The Cocoa Conspiracy lahm-2

by Andrea Penrose

  Dark Chocolate Flan with Chili, Cinnamon and Pepita Praline

  Butter for pan

  ¼ cup pepitas (hulled toasted pumpkin seeds)

  1⅓ cups granulated sugar

  6 tablespoons water

  1 cup whole milk

  1 cup heavy cream

  1 teaspoon mild chili powder (or to taste)

  1 inch-long piece cinnamon stick

  2 whole black peppercorns

  ½ star anise

  5 ounces bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped

  4 large eggs

  1. Preheat oven to 325 degrees. On a rimmed baking sheet lined with nonstick liner, buttered parchment or waxed paper, spread pepitas close together in a single layer.

  2. In a medium saucepan over medium heat, combine 1 cup sugar and 6 tablespoons water. Bring to a simmer, stirring only until sugar is dissolved. Continue to cook, tilting pan occasionally to distribute heat evenly, until a caramel of a deep amber color forms, about 15 minutes.

  3. Working quickly (before caramel cools and hardens), pour half the hot caramel into a 9-inch loaf pan, tilting pan to coat bottom and a bit of the sides. Pour remaining caramel over pepitas, using an offset spatula to help spread caramel if necessary. Let both pans cool completely. When pepita praline is cool, break into 2-inch pieces.

  4. Meanwhile, in a large saucepan, combine milk, cream, chili powder, cinnamon, peppercorns and star anise. Bring to a simmer over high heat; reduce to medium and simmer 5 minutes. Let stand, off heat, 15 minutes. Return to a simmer, turn off heat and whisk in chocolate until smooth.

  5. In a bowl, whisk eggs, remaining ⅓ cup sugar and the salt together. Whisking constantly, slowly pour hot chocolate mixture into eggs until fully combined. Pour custard through a fine sieve into caramel-coated loaf pan. Place loaf pan in a deep roasting pan. Add 2 inches hot tap water to roasting pan. Cover roasting pan tightly with foil; prick foil all over with a fork.

  6. Carefully transfer pan to oven. Bake until flan is lightly set but still jiggles when shaken (lifting foil to check), about 1½ hours. Transfer loaf pan to a wire rack to cool to room temperature. Refrigerate flan at least 4 hours or overnight.

  7. To serve, run an offset spatula along sides of pan to gently release it. Turn onto a serving platter and top with pepita praline; serve in slices.

  Yield: 8 servings.

  The fortnight finally over, Arianna breathed an inward sigh of relief as she followed the procession of baggage being carried up the steps of their London town house. The inquest, the interminable fugue of privilege at play had put her nerves on constant edge.

  The pop of champagne, the clink of crystal, the fizz of laughter . . .

  And it was, she reminded herself, just a prelude of what was to come.

  The idea was exhausting. And at the same time strangely exhilarating. As if that makes any sense.

  Her mouth quirked as she looked up at the stately marble columns and graceful pediments of the entranceway.

  The polished knocker, the imposing oak paneling, the well-oiled efficiency of the servants opening the portal to the perfectly polished interior . . .

  Perhaps life had become too comfortable, too predictable, admitted Arianna.

  She slanted a glance at Saybrook as he greeted the footman who appeared to take his satchel of books. The change in him, however subtle, had not escaped her eye. The spark in his eye seemed a bit brighter. No—perhaps “intense” was a better word. Scholarship, for all its cerebral challenges, could not light that indescribable burn.

  Along with wariness, and worry about the upcoming battle, Arianna sensed a thrum of anticipation pulsing through her husband’s blood. Steel versus steel—strength against strength. The prospect of matching mind and body against a clever enemy was not intimidating. It was intoxicating.

  Saybrook had once told her that danger was like a drug. She smiled as the truth of his words tickled down her spine. Oh yes, he liked his studies, but risk, like chocolate, was also a stimulant to the senses, and loath though he might be to admit it, the earl missed the taste of it.

  “Welcome home, milady,” intoned their butler, a tall, grizzled Spaniard whom she privately thought of as Don Quixote.

  Home. She was still getting used to having a grand residence and servants to cater to her comforts. Her father had never lingered in one spot for very long . . .

  “Allow me to take your books and your reticule,” said the butler, his English vowels as soft and curling as his silvery goatee.

  “Gracias, Sebastian.” Saybrook added his cane and overcoat to the servant’s outstretched arms. “I see you have been studying the book on codes,” he said to Arianna.

  “It’s absolutely fascinating,” she responded. “Certain things still puzzle me, of course, but as you said, the basic logic has much in common with mathematics. I’ve been making a list of questions—”

  He laughed. “I noted how entranced you were with Becton’s treatise during the journey.”

  “Yes, well, you seemed busy with your own work,” she answered. “So I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “I was reviewing my notes on the present alliances, and all I can say is that if European politics is based on any rational system of order, it eludes me,” replied Saybrook ruefully. “I swear, there is no rhyme or reason to the bumble broth of intrigue.”

  “So you think that we are stepping out of the frying pan and into the fire?”

  “Tensions will be coming to a boil in Vienna, and it will be our job to see that England doesn’t get burned.” The earl tossed his gloves on the sideboard. “I would welcome your opinion on some thoughts that have come to mind concerning our strategy. Shall I order a pot of chocolate to be brought to the library?”

  “You’ve whetted my appetite—how can I resist?”

  With all the other distractions swirling around the case, Grentham’s comment about the other woman, along with the awkwardness of its implications, had been forgotten. Or at least relegated to some deep, dark recess of the mind, thought Arianna. State treason took precedence over any private worries of personal betrayal.

  His smile sent a slight lurch through her insides.

  No—not betrayal. That was unfair, she reminded herself. They had neither made nor demanded any promises of fidelity. The church vows had been a mere formality.

  “Ah, excellent,” said Saybrook, brushing an errant lock of hair from the nape of her neck. “I was hoping that I could tempt you, despite the lateness of the hour.”

  “G-give me just a few moments to freshen up. I shall meet you there shortly.”

  Her toilette refreshed, her gown changed, and her thoughts reordered, Arianna entered the library feeling somewhat revived.

  “Ah,” she murmured, after savoring a long sip of their cook’s special brew. “I missed Bianca’s chocolate.”

  “As did I.” Saybrook hooked the hassock with a booted foot and drew it closer to his favorite chair. “When one is used to spices, everything else tastes rather bland.” He added a splash of Spanish brandy—a hotter, rougher spirit than French cognac—to his chocolate before propping his feet up in front of the blazing hearth and exhaling loudly. “I’m sorry that you’ve been dragged back into my private conflict with Grentham.”

  “Let us not trade recriminations,” she interrupted quickly. “I couldn’t resist baiting the minister during the opening reception, so it’s quite likely that his venom is directed at me. Assuming, of course, that he isn’t the serpent responsible for trying to poison the government.”

  Saybrook set down his cup. “Before we go on, perhaps we ought to clear the air.”

  “Of brimstone and gunpowder?” joked Arianna, watching a twisting plume of smoke rise up from the burning logs.

  “Of innuendos and speculation,” he replied.

  Within the dark irises of his eyes, the reflection of the flames was like pinpoints of molten gold.

  “Sandro,” she began, only to be silenced by a flick of his hand.

 
“No, let me speak.” He straightened, the slope of his broad shoulders steeling to an unyielding edge. “Grentham spoke the truth. I do make regular visits to a lady who lives in Charlotte Street, off Bedford Square. But it is not for any prurient reason, as was his unspoken suggestion. She is . . .”

  Arianna sipped her chocolate, watching him through the fringe of her lashes.

  “She is an Original, to use common cant.” He heaved a harried sigh. “Though in truth there is nothing common about Sophia Kirtland.”

  He paused, as if waiting for some reaction. But Arianna, warned to silence, decided to take him at his word.

  Clearing his throat, the earl continued. “Miss Kirtland has never been married—she is a spinster, a distinction she holds proudly, having little desire to surrender her independence to—as she so colorfully puts it—a dolt whose ballocks would likely be more active than his brain. Which is to say, she has no high opinion of men in general. Nor women, for that matter.”

  Arianna was careful to keep her expression neutral.

  “As you no doubt gather by now,” he went on, “she is eccentric. Acerbic. Opinionated.” A fresh splash of brandy sloshed into his cup. “She is also the most brilliant scientist I know. I met her at a lecture on chemistry at the Royal Society some years ago, and engaged in a most interesting disagreement over the speaker’s conclusions. We corresponded while I was in Spain, and over time, we became . . . friends, for lack of a better word.” He drank deeply, avoiding Arianna’s eyes. “Given her outspoken views, Miss Kirtland would not be overly welcome in Polite Society, even if she sought to fit into the social whirl. She lives as a recluse, surrounded by her books, her Egyptian cats and occasional visits to a small circle of equally unconventional thinkers. However, I think she’s a little lonely, so I make a point of visiting her every week.”

  Arianna carefully aligned the sugar teaspoons on the tray, waiting for him to go on.

  “Bloody hell,” said Saybrook. “When I asked you to hear me out, I was not meaning for you to mimic the Sphinx.”

  “As you ought to know by now, I tend to take things to the extreme.”

  “I trust that does not mean you are contemplating cutting off my testiculos with a rusty knife.”

  “I am not crazed, merely curious,” she replied. “Is there a reason you never mentioned this before?”

  It may have been a quirk of firelight, but his cheeks seemed to turn a shade redder. “I . . . I suppose I feared that you might ask to meet her.”

  “And?”

  “And that might have proved awkward,” answered the earl reluctantly. “Miss Kirtland did not approve of my marrying in haste.”

  “In that we think alike,” quipped Arianna. “Was the lady unhappy because she had designs on your person?” Not wishing to sound overly cynical, she omitted any mention of his title and money.

  “God, no. It’s just that as she does not bother to temper her tongue, I worried that she might say something . . . offensive.”

  Arianna burst out laughing. “Me? Offended?” she gasped in between chortles. “My dear Sandro, whatever were you thinking? On the contrary, I can’t imagine anything more interesting than to be insulted by a brilliant female scientist.”

  His jaw unclenched ever so slightly. “She can be prickly and sarcastic.”

  “So can I.”

  “Yes, well, sometimes in chemical experiments, when one puts two volatile substances together, they don’t react according to the textbook description but blow up in your face.”

  True, Arianna conceded. Strong-willed people often clashed despite shared interests. Still, his halting explanation had piqued her curiosity. Was Sophia Kirtland pretty? Strangely enough, that was the first question that popped to mind. The thought surprised her, but on a moment’s reflection she decided it was a fair thing to wonder. Clearly the earl was attracted to unconventional females who weren’t afraid to be different.

  Individuals who dared to defy the rules. Sandro himself did not feel bound by many strictures. Save, of course, for his rigid sense of honor.

  She shifted uncomfortably, heat tickling over the fire-kissed side of her body, while the shadowed half felt chilled to the marrow. All at once, the awareness of her utter lack of formal schooling seemed to press against her flesh. Did Sandro regret the fact that his wife did not possess a classical education, and could not discuss books and arcane scientific texts with him?

  Damnation. Arianna forced herself to push such questions aside. There were enough hidden secrets to uncover without delving any deeper into how her husband felt about the erudite stranger.

  “I appreciate your candor, Sandro,” she said. “And consider the matter closed.”

  He looked faintly relieved.

  “We’ve more pressing problems to deal with.”

  “Correct,” he intoned. “Not that Miss Kirtland is a problem for us in any regard, Arianna.”

  So you say, and I’ve no reason to doubt your word. She accepted the statement with a nod.

  There was an awkward pause, unspoken questions shadowing the silence. Saybrook cleared his throat, a tacit signal that in his mind the subject was closed.

  “However, since we are being candid, might I ask something about another female?” she said quickly.

  His face betrayed a spasm of surprise. “There is no other—”

  “Antonia,” she said. “I could not help but notice your reaction when Grentham mentioned her existence. Is she, perchance, a part of the reason you and the minister are constantly at daggers drawn?”

  Her husband drew in a deep breath. “He threatened to blacken the name of an innocent girl in order to keep me under his thumb during our first investigation. I told him I would kill him if he ever harmed her, so yes, I suppose you could say that there is a lingering enmity over the matter.”

  “Is that not something I should have known about?”

  That question elicited a harsh exhale. “At the time, we didn’t know each other well enough for me to confide such a secret. Then”—he looked up—“you had enough to worry about in trying to fit in with Polite Society. I wished to protect you from yet another trouble.”

  Protect. Arianna allowed a tiny smile. “I am unused to anyone trying to shield me from the sordid realities of life.”

  “I know that,” he replied softly, and yet the force behind the words took her by surprise. “We both have old habits that must begin to adjust to a new relationship.”

  “True,” she acquiesced. “No easy task.”

  His mouth quirked up at the corners. “I fear that nothing we face will prove easy over the coming months.”

  “No,” agreed Arianna. “But like you, I don’t find a challenge intimidating.”

  Saybrook held her gaze for a moment before taking up a slim leather folder from the tea table and methodically shuffling through the papers inside it. “Then let us begin formulating a plan of attack. As I said, I have been thinking . . .” He withdrew several sheets and placed them side by side on the polished wood. “There are going to be a bewildering array of issues and alliances raised at the congress in Vienna. Now that peace reigns over Europe, the powers that defeated Napoleon want to fix the political and social problems caused by over a decade of constant warfare.”

  He pursed his lips. “But rather than try to sort through it all, and run the risk of becoming hopelessly entangled, we must choose our battles, so to speak. What I’m suggesting is that we decide on the most likely enemy, and draw up an offensive strategy. I know from experience that unless we are disciplined and focused, we will end up blundering around, and simply shooting in the dark.”

  “And if we are wrong?” she asked.

  “We have limited time and resources, so there is only so much we can do in any case.”

  “I don’t suppose we can count on Grentham and his department for much assistance.”

  “No,” he said decisively. “For obvious reasons, I think it best to keep our own activities as much a secret from the mi
nister as we can. There are certain ways in which he can help us, but I shall have to be extremely cautious in how I look to leverage them.”

  “Mr. Henning thinks him capable of treason,” mused Arianna.

  “Like many Scotsmen, Baz is suspicious of any English government official, especially one involved in state security.”

  “Do you think Grentham a traitor?” she pressed.

  The earl shrugged. “It doesn’t matter what I think; it matters what I know. And right now, I have no information one way or another to indicate whether Grentham is involved in this sordid scheme. So until I know more, I shall err on the side of caution.”

  “And yet, caution calls for going slowly,” she pointed out. “Time is not on our side.”

  “True. The odds are against us being able to figure out the target and stop whatever murder is being planned in such a short time,” agreed Saybrook. “But we have a clue—or clues. We simply have to use logic and probability to narrow down our choices, and then hope for the best.” He looked up from the pages. “That is not to say we won’t improvise in the heat of battle, but it’s best to have a strategy in mind when embarking on a campaign.”

  Interesting. Arianna could see the earl’s military experience reasserting itself. He was sitting up a little straighter, speaking a little more forcefully. “How would that be decided in the army?”

  “A general would call a staff meeting. He would listen to his regimental officers and review the intelligence reports from units like mine, taking care to study the facts and weigh the options. On top of all that, a good leader, like the Duke of Wellington, knows the importance of understanding the character and motivations of the opposing commander.”

  She thought for a moment. “So when all the fancy uniforms and gaudy medals are stripped away, it all comes down to human nature.”

  “Yes.”

  “So, we should start by making a list of what we know about Renard. He’s extremely cunning . . .” She paused to take up a pencil and her pocket notebook. “Extremely bold.”

  “Extremely confident,” added Saybrook. “To the point of arrogance. And that fact should work in our favor. Hubris tends to make someone underestimate his opponent.”