Andrea Penrose - The Cocoa Conspiracy

Arianna hung back a step, allowing Saybrook to enter the room first. She would allow the rituals of protocol and privilege to take precedence for now.

Though only the Devil knows why. The meeting was not likely to remain polite for very long.

Grentham had positioned himself in front of the soaring bank of diamond-paned windows. The storm had blown through and a watery light limned his elegantly attired figure, the glints of sunshine flashing like liquid silver through his carefully combed hair.

Dear God—the man could probably contrive to cut out my liver without putting a crease in his coat.

Hip perched on a display table, he watched them approach. It was hard to make out his features at first, but as she came closer, Arianna saw that he was looking supremely smug, as if anticipating that they had come to beg for mercy.

“You seem to have suffered no permanent injury to your shoulder,” sneered Grentham. “Have you come to confess your crime in hope that I will help you save your neck?”

“If ever I was in need of help, I would know better than to seek it from you,” replied Saybrook. “Though I daresay you do owe me a favor. As I recall, it was my wife and I who stepped in to pull your cods out of the fire.”

A faint flush of color crept over the minister’s cheekbones. “I’m assuming you didn’t summon me here to exchange pleasantries, Lord Saybrook.” So far he had studiously avoided acknowledging her presence. “Kindly get to the point of this meeting. I dislike wasting my time.”

“I shall try not to bore you,” said Saybrook, opening his notebook.

Grentham frowned slightly at the sound of crackling papers.

“Read this.” The earl handed him the first coded sheet, along with the deciphered message. When Grentham looked up from the page, Saybrook handed him the second coded letter. The document from the Foreign Ministry he saved for last.

“Where did you get these?” demanded the minister.

“I shall allow my wife to explain,” said Saybrook. He stepped back and crossed his arms.

“I shall try to keep it short.” Arianna took the volume of engravings from under her arm. “I found this book on chocolate in the back rooms of Harvey & Watkins—”

“Is this some sort of jest?” demanded Grentham.

Ignoring the comment, she went on to tell of the stranger who tried to wrest the book from her grasp and the ensuing scuffle.

“Did the clerk at Harvey & Watkins witness this conflict?” interrupted Grentham.

“Not the actual blows. His arrival scared my assailant away,” replied Arianna.

“I fail to see—”

“Allow me to finish, sir!”

Grentham snapped his jaw shut.

As quickly as she could, Arianna explained about her second encounter with Davilenko at the house party’s welcoming reception and her accidental discovery of the papers hidden in the book’s binding. “Given my husband’s experience in military intelligence, he spent the night working on deciphering the codes. Which,” she added with a note of triumph, “against all odds, he succeeded in doing with the first one.”

The minister slowly read through the papers again. “This confidential document from the Foreign Ministry bears your uncle’s signature,” he said to Saybrook. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” replied the earl curtly.

Returning his attention to her, Grentham speared Arianna with a nasty look. “You discovered these yesterday?”

“Yes,” she replied.

He pounced on her admission. “Then why didn’t you bring them to me right away?”

Arianna assumed a pious expression. “My husband was shot, sir. He was feverish all night, and in no condition to discuss the matter. It was not my place to make any decision without his consent.”

The minister’s face went through a series of odd little contortions. If it hadn’t been Grentham, she would have thought he was trying not to laugh.

“Quite right, my dear.” Saybrook made no attempt to mask an insolent grin. “I’m sure His Lordship can find no fault with such proper wifely deference.”

As the minister was fully aware of her utter disregard for the rules of Society, he couldn’t help but know the comment was meant as a taunt, a slap in the face.

She slanted a silent warning at her husband. There was no point in goading Grentham to go for their throats. Not when he was already frothing at the mouth.

Saybrook paid no heed to her glance. “It appears you still haven’t found your French traitor.”

“Haven’t I?” retorted Grentham, a malicious gleam flashing to life in his eyes. “A confidential government paper from Mellon’s file, your wife observed in a clandestine meeting with a spy in the book shop—not to speak of her shady past.” His mouth curled up in a cold smile. “Yes, I can easily imagine the newspaper story, can’t you? Like father, like daughter—a lying, scheming cheat. Willing to betray all notions of honor for money.”

Arianna held her breath.

“A public trial could send her to the gallows for treason. As for your reputation, Lord Saybrook, and that of your charming young sister . . .” He shrugged, and then added in a lower voice, “Then there’s the case of the murdered man, with a number of witnesses who saw you with a knife. One could reasonably suspect that you were desperately trying to cover up your wife’s betrayal.”

Saybrook’s response was a bark of laughter, though Arianna had noted a tiny flicker in his eyes at the mention of Antonia. “And what of your reputation, Grentham? A bumbling fool who can’t sniff treason when it’s right under his nose? By all means, make that public. We shall see who suffers most from the revelation that the dead man is one of Napoleon’s elite Grenadier Guards.”

Grentham stiffened.

“Ah, hadn’t your lackeys gotten around to discovering that?” said Saybrook. “It appears Henning was far more thorough in his examination of the body.” He too used a pause for dramatic effect. “Your experts will find it hard to deny that a serrated knife, and not my blade, cut the Frenchman’s throat.”

The minister’s nostrils flared as he drew in soundless breath.

The tall carved bookcases, lined with heavy leather-bound volumes, seemed to muffle any ambient noise. The silence was deafening.

A draught finally caught the edge of the papers, stirring a tiny flutter. The whisper broke the tension.

“I’m willing to be magnanimous,” said Grentham slowly.

Saybrook made a rude sound.

“I shall offer you a way to avoid scandal.” He stood and brushed an imaginary wrinkle from his trousers. “Go to the Peace Conference in Vienna and unmask this traitor—assuming he exists—once and for all. If you do, the personal transgressions of your family will remain our little secret.”

“Vienna?” Surprise shaded the earl’s voice. He considered the suggestion for a moment and then shook his head. “Subject myself and my wife to the rigors of traveling through a war-ravaged continent, only to dance through a gilded maze of intrigue and skullduggery? I think not.”

“You would rather destroy your family?” demanded Grentham harshly. “It would, you know, no matter whether you are innocent.”

“You know the truth, and yet would let the real enemy go free in order to persecute me?” retorted Saybrook. “Sod you. Go public and be damned.” His mouth curled in contempt. “I wouldn’t have thought you would sink so low as to allow a purely private, petty grudge to take precedence over the good of the country, Grentham. But be that as it may, we shall see who suffers most.”

The minister looked torn between the desire for revenge and the commitment to duty.

Ah, I know how you feel, thought Arianna wryly.