Andrea Penrose - The Cocoa Conspiracy

The duchess tittered over something the handsome officer whispered in her ear.

“Look how Metternich stands in the corner, making calf’s eyes at her.” The comte gave a grunt of contempt. “What a besotted old fool.”

“Affairs of the heart seem to be far more important than affairs of state here in Vienna,” quipped Arianna.

“Oh, it’s not the heart that is motivating most of the pairings.” Another lascivious leer as his thigh brushed up against hers. “It’s a different bodily organ.”

She looked up at him through her lashes. “Isn’t it against the rules of Polite Society to make any mention of anatomy in the presence of a lady?”

“Oh, yes, it’s strictly forbidden.” They twirled in a tight circle. “Does it offend you, Lady Saybrook?”

“Perhaps my sensibilities are not quite so refined as they should be.”

He led her through a few more figures of the dance before speaking again. “A pity about Mr. Kydd. The two of you appeared to be close friends.”

“As you were saying about anatomy . . .” She let the suggestive remark trail off. “Poor David—he was amusing up to a point, but I confess, his prosing on about politics was beginning to grow tiresome.” A tiny pause. “Dear me, that sounds rather coldhearted, doesn’t it?”

Rochemont looked amused, which was what she intended.

“I am, of course, sorry that he fell victim to such an unfortunate accident,” she added. “How very unlucky for him to have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Fortune is a fickle lady,” said the comte carelessly. “She did not choose to smile on him.”

“And what about you, Lord Rochemont?” murmured Arianna. “How does Fortune favor you?”

His boudoir laugh was low and lush as fire-warmed brandy. “I have always been lucky with ladies.”

“Oh?” She curled her mouth in a teasing, taunting challenge. “Have you never suffered a defeat?”

“No, never,” replied the comte. “I—”

But before he could go on, the music ended and a booming voice intruded on their tête-à-tête. “Ah, Lady Saybrook, you have yet to come visit me!” The Russian Tsar snatched her hand from Rochemont and lifted it to his lips. “Our delegations may be at odds over politics, but that is no reason for us to avoid being friends on a personal level, eh?”

“Your Majesty is most magnanimous,” responded Arianna. “But then, you are known as a Champion of Peace.”

His rosy cheeks flushed with pleasure at the flattery. “ Da , I love peace!” A wink. “Though perhaps not quite so much as pretty women.”

And judging by his growing girth and the recent drawing room gossip, his appetite for pleasure was growing more rapacious by the day, thought Arianna sardonically.

“I am giving a private party next week,” Alexander continued. “In the interest of bringing our two countries closer together, I command that you come.”

“Well then, I dare not disobey.”

The comte shifted his stance, seemingly impatient to escape the Imperial shadow. “ Alors , France is also anxious to promote international harmony. So I am sure you won’t object if I escort Lady Saybrook away from the crush of the crowd and fetch her a glass of champagne.”

The Tsar did not look pleased at having his flirtations cut short, but Rochemont was already nudging her toward the grand central staircase that led to the upper galleries.

“Pompous buffoon,” he growled, taking two glasses of wine from a passing waiter. “He struts around as if God has anointed him the world’s Savior.”

“I’ve heard that Alexander has a mystical side, and thinks that the Almighty speak directly to him,” mused Arianna as she looked up at the folds of red and gold velvet draped over the balconies. A profusion of exotic flowers were woven around the gilded balustrades, their petals perfuming the air with a heady sweetness. Surrounded by such sumptuous displays of pomp, privilege and power, she could begin to see how a mere mortal monarch could delude himself into thinking he was a deity.

“Yes, he has some charlatan fortune-teller babbling nonsense in his ear about Divine Destiny,” replied Rochemont.

“You don’t believe in such notions?”

His sinuous mouth snaked up at the corners. “I’ve a far more pragmatic view of life, Lady Saybrook. I believe man makes his own destiny.”

As do I.

“An interesting philosophy,” said Arianna, deliberately catching his gaze and holding it for an instant before starting up the carpeted steps.

“Does that frighten you, Lady Saybrook?”

Arianna chose her words carefully. “Not particularly.” She lowered her voice. “I was not raised amid the pampered luxuries of the indolent rich. I’ve had to make my own way in the world, so I have a—shall we say—more practical understanding of what it takes to survive.”

Quickening her steps, she crossed the landing and found a secluded spot at the far end of the balcony railing.

Rochemont joined her a moment later. “You intrigue me.” He ran his gloved knuckles along the line of her jaw. “From the first time I saw you, I sensed you were different. Tell me, why were you so cool to me at the Marquess of Milford’s party?”

“The climate in England was decidedly chilly at that time, especially with my husband and his disapproving uncle clinging like icicles to my skirts.”

“So, you married the earl for money?” asked the comte.

A sardonic sound rumbled in her throat. “Really, sir, I didn’t expect such a naive question from you.”

“So the climate has thawed, so to speak?” he said.

“I find Europe much more to my liking. I may linger here for a while. I have always wanted to visit Paris.”

“A city renowned for its joie de vivre ,” replied Rochemont. “We French have made an art out of appreciating beauty and pleasure. I think you would enjoy yourself there.”

“And what of you sir?” asked Arianna. “Now that the war is over, do you plan to return to Paris?”

His mouth curled into a scimitar smile. “Most definitely.”

“Will you be taking a position in the new government? I have heard my husband mention that your service to your country during Napoleon’s reign will likely be rewarded.”

“I believe that my loyalty will be recognized.” His mouth took on a sharper curl. “Perhaps we shall soon be waltzing in the ballroom of the Louvre.”

“Perhaps,” replied Arianna.

But I wouldn’t wager on it, if I were you . The only dance I wish to see you perform is the hangman’s jig on the gallows of Newgate .

From one of the side saloons, she heard the faint chiming of a clock. An hour until midnight. Surely with just a little more fancy footwork, she could maneuver him into making a slip of the tongue.

With a soft snick , the lock released.

“Stay close,” cautioned Saybrook. “And tread softly. According to my source, there are no guards posted, but let us not take a chance.” Easing the heavy iron-banded door open, he quickly squeezed through the sliver of space and then signaled Henning to follow.

The creak of the closing hinges seemed unnaturally loud as it echoed through the cavernous interior of the Spanish Riding School. The earl froze, but the faint spill of starlight from the high windows showed that the vast rectangular arena was deserted. After a moment, when no challenge rang out from the gloom, he released a pent-up breath and started forward.

Sand crunched under his boots as he ducked into the shadows of the low planked wall rimming the equestrian arena.

Henning glanced back but saw that their tracks were lost in a pelter of other footprints.