The Cocoa Conspiracy lahm-2

by Andrea Penrose

  As well as grimly horrific wars.

  The comte made a face. “Alors, perhaps too much so. Poor Carême is very unhappy that the King of Wurttemberg just lured away his sous-chef, leaving him shorthanded for the duration of the Conference.”

  A sudden tingle started to snake down her spine.

  “Indeed?” replied Arianna. Hot and cold, hot and cold—men like the comte were tantalized by a challenge. “Then perhaps his performance will not rise quite as high as promised.”

  Their eyes met for a molten moment before she deliberately looked away.

  “Like all Frenchmen, Carême will have no trouble performing at his peak for a beautiful lady.” Rochemont sidled closer, his soft leather boots stirring nary a sound on the thick carpet, until they were standing thigh to thigh. “I am looking forward to introducing you to a sinfully seductive experience.”

  “I appreciate your kind offer to keep my wife amused while I attend a meeting of scholars tonight, Rochemont.” Saybrook could move as lightly as a prowling panther when he so chose. “However, might I ask that you unglue yourself from her skirts so that she might accompany me to tea.”

  The comte smiled, though a telltale ridge of red on his cheekbones betrayed his pique at the interruption. “But of course,” he replied. Bowing to Arianna, he said, “Until later, chérie.”

  The earl didn’t react to the blatant endearment. Emboldened by the silence, Rochemont tauntingly added, “Don’t spoil your appetite.”

  “A toast.” As the servants cleared the platters of viands and sauced vegetables from the dining table, Talleyrand raised a wine goblet, his bejeweled fingers winking like brilliant bits of fire in the fluttery light of the gold candelabras. “To friends old . . .” His lazy, lidded gaze fixed upon Arianna. “And new.”

  The crystalline clink of glass rang out over the muted chink of silver and porcelain.

  “A divine meal. Absolutely divine.” The Russian attaché leaned back in his chair and blew out a satisfied sigh. “Carême is a God of the Kitchen. I don’t suppose the Tsar could trade you a province for his services, eh?”

  “A country perhaps,” replied Talleyrand lightly.

  Everyone laughed.

  “I swear, Carême is more valuable than my entire staff when it comes to melting old enmities and solidifying new friendships,” murmured the envoy from Bavaria.

  “Indeed. I have told Paris that I don’t need secretaries, I need saucepans.”

  More laughter.

  The Prince took a sip of his Burgundy wine. “And how did you enjoy the chef’s menu, Lady Saybrook?”

  “Superb,” she replied in all honesty. “I have never had such a magnificent meal.”

  “It is not quite over. I have heard that your husband has a scholarly interest in Theobroma cacao, so I asked Monsieur Carême to create a special chocolate confection in your honor.”

  At the flick of his finger, the door opened and a pair of liveried footmen marched in, bearing an enormous platter between them.

  A collective gasp greeted the elaborate pastry.

  “He is a master of what we French call pièces montées,” explained Talleyrand, a smile taking shape on his sensual mouth. “A form of edible architecture meant to surprise the senses.”

  Arianna felt her jaw drop ever so slightly as the servants set the creation down on the center of the table. Formed of molded chocolate, marzipan and sugar, the towering creation stood nearly two feet high and was a replica of Westminster Abbey.

  “Chef studies architectural books for his inspiration,” Talleyrand went on. “He chose a London landmark in your honor.”

  “You see, chérie. I promised you a treat,” whispered Rochemont. “I have some influence with the minister, and so . . . voila!”

  Someone let out a little moan as a knife sliced off a piece and set it on Arianna’s plate.

  “Art is meant to be savored,” said Talleyrand as the servant added a dollop of nougat and meringue to the pastry. “Enjoy.”

  The room went silent, save for the crunch of spoons cutting through the sugary chocolate and almond paste.

  Talleyrand tasted a small bite, his smile stretching wider as he watched the expressions of bliss form on the faces of his guests. Setting aside his serviette, he tapped his perfectly manicured fingertips together. “Does it meet with your approval, madame?”

  “Carême deserves his reputation as a genius,” she replied. “I wonder . . . might I get the recipe?”

  “Perhaps you had better ask him yourself.” The Prince’s eyes lit with a twinkle of unholy amusement. “I consider myself a skilled negotiator, but I’ve yet to extract such privileged information from him. Carême guards his culinary creations more carefully than most countries do their secret alliances. But the appeal of a beautiful lady may win a concession.” A lazy wink. “He is, after all, French.”

  “I would at least like to thank him for such an ambrosial treat,” said Arianna.

  Talleyrand lifted a hand to summon the servant stationed by the door. “Ask chef to come—”

  “Actually, might I see him in the kitchens?” She accompanied the request with a flutter of her lashes. “That is, if you don’t mind me spying on your territory. I am curious as to what sort of graters and molds he uses.”

  “Seeing as the Peace Conference is all about creating international accord and harmony, I give you my blessing to look around my palace to your heart’s content, madame .” A clap set the spill of creamy lace at his cuffs to dancing in the buttery light. “Send Monsieur Jacques to escort Lady Saybrook to chef’s inner sanctum.”

  A plume of steamy air wafted up the stairwell, its warmth redolent with the spicy scent of caramelized sugar and roasted cacao nibs.

  Arianna breathed in deeply and smiled, the sweetness stirring old memories of—

  “Non, non, NON!” The pained shout from the main kitchen was punctuated by the whack of a cleaver. “You must never grate ginger! It must be minced!” Whack, whack. “Like so!”

  “Perhaps this is not the best time to ask chef a favor,” she murmured to the under butler who was accompanying her.

  “Monsieur Carême possesses a . . . very sensitive nature,” replied her guide. “And delicate nerves. It is difficult to predict what will, and will not, upset him.”

  “Ah.” She nodded sagely. “You mean he is a tyrant, prone to tempestuous tantrums.”

  The under butler did not bat an eye. “Precisely, madame .” He stopped in front of the half-open door. “Would you mind terribly if I allowed you to, er, introduce yourself to Le Maitre? I have not yet had my supper, and if he blames me for the interruption of his artistic genius, I might very well have to go to bed hungry.”

  Arianna repressed a wry grin. “Not at all. I am experienced in dealing with temperamental chefs.”

  Looking grateful, the man bowed and hurried away.

  “Into the frying pan—or is it the fire?” she murmured to herself.

  The door yielded to her touch and as she crossed the threshold, she was immediately assaulted by a swirl of delicious smells.

  Hearing the swish of her silken skirts, Carême whirled around. With the cleaver still clutched in his fist and his toque falling rakishly over one eye, he looked a little like a demented pirate about to commit unspeakable acts upon anything within arm’s reach.

  “Mmph,” he grunted, eyeing her finery. “You have taken a wrong turn, madame. The withdrawing room for ze ladies is up ze stairs and to ze left.” The information was accompanied by a shooing gesture of the steely blade. “Bonsoir.”

  Arianna stood her ground, inwardly amused by her first sight of the celebrated chef. “Forgive me for intruding on your atelier, Monsieur Carême. I know that great artists dislike any disturbance of their creative process. But I couldn’t resist coming to offer my humble admiration for your prodigious talents.”

  Like butter placed in a warm pan, Carême’s scowl was softened by the egregious flattery.

  “Merci, madame.” The
cleaver dropped a notch. “Not everyone understands how difficult it is to turn food into a form of art.”

  “One of the ingredients is, of course, genius,” she murmured.

  “Oui, oui, zat is true.” The chef preened. “Also the freshest meats, fruits and vegetables. Prince Talleyrand understands this, and never quibbles about the cost of my supplies.”

  “Might I have a quick tour of your kitchens?” asked Arianna. “I should love to see what it takes to achieve perfection.”

  His smile was turned even rosier by the overhead rack of hanging copper pots. “Alors, I rarely allow anyone to see my works in progress. But for you, madame, I shall make an exception.” With a Gallic flourish, Carême turned to the chopping table. “Follow me.”

  For the next quarter hour, Arianna was subjected to a lengthy explanation of stove temperatures, proper chopping techniques and the merits of iron versus copper for cooking. Prompted by her questions, the chef also revealed that the recent defection of his sous-chef had thrown his well-ordered kitchen into disarray.

  “I should like to slice out his liver for leaving me in the lurch,” grumbled Carême. “Zat is the thanks I get for teaching him some of my special secrets?” His hand flew to his heart. “I am hurt.”

  “How disloyal,” she agreed. “Was his specialty pastries ?”

  “Oui,” answered the chef. “Thanks to God, my helpers with meats and vegetables are devoted to me. Zat part of the meals shall not be affected. But as for my desserts . . .” He blew out a mournful sigh. “I shall have to work very hard to see that they don’t suffer.”

  “Speaking of desserts, I don’t suppose you would consent to give me the recipe for tonight’s creation. My husband adores chocolate.”

  He pursed his lips. “Ask me almost anything else, madame , and I should be happy to oblige. However, my recipes I share with no one—not even Prince Talleyrand.”

  “I understand,” said Arianna. She had expected no less. But it didn’t really matter. She was leaving with exactly the information she had come for.

  “Merci for that,” he responded. “Some ladies resort to tears. And much as I hate to see females cry, I never yield to such ploys.”

  “Don’t worry. You will never see me trying to use weeping to make men surrender their secrets,” Arianna assured him.

  I prefer other weapons.

  “Once again, I thank you for the tour. It was very enlightening.”

  “You are most welcome, madame.” Carême bowed. “Come again some time.”

  “Thank you. I will.”

  And sooner than you think.

  15

  From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks

  Chocolate Caramel Tart

  For the crust

  1½ cups flour

  ¼ cup plus 1 tablespoon Dutch-process unsweetened cocoa powder

  ¼ teaspoon kosher salt

  10 tablespoons unsalted butter, cubed and softened

  ½ cup plus 2 tablespoons confectioners’ sugar

  2 egg yolks, preferably at room temperature

  ½ teaspoon vanilla extract

  For the caramel

  1½ cups sugar

  3 tablespoons light corn syrup

  ¼ teaspoon kosher salt

  6 tablespoons water

  6 tablespoons unsalted butter

  6 tablespoons heavy cream

  1 tablespoon crème fraîche

  For the ganache

  ½ cup heavy cream

  4 oz. bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped

  Gray sea salt for garnish

  1. Make the crust: Heat oven to 350˚. Combine flour, cocoa powder and salt in a medium bowl and set aside. Using a handheld mixer, cream the butter and sugar in a large bowl until mixture is pale and fluffy; mix in yolks and vanilla. Mix in dry ingredients. Transfer dough to a 9-inch fluted tart pan with a removable bottom and press dough evenly into bottom and sides of pan. Refrigerate for 30 minutes. Prick the tart shell all over with a fork and bake until cooked through, about 20 minutes. Transfer to a rack and let cool.

  2. Make the caramel: In a 1-qt. saucepan, whisk together sugar, corn syrup, salt and 6 tbsp. water and bring to a boil. Cook, without stirring, until a candy thermometer inserted into the syrup reads 340°. Remove pan from heat and whisk in butter, cream and crème fraîche (the mixture will bubble up) until smooth. Pour caramel into cooled tart shell and let cool slightly; refrigerate until firm, 4–5 hours.

  3. Make the ganache: Bring cream to a boil in a 1-qt. saucepan over medium heat. Put chocolate into a medium bowl and pour in hot cream; let sit for 1 minute, then stir slowly with a rubber spatula until smooth. Pour ganache evenly over tart and refrigerate until set, 4–5 hours. Sprinkle tart with sea salt, slice and serve chilled.

  The branch of candles had burned down to small stubs, leaving the study shrouded in deepening shadows. Arianna heard the faint scratch, scratch, scratch of a pen before she could make out the shape of broad shoulders and bowed head hunched over the desk.

  “Still at work, Sandro?” she asked softly.

  Saybrook turned, his profile limned in the guttering flames. Fatigue shaded his features, along with some darker tautness that she couldn’t quite identify. “Yes, there was another idea I wanted to test, but it’s been a wasted effort.” He put down his pen and massaged his temples. “Perhaps I have lost my touch. I used to have some skill with codes.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Arianna came up behind his chair and began to knead the knots at the base of his neck. “When you were on Wellington’s staff you had a cadre of trained intelligence officers to help you. And yet you’ve told me that attempts to decipher a captured code failed more often than not.”

  His muscles slowly relaxed beneath her probing fingers. “I suppose you are right. But I can’t help feeling that I am missing some key element that is staring me right in the face.”

  “Why not let me have a try? I’ve none of your skills, but I have been studying the principles, and maybe a fresh set of eyes will see something you’ve overlooked. There is, after all, such a thing as beginner’s luck.”

  Saybrook reached back and caught her wrist. “I would be grateful for your help, but it can wait until morning.” He pressed her palm to his cheek, and beneath the rasp of his whiskered skin, she could feel the strong, steady pulse of his heart.

  After all the duplicity and deceptions of the evening, its warmth was immensely comforting. She blinked as the sudden, salty sting of tears prickled against the back of her lids.

  “Is something wrong, Arianna?”

  She shook her head. “Just tired.”

  He gave a wordless growl and turned his face to brush a kiss to her fingertips. “How did your dinner go? I’m rather surprised that you are back at this hour. Didn’t Rochemont try to spirit you off to some secluded love nest? Or was he worried that in the process of wrestling you into his carriage he might scratch his pretty face?”

  “He’s still complaining about your knocking him down on the rocks. I suspect that he thinks it was a deliberate attempt to mar his beauty,” answered Arianna. “As for seduction, it was likely on the comte’s mind, but Talleyrand demanded his attendance at an after-supper strategy meeting. And though it was obvious that he wished to refuse, he didn’t quite dare to defy the Prince.”

  Saybrook let out a long breath. “So, another night wasted on frivolous entertainment.”

  “Not exactly.”

  Her husband must have heard the note of suppressed excitement in her voice, for he slowly sat up straighter and edged his chair around to face her. “How so?”

  “I think I’ve come up with a way to gain access to Talleyrand’s household—to be part of his intimate, everyday routine so to speak, which would allow me to spy on both him and the comte.”

  “Arianna, there are limits to how far I am willing to go for the good of my country.” Her husband’s voice turned dangerously soft. “So if you are about to suggest that you become the mistress of one of
those lecherous Frogs, put the idea out of your head. Immediately.”

  “No, not a mistress.” She couldn’t hold back a grin. “A chef.”

  He blinked.

  “Carême’s pastry sous-chef has deserted him, throwing plans for the elaborate dinners into question. Think about it. Since we arrived, we’ve been hearing how Talleyrand brought his chef from Paris to serve as a secret weapon of sorts. His intention is to win support for the French objectives here at the Conference, using butter and sugar rather than muskets and cannons.”

  She paused to let him digest what she had said. “So, if an experienced chef with a talent for creating sweets appeared and inquired about a position, don’t you think the chances are good that Carême would snap him up?”

  “Him,” repeated Saybrook thoughtfully. “You are suggesting that Monsieur Alphonse—”

  “Makes a miraculous resurrection,” she replied with a note of triumph. “Though to be safe, he will have to assume a new name. Given that Renard was involved in our last investigation, he might remember Lady Spencer’s erstwhile chef.”

  “Hmmm.”

  That he didn’t dismiss the idea out of hand was encouraging.

  “What about Kydd?” he asked carefully. “And, for that matter, Rochemont? Posing as a chef may be a clever cover, but we can’t put all of our eggs in one basket.”

  “No, not with the fox running free in the henhouse.” The dying candle flame seemed to turned a touch redder, a taunting reminder that their enemy had eluded all their attempts to catch him. “I’ve thought this through and see no reason why it can’t work. I won’t have to give up my flirtations with Kydd. I will simply have to pick and choose which party invitations to accept. One of my demands will be that I only work three days a week for Carême. I’ve checked—that’s the number of diplomatic suppers that Talleyrand plays host to, so I believe the chef will accept the stipulation.”

  “So you are suggesting that you light the coals under two different pots and see which one boils first?”