The silvery shading of moonlight was just strong enough to illuminate the opulent furnishings, the gilded chairs, the Baroque pear-wood desk set by the bank of mullioned windows.
Hurry, hurry. Crossing the carpet, she set to work riffling through the papers on the blotter. She had no idea how long she had to explore. It was imperative not waste a second.
The pile proved to be nothing more than a handful of ornate invitations, a bill from a boot maker, and a memo from Talleyrand’s secretary regarding the upcoming schedule of diplomatic suppers.
“Damnation.” Her search of the drawers also yielded nothing suspicious. One was locked, but it turned out to hold only several unopened bottles of expensive cologne.
Arianna tried to decide where to look next. She had already eliminated the set of painted bookcases flanking the hearth. Searching through the volumes would take far too long. As for the dressing table, it was doubtful that Rochemont would hide any correspondence among the silver-backed brushes and hair pomades.
Unless . . .
A wink of silver drew her closer. The box, fashioned from dark rosewood and rimmed in precious metal, sat between the shaving stand and the tortoise-framed looking glass. Opening the top, she saw it contained the usual male fripperies—several carnelian watch fobs, a gold stickpin highlighted by a large, liquid-blue topaz, and a gold signet ring, its crest worn with age. The items lay atop a velvet lining, its midnight black hue accentuating the richness of the jewelry.
She was just about to snap the lid shut when a curl at the corner of the fabric caught her eye. Taking up the stickpin, she gently lifted the edge, revealing a hidden paper.
Her heart hitched and began to thud against her ribs. Easing it out, Arianna felt a spike of triumph as she saw the writing was in code.
The cunning, clever fox has finally been run to ground.
And then Reason quickly reasserted control, and the surge of savage elation gave way to disciplined detachment.
“Sandro needs to see this,” she whispered. He had explained how having two examples of a code greatly increased the chances of deciphering it.
Hurrying to the desk, she found paper and pencil. Holding her breath, she transcribed the sequence of letters, taking care that the low light and her own suppressed excitement did not draw a mistake.
Shoving the finished copy into her pocket, Arianna set to work eliminating all traces of her visit. Rochemont—or Renard—mustn’t suspect that his lair had been searched . . . She shifted the inkwell and pens a fraction to the left . . . He was no fool . . . Rechecking the drawers, she made several minute adjustments . . . Not a hair could be out of place.
All that remained was to replace the incriminating code back in the box, exactly as she had found it. “The top of the page aligned with the left corner,” she reminded herself, edging back the velvet—
From the depths of the first floor came the sound of voices in the entrance hall.
Stilling the shaking of her hands, Arianna forced herself not to panic. Two minutes, she gauged. Maybe three before anyone could reach the bedchamber door. Paramount was to slip the code back in place. And then . . .
The paper eased into position.
And then . . .
Boot heels clattered on the marble stairs.
Improvise!
The footsteps were now in the corridor and coming on quickly.
Snatching up the jewelry, Arianna dropped the box on the floor. A wild sweep of her hand sent the glass bottles sailing helter-pelter. A kick cracked the leg of the Rococo chair.
Shouts of alarm echoed from outside.
Racing to the desk, she knocked all the carefully arranged items to the carpet.
The locked latch rattled. Fists pounded on paneled oak.
Arianna flung open one of the leaded windows and scrabbled up to the ledge just as the door to the room burst open.
“Stop! Thief!”
A short jump landed her atop the slanting roof of the bowfront window directly below. Slipping, sliding over the slates, Arianna dropped to a crouch and caught hold of the carved cornice. She swung over the edge and grabbed for one of the decorative columns that graced the lower facade of the building. A bullet whistled past her ear and slammed into the limestone overhead, sending up an explosion of pale shards.
“No shots, you fools!” It was Rochemont who called the order, his voice taut with fury. “After him on foot—take the stairs and cut him off in the garden. Whatever you do, don’t let him get away!”
The fluted stone scraped her palms raw as she slid to the ground. Giving silent thanks for her earlier surveillance of the grounds, Arianna whirled around and sprinted along the line of the privet hedge, making for the gate that she knew was set in the far right corner of the garden wall.
A door slammed somewhere on the terrace and suddenly there were footsteps peltering in pursuit.
“Stop sneaking a peek at the clock, laddie. The hands have moved naught but a tick since the last time ye looked.” Henning closed the folder of Saybrook’s notes. “Which, by the by, was only a minute ago.”
“She’s never been this late before,” said Saybrook.
“Something must have come up,” replied the surgeon.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” came the earl’s gloomy retort.
Henning ran a hand through his hair, the gesture doing little to smooth the spiky tufts. “Don’t worry. Lady S is exceedingly clever and resourceful.”
“She is also exceedingly unconcerned when it comes to her own safety.” Saybrook scowled. “And now that you’ve brought the news that Rochemont is a duplicitous viper, I have damned good reason to be worried.”
“Laddie, if I thought she was in danger right now, I would be urging you on with a red-hot poker. But be reasonable. You’ve told me that she’s been a week working in the kitchens and has had no trouble so far, eh?”
Saybrook conceded the point with a wordless shrug.
“So there’s no reason to think tonight will be any different.”
“Damnation, Baz. If you would tell the details, I could decide that for myself.” The earl sounded tired. Frustrated. And a little frightened, despite the Sphinx-like stare. His face appeared carved out of stone, but his dark chocolate eyes simmered with anxiety.
“I told you, I’ll explain it all when Lady S gets home. It’s a long story and I’d rather tell it only once,” replied Henning. “And as soon as she is here, we can also have a council of war about how to continue.” The surgeon wagged a warning finger. “But don’t have high hopes that she will want to abandon the masquerade. We still don’t know how all this ties together, and Lady S isn’t one to leave loose ends hanging.”
“Bloody hell,” swore the earl softly. “Why is she determined to take such dangerous risks?”
“I might ask the same of you,” countered his friend. “And I suggest you think of an answer that does not include any mention of women being the weaker sex. Unless, of course, you want your ballocks served up for breakfast by your lovely wife.”
“Don’t remind me of cooking, if you please,” muttered the earl. He rose and slowly circled past the hearth to the sideboard where he paused to uncork a bottle of port. “May I pour you a drink?”
Henning pursed his lips and then demurred. “Nay. I think I’ll keep my wits about me.”
Saybrook set the glass aside and resumed his pacing.
“Ye know, in all our battles together, I’ve never seen ye this on edge.” A pause. “May I ask you a personal question, laddie?”
The earl’s growl was nearly lost in the scuff of his boots.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” said the surgeon. “I was just wondering—have ye told Lady S that you love her?”
“I . . .”
Henning waited.
“I . . . she . . . Bloody hell, Baz,” groused Saybrook. “She knows that.”
A brow winged up in blatant skepticism. “Women are odd creatures. Unlike some of Nature’s other creations, they
do not always absorb things through osmosis.”
“Since when have you become such an expert on the female sex?” snapped the earl.
“Don’t bite my head off. I am merely offering an observation. And in fact, I’ll add another one. Sometimes people feel compelled to take risks in order to win the regard of those they admire. Especially if they perceive that regard to be uncertain in the first place.”
The earl’s jaw clenched, drawing the skin tight over the sharp edges of his cheekbones. Candlelight dipped and danced over the angular planes, the fire-gold skitter not quite strong enough to penetrate the shadows.
Bowing his head, he resumed his silent marching.
After several long minutes of listening to the same thump, thump, thump cross over the carpet, the surgeon chuffed an exasperated grunt. “Auch, you are more twitchy than a cat crossing a hot griddle.”
The steps halted.
“If you can’t sit still, perhaps we ought to take a stroll toward the Prince’s palace. I’ve heard that Vienna is a dazzling sight at night, so I might as well take a peek through the windows at all the fancy people at play.” Henning crinkled his nose in disgust. “Along with the rest of the Great Unwashed, I won’t likely be invited to be on the inside looking out.”
After a moment of thought, Saybrook asked, “Have you packed a decent coat?”
“One without acid burns or blood stains?” Henning made a face. “I believe the charcoal gray will pass muster.”
“I’ll have my valet bring you a starched cravat. And he’ll have orders to brush the worst of the wrinkles from your noxious garments, so don’t kick up a dust.”
“Why?” demanded the surgeon.
“You just reminded me that there is a soiree going on tonight at the Duchess of Sagan’s residence, and Talleyrand is said to be attending. Rather than sit here and stew over what Arianna is up to, we might as well pay a visit so you can get a firsthand look at the Master of Manipulation yourself and give me your impressions.”
“You think he’s secretly working for Napoleon instead of the newly restored king?” asked Henning.
“It wouldn’t be the first time he has betrayed his employer,” Saybrook pointed out grimly. “So it’s only logical to assume that he and Rochemont are in league to destroy the balance of power here with their assassination plot. But who and how is proving perversely difficult to decipher.”
“Patience, Sandro. And perseverance,” counseled his friend. “All it takes is one small piece of the puzzle to fall into place for the picture to become strikingly clear.”
“Then let us go look for that elusive clue,” snapped the earl. “Before yet another body ends up in the grave.”
18
From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks
Horchata with Chocolate and Pumpkin Seeds
1 cup long-grain white rice
½ cup blanched almonds
½ cup pepitas (pumpkin seeds)
1 vanilla bean
1 2-inch piece cinnamon bark
2 oz. dark brown sugar
1½ oz. very dark chocolate
5½ cups water
Additional ground cinnamon and sugar, to taste
1. Grind the rice, almonds and pepitas to a coarse powder (a coffee grinder works well here) and pour into a large bowl. To the powder, add the seeds from 1 vanilla bean and cinnamon bark. Pour in 3½ cups water, stir, and cover the bowl with plastic wrap. Let sit overnight.
2. The next day, pour the watery rice and nut mixture into a medium saucepan and warm it over a low flame. Stir in 2 oz. dark brown sugar, 1½ oz. chopped very dark chocolate, and 2 cups water, mixing until all is well combined. (You may wish to add more cinnamon and sugar.) Once the liquid is even in color and just barely simmering, remove the saucepan from heat and let it come to room temperature. Then pour the contents into a large bowl, cover, and let chill for at least 3 hours.
3. Once it has cooled, strain the horchata—which should be a milky, dappled brown—through a fine-mesh sieve and into a pitcher, taking care to press the last bits of liquid from the rice and seed solids. If some nutty kernels make their way into the pitcher, don’t worry; they will only enhance the drink’s wonderfully thick texture. To serve, pour over ice cubes and garnish with a piece of cinnamon bark.
The narrow alley twisted through a tight turn and plunged down a steep incline, the looming press of dark buildings making it impossible to get her bearings. Left, right—which way was home? She was now on unfamiliar ground, running blindly in a cat-and-mouse race to elude her pursuers.
A slip on the cold cobbles sent her careening into a stretch of wall, the force of the blow momentarily knocking the wind from her lungs. Bracing her bruised hands on rough brick, she sucked in a gasp of searing air. Pain lanced through her side, sharp as a stiletto, and her heart was hammering so hard against her ribs that she feared the bones might crack.
Life as an indolent aristocrat has left me soft as Chantilly cream, she thought wryly. In the past, she had often outrun angry men, laughing all the way as she left them choking on her dust.
At the moment, however, the situation wasn’t remotely amusing.
A shout—far too close for comfort—echoed through the blackness. Shoving away from the wall, she turned away from the sound and set off again at a dead run.
“What’s the commotion?” asked Henning, pausing as a well-dressed man burst out of an alleyway up ahead and skidded to a halt.
“Footpads, perhaps,” said Saybrook. He didn’t sound overly sympathetic. “With all the drunken revelries, the rich make an easy target for thieves at this hour of night.”
“Have you seen anyone on the run?” demanded the stranger as they approached.
“Not a soul,” answered the earl. “What’s the trouble?”
“A robbery,” answered the man curtly.
“Your purse?” inquired the surgeon.
“A slimy little slug from the kitchens has stolen jewelry from the Kaunitz Palace. But never fear . . .” The man’s expression stretched to an ugly smile. “If he hasn’t escaped this way, it means we have him cornered. The only place he can run is into the Burg’s royal gardens, and once he’s there . . .” His fist smacked into his gloved palm. “He’s trapped like a rat.”
Saybrook and Henning locked eyes for an instant before the earl asked, “What’s the miscreant look like, in case we spot a suspicious person.”
“Plump, with straggly brown hair and moustache,” came the clipped reply. “And the fat bastard is faster than he looks.”
“We’ll keep our eyes peeled,” promised the surgeon.
The man was already hurrying away.
“Merde,” added Henning under his breath. “We—”
Saybrook cut him off with a sharp shove. “Stubble the noise, Baz, and follow me.”
From behind the dark, ivy-twined garden wall, the Hofburg Palace rose in fairy tale splendor, the soaring, stately archways and fanciful domes painted with a pale pearlescent glow in the soft moonlight. Silvery mist from the nearby river swirled over the dark foliage, the ghostly tendrils dancing in time to the orchestral music drifting out from the ballroom of the Amalienburg wing.
It would have been quite romantic had she not been running for her life, thought Arianna as she made a flying leap and caught hold of a sturdy vine. Like bird dogs driving a hapless grouse toward the waiting guns, her pursuers had spread out and forced her up against the rear of the imperial gardens. There was nowhere else to flee—save to scramble straight up and then down.
Her boots hit the damp grass with a muted thud.
Now what?
Taking cover under a low-hanging holly bush, she pulled the downy pillow from inside her shirt and shoved it deep within the prickly branches. A change in profile might help throw them off the scent. She wished that she could peel off the false hair and whiskers—sweat was making them itch like the very devil, but she dared not divest herself of her male camouflage just yet.
Cocking an ear fo
r any sound of the hellhounds, Arianna crawled out of her hiding place and after a brief hitch of hesitation started to weave her way in and out of the foliage, heading for the glittering lights.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
It was too dangerous to go back. Retreat would leave her far too exposed and vulnerable in the midst of hostile territory. If she could somehow sneak inside the palace, there was a good chance that she could take shelter within one of the countless rooms and then drift out with the crowd when the dancing ended near dawn.
Rochemont and his cohorts would likely not want to make too much of a fuss over a simple robbery—assuming her ruse had worked. Even if they suspected a more sinister motive, they would not want to draw attention to their own malevolent plans. No, the dancing—a private ball given by the Tsar of Russia in honor of his sister’s arrival in town—would not be disturbed. The Frenchmen would bring in reinforcements and prowl the perimeter, waiting to pounce.
Well, it would not be the first time that her persona of slippery chef had to escape capture by a superior force. Her lips quirked. What with his previous appearance in London, the elusive Monsieur Alphonse-Richard-Chocolat was fast becoming one of the most wanted criminals in all of Europe.
Digging a hand into her pocket, Arianna cast the purloined fobs and rings into the bushes. Better not to have incriminating evidence on her person, in case she was stopped by a guard. With luck, she could brazen her way past any trouble.
Distraction, dissimulation . . .
Lost in thought, Arianna was careless enough to stray through a thin blade of light. It was only for an instant, but a hand shot out and caught her arm.
Swearing, she tried to twist free, jerking up her knee to strike her assailant between the legs.
A hand clapped roughly over her mouth.
“Stop thrashing,” hissed her husband, just barely dodging the well-aimed blow. “And stop trying to make me sing like a puling soprano.”
The Cocoa Conspiracy Page 22