The Cocoa Conspiracy lahm-2

by Andrea Penrose

  “And our desire to see the collection would provide a perfect cover for a trip to the city. It’s known throughout the ton that you are working on a book, and my interest in chocolate recipes is no secret either. We are considered odd. Unconventional and uninterested in the usual jockeying for power and privilege. So it will be easy to appear detached from all the political intrigue.” In the reflection of the leaded glass, she saw that both men were watching her intently. “And yet your title and pedigree will assure that we are invited to dance attendance on the parties surrounding the Conference. Which would allow us to pursue our own agenda—that of catching the traitor and stopping whatever murder is planned.”

  Saybrook looked thoughtful. “An interesting suggestion.”

  The minister maintained a stony face, but a telltale pulse of flesh, just a hairsbreadth above his starched shirt point, betrayed his inner emotions.

  Yes or no. The final decision was up to Saybrook.

  “There is, of course, the question of the murder here.” The earl met Grentham’s gaze. “For which I am under suspicion.”

  “As you have pointed out, the evidence of the knife wound seems to indicate your innocence,” replied the minister tightly. “The inquest will no doubt return a verdict of assailant unknown.”

  “Very well,” announced Saybrook after a long moment. “Seeing as you are in danger of making a royal cock-up of this business, we’ll go and do your department’s work for you, Grentham.” His voice turned slightly mocking. “But let us not make a habit of it.”

  As the minister took a moment to square the documents, he speared Arianna with yet another daggered look.

  Arianna felt a quiver of outrage. Rather than mentally cutting up her vital organs, the ungrateful lout ought to be expressing his gratitude. “You might say thank you,” she muttered.

  Grentham ignored the sarcasm. “We have no time to waste in formulating a plan.”

  “Starting with the documents.” Saybrook folded his arms across his chest. “What do you suggest we do with them?”

  “Why, copy them and put the originals back in the book,” answered Grentham without hesitation. He was in command of himself, any hint of emotion banished by the intensity of crafting a trap for the enemy. She felt a twinge of unwilling admiration for a man who could so be single-minded in his purpose.

  Life as a hunter. But surely the chase must grow tiring at times.

  “Dare I hope that your wife managed to extract them without doing too much damage to the marbled papers?”

  Thrusting aside her musings, Arianna smiled sweetly. “I am very good with a knife.”

  “Excellent. Let us hope your skills with a glue pot are equally sharp.” He gestured at the cabinets built into the far wall. “I would imagine there are some bookbinding supplies here. Find what you need and smuggle the items back to your rooms—I need not remind you that secrecy is of the utmost importance.”

  “As you so kindly pointed out, sir, I am no stranger to scheming,” replied Arianna, any feelings of sympathy for the minister quickly dispelled by his insufferable arrogance. “It goes without saying that Davilenko must think he has outwitted us by getting his hands on the book.”

  “In this case, truth will serve our purpose well,” said Saybrook. “I shall make a show of displaying the gift that my wife chose to celebrate my birthday. It will be easy enough to leave it lying around in one of the parlors.”

  “You think he’ll take the bait?” asked Arianna.

  “He has no reason to think that we know anything about the hidden documents,” said Saybrook. “If I were him, I’d seize the opportunity to recover them. There’s a good chance he has not yet admitted his initial failure to his contact—conspirators are very unforgiving of any mistakes—so my guess is that the plot will proceed as planned.”

  “Let us hope so,” said Grentham brusquely. “For your sake.”

  “And for yours,” countered Saybrook. “If I were you, I would not forget about the murdered stranger. Does not the fact that a former French Grenadier took dead aim at me set off any alarm bells?”

  Grentham laughed softly. “Indeed, it’s quite alarming to learn that Imperial Guards are such terrible shots.”

  Arianna muttered something in Creole that wiped the smile off his face.

  “There are legions of half-starved former soldiers roaming the streets, both here and across the Channel,” added the minister. “And most are willing to commit violence for a handful of coins. Perhaps someone doesn’t like you.”

  “I can, of course, think of a few.” They stared at each other, and the space between them seemed to crackle with invisible sparks. “But if I were you, I wouldn’t be satisfied with such a glib answer.”

  Arianna could no longer keep quiet. Gesturing at one of the study tables, where a sheaf of fresh paper and several sharpened pencils lay on the blotter, she said, “Shall I draw you a diagram, milord? An unknown French operative loose in your department, a Grognard assassin.” She sketched an imaginary line through the air. “Even a lackwit can see that they are likely connected. The question is, was the soldier aiming at my husband, or was he hired to shoot Rochemont. It would help our investigation immensely to know the answer to that question.”

  She paused, aware that her heart was drumming angrily against her ribs. All the talk had exacerbated her frustrations. She much preferred action to endless debate. “Surely your minions can manage to track down the truth while we occupy ourselves with the other conundrums. I am assuming that your resources are more extensive than ours—though quantity does not, of course, mean quality.”

  “Be advised that you rouse my wife’s ire at your own peril. As you know, she doesn’t suffer fools gladly.” Saybrook’s mouth twitched. “So, Grentham, are you going to pursue that lead?”

  “No,” answered the minister with a sneer. “As I said, I shall see that the coroner’s inquiry rules death by unknown assailant, so you need not fear for your own neck. As to how and why the Frenchman came to have his throat cut, I’m leaving it to you and your motley Scottish sawbones to figure it out.”

  “Your confidence in our abilities quite takes my breath away,” said the earl.

  The minister dismissed the comment with an impatient flick of his hand. “Your uncle must also be dealt with.”

  “What would you suggest?” asked Saybrook warily.

  “That you tell him nothing,” replied Grentham decisively. “Mellon must not betray any hint that Kydd is under suspicion. Keeping him in ignorance is the best way to assure he does not make a slip.”

  Saybrook gave a grudging a nod. “On that, at least, we are in agreement. He has no experience in subterfuge.”

  “As opposed to the two of you.” Grentham was clearly savoring the chance to reseize the offensive.

  “We shall have to come up with an excuse for leaving here early,” mused Arianna. “One that won’t rouse his suspicion that anything is wrong.”

  “On the contrary, Lady Saybrook. You must not rush off in a pelter,” replied the minister. “It’s imperative that Davilenko have no reason to be alarmed either. And don’t forget, your husband will have to appear at the inquest to give testimony on the circumstances of finding the body.” The flash of teeth was not meant as an encouraging smile. “You can accomplish nothing in Austria until Kydd and the English delegation arrive, so use your time here to be sociable—spread word that all the talk of Vienna has sparked an interest to see the Emperor’s library.”

  An astute suggestion, conceded Arianna.

  “Once in Vienna, you will, of course, need to draw on your full arsenal of sordid skills,” Grentham went on. “I suggest that you, Lord Saybrook, handle the mundane surveillance and the searching for evidence.” The scudding sunlight lit hot and cold flickers of silver in his gray eyes. “While you, Lady Saybrook would be best used . . .”

  Tapping a finger to chin, he pursed his lips. “Let me think . . . Ah, of course. You would be best in putting your God-given talents
to work in seducing every last little intimate secret from Kydd. As I recall, you have no trouble making yourself comfortable among Chlorella vulgaris.”

  A warning growl rumbled deep in Saybrook’s throat.

  “Yes, I studied a bit of botany too—enough to know the Latin name for pond scum,” said Grentham nastily. Returning his attention to her, he continued. “Or perhaps your husband is afraid that your loyalties might not be as strong as they should be. After all, yours was a marriage of mere convenience—convenience for you, that is. As I see it, the earl has not profited by much, other than a warm body in his bed.” A pause. “Or do you not sleep together?”

  “Why not ask your spies?” said Arianna coolly, willing her blood to keep from coming to a boil. “I am sure they have been crawling like rats along the roof slates and window ledges of our town house.”

  Grentham began gathering up the papers and carefully folding them along their original creases. “My informants need not go to great lengths to gather quite a bit of interesting information about your habits. Take, for example, the rather attractive woman that the earl meets with every Thursday afternoon for several hours.”

  Arianna blinked.

  “Oh, come, Grentham. If you are looking to dig up dirt on me, you had better tell your lackeys to use a shovel and not a teaspoon,” drawled Saybrook. “Do you really think you have shocked my wife?”

  No, it’s not a shock, thought Arianna. Merely a . . . surprise.

  In an instant, the minister’s spiteful sneer turned a little tenuous. But he covered it by taking up his dove-gray gloves from the table and slipping them over his well-tended hands. “I’ll leave you to put the bait back together. And be advised that I shall expect a full report once you’ve coaxed Davilenko to bite.”

  Arianna was tempted to cram the leather-bound volume down Grentham’s spiteful throat. With any luck, half of his perfect pearly teeth would be knocked to flinders.

  As the door fell shut on the minister’s parting words, Saybrook expelled a harried sigh.

  “Pompous prick,” growled Arianna through clenched teeth. Stalking to the storage cabinet, she began rummaging around for a glue pot and brushes.

  The earl remained silent for a long, awkward moment. “About what Grentham just said,” he began haltingly. “The lady in question is a botanist, a spinster who belongs to—”

  “For God’s sake, Sandro, you owe me no explanation of your life. Pray, do not make further mention of it.”

  “I . . .” He looked at her uncertainly.

  “It is of no concern,” said Arianna sharply. The sudden clench in her belly was not jealousy, she assured herself, but merely anger at Grentham for his malicious games. “Come, we have work to do.”

  The book lay on the side table by the rosewood cigar case, a spill of candlelight catching on the gilt lettering stamped on the spine. A faint skirl of smoke wafted across the ceiling rosette as the lone figure in the smoking room rose from the corner armchair.

  A puff of breath blew out the tiny flame, leaving the room shrouded in slanting shadows cast by the flickering moonlight. Footsteps crossed noiselessly over the carpet—the only sounds were a brief whisper of leather sliding over smooth wood, followed by a soft hiss of triumph.

  Dark on dark, the shadows shifted as the clock began to strike the midnight hour. And then the door closed quietly, leaving the empty space enveloped in blackness.

  The next morning dawned cloudless, the last vestiges of the squalling storms having blown through during the night. Saybrook rose early to join the Spanish diplomats for breakfast, while Arianna avoided the public rooms downstairs, choosing instead to invite Henning to share a repast in the sitting room of her suite.

  “Vienna,” muttered the surgeon, in between bites of kippered herring. “Do ye really think it’s wise to get tangled in Grentham’s web of intrigue again?”

  “The strands are already twined around Charles,” Arianna pointed out. “You know Sandro—he wasn’t about to leave his uncle at the mercy of that spider.”

  “I say the minister was bluffing. He would have been hard-pressed to prove any wrongdoing on Mellon’s part.”

  “Perhaps,” she replied. “But the document would have been damaging, and Sandro is very protective of family.” A bit of toast crumbled between her fingers as she recalled his reaction to Grentham’s mention of Antonia.

  So, the minister knew about Saybrook’s sister. It wasn’t overly surprising, given that Grentham’s job was to know all the sordid secrets of the ton. Clearly the subject had been discussed between the two of them before, but the earl had not seen fit to tell her of it. Too personal? Arianna tried not to think of the other female mentioned by the minister. Given her own conflicted musings on independence, she could hardly complain.

  “Not hungry?” asked Henning, eyeing the pile of crumbs on her plate with wry amusement. “If ye have lost yer appetite, then things must be even more serious than I thought. Are there any new discoveries ye haven’t told me about?”

  “N-no. I’m merely trying to digest all that has happened. Like you, I have no illusions as to the dangers of being drawn into Grentham’s world. But Sandro is, as you know, not intimidated by a challenge. Quite the contrary, in fact.”

  “Ye are getting to understand him rather well,” murmured the surgeon.

  Am I? Arianna was not quite so sanguine, but the earl’s return forestalled any further discussion of her husband’s inner workings.

  “So, did the rat bite?” inquired Henning.

  “Indeed, it appears that he swallowed the bait in one gulp.” Saybrook handed the book to Arianna. “But perhaps you should check more carefully, just to be sure.”

  She quickly carried it to the escritoire, and opened the back cover. “Yes,” she said, running a magnifying glass along the inside edge of the binding. “It’s been reglued, and the bulge is definitely gone.”

  “Then I think we can safely assume that mischief and mayhem is still afoot,” said the surgeon.

  “You make it sound too poetically pretty,” groused Saybrook. “Rather call it treason and terror.”

  Ugly words, thought Arianna. Ugly deeds.

  “The inquest is to take place at noon,” Saybrook informed them. “There’s no need for you to attend, Baz. I think we can trust Grentham to keep his word about arranging the verdict. The announcement of death by unknown assailant will keep my neck intact for a bit longer.”

  “Only because it suits the bastard’s purpose to have you free to do his dirty work,” replied Henning.

  “We offered,” Arianna pointed out. “Or, more precisely, I offered.”

  The surgeon waggled a brow. “Bored with the life of an indolent aristocrat, are ye now, lassie?”

  She smiled. “A little, I suppose. Not that I would have chosen to have Sandro shot at and Mellon enmeshed in this tangle of treachery.”

  “Oh, our laddie will have it all sorted in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.” Henning allowed a last twitch of cynical mirth before turning serious. “Have you given any more thought to the letter you deciphered?”

  Saybrook poured himself a cup of tea. “I’ve been mulling over the part that says, ‘I’ve been appointed to the English delegation and our contact in Sx is also in place.’ At flush blush, the letters ‘SX’ would seem to mean the Kingdom of Saxony, whose ruler is currently being held a virtual prisoner by the Russian Tsar,” he replied. “But I have a feeling that nothing is going to be as it seems in this affair.”

  “I don’t understand—how can the Tsar hold a fellow ruler prisoner?” inquired Arianna.

  “Because nobody is stepping up to give him a good kick in the arse,” quipped Henning.

  “Russia wants to remake the Baltic region,” explained her husband. “The Tsar wishes to create new borders for Poland, and the tiny Kingdom of Saxony is standing in his way. So its king is enjoying the Tsar’s hospitality for the moment. It’s all very polite, of course, but let’s just say that any decision to leave would p
rove awkward.”

  Arianna made a face. “I shall need to assemble a reference library in order to keep all the rivalries and alliances straight.”

  “Ye have another week to gain firsthand knowledge of all the petty quarrels and hatreds simmering on the Continent,” said Henning with a cynical snort. “But of course, there will be plenty more to learn of, once you reach Vienna.”

  “I suppose that I might as well start with Rochemont,” she mused. “The Aggrieved Adonis will likely want a good deal of sympathy for the injury to his perfect looks.”

  Henning tossed back another dram of whisky—his fourth—and rose. “Seeing as you’ve no further need of me at present, I’ll be heading back to London. I have patients with real ills to treat.” His hands flexed, setting off a sharp cracking of his knuckles. “And arrangements to make for doing some digging up north.”

  “Do be careful how you slide your spade into the auld sod,” cautioned the earl. “We don’t want Kydd—”

  “To feel that someone is starting work on his grave?” suggested Henning. “Yer pipes keep whistling the same tune, laddie. I understand the need for secrecy.”

  “It can’t be repeated too often,” said the earl.

  “The person I have in mind for the job can be trusted.”

  Saybrook seemed satisfied with the surgeon’s answer.

  “I’ll send word for our carriage to be made ready,” she said. “Along with a basket of food for the journey.” She eyed the empty glass. “And another bottle of the marquess’s best malt.”

  “You’ll knock off all my rough edges with such luxuries, Lady S,” said the surgeon with a sour grin. “I fear I’ll turn quishy as boiled oats.”

  “I don’t think there’s any danger of your Highland flint going soft,” she replied.

  “None of us can afford to lose our edge,” said Saybrook, his eyes turning opaque. “Or let down our guard for an instant. I suspect the coming months are going to test our mettle in ways we can’t yet imagine.”

  10

  From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks