Andrea Penrose: The Cocoa Conspiracy

The sweat had turned from beads to rivulets—tiny snakes of moisture glistening against the comte’s pale skin. He reversed his lead foot and with a quick feint tried to slide his blade up under Saybrook’s guard.

A flick of steel parried the thrust. “Not bad,” murmured the earl. “But you will have to do far better.”

The next lunge was just as easily deflected. As was the following flurry of slashes.

“I never did like the combinations that Lavalle teaches to his students. Unless one executes them perfectly, they leave one vulnerable to a croisé ,” said Saybrook calmly, his blade forcing Rochemont’s sword high before darting a quick jab that drew blood on the comte’s shoulder.

Rochemont staggered back, his breath now coming in ragged rasps. He tried a passata-sotto , an evasive move designed to duck under an opponent’s blade, but the earl saw it coming and countered with another thrust, this one scoring a gash along the comte’s cheek.

His bravado suddenly crumpling, like a Montgolfier balloon whose silk had suffered a lethal puncture, Rochemont let out a shriek and scrabbled sideways, swinging his sword in a flailing arc. He cast a wild look at the glass vial, which was standing serenely on its box, untouched by the violence.

“Oh, you may forget about the acid,” said Saybrook pleasantly. “I’m not going to let you near it. And even if I did, your clever little bomb has been disarmed.”

Panic turned Rochemont’s face a ghastly shade of pale green. “It—it wasn’t my idea.” He swallowed hard, his arrogance dissolving into a sputtering of fear. “I . . . was forced against my will to cooperate. They have one of my family held hostage in France.”

“Who is ‘they’?” asked Saybrook, drawing a touch closer.

“Lord R-Reginald Sommers is my superior,” replied the comte.

“Is he Renard?”

“I—don’t know,” said Rochemont. “Truly!” he added, seeing the earl’s brows wing up in skepticism. “Renard has never revealed his identity.”

“Then tell me what things you do know,” demanded Saybrook. “This assassination is meant to make it easier for Napoleon to return to France?”

Rochemont wet his lips. “Yes.”

“Who else is working with you here?”

The comte rattled off the names of a Saxon margrave and a Russian officer on Tsar Alexander’s staff.

Saybrook pressed on. “How do you contact Renard in London?”

Rochemont stumbled against a stack of supplies as he retreated, knocking a box to the floor. “I—”

“Monsieur le Comte?” Yielding to a fisted rap, the door sprung open. “Is anything amiss? We heard strange noises—”

“Seize this madman!” screamed Rochemont, pointing at the earl. “He’s trying to murder the guests of honor!”

The two Imperial Guards recoiled in confusion as the comte shoved past them and took off down the corridor at a dead run.

Saybrook vaulted a stack of crates.

“Halt!” Recovering their composure, the burly guards moved to block his path.

“Out of my way.” The martial note of command was unmistakable.

One of the guards drew his rapier. “Sir, I must ask you to—”

The earl’s blade slapped aside the sword point. “Fetch reinforcements,” he shouted. “Then follow me in pursuit of the real villain.”

Somewhere off to her right, Arianna heard a clatter of commotion. The pelter of running steps, a rumbled shout.

Sandro.

She plunged into a narrow passageway, the darkness forcing her to go slowly. Slowly, damnably slowly. In contrast to the soaring, stately spaces for the equestrian performances, this part of the stables was a maddening maze of stalls and cluttered storage areas.

Holding her frustration in check, Arianna paused to peer around the next turn. An archway loomed up ahead, its opening framing a set of iron-banded double doors, large enough for a horse and rider to pass through. Creeping closer, she saw that they led out to the side courtyard of the Riding School. And from there to the city park beyond its gates, she thought, recalling Saybrook’s map of the area.

Sheltered by the shadows of the arched stone, Arianna halted again to get her bearings. Which way to turn? The shouts had died away, leaving her uncertain of what to do next. Retreat and return home?

But before she could make up her mind, Rochemont came racing into view, legs churning as if the Hounds of Hell were in hot pursuit.

Bang. Bang. Slamming his shoulder into the paneled doors, the comte yanked at the latch, but the bolt wouldn’t budge. Spotting a large wrought iron key hanging from the decorative molding, he reached up to snatch it down from the bracket. Escape—escape was at his fingertips.

I hope that Alexander was not exaggerating about the deadly accuracy of his prized pistols . Drawing a steadying breath, Arianna took deliberate aim and squeezed off a shot.

Bang.

He wasn’t. Through the skirl of blue-gray smoke, Arianna saw the key explode in a whirl of spinning shards.

Rochemont recoiled with a scream as a sliver of metal gashed his cheek. Blood spattered over his fancy doublet, and with his face contorting in fear, he looked like a demented demon. A veritable spawn of Satan.

Kicking, swearing, he threw himself once more at the unyielding oak. But on hearing Saybrook’s stentorian shouts coming closer, the comte left off his efforts and fled.

“That way!” she yelled to her husband, pointing to the passageway Rochemont had chosen.

The earl shot her a surprised look, but didn’t slow his loping stride. “I’ll deal with you later,” he called. “Go find Henning.”

Arianna pocketed the spent pistol and pulled out its loaded mate.

“Ah, well. In for a penny, in for a pound,” she muttered, then set off after her husband.

The six Hungarian chargers snorted and stomped their massive hooves at the sand-covered stone, the vaporous puffs of breath silvery against the burnished black coats. The soft swoosh of the silk trappings was punctuated by the jangling bits of gilded brass and polished crystal adorning the bridles as the grooms struggled to keep them grouped in a tight line, allowing the other horses for the pageant to be led into the staging area from the outdoor bridle path.

A squire patted the plumes of his velvet hat into place while another adjusted the girth of his knight’s mount. One of the heralds blew a low practice note on his trumpet, setting off another rustling of restless energy.

“A quarter hour,” intoned the master of ceremonies after consulting his jeweled pocket watch. “Our noble cavaliers will be arriving in a quarter hour.”

Banners fluttered in the breeze blowing in through the open gates. An air of expectancy swirled around the saddling arena as the participants jostled to take up their assigned positions.

A figure burst out of the main walkway, the crimson satin tails of his surcoat trailing behind him like tongues of fire.

“What the devil . . .” The master of ceremonies stared in slack-jawed shock as the flash of red streaked past him. “I’ve not been informed of any change in plan.”

“Out of my way!” The shrill shout rose above the confusion. Swinging the flat of his sword, Rochemont knocked down a groom and scrabbled into the saddle of the horse nearest the gate. The big animal whinnied and reared as the comte slammed his ceremonial spurs into its flanks, then shot off in a blur of flame-tinged charcoal and disappeared into the night.

“Stop! Stop!” wailed the master, waving a helpless hand as Saybrook sprinted toward the gate.

The earl veered around one of the startled grooms, and with a lithe grace grabbed the saddle pommel, speared the stirrup with his boot and vaulted lightly onto the back of the biggest charger. “Move aside, lad,” he ordered, fisting the reins in one hand and quickly bringing the powerful stallion under control.