The Cocoa Conspiracy (25 page)

“Perhaps this is not the best time to ask chef a favor,” she murmured to the under butler who was accompanying her.

“Monsieur Carême possesses a . . . very sensitive nature,” replied her guide. “And delicate nerves. It is difficult to predict what will, and will not, upset him.”

“Ah.” She nodded sagely. “You mean he is a tyrant, prone to tempestuous tantrums.”

The under butler did not bat an eye. “Precisely,
madame
.” He stopped in front of the half-open door. “Would you mind terribly if I allowed you to,
er
, introduce yourself to
Le Maitre
? I have not yet had my supper, and if he blames me for the interruption of his artistic genius, I might very well have to go to bed hungry.”

Arianna repressed a wry grin. “Not at all. I am experienced in dealing with temperamental chefs.”

Looking grateful, the man bowed and hurried away.

“Into the frying pan—or is it the fire?” she murmured to herself.

The door yielded to her touch and as she crossed the threshold, she was immediately assaulted by a swirl of delicious smells.

Hearing the swish of her silken skirts, Carême whirled around. With the cleaver still clutched in his fist and his toque falling rakishly over one eye, he looked a little like a demented pirate about to commit unspeakable acts upon anything within arm’s reach.

“Mmph,”
he grunted, eyeing her finery. “You have taken a wrong turn,
madame
. The withdrawing room for ze ladies is
up
ze stairs and to ze left.” The information was accompanied by a shooing gesture of the steely blade.
“Bonsoir.”

Arianna stood her ground, inwardly amused by her first sight of the celebrated chef. “Forgive me for intruding on your
atelier
, Monsieur Carême. I know that great artists dislike any disturbance of their creative process. But I couldn’t resist coming to offer my humble admiration for your prodigious talents.”

Like butter placed in a warm pan, Carême’s scowl was softened by the egregious flattery.

“Merci, madame.”
The cleaver dropped a notch. “Not everyone understands how difficult it is to turn food into a form of art.”

“One of the ingredients is, of course, genius,” she murmured.

“
Oui
,
oui
, zat is true.” The chef preened. “Also the freshest meats, fruits and vegetables. Prince Talleyrand understands this, and never quibbles about the cost of my supplies.”

“Might I have a quick tour of your kitchens?” asked Arianna. “I should love to see what it takes to achieve perfection.”

His smile was turned even rosier by the overhead rack of hanging copper pots. “
Alors
, I rarely allow anyone to see my works in progress. But for you,
madame
, I shall make an exception.” With a Gallic flourish, Carême turned to the chopping table. “Follow me.”

For the next quarter hour, Arianna was subjected to a lengthy explanation of stove temperatures, proper chopping techniques and the merits of iron versus copper for cooking. Prompted by her questions, the chef also revealed that the recent defection of his sous-chef had thrown his well-ordered kitchen into disarray.

“I should like to slice out his liver for leaving me in the lurch,” grumbled Carême. “Zat is the thanks I get for teaching him some of my special secrets?” His hand flew to his heart. “I am hurt.”

“How disloyal,” she agreed. “Was his specialty pastries ?”

“Oui,”
answered the chef. “Thanks to God, my helpers with meats and vegetables are devoted to me. Zat part of the meals shall not be affected. But as for my desserts . . .” He blew out a mournful sigh. “I shall have to work very hard to see that they don’t suffer.”

“Speaking of desserts, I don’t suppose you would consent to give me the recipe for tonight’s creation. My husband adores chocolate.”

He pursed his lips. “Ask me almost anything else,
madame
, and I should be happy to oblige. However, my recipes I share with no one—not even Prince Talleyrand.”

“I understand,” said Arianna. She had expected no less. But it didn’t really matter. She was leaving with exactly the information she had come for.

“
Merci
for that,” he responded. “Some ladies resort to tears. And much as I hate to see females cry, I never yield to such ploys.”

“Don’t worry. You will never see me trying to use weeping to make men surrender their secrets,” Arianna assured him.

“Once again, I thank you for the tour. It was very enlightening.”

“You are most welcome,
madame
.” Carême bowed. “Come again some time.”

“Thank you. I will.”

1. Make the crust: Heat oven to 350˚. Combine flour, cocoa powder and salt in a medium bowl and set aside. Using a handheld mixer, cream the butter and sugar in a large bowl until mixture is pale and fluffy; mix in yolks and vanilla. Mix in dry ingredients. Transfer dough to a 9-inch fluted tart pan with a removable bottom and press dough evenly into bottom and sides of pan. Refrigerate for 30 minutes. Prick the tart shell all over with a fork and bake until cooked through, about 20 minutes. Transfer to a rack and let cool.

2. Make the caramel: In a 1-qt. saucepan, whisk together sugar, corn syrup, salt and 6 tbsp. water and bring to a boil. Cook, without stirring, until a candy thermometer inserted into the syrup reads 340°. Remove pan from heat and whisk in butter, cream and crème fraîche (the mixture will bubble up) until smooth. Pour caramel into cooled tart shell and let cool slightly; refrigerate until firm, 4–5 hours.

3. Make the ganache: Bring cream to a boil in a 1-qt. saucepan over medium heat. Put chocolate into a medium bowl and pour in hot cream; let sit for 1 minute, then stir slowly with a rubber spatula until smooth. Pour ganache evenly over tart and refrigerate until set, 4–5 hours. Sprinkle tart with sea salt, slice and serve chilled.

T
he branch of candles had burned down to small stubs, leaving the study shrouded in deepening shadows. Arianna heard the faint
scratch, scratch, scratch
of a pen before she could make out the shape of broad shoulders and bowed head hunched over the desk.

“Still at work, Sandro?” she asked softly.

Saybrook turned, his profile limned in the guttering flames. Fatigue shaded his features, along with some darker tautness that she couldn’t quite identify. “Yes, there was another idea I wanted to test, but it’s been a wasted effort.” He put down his pen and massaged his temples. “Perhaps I have lost my touch. I used to have some skill with codes.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Arianna came up behind his chair and began to knead the knots at the base of his neck. “When you were on Wellington’s staff you had a cadre of trained intelligence officers to help you. And yet you’ve told me that attempts to decipher a captured code failed more often than not.”

His muscles slowly relaxed beneath her probing fingers. “I suppose you are right. But I can’t help feeling that I am missing some key element that is staring me right in the face.”

“Why not let me have a try? I’ve none of your skills, but I have been studying the principles, and maybe a fresh set of eyes will see something you’ve overlooked. There is, after all, such a thing as beginner’s luck.”

Saybrook reached back and caught her wrist. “I would be grateful for your help, but it can wait until morning.” He pressed her palm to his cheek, and beneath the rasp of his whiskered skin, she could feel the strong, steady pulse of his heart.

After all the duplicity and deceptions of the evening, its warmth was immensely comforting. She blinked as the sudden, salty sting of tears prickled against the back of her lids.

“Is something wrong, Arianna?”

She shook her head. “Just tired.”

He gave a wordless growl and turned his face to brush a kiss to her fingertips. “How did your dinner go? I’m rather surprised that you are back at this hour. Didn’t Rochemont try to spirit you off to some secluded love nest? Or was he worried that in the process of wrestling you into his carriage he might scratch his pretty face?”

“He’s still complaining about your knocking him down on the rocks. I suspect that he thinks it was a deliberate attempt to mar his beauty,” answered Arianna. “As for seduction, it was likely on the comte’s mind, but Talleyrand demanded his attendance at an after-supper strategy meeting. And though it was obvious that he wished to refuse, he didn’t quite dare to defy the Prince.”

Saybrook let out a long breath. “So, another night wasted on frivolous entertainment.”

“Not exactly.”

Her husband must have heard the note of suppressed excitement in her voice, for he slowly sat up straighter and edged his chair around to face her. “How so?”

“I think I’ve come up with a way to gain access to Talleyrand’s household—to be part of his intimate, everyday routine so to speak, which would allow me to spy on both him
and
the comte.”

“Arianna, there are limits to how far I am willing to go for the good of my country.” Her husband’s voice turned dangerously soft. “So if you are about to suggest that you become the mistress of one of those lecherous Frogs, put the idea out of your head. Immediately.”

“No, not a mistress.” She couldn’t hold back a grin. “A chef.”

He blinked.

“Carême’s pastry sous-chef has deserted him, throwing plans for the elaborate dinners into question. Think about it. Since we arrived, we’ve been hearing how Talleyrand brought his chef from Paris to serve as a secret weapon of sorts. His intention is to win support for the French objectives here at the Conference, using butter and sugar rather than muskets and cannons.”

She paused to let him digest what she had said. “So, if an experienced chef with a talent for creating sweets appeared and inquired about a position, don’t you think the chances are good that Carême would snap him up?”

“Him,”
repeated Saybrook thoughtfully. “You are suggesting that Monsieur Alphonse—”

“Makes a miraculous resurrection,” she replied with a note of triumph. “Though to be safe, he will have to assume a new name. Given that Renard was involved in our last investigation, he might remember Lady Spencer’s erstwhile chef.”

That he didn’t dismiss the idea out of hand was encouraging.

“What about Kydd?” he asked carefully. “And, for that matter, Rochemont? Posing as a chef may be a clever cover, but we can’t put all of our eggs in one basket.”

“No, not with the fox running free in the henhouse.” The dying candle flame seemed to turned a touch redder, a taunting reminder that their enemy had eluded all their attempts to catch him. “I’ve thought this through and see no reason why it can’t work. I won’t have to give up my flirtations with Kydd. I will simply have to pick and choose which party invitations to accept. One of my demands will be that I only work three days a week for Carême. I’ve checked—that’s the number of diplomatic suppers that Talleyrand plays host to, so I believe the chef will accept the stipulation.”

“So you are suggesting that you light the coals under two different pots and see which one boils first?”

“Things shouldn’t become too hot for comfort. As you know, I have some experience in plotting these sorts of things,” replied Arianna. “To cover my occasional absence from the ballrooms, we’ll put out word that my health has turned delicate—ladies are always plagued by a variety of maladies. As for Rochemont, he’s no longer so important to dally with, now that I’ll have direct access to Talleyrand’s residence and servants.”

Saybrook took his time in replying. As he drummed his fingers on his papers, she could almost hear the gears whirring inside his head.