Andrea Penrose: The Cocoa Conspiracy

“Le Comte de Rochemont.” Saybrook paused. “Who, like you, believes that he is blessed with Divine Beauty. Along with a cleverness that puts Almighty God to blush.”

“I take it you don’t like him,” she murmured.

“I think that he’s a bloody, brainless ass,” responded Saybrook.

Seeing as he felt that way about most of the haut monde , Arianna took the assessment with a grain of salt.

“He’s considered an influential member of the French émigré community here in London, on account of his family, a very prominent and well-connected member of the old nobility,” continued Saybrook. “But as far as I know, the comte spends most of his time gambling or bedding other men’s wives.”

“So does most of the English aristocracy,” Arianna pointed out.

“Pas moi,” muttered Saybrook.

“Not every man is capable of matching your prodigious skills in the . . . kitchen.”

He choked down a laugh. “Some men might be offended by that remark.”

“But not you, for you know I adore your chocolate confections.” She placed a gloved hand on his sleeve. “Now come, we might as well go feed ourselves to the lions.”

“You mean the carrion crows.” He looked at the flock of black-coated diplomats with distaste. “Who plan to peck away at a war-ravaged Europe, in order to feather their own nests.”

“Try not to be so cynical, Sandro.”

“That is rather like the pot calling the kettle black.”

“True, but we promised your uncle to help create a mood of international camaraderie.” The reminder was as much for herself as for him. “So we must make the best of the situation while we are here.”

“Yes, yes, you are right, of course.” And yet he looked a little unsettled. A little on edge.

Why? Arianna considered herself very skilled at reading people, and now that she had settled into marriage, she felt that she was learning to interpret the nuances of his moods. But this one was puzzling her. She couldn’t quite put a finger on what was troubling him. A glance at his downturned face was no help. The light from the gilded sconces couldn’t penetrate the fringe of dark lashes shadowing his eyes.

However, further reflection was interrupted by Saybrook’s uncle, who stepped out from one of the side salons.

“Ah, there you are, Sandro.” Mellon acknowledged her presence with a small nod. “Milady.”

She repressed an inward sigh. The fortnight was already promising to be a long and tedious affair.

“I trust that you had a pleasant journey from London,” Mellon went on politely.

“Quite,” she responded.

“Excellent.” Mellon’s eyes had already shifted to Saybrook. “Might I steal your husband away for a moment? The Spanish diplomats have just arrived and I would like to make the introductions.”

“Of course. You need not worry about me, sir. I can fend for myself.”

Mellon’s mouth twitched slightly, but whether in annoyance or amusement, it was impossible to discern.

Arianna guessed the former. The allusion to her less than ladylike past was not apt to elicit a chuckle.

Saybrook shot her a look of silent apology and then gestured for his uncle to lead the way. “I shall do my best to appear simpatico .”

As the two men moved off, Arianna turned toward one of the colonnaded alcoves and began perusing the collection of oil paintings hung on the oak-paneled walls.

I would be happy to blend into the woodwork, she mused. The superficial pleasantries of Polite Society always seemed to stick in her throat . . .

“Ah, the elusive Countess of Saybrook.”

Arianna didn’t need to turn around to recognize who was speaking.

“Why does it not surprise me to find you skulking in a dark corner?” Lord Percival Grentham asked, his voice deceptively soft as he glided a step closer to her.

She turned slowly, refusing to flinch. The Minister of State Security, Grentham was feared by most people in London. And with good reason. He was said to be utterly ruthless and remorseless in pursuing those whom he considered a threat.

A threat to what? King, Country, or his own overweening pride?

He looked at her as if horse droppings had suddenly befouled his elegant evening shoes.

She returned the stare with equal disdain. I don’t like you much either.

A master of manipulation, Grentham liked being in control of people. To him they were pawns, insignificant pieces to be sacrificed without a second thought to serve his own purposes. And so he harbored a simmering enmity for her and Saybrook, despite their having saved him from considerable embarrassment by unmasking a dangerous conspiracy. Their refusal to play by his rules had resulted in a veiled warning that he was watching . . . and waiting to pounce if they made the slightest slip.

As their gazes locked, a glint of malice lit in his eyes. “I trust you are not here to cook up any new trouble?”

“No, I shall leave making a hash of things to you, sir.” She smiled sweetly on seeing a tinge of color rise to his cheekbones.

“A hash calls for dicing a slab of flesh into mincemeat, does it not?” replied Grentham. “I prefer a more sophisticated style of cuisine. One that requires delicate carving skills . . .” His well-tended fingers flicked at his lapel. “Rather than a few heavy hacks with a cleaver.”

Arianna had stabbed a man to save Saybrook’s life, and the minister knew it. But she would be damned if she let him guess that the memory still gave her occasional nightmares.

“Ah, yes,” she riposted. “I’ve heard that you have a great deal of experience in roasting a man’s cods, and then slicing them into amuse-bouches .” It was, she knew, childish to provoke him. But she couldn’t help it. “Tell me, do you spice them with oregano or rosemary? Or do you serve them plain, with naught but a sprinkling of salt?”

“You have a clever tongue, Lady Saybrook,” replied Grentham softly. “Have a care that it doesn’t land you in a vat of boiling oil.”

He moved away without further comment as a shadow fell across the recessed corner.

“Was that self-important prig harassing you?” demanded Saybrook in a low growl as he came up behind her.

Arianna shook her head. “The minister and I were simply exchanging pleasantries.”

Her reply elicited a phrase unfit for the elegant surroundings.

“There are ladies present,” she cautioned. “Not that such language offends my ears. But I daresay that the others would fall into a swoon were they to overhear you.”

He chuffed a disgruntled sigh.

“Speaking of ladies, I can’t help but be curious—is Lord Grentham’s wife here?” She wondered what sort of female could live with such an unrelenting lack of humor.

“I believe he’s a widower,” replied Saybrook.

Arianna suspected that the minister was standing on the other side of the tall Chinoiserie curio cabinet, and couldn’t resist a parting dig. “Ha. My guess is he either tortured the poor woman in some foul dungeon. Or”—the pause was deliberately drawn out—“she simply expired from boredom.”

Saybrook gave a chuckle.

“Honestly,” she went on. “Does the man think of nothing but work, and how he can persecute the people around him?”

“It’s his job to be a nasty, nosy son of a bitch. And he does it extremely well.” Her husband disliked the minister even more intensely than she did. He hadn’t revealed the reason, but she guessed it was very . . . personal.

“Forget Grentham,” muttered Saybrook. “Come, let us mingle with the other guests and be polite.”

Rochemont, the French Adonis, was engaged in conversation with the Duke of Ellis and two military officers from the Horse Guards. As she passed close by, Arianna heard him describing a hunting trip to Scotland.