Andrea Penrose - The Cocoa Conspiracy

The narrow alley twisted through a tight turn and plunged down a steep incline, the looming press of dark buildings making it impossible to get her bearings. Left, right—which way was home? She was now on unfamiliar ground, running blindly in a cat-and-mouse race to elude her pursuers.

A slip on the cold cobbles sent her careening into a stretch of wall, the force of the blow momentarily knocking the wind from her lungs. Bracing her bruised hands on rough brick, she sucked in a gasp of searing air. Pain lanced through her side, sharp as a stiletto, and her heart was hammering so hard against her ribs that she feared the bones might crack.

Life as an indolent aristocrat has left me soft as Chantilly cream, she thought wryly. In the past, she had often outrun angry men, laughing all the way as she left them choking on her dust.

At the moment, however, the situation wasn’t remotely amusing.

A shout—far too close for comfort—echoed through the blackness. Shoving away from the wall, she turned away from the sound and set off again at a dead run.

“What’s the commotion?” asked Henning, pausing as a well-dressed man burst out of an alleyway up ahead and skidded to a halt.

“Footpads, perhaps,” said Saybrook. He didn’t sound overly sympathetic. “With all the drunken revelries, the rich make an easy target for thieves at this hour of night.”

“Have you seen anyone on the run?” demanded the stranger as they approached.

“Not a soul,” answered the earl. “What’s the trouble?”

“A robbery,” answered the man curtly.

“Your purse?” inquired the surgeon.

“A slimy little slug from the kitchens has stolen jewelry from the Kaunitz Palace. But never fear . . .” The man’s expression stretched to an ugly smile. “If he hasn’t escaped this way, it means we have him cornered. The only place he can run is into the Burg’s royal gardens, and once he’s there . . .” His fist smacked into his gloved palm. “He’s trapped like a rat.”

Saybrook and Henning locked eyes for an instant before the earl asked, “What’s the miscreant look like, in case we spot a suspicious person.”

“Plump, with straggly brown hair and moustache,” came the clipped reply. “And the fat bastard is faster than he looks.”

“We’ll keep our eyes peeled,” promised the surgeon.

The man was already hurrying away.

“Merde,” added Henning under his breath. “We—”

Saybrook cut him off with a sharp shove. “Stubble the noise, Baz, and follow me.”

From behind the dark, ivy-twined garden wall, the Hofburg Palace rose in fairy tale splendor, the soaring, stately archways and fanciful domes painted with a pale pearlescent glow in the soft moonlight. Silvery mist from the nearby river swirled over the dark foliage, the ghostly tendrils dancing in time to the orchestral music drifting out from the ballroom of the Amalienburg wing.

It would have been quite romantic had she not been running for her life, thought Arianna as she made a flying leap and caught hold of a sturdy vine. Like bird dogs driving a hapless grouse toward the waiting guns, her pursuers had spread out and forced her up against the rear of the imperial gardens. There was nowhere else to flee—save to scramble straight up and then down.

Her boots hit the damp grass with a muted thud.

Now what?

Taking cover under a low-hanging holly bush, she pulled the downy pillow from inside her shirt and shoved it deep within the prickly branches. A change in profile might help throw them off the scent. She wished that she could peel off the false hair and whiskers—sweat was making them itch like the very devil, but she dared not divest herself of her male camouflage just yet.

Cocking an ear for any sound of the hellhounds, Arianna crawled out of her hiding place and after a brief hitch of hesitation started to weave her way in and out of the foliage, heading for the glittering lights.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

It was too dangerous to go back. Retreat would leave her far too exposed and vulnerable in the midst of hostile territory. If she could somehow sneak inside the palace, there was a good chance that she could take shelter within one of the countless rooms and then drift out with the crowd when the dancing ended near dawn.

Rochemont and his cohorts would likely not want to make too much of a fuss over a simple robbery—assuming her ruse had worked. Even if they suspected a more sinister motive, they would not want to draw attention to their own malevolent plans. No, the dancing—a private ball given by the Tsar of Russia in honor of his sister’s arrival in town—would not be disturbed. The Frenchmen would bring in reinforcements and prowl the perimeter, waiting to pounce.

Well, it would not be the first time that her persona of slippery chef had to escape capture by a superior force. Her lips quirked. What with his previous appearance in London, the elusive Monsieur Alphonse-Richard-Chocolat was fast becoming one of the most wanted criminals in all of Europe.

Digging a hand into her pocket, Arianna cast the purloined fobs and rings into the bushes. Better not to have incriminating evidence on her person, in case she was stopped by a guard. With luck, she could brazen her way past any trouble.

Distraction, dissimulation . . .

Lost in thought, Arianna was careless enough to stray through a thin blade of light. It was only for an instant, but a hand shot out and caught her arm.

Swearing, she tried to twist free, jerking up her knee to strike her assailant between the legs.

A hand clapped roughly over her mouth.

“Stop thrashing,” hissed her husband, just barely dodging the well-aimed blow. “And stop trying to make me sing like a puling soprano.”

The fight drained out of her. “Sandro! How did—”

“Never mind that now. Stay silent and follow me. When we get close to the palace, do exactly as I say.”

Arianna pressed close to his side, grateful for the sudden warmth radiating through his overcoat. She fled wearing naught but her dark kitchen smock over her work clothes, and it was only now that she realized the night had turned chilly with the first hint of frost.

“There is a door set on the outside of the left archway—do you see it?” whispered Saybrook as they cut behind a line of rhododendrons to shield their movements from the formal terrace overlooking the gardens.

She squinted into the swaying light of the torches and nodded.

“There are two uniformed soldiers standing guard there. I am going to distract them, but we can’t count on having more than a few seconds. When I say ‘God save the King,’ shoot for the door. It’s unlocked and Baz is just inside. I’ll join you shortly.”

Baz? Arianna knew better than to ask—about that or any of the other questions that were jostling inside her head.

“Stay behind the marble urn up ahead. From there you have a straight line to the doorway. Remember, on my signal, run like the devil.”

She squeezed his arm to indicate her understanding and then dropped to a crouch, her cheek pressing up against the cold stone.

Her body reacted to the loss of his touch by sending a shiver coursing down her spine.

Saybrook mounted the shallow steps a trifle unsteady on his feet. “Lovely night for a dance, what ho,” he announced in a slurred voice.

The two soldiers, a sergeant and a corporal in uniforms of the Austrian Imperial Guards, moved out from their station by the main set of glass-paned doors.

Saybrook gave a drunken wave. “No, no, not looking to partner you fine fellows.” A stumble. “Ladies. I’m looking for the ladies.”