Andrea Penrose - The Cocoa Conspiracy

“Really?” asked Arianna.

“You don’t know his history, lassie?”

She shook her head. “Remember, I grew up in the West Indies.” After the murder of her father, she had fought a tooth-and-nail struggle every day simply in order to survive. “I didn’t have the luxury of studying the nuances of European politics.”

Hidden by the shadow of his lashes, Saybrook’s eyes were unreadable. “Like you, my dear, Talleyrand had an uncanny knack for survival,” he murmured. “Though born into one of the noblest families of France, he somehow managed to keep his neck intact when so many other aristocratic heads were rolling.”

“No doubt because he is willing to do a deal with Satan if it suits his purpose.” Henning made a face. “He’s an unprincipled rogue, a self-serving opportunist. Why, in France, he’s called le Diable Boiteux —the lame devil, and not just on account of his deformed foot. It’s well known he betrayed Napoleon’s secrets to the Russians and the Austrians in ’08.”

She frowned.

“Claiming that he had become disillusioned with the Emperor’s unrelenting wars,” Saybrook pointed out.

The surgeon made a rude sound.

The talk of international intrigue was making Arianna’s head spin. Was the world naught but ever-twining concentric circles of lies and betrayals?

“Let me see if I understand what you’ve both just said,” she said slowly. “It seems we’ve now established that no matter who he works for, Renard is a threat to England. But why assume that he is in league with Talleyrand?”

“You are right—it’s pure speculation. But there is solid reason on which to base it. Talleyrand is a master conniver. Although he represents the newly restored French King at the Peace Conference, you can be sure that he will be working on pushing his own personal agenda,” said Saybrook. “And God only knows what that is.”

“If Talleyrand means to deceive yet another master, then the presence of a Royalist minion like Rochemont in Vienna might be a nuisance,” Henning observed. “However, as you say, all this is mere conjecture. At this point, we are merely spinning in circles.”

“Which brings us back to the question of Charles,” said Arianna reluctantly.

Her husband seemed to retreat even deeper into his personal shadows.

“Are you going to tell him that Kydd has betrayed his trust? Or do you mean to keep him in the dark?”

Henning seemed intent on playing the devil’s advocate. “ If there has been a betrayal, I’ll allow that what we’ve come up with makes the most sense. However, I still say it’s not impossible that Grentham has orchestrated all of this. He knows Kydd is your uncle’s protégé. Perhaps the young man is being sacrificed along with Mellon. The minister may well view them as mere pawns, to be swept aside in order to put Sandro in checkmate.”

“That would require a cold-blooded ruthlessness rivaling that of Attila the Hun,” remarked Saybrook.

“You think Grentham is all sweetness and light?” asked Henning sarcastically.

“No.” Saybrook began to sketch a doodle on his notepaper. “But nor do I think he is a twisted monster who has become obsessed with personal vengeance.”

Henning’s response was a bristly silence.

“Be it an elaborate trap or a carefully constructed plan to destroy England’s political power, whoever has designed this diabolical plan is an enemy we all should fear,” said Arianna.

Her gaze fell on the earl’s paper, where his pencil was just finishing the outlines of a fox. “Is it Grentham or Renard ?” she went on. “I don’t know, but it’s my opinion that whoever it is, we’ve already faced off against him once, and were lucky to escape with our lives.”

The surgeon waited for Saybrook to speak, but his only reaction was to start another drawing. This one was of a serpent.

“Grentham or Renard,” repeated Henning. “Choose your poison.” A scowl pinched at his features. “If it’s not our minister, I would wager it’s Talleyrand who is behind this—there’s a good reason Napoleon now calls him shite in silk stockings.”

“I would tend to agree,” said Saybrook, still intent on his artwork. He lapsed into a long moment of thought, drawing in a wicked set of curving fangs before going on.

“And it makes some sense when you think about the would-be assassin. My guess would be that the French Guardsman was simply a starving ex-soldier, hired because of his elite credentials to kill or wound me so that the conspirators could get the book back.”

Arianna looked at Henning, waiting for his reaction.

“Or, much as we both give little credence to the concept, it could be coincidence,” the earl went on. “The shooting may have been arranged by a jealous husband who has been cuckolded by Rochemont.”

“Dio Madre!” exclaimed Arianna. “We could keep turning in circles, tying ourselves in knots. But the fact is, we can’t afford to do that. We must decide on a direction and move forward.”

“A pragmatic assessment, Lady S.” The surgeon cocked his head. “So, laddie, what do you intend to do?”

Choices. Choices.

Arianna shot an involuntary glance at the coals in the hearth.

Saybrook finally looked up. “I plan to take the documents and what I have learned from them to the proper authorities.”

“You are sure about this?”

“I don’t see that I have the luxury of pondering over the choice of moral imperatives. The clock is ticking and we are in a race to see that the newly won peace in Europe doesn’t explode in our faces.”

1½ cups buttermilk

1 extra-large egg

1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract, preferably Madagascar

Bourbon or Tahitian

3½ cups all-purpose flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon baking soda

5 tablespoons granulated sugar

½ teaspoon kosher salt

1 teaspoon orange zest, about 2 oranges

½ cup unsalted butter, very cold and cubed

⅓ cup 65% chocolate, coarsely chopped

⅓ cup dried cranberries

¼ cup heavy whipping cream (used for brushing tops of scones)

1. Preheat the oven to 350° F.

2. Line the bottoms of two 12-by-18-inch sheet pans with parchment paper.

3. Combine the buttermilk, egg and vanilla extract in a medium bowl and whisk by hand until well mixed.

4. Sift the flour, baking powder and baking soda into the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with paddle attachment. Add the sugar, salt and orange zest. Beat on low speed until combined.

5. Carefully add the cold butter and beat on medium speed until the mixture resembles coarse meal.

6. Switch the mixer to low speed. Add the liquid mixture and beat until just combined.

7. Turn the mixer off. Add the cranberries and chocolate. Pulse until just incorporated. Do not over-mix.

8. Turn dough out onto a lightly floured work surface, and press it into a flat square about ¾ inch thick. Cut into 2-inch squares and place onto the prepared pans, spacing them about 2 inches apart.

9. Brush the scones with heavy whipping cream. Bake on the middle shelves of the oven until the tops are golden and have a little spring when pressed with a fingertip, about 20 minutes.

10. Serve warm or let cool on the pans on wire racks.

“This way, Lord and Lady Saybrook.” The footman escorted them through a set of double doors and down a vaulted corridor. “The minister is waiting for you in the library.”