Andrea Penrose - The Cocoa Conspiracy

“Work began yesterday to prepare the place for the Carrousel,” whispered Saybrook. “Our steps won’t be noticed.” He stopped to get his bearings, then pointed to the far end of the building. “The storage rooms are there, next to where the tack is kept for the horses. Uniforms and banners, along with the various draperies and cushions, are kept in a row of small chambers running along the left corridor. The armory sections will be on our right. We’ll start there.”

“Ye seem to know yer way around,” murmured the surgeon.

“I found the architect’s plans for this place in the library.” The earl paused by one of the massive columns to cock an ear for any sound of movement up ahead. Looking up at the soaring arched ceiling and the magnificent chandeliers hanging down from the central beam, he added, “It was designed by Josef Emanuel Fischer von Erlach in 1735, and is quite a splendid work of art.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” The surgeon eyed the bristling display of medieval weapons that hung just above their heads. “Though all I see is an ode to man slaughtering his fellow man.” Armor, swords, pikes and crossbows—an arsenal of old decorated the arena in honor of the upcoming Carrousel.

The earl took one last look around. “Come on.”

They entered the storage section of the school through another set of locked doors. Saybrook veered to the right, and took a small shuttered lanthorn from inside his coat.

“We can risk a light in here,” he said. A lucifer match flared for an instant. “I had an interesting chat with one of the Austrian officers in charge of arming the participants in the pageant. All of the weaponry for the martial displays of prowess is being kept in the old munitions chamber.” The pinpoint beam of light probed through the darkness, revealing a wrought iron gate guarding an oaken portal black with age.

Snick. Snick.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d actually think you were enjoying this, laddie,” said Henning as he carefully drew the door shut behind them.

“Bloody hell.” The earl grunted as he lifted the lid of a massive chest and peered inside. “My wife is at the heart of the danger, dancing with a depraved murderer in another part of the palace while I am merely tiptoeing around the fringes of the action.” Metal scraped against metal. “Trust me, I am not in a jocular mood, so kindly stubble the humor and help me shift these crates.”

“Lady S is more than a match for any miscreant, Sandro.”

Another grunt, followed by several words in Spanish that made the surgeon blink.

“Any idea what we’re looking for?” asked Henning once they had sorted through the assortment of polished broadswords and jeweled scimitars.

Saybrook was standing by the rack of lances, methodically running a hand over the lengths of varnished wood. “Not precisely,” he answered. “My gut feeling tells me that they won’t try to strike at Talleyrand and Wellington with a simple blade or lance. The odds are against the chances of killing both men outright, not to speak of the fact that the attacker would be sacrificing himself. The chances of escape are virtually nil.”

“So?” prodded Henning as he moved over to a tall wooden cabinet and unfastened the latch.

“So, I suspect that Rochemont has something else in mind. Something he considers a surefire method of success.” The earl finished fingering the decorative hilts and hand guards. “No hidden gun barrels, no concealed triggers—not that I thought that a likely possibility.” Perching a hip on one of the sword crates, he made a slow, silent survey of the room. “Let us keep searching, Baz. I may not be certain what we are looking for . . .” In the murky shadows, his expression appeared grim as gunpowder. “But I’m sure that I’ll recognize it when I see it.”

½ gallon milk

3 whole star anise

2 sticks cinnamon

Zest of 1 orange

5 whole allspice berries

6 tablespoons brown sugar

½ lb. bittersweet chocolate

1 cup aged dark rum

Whipped cream

1. Combine milk, star anise, cinnamon sticks, orange zest, allspice berries and brown sugar in a large, heavy saucepan over medium heat.

2. Scald milk, stirring to dissolve sugar. Lower heat and cook 10 minutes. Remove from heat; steep 10 minutes. Strain into a large pot.

3. Heat gently, then add bittersweet chocolate and dark rum. Whisk briskly until chocolate dissolves, about 5 minutes. Serve topped with whipped cream.

Setting her hands on the railing, Arianna leaned out and watched the crowd below forming the figures for a Hungarian csárdás .

Rochemont came up behind her and placed his hands on her bare shoulders. “Have a care, Lady Saybrook. That’s a little dangerous. What if you lost your balance?”

“Oh, but what fun is life if you don’t take a few risks?” She turned into him and made no protests as his palms slowly slid down her arms. “All these balls are becoming tiresome. I am looking forward to the Carrousel. I hear it is going to be quite a display of pomp and pageantry.”

“Having some knowledge of the arrangements, I can promise you that the evening will be unforgettable.”

Arianna looked up at him through her lashes. “Alas, Saybrook has refused Lord Castlereagh’s offer of tickets. He wishes to work.” A coy flutter. “While I wish to play.”

His gaze seemed to sharpen.

“I don’t suppose I could ask you to take me as your guest?” she asked. “As the head of the French delegation, your Prince must have a private box.”

“Indeed. It is in a place of honor, right in the front row,” replied Rochemont. “Unfortunately, the seats are all taken, for Talleyrand has a special guest coming.”

“Oh?” Arianna assumed a petulant pout. “Who?”

“It’s a secret,” said the comte is a low voice.

“I promise not to tell.”

“Perhaps . . .” The soft leather of his gloves slid down her bare arms. Turning, he drew her into the shadowed corridor leading to the side saloons. The sound of muted laughter swirled in the smoke-scented air, its music melding with the faraway melody of the violins. “Perhaps I could arrange a favor, Lady Saybrook. But tell me, what are you willing to give me in return?”

“That would depend on how special the favor is,” she countered.

“What would you say to being part of the pageantry?”

The slithering sensation on her skin had nothing to do with his touch. “You could arrange that?” she asked. “I’ve heard that the program has been worked on for months, and that every detail has been carefully planned. Surely the organizers won’t allow a last-minute change.”

“True. However there has been one change concerning the presentation of the grand prize to the winning knight. Due to the importance of the Prince’s guest, Von Getz, the secretary of the Conference, has appointed me to be in charge of arranging a slight variation to the original ceremony.”

A change to the ceremony? Arianna felt her pulse begin to quicken. “That must have cost you a fortune—it’s said that von Getz’s influence does not come cheap.”

“The secretary likes money—but he also has a weakness for chocolate bonbons.” Rochemont smirked. “Monsieur Carême recently hired a pastry chef who created some unique treats. No matter that the man turned out to be a criminal and was forced to flee when we caught him robbing the palace. There were enough of the sweets left that I was able to assemble a very sweet bribe.”