“I don’t know,” admitted Saybrook. “Let’s move on to the costume closets.”
“A bomb isn’t going to be concealed in a button,” groused Henning.
The earl picked up the lantern from its perch on the rack of lances. “The Carrousel is tomorrow. It has to be here, Baz. A clever assassin would ensure that there wasn’t a last-minute mishap in bringing it into the building. So I mean to go through every stitch of—”
The scudding beam caught the folds of an ermine-trimmed cloak draped over a stool. Dark as midnight, the spill of lush fabric was almost hidden by the corner of storage cabinet and the rough-hewn moldings of the door.
“What’s that?” he asked.
Henning gave a wordless shrug.
Saybrook hesitated for a moment, eyeing the square-cornered shape. “Let’s have a look.”
“Auch, we’ll be here all night if ye mean to poke through every bit of cloth.”
“Have you a more pressing engagement?” quipped the earl as he swept back the cloak to reveal an ornate brass box.
The gleam silenced the sarcasm hovering on Henning’s lips.
“It’s locked,” said the earl after trying the lid. The steel probe reappeared from his pocket and made quick work of the catch.
The surgeon crowded close, straining to see over Saybrook’s shoulder. “What—” He blinked as a flash of burnished gold momentarily blinded him. “What the devil is that doing in here?”
“I believe it’s the Champion’s Prize,” replied the earl.
Henning gave a low whistle as he watched the earl struggle to lift a large ornate eagle from its nest of purple velvet. “That bird must be worth a bloody fortune. Why, it looks to be made out of solid gold.”
Saybrook set the statue on the floor. “It’s heavy,” he agreed. “But there’s something odd . . .” Squatting down, Saybrook surveyed the intricate workmanship from several angles. “Baz, point the beam here . . .” He indicated a spot under the half-spread wing. “Hmmm.”
“What?”
Sliding a thin-bladed knife from his boot, the earl pressed the point to an emerald set discreetly in the precious metal.
Nothing.
Henning released a whoosh of air.
The sharpened steel moved to the ruby. Again, nothing stirred, save for the faint rasp of the surgeon’s breathing. It was only when the blade pricked against the pale peridot that the objet d’art came to life. The gem clicked a quarter turn to the right and sunk into the sculpted feathers as the eagle emitted a strange whirring sound.
The taloned feet rose half an inch out of the large round malachite base, revealing a hidden mechanism. Reversing his knife, the earl tapped the tiny lever with its hilt and sat back on his haunches as the top of the stone gave a shiver and a hairline crack appeared around the middle of the orb.
“Well, I’ll be buggered,” muttered Henning.
The eagle tilted forward with the top half of the base. Inside was a hollow interior, and nestled like a egg within it was a shiny metal ball. It too was hinged.
Saybrook gingerly nudged the lid open. And uttered a soft oath.
“Christ Almighty, don’t touch anything,” warned the surgeon. “Move over, and let me have a closer look.”
“Gladly,” replied the earl drily, edging over to allow Henning a better view of the glass vials, looped wires, and brass discs that were neatly embedded in a dark granular substance.
It was a rather lengthy interlude before the surgeon spoke. “Hmmph.”
“Would you care to amplify on that statement?” asked the earl.
“In a moment, laddie.” Flattening himself to the stone, Henning checked the contraption from a few different angles before giving another grunt. “Ingenious. I saw a recent scientific paper from the University of St. Andrews describing a chemical experiment on fuseless explosions, and the accompanying diagram looked almost identical.” Another slight shift. “And I had heard that Sir Humphry Davy was conducting some private work on the subject at the Royal Institution. However, I thought it was still in the theoretical stages.” Pushing up to his knees, the surgeon dusted his hands. “Apparently not.”
“Does that mean we should theoretically be running like the devil?”
“No, no. We’re safe.” Henning pointed out a thin brass rod welded to the inside of the lid. At its end was a small ring. “Right now the vial of acid is missing so there is little danger of the bomb going off.”
Saybrook eyed the elaborate coil of wires and disks as if it were a serpent ready to strike. “How does the cursed thing work?”
“Oh, very cleverly,” responded the surgeon, scientific enthusiasm overriding all else for the moment. “A glass vial of acid, designed with a tiny hole in the bottom, is inserted in the ring. When the top is closed, the liquid will drip onto this bit of wax here . . .” His finger indicated one of the disks. “Once it burns through—and that rate can be pretty much calculated in a laboratory depending on the thickness of the wax—it will allow the acid to touch the mercury fulminate percussion caps here”—he pointed again—“and spark a tiny explosion. From there, the fire will travel down the cordite-soaked twine wrapped around the wires to gunpowder, which has been specially corned to increase its volatility . . .”
A short technical explanation followed on the force generated by such a tightly contained explosion.
“So, what you are saying is that this bird is deadly enough to fell two people in one fell swoop.”
“Hell, yes,” said Henning. “Anyone within a half dozen feet will be blown to Kingdom Come.”
“Don’t sound so bloody cheerful about it,” snapped Saybrook.
“No need to get your feathers ruffled, laddie. I’m counting on you to make sure the eagle will have its wings clipped, so to speak.”
“Right.” The grim lines of worry etched deeper around the earl’s dark eyes. “It seems we have two options. We can disarm the thing now. Or we can wait and catch the miscreant in the act.” He pondered the dilemma for an instant before adding, “A damnably difficult choice, for I would like to have unassailable proof that Rochemont is behind this.”
“Perhaps we can do both.” Henning fingered his stubbled chin. “There can’t be any overt sign that the bomb has been tampered with. But if we are able to slip a thin piece of steel between the wax and mercury fulminate percussion cap, that will prevent the acid from setting off a spark.”
The lanthorn’s beam started a slow, undulating dance around the room. It flickered over the crates, the rack of long lances, the massive storage cabinet . . . and then darted back to the jousting weapons. A soft, silvery glow glimmered against the varnished wood. Each of the pommels was festooned with an elaborate design of hammered metal and studs of semiprecious stones.
“Will silver do?” asked the earl.
“Aye,” replied Henning.
The blade slid out of his boot. “Let’s get to work. Come tomorrow night, the comte is going to find that his highflying hopes of throwing Europe into chaos have been plucked of their last, lethal feather.”
Arianna took another turn around the room, her agitated movements impelled by a volatile crosscurrents of emotion colliding inside her. Impatience. Uncertainty. Anger. All churning with the ferocity of a storm-tossed sea.
Oh, be honest, she chided herself. Fear was the foremost force, spinning in a tight vortex that left her stomach lurching against her ribs. Strange how frightening a simple word could be. Strange how it could provoke such a visceral reaction. Fire sizzled up her arms. Ice slid down her spine.
“Love,” she whispered, the single syllable feeling so very, very foreign on her lips. Love. A part of her feared making herself vulnerable. Dio Madre, she had spent half a lifetime hardening her heart against its hurt. A father who loved brandy and the allure of money more than he did his own flesh and blood. She had forgiven him—but she had also vowed never to let its pain wound her again.
That she felt safe and secure in Saybrook’s arms had her fe
eling confused. Conflicted.
Fighting against devils like Rochemont felt like second nature, while wrestling with her own inner demons seemed to sap her of all strength.
Should I surrender to trust? Her mouth quirked. That felt a little like donning a blindfold and stepping off the edge of a precipice.
“I suppose that is what is meant by a leap of faith,” she murmured. And yet, she never trusted in anyone but herself.
Sandro was just as guarded, but he has taken the first tentative stride . . .
Arianna spun around as the earl and Henning entered the parlor. “Thank God you are safe—I was beginning to imagine the worst,” she said.
Henning hurried on to the sideboard and poured out a generous measure of brandy. “For once, I think even your colorful mind would fall short of the task.” He drained his glass in one swallow.
That didn’t sound good.
She looked at her husband and noticed several new cuts and scrapes on his hands. “I’ve some interesting news, but I think you had better go first. Did you run into trouble during your search?”
Saybrook made a wry face. “That depends on how you define trouble.” Waving off the surgeon’s offer of a drink, he dropped into the nearby armchair and ran a hand through his hair. “No, we did not have any problem entering the Spanish Riding School. Nor did we encounter any guards.”
Her clenched hands relaxed ever so slightly.
“And in fact, we discovered how Rochemont means to kill Talleyrand and Wellington. It’s a bomb—a diabolical bomb.”
“Aye,” chimed in the surgeon. “For it’s likely to reduce them and a good many people close by into fragments of flesh no bigger than mincemeat.”
“Good God,” intoned Arianna. “But I thought you said a bomb would be unlikely, given the smoke and smell of a burning fuse—”
“This bomb doesn’t need a conventional fuse. It’s a brilliant piece of chemistry,” said Henning. His face pinched to an unhappy expression. “Like mathematics, science can be used for good—or for evil.”
“How—” she began.
Anticipating her question, Saybrook was quick with an answer. “Another bit of cunning. It’s hidden inside the Champion’s Prize. I’m not sure how he means to arm the infernal thing. Timing is critical, but somehow I am sure he has that worked out. Someone is going to serve as his pigeon, offering the Eagle to Wellington for the special presentation.”
“That would be me.” She sat down rather heavily on the arm of his chair and let out a little laugh. “And here I thought I was being so clever, teasing him into allowing me to be part of the ceremonies.”
“He asked you carry the Eagle?” In contrast to the expressionless ice of his face, her husband’s voice shivered with molten fire. “He’s a dead man.”
“Sandro . . .” she began, then fell silent as their eyes met.
“We’ve sabotaged the bomb, but still, on second thought, I prefer not to take any chances,” Saybrook went on. “I’ll need to catch him in the act of trying to arm it with the acid, and then . . .”
“And then prevent him from carrying out the dastardly deed,” said Henning blandly. “An excellent plan. Any ideas how we’re going to do it?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I have.”
Arianna felt his big hand clasp hers in a hard, possessive hold.
“To begin with, Arianna is not going anywhere near the Spanish Riding School.”
His gaze glittered in challenge.
After a long moment, she looked away.
“Thank you for not arguing,” said her husband softly. “As for you, Baz, I want you positioned by the rear gate a half hour before the Carrousel is scheduled to begin, while I . . .”
Arianna listened in silence. It was a good plan.
But she had a better one.
23
From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks
Chocolate-Ginger Muff ins
2½ cups all purpose flour
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
½ teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1 cup oats
6 tablespoons butter, melted and cooled
1 large egg
¾ cup yogurt
½ cup milk
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
1½ cups chocolate chips, dark or semisweet
¾ cup candied ginger, finely chopped
1. Preheat oven to 375°. Line a muffin pan with paper liners (I simply buttered my silicone muffin pan).
2. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, salt, ground nutmeg, and oats.
3. In a medium bowl, whisk together melted butter, egg, yogurt, milk and vanilla extract until smooth. Pour into dry ingredients and stir just until no streaks of flour remain. Stir in chocolate chips and candied ginger.
4. Divide batter into prepared muffin pan, overfilling each muffin cup so that the batter slightly rises above the top of the pan.
5. Bake for 20–25 minutes, or until muffins are lightly browned and a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean.
6. Cool on a wire rack. Serve slightly warm. Makes 12 muffins.
Ah, well. It is not the first time I’ve ignored an order, thought Arianna as she crouched in the shadows and tucked her breeches more securely into the tops of her boots. And likely not the last. No matter that Saybrook’s display of pyrotechnics on learning of her foray would no doubt put the famed Steuer fireworks to blush. Lucifer could light up all of Hell and she would still crawl through the burning sparks and flaming cinders to be part of the action.
Rolling her shoulders, she gave a mental salute to the earl’s expensive London tailor, who despite his initial reservations, had crafted a sturdy set of dark masculine garments for her that fit like a glove. No rustling lace, no whispering silk—a predator had to move sleekly, silently through the night.
A carriage rattled over the cobbles, causing her to duck deeper into the murky alleyway. Arianna quickly squeezed through the sliver of space and then hesitated as she reached a gap in the buildings. A left turn would take her directly to the Spanish Riding School, while a right turn would lead to a more circuitous path past the Amalienburg wing of the Emperor’s palace.
Risk and reward. She patted her empty pockets, loath to face off against a dangerous enemy with naught but the slim knife in her boot. Saybrook had taken his pistols with him, leaving her bereft of gunpowder and bullets. But she knew from the Russian Tsar’s garrulous boasting that he possessed a pair of deadly accurate dueling weapons, recently purchased on his visit to London.
And of all the pompous party-goers, Alexander was sure to be at the Carrousel.
The chiming of the astrological clock echoed through the courtyard of the Amalienburg wing as Arianna edged around the towering fountain and peered up at the pale stone facade. Lights blazed in the windows of the first-floor salons, but on the floors above, where the Tsar was quartered, all was dark.
A side entrance for servants yielded to her hairpin, and it took no more than a minute to gain access to Alexander’s sumptuous suite of rooms. All was quiet, and in the corridor leading to the monarch’s private chambers, the gilded moldings gleamed in silent splendor, lit by only a single wall sconce flickering on the far wall.
A thick Turkey carpet muffled her cautious steps. Thank God for Alexander’s hubris. In his blatant flirtations with her, the Tsar had described in detail exactly where his bedroom was located. With luck, the royal valet would be enjoying a well-deserved rest from the rigors of dressing his monarch . . .
Arianna froze in her tracks as one of the sky-blue paneled doors cracked open.
A shuffle of bare feet, a querulous mutter, and then the flutter of embroidered silk as a portly figure padded into the dimly lit passageway.
Oh, bloody Hell.
Blinking the sleep from his eyes, Tsar Alexander lifted his candle a touch
higher, suddenly aware of a shadowy intruder just steps away from his person. With her hair knotted at the nape of her neck and a black knitted cap drawn low on her brow, Arianna knew that she must appear an ominous threat.
To his credit, Alexander did not cry for help. Assuming a pugilist’s pose, he swung a meaty fist at her face. “Scrawny scoundrel! How dare you invade my private quarters.”
Arianna easily dodged the clumsy blow and caught hold of his cuff. Whatever his other faults, Alexander was no coward. “Your Highness,” she began, only to find an elbow flying at her face. She twisted away just in the nick of time, but her hold on his dressing gown pulled the Tsar off balance. He teetered on one foot for an instant and fell backward, landing on his Royal rump with an audible thump.
“Merde.” They both swore in unison.
“My apologies, Your Highness,” added Arianna, making no attempt to disguise her voice.
Alexander’s eyes widened as his gaze traveled up the length of her legs. “You make a very attractive boy, Lady Saybrook,” he murmured, regarding her snug breeches with obvious approval. “Is this some new English game of seduction? It’s quite diverting, however I think that I prefer you dressed in frilly feminine attire.” A leering wink. “Or nothing at all.”
“I’m afraid this is not a social call, Your Highness,” replied Arianna, wondering what the consequences would be for lashing a hard kick to the Imperial jaw. She couldn’t afford to waste time in flirting. “I need a favor, but not one that involves sliding between your sheets.”
“How disappointing.” He patted his plump stomach and sighed. “However, I confess that I’m not feeling very frisky this evening, so perhaps it’s for the best. My physician has ordered complete quiet and bed rest for the next few days.”
“What a pity that you must miss the Carrousel. It promises to be quite a colorful spectacle.” Arianna offered a hand to help him up. “I’m here to ensure that the hues don’t include blood red.”
The Cocoa Conspiracy Page 28