Andrea Penrose - The Cocoa Conspiracy

“What?” demanded Saybrook.

“It’s an old Scottish Punnd Sasannach ,” he said tersely. “One doesn’t often see them here in the South.”

“Unless . . .” The earl pursed his lips in thought. “Unless one has been paid by someone from the North.”

Henning looked as if he wanted to protest but kept quiet.

“It could be coincidence of course,” Saybrook went on. “But Kydd is Scottish, and that he and our Grognard have something in common makes me even more inclined to think this is not a trap designed by Grentham.”

A noncommittal grunt was the only sound from the surgeon.

Silence gripped the room for an uneasy interlude until the earl dispelled it with a shrug. “But forgetting Grentham for the moment, let us get back to the coded message and its meaning.” Looking down at the paper, he reread the message aloud.

“V . . . ‘In V,’ ” mused Arianna, quick to take up the challenge. “It sounds like a place—”

“Vienna,” interrupted Henning. “Given the document stolen from your uncle’s office, V has to mean Vienna.”

The earl nodded.

“So the message seems to indicate that a murder is planned to take place at the Peace Congress in Vienna,” the surgeon went on. He made a face. “But who, or why? ‘ The Deux will be dead. It will happen by the Night ’ is hardly a helpful hint.”

“A good question. And as yet, we haven’t a damn clue.” Saybrook paused. “Though ‘Deux’ in French means two, so maybe it’s a double murder.”

“Dio Madre,” murmured Arianna.

“Or it’s simply a code name for the target,” pointed out Henning. “Or one of a thousand other possibilities.”

“A million,” corrected Saybrook glumly. Leaning back from the table, he threaded a hand through his tangled hair. “The second note is penned in a different hand and uses a different code, one that looks to be more difficult. As of yet, I’ve made no headway on it.”

“Ye have worked bloody miracles making sense of this,” said the surgeon. “How your mind sees aught but gibberish is beyond me.”

“Patterns, relationships . . .” The earl began to drum his fingers upon the table. “Kydd was educated at King’s College, Cambridge,” he continued after a pensive pause. “And everyone there agreed that despite his humble origins, he appeared to have a brilliant future in front of him. But it seems his background needs further scrutiny.” His gaze slanted to the surgeon. “He is from Edinburgh, Baz.”

Henning evaded eye contact, a troubled expression pinching at his features.

“So I am wondering—have you friends there who might do a little digging into Kydd’s personal life? Most people have something to hide.”

“Blackmail is the first thing that comes to my mind,” offered Arianna. “A family scandal, perhaps? Or a gambling debt?”

Silence hung in the air for a long moment. The surgeon shifted and scratched at his chin before expelling an audible sigh. “Not necessarily. Seeing as he is Scottish, the first thing I would look at are his politics, lassie.”

“But why?” she asked, perplexed by the suggestion. “Why would he betray England to the French?”

“Because you English—and your monarchy—are hated by a good many Scots,” replied Henning bluntly. “The republican principles trumpeted by the French after their Revolution— liberté, égalité, fraternité —appeal to idealistic young men who believe that merit, not birth, ought to allow for advancement in Society.”

“Regardless of sex,” added Arianna under her breath.

“I am in complete sympathy with Mrs. Wollstonecraft and her manifesto for feminine equality,” said the surgeon. “But alas, in that regard, you will find the Scots just as conservative as the English.”

“Hypocrites.”

Saybrook’s lips quirked, but he quickly steered the conversation back to Kydd. “You think he might be a member of a secret political society?” Scotland was known to be a hotbed of radical idealism, especially among the university students.

Henning hesitated before answering. “Many bright, educated men are. And I can’t say I blame them.”

“If you would rather not get involved . . .” began the earl.

“I didna say that,” shot back Henning. “Ye know where my loyalties lie.”

“I do. I also know where your heart lies. I would rather not ask you to choose between the two.”

“There is a difference between theory and reality. While I believe in a good many radical ideas, I think fanatics of any cause are dangerous. Fomenting change through violence and bloodshed is not something I espouse.”

Saybrook held his friend’s gaze for a long moment, and then looked away.

Arianna was loath to break the bond of silent camaraderie, but she couldn’t help asking. “Wait—Napoleon has been banished to the isle of Elba and the monarchy has been restored to France. So while Kydd may have sympathized with the Republican ideals, why would his allegiance be to the new King?”

Henning blew out his cheeks. “It’s not love of the French; it’s about hate of the English. Many young, educated Scots feel that any enemy of England is a friend of theirs. They believe that working to weaken the British government will help further their own goals.”

His voice tightened. “On my last visit north, I spent time with a cousin who blistered my ear with his radical ideas. Whitehall ought to be listening carefully—else it might find the bloody conflict isn’t over just because Boney’s been banished to some speck of rock in the Mediterranean.”

“I agree with you,” said the earl tersely. “But for now, let us stay focused on this particular powder keg. Arianna raises a very good point about France, and the spy we call Renard. During our previous encounter, there was little question that he was working for Napoleon. But now, the Emperor is gone, and the Ancien Régime has been returned to power. Which begs yet another round of whos and whys.”

Saybrook pursed his lips and thought for several moments. “My work in military intelligence has taught me that in order to solve a conundrum, one must work with both fact and conjecture. I know that security in my uncle’s office is very strict—there are guards, and special locks for sensitive documents. So I think it’s fair to assume Kydd took the documents.”

Arianna and Henning nodded.

“I also think it’s fair to say he’s not working alone. The documents indicate a complex plot that likely is based in Vienna. Again, it’s a rational deduction, given the important Peace Conference scheduled to begin next month.”

He paused before continuing his thought. “It’s my conjecture that a group of Scottish radicals don’t have the connections to put something like that together. It would take a more powerful network. Which is why I come back to Renard. We know that he is capable of weaving a sophisticated web of betrayal.” The earl paused. “For now, logic dictates that he is the obvious suspect. And yet, it begs the question of who he is working for. And why he is still intent on sabotaging our dealings with the European powers.”

Henning didn’t hesitate in answering. “Not everyone is as principled as you, laddie. Renard probably doesn’t give a fig for whose hand holds the ruling scepter. He’s either loyal to his terroir —the sacred mother earth of France—in which case he sees England as his natural enemy.” The surgeon picked up his near-empty whisky tumbler and spun it between his palms. “Or he’s being paid obscenely well for his work.”

Arianna watched as the few remaining drops in the glass blurred to a blink of gold.

“Look at Talleyrand, for God’s sake.” Henning gave a sardonic grunt. “He changes masters as easily as he changes his fancy silk stockings.” Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord, the current French Foreign Minister, was known for dressing in the elaborate old style of the previous century—velvet breeches, starched satin cravats and jeweled shoes, topped off by a powdered wig. “He’s served Louis XVI, the radical Revolutionaries, the Directoire, Napoleon, and now the newly restored King.”