The Cocoa Conspiracy Page 3

  Saybrook blew out his breath. “No, much as I hate to admit it, you were probably right to suggest that it’s best for her to remain in school. For now, that is.”

  “It would be different if I were more familiar with Society.” She made a rueful face. “But until I learn how to navigate through the treacherous waters of the ton, I might only sink her chances of acceptance.” She breated a sigh. “We have another year until she is of age to be formally introduced. I shall start practicing with my oars.”

  The statement drew a reluctant laugh from her husband. “Learn the waters? I thought you didn’t give a damn for drawing room society.”

  “I don’t. But it would be fun to tweak their noses.” After a moment she smiled. “Besides, I think your great aunt Constantina would love helping to orchestrate a debut Season for Antonia. Her connections would open most every door in Mayfair.”

  “That’s because most every hostess would fear that the old battle-ax would kick the door to splinters if an invitation wasn’t forthcoming,” growled Saybrook, but he too was smiling. The dowager, a great favorite with both of them, had a very sharp tongue to go along with her shrewd wit.

  “True.” Arianna bit back a laugh. “And God help any fortune hunter who tries sniffing around your sister’s skirts.”

  His brows arched. “You think me unable to guard her from rakes and reprobates?”

  “Hardly. But you have to admit that Constantina is even more frightening than you are when her temper is roused.”

  “She says the same thing about you,” replied Saybrook drily.

  “Beast.” After making a face at him, she went back to her writing. A comfortable silence settled over the room, each of them lost in their own musings.

  A quarter hour ticked past before Saybrook finally turned away from the window and set down his cup. “Perhaps we ought to have a brandy to fortify us for the coming ordeal.”

  Arianna made a last notation and then rose. “Actually, I had rather keep a clear head. There is much to do if we are to leave for a fortnight.”

  “I have been thinking . . . it might be possible to cry off,” he said hopefully. “I could tell Charles that we suddenly remembered a previous commitment.” His eyes lit. “With an elderly scholar, whose health is failing.”

  She shot him a skeptical look. “And what would your conscience say to that?” Saybrook was the most honorable man she had ever met—which was both a blessing and a curse.

  “Damn,” he muttered.

  “I had better get Maria started on packing the trunks.” Arianna sighed. “I suppose that I shall have to make a visit to Madame La Farge and order a few ball gowns. And you must stop by Weston and select a silk for a new waistcoat.”

  “Must I?” Saybrook grimaced.

  “You claim that the floral pattern I chose makes you look like an organ grinder’s monkey,” she reminded him.

  “Oh, very well.” He began to gather up his papers. “Milford is the sort of fellow who has a wine cellar stocked with superb vintages of port, and a library offering naught but dreadfully dull volumes from the last century. So let us be sure to pack plenty of books. Otherwise we shall be bored to perdition.”

  3

  From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks

  Gateau Reine de Saba

  For the cake

  12 tablespoons (1½ sticks) butter, more for pan

  6 ounces bittersweet chocolate, chopped into small pieces

  3–4 drops almond extract

  2 tablespoons strong coffee

  4 large eggs, separated

  Pinch of salt

  1 cup sugar

  1¾ cups finely ground almonds

  For the glaze

  2 tablespoons sugar

  1 tablespoon corn syrup

  ¼ cup water

  4 ounces bittersweet chocolate, chopped into small pieces

  1 tablespoon butter

  1. Heat oven to 325 degrees. Butter a 9-inch spring-form pan, and line the side wall with parchment paper. In a heavy-bottomed pan, combine 12 tablespoons butter, 6 ounces chopped chocolate, almond extract and coffee. Melt over low heat, then transfer to a bowl and allow to cool.

  2. With an electric mixer, whisk egg whites and salt until soft peaks form. Slowly add ½ cup sugar until thick and glossy. Set aside.

  3. In a separate bowl, whisk together egg yolks with remaining ½ cup sugar until thick. Fold in the melted chocolate mixture. Add ground almonds and mix well. Whisk in a dollop of egg whites to lighten mixture. Using a rubber spatula, gently fold in the rest of egg whites, keeping batter airy.

  4. Scrape batter into pan and bake until cake is dry on top and a bit gooey in center, 30 to 40 minutes. (After 30 minutes of baking, check center of cake with a tester or toothpick. If center seems very wet, continue baking.) Cool cake on a rack for 20 minutes, then remove side of pan. Allow to continue cooling. Top of cake may crack as it cools, but glaze will cover most cracking.

  5. In a small saucepan, combine 2 tablespoons sugar, the corn syrup and ¼ cup water. Bring to a boil, then remove from heat. Add 4 ounces chopped chocolate, swirl pan to mix, and allow to stand until melted, about 3 minutes.

  6. Whisk 1 tablespoon butter into icing, then pour evenly over cake. Use a spatula to ease icing out to edges of cake. Allow icing to cool and set before slicing.

  A dappling of sun filtered through the tall mullioned windows, its honeyed hue deepened by coming twilight. Overhead, a myriad of candles flickered in the chandeliers, highlighting the rich fabrics and opulent furnishings that graced the Marquess of Milford’s formal salon. Glass-paned doors at the far end of the room opened on to a terrace overlooking the gardens. The scent of lilac and roses drifted up from the ornamental plantings, the subtle fragrances swirling with the lush floral perfumes and spicy colognes of the guests who had gathered for champagne before the welcoming dinner.

  Flowers needed no artifice to enhance their natural sweetness, thought Arianna as she paused in the archway to regard a group of bejeweled ladies clustered near the marble display pedestals. The same could not be said for the fauna. Plunging necklines, decorative lace, sparkling sequins—there was an old adage about gilding the lily . . .

  Ah, but I am one of them now, she thought ruefully, smoothing a hand over the lush silk of her gown. And yet, she still felt like an imposter, a wild weed sprung to life among a garden of cultivated blooms. A single pearl from the lustrous strand woven through her upswept hair would have fed her for a year in her former life.

  “Smile, my dear,” counseled Saybrook, slanting a sidelong glance at her expression.

  “Very well,” she replied under her breath. “But please don’t ask me to simper.”

  His mouth twitched.

  The buzz of conversation grew louder as yet another small group made its way into the room.

  “That is the party from Paris,” said Saybrook. Like them, most of the guests had arrived at the country estate that afternoon. “Beaulieu, an old Royalist, will be part of Prince Talleyrand’s delegation in Vienna. But he has come to London to confer with our Foreign Ministry and the émigré leaders here in London before traveling on to the Continent. To his right is Flambert, a former colonel in Napoleon’s Imperial Guards.”

  “Sandro, you must remember that I was raised in the West Indies, where Europe and its wars seemed very far away,” replied Arianna. “I need some help in understanding the complex politics and alliances. Royalists, émigrés, Talleyrand—you must explain to me what they all stand for.”

  “Sorry,” he said with a wry smile. “I shall try to explain things simply. You know, of course, that in 1789, the French people rose up in revolution and beheaded King Louis XVI and his queen, Marie Antoinette, several years later, along with a great number of the old aristocracy. The Bourbon dynasty had ruled France since the 1500s, but now it was gone in a wink of steel. A democratic republic was declared, which frightened the rest of Europe, and so France was attacked by a coalition of its neighbors. For over two
decades, the continent has been torn by conflict, and once Napoleon came to power in France and declared himself emperor, the wars escalated. Now that he has finally been defeated and exiled to the isle of Elba, there is a complicated jockeying for power, both within France and across the Continent.”

  “I see,” she murmured. “Perhaps I should be taking notes.”

  “It does get rather complicated,” said Saybrook. “The Royalists are those who remained loyal to the Bourbon dynasty, and are now happy that it has been restored to the throne of France. In general the émigrés—that is, the French who fled here to England to escape the Revolution—are Royalists. But the former supporters of Napoleon aren’t happy that the Bourbon dynasty has been returned to power. They would like to see a different form of government established, one where the people have more of a voice.”

  He took a look around the room before going on. “That is just one of the many issues that will be decided at the upcoming Peace Conference in Vienna. Prince Talleyrand, the current Foreign Minister of France, will be leading the negotiations for his country. He is clever, cunning and a master of diplomacy. The other main powers at the Conference will be England, Russia and Austria. You will meet some of their representatives here tonight.”

  “I shall endeavor to keep all of this straight,” said Arianna. “Though in truth, I find politics an ugly game.” Her gaze shifted to an extremely handsome gentleman who had just turned away from Beaulieu and Flambert in order to bow over their hostess’s hand.

  “Who is Adonis?” she asked, finding it hard not to stare. Like a Greek god, the man possessed striking classical good looks—curling ringlets of golden hair framed chiseled cheekbones, a straight nose and a full-lipped, sensuous mouth.

  “Le Comte de Rochemont.” Saybrook paused. “Who, like you, believes that he is blessed with Divine Beauty. Along with a cleverness that puts Almighty God to blush.”

  “I take it you don’t like him,” she murmured.

  “I think that he’s a bloody, brainless ass,” responded Saybrook.

  Seeing as he felt that way about most of the haut monde, Arianna took the assessment with a grain of salt.

  “He’s considered an influential member of the French émigré community here in London, on account of his family, a very prominent and well-connected member of the old nobility,” continued Saybrook. “But as far as I know, the comte spends most of his time gambling or bedding other men’s wives.”

  “So does most of the English aristocracy,” Arianna pointed out.

  “Pas moi,” muttered Saybrook.

  “Not every man is capable of matching your prodigious skills in the . . . kitchen.”

  He choked down a laugh. “Some men might be offended by that remark.”

  “But not you, for you know I adore your chocolate confections.” She placed a gloved hand on his sleeve. “Now come, we might as well go feed ourselves to the lions.”

  “You mean the carrion crows.” He looked at the flock of black-coated diplomats with distaste. “Who plan to peck away at a war-ravaged Europe, in order to feather their own nests.”

  “Try not to be so cynical, Sandro.”

  “That is rather like the pot calling the kettle black.”

  “True, but we promised your uncle to help create a mood of international camaraderie.” The reminder was as much for herself as for him. “So we must make the best of the situation while we are here.”

  “Yes, yes, you are right, of course.” And yet he looked a little unsettled. A little on edge.

  Why? Arianna considered herself very skilled at reading people, and now that she had settled into marriage, she felt that she was learning to interpret the nuances of his moods. But this one was puzzling her. She couldn’t quite put a finger on what was troubling him. A glance at his downturned face was no help. The light from the gilded sconces couldn’t penetrate the fringe of dark lashes shadowing his eyes.

  However, further reflection was interrupted by Saybrook’s uncle, who stepped out from one of the side salons.

  “Ah, there you are, Sandro.” Mellon acknowledged her presence with a small nod. “Milady.”

  She repressed an inward sigh. The fortnight was already promising to be a long and tedious affair.

  “I trust that you had a pleasant journey from London,” Mellon went on politely.

  “Quite,” she responded.

  “Excellent.” Mellon’s eyes had already shifted to Saybrook. “Might I steal your husband away for a moment? The Spanish diplomats have just arrived and I would like to make the introductions.”

  “Of course. You need not worry about me, sir. I can fend for myself.”

  Mellon’s mouth twitched slightly, but whether in annoyance or amusement, it was impossible to discern.

  Arianna guessed the former. The allusion to her less than ladylike past was not apt to elicit a chuckle.

  Saybrook shot her a look of silent apology and then gestured for his uncle to lead the way. “I shall do my best to appear simpatico.”

  As the two men moved off, Arianna turned toward one of the colonnaded alcoves and began perusing the collection of oil paintings hung on the oak-paneled walls.

  I would be happy to blend into the woodwork, she mused. The superficial pleasantries of Polite Society always seemed to stick in her throat . . .

  “Ah, the elusive Countess of Saybrook.”

  Arianna didn’t need to turn around to recognize who was speaking.

  “Why does it not surprise me to find you skulking in a dark corner?” Lord Percival Grentham asked, his voice deceptively soft as he glided a step closer to her.

  She turned slowly, refusing to flinch. The Minister of State Security, Grentham was feared by most people in London. And with good reason. He was said to be utterly ruthless and remorseless in pursuing those whom he considered a threat.

  A threat to what? King, Country, or his own overweening pride?

  He looked at her as if horse droppings had suddenly befouled his elegant evening shoes.

  She returned the stare with equal disdain. I don’t like you much either.

  A master of manipulation, Grentham liked being in control of people. To him they were pawns, insignificant pieces to be sacrificed without a second thought to serve his own purposes. And so he harbored a simmering enmity for her and Saybrook, despite their having saved him from considerable embarrassment by unmasking a dangerous conspiracy. Their refusal to play by his rules had resulted in a veiled warning that he was watching . . . and waiting to pounce if they made the slightest slip.

  As their gazes locked, a glint of malice lit in his eyes. “I trust you are not here to cook up any new trouble?”

  “No, I shall leave making a hash of things to you, sir.” She smiled sweetly on seeing a tinge of color rise to his cheekbones.

  “A hash calls for dicing a slab of flesh into mincemeat, does it not?” replied Grentham. “I prefer a more sophisticated style of cuisine. One that requires delicate carving skills . . .” His well-tended fingers flicked at his lapel. “Rather than a few heavy hacks with a cleaver.”

  Arianna had stabbed a man to save Saybrook’s life, and the minister knew it. But she would be damned if she let him guess that the memory still gave her occasional nightmares.

  “Ah, yes,” she riposted. “I’ve heard that you have a great deal of experience in roasting a man’s cods, and then slicing them into amuse-bouches.” It was, she knew, childish to provoke him. But she couldn’t help it. “Tell me, do you spice them with oregano or rosemary? Or do you serve them plain, with naught but a sprinkling of salt?”

  “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 we
re 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.”