“Since when have you become such an expert on the female sex?” snapped the earl.
“Don’t bite my head off. I am merely offering an observation. And in fact, I’ll add another one. Sometimes people feel compelled to take risks in order to win the regard of those they admire. Especially if they perceive that regard to be uncertain in the first place.”
The earl’s jaw clenched, drawing the skin tight over the sharp edges of his cheekbones. Candlelight dipped and danced over the angular planes, the fire-gold skitter not quite strong enough to penetrate the shadows.
Bowing his head, he resumed his silent marching.
After several long minutes of listening to the same thump, thump, thump cross over the carpet, the surgeon chuffed an exasperated grunt. “Auch, you are more twitchy than a cat crossing a hot griddle.”
The steps halted.
“If you can’t sit still, perhaps we ought to take a stroll toward the Prince’s palace. I’ve heard that Vienna is a dazzling sight at night, so I might as well take a peek through the windows at all the fancy people at play.” Henning crinkled his nose in disgust. “Along with the rest of the Great Unwashed, I won’t likely be invited to be on the inside looking out.”
After a moment of thought, Saybrook asked, “Have you packed a decent coat?”
“One without acid burns or blood stains?” Henning made a face. “I believe the charcoal gray will pass muster.”
“I’ll have my valet bring you a starched cravat. And he’ll have orders to brush the worst of the wrinkles from your noxious garments, so don’t kick up a dust.”
“Why?” demanded the surgeon.
“You just reminded me that there is a soiree going on tonight at the Duchess of Sagan’s residence, and Talleyrand is said to be attending. Rather than sit here and stew over what Arianna is up to, we might as well pay a visit so you can get a firsthand look at the Master of Manipulation yourself and give me your impressions.”
“You think he’s secretly working for Napoleon instead of the newly restored king?” asked Henning.
“It wouldn’t be the first time he has betrayed his employer,” Saybrook pointed out grimly. “So it’s only logical to assume that he and Rochemont are in league to destroy the balance of power here with their assassination plot. But who and how is proving perversely difficult to decipher.”
“Patience, Sandro. And perseverance,” counseled his friend. “All it takes is one small piece of the puzzle to fall into place for the picture to become strikingly clear.”
“Then let us go look for that elusive clue,” snapped the earl. “Before yet another body ends up in the grave.”
18
From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks
Horchata with Chocolate and Pumpkin Seeds
1 cup long-grain white rice
½ cup blanched almonds
½ cup pepitas (pumpkin seeds)
1 vanilla bean
1 2-inch piece cinnamon bark
2 oz. dark brown sugar
1½ oz. very dark chocolate
5½ cups water
Additional ground cinnamon and sugar, to taste
1. Grind the rice, almonds and pepitas to a coarse powder (a coffee grinder works well here) and pour into a large bowl. To the powder, add the seeds from 1 vanilla bean and cinnamon bark. Pour in 3½ cups water, stir, and cover the bowl with plastic wrap. Let sit overnight.
2. The next day, pour the watery rice and nut mixture into a medium saucepan and warm it over a low flame. Stir in 2 oz. dark brown sugar, 1½ oz. chopped very dark chocolate, and 2 cups water, mixing until all is well combined. (You may wish to add more cinnamon and sugar.) Once the liquid is even in color and just barely simmering, remove the saucepan from heat and let it come to room temperature. Then pour the contents into a large bowl, cover, and let chill for at least 3 hours.
3. Once it has cooled, strain the horchata—which should be a milky, dappled brown—through a fine-mesh sieve and into a pitcher, taking care to press the last bits of liquid from the rice and seed solids. If some nutty kernels make their way into the pitcher, don’t worry; they will only enhance the drink’s wonderfully thick texture. To serve, pour over ice cubes and garnish with a piece of cinnamon bark.
The narrow alley twisted through a tight turn and plunged down a steep incline, the looming press of dark buildings making it impossible to get her bearings. Left, right—which way was home? She was now on unfamiliar ground, running blindly in a cat-and-mouse race to elude her pursuers.
A slip on the cold cobbles sent her careening into a stretch of wall, the force of the blow momentarily knocking the wind from her lungs. Bracing her bruised hands on rough brick, she sucked in a gasp of searing air. Pain lanced through her side, sharp as a stiletto, and her heart was hammering so hard against her ribs that she feared the bones might crack.
Life as an indolent aristocrat has left me soft as Chantilly cream, she thought wryly. In the past, she had often outrun angry men, laughing all the way as she left them choking on her dust.
At the moment, however, the situation wasn’t remotely amusing.
A shout—far too close for comfort—echoed through the blackness. Shoving away from the wall, she turned away from the sound and set off again at a dead run.
“What’s the commotion?” asked Henning, pausing as a well-dressed man burst out of an alleyway up ahead and skidded to a halt.
“Footpads, perhaps,” said Saybrook. He didn’t sound overly sympathetic. “With all the drunken revelries, the rich make an easy target for thieves at this hour of night.”
“Have you seen anyone on the run?” demanded the stranger as they approached.
“Not a soul,” answered the earl. “What’s the trouble?”
“A robbery,” answered the man curtly.
“Your purse?” inquired the surgeon.
“A slimy little slug from the kitchens has stolen jewelry from the Kaunitz Palace. But never fear . . .” The man’s expression stretched to an ugly smile. “If he hasn’t escaped this way, it means we have him cornered. The only place he can run is into the Burg’s royal gardens, and once he’s there . . .” His fist smacked into his gloved palm. “He’s trapped like a rat.”
Saybrook and Henning locked eyes for an instant before the earl asked, “What’s the miscreant look like, in case we spot a suspicious person.”
“Plump, with straggly brown hair and moustache,” came the clipped reply. “And the fat bastard is faster than he looks.”
“We’ll keep our eyes peeled,” promised the surgeon.
The man was already hurrying away.
“Merde,” added Henning under his breath. “We—”
Saybrook cut him off with a sharp shove. “Stubble the noise, Baz, and follow me.”
From behind the dark, ivy-twined garden wall, the Hofburg Palace rose in fairy tale splendor, the soaring, stately archways and fanciful domes painted with a pale pearlescent glow in the soft moonlight. Silvery mist from the nearby river swirled over the dark foliage, the ghostly tendrils dancing in time to the orchestral music drifting out from the ballroom of the Amalienburg wing.
It would have been quite romantic had she not been running for her life, thought Arianna as she made a flying leap and caught hold of a sturdy vine. Like bird dogs driving a hapless grouse toward the waiting guns, her pursuers had spread out and forced her up against the rear of the imperial gardens. There was nowhere else to flee—save to scramble straight up and then down.
Her boots hit the damp grass with a muted thud.
Now what?
Taking cover under a low-hanging holly bush, she pulled the downy pillow from inside her shirt and shoved it deep within the prickly branches. A change in profile might help throw them off the scent. She wished that she could peel off the false hair and whiskers—sweat was making them itch like the very devil, but she dared not divest herself of her male camouflage just yet.
Cocking an ear for any sound of the hellhounds, Arianna crawled
out of her hiding place and after a brief hitch of hesitation started to weave her way in and out of the foliage, heading for the glittering lights.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
It was too dangerous to go back. Retreat would leave her far too exposed and vulnerable in the midst of hostile territory. If she could somehow sneak inside the palace, there was a good chance that she could take shelter within one of the countless rooms and then drift out with the crowd when the dancing ended near dawn.
Rochemont and his cohorts would likely not want to make too much of a fuss over a simple robbery—assuming her ruse had worked. Even if they suspected a more sinister motive, they would not want to draw attention to their own malevolent plans. No, the dancing—a private ball given by the Tsar of Russia in honor of his sister’s arrival in town—would not be disturbed. The Frenchmen would bring in reinforcements and prowl the perimeter, waiting to pounce.
Well, it would not be the first time that her persona of slippery chef had to escape capture by a superior force. Her lips quirked. What with his previous appearance in London, the elusive Monsieur Alphonse-Richard-Chocolat was fast becoming one of the most wanted criminals in all of Europe.
Digging a hand into her pocket, Arianna cast the purloined fobs and rings into the bushes. Better not to have incriminating evidence on her person, in case she was stopped by a guard. With luck, she could brazen her way past any trouble.
Distraction, dissimulation . . .
Lost in thought, Arianna was careless enough to stray through a thin blade of light. It was only for an instant, but a hand shot out and caught her arm.
Swearing, she tried to twist free, jerking up her knee to strike her assailant between the legs.
A hand clapped roughly over her mouth.
“Stop thrashing,” hissed her husband, just barely dodging the well-aimed blow. “And stop trying to make me sing like a puling soprano.”
The fight drained out of her. “Sandro! How did—”
“Never mind that now. Stay silent and follow me. When we get close to the palace, do exactly as I say.”
Arianna pressed close to his side, grateful for the sudden warmth radiating through his overcoat. She fled wearing naught but her dark kitchen smock over her work clothes, and it was only now that she realized the night had turned chilly with the first hint of frost.
“There is a door set on the outside of the left archway—do you see it?” whispered Saybrook as they cut behind a line of rhododendrons to shield their movements from the formal terrace overlooking the gardens.
She squinted into the swaying light of the torches and nodded.
“There are two uniformed soldiers standing guard there. I am going to distract them, but we can’t count on having more than a few seconds. When I say ‘God save the King,’ shoot for the door. It’s unlocked and Baz is just inside. I’ll join you shortly.”
Baz? Arianna knew better than to ask—about that or any of the other questions that were jostling inside her head.
“Stay behind the marble urn up ahead. From there you have a straight line to the doorway. Remember, on my signal, run like the devil.”
She squeezed his arm to indicate her understanding and then dropped to a crouch, her cheek pressing up against the cold stone.
Her body reacted to the loss of his touch by sending a shiver coursing down her spine.
Saybrook mounted the shallow steps a trifle unsteady on his feet. “Lovely night for a dance, what ho,” he announced in a slurred voice.
The two soldiers, a sergeant and a corporal in uniforms of the Austrian Imperial Guards, moved out from their station by the main set of glass-paned doors.
Saybrook gave a drunken wave. “No, no, not looking to partner you fine fellows.” A stumble. “Ladies. I’m looking for the ladies.”
The guards exchanged amused looks. “Sir, you will have to go around to the front entrance,” said the sergeant. “We are under orders not to admit anyone through these doors. The Tsar is very particular about keeping out uninvited guests.”
“Quite right, quite right. No riffraff.” The earl sketched a clumsy bow that nearly landed him on his arse.
Arianna hadn’t realized that her husband possessed such finely honed thespian skills.
“Sir.” The sergeant caught hold of Saybrook’s elbow and pulled him upright. “You must circle back to the front of this wing. Just follow the gravel path.”
“Eh?”
“Drunk as a lord,” said the corporal. “What a pity he didn’t bring us a bottle.”
Saybrook made a slight retching noise in his throat.
“Bloody hell, if he’s going to puke, let’s have him do it off the terrace,” grumbled the sergeant. “Else we’ll probably be ordered to mop up the mess.”
“Jez . . . jez show me the way, and I’ll be right as rain,” said the earl with a fuzzy grin.
The sergeant darted a look through the doors, before nodding at his comrade. “Take his other arm, and let’s be quick about it.”
“God save the King,” warbled Saybrook as he lurched into his escorts.
Arianna took off like a shot and sprinted over the short stretch of tiles as fast as she could.
The door cracked open, and closed just as swiftly.
“Quickly!” Henning hustled her down a side corridor and through the first door set in the dark mahogany paneling.
The cramped windowless space smelled of beeswax, lamp oil and tallow tapers. A closet for the lighting supplies, decided Arianna after another sniff. The faintly sulfurous odor had to be lucifer matches.
“No offense, but Monsieur Richard is not nearly as attractive a character as your urchin boy,” whispered Henning.
“Perhaps with a hair trim and a shave?” she quipped, brushing the lank wisps of scratchy hair from her cheek.
“And a bath.” The surgeon stifled a chuckle. “Your clothing reeks of burned bacon and garlic, to put it mildly.”
“Yes, well, a less than fastidious concern with my garments discouraged my fellow workers from seeking a closer acquaintance.”
“I don’t blame them.” He shifted slightly. “We shouldn’t have to be in here too long. Sandro seems to know his way around the place. He brought me here through the side saloons without a hitch, so I daresay he’ll make his way back here in a trice. This part of the Amalienburg is not being used tonight.”
“A stroke of luck,” said Arianna. “Speaking of which—”
“Auch, let’s leave the questions until later, lassie. There’s much to discuss, I grant you, but for now, let’s devote our attention to getting you out of this coil.” He inhaled through his mouth. “Not to speak of that disgusting disguise.”
“Have you any idea what Sandro has in mind?”
“Nay, but I’m sure he is putting together a plan as we speak,” replied the surgeon. “The laddie’s brain box seems to function even more efficiently during the heat of battle.”
Arianna felt the tension suddenly melt from her bones. Over the years, she had learned to be tough and to trust only herself in the fight for survival. That she now had—as Saybrook once jokingly quipped—someone watching her arse was a source of surprising comfort.
Am I growing soft? Strangely enough, Arianna found she really didn’t care about the answer.
“Yes, so I have noticed,” she murmured, her breath barely stirring the air.
They both stiffened and went very still at the sound of approaching footsteps.
Click, click, click. The martial strides stopped by the door.
Arianna blinked as a sliver of light struck her eyes.
“We must move fast.” All slurring was gone. Her husband’s voice carried a sharp note of command. “I spotted Rochemont entering through the main gates. It’s imperative that he see . . .” His hand drew her out from the closet. “I’ll explain as we go along.” To Henning, he said, “Baz, your part is done. Leave by the same way we came and return to our quarters. We’ll meet you there shortly.”
> Henning snapped a silent salute.
Saybrook had already started down the dimly lit corridor, his grip keeping her close to his big body.
“Shouldn’t we be trying to make our way outside, and slip away under the cover of darkness?” whispered Arianna.
“Not the best strategy, under the circumstances,” he replied. “I’ve got a better idea.”
His words were a welcome relief. Her body ached, her brain was muzzy, her resolve had gone a little weak at the knees. She was happy to let him take charge.
At the turn, Saybrook marched her through a doorway hidden discreetly in the decorative paneling, and up a flight of steep stairs. Then they were in another corridor, the glass-globed wall sconces illuminating a parfait of painted pastel colors highlighted with touches of gleaming gold.
“Good God,” she whispered.
“This section of the Amalienburg was designed for the old Emperor’s sister,” said Saybrook. “Which explains the extravagantly feminine decor. The Tsar has quartered some of his female relatives here.”
Arianna was still not sure what he intended.
“One . . . two . . . three . . .” he counted under his breath. “In here.”
He hurried her through a sitting room and into a large bedchamber swathed in a confection of frilly silks and satins. “Strip off your clothes.”
“Sandro, I’m not sure this is the moment for amorous activities.”
“It’s said that anger adds an edge to it.”
Was he angry? It wasn’t as if she had deliberately disobeyed his admonition to avoid danger.
“But you’re right.” He threw open the armoire and sorted through the selection of fancy gowns. “Here—try this. I’m assuming a corset can be found in one of the drawers. Don’t bother with stockings, or other fripperies. We just need to create a façade, if you will.”
Arianna kicked off her boots and shed her smock. “You aren’t worried that the rightful owner will suddenly appear ?”
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