The Cocoa Conspiracy lahm-2

by Andrea Penrose

  “As you have pointed out in the past, lassie, a smart criminal makes sure that his underlings never know the real truth about his involvement.” Henning paused. “We have only Grentham’s word that he was innocent of any wrongdoing. And that I take with a grain of salt.”

  She shivered in spite of the sunlight. “So you think the hidden papers may be a trap?”

  “I don’t think ye were meant te find them yerself. My guess is Grentham’s plan would be to arrive at your town house with his lackeys from Horse Guards, and then make a show of discovering the hidden documents in the book. Catching you red-handed, as it were, would be a very clever ploy.” The surgeon snapped his fingers. “Voila ! The government would be convinced that the French threat is eliminated, leaving him free to play his filthy games. At the same time, the minister also gets his personal revenge on you for ruining his previous plan.”

  “Perhaps you ought to take up novel writing,” said Saybrook drily. “You have a very vivid imagination.”

  “Which has saved our necks on more than one occasion,” retorted Henning. “Look, as I was waiting in the side parlor for the footman to send you word of my arrival, I overheard the minister and his secretary as they were passing through the corridor. He mentioned you by name and said, ‘The writing is on the wall.’ ”

  “That is a common turn of speech,” Saybrook pointed out. “I think you are reading too much into it. Don’t forget, Grentham saw me crouched over a dead body, holding a knife.” He fixed his friend with a level gaze. “I know your feelings about figures of authority, especially ones who are charged with keeping order.” As a Scotsman, Henning was all too familiar with England’s iron-fisted tactics of repressing dissent. “Take care that your loathing doesn’t color your judgment.”

  The surgeon scowled. “My scenario may sound farfetched, but the fact is, we all know Grentham bitterly resents you for solving a mystery that stymied him,” Henning retorted. “You showed yourselves to be very, very clever—and that may have him worried. If there is a highly placed traitor in the government, I say he is the most likely suspect.”

  “I can’t help but wonder, Sandro . . .” Arianna could no longer keep from asking a question that had been bothering her for some time. “Mr. Henning makes a good point. If Grentham is not a traitor, the depth of his enmity is hard to fathom. Granted, we did not allow him to control us during the previous investigation, but in the end, we saved him from a great deal of public embarrassment.”

  The alteration of Saybrook’s face was almost imperceptible. His expression didn’t change—it simply hardened just enough to appear as if it were carved out of stone.

  Ignoring the oblique warning to retreat, she pressed on. “Is there a reason I don’t know about as to why the two of you dislike each other so intensely?”

  “Yes,” he replied curtly.

  Arianna waited for him to go on.

  “But at the moment, I don’t care to discuss it. The details aren’t really relevant.”

  His refusal hurt more than she cared to admit.

  “Far more important are the questions concerning Charles and the incriminating documents.”

  “If the decision of how to deal with the damn papers were mine, I know what I would do,” said Henning.

  Metal rasped against metal as a gust of wind swung the lanthorn in her hand.

  “Like Lady S, I’d be tempted to fight fire with fire, and turn them into ashes.” The surgeon slanted a challenging look at Saybrook. “But then, my morals have always been a trifle more flexible than yours.”

  “And if they aren’t a trap?” asked the earl.

  “Auch, well, then I suppose the trouble is very real,” conceded Henning.

  “Trouble,” repeated Arianna.

  Saybrook appeared to be staring at some far-off spot on the heathered moors. His brow suddenly creased, and with a muttered oath, he turned abruptly, gravel crunching under his boots. “I must return to our rooms. I’ve just had an idea.”

  Arianna took yet another turn around the perimeter of the sitting room, taking great care to step as lightly as she could in order not to wake Henning, who was dozing on the sofa. Rain drummed against the windowpanes, echoing her inner turmoil. Truth and lies. Henning’s cynical suggestions concerning their present predicament had stirred her own imagination to life. A pelter of possible explanations were spinning inside her head—none of them good.

  Did I push Grentham over the edge?

  Guilt nibbled at the edges of her consciousness. In the past, her temper and her tongue hadn’t been cause for concern. She had been willing to suffer the consequences of her actions. But now, her decisions were no longer so simple. Like a stone striking water, they sent waves rippling out far from the original point of impact.

  Which stirred an even more unsettling ripple in her head.

  Had marriage been an impetuous mistake? The thought had been niggling at her for some time now. Having experienced the unfettered freedom of a vagabond nobody, she would never be entirely happy living within the gilded cage of aristocratic London. But she couldn’t simply unlatch the door and fly away. She had obligations. Commitments. Responsibilities.

  Damn. Damn. Damn.

  Looking away from the gloom outside the glass, Arianna stared at the closed door of her husband’s bedchamber. Not that Saybrook had any taste for the superficial glitter and glamour of Polite Society. He too seemed happier in his own private world.

  A growl of thunder rumbled over the distant moors.

  “Eh?” Henning opened an eye. “Did ye say something, Lady S?”

  “The storm seems to be gathering force,” she murmured. “I shall send down a request for a room to be made up for you tonight. I’ll not have you traveling in such nasty weather.”

  The surgeon rubbed at his bristly chin. “I fear the atmosphere here may become even nastier.”

  She heaved a sigh. “You think I should have destroyed the documents?”

  He shook his head. “Auch, let’s not piss in that pot, lassie.”

  “Aye, hold your water, everyone.” Saybrook emerged from his room and padded across the carpet, a sheaf of papers in his hands.

  “Any luck?” asked Henning.

  “Aye,” replied the earl with grim satisfaction. “Luck, Chance, Fate—whatever you wish to call the fickle force, it has worked in our favor today.”

  In spite of her misgivings, Arianna felt a spark of excitement. “You mean to say you actually deciphered the code?”

  “Aye,” he repeated. “As I told you, intuition plays a key role in the process. Baz’s discovery of the military tattoo and his mention of the Grenadiers at Salamanca got me to thinking. It seemed worth a try to test some of the basic ciphers used by Soult’s forces during the last campaigns of the Peninsular War. I figured that a French operative would be familiar with that system, and likely to adopt it for his own use. After all, he had to train others, and coming up with a whole new system is no easy task.”

  “Clever lad.” Henning swung his legs off the sofa, making room for the earl and Arianna.

  “Unfortunately, cleverness is a two-edged sword.” Saybrook sat down and dragged the tea table around for his papers. He spread them out, then traced a finger over the lines of jumbled lettering. “The encrypted message indicates that the person responsible for stealing the government document from my uncle’s files is the young man he has been mentoring for the past several years.”

  Arianna felt her throat tighten. “David Kydd? The young man from Scotland?”

  He nodded.

  “But he seems so . . .”

  “Incapable of betrayal?” suggested Saybrook grimly.

  She stared down at her hands, recalling her encounters with the young diplomat at several of Mellon’s soirees. Unlike many of the junior members of the Foreign Ministry, who seemed to think that being bland and boring was a virtue, Kydd had not been afraid to express his individuality. He was earnest, intelligent, articulate, and yet possessed a sly sense o
f humor. Character and conviction. No wonder he had been the only person she had actually enjoyed conversing with during the long and tedious evenings.

  “To me, he appeared to be a man of lofty principles,” Arianna finally answered. “His ideas and enthusiasms were interesting. And I got the impression that he admired Charles very much.”

  “Appearances can be deceiving,” said Saybrook, echoing one of Henning’s favorite sayings.

  The surgeon grimaced. “You took the words right out of my mouth.”

  “Merde,” muttered Arianna.

  “You too.”

  Saybrook quirked a humorless smile. “It is indeed a cesspool, and a foul one at that.” Just as quickly, his expression tightened. “For along with passing on the details of Mellon’s activities, Kydd also included a brief update on a meeting he had with a coconspirator. It says”—the earl picked up one of his note papers and read—“ ‘Met with R and all is going according to schedule. I’ve been appointed to the English delegation and our contact in Sx is also in place. Expect me in V by October. By the last week in November, the Deux will be dead. It will happen by the Night. ’ ”

  He let the paper drop back onto the table, as if unwilling to soil his hand with it a moment longer than was necessary.

  “R for Renard?” Arianna asked.

  Her husband shrugged. “As we said before, it’s possible. But we ought to be careful about making such an assumption.” He looked at Henning. “Baz might say Grentham is merely being extra diabolical in eliminating my uncle’s protégé.”

  The surgeon made a face. Shifting on the sofa, he shoved his hands in his pockets, then took them out again. “Aye. It’s possible,” he grumbled, fiddling with the coin he had picked up earlier. “It’s . . .” His voice stopped abruptly as he stared at the markings on the coin. “Bloody hell.”

  “What?” demanded Saybrook.

  “It’s an old Scottish Punnd Sasannach,” he said tersely. “One doesn’t often see them here in the South.”

  “Unless . . .” The earl pursed his lips in thought. “Unless one has been paid by someone from the North.”

  Henning looked as if he wanted to protest but kept quiet.

  “It could be coincidence of course,” Saybrook went on. “But Kydd is Scottish, and that he and our Grognard have something in common makes me even more inclined to think this is not a trap designed by Grentham.”

  A noncommittal grunt was the only sound from the surgeon.

  Silence gripped the room for an uneasy interlude until the earl dispelled it with a shrug. “But forgetting Grentham for the moment, let us get back to the coded message and its meaning.” Looking down at the paper, he reread the message aloud.

  “V . . . ‘In V,’ ” mused Arianna, quick to take up the challenge. “It sounds like a place—”

  “Vienna,” interrupted Henning. “Given the document stolen from your uncle’s office, V has to mean Vienna.”

  The earl nodded.

  “So the message seems to indicate that a murder is planned to take place at the Peace Congress in Vienna,” the surgeon went on. He made a face. “But who, or why? ‘The Deux will be dead. It will happen by the Night’ is hardly a helpful hint.”

  “A good question. And as yet, we haven’t a damn clue.” Saybrook paused. “Though ‘Deux’ in French means two, so maybe it’s a double murder.”

  “Dio Madre,” murmured Arianna.

  “Or it’s simply a code name for the target,” pointed out Henning. “Or one of a thousand other possibilities.”

  “A million,” corrected Saybrook glumly. Leaning back from the table, he threaded a hand through his tangled hair. “The second note is penned in a different hand and uses a different code, one that looks to be more difficult. As of yet, I’ve made no headway on it.”

  “Ye have worked bloody miracles making sense of this,” said the surgeon. “How your mind sees aught but gibberish is beyond me.”

  “Patterns, relationships . . .” The earl began to drum his fingers upon the table. “Kydd was educated at King’s College, Cambridge,” he continued after a pensive pause. “And everyone there agreed that despite his humble origins, he appeared to have a brilliant future in front of him. But it seems his background needs further scrutiny.” His gaze slanted to the surgeon. “He is from Edinburgh, Baz.”

  Henning evaded eye contact, a troubled expression pinching at his features.

  “So I am wondering—have you friends there who might do a little digging into Kydd’s personal life? Most people have something to hide.”

  “Blackmail is the first thing that comes to my mind,” offered Arianna. “A family scandal, perhaps? Or a gambling debt?”

  Silence hung in the air for a long moment. The surgeon shifted and scratched at his chin before expelling an audible sigh. “Not necessarily. Seeing as he is Scottish, the first thing I would look at are his politics, lassie.”

  “But why?” she asked, perplexed by the suggestion. “Why would he betray England to the French?”

  “Because you English—and your monarchy—are hated by a good many Scots,” replied Henning bluntly. “The republican principles trumpeted by the French after their Revolution—liberté, égalité, fraternité—appeal to idealistic young men who believe that merit, not birth, ought to allow for advancement in Society.”

  “Regardless of sex,” added Arianna under her breath.

  “I am in complete sympathy with Mrs. Wollstonecraft and her manifesto for feminine equality,” said the surgeon. “But alas, in that regard, you will find the Scots just as conservative as the English.”

  “Hypocrites.”

  Saybrook’s lips quirked, but he quickly steered the conversation back to Kydd. “You think he might be a member of a secret political society?” Scotland was known to be a hotbed of radical idealism, especially among the university students.

  Henning hesitated before answering. “Many bright, educated men are. And I can’t say I blame them.”

  “If you would rather not get involved . . .” began the earl.

  “I didna say that,” shot back Henning. “Ye know where my loyalties lie.”

  “I do. I also know where your heart lies. I would rather not ask you to choose between the two.”

  “There is a difference between theory and reality. While I believe in a good many radical ideas, I think fanatics of any cause are dangerous. Fomenting change through violence and bloodshed is not something I espouse.”

  Saybrook held his friend’s gaze for a long moment, and then looked away.

  Arianna was loath to break the bond of silent camaraderie, but she couldn’t help asking. “Wait—Napoleon has been banished to the isle of Elba and the monarchy has been restored to France. So while Kydd may have sympathized with the Republican ideals, why would his allegiance be to the new King?”

  Henning blew out his cheeks. “It’s not love of the French; it’s about hate of the English. Many young, educated Scots feel that any enemy of England is a friend of theirs. They believe that working to weaken the British government will help further their own goals.”

  His voice tightened. “On my last visit north, I spent time with a cousin who blistered my ear with his radical ideas. Whitehall ought to be listening carefully—else it might find the bloody conflict isn’t over just because Boney’s been banished to some speck of rock in the Mediterranean.”

  “I agree with you,” said the earl tersely. “But for now, let us stay focused on this particular powder keg. Arianna raises a very good point about France, and the spy we call Renard. During our previous encounter, there was little question that he was working for Napoleon. But now, the Emperor is gone, and the Ancien Régime has been returned to power. Which begs yet another round of whos and whys.”

  Saybrook pursed his lips and thought for several moments. “My work in military intelligence has taught me that in order to solve a conundrum, one must work with both fact and conjecture. I know that security in my uncle’s office is very strict—there
are guards, and special locks for sensitive documents. So I think it’s fair to assume Kydd took the documents.”

  Arianna and Henning nodded.

  “I also think it’s fair to say he’s not working alone. The documents indicate a complex plot that likely is based in Vienna. Again, it’s a rational deduction, given the important Peace Conference scheduled to begin next month.”

  He paused before continuing his thought. “It’s my conjecture that a group of Scottish radicals don’t have the connections to put something like that together. It would take a more powerful network. Which is why I come back to Renard. We know that he is capable of weaving a sophisticated web of betrayal.” The earl paused. “For now, logic dictates that he is the obvious suspect. And yet, it begs the question of who he is working for. And why he is still intent on sabotaging our dealings with the European powers.”

  Henning didn’t hesitate in answering. “Not everyone is as principled as you, laddie. Renard probably doesn’t give a fig for whose hand holds the ruling scepter. He’s either loyal to his terroir—the sacred mother earth of France—in which case he sees England as his natural enemy.” The surgeon picked up his near-empty whisky tumbler and spun it between his palms. “Or he’s being paid obscenely well for his work.”

  Arianna watched as the few remaining drops in the glass blurred to a blink of gold.

  “Look at Talleyrand, for God’s sake.” Henning gave a sardonic grunt. “He changes masters as easily as he changes his fancy silk stockings.” Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord, the current French Foreign Minister, was known for dressing in the elaborate old style of the previous century—velvet breeches, starched satin cravats and jeweled shoes, topped off by a powdered wig. “He’s served Louis XVI, the radical Revolutionaries, the Directoire, Napoleon, and now the newly restored King.”

  “Really?” asked Arianna.

  “You don’t know his history, lassie?”

  She shook her head. “Remember, I grew up in the West Indies.” After the murder of her father, she had fought a tooth-and-nail struggle every day simply in order to survive. “I didn’t have the luxury of studying the nuances of European politics.”