Andrea Penrose - The Cocoa Conspiracy

Nearly overcome with the insane urge to dissolve into giggles, she managed to keep a straight face. “How clever of you.”

A rough laugh, and suddenly Arianna felt herself shoved deeper into the alcove between the archway colonnade. Cold marble kissed against her back as the comte pivoted and pressed his body against hers. “I’m clever at a great many things, Lady Saybrook. Including seducing a woman into my bed. You’ve led me on quite a chase, but I sense that I’m getting close . . .” His lips were now hovering a hairsbreadth from hers. “Close enough to taste triumph.”

Touching her fingertips to his chest, she forced a fraction more space between them. “I was under the impression that men like the thrill of the hunt.”

“We like the thrill of the kill even more—metaphorically speaking, of course,” replied Rochemont.

“Of course.” Arianna met his gaze without flinching. “So, what part do you have in mind for me?”

“It’s been decided that Talleyrand’s guest will present the prize to the champion, instead of the Austrian Emperor. I’ve been wondering just how to orchestrate the ceremony, and then it suddenly occurred to me that you, my dear Lady Saybrook, would be the perfect person to carry out the trophy,” explained Rochemont. “What say you? Is that a sweet enough enticement?”

“Oh, yes,” she said.

Oh, yes. Did the fox think he was pursuing a helpless rabbit? Ha! She intended to lead him right into the snapping jaws of Saybrook.

A low, feral sound rumbling in his throat, he sought to capture her mouth.

She evaded the embrace with a sly turn of her cheek. “ Tut , tut , my dear comte. You’ll have to wait until late night hours after the Carrousel. A smart lady never lifts her skirts until she has been paid in advance.”

Rochemont allowed her to slip free. “You drive a hard bargain. Lady Saybrook.” He brushed a wrinkle from his sleeve and patted his cravat into place. “I shall expect you to come to me then—and to make the experience worth my while.”

“You may count on it being unforgettable,” replied Arianna, her voice a silky, smoky whisper. “I perform at my best with men like you.”

“Nothing.” Henning grimaced as he put the papier-mâché head of a snarling Saracen back in the cabinet. In the wavering light, the grotesque teeth seemed to gleam in mockery. “Twenty-four of the bloody grinning Infidels, and not a single suspicious hinge or hollow space that I can make out.”

Saybrook shook the head he was holding before placing it on its rack. “I agree that they appear harmless—the layers of paper are so thick that the space left inside isn’t big enough to hide much of a threat.”

“Ye think Lady S’s suggestion that they are planning to use some sort of gunpowder bomb is bang on the mark?”

“Actually I do,” answered the earl. “Rochemont’s burned hands are too much of a coincidence to dismiss. Besides, the other alternatives are too hit or miss. Even if they convinced one of the knights to charge Talleyrand’s box with scimitar flashing or lance lowered, the chances of him killing both men aren’t very good. Wellington is, after all, a man much experienced in war. He won’t sit there like a petrified pigeon waiting to be slaughtered.” Vapor rose up from the stone floor in slow, serpentine swirls. Chafing his hands together to ward off the chill, Saybrook watched a ghostly tendril wrap itself around the metal lantern. “No, a man as clever as Renard would choose a more reliable method.”

“Think of the Grognard ,” said Henning suddenly. “If I were Renard, I’d put a marksman in the crowd. Be damned with a bomb—a well-aimed bullet and the deed would be done in a flash.”

Saybrook shook his head. “I might agree if it were only one target. But two?” His fingers twined and tightened together into a fist. “No, there are too many variables working against gunfire. Even with the crush of the crowd, a rifle would be hard to smuggle in. And then there is the time it would take to reload.”

“A brace of pistols,” suggested the surgeon, loath to give up his idea. “They are easily hidden inside a coat, and at close range it would be hard to miss.”

“It won’t be all that easy to get close to the section reserved for the dignitaries,” argued the earl. “It’s possible that one of the diplomats has been recruited to be the assassin, but still . . . the first shot would set off a panic. In the chaos, aiming a second shot would difficult, even for a battle-hardened soldier.”

“Bloody hell, Sandro. If you’re so convinced it’s a bomb, how the devil is Renard going to deliver it?” He scowled. “And then detonate it? We’ve gone over the weaponry with a fine-tooth comb.”

“I don’t know,” admitted Saybrook. “Let’s move on to the costume closets.”

“A bomb isn’t going to be concealed in a button,” groused Henning.

The earl picked up the lantern from its perch on the rack of lances. “The Carrousel is tomorrow. It has to be here, Baz. A clever assassin would ensure that there wasn’t a last-minute mishap in bringing it into the building. So I mean to go through every stitch of—”

The scudding beam caught the folds of an ermine-trimmed cloak draped over a stool. Dark as midnight, the spill of lush fabric was almost hidden by the corner of storage cabinet and the rough-hewn moldings of the door.

“What’s that?” he asked.

Henning gave a wordless shrug.

Saybrook hesitated for a moment, eyeing the square-cornered shape. “Let’s have a look.”

“Auch, we’ll be here all night if ye mean to poke through every bit of cloth.”

“Have you a more pressing engagement?” quipped the earl as he swept back the cloak to reveal an ornate brass box.

The gleam silenced the sarcasm hovering on Henning’s lips.

“It’s locked,” said the earl after trying the lid. The steel probe reappeared from his pocket and made quick work of the catch.

The surgeon crowded close, straining to see over Saybrook’s shoulder. “What—” He blinked as a flash of burnished gold momentarily blinded him. “What the devil is that doing in here?”

“I believe it’s the Champion’s Prize,” replied the earl.

Henning gave a low whistle as he watched the earl struggle to lift a large ornate eagle from its nest of purple velvet. “That bird must be worth a bloody fortune. Why, it looks to be made out of solid gold.”

Saybrook set the statue on the floor. “It’s heavy,” he agreed. “But there’s something odd . . .” Squatting down, Saybrook surveyed the intricate workmanship from several angles. “Baz, point the beam here . . .” He indicated a spot under the half-spread wing. “Hmmm.”

“What?”

Sliding a thin-bladed knife from his boot, the earl pressed the point to an emerald set discreetly in the precious metal.

Nothing.

Henning released a whoosh of air.

The sharpened steel moved to the ruby. Again, nothing stirred, save for the faint rasp of the surgeon’s breathing. It was only when the blade pricked against the pale peridot that the objet d’art came to life. The gem clicked a quarter turn to the right and sunk into the sculpted feathers as the eagle emitted a strange whirring sound.

The taloned feet rose half an inch out of the large round malachite base, revealing a hidden mechanism. Reversing his knife, the earl tapped the tiny lever with its hilt and sat back on his haunches as the top of the stone gave a shiver and a hairline crack appeared around the middle of the orb.

“Well, I’ll be buggered,” muttered Henning.

The eagle tilted forward with the top half of the base. Inside was a hollow interior, and nestled like a egg within it was a shiny metal ball. It too was hinged.