I prefer other weapons.
“Once again, I thank you for the tour. It was very enlightening.”
“You are most welcome, madame.” Carême bowed. “Come again some time.”
“Thank you. I will.”
And sooner than you think.
15
From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks
Chocolate Caramel Tart
For the crust
1½ cups flour
¼ cup plus 1 tablespoon Dutch-process unsweetened cocoa
powder
¼ teaspoon kosher salt
10 tablespoons unsalted butter, cubed and softened
½ cup plus 2 tablespoons confectioners’ sugar
2 egg yolks, preferably at room temperature
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
For the caramel
1½ cups sugar
3 tablespoons light corn syrup
¼ teaspoon kosher salt
6 tablespoons water
6 tablespoons unsalted butter
6 tablespoons heavy cream
1 tablespoon crème fraîche
For the ganache
½ cup heavy cream
4 oz. bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped
Gray sea salt for garnish
1. Make the crust: Heat oven to 350˚. Combine flour, cocoa powder and salt in a medium bowl and set aside. Using a handheld mixer, cream the butter and sugar in a large bowl until mixture is pale and fluffy; mix in yolks and vanilla. Mix in dry ingredients. Transfer dough to a 9-inch fluted tart pan with a removable bottom and press dough evenly into bottom and sides of pan. Refrigerate for 30 minutes. Prick the tart shell all over with a fork and bake until cooked through, about 20 minutes. Transfer to a rack and let cool.
2. Make the caramel: In a 1-qt. saucepan, whisk together sugar, corn syrup, salt and 6 tbsp. water and bring to a boil. Cook, without stirring, until a candy thermometer inserted into the syrup reads 340°. Remove pan from heat and whisk in butter, cream and crème fraîche (the mixture will bubble up) until smooth. Pour caramel into cooled tart shell and let cool slightly; refrigerate until firm, 4–5 hours.
3. Make the ganache: Bring cream to a boil in a 1-qt. saucepan over medium heat. Put chocolate into a medium bowl and pour in hot cream; let sit for 1 minute, then stir slowly with a rubber spatula until smooth. Pour ganache evenly over tart and refrigerate until set, 4–5 hours. Sprinkle tart with sea salt, slice and serve chilled.
The branch of candles had burned down to small stubs, leaving the study shrouded in deepening shadows. Arianna heard the faint scratch, scratch, scratch of a pen before she could make out the shape of broad shoulders and bowed head hunched over the desk.
“Still at work, Sandro?” she asked softly.
Saybrook turned, his profile limned in the guttering flames. Fatigue shaded his features, along with some darker tautness that she couldn’t quite identify. “Yes, there was another idea I wanted to test, but it’s been a wasted effort.” He put down his pen and massaged his temples. “Perhaps I have lost my touch. I used to have some skill with codes.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Arianna came up behind his chair and began to knead the knots at the base of his neck. “When you were on Wellington’s staff you had a cadre of trained intelligence officers to help you. And yet you’ve told me that attempts to decipher a captured code failed more often than not.”
His muscles slowly relaxed beneath her probing fingers. “I suppose you are right. But I can’t help feeling that I am missing some key element that is staring me right in the face.”
“Why not let me have a try? I’ve none of your skills, but I have been studying the principles, and maybe a fresh set of eyes will see something you’ve overlooked. There is, after all, such a thing as beginner’s luck.”
Saybrook reached back and caught her wrist. “I would be grateful for your help, but it can wait until morning.” He pressed her palm to his cheek, and beneath the rasp of his whiskered skin, she could feel the strong, steady pulse of his heart.
After all the duplicity and deceptions of the evening, its warmth was immensely comforting. She blinked as the sudden, salty sting of tears prickled against the back of her lids.
“Is something wrong, Arianna?”
She shook her head. “Just tired.”
He gave a wordless growl and turned his face to brush a kiss to her fingertips. “How did your dinner go? I’m rather surprised that you are back at this hour. Didn’t Rochemont try to spirit you off to some secluded love nest? Or was he worried that in the process of wrestling you into his carriage he might scratch his pretty face?”
“He’s still complaining about your knocking him down on the rocks. I suspect that he thinks it was a deliberate attempt to mar his beauty,” answered Arianna. “As for seduction, it was likely on the comte’s mind, but Talleyrand demanded his attendance at an after-supper strategy meeting. And though it was obvious that he wished to refuse, he didn’t quite dare to defy the Prince.”
Saybrook let out a long breath. “So, another night wasted on frivolous entertainment.”
“Not exactly.”
Her husband must have heard the note of suppressed excitement in her voice, for he slowly sat up straighter and edged his chair around to face her. “How so?”
“I think I’ve come up with a way to gain access to Talleyrand’s household—to be part of his intimate, everyday routine so to speak, which would allow me to spy on both him and the comte.”
“Arianna, there are limits to how far I am willing to go for the good of my country.” Her husband’s voice turned dangerously soft. “So if you are about to suggest that you become the mistress of one of those lecherous Frogs, put the idea out of your head. Immediately.”
“No, not a mistress.” She couldn’t hold back a grin. “A chef.”
He blinked.
“Carême’s pastry sous-chef has deserted him, throwing plans for the elaborate dinners into question. Think about it. Since we arrived, we’ve been hearing how Talleyrand brought his chef from Paris to serve as a secret weapon of sorts. His intention is to win support for the French objectives here at the Conference, using butter and sugar rather than muskets and cannons.”
She paused to let him digest what she had said. “So, if an experienced chef with a talent for creating sweets appeared and inquired about a position, don’t you think the chances are good that Carême would snap him up?”
“Him,” repeated Saybrook thoughtfully. “You are suggesting that Monsieur Alphonse—”
“Makes a miraculous resurrection,” she replied with a note of triumph. “Though to be safe, he will have to assume a new name. Given that Renard was involved in our last investigation, he might remember Lady Spencer’s erstwhile chef.”
“Hmmm.”
That he didn’t dismiss the idea out of hand was encouraging.
“What about Kydd?” he asked carefully. “And, for that matter, Rochemont? Posing as a chef may be a clever cover, but we can’t put all of our eggs in one basket.”
“No, not with the fox running free in the henhouse.” The dying candle flame seemed to turned a touch redder, a taunting reminder that their enemy had eluded all their attempts to catch him. “I’ve thought this through and see no reason why it can’t work. I won’t have to give up my flirtations with Kydd. I will simply have to pick and choose which party invitations to accept. One of my demands will be that I only work three days a week for Carême. I’ve checked—that’s the number of diplomatic suppers that Talleyrand plays host to, so I believe the chef will accept the stipulation.”
“So you are suggesting that you light the coals under two different pots and see which one boils first?”
“Things shouldn’t become too hot for comfort. As you know, I have some experience in plotting these sorts of things,” replied Arianna. “To cover my occasional absence from the ballrooms, we’ll put out word that my health has turned delicate—ladies are always plagued by a variety o
f maladies. As for Rochemont, he’s no longer so important to dally with, now that I’ll have direct access to Talleyrand’s residence and servants.”
Saybrook took his time in replying. As he drummed his fingers on his papers, she could almost hear the gears whirring inside his head.
Like a carefully calibrated military chronometer, the earl’s mind always seemed to work with exquisite precision in analyzing every detail of information.
“You have a point about Rochemont. He would no longer be needed as a source of information.” Her husband raised his eyes from his papers. “In any case, I was already beginning to think that he was turning into more trouble than he was worth. His attentions are growing more heated, and a man of his hubris is not likely to accept no for an answer.”
“True,” conceded Arianna. “Push might have come to shove if Talleyrand hadn’t demanded the comte’s presence at an evening meeting.” She thought for a moment. “I think the Prince did it deliberately. Those lazy, lidded eyes don’t miss much.”
“Which is why I am reluctant to agree to your plan. Of all the men here in Vienna, Talleyrand is the most dangerous,” said Saybrook. “Never, ever underestimate him.”
“I don’t,” said Arianna quickly. “But it’s not as if he spends a great deal of time in the kitchens. He comes to consult with Carême each morning on the day’s menu. Other than that, he keeps to the upper floors of the palace. I shall demand to start work at noon and leave before midnight. Remember, chefs are allowed to be eccentric, and Carême is rather desperate for expert assistance. I believe he will swallow any reservations and hire me on the spot.”
The earl pursed his lips.
Pouncing on his hesitation, she hurried on. “It’s a golden opportunity, Sandro. Imagine—I shall have daily access to our main suspect’s lair, with plenty of chances to poke around.”
“How—” began Saybrook.
“I’ve already thought of a perfect excuse—I shall start making chocolate bonbons to leave in the bedchambers each night. And demand that I deliver them personally because my artistic sensibilities demand that I arrange the plate myself.”
“Damnation,” growled Saybrook. “How do you think I feel, allowing you to take all the risks while I sit here in the cozy comfort of my book-filled room, fiddling with pens, books and this maliciously maddening scrap of paper?”
“In this case, a chance to unmask our unknown enemy has appeared, and only I can seize it. We must be pragmatic, Sandro, and not let it slip away.” Threading her fingers through his tangled hair, she combed the dark strands back from his brow. “Reason must always overrule emotion—isn’t that what you always tell me?”
“Then I am a God-benighted bloody fool,” he insisted.
“I wish you were.” Understanding the flare of frustration, Arianna tried to use humor to defuse the moment. “Then I would have a far easier time leading you by the nose.”
As she had hoped, Saybrook allowed his mouth to quirk upward. In their earlier investigation, they had quarreled—and rather vociferously—about whether she was using her feminine wiles to manipulate him.
“I—”
“Let us not argue over this. I am sure your turn to jump into the fire will come soon enough.” Arianna leaned in and pressed her lips to his.
After several long moments, he broke away with a rough whisper. “Dio Madre. I suspect you are trying to lead me not by my nose but a far more primitive appendage.”
Arianna answered with a throaty laugh. “Oh, that would be awfully low of me.”
“Yes, and you’ve just finished telling me that you have no scruples about stooping to any ruse.”
“So I did.” Her arms slipped around his shoulders and drew him close. “Aren’t you glad of it?”
“You know what I think?” Rising in one swift, smooth motion, Saybrook lifted her easily into his arms. “I think that my brain is far too tired to wrestle with any more intellectual conundrums.”
After all the cloying colognes and decadent kitchen smells, the faint citrus scent of his shaving soap was like a breath of fresh air.
“So I suggest we defer all further discussion of conduct, codes and cunning criminals until morning.”
The papers crackled. “Hmmph.” After wiping a smudge of flour from his nose, Carême shuffled to the next page. “The Prince Regent, eh?” His eyes narrowed. “What did you cook for him?”
“A number of dishes, but his favorite was a tower built of sweet chocolate bricks,” answered Arianna without hesitation. “Surrounded by a moat of Chantilly cream and port-soaked cherries.”
“Edible chocolate?”
“Yes, like Monsieur Debauve of Paris.”
“Bah, Debauve has no imagination,” grumbled the chef.
“He deserves some credit for the concept,” countered Arianna coolly. A show of backbone was imperative if she was to have the freedom that she needed to poke around the premises. “But I agree, his creativity can’t hold a teaspoon to yours.”
Carême gave a grunt but his frown faded slightly. Turning to the chopping block, he picked up a paring knife and then whirled around with a flourish. “Alors, what is the recipe for crème anglaise.”
Arianna was just as quick with her reply.
“Hmmph.” Carême tapped the blade to his palm. “Your accent is odd, Monsieur Richard. I can’t quite place it.”
“I was raised in the West Indies,” replied Arianna truthfully, then quickly added a few embellishments. “My mother was English and my father was French, so I had an unorthodox upbringing. We were very poor, so I learned at an early age how to fend for myself. Cooking is one of the skills I acquired in the islands, and I found it to my taste.”
A tendril of steam curled through the brief silence. “One last question. Why do you want to work for me?”
“A man has to eat,” she quipped. “I find myself in need of funds. And since I must work, it might as well be for a genius of cuisine.”
The chef considered her reply for what felt like an age. Had she misjudged his temperament? She gave an inward sigh. Ah, well, too late to cry over spilled milk—
“Eggs and butter are here in this larder. Sugar and flour are kept in the west pantry, along with nuts, cacao paste and the other pastry supplies.” Carême tossed her an apron and a wooden spoon. “Come, there is no time for dallying. The Prussians are coming for supper, so let’s get to work.”
16
From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks
Chocolate Sauce
½ cup half-and-half
1 cup sugar
2 oz. unsweetened chocolate, chopped
2 oz. bittersweet chocolate, chopped
8 tablespoons butter
2 egg yolks, lightly beaten
1. Heat half-and-half and sugar together in a heavy saucepan over medium-low heat, stirring until sugar dissolves. Add chocolates and butter and whisk until smooth. Set aside to let cool briefly.
2. Stir in egg yolks and cook over low heat for 3 minutes, stirring constantly. Set aside to let cool slightly.
Gold, glitter and glamour.
Everything in Vienna was done to sumptuous excess, thought Arianna as she and Saybrook approached the entrance of Metternich’s palatial villa on the Rennweg the next evening. Elegant carriages filled the surrounding streets, the plumed horses prancing in place on the stone cobbles as the richly dressed crowd squeezed its way through the ornate iron gates. The Austrian minister’s Peace Ball was one of the most anticipated entertainments of the Conference, and it was clear that he had spared no expense on the extravaganza.
Tonight I shall waltz in silk and satin amidst the flaming splendor of the garden torchieres, while come morning, I will once again don boots and breeches in order to dance from the fire into the frying pan.
“Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow you join the unwashed masses who serve these gluttons of pleasure,” murmured Saybrook, his caustic wit sharpened by the fact that he still had misgivings about her masquerade.
A week ago, they had hammered out the details of the plan over a long, leisurely breakfast. And so while Monsieur Richard toiled in the subterranean kitchens of the Kaunitz Palace, the Countess of Saybrook had become increasingly prone to headaches, causing her to cry off from several prominent parties. Two birds with one stone. Her absence had allowed her not only a chance to spy on Talleyrand but had also garnered further sympathy from Kydd.
The young Scotsman already envisioned himself as a heroic knight fighting for noble ideals. A damsel in distress seemed to appeal to his notions of honor.
“Then get me some champagne,” she replied, seeing a footman passing by with libations.
Saybrook plucked two glasses from the tray and handed one to her.
“A su salud,” he murmured in Spanish, raising the cut crystal in ironic salute. The pale liquid glowed like molten gold in the torchlight, its sparkling effervescence mirroring the countless diamond-bright stars overhead. “May we spin through this whirling dervish dance of deception without a stumble.”
The tiny bubbles of the wine prickled like dagger points against her tongue.
Deception? She had played so many different roles in her life that at times, she wasn’t sure who she really was. Luckily, Monsieur Richard was a persona who was as comfortable as a second skin.
“Don’t worry. I’m on firm footing in the kitchen,” answered Arianna. “All is going smoothly.”
His gaze remained riveted on the heavens, as if he were having a silent conversation with Ursa Major and Orion. Or perhaps he was offering up some sort of a prayer to the pagan constellations. “How fortunate that Carême was so impressed with Monsieur Richard’s impeccable credentials as a skilled pastry chef.”
Her lips twitched. “The letter of recommendation from the Prince Regent of England was most impressive.”
The Cocoa Conspiracy Page 19