Andrea Penrose - The Cocoa Conspiracy

Another bout of scribbling.

Another crumpled missile arced into the flames.

“If only Baz were here,” muttered the earl. “He is always willing to bat ideas back and forth, no matter how outlandish they sound.”

Slapping a fresh sheet down upon the blotter, he dipped his pen in the inkwell. But before he could begin to write, a clatter of footsteps on the stairs distracted his concentration.

“What in Hades . . .” Uttering a fresh string of oaths, Saybrook set down the quill. “Jose knows that I’m not to be disturbed. Whoever the arse is, it sounds like he is intent on waking the dead.”

The earl was half out of his chair, intending to ring a peal over the miscreant’s head, when the door flew open.

Saybrook sat back down with a thump. “Well, well, speak of the devil.”

Basil Henning looked even more disheveled than usual. Unshaven, bleary-eyed, hair standing out from his head in drunken spikes, the surgeon looked like a wild Viking sailing in on the North Wind. His clothing, never very tidy to begin with, looked as if it had been slept in for days on end.

“Ye look like Hell yerself, laddie.” Henning glanced around as he unwound his ragged muffler and tossed it on the sofa. “I don’t suppose ye can offer me a dram of good Scottish whisky to wash the travel dust from my throat.”

“You will have to settle for French brandy or Hungarian slivovitz,” answered the earl.

“Hmmph. A paltry offering considering all the hardships I’ve endured on your behalf.” The surgeon dropped into the armchair by the hearth. “Brandy, if I must,” he added. “Where’s Lady S?”

“Working,” replied Saybrook with a grim smile. “But first questions first.” He quickly poured a glass of the requested spirits and brought it over to his friend. “You are supposed to be in Edinburgh. So why in the unholy name of Lucifer have you journeyed to Vienna?”

“Not for the chocolate mit schlag or the cream cakes,” quipped Henning. He gave a quick grimace before tossing back his drink. “I’ve uncovered some important information.”

“Your ugly phiz is not an unwelcome sight, however there is such a thing as a diplomatic courier. You could have asked my uncle to forward it.”

“Knowing that Whitehall is as leaky as a sieve?” Henning shook his head and made a rude sound. “No, I didn’t dare trust anyone but myself to bring the news. It’s too explosive.”

The air crackled with tension as the surgeon rose abruptly and went to refill his glass.

“Well, go on,” growled the earl. “Or do I have to hold a flame to your arse?”

“You should be kissing my bum,” retorted the surgeon. “I’ve gone through nine circles of hell to get here in time to warn you.”

“Of what,” asked Saybrook through clenched teeth.

“That in your hunt for the elusive Renard, you and Lady S have been following the wrong scent.”

“Is there anything else that you wish for me to do, Monsieur Richard?” The scullery maid finished drying the last of the copper kettles and hung it on its hook. “I’m done with my regular tasks, so unless . . .”

“ Non , you may retire for the night,” replied Arianna gruffly. “I wish to sort through the cacao beans, and check the inventory of spices before I leave. Monsieur Carême tells me we have several very important suppers scheduled for next week, and I must be prepared to perform up to his standards.”

The girl shuddered. “Be prepared for him to whack the flat of his cleaver to your bum. He gets very bad tempered when we have important guests to serve.”

“Ha! He shall have nothing to complain about.” Arianna twirled her false moustache. “My pastry skills are far superior to his.”

“Yes, so you have told us.” The maid turned away, not quite quickly enough to hide a snigger. “More than once.”

Arianna had made it a point to be obnoxiously arrogant. She didn’t wish to encourage any overtures of friendship from the other kitchen servants. “You shall see, chérie .”

“Don’t forget to latch the pantries and close the larders. Otherwise, Le Maitre will roast you over the coals in the morning. I warn you, he’s already in a foul mood, on account of all the fuss surrounding the visit of some fancy foreigner.”

“What foreigner?” asked Arianna, her senses coming to full alert.

“Dunno. It’s all very hush-hush,” answered the girl carelessly. “I overheard the Prince’s secretary telling the butler that it’s supposed to stay a secret. Talleyrand wants it to be a big surprise for that fancy party, the Carra . . . Carooo . . .”

“The Carrousel?” suggested Arianna. At breakfast that morning, Saybrook had made mention of the upcoming gala, an elaborate re-creation of a medieval joust that promised to outshine all the other Conference entertainments for pomp and grandeur.

The girl shrugged. “Yeah, that sounds about right.” Her expression pinched to a grimace. “Imagine spending a king’s ransom to prance around in swords and suits of armor. I swear, these rich royals are dicked in the nob.”

“Queer fish,” agreed Arianna. She allowed a slight pause before asking, “You are sure they didn’t mention the visitor’s name? I should like to think of a suitably special dish to impress him.”

Another shrug. “I think it was a military toff—a General Something-Or-Other. Water . . . I think mebbe his name had something te do with water.”

Hiding a twinge of frustration, Arianna gave a curt wave of dismissal. She waited for several minutes, giving the girl ample time to gain her attic room, before taking the sketch of the palace floor plan from her pocket and unfolding it on the worktable. Saybrook had found the architectural plans in the Burg’s library and had made a rough copy. Tonight was the first opportunity to put it to use.

It was, she guessed, just a little past midnight. Talleyrand and his advisors, along with his niece, had left an hour ago to attend a party given by Dorothée’s sister, the Duchess of Sagan. They would likely be gone for at least several hours, providing a perfect chance to have a look around upstairs. The only slight complication was Rochemont. Since the day after the Peace Ball and its explosive ending, the comte had been sequestered in his room, sending word that he was too ill to rise from his bed.

But by this time of night, he would likely be fast asleep, and the sketch showed his bedchamber was at the end of a long corridor, overlooking the rear gardens.

The risk of being seen was slim. And besides, she would have a plate of chocolate bonbons to serve as an excuse.

I will just have to chance it.

She studied the plan for a bit longer, making a few last notations in pencil, and then put it back in her pocket. Between the breakfast list posted in the butler’s pantry and Saybrook’s handiwork, she now knew exactly who slept where, and which rooms were used for the delegation’s official work.

The thought of entering Talleyrand’s private study sent a frisson of heat tingling down to her fingertips. Or was it a chill?

Dangerous . Arianna didn’t need reason to remind her of the consequences should she be caught in the act of riffling his papers. She was dealing with cold-blooded killers. Two men lay dead because of their involvement in this intrigue—three if one counted Davilenko’s demise at the hands of Grentham’s men. No mercy would be given.

“I can look out for myself,” she whispered, her flutter of breath blowing out all but a single candle. Taking up the pewter stick, she angled past the massive cast iron stoves and into the back passageway. A tin of her buttery cinnamon-spiced chocolates was tucked away in the pastry pantry. A sprinkle of golden demerara sugar would top off . . .