Andrea Penrose - The Cocoa Conspiracy

A low whistle of wind was followed by the fleshy thud. She turned to see his body lying crumpled in a heap behind an iron anvil. Creeping close, she gingerly nudged him face up.

If you live by the sword, you must be prepared to die by the sword.

Swallowing hard, Arianna couldn’t help but recall one of Henning’s favorite aphorisms as she stared at Lord Reginald’s own knife protruding from his chest. Strange, but she felt no real remorse. The man was a cold-blooded murderer who had planned to plunge Europe into chaos. Be damned with pity—he was no longer a threat to peace.

But was Rochemont still a force to be reckoned with? She stripped off her smock and checked the priming on the Tsar’s magnificent pistols. It was high time to locate Saybrook and find out.

17 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened

1¾ cups flour

2 oz. semisweet chocolate, preferably 54%, roughly chopped

2 tablespoons dark rum

3 tablespoons cornstarch

½ teaspoon salt

½ cup confectioners’ sugar, plus more for dusting

2 tablespoons lemon zest

1 tablespoon vanilla extract

5 eggs, separated

1 cup sugar

1. Heat oven to 325°. Grease a dark metal 1½-qt. gugelhupf mold or bundt pan with 1 tbsp. butter. Add ¼ cup flour and shake to evenly coat the inside of mold. Invert and tap out excess flour; set mold aside. Set a medium bowl over a 1-qt. saucepan of simmering water. Add chocolate; melt. Stir in rum and set aside to let cool slightly.

2. Sift together remaining flour, cornstarch and salt; set aside. In a bowl, beat remaining butter, confectioners’ sugar, lemon zest and vanilla using a handheld mixer on medium speed until mixture is pale and fluffy, about 2 minutes. Add egg yolks one at a time, beating after each addition. Add reserved flour mixture to butter mixture in 3 additions, beating to combine after each addition. Set batter aside.

3. In a large nonreactive bowl, beat egg whites with handheld mixer on high speed until frothy. Sprinkle in sugar and beat to form stiff, glossy peaks. Whisk ⅓ of egg whites into reserved cake batter to lighten it. Using a rubber spatula, fold in remaining egg whites to make an airy cake batter.

4. Fold ⅓ of the cake batter into the reserved chocolate mixture to make a chocolate-flavored batter. Spoon half of the remaining cake batter into the buttered mold. Spoon all the chocolate batter into mold and top with remaining cake batter. Using a butter knife, swirl the chocolate batter into the cake batter to create a marbled effect. Smooth the top. Bake until a toothpick inserted in the cake comes out clean, about 55 minutes. Transfer cake to a rack; let cool. Unmold cake and dust with confectioners’ sugar.

It was quiet, the shadows still and solemn, like sentinels standing silent guard on the storage room.

“Perhaps a little too quiet,” said Saybrook under his breath. He flattened himself against the cabinet and ventured a look at the doorway. The latch was reset, the cases untouched, the Champion’s Prize aligned exactly as he and Henning had left it the previous night.

“So why do I have an odd feeling that something is not right?” The earl frowned, the lines of anxiety deepening around his eyes as he looked around the room. But before he could answer his own whispered question, a key turned in the lock, the metallic click echoing like cannon fire off the suit of parade armor propped in the corner.

Rochemont entered. He appeared agitated, and after fumbling with the bolts, he merely shouldered the door shut and hurried to the center of the room. Swearing, he put down his lantern, peeled off his crimson gauntlets, and carefully pulled a small silver case from inside his ceremonial surcoat. The bandages were gone, but the comte’s elegant hands were still swollen and scabbed. Another oath rasped from his lips as he worked the lid open.

Saybrook could just make out the contours of a slim glass vial nestled on a bed of red velvet.

Setting the box aside, Rochemont dragged the metal case containing the Champion’s Prize out from its spot by the cabinet. Another key, another procession of clicking noises, and the top lifted. The comte sat back on his haunches and muttered something in French. Rather than remove the ornate eagle from its nest, he rose abruptly and approached the cabinet.

The earl held himself motionless.

Rochemont rummaged around inside for a bit, then returned to his work spot and propped a trio of medieval broadswords against a stack of wooden boxes. Each of the three hilts was festooned with a different color of semiprecious stones—reds, greens, blues—and he spent several moments contemplating how they looked next to the gold-threaded splendor of his embroidered doublet. The blue seemed to win the duel, for he edged it a bit apart from the others.

Exhaling softly, Saybrook watched as the comte shifted his body into the ring of lamplight and set to work.

One step, two steps . The earl’s soft-soled shoes moved noiselessly over the smooth stone. The eagle was now perched on one of the wooden boxes, its burnished gold wings mirroring—

In a blur of motion, Rochemont snatched up his sword and flew around. Steel clashed against steel, the force of the blow sending Saybrook’s pistol arcing into the gloom.

“Poxy half-breed,” snarled the comte. He lunged again.

Hemmed in by the crates, Saybrook had little room to maneuver. Throwing up an arm to deflect the blade, he spun away and leaped over a low bench.

“I was warned to be wary of your military skills, yet it seems you are naught but a bumbling fool,” taunted Rochemont, brandishing the point of his weapon at the gash on the earl’s wrist.

“I’m a bloody fool,” agreed Saybrook, ignoring his wound. “I should have put a bullet in your verminous brain. But unlike you, I am not a cold-blooded murderer. I’ll allow justice to take its proper course.”

“Justice? Good God, what a quaint notion!” The blade slashed, but cut only air.

“You’ll have to be quicker than that,” said the earl.

“Oh, never fear. I’ll gut you like a pig, and though I would like to prolong the pleasure, I will have to make it fast.”

“So you can murder Talleyrand and Wellington?”

Surprise spasmed across Rochemont’s face. “How did you—”

The distraction was just for an instant, but Saybrook seized his chance and ducked under the broadsword and dove for a gap in the crates. A twist and a roll brought him within arm’s reach of the other swords. Bouncing to his feet, he hefted the ruby-colored weapon. “Ah, red. How apt, don’t you think? Seeing as your blood will soon be spilled unless you surrender now.”

“Never!” said Rochemont. “I’ve trained for years with Lavalle, the best fencing master in England! I’ll slice you into mincemeat.” Despite the show of bravado, he looked a little shaky as he slid into a sidestep. Sweat began to bead on his brow.

“Trust me, a fencing parlor is not the same as a field of battle,” said Saybrook. “And a broadsword is far heavier than a foil.” He cut a few practice swipes with the long blade and flashed a small smile. “Indeed, it’s much closer in weight to a cavalry saber.”

Flickering patterns of light and dark danced across the comte’s face.

Saybrook edged forward, a quick flick slicing off a section of Rochemont’s fancy sleeve. “Come, shall we test our skills?”