Andrea Penrose: The Cocoa Conspiracy

“It is always a pleasure to see the two of you,” Mellon went on.

More than a few men may have been less sincere in such sentiments. After all, with the earl’s demise, the Saybrook title and fortune would have passed to Mellon. However, Arianna had never doubted the affection that the older man had shown for his nephew.

“I won’t take up too much of your time,” he finished.

“It’s nearly noon—you must join us for nuncheon,” she said. “Bianca will be bitterly disappointed if you miss her special Serrano ham.”

“Tempting.” Mellon allowed a faint smile. “But a meeting at the ministry demands my presence. I cannot stay for long. I’ve simply stopped by to ask a favor . . .” His pause was barely perceptible. “Of you both.”

“Anything—” began Saybrook.

Mellon cut him off with a quick wave. “It’s never wise to agree to a proposal before knowing all the details. I would rather that you and your wife hear me out before giving an answer.”

“I’ve already rung for the refreshments, my dear,” said Saybrook, an oblique reminder for her to make haste.

“I shall only be a few minutes in freshening up,” promised Arianna.

Taking the stairs two at a time, she couldn’t help but wonder what help her uncle-by-marriage could possibly need from her. For the most part, they moved in very different circles. A senior diplomat in the Foreign Ministry, Mellon spun effortlessly through the gilded splendor of London’s haute monde. While she preferred . . .

No use speculating. Arianna expelled a harried sigh. She would find out soon enough.

“Attend a country house party?” Saybrook stirred a pinch of grated nutmeg into his cup of hot chocolate. “For a fortnight ?”

Mellon nodded. “I am aware of how little you—both of you—like such frivolous entertainments. But the Marquess of Milford has kindly consented to hold a shooting party at his estate in Wiltshire. There will be a number of foreign diplomats present, including a delegation from Spain.”

“I see,” murmured Saybrook.

His expression, noted Arianna, gave nothing away. As a former military intelligence officer attached to the staff of Arthur Wellesley—now the Duke of Wellington—during England’s Peninsular campaign to drive Napoleon’s armies out of Spain, he was well trained in keeping his thoughts to himself.

“Given the upcoming Peace Conference in Vienna, our government is, of course, anxious to work in harmony with all of our wartime allies,” continued Mellon.

“And, of course, it would be a help to know what the Spaniards are thinking,” said Saybrook.

Another confirming nod. “That your mother was a Cata-lonian noblewoman will be a great mark in your favor. As will the fact that you have spent your childhood summers in their country and so are at home with their language and their customs.”

“A mark in my favor,” repeated Saybrook, a note of sarcasm edging his voice. “How ironic that my own countrymen see my mixed heritage as a stain on an ancient and venerable title.” Seeing Mellon frown, he quickly went on, “Oh, come, Charles, you know I’ve heard the whispers behind my back—how could the old earl have tainted the precious De Quincy blood by producing a mongrel as his heir?” He took a long sip of his drink. “A new batch of spice?”

“Yes,” said Arianna, knowing the question was directed at her. “I discovered a small shipment from the isle of Grenada at the market. Along with a sack of coffee from the Blue Mountains of Jamaica.”

Her husband took a moment to savor another taste. “It’s slightly more piquant than the nutmeg from Martinique.”

“Sun and altitude,” she pointed out. “Which do you prefer?”

Saybrook smiled. “As you know, I tend to choose bold over mild in most things.” Adding a pinch of powder from a dish on the tea table, he continued. “The mace looks to have a bit of bite as well.”

Mellon waited patiently for the discussion of food to end. “My palate is not nearly discerning enough to sense such nuances and how best to blend them together,” he remarked when they were done.

“Your expertise lies in judging the complexities of character, and how best to convince a group of conflicting personalities to come to a common consensus,” said Saybrook.

“It is all a matter of training, I suppose,” replied Mellon.

“And passion,” said Arianna softly. “I believe that one must care deeply about something to do it well.”

Mellon regarded her for a long moment. “I know your opinion of Society, Lady Saybrook—”

“It’s the same as mine,” interrupted Saybrook. “We both abhor the mindless conformity, the vicious gossip, and the gleeful attacks on anyone who dares to defy the petty-minded rules.”

His uncle expelled a sigh. “I—”

“But that said,” Saybrook went on, “we will be happy to attend the Marquess of Milford’s party, if you feel that our presence will be of any help to you and your negotiations.”

“It would be extremely helpful,” answered Mellon, looking much relieved. “Don Pedro Gomez Havela de Labrador, Spain’s envoy to the Conference, is a very proud man, and quick to take offense at any imagined slight. He and Lord Castlereagh, our representative, don’t rub together very well.”

“So in other words, if an English lord who happens to understand the quirks of Castilian character could manage to flatter Labrador’s vanity, he might be more amenable to supporting our government’s proposals.”

“Clearly you understand politics just as well as you do cuisine,” replied his uncle.

“More than I care to,” muttered Saybrook, threading a hand through his dark hair. “When should we be ready to leave for Gloucestershire?”

“In two days,” said Mellon apologetically. “It wasn’t until yesterday evening that we received final word that the Spaniards had consented to come.”

“It doesn’t matter. We have no other plans,” Arianna lied. The trip to visit a noted botany expert and his conservatory of rare tropical plants in Cornwall would simply have to be postponed to a later date, no matter that Saybrook had been looking forward to it. “If you send over the list of expected activities, I shall have Maria begin packing our trunks.”

“Oh, it will be the usual array of superficial entertainments,” replied Mellon. “The men will spend much of the day slaughtering birds on the marquess’s grouse moors while the ladies will amuse themselves indoors. There will be riding, picnics and scenic walks. And at night, there will be endless eating, drinking and dancing.”

“Put that way, how can we resist?” she said.

Mellon let out a brusque chuckle. “Quite easily, I imagine. Nonetheless, I am very grateful.” He rose. “In truth, you might not be as bored as you think. With such an international array of guests, the interlude is bound to offer some interesting diversions.”

“I shall cancel next week’s appointment at Kew Gardens,” said Arianna, looking up from her list as Saybrook returned from seeing his uncle to the waiting carriage. She then added another notation. “And I shall write to Professor Turner and tell him we must put off our visit.”

“I would much rather be scrabbling in the dirt of his hothouses than dancing attendance on a crowd of overfed aristocrats,” groused Saybrook as he settled into his favorite armchair and propped his booted feet on the hassock.

“As would I.”

“And what about my manuscript?” he said. “I need to consult some of Turner’s reference books to complete the current chapter.” Drumming his fingers on the worn leather, he scowled up at the ceiling. “How the devil can I write a book when I have such distractions?”