Andrea Penrose - The Cocoa Conspiracy

The rough newsprint crackled in reply.

Saybrook fixed his friend with a searching look. “Baz, I know your feelings on democracy and the rights of every man, but this Dragons of St. Andrew Society is dangerous. Preaching treason and armed rebellion will only result in the deaths of many young Scotsmen, whose intellect and passion could be put to far more effective political use.”

The surgeon responded by reciting a few stanzas from a Robert Burns sonnet.

Undaunted, the earl pressed on. “We need to know specifics—the ringleader’s identity, and whether, as I suspect, he is working with any foreigners. I would handle it through my own channels, but you know how clannish the Scots are. An outsider hasn’t a prayer of getting answers to any questions.”

“Auch, I know that,” said Henning unhappily. “I’ll send another messenger north. My cousin is in a position to know this sort of information, and he’ll trust that I’m asking for a good reason.” His voice tightened a notch. “Lies, manipulations, betrayals—why is it that I feel as slimy as Kydd?”

“Don’t,” counseled Saybrook. “There is a right way and a wrong way to achieve worthy goals.”

“Right and wrong,” growled the surgeon. “Is what we do for the higher good? God knows.” An oath rumbled under his breath. “I bloody well don’t.”

“I don’t claim to be a deity, Baz. But I’ve made a choice and can live with it. Can you?”

Henning swore another oath. “Would that the damnable matter didn’t cut so close to home. I have friends and family who wuddna agree with what I’m doing—especially my young nephew, who’s just begun his university studies. But ye know my sentiments on violence, so I really don’t have a choice, do I, laddie?”

“We all have choices, and most of the time they are damnably difficult ones.”

Henning grunted and turned for the bedchamber. “Let us finish our search, in case Kydd chooses to leave the party early.”

Repressing a flutter of nerves, Arianna ascended the stairs and entered the drawing room. Steady, steady . Deception was in her blood, she reminded herself. It would soon uncoil and come to life, like a sleeping serpent suddenly roused by the heat of a freshly kindled flame.

“Lady Saybrook, I appreciate your coming, despite Sandro’s indisposition.” Ever the attentive host, Mellon quickly approached and bowed politely over her hand. “I hope that his war wound is not giving him trouble?”

“No, no, it’s simply a stomach discomfort,” she replied. “I expect him to be fully recovered by morning.”

“Perhaps you ought to reconsider traveling to Vienna,” he suggested softly. “The trip will be a long, grueling one, and the city itself will be aswirl in the pomp and pageantry of the Peace Conference.”

Meaning that I will stick out like a square peg trying to squeeze into a round hole?

Keeping her thoughts to herself, Arianna responded with a smile. “Sandro is quite set on seeing the Emperor’s private library. You know how serious he is about his work.”

“Ah, yes—his chocolate book.” Mellon looked faintly bemused. “I was, of course, happy that the subject provided him with sustenance during the dark days of his recovery.” Saybrook had, for a time, sunk into a state of deep melancholy after being wounded in the Peninsular War. Chocolate had helped wean him from a dependence on opium.

“But perhaps he ought not push himself too hard,” he continued, after a fraction of a pause. “Given all he—and you—have been through in the past year, it might be wise to wait until things are calmer on the Continent before undertaking such a journey.”

A tactful suggestion—but then, Charles Mellon was ever the consummate diplomat.

She decided to respond to his counsel with a slight challenge. “That is sage advice, sir. But you know that beneath his outward stoicism, Sandro is a man of deep feelings. He is not really happy unless he is fully engaged in a pursuit that engages his passions.”

The corners of Mellon’s mouth quirked upward for an instant. “It appears that you understand my nephew well.”

“It may not seem so on the surface, but the earl and I have much in common.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “So I am learning.”

Their private exchange was interrupted by the arrival of several Prussian diplomats.

“Please excuse me,” murmured Mellon.

“Of course. I shall find Nora and pay my respects.” Moving away, Arianna sought out Mellon’s wife, who welcomed her with a warm hug.

“Arianna, how delightful to see you!” Unlike her husband, Eleanor Mellon had never kept her niece-by-marriage at arm’s length. “Do come meet some of the other guests.”

It was some time before Arianna could disengage herself from the round of greetings and seek a moment alone in one of the shadowed alcoves of the drawing room. The muted clink of crystal punctuated the soft serenade of a string quartet. Sipping her champagne, she watched the mingling of the different delegations weaving an intricate web across the polished parquet.

Chance or design? The question of how to interpret the pattern was one that would only grow more pressing in the coming days.

Narrowing her focus, Arianna began searching the crowd for a glimpse of David Kydd.

The Scotsman was across the room, half hidden by the leafy fronds of the decorative potted palms that flanked the entrance to the side saloon. He and Mellon were deep in conversation, and as befitted the pairing of mentor and protégé, the younger man was listening attentively.

A disciple showing deference. Head bowed, expression rapt, Kydd looked convincingly natural, which was no easy task. It took discipline, practice and a certain innate natural talent to perfect the art of deception. And passion. It helped to have some inner fire burning in one’s belly.

Yes, Kydd was an excellent actor and played his role well, she reflected. He was good at presenting a false face to Society.

But I wager that I am better.

Switching skins was something that had, over the years, become second nature to her. She had learned to slip seamlessly into a role—saucy wench, streetwise urchin, temperamental cook, rich widow . . .

Setting aside her empty glass, she smoothed her silken skirts into place and stepped out from the alcove.

Mellon looked up at her approach. “Ah, Lady Saybrook, do join us. I am sure that Mr. Kydd would far rather converse with a lovely lady than with me.”

Arianna gave a light laugh. “La, I fear you have placed the poor man in a very awkward position. Whether he says yea or nay, he is forced to offend one of us.”

“It’s good practice for a diplomat,” answered Mellon with a smile.

“Ah, but why must I choose?” said Kydd lightly. “To have both Beauty and Wisdom by my side is the best of both worlds.”

“I think Mr. Kydd is quite ready for the challenges of Vienna,” Arianna said. “The Peace Conference promises to be an exciting opportunity for any aspiring diplomat, Mr. Kydd. Are you looking forward to being part of the delegation ?”

“Very much so, Lady Saybrook,” replied the Scotsman. “The whole of Europe is to be redrawn and the decisions made will have a lasting effect on world peace. As Mr. Mellon has kindly pointed out, through hard work and diligence, an individual has a real chance to influence the future and write a new chapter of history.”

With ink or blood? The decoded letter seemed a clear enough answer of his intentions.

“Well said, lad. It will be a challenge,” responded Mellon. “But I have great confidence in your ability to think on your feet.”

What a pity that Sandro and I intend to knock him on his arse.