The book lay on the side table by the rosewood cigar case, a spill of candlelight catching on the gilt lettering stamped on the spine. A faint skirl of smoke wafted across the ceiling rosette as the lone figure in the smoking room rose from the corner armchair.
A puff of breath blew out the tiny flame, leaving the room shrouded in slanting shadows cast by the flickering moonlight. Footsteps crossed noiselessly over the carpet—the only sounds were a brief whisper of leather sliding over smooth wood, followed by a soft hiss of triumph.
Dark on dark, the shadows shifted as the clock began to strike the midnight hour. And then the door closed quietly, leaving the empty space enveloped in blackness.
The next morning dawned cloudless, the last vestiges of the squalling storms having blown through during the night. Saybrook rose early to join the Spanish diplomats for breakfast, while Arianna avoided the public rooms downstairs, choosing instead to invite Henning to share a repast in the sitting room of her suite.
“Vienna,” muttered the surgeon, in between bites of kippered herring. “Do ye really think it’s wise to get tangled in Grentham’s web of intrigue again?”
“The strands are already twined around Charles,” Arianna pointed out. “You know Sandro—he wasn’t about to leave his uncle at the mercy of that spider.”
“I say the minister was bluffing. He would have been hard-pressed to prove any wrongdoing on Mellon’s part.”
“Perhaps,” she replied. “But the document would have been damaging, and Sandro is very protective of family.” A bit of toast crumbled between her fingers as she recalled his reaction to Grentham’s mention of Antonia.
So, the minister knew about Saybrook’s sister. It wasn’t overly surprising, given that Grentham’s job was to know all the sordid secrets of the ton. Clearly the subject had been discussed between the two of them before, but the earl had not seen fit to tell her of it. Too personal? Arianna tried not to think of the other female mentioned by the minister. Given her own conflicted musings on independence, she could hardly complain.
“Not hungry?” asked Henning, eyeing the pile of crumbs on her plate with wry amusement. “If ye have lost yer appetite, then things must be even more serious than I thought. Are there any new discoveries ye haven’t told me about?”
“N-no. I’m merely trying to digest all that has happened. Like you, I have no illusions as to the dangers of being drawn into Grentham’s world. But Sandro is, as you know, not intimidated by a challenge. Quite the contrary, in fact.”
“Ye are getting to understand him rather well,” murmured the surgeon.
Am I? Arianna was not quite so sanguine, but the earl’s return forestalled any further discussion of her husband’s inner workings.
“So, did the rat bite?” inquired Henning.
“Indeed, it appears that he swallowed the bait in one gulp.” Saybrook handed the book to Arianna. “But perhaps you should check more carefully, just to be sure.”
She quickly carried it to the escritoire, and opened the back cover. “Yes,” she said, running a magnifying glass along the inside edge of the binding. “It’s been reglued, and the bulge is definitely gone.”
“Then I think we can safely assume that mischief and mayhem is still afoot,” said the surgeon.
“You make it sound too poetically pretty,” groused Saybrook. “Rather call it treason and terror.”
Ugly words, thought Arianna. Ugly deeds.
“The inquest is to take place at noon,” Saybrook informed them. “There’s no need for you to attend, Baz. I think we can trust Grentham to keep his word about arranging the verdict. The announcement of death by unknown assailant will keep my neck intact for a bit longer.”
“Only because it suits the bastard’s purpose to have you free to do his dirty work,” replied Henning.
“We offered,” Arianna pointed out. “Or, more precisely, I offered.”
The surgeon waggled a brow. “Bored with the life of an indolent aristocrat, are ye now, lassie?”
She smiled. “A little, I suppose. Not that I would have chosen to have Sandro shot at and Mellon enmeshed in this tangle of treachery.”
“Oh, our laddie will have it all sorted in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.” Henning allowed a last twitch of cynical mirth before turning serious. “Have you given any more thought to the letter you deciphered?”
Saybrook poured himself a cup of tea. “I’ve been mulling over the part that says, ‘I’ve been appointed to the English delegation and our contact in Sx is also in place.’ At flush blush, the letters ‘SX’ would seem to mean the Kingdom of Saxony, whose ruler is currently being held a virtual prisoner by the Russian Tsar,” he replied. “But I have a feeling that nothing is going to be as it seems in this affair.”
“I don’t understand—how can the Tsar hold a fellow ruler prisoner?” inquired Arianna.
“Because nobody is stepping up to give him a good kick in the arse,” quipped Henning.
“Russia wants to remake the Baltic region,” explained her husband. “The Tsar wishes to create new borders for Poland, and the tiny Kingdom of Saxony is standing in his way. So its king is enjoying the Tsar’s hospitality for the moment. It’s all very polite, of course, but let’s just say that any decision to leave would prove awkward.”
Arianna made a face. “I shall need to assemble a reference library in order to keep all the rivalries and alliances straight.”
“Ye have another week to gain firsthand knowledge of all the petty quarrels and hatreds simmering on the Continent,” said Henning with a cynical snort. “But of course, there will be plenty more to learn of, once you reach Vienna.”
“I suppose that I might as well start with Rochemont,” she mused. “The Aggrieved Adonis will likely want a good deal of sympathy for the injury to his perfect looks.”
Henning tossed back another dram of whisky—his fourth—and rose. “Seeing as you’ve no further need of me at present, I’ll be heading back to London. I have patients with real ills to treat.” His hands flexed, setting off a sharp cracking of his knuckles. “And arrangements to make for doing some digging up north.”
“Do be careful how you slide your spade into the auld sod,” cautioned the earl. “We don’t want Kydd—”
“To feel that someone is starting work on his grave?” suggested Henning. “Yer pipes keep whistling the same tune, laddie. I understand the need for secrecy.”
“It can’t be repeated too often,” said the earl.
“The person I have in mind for the job can be trusted.”
Saybrook seemed satisfied with the surgeon’s answer.
“I’ll send word for our carriage to be made ready,” she said. “Along with a basket of food for the journey.” She eyed the empty glass. “And another bottle of the marquess’s best malt.”
“You’ll knock off all my rough edges with such luxuries, Lady S,” said the surgeon with a sour grin. “I fear I’ll turn quishy as boiled oats.”
“I don’t think there’s any danger of your Highland flint going soft,” she replied.
“None of us can afford to lose our edge,” said Saybrook, his eyes turning opaque. “Or let down our guard for an instant. I suspect the coming months are going to test our mettle in ways we can’t yet imagine.”
10
From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks
Dark Chocolate Flan with Chili, Cinnamon and Pepita Praline
Butter for pan
¼ cup pepitas (hulled toasted pumpkin seeds)
1⅓ cups granulated sugar
6 tablespoons water
1 cup whole milk
1 cup heavy cream
1 teaspoon mild chili powder (or to taste)
1 inch-long piece cinnamon stick
2 whole black peppercorns
½ star anise
5 ounces bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped
4 large eggs
1. Preheat oven to 325 degrees. On a rimmed baking sheet lined with nonstick liner,
buttered parchment or waxed paper, spread pepitas close together in a single layer.
2. In a medium saucepan over medium heat, combine 1 cup sugar and 6 tablespoons water. Bring to a simmer, stirring only until sugar is dissolved. Continue to cook, tilting pan occasionally to distribute heat evenly, until a caramel of a deep amber color forms, about 15 minutes.
3. Working quickly (before caramel cools and hardens), pour half the hot caramel into a 9-inch loaf pan, tilting pan to coat bottom and a bit of the sides. Pour remaining caramel over pepitas, using an offset spatula to help spread caramel if necessary. Let both pans cool completely. When pepita praline is cool, break into 2-inch pieces.
4. Meanwhile, in a large saucepan, combine milk, cream, chili powder, cinnamon, peppercorns and star anise. Bring to a simmer over high heat; reduce to medium and simmer 5 minutes. Let stand, off heat, 15 minutes. Return to a simmer, turn off heat and whisk in chocolate until smooth.
5. In a bowl, whisk eggs, remaining ⅓ cup sugar and the salt together. Whisking constantly, slowly pour hot chocolate mixture into eggs until fully combined. Pour custard through a fine sieve into caramel-coated loaf pan. Place loaf pan in a deep roasting pan. Add 2 inches hot tap water to roasting pan. Cover roasting pan tightly with foil; prick foil all over with a fork.
6. Carefully transfer pan to oven. Bake until flan is lightly set but still jiggles when shaken (lifting foil to check), about 1½ hours. Transfer loaf pan to a wire rack to cool to room temperature. Refrigerate flan at least 4 hours or overnight.
7. To serve, run an offset spatula along sides of pan to gently release it. Turn onto a serving platter and top with pepita praline; serve in slices.
Yield: 8 servings.
The fortnight finally over, Arianna breathed an inward sigh of relief as she followed the procession of baggage being carried up the steps of their London town house. The inquest, the interminable fugue of privilege at play had put her nerves on constant edge.
The pop of champagne, the clink of crystal, the fizz of laughter . . .
And it was, she reminded herself, just a prelude of what was to come.
The idea was exhausting. And at the same time strangely exhilarating. As if that makes any sense.
Her mouth quirked as she looked up at the stately marble columns and graceful pediments of the entranceway.
The polished knocker, the imposing oak paneling, the well-oiled efficiency of the servants opening the portal to the perfectly polished interior . . .
Perhaps life had become too comfortable, too predictable, admitted Arianna.
She slanted a glance at Saybrook as he greeted the footman who appeared to take his satchel of books. The change in him, however subtle, had not escaped her eye. The spark in his eye seemed a bit brighter. No—perhaps “intense” was a better word. Scholarship, for all its cerebral challenges, could not light that indescribable burn.
Along with wariness, and worry about the upcoming battle, Arianna sensed a thrum of anticipation pulsing through her husband’s blood. Steel versus steel—strength against strength. The prospect of matching mind and body against a clever enemy was not intimidating. It was intoxicating.
Saybrook had once told her that danger was like a drug. She smiled as the truth of his words tickled down her spine. Oh yes, he liked his studies, but risk, like chocolate, was also a stimulant to the senses, and loath though he might be to admit it, the earl missed the taste of it.
“Welcome home, milady,” intoned their butler, a tall, grizzled Spaniard whom she privately thought of as Don Quixote.
Home. She was still getting used to having a grand residence and servants to cater to her comforts. Her father had never lingered in one spot for very long . . .
“Allow me to take your books and your reticule,” said the butler, his English vowels as soft and curling as his silvery goatee.
“Gracias, Sebastian.” Saybrook added his cane and overcoat to the servant’s outstretched arms. “I see you have been studying the book on codes,” he said to Arianna.
“It’s absolutely fascinating,” she responded. “Certain things still puzzle me, of course, but as you said, the basic logic has much in common with mathematics. I’ve been making a list of questions—”
He laughed. “I noted how entranced you were with Bec-ton’s treatise during the journey.”
“Yes, well, you seemed busy with your own work,” she answered. “So I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“I was reviewing my notes on the present alliances, and all I can say is that if European politics is based on any rational system of order, it eludes me,” replied Saybrook ruefully. “I swear, there is no rhyme or reason to the bumble broth of intrigue.”
“So you think that we are stepping out of the frying pan and into the fire?”
“Tensions will be coming to a boil in Vienna, and it will be our job to see that England doesn’t get burned.” The earl tossed his gloves on the sideboard. “I would welcome your opinion on some thoughts that have come to mind concerning our strategy. Shall I order a pot of chocolate to be brought to the library?”
“You’ve whetted my appetite—how can I resist?”
With all the other distractions swirling around the case, Grentham’s comment about the other woman, along with the awkwardness of its implications, had been forgotten. Or at least relegated to some deep, dark recess of the mind, thought Arianna. State treason took precedence over any private worries of personal betrayal.
His smile sent a slight lurch through her insides.
No—not betrayal. That was unfair, she reminded herself. They had neither made nor demanded any promises of fidelity. The church vows had been a mere formality.
“Ah, excellent,” said Saybrook, brushing an errant lock of hair from the nape of her neck. “I was hoping that I could tempt you, despite the lateness of the hour.”
“G-give me just a few moments to freshen up. I shall meet you there shortly.”
Her toilette refreshed, her gown changed, and her thoughts reordered, Arianna entered the library feeling somewhat revived.
“Ah,” she murmured, after savoring a long sip of their cook’s special brew. “I missed Bianca’s chocolate.”
“As did I.” Saybrook hooked the hassock with a booted foot and drew it closer to his favorite chair. “When one is used to spices, everything else tastes rather bland.” He added a splash of Spanish brandy—a hotter, rougher spirit than French cognac—to his chocolate before propping his feet up in front of the blazing hearth and exhaling loudly. “I’m sorry that you’ve been dragged back into my private conflict with Grentham.”
“Let us not trade recriminations,” she interrupted quickly. “I couldn’t resist baiting the minister during the opening reception, so it’s quite likely that his venom is directed at me. Assuming, of course, that he isn’t the serpent responsible for trying to poison the government.”
Saybrook set down his cup. “Before we go on, perhaps we ought to clear the air.”
“Of brimstone and gunpowder?” joked Arianna, watching a twisting plume of smoke rise up from the burning logs.
“Of innuendos and speculation,” he replied.
Within the dark irises of his eyes, the reflection of the flames was like pinpoints of molten gold.
“Sandro,” she began, only to be silenced by a flick of his hand.
“No, let me speak.” He straightened, the slope of his broad shoulders steeling to an unyielding edge. “Grentham spoke the truth. I do make regular visits to a lady who lives in Charlotte Street, off Bedford Square. But it is not for any prurient reason, as was his unspoken suggestion. She is . . .”
Arianna sipped her chocolate, watching him through the fringe of her lashes.
“She is an Original, to use common cant.” He heaved a harried sigh. “Though in truth there is nothing common about Sophia Kirtland.”
He paused, as if waiting for some reaction. But Arianna, warned to silence, decided to take him at his word.
Clearing his thro
at, the earl continued. “Miss Kirtland has never been married—she is a spinster, a distinction she holds proudly, having little desire to surrender her independence to—as she so colorfully puts it—a dolt whose ballocks would likely be more active than his brain. Which is to say, she has no high opinion of men in general. Nor women, for that matter.”
Arianna was careful to keep her expression neutral.
“As you no doubt gather by now,” he went on, “she is eccentric. Acerbic. Opinionated.” A fresh splash of brandy sloshed into his cup. “She is also the most brilliant scientist I know. I met her at a lecture on chemistry at the Royal Society some years ago, and engaged in a most interesting disagreement over the speaker’s conclusions. We corresponded while I was in Spain, and over time, we became . . . friends, for lack of a better word.” He drank deeply, avoiding Arianna’s eyes. “Given her outspoken views, Miss Kirtland would not be overly welcome in Polite Society, even if she sought to fit into the social whirl. She lives as a recluse, surrounded by her books, her Egyptian cats and occasional visits to a small circle of equally unconventional thinkers. However, I think she’s a little lonely, so I make a point of visiting her every week.”
Arianna carefully aligned the sugar teaspoons on the tray, waiting for him to go on.
“Bloody hell,” said Saybrook. “When I asked you to hear me out, I was not meaning for you to mimic the Sphinx.”
“As you ought to know by now, I tend to take things to the extreme.”
“I trust that does not mean you are contemplating cutting off my testiculos with a rusty knife.”
“I am not crazed, merely curious,” she replied. “Is there a reason you never mentioned this before?”
It may have been a quirk of firelight, but his cheeks seemed to turn a shade redder. “I . . . I suppose I feared that you might ask to meet her.”
“And?”
“And that might have proved awkward,” answered the earl reluctantly. “Miss Kirtland did not approve of my marrying in haste.”
The Cocoa Conspiracy Page 12