Andrea Penrose - The Cocoa Conspiracy

The guards exchanged amused looks. “Sir, you will have to go around to the front entrance,” said the sergeant. “We are under orders not to admit anyone through these doors. The Tsar is very particular about keeping out uninvited guests.”

“Quite right, quite right. No riffraff.” The earl sketched a clumsy bow that nearly landed him on his arse.

Arianna hadn’t realized that her husband possessed such finely honed thespian skills.

“Sir.” The sergeant caught hold of Saybrook’s elbow and pulled him upright. “You must circle back to the front of this wing. Just follow the gravel path.”

“Eh?”

“Drunk as a lord,” said the corporal. “What a pity he didn’t bring us a bottle.”

Saybrook made a slight retching noise in his throat.

“Bloody hell, if he’s going to puke, let’s have him do it off the terrace,” grumbled the sergeant. “Else we’ll probably be ordered to mop up the mess.”

“Jez . . . jez show me the way, and I’ll be right as rain,” said the earl with a fuzzy grin.

The sergeant darted a look through the doors, before nodding at his comrade. “Take his other arm, and let’s be quick about it.”

“God save the King,” warbled Saybrook as he lurched into his escorts.

Arianna took off like a shot and sprinted over the short stretch of tiles as fast as she could.

The door cracked open, and closed just as swiftly.

“Quickly!” Henning hustled her down a side corridor and through the first door set in the dark mahogany paneling.

The cramped windowless space smelled of beeswax, lamp oil and tallow tapers. A closet for the lighting supplies, decided Arianna after another sniff. The faintly sulfurous odor had to be lucifer matches.

“No offense, but Monsieur Richard is not nearly as attractive a character as your urchin boy,” whispered Henning.

“Perhaps with a hair trim and a shave?” she quipped, brushing the lank wisps of scratchy hair from her cheek.

“And a bath.” The surgeon stifled a chuckle. “Your clothing reeks of burned bacon and garlic, to put it mildly.”

“Yes, well, a less than fastidious concern with my garments discouraged my fellow workers from seeking a closer acquaintance.”

“I don’t blame them.” He shifted slightly. “We shouldn’t have to be in here too long. Sandro seems to know his way around the place. He brought me here through the side saloons without a hitch, so I daresay he’ll make his way back here in a trice. This part of the Amalienburg is not being used tonight.”

“A stroke of luck,” said Arianna. “Speaking of which—”

“Auch, let’s leave the questions until later, lassie. There’s much to discuss, I grant you, but for now, let’s devote our attention to getting you out of this coil.” He inhaled through his mouth. “Not to speak of that disgusting disguise.”

“Have you any idea what Sandro has in mind?”

“Nay, but I’m sure he is putting together a plan as we speak,” replied the surgeon. “The laddie’s brain box seems to function even more efficiently during the heat of battle.”

Arianna felt the tension suddenly melt from her bones. Over the years, she had learned to be tough and to trust only herself in the fight for survival. That she now had—as Saybrook once jokingly quipped—someone watching her arse was a source of surprising comfort.

Am I growing soft? Strangely enough, Arianna found she really didn’t care about the answer.

“Yes, so I have noticed,” she murmured, her breath barely stirring the air.

They both stiffened and went very still at the sound of approaching footsteps.

Click, click, click. The martial strides stopped by the door.

Arianna blinked as a sliver of light struck her eyes.

“We must move fast.” All slurring was gone. Her husband’s voice carried a sharp note of command. “I spotted Rochemont entering through the main gates. It’s imperative that he see . . .” His hand drew her out from the closet. “I’ll explain as we go along.” To Henning, he said, “Baz, your part is done. Leave by the same way we came and return to our quarters. We’ll meet you there shortly.”

Henning snapped a silent salute.

Saybrook had already started down the dimly lit corridor, his grip keeping her close to his big body.

“Shouldn’t we be trying to make our way outside, and slip away under the cover of darkness?” whispered Arianna.

“Not the best strategy, under the circumstances,” he replied. “I’ve got a better idea.”

His words were a welcome relief. Her body ached, her brain was muzzy, her resolve had gone a little weak at the knees. She was happy to let him take charge.

At the turn, Saybrook marched her through a doorway hidden discreetly in the decorative paneling, and up a flight of steep stairs. Then they were in another corridor, the glass-globed wall sconces illuminating a parfait of painted pastel colors highlighted with touches of gleaming gold.

“Good God,” she whispered.

“This section of the Amalienburg was designed for the old Emperor’s sister,” said Saybrook. “Which explains the extravagantly feminine decor. The Tsar has quartered some of his female relatives here.”

Arianna was still not sure what he intended.

“One . . . two . . . three . . .” he counted under his breath. “In here.”

He hurried her through a sitting room and into a large bedchamber swathed in a confection of frilly silks and satins. “Strip off your clothes.”

“Sandro, I’m not sure this is the moment for amorous activities.”

“It’s said that anger adds an edge to it.”

Was he angry? It wasn’t as if she had deliberately disobeyed his admonition to avoid danger.

“But you’re right.” He threw open the armoire and sorted through the selection of fancy gowns. “Here—try this. I’m assuming a corset can be found in one of the drawers. Don’t bother with stockings, or other fripperies. We just need to create a façade, if you will.”

Arianna kicked off her boots and shed her smock. “You aren’t worried that the rightful owner will suddenly appear ?”

“The Baroness of Saxe-Gothe is currently taking the waters at the spa town of Baden, so we should be safe enough,” said Saybrook. More rummaging produced a set of slippers to match the gown. “If disturbed, we can always claim we were simply playing prurient games.”

“You seem to have thought of everything.” Save, perhaps, for the choice of female from whom to purloin clothing. Apparently the baroness was molded along the lines of a petite porcelain doll for it took a fair amount of wiggling for Arianna to squeeze herself into the lady’s corset.

“Is there anything you can do to adjust the lacing? I think I’m in danger of popping out of these cursed whalebone stays.”

Saybrook did some fiddling with the strings, which seemed only to pinch tighter around her bosom. “I can’t breathe,” she complained.

“Breathing is not necessary. All you are required to do is smile and simper.” He helped slide the gown over her head and stepped back to assess the effect. “Not bad. A few inches short, but it can’t be helped.” Gesturing at the dressing table, he added, “Fix your hair as best you can. Nothing fancy. I don’t intend to linger long.”

Peeling off the false mustache and wig, Arianna unbound her tresses and shook them out with a sigh of relief. “Perhaps you had better tell me what you have in mind.”

“Rochemont and his cohorts have chased Monsieur Richard here,” answered the earl.

“How did you know that?” she interrupted.

“Baz and I met one of his men in the street. I put two and two together and decided I had better come and check if my addition was correct.”