Andrea Penrose - The Cocoa Conspiracy

“I think that the French King is far too worried about consolidating his power at home to be funding unrest abroad,” said the earl. “No, I’d be willing to wager my entire fortune that the money is still coming from Napoleon.”

There was a moment of utter silence, save for the drip, drip, drip of the spilled coffee, before Arianna whispered, “So you think that the Emperor is planning to seize back his crown?”

“Yes,” said Saybrook. “That’s precisely what I think.”

Henning shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“The French King is weak—the real political power in France right now is Talleyrand,” insisted the earl. “And while we’ve assumed that Talleyrand is the force behind this plot, it would mean that he’s gone back to working for Napoleon, the leader he betrayed in ’08.”

“A not unreasonable assumption, given that the Prince has switched sides more often than a lady changes her . . . hair ribbons,” said the surgeon. His voice, however, lacked conviction.

“I know, I know,” said Saybrook impatiently. “But when I analyze the plot, nothing quite fits together with Talleyrand as part of Napoleon’s inner circle. It’s only when we see him as Napoleon’s enemy that it starts to make sense. If the most able diplomat in all of Europe is a loyal servant of the new King, he presents a formidable opponent to any plan to take back the throne.”

Arianna watched tiny beads of condensation form on the spout of the abandoned kettle. “You make a convincing argument, Sandro. What do you think, Mr. Henning?”

The surgeon’s chin took on a mulish jut.

“One last point,” offered Saybrook. “The second part of the message we just decoded—‘ And when the Well runs dry, the Castle will be ours and the Bee will once again rule the board ’—appears to hold the key to everything, correct ?”

“Aye, I’ll grant you that,” replied Henning guardedly.

“You’ve been cajoling me to sharpen my old skills at cutting through conundrums, so how about this? The castle is, of course, a chess piece, and I think we can all agree that it symbolizes the bailiwick—or, if you will, the country—of the King and Queen. As for the Bee, it’s well known that Napoleon adopted it as his symbol when he became emperor. With that in mind, the meaning of the phrase seems obvious.”

“Hmm.” Henning made a rueful face. “I concede that the Castle and Bee reference seems to indicate that Napoleon is planning to escape from Elba and reseize the throne of France. But you still haven’t completely convinced me that Talleyrand isn’t part of the plot.” His jaw took on a pugnacious tilt. “Can you explain to me what the devil ‘Well’ means?”

The earl’s mouth quirked up. “As a matter of fact, I think I can.”

But before he could go on, Arianna suddenly straightened. “Well—Water! The serving maid mentioned that a secret guest is coming for the Carrousel. A general.”

“A general,” repeated Henning. All of a sudden, his eyes widened.

“Yes, and I ask you, who is the only general whose military genius rivals that of the former Emperor?” said Saybrook. “Who is the only man Napoleon might fear on the field of battle?”

“Wellington,” whispered Arianna.

“Wellington,” repeated the earl, a note of grim satisfaction shading his voice. “Napoleon has beaten every Allied commander he’s faced—only the Russian winter put his army in retreat. But Wellington has bested the crème de la crème of the French generals. He, too, is undefeated on the battlefield.” His fingers began to drum a martial tattoo on the tabletop. “It would be a clash of Titans. And if I were Napoleon, it would not be an opponent I would want to face.”

The surgeon’s low whistle took on a tinny tone as it echoed off the hanging pots.

It had not yet died away when Saybrook delivered his coup de grace . “At the moment, the duke is serving as our government’s ambassador in Paris. But according to a comment I overheard Castlereagh make this afternoon, he is coming to Vienna for a private meeting with Talleyrand and Metternich to discuss France and the future balance of power in Europe.”

Arianna’s palms began to prickle.

“For now, it’s being kept a secret so the Tsar of Russia can’t stir up any opposition among the other delegates,” Saybrook went on. “Alexander and the Prussians will be invited to attend, but as the talks are not part of the official Conference agenda, Wellington will avoid all the regular balls and banquets. His only public appearance will be at the Carrousel, where he will watch the display of medieval martial skills from Talleyrand’s box.”

“ ‘When the Well runs dry,’ ” recited Arianna. “You think Rochemont means to assassinate Talleyrand and Wellington.”

“I do,” replied the earl. “Europe’s greatest statesman and Europe’s greatest soldier—it would eliminate the two most dangerous obstacles in Napoleon’s path to recapturing his past glory.”

“By the bones of St. Andrew, you just might be right, laddie.” Henning blew out his cheeks. “So, how do we checkmate the Bee and his murderous bastards?”

“Chess is all about strategy, Baz. Knowing what moves our opponent is planning gives us an advantage but we shall have to play our pieces very carefully to turn that edge into outright victory.”

“Ye needn’t lecture me about the importance of strategy,” groused the surgeon. “I am well aware that chess is considered a metaphor for war. But tell me, what game are we playing with this so-called Carrousel? I take it the event is to feature real-life knights, but what are the details?”

The earl crooked a rueful grimace. “The Festival Committee has been planning the evening for months, and from what I’ve gathered, it’s meant to be the crown jewel of the Conference entertainments. Several aides have spent days in the Imperial Library poring over the accounts of past tournaments, so we can assume that the pageantry will be a dazzling spectacle.”

“Which will only make things more difficult for us,” grumbled Henning.

“Perhaps,” said the earl. “And yet, it may also work in our favor. Rochemont is likely counting on the blaring trumpets, the flapping banners and the colorful procession of champions to cover his dastardly preparations. We can take advantage of the same confusion.”

The surgeon chuffed a noncommittal grunt.

“It’s to be held in the Spanish Riding School, which has a large indoor arena designed for equestrian maneuvers. All the surrounding columns will be decorated with armor and various weapons from the Imperial Armory’s collection,” continued Saybrook. “At one end, they are building a grandstand for all the sovereigns—complete with gilded armchairs, I might add. At the other end will be a balcony for the twenty-four Belles d’Amour —the Queens of Love.”

Another sound slipped from Henning’s lips, this one far ruder than the last.

“ Dio Madre , Baz, if you are suffering from gout or gas, kindly pour yourself a medicinal draught of whisky.”

“Sorry,” muttered the surgeon. “The antics of the aristocracy never cease to give me a pain in the gut.”

“Well, stubble your stomach’s sensitivity if you please. All of Europe will be hurting if we can’t figure out a way to beat Rochemont at his own game.”

“Sandro, that begs the question . . .” Arianna finished riddling the stove and dusted the soot from her hands. “Why not simply tell Talleyrand and Wellington what is planned and ask them to stay away?”

“For a number of reasons,” answered the earl. “First of all, it’s imperative to catch Rochemont in the act. Much as I hate to admit it, the evidence against him is flimsy enough that I don’t think he can be charged with a crime.” His gaze angled up, just enough for her to see the simmering anger in his eyes.