Andrea Penrose - The Cocoa Conspiracy

6. Carefully transfer pan to oven. Bake until flan is lightly set but still jiggles when shaken (lifting foil to check), about 1½ hours. Transfer loaf pan to a wire rack to cool to room temperature. Refrigerate flan at least 4 hours or overnight.

7. To serve, run an offset spatula along sides of pan to gently release it. Turn onto a serving platter and top with pepita praline; serve in slices.

Yield: 8 servings.

The fortnight finally over, Arianna breathed an inward sigh of relief as she followed the procession of baggage being carried up the steps of their London town house. The inquest, the interminable fugue of privilege at play had put her nerves on constant edge.

The pop of champagne, the clink of crystal, the fizz of laughter . . .

And it was, she reminded herself, just a prelude of what was to come.

The idea was exhausting. And at the same time strangely exhilarating. As if that makes any sense .

Her mouth quirked as she looked up at the stately marble columns and graceful pediments of the entranceway.

The polished knocker, the imposing oak paneling, the well-oiled efficiency of the servants opening the portal to the perfectly polished interior . . .

Perhaps life had become too comfortable, too predictable, admitted Arianna.

She slanted a glance at Saybrook as he greeted the footman who appeared to take his satchel of books. The change in him, however subtle, had not escaped her eye. The spark in his eye seemed a bit brighter. No—perhaps “intense” was a better word. Scholarship, for all its cerebral challenges, could not light that indescribable burn.

Along with wariness, and worry about the upcoming battle, Arianna sensed a thrum of anticipation pulsing through her husband’s blood. Steel versus steel—strength against strength. The prospect of matching mind and body against a clever enemy was not intimidating. It was intoxicating.

Saybrook had once told her that danger was like a drug. She smiled as the truth of his words tickled down her spine. Oh yes, he liked his studies, but risk, like chocolate, was also a stimulant to the senses, and loath though he might be to admit it, the earl missed the taste of it.

“Welcome home, milady,” intoned their butler, a tall, grizzled Spaniard whom she privately thought of as Don Quixote.

Home. She was still getting used to having a grand residence and servants to cater to her comforts. Her father had never lingered in one spot for very long . . .

“Allow me to take your books and your reticule,” said the butler, his English vowels as soft and curling as his silvery goatee.

“ Gracias , Sebastian.” Saybrook added his cane and overcoat to the servant’s outstretched arms. “I see you have been studying the book on codes,” he said to Arianna.

“It’s absolutely fascinating,” she responded. “Certain things still puzzle me, of course, but as you said, the basic logic has much in common with mathematics. I’ve been making a list of questions—”

He laughed. “I noted how entranced you were with Becton’s treatise during the journey.”

“Yes, well, you seemed busy with your own work,” she answered. “So I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“I was reviewing my notes on the present alliances, and all I can say is that if European politics is based on any rational system of order, it eludes me,” replied Saybrook ruefully. “I swear, there is no rhyme or reason to the bumble broth of intrigue.”

“So you think that we are stepping out of the frying pan and into the fire?”

“Tensions will be coming to a boil in Vienna, and it will be our job to see that England doesn’t get burned.” The earl tossed his gloves on the sideboard. “I would welcome your opinion on some thoughts that have come to mind concerning our strategy. Shall I order a pot of chocolate to be brought to the library?”

“You’ve whetted my appetite—how can I resist?”

With all the other distractions swirling around the case, Grentham’s comment about the other woman, along with the awkwardness of its implications, had been forgotten. Or at least relegated to some deep, dark recess of the mind, thought Arianna. State treason took precedence over any private worries of personal betrayal.

His smile sent a slight lurch through her insides.

No—not betrayal. That was unfair, she reminded herself. They had neither made nor demanded any promises of fidelity. The church vows had been a mere formality.

“Ah, excellent,” said Saybrook, brushing an errant lock of hair from the nape of her neck. “I was hoping that I could tempt you, despite the lateness of the hour.”

“G-give me just a few moments to freshen up. I shall meet you there shortly.”

Her toilette refreshed, her gown changed, and her thoughts reordered, Arianna entered the library feeling somewhat revived.

“Ah,” she murmured, after savoring a long sip of their cook’s special brew. “I missed Bianca’s chocolate.”

“As did I.” Saybrook hooked the hassock with a booted foot and drew it closer to his favorite chair. “When one is used to spices, everything else tastes rather bland.” He added a splash of Spanish brandy—a hotter, rougher spirit than French cognac—to his chocolate before propping his feet up in front of the blazing hearth and exhaling loudly. “I’m sorry that you’ve been dragged back into my private conflict with Grentham.”

“Let us not trade recriminations,” she interrupted quickly. “I couldn’t resist baiting the minister during the opening reception, so it’s quite likely that his venom is directed at me. Assuming, of course, that he isn’t the serpent responsible for trying to poison the government.”

Saybrook set down his cup. “Before we go on, perhaps we ought to clear the air.”

“Of brimstone and gunpowder?” joked Arianna, watching a twisting plume of smoke rise up from the burning logs.

“Of innuendos and speculation,” he replied.

Within the dark irises of his eyes, the reflection of the flames was like pinpoints of molten gold.

“Sandro,” she began, only to be silenced by a flick of his hand.

“No, let me speak.” He straightened, the slope of his broad shoulders steeling to an unyielding edge. “Grentham spoke the truth. I do make regular visits to a lady who lives in Charlotte Street, off Bedford Square. But it is not for any prurient reason, as was his unspoken suggestion. She is . . .”

Arianna sipped her chocolate, watching him through the fringe of her lashes.

“She is an Original, to use common cant.” He heaved a harried sigh. “Though in truth there is nothing common about Sophia Kirtland.”

He paused, as if waiting for some reaction. But Arianna, warned to silence, decided to take him at his word.

Clearing his throat, the earl continued. “Miss Kirtland has never been married—she is a spinster, a distinction she holds proudly, having little desire to surrender her independence to—as she so colorfully puts it—a dolt whose ballocks would likely be more active than his brain. Which is to say, she has no high opinion of men in general. Nor women, for that matter.”

Arianna was careful to keep her expression neutral.

“As you no doubt gather by now,” he went on, “she is eccentric. Acerbic. Opinionated.” A fresh splash of brandy sloshed into his cup. “She is also the most brilliant scientist I know. I met her at a lecture on chemistry at the Royal Society some years ago, and engaged in a most interesting disagreement over the speaker’s conclusions. We corresponded while I was in Spain, and over time, we became . . . friends, for lack of a better word.” He drank deeply, avoiding Arianna’s eyes. “Given her outspoken views, Miss Kirtland would not be overly welcome in Polite Society, even if she sought to fit into the social whirl. She lives as a recluse, surrounded by her books, her Egyptian cats and occasional visits to a small circle of equally unconventional thinkers. However, I think she’s a little lonely, so I make a point of visiting her every week.”