“The Baroness of Saxe-Gothe is currently taking the waters at the spa town of Baden, so we should be safe enough,” said Saybrook. More rummaging produced a set of slippers to match the gown. “If disturbed, we can always claim we were simply playing prurient games.”
“You seem to have thought of everything.” Save, perhaps, for the choice of female from whom to purloin clothing. Apparently the baroness was molded along the lines of a petite porcelain doll for it took a fair amount of wiggling for Arianna to squeeze herself into the lady’s corset.
“Is there anything you can do to adjust the lacing? I think I’m in danger of popping out of these cursed whalebone stays.”
Saybrook did some fiddling with the strings, which seemed only to pinch tighter around her bosom. “I can’t breathe,” she complained.
“Breathing is not necessary. All you are required to do is smile and simper.” He helped slide the gown over her head and stepped back to assess the effect. “Not bad. A few inches short, but it can’t be helped.” Gesturing at the dressing table, he added, “Fix your hair as best you can. Nothing fancy. I don’t intend to linger long.”
Peeling off the false mustache and wig, Arianna unbound her tresses and shook them out with a sigh of relief. “Perhaps you had better tell me what you have in mind.”
“Rochemont and his cohorts have chased Monsieur Richard here,” answered the earl.
“How did you know that?” she interrupted.
“Baz and I met one of his men in the street. I put two and two together and decided I had better come and check if my addition was correct.”
“Mmmph.” With her mouth full of hairpins, she could do no more than grunt.
“If Rochemont is Renard, or merely working for him, he may be aware that I was involved in investigating the Prince Regent’s poisoning. That incident involved a chef, so if I were him, I’d be thinking long and hard about the coincidence of having kitchen trouble here in Vienna.”
Her mouth went a little dry.
“So I think it imperative that people see the Countess of Saybrook here tonight, in all her feminine glory. The timing should quell any suspicions that Rochemont might have. Like most people, he will assume that it would take an act of God—or black magic—to effect such a transformation.”
“Rochemont . . .” Arianna quickly jabbed a few fasteners into the hastily formed topknot and threaded a ribbon through it. “So you already know that Rochemont is the enemy.”
He nodded. “Baz discovered some key information in Edinburgh. He refused to explain it all until you are present. But yes, he said enough to indicate that Adonis’s outward beauty masks an inner rot.”
“Damnation, we do have much to talk about,” she murmured, taking up a comb to put the finishing touches on her hair.
“An understatement, if ever there was one.” Saybrook began to gather up her discarded clothing.
“Wait!” she exclaimed, catching his reflection in the looking glass. “There is a paper in the right pocket of the breeches. I went through a great deal of trouble to ensure that you see it.”
“Ah.”
She saw him tuck it away.
“I thought you weren’t going to do anything risky,” he said softly.
“Please don’t ring a peal over my head. I didn’t intend to, but when the unexpected arises, one is sometimes forced to improvise.”
“Improvise,” he repeated. Opening one of the bureau drawers, he buried the chef’s clothing beneath a pile of petticoats. “Well, we are not quite done for the night. Are you ready for one more adventure?”
Arianna drew on a pair of elbow-length kidskin gloves to hide her scraped hands. “But of course.”
“At last! I finally meet the lovely countess in the flesh.”
Arianna silently cursed her bad luck. Of all the rakes and roués dancing through the Austrian capital, His Imperial Highness, Tsar Alexander of Russia was perhaps the most blatant.
“And what lovely flesh it is,” he added in silky murmur as he lifted her gloved hand to his lips.
“Your Majesty is too kind.”
The Tsar gave a lascivious wink. “I hear that the earl is writing a book on the history of chocolate. But really, why would he spend his hours in the Austrian Imperial Library studying moldering old documents when he has a wife that looks good enough to eat?”
“Ha, ha, ha.” His entourage laughed at the witticism.
“You would have to ask him,” answered Arianna with a provocative pout. She knew that she looked as though she had just tumbled out of bed. So I might as well play the role to the hilt. A saucy sway of her hips set her skirts in a slow swirl, the froth of lace and ruffles kissing up against the Tsar’s polished evening pumps. “When we are together, we don’t discuss his work.”
Alexander ran the tip of his tongue over his plump lower lip. In his youth he had been called “the Angel” for his blonde good looks, but his dissolute lifestyle was turning his body to fat. “Boring stuff, work,” he announced, drawing another round of titters from his friends. “Come have tea with me, madam. I promise there will be no talk of books or manuscripts.” An exaggerated wink of his bright blue eye. “Ha! I will keep you entertained in other ways.”
“I look forward to it,” she replied.
“Excellent!” He bowed slightly and offered his arm, setting off the chink of gold on gold as his myriad medals brushed up against one another. “We shall discuss the details while we dance.”
“Alas, I seem to have twisted my ankle during some vigorous activity earlier this evening,” Arianna flashed a coy smile. “My husband was just about to take me home.”
“Lucky man,” murmured the Tsar. “When you are fully recovered—”
“Are you ready, my dear?” Saybrook, who had been conversing with one of the English military attachés, turned and placed a proprietary hand at the small of her back. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I must get my wife to bed. If an appendage is left to swell, it can turn very painful unless properly treated.”
Alexander nodded—a little hungrily, thought Arianna.
“Do take care, Lady Saybrook. I look forward to meeting again when you are able to perform all the movements required of . . . the waltz.”
Men, she thought wryly. No matter how civilized and sophisticated they were, rivalry to impress the opposite sex often brought out the most primitive instincts.
Saybrook waited until the porter had brought him his overcoat and they had moved out to the entrance portico before saying in a low voice, “I saw Rochemont by the refreshment table watching your exchange with the Tsar.”
“Let us hope he comes to the conclusion that the light-fingered chef was simply one of the many petty criminals who have come to Vienna to profit from all the wealthy people gathered here for the Conference.”
Their breath formed pale puffs of vapor as they hurried down the line of carriages to their waiting driver.
“We may have won a skirmish,” observed Saybrook, draping his coat around her shoulders. “But I am damnably worried about the outcome of the war. We may now have a better idea of who our enemies are, but the truth is, with Kydd dead we have lost our only real lead. So, barring a stroke of luck, I fear we are fighting a nigh impossible battle in trying to stop them.”
The door clicked shut, throwing his face into shadow. “If only . . .” he muttered, sounding tense and tired. “If only I could break the damnable code . . . if only we knew their target . . .” His breath released in a harsh sigh. “If only I didn’t feel as if I was waltzing in damnable, dizzying circles.”
Arianna settled back against the squabs, the slight movement drawing squeals of silent protest from her bruised body. And yet, despite the aches and scrapes, she managed a grim smile.
“I can’t say for sure, but my own merry dance tonight may have led me to a bit of luck.” She winced as she rubbed at the back of her neck. “I trust you have that scrap of paper tucked safely in your pocket.”
19
From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks
Chocolate Spice Cookies
½ cups (7 ounces) unbleached, all-purpose flour
½ cup unsweetened cocoa (not Dutch process)
1 teaspoon ancho chili powder
1 teaspoon cinnamon
½ teaspoon cayenne pepper
¼ teaspoon cloves
¼ teaspoon fine sea salt
1 cup unsalted butter (2 cubes), at cool room temperature
1 cup sugar
2 egg yolks, lightly beaten, at cool room temperature
finely grated zest of 1 large orange
1 teaspoon espresso powder, dissolved in 1 teaspoon hot water
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
½ teaspoon orange oil (or 1 teaspoon orange extract)
1. In a medium mixing bowl, sift the flour, cocoa, chili powder, cinnamon, cayenne pepper, cloves, and salt together. Reserve.
2. Using a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream the butter and sugar together thoroughly, about 3 minutes.
3. Add the egg yolks and continue beating until creamy.
4. Add the orange zest, dissolved espresso, vanilla, and orange oil, and incorporate.
5. Add the flour mixture and mix very briefly, only until incorporated.
6. Divide the dough into 3 equal portions and flatten each portion to a ½-inch thick disk on a sheet of plastic wrap. Seal the plastic wrap around each portion of the dough and refrigerate for at least 4 hours, or preferably overnight. (The sealed dough can be refrigerated for 2–3 days if necessary.)
7. Remove one portion of dough at a time from the refrigerator so that the dough stays cold while you are working with it. With a floured, cloth-covered rolling pin, roll the well-chilled dough out thinly (¼-inch or less) on a generously floured pastry cloth. Cut out shapes with cookie cutters.
8. Arrange on a parchment-lined baking sheet, decorate with clear sanding sugar if desired, and bake at 375º for 6–8 minutes. Watch closely to prevent cookies from overbrowning. It is difficult to tell when these cookies are done because color is not a cue.
9. Remove from the oven and cool on wire racks.
10. When completely cool, store in airtight cookie tins in a cool, dry location.
“Slàinte mhath.” The brandy in Henning’s glass cast a swirl of fire-gold patterns over his rugged face. “I was beginning to get a bit worried about you two,” he said as Saybrook and Arianna entered the parlor. “Pour yourselves a drink and let us toast to dodging disaster.”
“Amen to that,” said the earl. He chose port.
To Arianna’s eye, its dark ruby richness was uncomfortably close to the color of blood, but the sweetness was soothing on her tongue.
“Slàinte mhath,” she repeated, moving to the hearth and warming her hands over the dancing flames. A wrapper of finespun merino wool had replaced her purloined finery, and between the soft fabric and the flickering fire, the lingering chill was finally dispelled from her bones.
Saybrook sunk into the armchair facing the surgeon. “Much as I appreciate your peculiar sense of humor, Baz, I would appreciate it if you would stubble the clever remarks.” A grunt rumbled in his throat as he shifted his long legs. “And cut to the bloody chase, now that Arianna is here.”
“I’ve missed you too, laddie,” drawled Henning, lifting his glass in ironic salute.
The earl responded with a rude suggestion.
“And you, Lady S.” His tone turned a touch more serious. “You are a feast for sore eyes. Indeed, it warms me from my cockles to my toes to see you standing in one piece.”
She returned his smile. “It’s good to see you too, Mr. Henning. Ignore Sandro’s snarls. You know he’s always in a foul temper when he’s hungry. I’ll fetch a plate of chocolates from the kitchen to sweeten his mood.”
“I don’t want chocolate,” growled the earl. “I want information.”
“And you shall have it, just as soon as I return with some sustenance,” said Arianna. She had come to understand that his barbed exchanges with Henning were part of some arcane masculine ritual of friendship. By the time she came back with the confections, the needling would be done and they could get down to business. “Besides, I am famished, and you know that I think better on a full stomach.”
“Given your ideas of late, perhaps I should be quaking in my boots,” retorted her husband.
“Ha! You may have to eat those words.”
A short while later, the sultana-and-almond-filled chocolates consumed, the glasses refilled, Henning sat back and cleared his throat. “Well, now, it seems we are to have another one of our councils of war. Shall I start it off? Sandro has been pestering me for hours to explain why I am here.”
The earl gave an impatient little wave.
“Don’t rush me,” retorted the surgeon. “It’s a long and complicated story. But I shall try to keep it short.”
“Do,” growled the earl.
“As you know, I headed north to Scotland on the same day you left for Vienna. When I arrived in Edinburgh, my nephew was still missing, so . . .” He shifted uncomfortably. “I haven’t spoken much to you about this, but I’ve kept up ties with a group of old friends who espouse the idea of independence from England. The Crown brands their ideas sedition, while I . . . I support many of their aims, even if I don’t agree with some of their more radical efforts to achieve them.”
“Dio Madre, you need not explain yourself to us,” said Saybrook. “I guessed as much, and respect your choices.”
“Auch, I know that, laddie, and am grateful. But this is about more than me and my personal feelings.” He blew out his cheeks. “Suffice it to say, I’m trusted enough in the underworld of Scottish patriots that people are willing to talk.” The air leaked out slowly. “And what I heard made my hair stand on end.”
Saybrook was staring down at his glass, a habit that hid his dark eyes.
“We know that Whitehall has long suspected that the French have had agents in both Scotland and Ireland, looking to encourage unrest—and perhaps even rebellion,” continued Henning. “And of course they are right. Money has been funneling in from the Continent for years. Most of it has been spent to buy loyalty from the locals, who in turn use it to support their families.” He looked up, the harsh shadows accentuating the lines that furrowed his face. “Poverty is rampant, for many of the English lords treat their Scottish tenants as a lower form of life than their hounds or horses. That’s why I’ve turned a blind eye on what was going on.”
“But with the war over and Napoleon exiled on Elba, it seems that the threat should be over,” said Arianna.
“You’re right, lassie. The threat should be over,” replied Henning. “But the more I delved beneath the surface, the more it became apparent that friends and foes were not what they seemed—which is why we have been chasing the wrong scent in our hunt for Renard.”
“Let me guess,” said Saybrook slowly. “You’re about to tell us that conceited coxcomb, Comte Rochemont is, in truth, a cunning conspirator who has spent years betraying both the Royalist cause and Britain, correct?”
“Correct,” confirmed Henning. “For nearly a decade, the duplicitous bastard has been running a network of agents provocateurs for Napoleon in Scotland. I was away on the Peninsula for some of those years, and then living in London. So I’ve kept at arm’s length from the activities, and never knew the identities of the men in charge. Had I paid greater attention to what was going on in the North, I would have also learned that Rochemont wielded an iron hand within his fancy French velvet glove.”
“That would explain Rochemont’s many so-called hunting trips across the border,” mused Saybrook. “Under the guise of a frivolous sportsman, he was overseeing his network.”
Henning made a face. “Aye. And it seems he ran a clever operation. Recruits were flattered and stroked. Those who showed intelligence and idealism were brought up through the ranks and assigned ways to weaken England. All very comradely, right?” The sardonic
laugh couldn’t quite cover the pain in his voice.
Arianna felt her throat constrict.
“Except those who disagreed with the methods or tried to resign were beaten into line by Rochemont’s henchmen,” Henning went on. “Or they simply disappeared.”
“I am sorry about your nephew, but you cannot blame yourself, Baz,” said Saybrook softly. “You have read history—from the very first, rulers and demagogues have always found it easy to seduce young men with fire in their bellies.”
“I should have had my eyes and ears open. Then I would have been able to counsel Angus,” said Henning bleakly.
“Yes, and he would have ignored you,” countered Arianna. “When you were his age, would you have listened to your elders?”
The surgeon frowned, and then crooked a grudging smile. “No, I would have told them to go to hell.”
“There, you see.” She set down her glass. “But before we go on about Rochemont’s past, I think you had better hear what I have to say about tonight.”
Her husband looked at Henning and then gave a gruff nod.
Arianna quickly detailed what she had seen in the kitchen.
“His hands were burned?” said Saybrook.
“Yes,” she answered without hesitation. “Which has to mean he killed Kydd. Any other explanation seems absurd.”
“But why?” mused Saybrook.
“He must have suspected that Kydd was having second thoughts. And perhaps he feared that things were getting too cozy with me,” she said.
Her husband took his time in answering. “Perhaps. And yet, an assassin, be it Rochemont or one of his cohorts, could not have known that you and Kydd would be walking that way.”
“A good point,” said Henning.
Arianna thought back over her encounter with the young Scotsman. “Kydd was quick to suggest we walk that way,” she said carefully. “He hinted that he had an important meeting. He was nervous and on edge, so I would guess that he had a rendezvous planned with his killer for later in the evening.”
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