Andrea Penrose - The Cocoa Conspiracy

Saybrook gingerly nudged the lid open. And uttered a soft oath.

“Christ Almighty, don’t touch anything,” warned the surgeon. “Move over, and let me have a closer look.”

“Gladly,” replied the earl drily, edging over to allow Henning a better view of the glass vials, looped wires, and brass discs that were neatly embedded in a dark granular substance.

It was a rather lengthy interlude before the surgeon spoke. “Hmmph.”

“Would you care to amplify on that statement?” asked the earl.

“In a moment, laddie.” Flattening himself to the stone, Henning checked the contraption from a few different angles before giving another grunt. “Ingenious. I saw a recent scientific paper from the University of St. Andrews describing a chemical experiment on fuseless explosions, and the accompanying diagram looked almost identical.” Another slight shift. “And I had heard that Sir Humphry Davy was conducting some private work on the subject at the Royal Institution. However, I thought it was still in the theoretical stages.” Pushing up to his knees, the surgeon dusted his hands. “Apparently not.”

“Does that mean we should theoretically be running like the devil?”

“No, no. We’re safe.” Henning pointed out a thin brass rod welded to the inside of the lid. At its end was a small ring. “Right now the vial of acid is missing so there is little danger of the bomb going off.”

Saybrook eyed the elaborate coil of wires and disks as if it were a serpent ready to strike. “How does the cursed thing work?”

“Oh, very cleverly,” responded the surgeon, scientific enthusiasm overriding all else for the moment. “A glass vial of acid, designed with a tiny hole in the bottom, is inserted in the ring. When the top is closed, the liquid will drip onto this bit of wax here . . .” His finger indicated one of the disks. “Once it burns through—and that rate can be pretty much calculated in a laboratory depending on the thickness of the wax—it will allow the acid to touch the mercury fulminate percussion caps here”—he pointed again—“and spark a tiny explosion. From there, the fire will travel down the cordite-soaked twine wrapped around the wires to gunpowder, which has been specially corned to increase its volatility . . .”

A short technical explanation followed on the force generated by such a tightly contained explosion.

“So, what you are saying is that this bird is deadly enough to fell two people in one fell swoop.”

“Hell, yes,” said Henning. “Anyone within a half dozen feet will be blown to Kingdom Come.”

“Don’t sound so bloody cheerful about it,” snapped Saybrook.

“No need to get your feathers ruffled, laddie. I’m counting on you to make sure the eagle will have its wings clipped, so to speak.”

“Right.” The grim lines of worry etched deeper around the earl’s dark eyes. “It seems we have two options. We can disarm the thing now. Or we can wait and catch the miscreant in the act.” He pondered the dilemma for an instant before adding, “A damnably difficult choice, for I would like to have unassailable proof that Rochemont is behind this.”

“Perhaps we can do both.” Henning fingered his stubbled chin. “There can’t be any overt sign that the bomb has been tampered with. But if we are able to slip a thin piece of steel between the wax and mercury fulminate percussion cap, that will prevent the acid from setting off a spark.”

The lanthorn’s beam started a slow, undulating dance around the room. It flickered over the crates, the rack of long lances, the massive storage cabinet . . . and then darted back to the jousting weapons. A soft, silvery glow glimmered against the varnished wood. Each of the pommels was festooned with an elaborate design of hammered metal and studs of semiprecious stones.

“Will silver do?” asked the earl.

“Aye,” replied Henning.

The blade slid out of his boot. “Let’s get to work. Come tomorrow night, the comte is going to find that his highflying hopes of throwing Europe into chaos have been plucked of their last, lethal feather.”

Arianna took another turn around the room, her agitated movements impelled by a volatile crosscurrents of emotion colliding inside her. Impatience. Uncertainty. Anger. All churning with the ferocity of a storm-tossed sea.

Oh, be honest, she chided herself. Fear was the foremost force, spinning in a tight vortex that left her stomach lurching against her ribs. Strange how frightening a simple word could be. Strange how it could provoke such a visceral reaction. Fire sizzled up her arms. Ice slid down her spine.

“Love,” she whispered, the single syllable feeling so very, very foreign on her lips. Love . A part of her feared making herself vulnerable. Dio Madre , she had spent half a lifetime hardening her heart against its hurt. A father who loved brandy and the allure of money more than he did his own flesh and blood. She had forgiven him—but she had also vowed never to let its pain wound her again.

That she felt safe and secure in Saybrook’s arms had her feeling confused. Conflicted.

Fighting against devils like Rochemont felt like second nature, while wrestling with her own inner demons seemed to sap her of all strength.

Should I surrender to trust? Her mouth quirked. That felt a little like donning a blindfold and stepping off the edge of a precipice.

“I suppose that is what is meant by a leap of faith,” she murmured. And yet, she never trusted in anyone but herself.

Sandro was just as guarded, but he has taken the first tentative stride . . .

Arianna spun around as the earl and Henning entered the parlor. “Thank God you are safe—I was beginning to imagine the worst,” she said.

Henning hurried on to the sideboard and poured out a generous measure of brandy. “For once, I think even your colorful mind would fall short of the task.” He drained his glass in one swallow.

That didn’t sound good.

She looked at her husband and noticed several new cuts and scrapes on his hands. “I’ve some interesting news, but I think you had better go first. Did you run into trouble during your search?”

Saybrook made a wry face. “That depends on how you define trouble.” Waving off the surgeon’s offer of a drink, he dropped into the nearby armchair and ran a hand through his hair. “No, we did not have any problem entering the Spanish Riding School. Nor did we encounter any guards.”

Her clenched hands relaxed ever so slightly.

“And in fact, we discovered how Rochemont means to kill Talleyrand and Wellington. It’s a bomb—a diabolical bomb.”

“Aye,” chimed in the surgeon. “For it’s likely to reduce them and a good many people close by into fragments of flesh no bigger than mincemeat.”

“Good God,” intoned Arianna. “But I thought you said a bomb would be unlikely, given the smoke and smell of a burning fuse—”

“This bomb doesn’t need a conventional fuse. It’s a brilliant piece of chemistry,” said Henning. His face pinched to an unhappy expression. “Like mathematics, science can be used for good—or for evil.”

“How—” she began.

Anticipating her question, Saybrook was quick with an answer. “Another bit of cunning. It’s hidden inside the Champion’s Prize. I’m not sure how he means to arm the infernal thing. Timing is critical, but somehow I am sure he has that worked out. Someone is going to serve as his pigeon, offering the Eagle to Wellington for the special presentation.”

“That would be me.” She sat down rather heavily on the arm of his chair and let out a little laugh. “And here I thought I was being so clever, teasing him into allowing me to be part of the ceremonies.”