The Cocoa Conspiracy (36 page)

The duchess tittered over something the handsome officer whispered in her ear.

“Look how Metternich stands in the corner, making calf’s eyes at her.” The comte gave a grunt of contempt. “What a besotted old fool.”

“Affairs of the heart seem to be far more important than affairs of state here in Vienna,” quipped Arianna.

“Oh, it’s not the heart that is motivating most of the pairings.” Another lascivious leer as his thigh brushed up against hers. “It’s a different bodily organ.”

She looked up at him through her lashes. “Isn’t it against the rules of Polite Society to make any mention of anatomy in the presence of a lady?”

“Oh, yes, it’s strictly forbidden.” They twirled in a tight circle. “Does it offend you, Lady Saybrook?”

“Perhaps my sensibilities are not quite so refined as they should be.”

He led her through a few more figures of the dance before speaking again. “A pity about Mr. Kydd. The two of you appeared to be close friends.”

“As you were saying about anatomy . . .” She let the suggestive remark trail off. “Poor David—he was amusing up to a point, but I confess, his prosing on about politics was beginning to grow tiresome.” A tiny pause. “Dear me, that sounds rather coldhearted, doesn’t it?”

Rochemont looked amused, which was what she intended.

“I am, of course, sorry that he fell victim to such an unfortunate accident,” she added. “How very unlucky for him to have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Fortune is a fickle lady,” said the comte carelessly. “She did not choose to smile on him.”

“And what about you, Lord Rochemont?” murmured Arianna. “How does Fortune favor you?”

His boudoir laugh was low and lush as fire-warmed brandy. “I have always been lucky with ladies.”

“Oh?” She curled her mouth in a teasing, taunting challenge. “Have you never suffered a defeat?”

“No, never,” replied the comte. “I—”

But before he could go on, the music ended and a booming voice intruded on their tête-à-tête. “Ah, Lady Saybrook, you have yet to come visit me!” The Russian Tsar snatched her hand from Rochemont and lifted it to his lips. “Our delegations may be at odds over politics, but that is no reason for us to avoid being friends on a personal level, eh?”

“Your Majesty is most magnanimous,” responded Arianna. “But then, you are known as a Champion of Peace.”

His rosy cheeks flushed with pleasure at the flattery. “
Da
, I love peace!” A wink. “Though perhaps not quite so much as pretty women.”

And judging by his growing girth and the recent drawing room gossip, his appetite for pleasure was growing more rapacious by the day,
thought Arianna sardonically.

“I am giving a private party next week,” Alexander continued. “In the interest of bringing our two countries closer together, I command that you come.”

“Well then, I dare not disobey.”

The comte shifted his stance, seemingly impatient to escape the Imperial shadow. “
Alors
, France is also anxious to promote international harmony. So I am sure you won’t object if I escort Lady Saybrook away from the crush of the crowd and fetch her a glass of champagne.”

The Tsar did not look pleased at having his flirtations cut short, but Rochemont was already nudging her toward the grand central staircase that led to the upper galleries.

“Pompous buffoon,” he growled, taking two glasses of wine from a passing waiter. “He struts around as if God has anointed him the world’s Savior.”

“I’ve heard that Alexander has a mystical side, and thinks that the Almighty speak directly to him,” mused Arianna as she looked up at the folds of red and gold velvet draped over the balconies. A profusion of exotic flowers were woven around the gilded balustrades, their petals perfuming the air with a heady sweetness. Surrounded by such sumptuous displays of pomp, privilege and power, she could begin to see how a mere mortal monarch could delude himself into thinking he was a deity.

“Yes, he has some charlatan fortune-teller babbling nonsense in his ear about Divine Destiny,” replied Rochemont.

“You don’t believe in such notions?”

His sinuous mouth snaked up at the corners. “I’ve a far more pragmatic view of life, Lady Saybrook. I believe man makes his own destiny.”

“An interesting philosophy,” said Arianna, deliberately catching his gaze and holding it for an instant before starting up the carpeted steps.

“Does that frighten you, Lady Saybrook?”

Arianna chose her words carefully. “Not particularly.” She lowered her voice. “I was not raised amid the pampered luxuries of the indolent rich. I’ve had to make my own way in the world, so I have a—shall we say—more practical understanding of what it takes to survive.”

Quickening her steps, she crossed the landing and found a secluded spot at the far end of the balcony railing.

Rochemont joined her a moment later. “You intrigue me.” He ran his gloved knuckles along the line of her jaw. “From the first time I saw you, I sensed you were different. Tell me, why were you so cool to me at the Marquess of Milford’s party?”

“The climate in England was decidedly chilly at that time, especially with my husband and his disapproving uncle clinging like icicles to my skirts.”

“So, you married the earl for money?” asked the comte.

A sardonic sound rumbled in her throat. “Really, sir, I didn’t expect such a naive question from you.”

“So the climate has thawed, so to speak?” he said.

“I find Europe much more to my liking. I may linger here for a while. I have always wanted to visit Paris.”

“A city renowned for its
joie de vivre
,” replied Rochemont. “We French have made an art out of appreciating beauty and pleasure. I think you would enjoy yourself there.”

“And what of you sir?” asked Arianna. “Now that the war is over, do you plan to return to Paris?”

His mouth curled into a scimitar smile. “Most definitely.”

“Will you be taking a position in the new government? I have heard my husband mention that your service to your country during Napoleon’s reign will likely be rewarded.”

“I believe that my loyalty will be recognized.” His mouth took on a sharper curl. “Perhaps we shall soon be waltzing in the ballroom of the Louvre.”

“Perhaps,” replied Arianna.

But I wouldn’t wager on it, if I were you
.
The only dance I wish to see you perform is the hangman’s jig on the gallows of Newgate
.

From one of the side saloons, she heard the faint chiming of a clock. An hour until midnight. Surely with just a little more fancy footwork, she could maneuver him into making a slip of the tongue.

 

With a soft
snick
, the lock released.

“Stay close,” cautioned Saybrook. “And tread softly. According to my source, there are no guards posted, but let us not take a chance.” Easing the heavy iron-banded door open, he quickly squeezed through the sliver of space and then signaled Henning to follow.

The creak of the closing hinges seemed unnaturally loud as it echoed through the cavernous interior of the Spanish Riding School. The earl froze, but the faint spill of starlight from the high windows showed that the vast rectangular arena was deserted. After a moment, when no challenge rang out from the gloom, he released a pent-up breath and started forward.

Sand crunched under his boots as he ducked into the shadows of the low planked wall rimming the equestrian arena.

Henning glanced back but saw that their tracks were lost in a pelter of other footprints.

“Work began yesterday to prepare the place for the Carrousel,” whispered Saybrook. “Our steps won’t be noticed.” He stopped to get his bearings, then pointed to the far end of the building. “The storage rooms are there, next to where the tack is kept for the horses. Uniforms and banners, along with the various draperies and cushions, are kept in a row of small chambers running along the left corridor. The armory sections will be on our right. We’ll start there.”

“Ye seem to know yer way around,” murmured the surgeon.

“I found the architect’s plans for this place in the library.” The earl paused by one of the massive columns to cock an ear for any sound of movement up ahead. Looking up at the soaring arched ceiling and the magnificent chandeliers hanging down from the central beam, he added, “It was designed by Josef Emanuel Fischer von Erlach in 1735, and is quite a splendid work of art.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” The surgeon eyed the bristling display of medieval weapons that hung just above their heads. “Though all I see is an ode to man slaughtering his fellow man.” Armor, swords, pikes and crossbows—an arsenal of old decorated the arena in honor of the upcoming Carrousel.

The earl took one last look around. “Come on.”

They entered the storage section of the school through another set of locked doors. Saybrook veered to the right, and took a small shuttered lanthorn from inside his coat.

“We can risk a light in here,” he said. A lucifer match flared for an instant. “I had an interesting chat with one of the Austrian officers in charge of arming the participants in the pageant. All of the weaponry for the martial displays of prowess is being kept in the old munitions chamber.” The pinpoint beam of light probed through the darkness, revealing a wrought iron gate guarding an oaken portal black with age.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d actually think you were enjoying this, laddie,” said Henning as he carefully drew the door shut behind them.

“Bloody hell.” The earl grunted as he lifted the lid of a massive chest and peered inside. “My wife is at the heart of the danger, dancing with a depraved murderer in another part of the palace while I am merely tiptoeing around the fringes of the action.” Metal scraped against metal. “Trust me, I am
not
in a jocular mood, so kindly stubble the humor and help me shift these crates.”

“Lady S is more than a match for any miscreant, Sandro.”

Another grunt, followed by several words in Spanish that made the surgeon blink.

“Any idea what we’re looking for?” asked Henning once they had sorted through the assortment of polished broadswords and jeweled scimitars.

Saybrook was standing by the rack of lances, methodically running a hand over the lengths of varnished wood. “Not precisely,” he answered. “My gut feeling tells me that they won’t try to strike at Talleyrand and Wellington with a simple blade or lance. The odds are against the chances of killing both men outright, not to speak of the fact that the attacker would be sacrificing himself. The chances of escape are virtually nil.”

“So?” prodded Henning as he moved over to a tall wooden cabinet and unfastened the latch.

“So, I suspect that Rochemont has something else in mind. Something he considers a surefire method of success.” The earl finished fingering the decorative hilts and hand guards. “No hidden gun barrels, no concealed triggers—not that I thought that a likely possibility.” Perching a hip on one of the sword crates, he made a slow, silent survey of the room. “Let us keep searching, Baz. I may not be certain what we are looking for . . .” In the murky shadows, his expression appeared grim as gunpowder. “But I’m sure that I’ll recognize it when I see it.”

1. Combine milk, star anise, cinnamon sticks, orange zest, allspice berries and brown sugar in a large, heavy saucepan over medium heat.

2. Scald milk, stirring to dissolve sugar. Lower heat and cook 10 minutes. Remove from heat; steep 10 minutes. Strain into a large pot.

3. Heat gently, then add bittersweet chocolate and dark rum. Whisk briskly until chocolate dissolves, about 5 minutes. Serve topped with whipped cream.

S
etting her hands on the railing, Arianna leaned out and watched the crowd below forming the figures for a Hungarian
csárdás
.

Rochemont came up behind her and placed his hands on her bare shoulders. “Have a care, Lady Saybrook. That’s a little dangerous. What if you lost your balance?”

“Oh, but what fun is life if you don’t take a few risks?” She turned into him and made no protests as his palms slowly slid down her arms. “All these balls are becoming tiresome. I am looking forward to the Carrousel. I hear it is going to be quite a display of pomp and pageantry.”

“Having some knowledge of the arrangements, I can promise you that the evening will be unforgettable.”

Arianna looked up at him through her lashes. “Alas, Saybrook has refused Lord Castlereagh’s offer of tickets. He wishes to work.” A coy flutter. “While I wish to play.”