshments, Saybrook reluctantly decided there was not enough time to explore the woods. Turning away, he started to make his way back to where Rochemont was stationed.

  And yet, the earl remained on edge. Every few steps, he paused to look back at the dark tangle of trees.