Smoke & Lies
Page 29
“Indeed it was,” agreed Grentham. “It was through Angus that I realized Napoleon was truly plotting to re-seize the French throne, and that time was of the essence if he was to be stopped.”
“How did Eduardo come to be involved?” asked Saybrook. “You said you had no idea why he was missing from Elba—or was that merely smoke and lies?”
“No, as it happens I became suspicious of Major Standish and began to do some investigating of my own,” interjected Eduardo. He made a wry face. “But apparently I’m not very good at clandestine activities, for I was discovered by my friend Castillo, who told the emperor. Napoleon had me taken by force to France.”
“Castillo was loyal to Napoleon?” demanded Saybrook.
“Fervently so,” replied Eduardo.
“I came to suspect that he was sending me on a wild goose chase,” said the earl. “But then, it’s no surprise that Napoleon is good at misdirection, given his brilliance wartime strategy.”
“One would be a fool ever to underestimate the emperor,” agreed Grentham. “He's been cleverly throwing feints at me all over the Continent, to keep me confused.”
“It's only by chance that Eduardo was taken to where I was stationed,” explained Angus. “Lord Grentham had sent word that I should keep an eye open for Lieutenant de la Vega. So when I learned his loyalties lay with our side, I waited until the time came for me to bolt, and helped him escape with me.”
“What a fortuitous stroke of luck,” observed Henning. “If I were a religious man I might be tempted to say the hand of God was involved.”
“Or perhaps some other unworldly force.” Seeing the minister reach for his coat, Arianna took the pasteboard box from her pocket. “Before you go, Lord Grentham, I wish to show you one last little triumph over Napoleon.”
Saybrook stepped back, allowing the others to gather around the table as she took off the lid.
Henning let out a low whistle through is his teeth.
“So it’s true,” muttered Grentham. “I’ve heard rumors of a mystical talisman, but dismissed them as flights of fancy.” He took the bejeweled sphinx in his fingers and lifted it to the light. “It’s a rather garish bauble if you ask me.”
“The emperor likes glitter and gaudy spectacle,” said Saybrook.
“So he does.” Grentham frowned. “You think without it he'll be a lesser opponent?”
“I think I he believes it brings him luck,” answered Arianna. “And who am I to argue?”
“Well, you are welcome to pin your hopes of defeating him on a few bits of magical rock and metal,” said Grentham. “However, I prefer to count on the flesh and blood pragmatism of Wellington.”
“There’s no harm in hedging our bets, sir,” replied Arianna.
“Tut tut, Lady Saybrook.” Amusement added a silvery gleam to the minister’s gunmetal grey eyes. “You’re beginning to sound like me.”
“God perish the thought,” she murmured.
The rumble in his throat sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. As Grentham turned to take his leave, he looked at the earl. “By the by, what do you know of Brussels?”
“No,” said Saybrook. “The answer is no—no more traveling, and that’s flat.”
“No?” A sigh. “And here I thought you would feel you owe me a favor.”
“Vienna, Scotland, Elba—I would say the scales are balanced,” shot back the earl.
“In the war between Good and Evil, the scales never stay balanced for long,” replied Grentham. “They’re constantly shifting—”
“Please, let's not argue about the future right now,” suggested Arianna. “For tonight, let's simply celebrate being with family and friends.” Looking around, she was suddenly aware of how despite the unlit hearth, the kitchen was filled with a palpable warmth. “Tomorrow is time enough to start thinking about what battles lie ahead.”
Author’s Note
Writing a mystery where much of the action takes place at Napoleon’s court-in-exile on the isle of Elba has its challenges. We all know what ultimately happened, and since I like to stick to actual history, I wasn’t going to fiddle with the facts.
* * *
Well, not too much! In reading about all the intrigue and political machinations that went on during the Emperor’s exile, it seems like a fascinating setting in which to place Arianna and Saybrook. So I had to find some plausible mysteries within mysteries that related to the big question—was Napoleon planning to return to France and re-seize his throne?
* * *
I’ve made every effort to accurately describe the mood and settings of the island. The subplots are, however, the stuff of my imagination. In real life, there was no consortium of merchants, or shipment of gold aboard a traitorous British dispatch boat. (But they seem to me to be something that could have happened.)
* * *
However, there is one very fun fact in the story which shows how imagination can sometimes align with reality! Napoleon has a cameo role in the book (yes, more research reading!) though we don’t see him all that much. However, from past research, I knew he had a great interest in the occult, and believed in mysticism and the power of the tarot . . .
* * *
Aha! Inspiration strikes! I suddenly have an idea for a plot twist! (These aha moments are very exciting.) And this requires Napoleon to have a lucky talisman. So I merrily brainstorm and come up with an imaginary one that I think is perfect. I make note of it and set the brief sketch aside for when I write the scene. Then, I happen to be researching something else, when to my amazement, google gives me a search result called “Napoleon’s talisman.” Naturally I click on it . . . and nearly fall off my chair.
* * *
It turns out he actually did have a very elaborate good luck talisman, which was created sometime between 1802-1804. (It’s thought that the great sculptor Canova might have made it.) There’s an incredibly detailed description of all the arcane symbolism and secret codes designed into the piece, which you can read here.
* * *
So that’s an inside peek at some of the history behind the book. I hope you’ve enjoyed the whole story!
About the Author
I began my writing career at age five with a number of lavishly illustrated Westerns, which were lovingly preserved for posterity by my first fan (Thanks, Mom!) However, I have since moved on to Regency England, an era that has fascinated me ever since I read Jane Austen’s Pride And Prejudice.
I majored in art at Yale and went on to get a MFA in Graphic Design, concentrating in publication design. So I guess you could say I have always had a left brain-right brain love affair with the printed page . . .
You can read more about me and my books at my website, along with some of the fascinating details about Regency England.
www.andrepenrose.com
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* * *
www.andreapenrose.com
Also by Andrea Penrose
The Wrexford & Sloane Regency Mystery Series
MURDER ON BLACK SWAN LANE
MURDER AT HALF MOON GATE
* * *
The Lady Arianna Regency Mystery Series
SWEET REVENGE
THE COCOA CONSPIRACY
RECIPE FOR TREASON
THE STOLEN LETTERS
SMOKE & LIES
* * *
For more information on Andrea and Andrea’s books, visit www.andreapenrose.com
* * *
You can write to Andrea at
andreapenroseauthor@gmail.com
Excerpt: SWEET REVENGE
Book One in the Lady Arianna Regency Mystery Series
CHAPTER ONE
* * *
* * *
“How fascinating! I recently discovered an old Spanish missionary’s journal in a Madrid bookstore and found a number of references to chocolate among his writings. According to him, ancient Aztec legend has it that the cacao tree was brought to Earth by their god Quetzalcoatl, who descended from heaven on the beam of a morning star after stealing the precious plant from paradise. No wonder that the spicy beverage made from its beans was called the ‘Drink of the Emperor.’ It is said that this xocoatl or chocolatl was so revered that it was served in golden goblets that were thrown away after one use . . .”
* * *
The scent of burnt sugar swirled in the air, its sweetness melting with the darker spice of cacao and cinnamon. Candles flickered, the tiny tongues of flame licking out as the footman set the plate on the dining table.
“Ahhhh.” The gentleman leaned down and inhaled deeply, his fleshy face wreathing in a sybaritic smile. “Why, my dear Catherine, it smells . . . good enough to eat.”
Laughter greeted the bon mot.
“Oh, indeed it is, poppet. I’ve had my chef create it specially for you.” The heavily rouged lady by his side parted her lips, just enough to show a peek of teeth. “And only you.”
“How delicious.” Plumes of pale smoke floated up toward the painted ceiling and slowly dissolved in the shadows. His lazy, lidded gaze slid past the glittering silver candelabra and took in the empty place settings of the other half dozen guests. “And what, may I ask, is it?”
“Chocolate.”
“Chocolate,” he echoed, sounding a little puzzled. “But—”
“Edible chocolate,” explained Catherine. “A new innovation, fresh from Paris. Where, as you know, the French have refined sumptuous indulgence to an art form in itself.” She lowered her voice to a sultry murmur. “Aren’t you tempted to try it?”
All eyes fixed hungrily on the unusual confection. Soft mounds of Chantilly cream ringed the porcelain plate, accentuating the dark, decadent richness of the thick wafers arranged at its center. Ranging in hue from café au lait to burnished ebony, they rose up from a pool of port-soaked cherries.
“I must warn you, though,” she teased. “Chocolate is said to stimulate the appetite for other pleasures.” Her lashes fluttered. “But perhaps you are already sated after such a rich meal.”
“One can never have enough pleasure,” replied the gentleman as he plucked the top piece from its buttery perch and popped it into his mouth.
A collective sigh sounded from the others as he gave a blissful little moan, squeezed his eyes shut . . .
And promptly pitched face-first into sticky sweetness.
There was a moment of dead silence, followed by a slow, slurping shudder that sent a spray of ruby-red drops and pink-tinged cream over the pristine tablecloth.
“Good God, send for a physician!” screamed one of the guests. “The Prince Regent has been poisoned!”
* * *
CHAPTER TWO
From the Chocolate Notebooks of Dona Maria Castellano
“Chocolate was served during religious rites and celebrations. It was often mixed with flavorings such as vanilla, cinnamon, allspice, chilies, hueinacaztli—a spicy flower from the custard apple tree—and anchiote, which turns the mouth a bright red! The Aztec also believed that the dried beans of the cacao tree possessed strong medicinal properties. Indeed, warriors were issued cacao wafers to fortify their strength for long marches and the rigors of battle—a fact that Sandro will undoubtedly find of great interest. I, too, have remarked on the nourishing benefits of hot, sweetened chocolate . . .”
* * *
Steam rose from the boiling water, enveloping the stove in a cloud of moist, tropical heat.
“Hell.” A hand shot out and shoved the kettle off the hob.
Cleaning up after such a feast would likely take another few hours, thought the chef irritably. But that was the price—or was it penance—for choosing to work alone. A baleful glance lingered for a moment on the kitchen’s worktable, the dirty dishes and pots yet another reminder that the aristocratic asses upstairs were gluttons for decadent foods.
More, always more—their hunger seemed insatiable.
But it wasn’t as if their appetite for sumptuous pleasures came as any great surprise to Arianna Hadley. Contempt curled the corners of her mouth. Indeed, she had counted on it.
Turning away from the puddles of melted butter and clotted cream, she wiped her hands and carefully collected the scraps of paper containing her recipes. The edges were yellowing, the spidery script had faded to the color of weak tea, and yet she could not quite bring herself to copy them onto fresh sheets of foolscap. They were like old friends—her only friends, if truth be told—and together they had traveled. . . .
Her hands clenched, crackling the papers. Not that she cared to dwell on the sordid details. They were, after all, too numerous to count.
She closed her eyes for an instant. For as far back as she could remember, life had been one never-ending journey. Jamaica, St. Kitts, Barbados, Martinique, along with all the specks of Caribbean coral and rock too small to have a name. Foam-flecked, rum-drenched hellholes awash in rutting pirates and saucy whores. And from there across the ocean to the glittering bastion of civilized society.
Ah, yes. Here in London the scurvy scum and sluts were swathed in fancy silks and elegant manners. Fine-cut jewels and satin smiles. All thin veneers that hid a black-hearted core of corruption.
Tracing a finger over a water-stained page, Arianna felt the faint grit of salt and wondered whether it was residue from the ocean voyage or one of the rare moments when she had allowed a weak-willed tear. Of late, she had disciplined herself to be tougher. Harder. But as the steam wafted over the sticky pots, stirring a sudden, haunting hint of island spices, she blinked and the words blurred. Light and dark, spinning into a vortex of jumbled memories.
Fire. Smoke. The lush scent of sweetness licking up from the flames.
“Breathe deeply, ma petite.” Her voice lush with the lilt of the tropics, the mulatto cook leaned closer to the copper cauldron. “Drink in its essence.” She sprinkled a grating of cinnamon, a pinch of anchiote over the roasting nibs. “Watch carefully, Arianna. Like life itself, the cacao is even better with a bit of spice, but the mix must be just right. Let me show you. . . .”
Dark as ebony, Oribe’s hands fluttered through the tendril of steam. “Theobroma cacao—food of the gods,” she murmured. “Now we must wait for just the right moment to douse the flames. Remember—its magic cannot be rushed.” From a smaller pot, the cook poured a measure of hot milk into a ceramic cup. Adding a spoonful of ground beans, thickened with sugar, she whipped the concoction to a foaming froth with her molinillo. “But patience will be rewarded. Drink this—”
Then the image of the old servant dissolved, and Arianna found herself staring into the shadows.
Shadows. She remembered shifting shapes of menacing black, and the rumblings of thunder from a fast-approaching storm. Dancing to the drumming of the wind against the shutters, a tendril of smoke had swirled up from the lone candle, casting a trail of twisted patterns over a bloodstained sheet.
“Drink this, Papa.” She was holding a glass of cheap rum to her father’s trembling lips. “A physician will be here soon with laudanum to help ease the pain,” she lied, knowing full well that not a soul would come rushing to help two penniless vagabonds.
“I would rather have a sip of your special chocolate, my dear.” He tried to smile, despite the jagged knife wound gouged between his ribs.
So much blood, so much blood. Cursing the stinking wharfside alleys and the shabby tavern room, she pressed her palm to the scarlet-soaked handkerchief, trying to staunch the flow.
“I—I shall always savor the sweet memory of you,” he went on in a whisper. “I . . .” A groan gurgled deep in his throat. “God in heaven, forgive me for being such a wretched parent. And for sink
ing you in such a sordid life.”
“You are not to blame! You were falsely accused.”
“Yes, I was—I swear it,” he rasped. “But . . . it doesn’t matter. Not for me.” He coughed. “But you—you deserve better. . . .”
“Never mind that. You deserve justice, Papa. Tell me who did this to you.”
“I . . .” But there was no answer, only a spasm of his icy fingers and then a silence louder than the wailing wind.
Arianna shifted on her stool, recalled back to the present by the clatter of footsteps on the stairs. Her skin was sheened in sweat and yet she was chilled to the bone.
“Chef! Chef!” Fists pounded on the closed door. “Monsieur Alphonse, open up! Something terrible has happened!”
Smoothing at the ends of her false mustache, Arianna quickly tucked the papers into her smock and rose.
Perhaps it was too late for justice. Perhaps all that mattered now was vengeance.
* * *
“Indeed?” Lord Percival Grentham’s expression remained impassive. A senior government minister in Whitehall’s War Office, he was in charge of security for London, which included keeping watch over the royal family. And with the King lingering in the netherworld of madness and his grown children mired in one scandal after another, it was a task designed to test his legendary sangfroid.