The Cocoa Conspiracy (5 page)

“You have a clever tongue, Lady Saybrook,” replied Grentham softly. “Have a care that it doesn’t land you in a vat of boiling oil.”

He moved away without further comment as a shadow fell across the recessed corner.

“Was that self-important prig harassing you?” demanded Saybrook in a low growl as he came up behind her.

Arianna shook her head. “The minister and I were simply exchanging pleasantries.”

Her reply elicited a phrase unfit for the elegant surroundings.

“There are ladies present,” she cautioned. “Not that such language offends
my
ears. But I daresay that the others would fall into a swoon were they to overhear you.”

He chuffed a disgruntled sigh.

“Speaking of ladies, I can’t help but be curious—is Lord Grentham’s wife here?” She wondered what sort of female could live with such an unrelenting lack of humor.

“I believe he’s a widower,” replied Saybrook.

Arianna suspected that the minister was standing on the other side of the tall
Chinoiserie
curio cabinet, and couldn’t resist a parting dig. “Ha. My guess is he either tortured the poor woman in some foul dungeon. Or”—the pause was deliberately drawn out—“she simply expired from boredom.”

Saybrook gave a chuckle.

“Honestly,” she went on. “Does the man think of nothing but work, and how he can persecute the people around him?”

“It’s his job to be a nasty, nosy son of a bitch. And he does it extremely well.” Her husband disliked the minister even more intensely than she did. He hadn’t revealed the reason, but she guessed it was very . . . personal.

“Forget Grentham,” muttered Saybrook. “Come, let us mingle with the other guests and be polite.”

Rochemont, the French Adonis, was engaged in conversation with the Duke of Ellis and two military officers from the Horse Guards. As she passed close by, Arianna heard him describing a hunting trip to Scotland.

“The Paragon of Masculine Beauty appears to speak perfect English,” she observed.

“The comte has lived in London for nearly two decades,” answered her husband.

“He must be delighted to see Napoleon exiled and the House of Bourbon restored to the throne of France,” she mused.

Saybrook shrugged. “I would imagine it all depends on how power shifts. No one likes to lose his position of influence. The British government treated the émigré community in London as an important ally. Now that there is no Napoleon to fight against, Rochemont and his followers might become irrelevant.”

“I hadn’t thought of it in that light.” Arianna pursed her lips, finding it hard to understand the allure of the political world. As Saybrook said, it must all come down to a craving for power.

“What has stirred such a cat-in-the-cream-pot smile?” inquired Saybrook, arching a dark brow.

“I was giving thanks to God that we will not have to be involved in all the sordid machinations.”

“Amen to that,” replied her husband. He plucked two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and handed one to her. “A toast to the quiet life of cooking and scholarly study.”

The wine’s effervescence prickled against her tongue. “You are sure that it’s not
too
quiet?” she asked softly. “I sometimes fear that you miss having a complex conundrum to solve.”

“I don’t miss whizzing bullets and slashing steel,” he quipped.

And yet, she wondered . . .

“Ah, there you are, sir!” Their host, the Marquess of Milford, flashed a genial smile at Arianna. “Lady Saybrook, would you allow me to take your husband away to the terrace for a moment? Mellon tells me he knows something about plants, which is a godsend. The Spaniards are asking me all sorts of questions about my ornamental gardens, and I haven’t a deuced clue as to the answers.”

“His Lordship is indeed an expert in botany,” she replied. “I’m sure he’ll be able to help. In the meantime, I won’t wilt while he’s away.”

“Wilt . . . Oh, ha! ” The marquess gave a bark of laughter. “Clever gal you’ve married, Saybrook.”

“Yes,” said Saybrook drily. “Isn’t she?”

Left alone once again, Arianna looked around, wondering if there was a familiar face among the guests. Other than Saybrook’s uncle—and the odious Lord Grentham—she had seen naught but strangers.

The marquess’s wife had led a group of ladies into the adjoining salon and Arianna decided that it would be rude not to join them. Steeling herself for a detailed discussion on the state of the weather, or whether cerise or plum was a more fashionable color for autumn, she started to make her way across the room.

“Please forgive the demands on Sandro.” Mellon appeared by her side and offered his arm. “His attentions will make the Spaniards happy, though it rather leaves you in the lurch.”

“You need not keep apologizing, sir. We are here to help you foster the bonds of international friendship.” She dutifully smiled at a passing foreigner. “If there is anything I can do, you have only to ask.” Knowing his reservations, she decided to confront them head-on. “I can behave like a perfectly proper lady when I put my mind to it.”

His arm stiffened beneath her gloved hand.

Apparently I was much mistaken.
A proper lady would have known better than to express such frankness . . .

To her surprise, Mellon actually chuckled. “I imagine that you could do just about
anything
that you put your mind to.”

“I’m not sure if I should take that as a compliment,” replied Arianna lightly.
Or perhaps as an olive branch?

Mellon had no chance to reply for he was accosted by a very large and very plump gentleman with the most extraordinary set of side-whiskers that Arianna had ever seen. The wild frizz, heavily sheened with Macassar oil, covered all but a scant strip of smooth flesh at the tip of his chin. It gave him the look of a slightly demented bear.

“For shame, Mr. Mellon! You are taking unfair advantage of your foreign visitors.” The heavily accented English was punctuated by a waggling finger. “Do you mean to keep your lovely relative all to yourself?”

Mellon acknowledged the accusation with a courtly shrug of surrender. “Not now that I’ve been caught out, Grimfeld. But can you blame me?”

“Nein,”
responded the Bear with an appreciative look her way. “I would do the same if I were in your sows.”

“
Shoes
, Heinrich, not
sows
,” corrected one of his companions. “Sows are
schwein
.”

“Lady Saybrook,” said Mellon, keeping a straight face. “Allow me to present Herr Grimfeld, who is part of the Prussian contingent visiting London, and Count Kostikov, who represents His Imperial Highness, the Tsar of Russia.”

Both gentlemen bowed low over her hand.

“May I also have the honor of introducing my countryman,” said Kostikov as he straightened and stepped back to permit the third member of their group to approach. “Mr. Davilenko has served this past year as our government’s attaché in London, but he will be traveling with me to Vienna as part of our peace delegation.”

“What a great pleasure it is to make your acquaintance, madam,” said Davilenko, moving quickly to perform the gentlemanly ritual of brushing a kiss to her glove.

Arianna stared in mute shock at the top of his head.
The curling russet-colored hair, the bald spot on his crown, the jug-shaped ears . . .

For an instant she wondered whether she had drunk too much champagne for the floor suddenly seemed to be spinning beneath her feet.

“It is a privilege to be in the presence of such a lovely English rose,” Davilenko went on.

Ending his gallantries with a flourish, he clicked his heels and looked up.

Arianna held her breath in her lungs.

“A rose,” he repeated, his broad smile mirroring the upturned slant of his cheekbones. “And one of the most exquisite, enchanting blooms of this island’s beauty.”

Apparently, beauty was in the eye of the beholder,
she thought sardonically, realizing that he didn’t recognize her. Tonight she was swathed in costly silks, with a king’s ransom in emeralds dangling just above her décolletage. While during their previous encounter in Messrs. Harvey & Watkins Rare Book Emporium she had been wearing a drab bonnet and ill-fitting work gown.

Looking somewhat bemused by her wide-eyed silence, Mellon gave a discreet cough. “A very pretty compliment, sir.”

“Yes, how kind of you, sir,” she murmured, roused from her initial shock by the gentle reminder. Quelling the insane urge to laugh—and then give the leering Russian a good, swift kick in the crotch, Arianna fluttered her lashes. “Have you an interest in plant life, Mr. Davilenko?”

“I consider myself a connoisseur of beautiful blooms,” he replied jovially, oblivious to her subtle barb. Casting an appreciative glance at her bosom, he added, “If you would allow me to escort you to the refreshment table, we might discuss the subject at greater length.”

Accepting his arm, she let him guide her around an arrangement of potted palms.

“I have noticed that English ladies are very fond of flowers,” said Davilenko. “Have you a favorite, Lady Saybrook ?”

“Actually I tend to favor more exotic species of flora. Like
Theobroma cacao
.”

His smile turned a trifle tentative. “Oh? I am not familiar with such a plant.”

“No?” said Arianna. Another little flirtatious flutter. “And yet you seemed so very anxious to get your hands on the volume of
cacao
engravings I was buying for my husband.”

His jaw went slack.

Recalling the embarrassing incident set off a fresh spark of indignation inside her. “Steal any more books lately?” she asked tartly.

The blood drained from Davilenko’s face.

“Oh, yes. I saw the other one tucked inside your coat,” she said in a low whisper. “I don’t imagine your embassy would be happy to hear that you engage in petty thievery.”

Pivoting on his heel, he hurried away without uttering a word.

“Barbarian.” The comment came from just behind her.

Arianna gave an inward wince, realizing that the exchange must have been overheard.

“
Ja
, the Russians have a well-deserved reputation for boorish behavior,” chimed in another voice. “Do come join us, Lady Saybrook. We promise to be more congenial company.”

She turned slowly, forcing a smile as she found herself face to face with three diplomats whom she had met earlier in the evening.

“Stealing books?” Le Notre, a member of the French émigré community in London, raised a questioning brow. “Why, whatever did you mean, Lady Saybrook?”

“It was more of a misunderstanding.” Arianna had no intention of explaining what had really happened at the book emporium, and quickly deflected the conversation to a more mundane topic. “I understand that the marquess’s estate offers some of the best shooting in Gloucestershire. Do you gentlemen enjoy hunting?”

“Indeed,” said Enqvist, the Swedish military attaché. “I am particularly fond of grouse . . .”

Henkel, an aide to the embattled King of Saxony, followed the paean to birds with a lengthy tale of a Black Forest boar hunt. Then, to her relief, Saybrook reappeared and saved her from further stories by asking for her company on a stroll out to the terrace.

“If you will excuse us, there are some plants that I know my wife will find very interesting,” he explained.

“But of course.” Le Notre gave an apologetic bow. “Forgive us, Lady Saybrook. I hope we haven’t upset your delicate sensibilities with all our talk of bloodshed.”

Covering his amusement with a small cough, the earl offered Arianna his arm. “Thank you for your concern, gentlemen. However, I am happy to report that my wife is not nearly as fragile as she looks.”

Arianna waited until they passed the refreshment table before responding to her husband’s quip.

“And yet, we all know that looks can be deceiving.”

1. Place chocolate in a bowl. In a separate large bowl, sift together sugar, cocoa, cornstarch and salt; whisk in egg yolks and ½ cup milk until smooth.

2. In a large saucepan over high heat, bring remaining 1 cup milk and ½ cup cream to a simmer. Pour over chopped chocolate and whisk until smooth. Whisking constantly, slowly pour hot chocolate mixture into egg mixture until completely incorporated and cocoa is dissolved.

3. Return custard to saucepan. Cook, stirring constantly, over medium heat, until thickened, about 10 minutes. Do not let mixture reach a simmer. If custard begins to steam heavily, stir it, off the heat, a moment before returning it to stove top. Strain through a fine-mesh sieve. Stir in vanilla.

4. Spread several tablespoons pudding evenly into an 8-inch square pan (or a glass bowl). Top with an even layer of bananas; arrange whole cookies on top of bananas. Cover with remaining pudding. Top with whipped cream and sprinkle with crushed cookies. Chill at least 3 hours or overnight before serving.