The Cocoa Conspiracy (30 page)

Read The Cocoa Conspiracy Online

Authors: Andrea Penrose

Henning pursed his lips and then demurred. “Nay. I think I’ll keep my wits about me.”
Saybrook set the glass aside and resumed his pacing.
“Ye know, in all our battles together, I’ve never seen ye this on edge.” A pause. “May I ask you a personal question, laddie?”
The earl’s growl was nearly lost in the scuff of his boots.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” said the surgeon. “I was just wondering—have ye told Lady S that you love her?”
“I . . .”
Henning waited.
“I . . . she . . . Bloody hell, Baz,” groused Saybrook. “She knows that.”
A brow winged up in blatant skepticism. “Women are odd creatures. Unlike some of Nature’s other creations, they do not always absorb things through osmosis.”
“Since when have you become such an expert on the female sex?” snapped the earl.
“Don’t bite my head off. I am merely offering an observation. And in fact, I’ll add another one. Sometimes people feel compelled to take risks in order to win the regard of those they admire. Especially if they perceive that regard to be uncertain in the first place.”
The earl’s jaw clenched, drawing the skin tight over the sharp edges of his cheekbones. Candlelight dipped and danced over the angular planes, the fire-gold skitter not quite strong enough to penetrate the shadows.
Bowing his head, he resumed his silent marching.
After several long minutes of listening to the same
thump, thump, thump
cross over the carpet, the surgeon chuffed an exasperated grunt. “Auch, you are more twitchy than a cat crossing a hot griddle.”
The steps halted.
“If you can’t sit still, perhaps we ought to take a stroll toward the Prince’s palace. I’ve heard that Vienna is a dazzling sight at night, so I might as well take a peek through the windows at all the fancy people at play.” Henning crinkled his nose in disgust. “Along with the rest of the Great Unwashed, I won’t likely be invited to be on the inside looking out.”
After a moment of thought, Saybrook asked, “Have you packed a decent coat?”
“One without acid burns or blood stains?” Henning made a face. “I believe the charcoal gray will pass muster.”
“I’ll have my valet bring you a starched cravat. And he’ll have orders to brush the worst of the wrinkles from your noxious garments, so don’t kick up a dust.”
“Why?” demanded the surgeon.
“You just reminded me that there is a soiree going on tonight at the Duchess of Sagan’s residence, and Talleyrand is said to be attending. Rather than sit here and stew over what Arianna is up to, we might as well pay a visit so you can get a firsthand look at the Master of Manipulation yourself and give me your impressions.”
“You think he’s secretly working for Napoleon instead of the newly restored king?” asked Henning.
“It wouldn’t be the first time he has betrayed his employer,” Saybrook pointed out grimly. “So it’s only logical to assume that he and Rochemont are in league to destroy the balance of power here with their assassination plot. But who and how is proving perversely difficult to decipher.”
“Patience, Sandro. And perseverance,” counseled his friend. “All it takes is one small piece of the puzzle to fall into place for the picture to become strikingly clear.”
“Then let us go look for that elusive clue,” snapped the earl. “Before yet another body ends up in the grave.”
18
From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks
Horchata with Chocolate and Pumpkin Seeds
1 cup long-grain white rice
½ cup blanched almonds
½ cup pepitas (pumpkin seeds)
1 vanilla bean
1 2-inch piece cinnamon bark
2 oz. dark brown sugar
1½ oz. very dark chocolate
5½ cups water
Additional ground cinnamon and sugar, to taste
1. Grind the rice, almonds and pepitas to a coarse powder (a coffee grinder works well here) and pour into a large bowl. To the powder, add the seeds from 1 vanilla bean and cinnamon bark. Pour in 3½ cups water, stir, and cover the bowl with plastic wrap. Let sit overnight.
2. The next day, pour the watery rice and nut mixture into a medium saucepan and warm it over a low flame. Stir in 2 oz. dark brown sugar, 1½ oz. chopped very dark chocolate, and 2 cups water, mixing until all is well combined. (You may wish to add more cinnamon and sugar.) Once the liquid is even in color and just barely simmering, remove the saucepan from heat and let it come to room temperature. Then pour the contents into a large bowl, cover, and let chill for at least 3 hours.
3. Once it has cooled, strain the horchata—which should be a milky, dappled brown—through a fine-mesh sieve and into a pitcher, taking care to press the last bits of liquid from the rice and seed solids. If some nutty kernels make their way into the pitcher, don’t worry; they will only enhance the drink’s wonderfully thick texture. To serve, pour over ice cubes and garnish with a piece of cinnamon bark.
T
he narrow alley twisted through a tight turn and plunged down a steep incline, the looming press of dark buildings making it impossible to get her bearings.
Left, right—which way was home?
She was now on unfamiliar ground, running blindly in a cat-and-mouse race to elude her pursuers.
A slip on the cold cobbles sent her careening into a stretch of wall, the force of the blow momentarily knocking the wind from her lungs. Bracing her bruised hands on rough brick, she sucked in a gasp of searing air. Pain lanced through her side, sharp as a stiletto, and her heart was hammering so hard against her ribs that she feared the bones might crack.
Life as an indolent aristocrat has left me soft as Chantilly cream,
she thought wryly. In the past, she had often outrun angry men, laughing all the way as she left them choking on her dust.
At the moment, however, the situation wasn’t remotely amusing.
A shout—far too close for comfort—echoed through the blackness. Shoving away from the wall, she turned away from the sound and set off again at a dead run.
 
“What’s the commotion?” asked Henning, pausing as a well-dressed man burst out of an alleyway up ahead and skidded to a halt.
“Footpads, perhaps,” said Saybrook. He didn’t sound overly sympathetic. “With all the drunken revelries, the rich make an easy target for thieves at this hour of night.”
“Have you seen anyone on the run?” demanded the stranger as they approached.
“Not a soul,” answered the earl. “What’s the trouble?”
“A robbery,” answered the man curtly.
“Your purse?” inquired the surgeon.
“A slimy little slug from the kitchens has stolen jewelry from the Kaunitz Palace. But never fear . . .” The man’s expression stretched to an ugly smile. “If he hasn’t escaped this way, it means we have him cornered. The only place he can run is into the Burg’s royal gardens, and once he’s there . . .” His fist smacked into his gloved palm. “He’s trapped like a rat.”
Saybrook and Henning locked eyes for an instant before the earl asked, “What’s the miscreant look like, in case we spot a suspicious person.”
“Plump, with straggly brown hair and moustache,” came the clipped reply. “And the fat bastard is faster than he looks.”
“We’ll keep our eyes peeled,” promised the surgeon.
The man was already hurrying away.
“Merde,”
added Henning under his breath. “We—”
Saybrook cut him off with a sharp shove. “Stubble the noise, Baz, and follow me.”
 
From behind the dark, ivy-twined garden wall, the Hofburg Palace rose in fairy tale splendor, the soaring, stately archways and fanciful domes painted with a pale pearlescent glow in the soft moonlight. Silvery mist from the nearby river swirled over the dark foliage, the ghostly tendrils dancing in time to the orchestral music drifting out from the ballroom of the Amalienburg wing.
It would have been quite romantic had she not been running for her life, thought Arianna as she made a flying leap and caught hold of a sturdy vine. Like bird dogs driving a hapless grouse toward the waiting guns, her pursuers had spread out and forced her up against the rear of the imperial gardens. There was nowhere else to flee—save to scramble straight up and then down.
Her boots hit the damp grass with a muted thud.
Now what?
Taking cover under a low-hanging holly bush, she pulled the downy pillow from inside her shirt and shoved it deep within the prickly branches. A change in profile might help throw them off the scent. She wished that she could peel off the false hair and whiskers—sweat was making them itch like the very devil, but she dared not divest herself of her male camouflage just yet.
Cocking an ear for any sound of the hellhounds, Arianna crawled out of her hiding place and after a brief hitch of hesitation started to weave her way in and out of the foliage, heading for the glittering lights.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
It was too dangerous to go back. Retreat would leave her far too exposed and vulnerable in the midst of hostile territory. If she could somehow sneak inside the palace, there was a good chance that she could take shelter within one of the countless rooms and then drift out with the crowd when the dancing ended near dawn.
Rochemont and his cohorts would likely not want to make too much of a fuss over a simple robbery—assuming her ruse had worked. Even if they suspected a more sinister motive, they would not want to draw attention to their own malevolent plans. No, the dancing—a private ball given by the Tsar of Russia in honor of his sister’s arrival in town—would not be disturbed. The Frenchmen would bring in reinforcements and prowl the perimeter, waiting to pounce.
Well, it would not be the first time that her persona of slippery chef had to escape capture by a superior force. Her lips quirked. What with his previous appearance in London, the elusive Monsieur Alphonse-Richard-Chocolat was fast becoming one of the most wanted criminals in all of Europe.
Digging a hand into her pocket, Arianna cast the purloined fobs and rings into the bushes. Better not to have incriminating evidence on her person, in case she was stopped by a guard. With luck, she could brazen her way past any trouble.
Distraction, dissimulation . . .
Lost in thought, Arianna was careless enough to stray through a thin blade of light. It was only for an instant, but a hand shot out and caught her arm.
Swearing, she tried to twist free, jerking up her knee to strike her assailant between the legs.
A hand clapped roughly over her mouth.
“Stop thrashing,” hissed her husband, just barely dodging the well-aimed blow. “And stop trying to make me sing like a puling soprano.”
The fight drained out of her. “Sandro! How did—”
“Never mind that now. Stay silent and follow me. When we get close to the palace, do exactly as I say.”
Arianna pressed close to his side, grateful for the sudden warmth radiating through his overcoat. She fled wearing naught but her dark kitchen smock over her work clothes, and it was only now that she realized the night had turned chilly with the first hint of frost.
“There is a door set on the outside of the left archway—do you see it?” whispered Saybrook as they cut behind a line of rhododendrons to shield their movements from the formal terrace overlooking the gardens.
She squinted into the swaying light of the torches and nodded.
“There are two uniformed soldiers standing guard there. I am going to distract them, but we can’t count on having more than a few seconds. When I say ‘God save the King,’ shoot for the door. It’s unlocked and Baz is just inside. I’ll join you shortly.”
Baz?
Arianna knew better than to ask—about that or any of the other questions that were jostling inside her head.
“Stay behind the marble urn up ahead. From there you have a straight line to the doorway. Remember, on my signal, run like the devil.”
She squeezed his arm to indicate her understanding and then dropped to a crouch, her cheek pressing up against the cold stone.
Her body reacted to the loss of his touch by sending a shiver coursing down her spine.
Saybrook mounted the shallow steps a trifle unsteady on his feet. “Lovely night for a dance, what ho,” he announced in a slurred voice.
The two soldiers, a sergeant and a corporal in uniforms of the Austrian Imperial Guards, moved out from their station by the main set of glass-paned doors.
Saybrook gave a drunken wave. “No, no, not looking to partner you fine fellows.” A stumble. “Ladies. I’m looking for the ladies.”
The guards exchanged amused looks. “Sir, you will have to go around to the front entrance,” said the sergeant. “We are under orders not to admit anyone through these doors. The Tsar is very particular about keeping out uninvited guests.”
“Quite right, quite right. No riffraff.” The earl sketched a clumsy bow that nearly landed him on his arse.

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