Arianna touched the rim of the faceted crystal to her lips. “And then there is Anna Protassoff, who allegedly served as the ‘tester’ for the guardsmen whom Catherine the Great chose for her bedmates.” She made a wry face. “Perhaps that explains why the Tsar has such an appetite for sex—he must have inherited his grandmother’s lust along with her throne.”
“Do you know how Catherine the Great is supposed to have died?” asked Saybrook. “The rumors involve a horse, a scaffolding and . . .”
He stopped abruptly as one of the English diplomats and his wife joined them in the alcove. “My dear, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Repton and his wife. They are friends of Charles and Eleanor.”
“How delightful to meet you at last, Lady Saybrook,” said Mrs. Repton. She flashed a smile, though her tone implied a faint criticism. “La, I was beginning to wonder if you were merely a will-o’-the-wisp.”
“His Lordship and I lead a very quiet life in London,” Arianna said.
“Oh, well, it is not quiet here!” Mrs. Repton assured, ignoring her husband’s warning cough. “There are parties every night—balls, musicales, soirees! It’s so hard to choose, though often we attend two or three.”
“Indeed,” replied Arianna.
The other lady took it as a cue to elaborate. “You must be sure to visit the salons of Lady Sagan and Princess Bagration.” Mrs. Repton lowered her voice a notch. “Both ladies are reputed to have slept with Prince Metternich. Of late, however, the Tsar of Russia is said to be pursuing the princess.”
“Alexander chases anyone wearing skirts,” muttered Repton, trying to stem his wife’s garrulous chatter.
His wife went on, oblivious to the hint. “Everyone is betting on how long it will take for him to slip between her sheets,” she confided. “The men are equally outrageous . . .”
Arianna listened politely. Cluck, cluck, cluck—the lady was a hen-witted goose. But as Saybrook said, gossip could be very useful, and clearly Mrs. Repton liked to gabble.
“It is hard to imagine how anything serious is supposed to be accomplished here,” she remarked, when the descriptions finally came to an end. “It seems that all people are thinking about is drinking, dining and dancing one’s latest lover into bed.”
Mrs. Repton gave a titter of laughter. “Oh, it is quite shocking all the things that go on.” She clicked open her fan and cooled her cheeks. “Now, allow me to offer a bit of guidance on where to go in order to see and be seen. Lord Castlereagh holds this soiree every Tuesday evening, so you must be sure to stop by.”
“Monday is Metternich’s night,” offered Repton. “And of course Friday belongs to the Duchess of Sagan and her rival across the courtyard. As for the other evenings, there is no lack of entertainment, but I daresay you will discover that for yourselves.”
“Oh, do be sure to visit the Apollo Saal.” Lady Repton clearly considered herself a font of knowledge on Viennese life. “You can waltz all night in the indoor gardens, which are decorated with faux stones and fairy tale grottos.”
“Thank you,” replied Saybrook. “Now if you will excuse us, we should probably be taking our leave. We are tired from traveling and wish to be rested for the Emperor’s ball tomorrow night.”
“Oh, that is definitely an evening not to be missed,” exclaimed Lady Repton. “It is said that the state dinner will include three hundred hams, two hundred partridges and two hundred pigeons, not to speak of three thousand liters of olla soup.”
The mention of food set Arianna’s stomach to growling. “I have heard that the Viennese appreciate fine food.”
“It’s tolerable, though they don’t know how to cook a proper joint of beef,” answered Mrs. Repton with a slight sniff. “For a special treat, you must try to garner an invitation to one of the French Minister’s dinners. He has brought the renowned chef, Monsieur Carême, with him from Paris to serve as his personal cook. Word is, the banquets are sumptuous—especially the pastries.”
Now that interesting tidbit was certainly food for thought.
“Sounds delicious,” said Arianna.
“Talleyrand is a connoisseur of decadent pleasures,” said Repton, his face tight with disapproval. “And if we aren’t careful, he will gobble up power and influence that rightly belong to Britain.” He made a face. “After all, we were the victors, and he served the Corsican Monster.”
“I am sure that our government will be keeping a close eye on the French,” replied Saybrook. “And that it will be vigilant in defending all that was won on the field of battle from diplomatic intrigue.”
“Well said, sir. Well said,” enthused Repton. “Your noble military record is well known. It’s a pity that your uncle could not have convinced you to follow in his diplomatic footsteps. Whitehall could use more men like you.”
“I’m afraid politics don’t interest me,” demurred the earl.
“A man of action, no doubt.” Repton signaled for a footman to refill his wine. “Ha—too bad there are no wars left to wage.”
Arianna watched his soft, fleshy hands cup the glass. Oh, how easy it was to spout such sentiments when you have never smelled the throat-choking stench of fear, of blood, of death.
“There are always battles to fight,” said Saybrook softly. “But I, for one, am not unhappy that words are the weapons of choice these days.”
Covering his discomfiture with a cough, Repton nodded. “Just so.”
Without further ado, the earl bid their new acquaintances’ adieu, and wasted no time in escorting Arianna out to the stairway.
“God save us from narrow-minded fools,” he muttered through his teeth.
“I would rather that the Almighty help us with a far more dangerous threat,” remarked Arianna. “However unwittingly, his wife was actually of some help tonight.” As she drew in a breath, she could almost taste a hint of sugar wafting in the smoke-scented air. “A connoisseur of cuisine with a fondness for sweets . . . I think we must contrive to meet Monsieur le Prince Talleyrand without delay.”
“That shouldn’t prove difficult,” said Saybrook. “Castlereagh just informed me that your other admirer, Comte Rochemont, is residing at the Kaunitz Palace as part of the French delegation. His family connections with the restored French King accord him such rank and privileges, though Talleyrand is not overly pleased with the arrangement.”
“However, it suits our needs perfectly,” she replied. “I see that I will have to encourage the attentions of both Rochemont and Kydd.” Even though there is an old adage about burning the candle at both ends. “And yet, I must take care not to ignite a rivalry between them.”
“On the contrary,” said her husband. “Jealousy will likely work in our favor. A man vying for the attentions of a beautiful woman will often allow passion to overrule reason.”
Passion. A powerful, primitive force.
Saybrook’s expression betrayed no emotion. Cool. Calm. Controlled. She had never met anyone so in command of his feelings. The only hint that he was not so detached was the slow, silent flick of his lashes, shadowy specters of black obscuring his chocolate-dark eyes.
“I shall do my best not to embarrass you by stirring talk of my scandalous flirtations,” said Arianna slowly. “An unhappy wife, seeking amusements elsewhere—”
“Is nothing out of the ordinary,” he interrupted. “Dalliances are de rigueur for the ton. Any speculation on your amorous activities will be lost in all the gossip about the royal transgressions.”
“How very lowering to know that I merit so little interest,” she quipped.
“Let us pray it stays that way.” Saybrook took her arm—possessively, or so it seemed. “The less our unknown adversary has reason to turn his eye on you, the better.”
14
From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks
Chocolate-Almond Italian Cookies
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, for greasing
½ teaspoon baking powder
1 tablespoon lukewarm water
1¾ cups finely ground plus 2 tablespoons roughly chopped almonds
1½ cups plus 2 tablespoons flour
1 cup sugar
2 tablespoons chocolate chips
1 tablespoon cocoa powder
1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
½ teaspoon kosher salt
½ cup Strega or Galliano liqueur
⅓ cup coffee, at room temperature
1. Heat oven to 325°. Grease 2 parchment-lined baking sheets with butter and set aside. In a small bowl, whisk together baking powder and 1 tbsp. lukewarm water until dissolved, 20 seconds.
2. Combine ground and chopped almonds, flour, sugar, chocolate chips, cocoa powder, oil and salt in a large bowl. With a wooden spoon, vigorously stir in the baking powder mixture, liqueur, and coffee to form a wet dough.
3. Divide the dough into 1-oz. portions. Using your hands, roll dough portions into balls and transfer to prepared baking sheets spaced about 1 inch apart. Bake until set, about 30 minutes. Transfer cookies to racks and let cool to firm before serving.
“And here we are back at the Hofburg Palace.” David Kydd offered his arm to Arianna as they waited to cross the busy street. “Though here in Vienna, it is simply called the ‘Burg.’ ”
“I still am amazed at how big it is,” said Arianna, placing a hand on his sleeve. It had proved easy to engage the young diplomat as her escort for sightseeing. For the last week they had been meeting almost daily to explore the city’s splendors. “I’ve been told that the main courtyard was designed as a jousting field.”
“Yes, monarchs always wish to awe their subjects,” replied Kydd with a wry grin. “Some of the visiting rulers of Europe are here as the Austrian Emperor’s guests,” he went on, as they passed into the massive courtyard. “Tsar Alexander is quartered in the Amalienburg wing, while the King of Prussia is in the old Schweizerhof section.”
“Thank you for serving as such a gracious guide,” she replied. They had spent the morning visiting the Belvedere Palace and the coffeehouses of the Prater park while Saybrook worked in the palace library. “I enjoyed it very much . . .” She deliberately added a tiny sigh. “But now, I’m afraid it’s time for me to go meet my husband.”
“It was my pleasure, Lady Saybrook,” said Kydd. “Perhaps tomorrow you would like to see the famous zoo.”
Arianna smiled. Her thinly veiled complaints about the earl’s selfishness and neglect seemed to be bearing fruit. The Scotsman’s reserve was melting, and he was growing warmer in expressing his sympathies. She in turn was becoming increasingly vocal in expressing admiration for his political ideas. With just a little coaxing on her part, their conversations were turning more and more to mutual criticisms of the aristocracy and its arrogant assumption of entitlement.
“I would like that very much.”
Kydd inclined a small bow. “Until tomorrow, then.”
Arianna quickly entered the palace and requested that one of the Imperial footmen lead her through the maze of corridors to the library wing.
That Kydd saw her as a kindred soul stirred a slight twinge of guilt—until she reminded herself of how he had betrayed Mellon.
If one lives by the sword, one must be prepared to die by the sword.
Speaking of which . . .
Rochemont added yet another twist to the tangle of truth and lies. Biting back an unladylike oath, Arianna turned her thoughts to her other admirer. The comte was becoming more aggressively amorous. A billet-doux had arrived for her just after Saybrook’s departure from breakfast. Along with a flowery—and rather racy—love poem, it contained a last-minute invitation to join him in dining with Talleyrand that evening.
The suggestion was that she might consent to serving as dessert after the meal.
Sugar and spice.
Arianna felt her mouth pinch to a cynical smile. Unlike Eve and her rosy red apple, she must somehow manage to dangle temptation in front of a hungry male without allowing him a bite.
“This way, madam,” intoned the footman, his voice holding a note of faint reproach for her lagging pace.
Quickening her steps, Arianna followed him through several more turns before coming to a set of iron-banded double oak doors, their panels black with age.
“The Botanical Room,” announced her guide, as the oiled hinges swung open without a sound. “His Lordship is working in here.”
Glass-globed wall lamps cast a softly flickering glow over the sherry-colored paneling and carved acanthus leaf moldings. Framed by the decorative woodwork, towering bookcases rose up from the parquet floor to the painted plaster ceiling.
Looking around from one of the Italianate work tables set along the bank of leaded windows, Saybrook took an instant to blink away a look of intense concentration. He brushed a lock of his long hair back from his brow. “How did your morning walk with Kydd go?”
“I think I am moving forward,” she said. “He is becoming increasingly vocal about his frustrations with the British government and its rigid notions of superiority. I’m fanning his feeling of discontent with my own rantings about the oppressive tyranny of Society. With a few more hints about how much I long to strike a real blow against the Old Order instead of simply talking about it, I might get him to confide in me.”
“Excellent, excellent.” And yet the earl looked strangely pensive.
“That’s not all.” Arianna took the gold-embossed invitation out of her reticule and placed it on the table. “Rochemont has invited me to a dinner party hosted by Talleyrand tonight—sans you, of course.”
“Let us hope the Prince serves up some useful information along with his chef’s decadent nougat desserts. I am growing damn tired of watching him start to salivate every time you enter the room.”
Was there an odd edge to his voice?
Oh, surely he didn’t think that she was enjoying her role as taunting temptress.
Suddenly defensive, she stiffened, recalling Grentham’s nasty innuendos. Your wife enjoys the company of dissolute men. It was true that in her first investigation with the earl, she had also played the role of wanton jade. Not because she took any pleasure from it, but because it had been the only way to bring about justice.
But perhaps he was tiring of her unorthodox skills. Most men wanted wives who were . . . respectable.
Which I am decidedly not.
“That reminds me—I’m famished,” said Saybrook, seemingly oblivious of the subtle change in her stance.
“No doubt because you dined on naught but tea and toast this morning.” Arianna glanced down at his jumbled work papers and realized that he too must be feeling frustrated. He had been working like the devil to decipher the remaining coded letter, but it did not appear that he was making much headway. The sheets were covered with cryptic squiggles and scrawls, all scratched out with slashes of black ink. “I take it that your work is going slowly.”
Although they were alone in the room, the earl lowered his voice to a taut whisper. It was well known that the Burg’s magnificent walls possessed an uncanny ability to see and hear through wood and stone.
“As I’ve said before, finding the key to unlock our conundrum could take weeks. Months. Years.” He tapped a long finger to a set of small leather-bound books hidden beneath the illustrated folios on Theobroma cacao. “I found several obscure Renaissance texts on cryptology in the Mathematics Room. They contain some interesting new permutations to try, but . . .” He flexed his shoulders. “Let me finish this one section and then we’ll walk to the Café Frauenhuber for some refreshments.”
Her own moodiness forgotten, Arianna was quick to agree. “Take your time. I noticed that one of the galleries along this corridor has a lovely collection of chocolate pots on display. I shall wait for you there.”
Saybrook nodded vaguely, his attention already back on the diabolical little string of coded letters that he had copied into his notebook.
Leaving the earl to his solitary struggles, she quitted the room and began to retrace her steps. The Emper
or was generous in allowing access to his priceless collections of art, as well as his rare books and maps. She passed by a gallery of Quattrocento Italian art and one of classical coins before turning into an airy room devoted to decorative Limoges porcelain.
The Spanish princess Anne of Austria had introduced chocolate to France in 1615 as part of her wedding trousseau—and judging by the beauty of the vessels on display, her new subjects had enthusiastically embraced the new beverage.
“Exquisite,” murmured Arianna, leaning in so close that her breath misted the glass case. All worries dissolved for the moment as she stood in rapt study of the small treasures. The pots showcased a dazzling variety of elegant designs, their delicate colors and gold leaf highlights set off to perfection by the black velvet backdrop. Most were crowned by a distinctive pierced lid, which allowed the handle of a molinillo to protrude.
“Exquisite,” she murmured again, captivated by the elegant simplicity of a pot formed in the shape of a swan.
“Not as exquisite as you.” Rochemont’s silky whisper caressed the nape of her neck. His breath was warm, and yet its tickle raised a prickling of gooseflesh along her bare arms. “Though I confess,” he went on, “the curves have a certain voluptuous shape that makes my mouth water.”
Arianna felt his hand graze her hip. Willing herself not to flinch, she waited a moment before drawing back from his touch. “Why, sir,” she drawled. “Clearly you have a taste for fine things.”
“Yes.” He placed his palms on the glass and slanted her a sly look. “I’m insatiable when it comes to sampling the best.”
Arianna reacted to the innuendo with a carefully calculated smile. “Oh? Then you must be looking forward to this evening. I hear that Monsieur Carême is a true artist with food.”
Her teasing provoked a sinuous smile.
“Imagine butter and cream, meltingly warm in your mouth.” Rochemont kissed his fingertips. “The French have a way of creating sublimely sensual pleasures, Lady Saybrook.”
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