The Cocoa Conspiracy lahm-2

by Andrea Penrose

  “What the devil is going on?” Mellon’s expression pinched in shock. “Christ Almighty, you’ve been shot!”

  The earl touched his shoulder. “It’s naught but a scratch.”

  “It is hard to believe a poacher would be so bold—or stupid—to be shooting with our party close by.”

  “It wasn’t a poacher, Charles. A poacher would not possess a rifle,” replied Saybrook grimly. “Such a weapon is very expensive.”

  “H-how do you know it was a rifle?”

  “The sound. It’s quite different from that of a musket.”

  “But who . . . ?” Mellon left the rest of the question unsaid.

  “I haven’t a clue.” The earl swung his gaze back to the forest. “And there’s no point in trying to chase after the fellow. He’ll have no trouble losing himself in the forest.”

  Mellon blinked, suddenly noting the blade in Saybrook’s hand. “You were going after the fellow armed with naught but a knife?”

  “As you say, I am experienced in warfare.” He shifted his grip on the hilt. “You, on the other hand, have no such excuse.”

  “I couldn’t very well let you charge off into danger on your own,” muttered Mellon.

  “We’ll argue the fine points of battlefield strategy later,” said Saybrook. “Come, let us return to the hunt.”

  But as he edged back to let his uncle go first, his eyes narrowed. “A moment,” he murmured, angling another look through the overhanging leaves. Several quick strides took him over a fallen tree and through a screen of young pines. An outcropping of weathered granite rose up from the center of a tiny clearing. It was the spattering of bright crimson on the gunmetal gray stone that had first caught the earl’s gaze. However, as he came closer, he saw what had caused it.

  Crouching down, Saybrook placed a finger on the side of the man’s slashed throat. “No pulse,” he murmured as Mellon came up behind him. “But the flesh is still warm.”

  Mellon closed his eyes and, repressing a gag, quickly looked away. “Why would someone deliberately shoot at you?” he croaked, once he had recovered his voice. “Have you been stirring up any trouble?”

  “Not that I know of.” Saybrook sat back on his heels. “And yet, trouble seems intent on rearing its ugly head.” Expelling a grunt, the earl went on to explain about seeing a man sneak into the woods just before the shot.

  “And you didn’t recognize the fellow?”

  Saybrook shook his head. “No, but I’m certain this is not him. The man I saw was dressed like a member of our shooting party, in heavy woolens and a broad-brimmed hat.” He felt inside the corpse’s moleskin jacket, and then made a check of the pockets. “There’s nothing that might help identify him.”

  Mellon nudged the short-barreled gun lying half buried in the russet needles. “You were right about the rifle.”

  “Yes.” The earl checked the firing mechanism and frowned. “And it’s equipped with the latest mercury fulminate percussion caps.” Flicking away a grain of gunpowder, he looked up at his uncle. “A design that is only available to our elite military regiments.”

  “Christ Almighty,” whispered Mellon. “I fear something very sinister is afoot here.”

  “As do I, Charles. As do I.” Thinning his lips, the earl wiped a bloody hand on his breeches. “You know, it might not have been me that the shooter was aiming at. Rochemont was right in the line of fire as well.” He paused. “Is there any reason our government might be unhappy with the French émigré community in London? Rochemont is one of its leaders, and while they were a useful wartime ally, now that the monarchy has been restored to France, their loyalty will lie with a foreign sovereign and a foreign country.” A pause. “So perhaps they are no longer viewed as a friend.”

  Shouts rose from the edge of the grove before his uncle could answer.

  “I sent our ghillie to raise the alarm,” explained Mellon. He stood and called an answer to the group.

  A few moments later, a half dozen of their party were milling around the macabre scene, their shocked murmurs underscoring the agitated whine of the bird dog.

  “Good God, what happened?” demanded a pale-faced Enqvist.

  Mellon lifted his shoulders. “Someone shot at Lord Saybrook. We gave chase”—he shuddered—“and stumbled upon this.”

  “The devil take it, you’re wounded, Saybrook!” exclaimed Bellis, one of Mellon’s associates in the Foreign Ministry.

  All eyes fixed on the dark stain spreading over the torn fabric of his coat.

  “The bullet merely grazed me,” replied the earl.

  “I can’t say that I blame you for slitting the cur’s throat,” muttered Bellis, casting a look at the knife in Saybrook’s hand.

  “No, no—Saybrook didn’t kill him,” protested Mellon. “As I said, we found the fellow with his throat already cut.”

  One of the men coughed. Several shuffled their feet.

  “We’ll need to bring the body back to the manor house,” said Bellis. “The local magistrate will have to be summoned and an inquest arranged, seeing as there’s been a violent death.”

  Mellon gave a brusque wave to the ghillie. “Go, man, and bring back the cart, along with a few of your sturdiest fellows.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The servant hurried away, and the others slowly followed.

  Saybrook rose and carefully slid his blade back into his boot. When he looked up, it was to find Grentham watching him, a scimitar smile curled on his mouth.

  “Tut, tut. You’re getting a little careless, Saybrook,” mocked the minister. “The last two times a man ended up dead from a knife wound, you made sure that no witnesses caught you at the scene red-handed.”

  The earl’s expression remained impassive.

  “If you recall, I did warn you to watch your step.” Grentham dropped his voice to a whisper as he brushed by. “But it seems you have slipped. And now you and your sharp-tongued wife have nothing to barter. You are on your own.”

  6

  From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks

  Chocolate Date Pudding Cake

  6 ounces pitted dates, about 2 cups

  ¾ cup water

  1¼ cups sugar

  1 tablespoon pure vanilla extract

  6 large egg whites

  ½ cup unsweetened cocoa powder

  ½ cup all-purpose flour

  Confectioners’ sugar, for dusting

  1. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F. Spray a 1½ quart soufflé dish with nonstick spray.

  2. Put the dates and water in a pot over medium-low heat. Cook and stir for 10 minutes until the dates are very soft. Transfer the softened dates to a food processor and puree until smooth. Add the sugar and vanilla, puree again until well blended. Scoop out the puree into a mixing bowl. Sift together the cocoa powder and flour and add to the date mixture. Fold using a rubber spatula; combine gently until well mixed.

  3. In a mixing bowl, whip the egg whites until they form stiff peaks. Fold the egg whites into the date mixture.

  4. Pour the batter into the coated soufflé dish, spreading it evenly with a spatula. Bake on the middle rack for 25 minutes until the outside is just set. Cool to room temperature. Shake some confectioners’ sugar on top and serve.

  The flames licked up from the burning log, teasing, taunting little tongues of fire. Do it. Do it. The smoky crackle of the red-gold coals added their own siren song.

  Do it. Do it.

  Arianna stared into the hearth, mesmerized by the seductive light and heat. It would be oh, so easy . . .

  Whirling away from the burning logs, she rushed to the window, and pressed her palms to the glass panes, willing the chill to cool temptation.

  “No,” she whispered.

  But who would know? countered a devilish voice inside her head. She could consign the letters to the fire and nobody would know. Poof—the evidence would simply crumble to ashes.

  The danger would disappear in a pale plume of smoke.

  A papery
sigh whispered as she unfolded the sheets yet again and read over the writing. Two of them contained naught but gibberish. It was the other one that raised a pebbling of gooseflesh up and down her arms.

  There was—there had to be—a plausible explanation. However, in the wrong hands, the document could do great damage.

  She drew in a measured breath, willing her heart to stop thudding against her ribs. In the past, the choice would have been a simple one for her. Concepts like right and wrong were mere abstractions when one was scrabbling hand over fist to survive. She would have done what was practical and pragmatic without a second thought.

  But Saybrook was a man of unyielding honor, of unbending principle, she thought with a harried sigh. And strangely enough, she had come to believe in such platitudes.

  Though how and why, I can’t explain—even to myself.

  The damnable documents posed more than a personal dilemma. Their existence indicated a far more insidious danger. Saybrook would say it was their moral duty to show the evidence to the proper authorities, no matter the consequences.

  Arianna bit her lip. She was very good at hand-to-hand combat—but she hated wrestling with her conscience.

  “I much preferred it when I didn’t have one,” she whispered wryly.

  The sudden clattering of a horse cart rolling into the courtyard interrupted any further philosophical musings.

  Her breath had fogged the windowpanes, so it took a moment to wipe away the vapor. Through the blurred glass she saw that a length of canvas was covering something in the back of the cart. Two ghillies jumped down from the backboard and the horse was quickly led away to the back of the manor.

  Craning her neck, she watched the procession of grim-faced hunters come marching up the drive. In contrast to the casual camaraderie of the morning bantering, they appeared silent, subdued.

  Saybrook was not among them.

  Arianna turned away from the window, trying to quell a sense of unease.

  A dog began barking in high-pitched yips that echoed sharply off the stately limestone walls.

  Her nerves on edge, she nearly jumped out of her skin when an urgent knock suddenly sounded on the suite’s entryway. Sliding the papers back inside the book, she rushed to open the door.

  “Madam, there seems to have been an accident involving the earl. I was told to tell you that”—the agitated footman paused to catch his breath—“that you had best come quickly.”

  Dio Madre.

  Arianna rushed to retrieve her shoes, which she had slipped off while sitting at the escritoire. As she shoved aside the chair, her gaze fell on the chocolate book and its hidden secrets.

  On impulse, she carried it to the bed and shoved it beneath the mattress before hurrying down the stairs.

  “There is no need to fuss, Arianna.” Saybrook tried to fend off her hand. “It’s naught but a scratch.”

  Ignoring his protest, she turned to a footman. “Have a basin of hot water, scissors, bandages and basilicum powder brought to the West Parlor—and quickly.”

  “Yes, madam!”

  “And a vial of laudanum.” Noting that her husband’s face looked as pale as the surrounding Portland stone, she gestured at Mellon. “Charles, please assist His Lordship.”

  “I don’t need any help,” muttered Saybrook. But in truth, he looked a little unsteady on his feet as he started up the entrance stairs. “And I would prefer to go to my own rooms, if you please.”

  “The parlor, Charles,” ordered Arianna. The bloodstain spreading over the singed wool was alarming.

  Once inside the room, she had him strip off his coat and take a seat on the sofa. After propping a pillow behind his shoulders, she drew the side table closer and took up the scissors to cut away his shirt.

  A hiss escaped her lips as she stared at the jagged wound. “You thick-headed man. Why, it’s a wonder you didn’t bleed to death! Did you not think to put a pad on the wound to staunch the bleeding?”

  “I was . . . distracted,” he answered.

  Mellon, who had retreated several steps to give her room, cleared his throat. “What did Grentham say to you?” he asked tautly.

  Grentham. Arianna felt a chill snake down her spine. “How is the minister involved in this?” she asked, carefully sponging the gore from Saybrook’s shoulder.

  “He was among the men who found us with the body,” replied the earl.

  “Body,” she repeated.

  “A man was murdered in the woods near the hunt. We found him,” replied the earl.

  “Let us not read too much into Grentham’s presence,” said Mellon quickly. “Our ghillie raised the alarm, and the shooters closest to us came to investigate.” He shifted his stance. “It was coincidence that the minister was among them.”

  “I don’t put much faith in coincidence,” she said softly. “Especially when it involves that bastard.”

  She felt Saybrook’s muscles tense as she bandaged the wound. And yet, he remained stoically silent.

  “Now, kindly explain to me exactly what happened,” Arianna insisted.

  Mellon gave a terse account of the action.

  “Charles, will you please bring me a glass of brandy?” Arianna added a few drops of laudanum and handed it to the earl. “Drink this.”

  “I don’t need any damnable narcotic,” he growled.

  “Ordinarily, I would agree with you.” She considered opium a pernicious substance. “However, in this case, I’ve no ingredients to brew a more effective painkiller, and I want you to rest for a bit before I allow you to move.”

  “Bloody hell, I’m not at all tired. But I suppose it will be more trouble than it’s worth to argue with you.” Making a face, he swallowed the brandy in one gulp.

  She made him lie down and arranged a blanket over his chest. Despite his protests, the earl quickly dozed off.

  “It looks like he lost of lot of blood.” Mellon looked down at the crimson-soaked remains of Saybrook’s shirt. “Is he in danger?”

  “I know, it looks gruesome,” replied Arianna. “But Sandro was right. It’s just a flesh wound, though the bullet cut a nasty gash.” She let out a pent-up sigh, thinking how close the bullet had come to splitting open his skull. “Thank God his soldier’s instinct for survival is still sharp.”

  Mellon returned to the sideboard and poured himself a drink. “Amen to that.” He held up the decanter. “May I offer you one as well?”

  Arianna shook her head. She needed to think clearly.

  He stared meditatively into the spirits before taking a sip.

  “Charles, I . . .”

  I wish that I could coax a spark of warmth in your eyes. You are so cordial. And so cold. Is there nothing I can do to win your trust?

  “I . . . am concerned,” she finished, deciding this was not the right time to broach their uneasy relationship.

  “As am I.” Mellon sucked in his cheeks. “Grentham is a dangerous enemy to have.”

  “I know that.” Arianna hesitated. “Just as I know that I am the cause for the friction between them. I am sorry—you have every right to be upset with the situation.” And with me.

  It was several long moments before Mellon replied. “Sandro is a complex man. Most people find him hard to understand. He is intensely introspective—perhaps too much so. And prone to fits of brooding.”

  Aren’t we all, she thought.

  “But you seem to be drawing him out of himself. He seems . . . happy.”

  “Thank you,” said Arianna softly. “I imagine that was not easy for you to say.”

  His mouth quirked. “A diplomat is trained to say the correct thing, regardless of his personal feelings.”

  An oblique statement if ever there was one. Especially considering the contents of the hidden letters. But negotiating any terms of a personal truce would have to wait for a less volatile time.

  “We will need every bit of eloquence we can muster to counter whatever maliciousness Grentham has in mind,” she said in reply.

&nb
sp; Mellon’s expression turned grim.

  “Might I leave you to sit with Sandro for a short while?” she went on. “I have a few things I wish to arrange while he is napping.”

  “You sent for Henning? Blast it all, there was no need for that.” Saybrook awoke from his nap in an irritable mood. “He’s got patients who have far more need of him than I do.”

  “His friend Desmond can take care of them in his absence,” answered Arianna. Their good friend Basil Henning was an irascible Scottish surgeon who held clinics for former soldiers too poor to pay for medical care. “There is no point in arguing. I have already sent a messenger, mounted on one of the marquess’s fastest stallions.”

  She offered Saybrook a plate of cold chicken and rolls, knowing he tended to be snappish when his stomach was empty. “I’ve also dispatched our coach to wait in Andover. In order to save time, I’ve asked Mr. Henning to hire a private conveyance in London and travel with all possible haste to meet it there.”

  “Baz doesn’t have much money,” grumbled Saybrook after taking a reluctant bite of food.

  “Along with the message about your injury, I included a note for him to give our housekeeper. Bianca will supply him with funds,” replied Arianna. “I expect that he will be here by morning.”

  The earl shifted against the pillows. “You’ve already patched up the scratch. And if there is any need for further care, we could have summoned a local physician.”

  She carefully smoothed a crease from the blanket. “I would rather not trust a stranger to mix any powders or potions for you.”

  Saybrook muttered an oath.

  “It’s not simply a question of your treatment,” Arianna continued. “Given what has happened, and the impending inquest, it is important to have Mr. Henning make a close inspection of the corpse.”

  “Your wife has a point,” murmured Mellon.

  Saybrook frowned but didn’t argue.

  “The angle of entry, the shape of the blade—Mr. Henning can give expert testimony that it wasn’t your knife,” she added.