The Cocoa Conspiracy

by Andrea Penrose

  “Or a far less Divine Being.”

  Their eyes met over her mug.

  “You noticed nothing suspicious in the area?” he asked after a long moment.

  Arianna shook her head. “My attention was all on Kydd. He was oh so close to confiding in me. I think he was having second thoughts about his involvement . . .” She swirled the chocolate and watched the dark liquid form a silent, spinning vortex. “In any case, I still might have learned something important from the interlude. I got him to talk about words that had special meaning for him, thinking you might try them as keys for the code.”

  “Clever thinking,” he conceded. But if anything, his expression grew more troubled. He moved to the sideboard and poured himself a large glass of brandy. Which he proceeded to down in one swift swallow.

  “Sandro, is something bothering you?”

  “Other than the fact that my wife was standing a scant foot away from a man who had half his skull blown to bits?” he shot back.

  A chill snaked down her spine. “Gunpowder is a volatile substance. It could have been an accident.”

  “The metal fragments I found embedded in his flesh were a thin gauge steel,” he said flatly. “The canisters are made of heavy lead.”

  “So you think someone deliberately tossed a bomb to kill him?’

  “And most likely you. I had only a quick look, but it appeared as if the killing arc—the spread of the lethal fragments—was thrown off. Perhaps he moved at the last moment and it struck his back instead of his chest.”

  Arianna felt herself go pale.

  “What?” he asked softly.

  “Yes, Kydd did move.” She hurried on, hoping he wouldn’t ask her to explain. “But if what you suspect is true, why the big explosion? Wasn’t the assassin risking his own life by setting off such a conflagration?”

  “He may have inadvertently dropped a lucifer. Or he may have planned to cover his crime by making it look like an accident, then set his fuse too short.” Saybrook lifted his shoulders. “There are many ways in which a plan can go wrong.”

  A not-so-subtle warning. But then, her husband did not appear to be in much of a mood for nuances.

  “Arianna, this masquerade you have undertaken—”

  “If you are about to order me to abandon our plan, you may save your breath.”

  “It’s too dangerous,” insisted Saybrook.

  “I beg to differ. So far, there has been no hint of trouble. We both know that most people see only what they expect to see—and no one in his wildest dreams will imagine that Monsieur Richard is a female.”

  “Talleyrand is a threat. He misses very little.”

  “I agree,” said Arianna quickly. “I am taking care to stay well out of his sight when he comes down for his daily meeting with Carême. It’s not difficult. Kitchens are smoky or steamy, and there are a number of storage pantries, all of them dark.” Recalling their first encounter, she essayed a note of humor. “And if push comes to shove, I am rather skilled in using a carving knife to defend myself, as you have reason to know.”

  He did not crack a smile.

  “Sandro, unless you wish to abandon the effort and leave Renard to execute his murderous plan, we cannot walk away from the opportunity to gain access to Talleyrand’s palace,” she reasoned. “That both the Prince and the comte are in residence makes the chance even more important. With Kydd dead, it’s our one—our only—lead.”

  He looked as if he wished to argue.

  She had held her best weapon until last, when his defenses had already been battered. “But if you wish, we can pack up and return to London. That will, of course, mean having to admit to Grentham that we failed to track down the traitor.”

  Saybrook drew in a harsh breath. And then let it out in a mirthless laugh. “You are utterly remorseless.”

  “And unscrupulous.”

  Perching a hip on the arm of her chair, he touched his palm to her cheek. “Ruthless,” he murmured.

  “Heartless,” she responded.

  His hand slid down to just above her left breast. “Oh no, you have a heart. You simply keep it well guarded.”

  The heat of him seeped through the singed silk of her gown. “That is rather like the pot calling the kettle black.”

  “So it is.” His eyes had a strangely molten glow, perhaps from the burn of the brandy. “I hate being in the dark, Arianna. It makes me feel helpless to protect you.”

  “I don’t expect you to,” she whispered.

  “That has no bearing on what I expect of myself.”

  How to answer?

  Looking away, she watched the play of shadows on the far wall. “I won’t take any unnecessary risks.”

  “Liar.” There was no heat behind the accusation. Indeed, he said it with a reluctant smile. “Of course you will.”

  “No, truly. I have no desire to stick my spoon in the wall just yet. So I shall be careful.”

  “I suppose I must be satisfied with that for now,” said Saybrook. He turned to the hearth and began to bank the glowing coals. A hiss of smoke rose from the crackling sparks.

  “But that may change.”

  17

  From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks

  Chocolate Marshmallows

  Canola oil, for greasing

  1½ cups sugar

  ¾ cup light corn syrup

  ¼ cup honey

  1 cup water

  3 tablespoon unflavored powdered gelatin, softened in

  ½ cup cold water

  ¾ cup Dutch-process cocoa powder, sifted

  2 tablespoons cornstarch

  1. Grease an 8-inch x 8-inch baking pan, line bottom and sides with parchment paper, and grease paper. Grease a rubber spatula; set aside.

  2. Combine sugar, syrup, honey, and ½ cup water in a 2-qt. saucepan over medium-high heat. Bring to a simmer; cook, without stirring, until syrup reaches 250° on a candy thermometer. Remove from heat; let cool to 220°.

  3. Meanwhile, bring ½ cup water to a boil in a small saucepan. Place bowl of gelatin over boiling water; whisk until gelatin becomes liquid. Transfer to the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a whisk; add ½ cup cocoa powder. Add cooled sugar syrup to gelatin; whisk on high speed until mixture holds stiff peaks, 5–6 minutes. Pour mixture into prepared pan; smooth top with oiled spatula; let cool until set, 5–6 hours.

  4. Combine remaining cocoa powder and cornstarch in a bowl and transfer to a strainer; dust work surface with mixture. Slide a knife around edge of pan to release marshmallows; remove from pan. Dust cocoa mixture over top. Using a slicing knife dusted with cocoa mixture, cut marshmallows into forty 1½ inch squares. Toss marshmallows with remaining cocoa mixture.

  Yield: 40

  “Damnation, damnation, damnation.” Saybrook balled the sheet of paper and lobbed it into the fire. “Would that you hadn’t taken your bloody secrets along with you to the grave, Kydd.”

  He stared at the coded document. “None of the words Arianna wrested from you work, which leads me to believe that, as I suspected, you were but a pawn on this diabolical chessboard. So . . .” Tap, tap, tap. His pen drummed an impatient tattoo on the desk. “Who is moving the pieces around the board? There has to be a clue that I have missed. But for the love of God Almighty, I can’t figure out what it is.”

  Another bout of scribbling.

  Another crumpled missile arced into the flames.

  “If only Baz were here,” muttered the earl. “He is always willing to bat ideas back and forth, no matter how outlandish they sound.”

  Slapping a fresh sheet down upon the blotter, he dipped his pen in the inkwell. But before he could begin to write, a clatter of footsteps on the stairs distracted his concentration.

  “What in Hades . . .” Uttering a fresh string of oaths, Saybrook set down the quill. “Jose knows that I’m not to be disturbed. Whoever the arse is, it sounds like he is intent on waking the dead.”

  The earl was half out of his chair, intending to ring a peal
over the miscreant’s head, when the door flew open.

  Saybrook sat back down with a thump. “Well, well, speak of the devil.”

  Basil Henning looked even more disheveled than usual. Unshaven, bleary-eyed, hair standing out from his head in drunken spikes, the surgeon looked like a wild Viking sailing in on the North Wind. His clothing, never very tidy to begin with, looked as if it had been slept in for days on end.

  “Ye look like Hell yerself, laddie.” Henning glanced around as he unwound his ragged muffler and tossed it on the sofa. “I don’t suppose ye can offer me a dram of good Scottish whisky to wash the travel dust from my throat.”

  “You will have to settle for French brandy or Hungarian slivovitz,” answered the earl.

  “Hmmph. A paltry offering considering all the hardships I’ve endured on your behalf.” The surgeon dropped into the armchair by the hearth. “Brandy, if I must,” he added. “Where’s Lady S?”

  “Working,” replied Saybrook with a grim smile. “But first questions first.” He quickly poured a glass of the requested spirits and brought it over to his friend. “You are supposed to be in Edinburgh. So why in the unholy name of Lucifer have you journeyed to Vienna?”

  “Not for the chocolate mit schlag or the cream cakes,” quipped Henning. He gave a quick grimace before tossing back his drink. “I’ve uncovered some important information.”

  “Your ugly phiz is not an unwelcome sight, however there is such a thing as a diplomatic courier. You could have asked my uncle to forward it.”

  “Knowing that Whitehall is as leaky as a sieve?” Henning shook his head and made a rude sound. “No, I didn’t dare trust anyone but myself to bring the news. It’s too explosive.”

  The air crackled with tension as the surgeon rose abruptly and went to refill his glass.

  “Well, go on,” growled the earl. “Or do I have to hold a flame to your arse?”

  “You should be kissing my bum,” retorted the surgeon. “I’ve gone through nine circles of hell to get here in time to warn you.”

  “Of what,” asked Saybrook through clenched teeth.

  “That in your hunt for the elusive Renard, you and Lady S have been following the wrong scent.”

  “Is there anything else that you wish for me to do, Monsieur Richard?” The scullery maid finished drying the last of the copper kettles and hung it on its hook. “I’m done with my regular tasks, so unless . . .”

  “Non, you may retire for the night,” replied Arianna gruffly. “I wish to sort through the cacao beans, and check the inventory of spices before I leave. Monsieur Carême tells me we have several very important suppers scheduled for next week, and I must be prepared to perform up to his standards.”

  The girl shuddered. “Be prepared for him to whack the flat of his cleaver to your bum. He gets very bad tempered when we have important guests to serve.”

  “Ha! He shall have nothing to complain about.” Arianna twirled her false moustache. “My pastry skills are far superior to his.”

  “Yes, so you have told us.” The maid turned away, not quite quickly enough to hide a snigger. “More than once.”

  Arianna had made it a point to be obnoxiously arrogant. She didn’t wish to encourage any overtures of friendship from the other kitchen servants. “You shall see, chérie.”

  “Don’t forget to latch the pantries and close the larders. Otherwise, Le Maitre will roast you over the coals in the morning. I warn you, he’s already in a foul mood, on account of all the fuss surrounding the visit of some fancy foreigner.”

  “What foreigner?” asked Arianna, her senses coming to full alert.

  “Dunno. It’s all very hush-hush,” answered the girl carelessly. “I overheard the Prince’s secretary telling the butler that it’s supposed to stay a secret. Talleyrand wants it to be a big surprise for that fancy party, the Carra . . . Carooo . . .”

  “The Carrousel?” suggested Arianna. At breakfast that morning, Saybrook had made mention of the upcoming gala, an elaborate re-creation of a medieval joust that promised to outshine all the other Conference entertainments for pomp and grandeur.

  The girl shrugged. “Yeah, that sounds about right.” Her expression pinched to a grimace. “Imagine spending a king’s ransom to prance around in swords and suits of armor. I swear, these rich royals are dicked in the nob.”

  “Queer fish,” agreed Arianna. She allowed a slight pause before asking, “You are sure they didn’t mention the visitor’s name? I should like to think of a suitably special dish to impress him.”

  Another shrug. “I think it was a military toff—a General Something-Or-Other. Water . . . I think mebbe his name had something te do with water.”

  Hiding a twinge of frustration, Arianna gave a curt wave of dismissal. She waited for several minutes, giving the girl ample time to gain her attic room, before taking the sketch of the palace floor plan from her pocket and unfolding it on the worktable. Saybrook had found the architectural plans in the Burg’s library and had made a rough copy. Tonight was the first opportunity to put it to use.

  It was, she guessed, just a little past midnight. Talleyrand and his advisors, along with his niece, had left an hour ago to attend a party given by Dorothée’s sister, the Duchess of Sagan. They would likely be gone for at least several hours, providing a perfect chance to have a look around upstairs. The only slight complication was Rochemont. Since the day after the Peace Ball and its explosive ending, the comte had been sequestered in his room, sending word that he was too ill to rise from his bed.

  But by this time of night, he would likely be fast asleep, and the sketch showed his bedchamber was at the end of a long corridor, overlooking the rear gardens.

  The risk of being seen was slim. And besides, she would have a plate of chocolate bonbons to serve as an excuse.

  I will just have to chance it.

  She studied the plan for a bit longer, making a few last notations in pencil, and then put it back in her pocket. Between the breakfast list posted in the butler’s pantry and Saybrook’s handiwork, she now knew exactly who slept where, and which rooms were used for the delegation’s official work.

  The thought of entering Talleyrand’s private study sent a frisson of heat tingling down to her fingertips. Or was it a chill?

  Dangerous. Arianna didn’t need reason to remind her of the consequences should she be caught in the act of riffling his papers. She was dealing with cold-blooded killers. Two men lay dead because of their involvement in this intrigue—three if one counted Davilenko’s demise at the hands of Grentham’s men. No mercy would be given.

  “I can look out for myself,” she whispered, her flutter of breath blowing out all but a single candle. Taking up the pewter stick, she angled past the massive cast iron stoves and into the back passageway. A tin of her buttery cinnamon-spiced chocolates was tucked away in the pastry pantry. A sprinkle of golden demerara sugar would top off . . .

  The thump of the main kitchen door being thrown open was followed by the scuff of boots on stone.

  On instinct, Arianna extinguished her light and stood very still.

  A pot rattled, followed by a low oath.

  Rochemont? What the devil was he doing down here? she wondered. If he were hungry or thirsty, he could have woken his servant. The comte did not strike her as a man who lifted an elegant finger to perform everyday tasks for himself.

  Curious, she crept out of the pantry and inched forward in the darkness until she could steal a look through the passageway opening.

  “Merde!” Rochemont cursed angrily as he fumbled with the top of a heavy crock. His hands lacked their usual grace, for oddly enough they were clad in bulky gloves.

  She frowned, noting that he looked dressed for going out into the frosty night. A sudden recovery? It was not so strange that he might crave company after several days of being bedridden.

  Save for the fact that he was so intent on opening a container of bacon fat.

  “Merde,” he muttered again, the lid slippin
g from his grasp and clattering against the stone counter. Shifting his stance, he clumsily stripped off his gloves.

  In the glow of his lamp, the white gleam of the bandages stood out like a sore thumb. After hurriedly unwinding the linen strips, Rochemont dipped a finger into the crock and with a low grunt began to massage a dollop of grease over his singed knuckles.

  Arianna held back a gasp. She had enough experience working in kitchens to recognize burnt flesh when she saw it.

  The comte flexed his hands. Seemingly satisfied, he quickly replaced the lid and rewrapped the bandages.

  Ducking back into the pantry, Arianna crouched behind a flour barrel as he hurried past her hiding place. A moment later she heard the bolt thrown back on the tradesmen’s entrance.

  A rasp of metal, a groan of oak. And then all was silent.

  In the cramped space, the thumping of her heart seemed to echo loud as cannon fire against the rough wood walls. Arianna drew in several calming gulps of air and made herself think. The burned flesh had brought back a searing image of Kydd’s lifeless body. Dear God, was it possible . . .

  But to confirm her suspicions, she needed some evidence, some proof.

  Thump, thump, thump. Her pulse had slowed to a more measured beat—which seemed to be drumming Saybrook’s warning into her head. Careful, careful, careful.

  Yes, she had promised him that she wouldn’t take any risks, but in the heat of battle one must seize the moment and be unafraid to improvise.

  “I’m sorry, Sandro,” whispered Arianna. As a concession to prudence, she relit her candle and quickly assembled a plate of chocolates. If caught, they might serve as a plausible excuse. Rochemont’s Adonis looks had no doubt attracted the eye of both sexes. Monsieur Richard could always act the part of love-struck admirer.

  Moving swiftly and silently up the stairs and down the long corridor, she made her way to the comte’s quarters. The door was locked, but a steel hairpin, hidden beneath her frizzy wig, made quick work of releasing the catch. Drawing the door shut behind her, Arianna paused for a moment to survey her surroundings.