The Cocoa Conspiracy lahm-2

by Andrea Penrose

  “I know you don’t,” intoned Arianna, using her best Voice of Reason. “But we all agreed that Rochemont must have no reason to think that his devilry has been discovered. If I suddenly turn cold and start to avoid him, it will stir up his suspicions. Besides, you need me to keep him distracted for the next few hours.”

  The seat suddenly shifted, a rasp of leather and wool rippling through the swirling shadows as her husband turned and braced an arm on the squabs. “Yes, I know that cold logic dictates that we proceed on a certain course. But at the moment I am not talking about reason, I am talking about emotion.”

  Arianna didn’t quite dare meet his gaze. She remained in awe of his ability to be so in command of his feelings. Calm, controlled. And yet his voice seemed to crackle with an intensity that made her feel a little uncertain.

  A little uneasy.

  “Arianna, look at me.”

  Reluctantly, she raised her chin a notch. When she had first met him, her immediate impression had been that his eyes were an opaque, impenetrable shade of charcoal black. She had, however, quickly seen that she was wrong. The depths of their chocolate brown hue reflected a range of subtle nuances, from dark brewed coffee and molten toffee to fire-flecked amber at moments like now, when his passions were aroused.

  “Danger lies all around us, coiled like a serpent,” he said slowly. “And ready to strike without warning.”

  “I’m always on guard,” she assured him.

  His expression softened, in a way that defied description. “I know that. And I’m not sure whether I take comfort in the fact, or whether it makes me want to gnash my teeth and howl at the moon.”

  “The moon is playing hide-and-seek,” she quipped, indicating the silvery scudding of clouds just visible through the window glass.

  “So are you,” he said softly. “Always dancing in and out of black velvet shadows. Sometimes it feels you are as far away as Venus or the North Star.”

  “Sandro, I . . .” Arianna hesitated. “I have learned from experience to be careful. Sentiment . . . can make one weak,” she whispered.

  “It can also make you strong.” He closed his hand over hers and held it for a heartbeat before slowly releasing his hold. “So much is unknown and unresolved about this mission. But be assured of one thing: I will never, ever allow any harm to come to you.”

  A rash, reckless promise. Nobody could make such absurd assurances.

  And yet the words sent her heart skittering against her ribs.

  Thud, thud, thud. To her ears, the sound seemed as loud as gunpowder explosions.

  Saybrook was silent for a moment longer and then reached up and framed her face between his hands. “Earlier this year, a friend recited one of Byron’s new unpublished poems to me. I committed it to memory because it reminds me of you.”

  Arianna heard his soft intake of breath. “She walks in beauty, like the night; Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright.”

  Dark and bright. She sat very still, mesmerized by the glimmer of sparks swirling in the shadows of his lashes.

  “That is indescribably lovely,” she stammered.

  “Yes, isn’t it?” His kiss, though swift, took her breath away.

  Reaching up, she twined her fingers in his long hair, savoring for a fleeting instant the silky softness against her skin.

  “I love you.” The whisper, like the embrace, was like a quicksilver sear of heat, imprinting itself on her skin. On her heart. On the terrible tangle of nameless fears that dwelled deep, deep inside her.

  Just as quickly it was gone.

  “Never forget that.” Pulling back, he added, “I shall see you later,” and then disappeared out the door before the carriage had rolled to a halt.

  Moonlight played over the empty spot on the seat.

  Arianna chafed at her arms, but strangely enough, her bare skin did not feel chilled by the night air.

  Perhaps because as Sandro said, I am more a creature of the Moon than of the Sun.

  But much as it was tempting to linger alone in thought, she reminded herself that she must slide into her third—or was it fourth?—skin and make ready to act out her role for the evening.

  An aristocratic wife, bored with the tedium of married life. A jaded lady, tempted to play naughty games.

  Drawing on her gloves, like a warrior of old donning his gauntlets for battle, she assumed a martial frame of mind.

  Mano a mano. Saybrook had learned that Rochemont would definitely be there tonight, so the upcoming encounter promised to be a cerebral fight with the enemy. One on one, stripped down to the bare-bones clash of will against will.

  The comte would observe that she had come alone to the ball. Her mission was to keep him occupied until midnight. Feint and parry, that was all. But if given an opening, she was determined to seize the offensive and see if she could maneuver him into making yet another mistake.

  One that would leave more than a mere scratch on his diabolically perfect face.

  Snapping her fan open and shut in rhythm with the melody of the pianoforte, Arianna sidled up to one of the colonnaded archways of the Redoutensaal—the main ballroom of the Hofburg Palace.

  “Why, Lord Rochemont, where have you been? Is it true that you have been unwell?” The sonata, a prelude to the upcoming set of dances, played softly over the smooth marble, its notes muffled by the swirl of silks and satins. “Or have you been deliberately avoiding me?”

  The comte turned as she tapped the sticks lightly against his sleeve. He was wearing his customary smug smile—along with a pair of dove gray gloves that did not fit quite as smoothly as usual. “I was kept abed . . .” he answered, allowing a fraction of a pause before adding, “by a slight indisposition and not some more interesting companion.”

  She arched a brow at the provocative comment. “La, how boring.”

  “Boring, indeed.” High overhead, the massive crystal chandelier blazed with a hard-edged brilliance, the creamy white candles catching the pearly glow of his smile.

  The smile of an angel, the soul of a serpent. The palace was filled with glittering illusions, Arianna reminded herself. Medals hiding cowardice, gems masking poverty, crowns covering betrayals.

  Ah, but I too am wearing false colors.

  Light gilded the curl of his lashes, Rochemont leaned closer and offered her arm. “I find myself in need of physical stimulation after such a prolonged period of inactivity. Come, partner me in a dance.”

  The pianoforte had given way to the flourishing sounds of the violins. A waltz had begun, and already the vast expanse of polished parquet was crowded with couples spinning through the steps. Skirts flaring, baubles flashing, they lit up the ballroom with jewel-tone flashes of color.

  The comte shifted his hand on the small of her back, pulling her a touch closer than was proper. After glancing around the room, he asked, “Is your husband here tonight ?”

  “No,” replied Arianna. “He has decided that such entertainments are too frivolous for his liking.”

  Through his glove, she felt a pulse of heat. “And you do not share his sentiments?”

  Pursing a pout, Arianna released a sulky sigh. “I find that his scholarly obsession has become”—dropping her voice, she whispered—“exceedingly boring.”

  The caress of her breath against his cheek provoked a flash of teeth. “So the bloom is off the rose of marriage?”

  “Let’s not talk of marriage,” said Arianna, casting a casual glance at the sumptuous surroundings. Slowly, slowly—to lead him in circles was a carefully choreographed strategy, but she knew she must not rush her steps. “Oh, look. Is that the Duchess of Sagan standing by the punch bowl? What a magnificent gown.”

  Rochemont waggled a lecherous grin. “I daresay her bevy of admirers are not admiring the stitching or the silk.” His glove dipped down to the swell of Arianna’s hip. “The man holding her glass is Prince von Windischgratz. It’s said he’s replaced Metternich as her latest lover.”
r />   The duchess tittered over something the handsome officer whispered in her ear.

  “Look how Metternich stands in the corner, making calf’s eyes at her.” The comte gave a grunt of contempt. “What a besotted old fool.”

  “Affairs of the heart seem to be far more important than affairs of state here in Vienna,” quipped Arianna.

  “Oh, it’s not the heart that is motivating most of the pairings.” Another lascivious leer as his thigh brushed up against hers. “It’s a different bodily organ.”

  She looked up at him through her lashes. “Isn’t it against the rules of Polite Society to make any mention of anatomy in the presence of a lady?”

  “Oh, yes, it’s strictly forbidden.” They twirled in a tight circle. “Does it offend you, Lady Saybrook?”

  “Perhaps my sensibilities are not quite so refined as they should be.”

  He led her through a few more figures of the dance before speaking again. “A pity about Mr. Kydd. The two of you appeared to be close friends.”

  “As you were saying about anatomy . . .” She let the suggestive remark trail off. “Poor David—he was amusing up to a point, but I confess, his prosing on about politics was beginning to grow tiresome.” A tiny pause. “Dear me, that sounds rather coldhearted, doesn’t it?”

  Rochemont looked amused, which was what she intended.

  “I am, of course, sorry that he fell victim to such an unfortunate accident,” she added. “How very unlucky for him to have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Fortune is a fickle lady,” said the comte carelessly. “She did not choose to smile on him.”

  “And what about you, Lord Rochemont?” murmured Arianna. “How does Fortune favor you?”

  His boudoir laugh was low and lush as fire-warmed brandy. “I have always been lucky with ladies.”

  “Oh?” She curled her mouth in a teasing, taunting challenge. “Have you never suffered a defeat?”

  “No, never,” replied the comte. “I—”

  But before he could go on, the music ended and a booming voice intruded on their tête-à-tête. “Ah, Lady Saybrook, you have yet to come visit me!” The Russian Tsar snatched her hand from Rochemont and lifted it to his lips. “Our delegations may be at odds over politics, but that is no reason for us to avoid being friends on a personal level, eh?”

  “Your Majesty is most magnanimous,” responded Arianna. “But then, you are known as a Champion of Peace.”

  His rosy cheeks flushed with pleasure at the flattery. “Da, I love peace!” A wink. “Though perhaps not quite so much as pretty women.”

  And judging by his growing girth and the recent drawing room gossip, his appetite for pleasure was growing more rapacious by the day, thought Arianna sardonically.

  “I am giving a private party next week,” Alexander continued. “In the interest of bringing our two countries closer together, I command that you come.”

  “Well then, I dare not disobey.”

  The comte shifted his stance, seemingly impatient to escape the Imperial shadow. “Alors, France is also anxious to promote international harmony. So I am sure you won’t object if I escort Lady Saybrook away from the crush of the crowd and fetch her a glass of champagne.”

  The Tsar did not look pleased at having his flirtations cut short, but Rochemont was already nudging her toward the grand central staircase that led to the upper galleries.

  “Pompous buffoon,” he growled, taking two glasses of wine from a passing waiter. “He struts around as if God has anointed him the world’s Savior.”

  “I’ve heard that Alexander has a mystical side, and thinks that the Almighty speak directly to him,” mused Arianna as she looked up at the folds of red and gold velvet draped over the balconies. A profusion of exotic flowers were woven around the gilded balustrades, their petals perfuming the air with a heady sweetness. Surrounded by such sumptuous displays of pomp, privilege and power, she could begin to see how a mere mortal monarch could delude himself into thinking he was a deity.

  “Yes, he has some charlatan fortune-teller babbling nonsense in his ear about Divine Destiny,” replied Rochemont.

  “You don’t believe in such notions?”

  His sinuous mouth snaked up at the corners. “I’ve a far more pragmatic view of life, Lady Saybrook. I believe man makes his own destiny.”

  As do I.

  “An interesting philosophy,” said Arianna, deliberately catching his gaze and holding it for an instant before starting up the carpeted steps.

  “Does that frighten you, Lady Saybrook?”

  Arianna chose her words carefully. “Not particularly.” She lowered her voice. “I was not raised amid the pampered luxuries of the indolent rich. I’ve had to make my own way in the world, so I have a—shall we say—more practical understanding of what it takes to survive.”

  Quickening her steps, she crossed the landing and found a secluded spot at the far end of the balcony railing.

  Rochemont joined her a moment later. “You intrigue me.” He ran his gloved knuckles along the line of her jaw. “From the first time I saw you, I sensed you were different. Tell me, why were you so cool to me at the Marquess of Milford’s party?”

  “The climate in England was decidedly chilly at that time, especially with my husband and his disapproving uncle clinging like icicles to my skirts.”

  “So, you married the earl for money?” asked the comte.

  A sardonic sound rumbled in her throat. “Really, sir, I didn’t expect such a naive question from you.”

  “So the climate has thawed, so to speak?” he said.

  “I find Europe much more to my liking. I may linger here for a while. I have always wanted to visit Paris.”

  “A city renowned for its joie de vivre,” replied Rochemont. “We French have made an art out of appreciating beauty and pleasure. I think you would enjoy yourself there.”

  “And what of you sir?” asked Arianna. “Now that the war is over, do you plan to return to Paris?”

  His mouth curled into a scimitar smile. “Most definitely.”

  “Will you be taking a position in the new government? I have heard my husband mention that your service to your country during Napoleon’s reign will likely be rewarded.”

  “I believe that my loyalty will be recognized.” His mouth took on a sharper curl. “Perhaps we shall soon be waltzing in the ballroom of the Louvre.”

  “Perhaps,” replied Arianna.

  But I wouldn’t wager on it, if I were you. The only dance I wish to see you perform is the hangman’s jig on the gallows of Newgate.

  From one of the side saloons, she heard the faint chiming of a clock. An hour until midnight. Surely with just a little more fancy footwork, she could maneuver him into making a slip of the tongue.

  With a soft snick, the lock released.

  “Stay close,” cautioned Saybrook. “And tread softly. According to my source, there are no guards posted, but let us not take a chance.” Easing the heavy iron-banded door open, he quickly squeezed through the sliver of space and then signaled Henning to follow.

  The creak of the closing hinges seemed unnaturally loud as it echoed through the cavernous interior of the Spanish Riding School. The earl froze, but the faint spill of starlight from the high windows showed that the vast rectangular arena was deserted. After a moment, when no challenge rang out from the gloom, he released a pent-up breath and started forward.

  Sand crunched under his boots as he ducked into the shadows of the low planked wall rimming the equestrian arena.

  Henning glanced back but saw that their tracks were lost in a pelter of other footprints.

  “Work began yesterday to prepare the place for the Carrousel,” whispered Saybrook. “Our steps won’t be noticed.” He stopped to get his bearings, then pointed to the far end of the building. “The storage rooms are there, next to where the tack is kept for the horses. Uniforms and banners, along with the various draperies and cushions, are kept in a row of sma
ll chambers running along the left corridor. The armory sections will be on our right. We’ll start there.”

  “Ye seem to know yer way around,” murmured the surgeon.

  “I found the architect’s plans for this place in the library.” The earl paused by one of the massive columns to cock an ear for any sound of movement up ahead. Looking up at the soaring arched ceiling and the magnificent chandeliers hanging down from the central beam, he added, “It was designed by Josef Emanuel Fischer von Erlach in 1735, and is quite a splendid work of art.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” The surgeon eyed the bristling display of medieval weapons that hung just above their heads. “Though all I see is an ode to man slaughtering his fellow man.” Armor, swords, pikes and crossbows—an arsenal of old decorated the arena in honor of the upcoming Carrousel.

  The earl took one last look around. “Come on.”

  They entered the storage section of the school through another set of locked doors. Saybrook veered to the right, and took a small shuttered lanthorn from inside his coat.

  “We can risk a light in here,” he said. A lucifer match flared for an instant. “I had an interesting chat with one of the Austrian officers in charge of arming the participants in the pageant. All of the weaponry for the martial displays of prowess is being kept in the old munitions chamber.” The pinpoint beam of light probed through the darkness, revealing a wrought iron gate guarding an oaken portal black with age.

  Snick. Snick.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d actually think you were enjoying this, laddie,” said Henning as he carefully drew the door shut behind them.

  “Bloody hell.” The earl grunted as he lifted the lid of a massive chest and peered inside. “My wife is at the heart of the danger, dancing with a depraved murderer in another part of the palace while I am merely tiptoeing around the fringes of the action.” Metal scraped against metal. “Trust me, I am not in a jocular mood, so kindly stubble the humor and help me shift these crates.”