The Cocoa Conspiracy

by Andrea Penrose

  “V . . . ‘In V,’ ” mused Arianna, quick to take up the challenge. “It sounds like a place—”

  “Vienna,” interrupted Henning. “Given the document stolen from your uncle’s office, V has to mean Vienna.”

  The earl nodded.

  “So the message seems to indicate that a murder is planned to take place at the Peace Congress in Vienna,” the surgeon went on. He made a face. “But who, or why? ‘The Deux will be dead. It will happen by the Night’ is hardly a helpful hint.”

  “A good question. And as yet, we haven’t a damn clue.” Saybrook paused. “Though ‘Deux’ in French means two, so maybe it’s a double murder.”

  “Dio Madre,” murmured Arianna.

  “Or it’s simply a code name for the target,” pointed out Henning. “Or one of a thousand other possibilities.”

  “A million,” corrected Saybrook glumly. Leaning back from the table, he threaded a hand through his tangled hair. “The second note is penned in a different hand and uses a different code, one that looks to be more difficult. As of yet, I’ve made no headway on it.”

  “Ye have worked bloody miracles making sense of this,” said the surgeon. “How your mind sees aught but gibberish is beyond me.”

  “Patterns, relationships . . .” The earl began to drum his fingers upon the table. “Kydd was educated at King’s College, Cambridge,” he continued after a pensive pause. “And everyone there agreed that despite his humble origins, he appeared to have a brilliant future in front of him. But it seems his background needs further scrutiny.” His gaze slanted to the surgeon. “He is from Edinburgh, Baz.”

  Henning evaded eye contact, a troubled expression pinching at his features.

  “So I am wondering—have you friends there who might do a little digging into Kydd’s personal life? Most people have something to hide.”

  “Blackmail is the first thing that comes to my mind,” offered Arianna. “A family scandal, perhaps? Or a gambling debt?”

  Silence hung in the air for a long moment. The surgeon shifted and scratched at his chin before expelling an audible sigh. “Not necessarily. Seeing as he is Scottish, the first thing I would look at are his politics, lassie.”

  “But why?” she asked, perplexed by the suggestion. “Why would he betray England to the French?”

  “Because you English—and your monarchy—are hated by a good many Scots,” replied Henning bluntly. “The republican principles trumpeted by the French after their Revolution—liberté, égalité, fraternité—appeal to idealistic young men who believe that merit, not birth, ought to allow for advancement in Society.”

  “Regardless of sex,” added Arianna under her breath.

  “I am in complete sympathy with Mrs. Wollstonecraft and her manifesto for feminine equality,” said the surgeon. “But alas, in that regard, you will find the Scots just as conservative as the English.”

  “Hypocrites.”

  Saybrook’s lips quirked, but he quickly steered the conversation back to Kydd. “You think he might be a member of a secret political society?” Scotland was known to be a hotbed of radical idealism, especially among the university students.

  Henning hesitated before answering. “Many bright, educated men are. And I can’t say I blame them.”

  “If you would rather not get involved . . .” began the earl.

  “I didna say that,” shot back Henning. “Ye know where my loyalties lie.”

  “I do. I also know where your heart lies. I would rather not ask you to choose between the two.”

  “There is a difference between theory and reality. While I believe in a good many radical ideas, I think fanatics of any cause are dangerous. Fomenting change through violence and bloodshed is not something I espouse.”

  Saybrook held his friend’s gaze for a long moment, and then looked away.

  Arianna was loath to break the bond of silent camaraderie, but she couldn’t help asking. “Wait—Napoleon has been banished to the isle of Elba and the monarchy has been restored to France. So while Kydd may have sympathized with the Republican ideals, why would his allegiance be to the new King?”

  Henning blew out his cheeks. “It’s not love of the French; it’s about hate of the English. Many young, educated Scots feel that any enemy of England is a friend of theirs. They believe that working to weaken the British government will help further their own goals.”

  His voice tightened. “On my last visit north, I spent time with a cousin who blistered my ear with his radical ideas. Whitehall ought to be listening carefully—else it might find the bloody conflict isn’t over just because Boney’s been banished to some speck of rock in the Mediterranean.”

  “I agree with you,” said the earl tersely. “But for now, let us stay focused on this particular powder keg. Arianna raises a very good point about France, and the spy we call Renard. During our previous encounter, there was little question that he was working for Napoleon. But now, the Emperor is gone, and the Ancien Régime has been returned to power. Which begs yet another round of whos and whys.”

  Saybrook pursed his lips and thought for several moments. “My work in military intelligence has taught me that in order to solve a conundrum, one must work with both fact and conjecture. I know that security in my uncle’s office is very strict—there are guards, and special locks for sensitive documents. So I think it’s fair to assume Kydd took the documents.”

  Arianna and Henning nodded.

  “I also think it’s fair to say he’s not working alone. The documents indicate a complex plot that likely is based in Vienna. Again, it’s a rational deduction, given the important Peace Conference scheduled to begin next month.”

  He paused before continuing his thought. “It’s my conjecture that a group of Scottish radicals don’t have the connections to put something like that together. It would take a more powerful network. Which is why I come back to Renard. We know that he is capable of weaving a sophisticated web of betrayal.” The earl paused. “For now, logic dictates that he is the obvious suspect. And yet, it begs the question of who he is working for. And why he is still intent on sabotaging our dealings with the European powers.”

  Henning didn’t hesitate in answering. “Not everyone is as principled as you, laddie. Renard probably doesn’t give a fig for whose hand holds the ruling scepter. He’s either loyal to his terroir—the sacred mother earth of France—in which case he sees England as his natural enemy.” The surgeon picked up his near-empty whisky tumbler and spun it between his palms. “Or he’s being paid obscenely well for his work.”

  Arianna watched as the few remaining drops in the glass blurred to a blink of gold.

  “Look at Talleyrand, for God’s sake.” Henning gave a sardonic grunt. “He changes masters as easily as he changes his fancy silk stockings.” Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord, the current French Foreign Minister, was known for dressing in the elaborate old style of the previous century—velvet breeches, starched satin cravats and jeweled shoes, topped off by a powdered wig. “He’s served Louis XVI, the radical Revolutionaries, the Directoire, Napoleon, and now the newly restored King.”

  “Really?” asked Arianna.

  “You don’t know his history, lassie?”

  She shook her head. “Remember, I grew up in the West Indies.” After the murder of her father, she had fought a tooth-and-nail struggle every day simply in order to survive. “I didn’t have the luxury of studying the nuances of European politics.”

  Hidden by the shadow of his lashes, Saybrook’s eyes were unreadable. “Like you, my dear, Talleyrand had an uncanny knack for survival,” he murmured. “Though born into one of the noblest families of France, he somehow managed to keep his neck intact when so many other aristocratic heads were rolling.”

  “No doubt because he is willing to do a deal with Satan if it suits his purpose.” Henning made a face. “He’s an unprincipled rogue, a self-serving opportunist. Why, in France, he’s called le Diable Boiteux—the lame devil, and not just
on account of his deformed foot. It’s well known he betrayed Napoleon’s secrets to the Russians and the Austrians in ’08.”

  She frowned.

  “Claiming that he had become disillusioned with the Emperor’s unrelenting wars,” Saybrook pointed out.

  The surgeon made a rude sound.

  The talk of international intrigue was making Arianna’s head spin. Was the world naught but ever-twining concentric circles of lies and betrayals?

  “Let me see if I understand what you’ve both just said,” she said slowly. “It seems we’ve now established that no matter who he works for, Renard is a threat to England. But why assume that he is in league with Talleyrand?”

  “You are right—it’s pure speculation. But there is solid reason on which to base it. Talleyrand is a master conniver. Although he represents the newly restored French King at the Peace Conference, you can be sure that he will be working on pushing his own personal agenda,” said Saybrook. “And God only knows what that is.”

  “If Talleyrand means to deceive yet another master, then the presence of a Royalist minion like Rochemont in Vienna might be a nuisance,” Henning observed. “However, as you say, all this is mere conjecture. At this point, we are merely spinning in circles.”

  “Which brings us back to the question of Charles,” said Arianna reluctantly.

  Her husband seemed to retreat even deeper into his personal shadows.

  “Are you going to tell him that Kydd has betrayed his trust? Or do you mean to keep him in the dark?”

  Henning seemed intent on playing the devil’s advocate. “If there has been a betrayal, I’ll allow that what we’ve come up with makes the most sense. However, I still say it’s not impossible that Grentham has orchestrated all of this. He knows Kydd is your uncle’s protégé. Perhaps the young man is being sacrificed along with Mellon. The minister may well view them as mere pawns, to be swept aside in order to put Sandro in checkmate.”

  “That would require a cold-blooded ruthlessness rivaling that of Attila the Hun,” remarked Saybrook.

  “You think Grentham is all sweetness and light?” asked Henning sarcastically.

  “No.” Saybrook began to sketch a doodle on his notepaper. “But nor do I think he is a twisted monster who has become obsessed with personal vengeance.”

  Henning’s response was a bristly silence.

  “Be it an elaborate trap or a carefully constructed plan to destroy England’s political power, whoever has designed this diabolical plan is an enemy we all should fear,” said Arianna.

  Her gaze fell on the earl’s paper, where his pencil was just finishing the outlines of a fox. “Is it Grentham or Renard ?” she went on. “I don’t know, but it’s my opinion that whoever it is, we’ve already faced off against him once, and were lucky to escape with our lives.”

  The surgeon waited for Saybrook to speak, but his only reaction was to start another drawing. This one was of a serpent.

  “Grentham or Renard,” repeated Henning. “Choose your poison.” A scowl pinched at his features. “If it’s not our minister, I would wager it’s Talleyrand who is behind this—there’s a good reason Napoleon now calls him shite in silk stockings.”

  “I would tend to agree,” said Saybrook, still intent on his artwork. He lapsed into a long moment of thought, drawing in a wicked set of curving fangs before going on.

  “And it makes some sense when you think about the would-be assassin. My guess would be that the French Guardsman was simply a starving ex-soldier, hired because of his elite credentials to kill or wound me so that the conspirators could get the book back.”

  Arianna looked at Henning, waiting for his reaction.

  “Or, much as we both give little credence to the concept, it could be coincidence,” the earl went on. “The shooting may have been arranged by a jealous husband who has been cuckolded by Rochemont.”

  “Dio Madre!” exclaimed Arianna. “We could keep turning in circles, tying ourselves in knots. But the fact is, we can’t afford to do that. We must decide on a direction and move forward.”

  “A pragmatic assessment, Lady S.” The surgeon cocked his head. “So, laddie, what do you intend to do?”

  Choices. Choices.

  Arianna shot an involuntary glance at the coals in the hearth.

  Saybrook finally looked up. “I plan to take the documents and what I have learned from them to the proper authorities.”

  “You are sure about this?”

  “I don’t see that I have the luxury of pondering over the choice of moral imperatives. The clock is ticking and we are in a race to see that the newly won peace in Europe doesn’t explode in our faces.”

  9

  From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks

  Cranberry Chocolate Scones

  1½ cups buttermilk

  1 extra-large egg

  1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract, preferably Madagascar

  Bourbon or Tahitian

  3½ cups all-purpose flour

  2 teaspoons baking powder

  1 teaspoon baking soda

  5 tablespoons granulated sugar

  ½ teaspoon kosher salt

  1 teaspoon orange zest, about 2 oranges

  ½ cup unsalted butter, very cold and cubed

  ⅓ cup 65% chocolate, coarsely chopped

  ⅓ cup dried cranberries

  ¼ cup heavy whipping cream (used for brushing tops of

  scones)

  1. Preheat the oven to 350° F.

  2. Line the bottoms of two 12-by-18-inch sheet pans with parchment paper.

  3. Combine the buttermilk, egg and vanilla extract in a medium bowl and whisk by hand until well mixed.

  4. Sift the flour, baking powder and baking soda into the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with paddle attachment. Add the sugar, salt and orange zest. Beat on low speed until combined.

  5. Carefully add the cold butter and beat on medium speed until the mixture resembles coarse meal.

  6. Switch the mixer to low speed. Add the liquid mixture and beat until just combined.

  7. Turn the mixer off. Add the cranberries and chocolate. Pulse until just incorporated. Do not over-mix.

  8. Turn dough out onto a lightly floured work surface, and press it into a flat square about ¾ inch thick. Cut into 2-inch squares and place onto the prepared pans, spacing them about 2 inches apart.

  9. Brush the scones with heavy whipping cream. Bake on the middle shelves of the oven until the tops are golden and have a little spring when pressed with a fingertip, about 20 minutes.

  10. Serve warm or let cool on the pans on wire racks.

  “This way, Lord and Lady Saybrook.” The footman escorted them through a set of double doors and down a vaulted corridor. “The minister is waiting for you in the library.”

  Arianna hung back a step, allowing Saybrook to enter the room first. She would allow the rituals of protocol and privilege to take precedence for now.

  Though only the Devil knows why. The meeting was not likely to remain polite for very long.

  Grentham had positioned himself in front of the soaring bank of diamond-paned windows. The storm had blown through and a watery light limned his elegantly attired figure, the glints of sunshine flashing like liquid silver through his carefully combed hair.

  Dear God—the man could probably contrive to cut out my liver without putting a crease in his coat.

  Hip perched on a display table, he watched them approach. It was hard to make out his features at first, but as she came closer, Arianna saw that he was looking supremely smug, as if anticipating that they had come to beg for mercy.

  “You seem to have suffered no permanent injury to your shoulder,” sneered Grentham. “Have you come to confess your crime in hope that I will help you save your neck?”

  “If ever I was in need of help, I would know better than to seek it from you,” replied Saybrook. “Though I daresay you do owe me a favor. As I recall, it was my wife and I who stepped in to pull your cods out of the fi
re.”

  A faint flush of color crept over the minister’s cheekbones. “I’m assuming you didn’t summon me here to exchange pleasantries, Lord Saybrook.” So far he had studiously avoided acknowledging her presence. “Kindly get to the point of this meeting. I dislike wasting my time.”

  “I shall try not to bore you,” said Saybrook, opening his notebook.

  Grentham frowned slightly at the sound of crackling papers.

  “Read this.” The earl handed him the first coded sheet, along with the deciphered message. When Grentham looked up from the page, Saybrook handed him the second coded letter. The document from the Foreign Ministry he saved for last.

  “Where did you get these?” demanded the minister.

  “I shall allow my wife to explain,” said Saybrook. He stepped back and crossed his arms.

  “I shall try to keep it short.” Arianna took the volume of engravings from under her arm. “I found this book on chocolate in the back rooms of Harvey & Watkins—”

  “Is this some sort of jest?” demanded Grentham.

  Ignoring the comment, she went on to tell of the stranger who tried to wrest the book from her grasp and the ensuing scuffle.

  “Did the clerk at Harvey & Watkins witness this conflict?” interrupted Grentham.

  “Not the actual blows. His arrival scared my assailant away,” replied Arianna.

  “I fail to see—”

  “Allow me to finish, sir!”

  Grentham snapped his jaw shut.

  As quickly as she could, Arianna explained about her second encounter with Davilenko at the house party’s welcoming reception and her accidental discovery of the papers hidden in the book’s binding. “Given my husband’s experience in military intelligence, he spent the night working on deciphering the codes. Which,” she added with a note of triumph, “against all odds, he succeeded in doing with the first one.”

  The minister slowly read through the papers again. “This confidential document from the Foreign Ministry bears your uncle’s signature,” he said to Saybrook. “You know that, don’t you?”