The Cocoa Conspiracy lahm-2

by Andrea Penrose

  “A former military intelligence officer is not someone to take lightly,” agreed his superior.

  “I’m aware of that,” snapped the comte. “From the start, I’ve pursued his wife in order to keep abreast of the earl’s activities.”

  “A-breast,” repeated the other man coldly, adding his own inflection to the word. “Renard fears that perhaps you have allowed yourself to become distracted from your primary duties. Your predilection for whoring is becoming, shall we say, excessive.”

  “Is it?” jeered Rochemont. “You will soon see that I’m thinking with more than my pego. I suspected that the earl was using his wife to sniff around me, so in another hour, she will be joining Talleyrand and Wellington in a rather untidy grave.”

  His companion was silent for a long moment before replying, “Don’t make a mess of this, Rochemont. Or Renard will be most unhappy.”

  The lamp flickered as a shutter slid shut, narrowing the beam to a thin blade of light. “Enough talk, then. Let me get on with my preparations,” muttered the comte.

  “We shall meet later, at the appointed rendezvous.” A boot scraped over stone. “Assuming that you don’t fail.”

  Through her spy hole, Arianna watched Rochemont and his superior move off into the gloom and split up.

  Dropping down lightly into the straw, she made up her mind without hesitation about who to follow, and cut through a connecting passageway to pick up the stranger’s trail. Saybrook had been adamant in his demand to deal with the comte alone—and so she would take him at his word. In a mano a mano match between the two men, she had every confidence that her husband would prevail.

  As for the comte’s superior, it was imperative she learn his identity.

  Weaving her way through the gloom, Arianna darted past the granary and paused for an instant to listen. Chuff, chuff—was that the soft crunch of straw underfoot up ahead?

  As she slipped out from behind the wooden post, her hand brushed against a groom’s smock hanging from a peg. On impulse, she tugged it on over her coat, and then added a battered leather hat beneath it. The fit was a trifle odd—it must have been some sort of practice headgear for the knightly games, for the top half of the crown was filled with a thick feather padding. But the brim shadowed her face, and the loose canvas overshirt helped further disguise her figure.

  Given her quarry’s aristocratic London accent, he was likely part of the English delegation.

  But who?

  Shadows wavered and rippled in the dim dribble of moonlight coming in through the corner windows. Arianna slowed, straining to make out any shapes in the darkness up ahead. The ambient sounds of the stable made it hard to distinguish footsteps . . .

  The strike came from behind, quick as a snake. A shovel smashed down on her head, sending her sprawling to the ground. Half stunned, she caught the glint of metal cutting through the air and managed to roll away from a second blow aimed at her spine.

  Pain shot through her skull, but thanks to the padded hat, it was still in one piece.

  But that will end quickly if I don’t gather my wits.

  Moving with a cold, calculating precision, her assailant slid a step sideways to gain a better angle and came at her again. No words, no hesitation, just a ruthless determination to land a lethal hit.

  She coiled like a hedgehog, waiting until the very last instant to kick out. Her boot heel buckled his leg, and he dropped to one knee with a grunt, the shovel slipping from his grip.

  Twisting out of reach, Arianna scrambled to her feet and kicked it away. Her assailant was back on his feet as well, and circling slowly to force her deeper into the storage alcove under the hayloft. Clearly he was no stranger to back-alley fights—his movements were calm and deliberate. Indeed, a fleeting flicker of moonlight showed that he was smiling.

  A formidable opponent. But then, she had faced other hardened, hell-bent rogues before and survived. Brains over brawn, she reminded herself. Saybrook would never forgive her if she were to stick her spoon in the wall after disobeying his command.

  He turned slightly, giving her a quick view of his face. Good God—so there was rot at the very heart of England’s aristocracy. Lord Reginald Sommers, senior aide to Lord Castlereagh, was the younger son of a prominent duke.

  Beneath Arianna’s smock, the pistols bumped against her hips. Tempting. However, forcing his surrender would be all for naught. Without proof of his perfidy, her accusation would likely fall on deaf ears. As for a shot, that might ruin Saybrook’s chances of catching Rochemont in the act.

  Think, think. Instead she drew her blade from her boot and made a quick feint.

  Lord Reginald drew back a step. He was no longer smiling. “Why were you following me?” he demanded, then repeated the question in halting German.

  “Geld,” replied Arianna. Money. With luck, he would believe this was robbery gone awry.

  His shoulders relaxed slightly. “Geld,” he repeated. “Unfortunately, you’ve just purchased your own demise. I can’t afford to let you live.” He too had a hidden sheath, and out slipped a knife twice as big as hers. “Boys shouldn’t go up against men.”

  And men shouldn’t underestimate women. Arianna had no intention of crossing steel with him. As long as Lord Reginald remained ignorant of her real identity, she held the upper hand. A trap could be set to catch him at treason.

  But first she had to escape.

  He made several quick probing jabs.

  Arianna retreated, drawing him along with her. The wall was at her back. But so was a small ladder leading up through an opening to the loft. She had also spotted a bench with an open bottle of liniment perched on its edge.

  “Tsk, tsk. A wrong move, boy,” drawled Lord Reginald. “You’re now right where I want you.”

  Grabbing the bottle, she flung the stinging liquid at his face, then bolted up the ladder rungs as fast as she could. A quick jerk, a hard heave and the ladder landed alongside her.

  Lord Reginald’s vicious oath reverberated in the darkness below. “Bloody imp of Satan, I’ll cut your guts into garters.” His fingers grasped the edge of the opening. A big, muscled man, he apparently meant to hoist himself up and finish the job.

  A wrong move, Lord Reginald, thought Arianna, slamming her boot down and feeling bones crack under her heel.

  Still he came on.

  As his snarling face appeared in the opening, she spun around and sprinted to the open end of the loft, where a thick rope for hauling the bales of hay was looped through a pulley attached to the ceiling beam. Catching hold of the iron hook in midstride, she jumped, giving silent thanks for the vagabond years spent sailing around the Caribbean. Her momentum swung her in a wide arc, the rope held taut by a bracket anchored to the wall.

  Arianna landed hard on the stone floor, the impact knocking the wind from her lungs. Breathless, she took a moment to recover. Ahead of her, the corridor was only a few steps away . . .

  With a muffled roar of rage, Lord Reginald snagged the rope with one hand on its swing back and launched himself into the air.

  Oh, bloody hell. Staggering to her feet, Arianna whipped out her knife and slashed the rope just above its knot.

  A low whistle of wind was followed by the fleshy thud. She turned to see his body lying crumpled in a heap behind an iron anvil. Creeping close, she gingerly nudged him face up.

  If you live by the sword, you must be prepared to die by the sword.

  Swallowing hard, Arianna couldn’t help but recall one of Henning’s favorite aphorisms as she stared at Lord Reginald’s own knife protruding from his chest. Strange, but she felt no real remorse. The man was a cold-blooded murderer who had planned to plunge Europe into chaos. Be damned with pity—he was no longer a threat to peace.

  But was Rochemont still a force to be reckoned with? She stripped off her smock and checked the priming on the Tsar’s magnificent pistols. It was high time to locate Saybrook and find out.

  24

  From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Note
books

  Austrian Marbled Coffee Cake

  17 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened

  1¾ cups flour

  2 oz. semisweet chocolate, preferably 54%, roughly chopped

  2 tablespoons dark rum

  3 tablespoons cornstarch

  ½ teaspoon salt

  ½ cup confectioners’ sugar, plus more for dusting

  2 tablespoons lemon zest

  1 tablespoon vanilla extract

  5 eggs, separated

  1 cup sugar

  1. Heat oven to 325°. Grease a dark metal 1½-qt. gugelhupf mold or bundt pan with 1 tbsp. butter. Add ¼ cup flour and shake to evenly coat the inside of mold. Invert and tap out excess flour; set mold aside. Set a medium bowl over a 1-qt. saucepan of simmering water. Add chocolate; melt. Stir in rum and set aside to let cool slightly.

  2. Sift together remaining flour, cornstarch and salt; set aside. In a bowl, beat remaining butter, confectioners’ sugar, lemon zest and vanilla using a handheld mixer on medium speed until mixture is pale and fluffy, about 2 minutes. Add egg yolks one at a time, beating after each addition. Add reserved flour mixture to butter mixture in 3 additions, beating to combine after each addition. Set batter aside.

  3. In a large nonreactive bowl, beat egg whites with handheld mixer on high speed until frothy. Sprinkle in sugar and beat to form stiff, glossy peaks. Whisk ⅓ of egg whites into reserved cake batter to lighten it. Using a rubber spatula, fold in remaining egg whites to make an airy cake batter.

  4. Fold ⅓ of the cake batter into the reserved chocolate mixture to make a chocolate-flavored batter. Spoon half of the remaining cake batter into the buttered mold. Spoon all the chocolate batter into mold and top with remaining cake batter. Using a butter knife, swirl the chocolate batter into the cake batter to create a marbled effect. Smooth the top. Bake until a toothpick inserted in the cake comes out clean, about 55 minutes. Transfer cake to a rack; let cool. Unmold cake and dust with confectioners’ sugar.

  It was quiet, the shadows still and solemn, like sentinels standing silent guard on the storage room.

  “Perhaps a little too quiet,” said Saybrook under his breath. He flattened himself against the cabinet and ventured a look at the doorway. The latch was reset, the cases untouched, the Champion’s Prize aligned exactly as he and Henning had left it the previous night.

  “So why do I have an odd feeling that something is not right?” The earl frowned, the lines of anxiety deepening around his eyes as he looked around the room. But before he could answer his own whispered question, a key turned in the lock, the metallic click echoing like cannon fire off the suit of parade armor propped in the corner.

  Rochemont entered. He appeared agitated, and after fumbling with the bolts, he merely shouldered the door shut and hurried to the center of the room. Swearing, he put down his lantern, peeled off his crimson gauntlets, and carefully pulled a small silver case from inside his ceremonial surcoat. The bandages were gone, but the comte’s elegant hands were still swollen and scabbed. Another oath rasped from his lips as he worked the lid open.

  Saybrook could just make out the contours of a slim glass vial nestled on a bed of red velvet.

  Setting the box aside, Rochemont dragged the metal case containing the Champion’s Prize out from its spot by the cabinet. Another key, another procession of clicking noises, and the top lifted. The comte sat back on his haunches and muttered something in French. Rather than remove the ornate eagle from its nest, he rose abruptly and approached the cabinet.

  The earl held himself motionless.

  Rochemont rummaged around inside for a bit, then returned to his work spot and propped a trio of medieval broadswords against a stack of wooden boxes. Each of the three hilts was festooned with a different color of semiprecious stones—reds, greens, blues—and he spent several moments contemplating how they looked next to the gold-threaded splendor of his embroidered doublet. The blue seemed to win the duel, for he edged it a bit apart from the others.

  Exhaling softly, Saybrook watched as the comte shifted his body into the ring of lamplight and set to work.

  One step, two steps. The earl’s soft-soled shoes moved noiselessly over the smooth stone. The eagle was now perched on one of the wooden boxes, its burnished gold wings mirroring—

  In a blur of motion, Rochemont snatched up his sword and flew around. Steel clashed against steel, the force of the blow sending Saybrook’s pistol arcing into the gloom.

  “Poxy half-breed,” snarled the comte. He lunged again.

  Hemmed in by the crates, Saybrook had little room to maneuver. Throwing up an arm to deflect the blade, he spun away and leaped over a low bench.

  “I was warned to be wary of your military skills, yet it seems you are naught but a bumbling fool,” taunted Rochemont, brandishing the point of his weapon at the gash on the earl’s wrist.

  “I’m a bloody fool,” agreed Saybrook, ignoring his wound. “I should have put a bullet in your verminous brain. But unlike you, I am not a cold-blooded murderer. I’ll allow justice to take its proper course.”

  “Justice? Good God, what a quaint notion!” The blade slashed, but cut only air.

  “You’ll have to be quicker than that,” said the earl.

  “Oh, never fear. I’ll gut you like a pig, and though I would like to prolong the pleasure, I will have to make it fast.”

  “So you can murder Talleyrand and Wellington?”

  Surprise spasmed across Rochemont’s face. “How did you—”

  The distraction was just for an instant, but Saybrook seized his chance and ducked under the broadsword and dove for a gap in the crates. A twist and a roll brought him within arm’s reach of the other swords. Bouncing to his feet, he hefted the ruby-colored weapon. “Ah, red. How apt, don’t you think? Seeing as your blood will soon be spilled unless you surrender now.”

  “Never!” said Rochemont. “I’ve trained for years with Lavalle, the best fencing master in England! I’ll slice you into mincemeat.” Despite the show of bravado, he looked a little shaky as he slid into a sidestep. Sweat began to bead on his brow.

  “Trust me, a fencing parlor is not the same as a field of battle,” said Saybrook. “And a broadsword is far heavier than a foil.” He cut a few practice swipes with the long blade and flashed a small smile. “Indeed, it’s much closer in weight to a cavalry saber.”

  Flickering patterns of light and dark danced across the comte’s face.

  Saybrook edged forward, a quick flick slicing off a section of Rochemont’s fancy sleeve. “Come, shall we test our skills?”

  The sweat had turned from beads to rivulets—tiny snakes of moisture glistening against the comte’s pale skin. He reversed his lead foot and with a quick feint tried to slide his blade up under Saybrook’s guard.

  A flick of steel parried the thrust. “Not bad,” murmured the earl. “But you will have to do far better.”

  The next lunge was just as easily deflected. As was the following flurry of slashes.

  “I never did like the combinations that Lavalle teaches to his students. Unless one executes them perfectly, they leave one vulnerable to a croisé,” said Saybrook calmly, his blade forcing Rochemont’s sword high before darting a quick jab that drew blood on the comte’s shoulder.

  Rochemont staggered back, his breath now coming in ragged rasps. He tried a passata-sotto, an evasive move designed to duck under an opponent’s blade, but the earl saw it coming and countered with another thrust, this one scoring a gash along the comte’s cheek.

  His bravado suddenly crumpling, like a Montgolfier balloon whose silk had suffered a lethal puncture, Rochemont let out a shriek and scrabbled sideways, swinging his sword in a flailing arc. He cast a wild look at the glass vial, which was standing serenely on its box, untouched by the violence.

  “Oh, you may forget about the acid,” said Saybrook pleasantly. “I’m not going to let you near it. And even if I did, your clever little bomb has been disarmed.”

  Panic turn
ed Rochemont’s face a ghastly shade of pale green. “It—it wasn’t my idea.” He swallowed hard, his arrogance dissolving into a sputtering of fear. “I . . . was forced against my will to cooperate. They have one of my family held hostage in France.”

  “Who is ‘they’?” asked Saybrook, drawing a touch closer.

  “Lord R-Reginald Sommers is my superior,” replied the comte.

  “Is he Renard?”

  “I—don’t know,” said Rochemont. “Truly!” he added, seeing the earl’s brows wing up in skepticism. “Renard has never revealed his identity.”

  “Then tell me what things you do know,” demanded Saybrook. “This assassination is meant to make it easier for Napoleon to return to France?”

  Rochemont wet his lips. “Yes.”

  “Who else is working with you here?”

  The comte rattled off the names of a Saxon margrave and a Russian officer on Tsar Alexander’s staff.

  Saybrook pressed on. “How do you contact Renard in London?”

  Rochemont stumbled against a stack of supplies as he retreated, knocking a box to the floor. “I—”

  “Monsieur le Comte?” Yielding to a fisted rap, the door sprung open. “Is anything amiss? We heard strange noises—”

  “Seize this madman!” screamed Rochemont, pointing at the earl. “He’s trying to murder the guests of honor!”

  The two Imperial Guards recoiled in confusion as the comte shoved past them and took off down the corridor at a dead run.

  Saybrook vaulted a stack of crates.

  “Halt!” Recovering their composure, the burly guards moved to block his path.

  “Out of my way.” The martial note of command was unmistakable.

  One of the guards drew his rapier. “Sir, I must ask you to—”

  The earl’s blade slapped aside the sword point. “Fetch reinforcements,” he shouted. “Then follow me in pursuit of the real villain.”