Andrea Penrose - The Cocoa Conspiracy

“Ah, yes. The countess and her husband.” The other man was silent for a moment. “Another concern.”

Rochemont let out a nasty laugh. “She is naught but a slut, who likes to play games with men. Oh, she may put on airs now that she is married, but I happen to know that before she coaxed an offer out of the earl, she was involved with a rakehell crowd of reprobates.” He paused. “The earl, I agree, is another matter.”

“A former military intelligence officer is not someone to take lightly,” agreed his superior.

“I’m aware of that,” snapped the comte. “From the start, I’ve pursued his wife in order to keep abreast of the earl’s activities.”

“A-breast,” repeated the other man coldly, adding his own inflection to the word. “Renard fears that perhaps you have allowed yourself to become distracted from your primary duties. Your predilection for whoring is becoming, shall we say, excessive.”

“Is it?” jeered Rochemont. “You will soon see that I’m thinking with more than my pego. I suspected that the earl was using his wife to sniff around me, so in another hour, she will be joining Talleyrand and Wellington in a rather untidy grave.”

His companion was silent for a long moment before replying, “Don’t make a mess of this, Rochemont. Or Renard will be most unhappy.”

The lamp flickered as a shutter slid shut, narrowing the beam to a thin blade of light. “Enough talk, then. Let me get on with my preparations,” muttered the comte.

“We shall meet later, at the appointed rendezvous.” A boot scraped over stone. “Assuming that you don’t fail.”

Through her spy hole, Arianna watched Rochemont and his superior move off into the gloom and split up.

Dropping down lightly into the straw, she made up her mind without hesitation about who to follow, and cut through a connecting passageway to pick up the stranger’s trail. Saybrook had been adamant in his demand to deal with the comte alone—and so she would take him at his word. In a mano a mano match between the two men, she had every confidence that her husband would prevail.

As for the comte’s superior, it was imperative she learn his identity.

Weaving her way through the gloom, Arianna darted past the granary and paused for an instant to listen. Chuff, chuff —was that the soft crunch of straw underfoot up ahead?

As she slipped out from behind the wooden post, her hand brushed against a groom’s smock hanging from a peg. On impulse, she tugged it on over her coat, and then added a battered leather hat beneath it. The fit was a trifle odd—it must have been some sort of practice headgear for the knightly games, for the top half of the crown was filled with a thick feather padding. But the brim shadowed her face, and the loose canvas overshirt helped further disguise her figure.

Given her quarry’s aristocratic London accent, he was likely part of the English delegation.

But who?

Shadows wavered and rippled in the dim dribble of moonlight coming in through the corner windows. Arianna slowed, straining to make out any shapes in the darkness up ahead. The ambient sounds of the stable made it hard to distinguish footsteps . . .

The strike came from behind, quick as a snake. A shovel smashed down on her head, sending her sprawling to the ground. Half stunned, she caught the glint of metal cutting through the air and managed to roll away from a second blow aimed at her spine.

Pain shot through her skull, but thanks to the padded hat, it was still in one piece.

But that will end quickly if I don’t gather my wits.

Moving with a cold, calculating precision, her assailant slid a step sideways to gain a better angle and came at her again. No words, no hesitation, just a ruthless determination to land a lethal hit.

She coiled like a hedgehog, waiting until the very last instant to kick out. Her boot heel buckled his leg, and he dropped to one knee with a grunt, the shovel slipping from his grip.

Twisting out of reach, Arianna scrambled to her feet and kicked it away. Her assailant was back on his feet as well, and circling slowly to force her deeper into the storage alcove under the hayloft. Clearly he was no stranger to back-alley fights—his movements were calm and deliberate. Indeed, a fleeting flicker of moonlight showed that he was smiling.

A formidable opponent . But then, she had faced other hardened, hell-bent rogues before and survived. Brains over brawn, she reminded herself. Saybrook would never forgive her if she were to stick her spoon in the wall after disobeying his command.

He turned slightly, giving her a quick view of his face. Good God—so there was rot at the very heart of England’s aristocracy . Lord Reginald Sommers, senior aide to Lord Castlereagh, was the younger son of a prominent duke.

Beneath Arianna’s smock, the pistols bumped against her hips. Tempting . However, forcing his surrender would be all for naught. Without proof of his perfidy, her accusation would likely fall on deaf ears. As for a shot, that might ruin Saybrook’s chances of catching Rochemont in the act.

Think, think. Instead she drew her blade from her boot and made a quick feint.

Lord Reginald drew back a step. He was no longer smiling. “Why were you following me?” he demanded, then repeated the question in halting German.

“Geld,” replied Arianna. Money . With luck, he would believe this was robbery gone awry.

His shoulders relaxed slightly. “Geld,” he repeated. “Unfortunately, you’ve just purchased your own demise. I can’t afford to let you live.” He too had a hidden sheath, and out slipped a knife twice as big as hers. “Boys shouldn’t go up against men.”

And men shouldn’t underestimate women. Arianna had no intention of crossing steel with him. As long as Lord Reginald remained ignorant of her real identity, she held the upper hand. A trap could be set to catch him at treason.

But first she had to escape.

He made several quick probing jabs.

Arianna retreated, drawing him along with her. The wall was at her back. But so was a small ladder leading up through an opening to the loft. She had also spotted a bench with an open bottle of liniment perched on its edge.

“Tsk, tsk. A wrong move, boy,” drawled Lord Reginald. “You’re now right where I want you.”

Grabbing the bottle, she flung the stinging liquid at his face, then bolted up the ladder rungs as fast as she could. A quick jerk, a hard heave and the ladder landed alongside her.

Lord Reginald’s vicious oath reverberated in the darkness below. “Bloody imp of Satan, I’ll cut your guts into garters.” His fingers grasped the edge of the opening. A big, muscled man, he apparently meant to hoist himself up and finish the job.

A wrong move, Lord Reginald, thought Arianna, slamming her boot down and feeling bones crack under her heel.

Still he came on.

As his snarling face appeared in the opening, she spun around and sprinted to the open end of the loft, where a thick rope for hauling the bales of hay was looped through a pulley attached to the ceiling beam. Catching hold of the iron hook in midstride, she jumped, giving silent thanks for the vagabond years spent sailing around the Caribbean. Her momentum swung her in a wide arc, the rope held taut by a bracket anchored to the wall.

Arianna landed hard on the stone floor, the impact knocking the wind from her lungs. Breathless, she took a moment to recover. Ahead of her, the corridor was only a few steps away . . .

With a muffled roar of rage, Lord Reginald snagged the rope with one hand on its swing back and launched himself into the air.

Oh, bloody hell . Staggering to her feet, Arianna whipped out her knife and slashed the rope just above its knot.