The Cocoa Conspiracy (22 page)

“A good question,” replied her husband. “An even better one is who else other than Grentham knows that an investigation is taking place. Davilenko supposedly took that secret with him to a watery grave.”

“You aren’t thinking fish have ears?” said Henning cynically.

“No, I’m thinking rats have tongues,” answered the earl. “And it looks like it’s up to us to smoke the vermin out of the woodwork.”

1. Preheat oven to 375º F. In a small mixing bowl, mix together the flour, baking soda, and salt.

2. In a large mixing bowl, cream together the butter, sugar, honey, eggs and vanilla; gradually add the dry ingredients until a dough forms. Stir in the chocolate.

3. Drop 1-tablespoon portions of dough onto cookie sheets lined with parchment paper; bake for 8–9 minutes, rotating the cookie sheets after 5 minutes. Cool on a wire rack.

T
he brick warming her feet had gone cold and the blankets had slipped as the coach lumbered through a tight turn in the downward-spiraling road. Would her body ever be the same? Arianna shifted on the seat, trying to find a comfortable position. Every bone and bit of flesh felt bruised from the bumps.

They traveled hard, pushing at a bruising pace through France and across the Alps. The snowcapped peaks, rising majestically against a brilliant blue sky, had taken her breath away. She had never seen anything like it.

“This second coded letter is proving devilishly difficult to decipher,” muttered Saybrook, setting aside his notebooks with a sigh. “If you can tear your gaze away from the scenery, perhaps we should go over a few things, now that we are getting close to Vienna.”

Despite the chill, her skin began to tingle. “Tell me more about the main people we are going to encounter. The ones who are likely involved in the conspiracy, unwittingly or not.” The names were of course familiar, but she wished to commit the details about their strengths and weaknesses to memory.

“Let’s start with our prime suspect,” said Saybrook. “Ah, but where to begin with Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord?” The earl pursed his lips. “Some of this you already know, but it bears repeating.”

She nodded.

“He was born the eldest son of an ancient aristocratic family, but because of a lame leg, he was pushed into a Church career while his younger brother was anointed the heir of the family. Through the influence of his relatives, he rose to become a bishop, even though his faith was, shall we say, lax. Indeed, he quickly established a reputation for wit and charm in the drawing rooms of Paris—along with an appetite for fine wine, sumptuous cuisine and beautiful women.”

“So, he is not a saint,” observed Arianna.

“Hardly. A cat, perhaps, seeing as he appears to have nine lives. But most of all, he is the consummate diplomat—a master of manipulation, though to give the devil his due, he’s a brilliant statesman, and his views on world politics have much to admire.”

“Then if he is our enemy, he is a formidable one,” she said.

“Very,” agreed Saybrook. “To say he is clever and conniving is an understatement. You have only to look at his career to see he has an uncanny instinct for survival. Through the influence of friends and his own natural abilities, he managed to serve as a trusted advisor to the
Ancien Régime
, the Revolutionary fanatics, Napoleon and now the restored French monarchy.”

“Does he believe in
any
abstract principle?” she asked.

“Aside from pleasure and plumping his own purse?” Saybrook shrugged. “God only knows. It’s well known that Talleyrand lined his pockets with bribes throughout his career—not to speak of his double dealing with the Russian Tsar in ’08.” He blew out his cheeks. “I think we can assume that for the Prince—in 1806 the Emperor granted Talleyrand the title of Prince of Benevento as a reward for his services—his own personal objectives are sovereign.”

Arianna took a moment to consider all she had heard. Talleyrand was cold, calculating. In her past life she had matched wits with many clever, unscrupulous men, but the thought of facing off against the Prince of Benevento sent a shiver snaking down her spine.

“A formidable opponent,” she repeated. “It’s hard to imagine that anyone else is orchestrating this plot.” Carefully keeping her eyes on the passing mountain landscape, she added, “Now, tell me about the others.”

Saybrook thumbed through the pages of his notebook. “Prince Metternich, the Austrian Foreign minister, is equally astute in the art of political negotiations. For the last decade, he has, by all accounts, been remarkably good at protecting Austria’s interests despite its daunting military defeats. And like Talleyrand, he’s known for his charm and smooth social graces.” A pause. “He also shares the Frenchman’s taste for seducing women.”

“I may have to return to my old habit of wearing a knife strapped to my leg in order to defend my honor,” said Arianna lightly.

“It might be a wise idea.” Her husband did not crack a smile. “Arianna, these men are used to getting what they want. Yes, they prefer to use charm, but don’t be deceived that they will graciously take no for an answer.”

For a long moment, the only sound inside the coach was the clatter of the iron-rimmed wheels over the flinty rocks.

“I’ve seen enough of deceit and depravity not to make such a naive mistake, Sandro,” she answered.

The hazy half light seemed to accentuate his troubled scowl. “I have every respect for your formidable skills, my dear. And yet, I cannot forget that without my intervention, they would not have protected you from a horrible death.”

“We have gone over all of this. I understand and accept the risks, Sandro,” Arianna reminded him. “What else should I know about Metternich?”

He hesitated, and then gave in with a grudging sigh. “At the upcoming congress, he will be intent on creating order and stability on the Continent. He’s enough of a realist to realize that means peace with France, so he will be open to Talleyrand’s ideas. My guess is he’s more concerned with the mercurial Tsar of Russia, who looms as a large and unpredictable power to his east.”

“I see,” she said. “And Alexander? Is he really as bad as the picture painted in the English press?” The Tsar had recently paid a visit to London, and had earned scathing criticism for his arrogance and boorish manners.

“The Tsar is a complex person,” replied Saybrook. “He’s a strange mixture of conflicting characteristics. He was greatly influenced by his grandmother, Catherine the Great, who had him tutored in the liberal ideals of the Enlightenment. After coming to the throne, he championed the idea of sweeping social reform in Russia. But as of yet, little change has really happened. A part of him is very autocratic and intolerant of criticism. He has a mystical side—some would call it messianic—and believes that God has chosen him to be a spiritual leader.”

“And thus all should obey his commands?” remarked Arianna.

“Precisely,” said her husband.

“Men like that are . . . dangerous,” she mused. “Are the reports of his amorous exploits true?” Gossip about the Tsar’s rapacious pursuit of women had been a popular subject in London during his recent visit to England.

“Alexander wants to feel loved,” answered Saybrook somewhat obliquely. “He flirts shamelessly and seems to feel that a woman’s physical surrender is an affirmation of his worth.”

An astute assessment.
The earl was a dispassionate judge of character, an ability that sometimes left her feeling a little uncomfortable.

Tucking the fur-lined carriage blanket around her middle, Arianna leaned back against the squabs. It was, she decided, a question best left unspoken.

“I hear he is called the Angel,” she said, affecting an air of nonchalance to hide her uncertainty. “Is he handsome? I only caught a glimpse of him from afar when he was in Town, so it was hard for me to judge.”

“In his youth, he was considered ethereally attractive.” Saybrook’s expression finally betrayed a hint of humor. “But of late, he has been partying so hard that it is said he has put on a good deal of weight, so that a messenger had to be dispatched back to Moscow for a new set of uniforms.”

“Ah—a glutton for pleasure? Perhaps I can ply him with chocolate and coax some useful tidbits of information out of him.”

“Perhaps.” He turned pensive. “He and Talleyrand were close in the past, so it’s possible that he is in some way involved in this intrigue. However”—he ran a hand along the line of his jaw—“I think that we will find Talleyrand at the heart of this conspiracy. Of all the men coming to Vienna, he is the one to fear most.”

 

“Come, open your eyes, Arianna. You should not miss seeing your arrival in Vienna.”

She shifted against the squabs and brushed a palm over the fogged window glass. “Vienna,” she murmured softly, now wide-awake as they rolled over the majestic stone bridge spanning the Danube River. The currents swirled, quicksilver flickers of sunlight dancing across the dark water.

“ ‘The haunt of the Hapsburgs is famous for its parks,’ ” read Saybrook, quoting a passage from the guidebook they had purchased in London. “According to this, we should be passing the Augarten at any moment.”

The coach lumbered past a vast swath of Baroque gardens, formal lawns and shaded walkways. “ ‘The flowering landscape is designed in the French style,’ ” Saybrook continued. “ ‘And its avenues are lined with stately chestnut, lime, ash and maple trees. Within the grounds are dining and dance halls for the public, as well as a grand palace.’ ”

“Interesting,” she murmured, trying to read the elaborate inscriptions above the gate.

The earl seemed to be enjoying his role as tour guide. As they rolled toward the center of the city, he thumbed to a new section in the book. “The walls of the old medieval town were said to have been built with ransom money from Richard the Lionheart.”

The horses circled a large fountain, and then they were bumping over the cobbles of the narrow, twisting streets.

“Look up and you will see St. Stephen’s Cathedral.” Saybrook pointed out the soaring limestone cathedral with its Romanesque towers and intricately patterned tile roof. “Its main bell is one of the largest in Europe and was cast out of cannons captured from the Muslim invaders in 1711.”

“East versus West,” she said. “I daresay we will see our share of modern-day conflict.”

The earl regarded the weathered stone for a moment before nodding.

Arianna still felt a little like a wide-eyed child as she looked out at the elegant storefronts and the streets crowded with wealthy merchants and regal aristocrats. “Is every royal in Europe here?” she asked, watching a procession of gilded carriages drawn by prancing horses.

“I doubt that any of them would wish to miss being part of such a glittering glamorous spectacle.”

“Ha.” Her laugh turned into a yawn.

“We are headed to our rooms now—not that we will have much time to recover from the rigors of travel,” apologized her husband. “We are invited to attend a soiree tonight given by our British envoy, and I think it best we begin work without delay.”

“No rest for the wicked.”

“Indeed, every night there will be drinking, dining and dancing until dawn.”

“Not to speak of other activities,” added Arianna.

“Intrigue never sleeps,” said Saybrook.

“Let us hope that we are allowed a few hours of respite from time to time.” She yawned again. “A splash of cold water and I shall be ready to hunt a fox.”

The earl cracked his knuckles. “Or slay a dragon.”

 

“The party is being held at Lord Castlereagh’s residence on the Minoritenplatz, which is close by,” said Saybrook, as he stepped into Arianna’s dressing room an hour later. “The evening should end early, for Her Ladyship’s entertainments are thought to be rather dull.”

“I would probably doze through a performance of whirling dervishes,” admitted Arianna. She arched her neck, so her maid could thread a seeding of pearls through the topknot of curls. “
Gracias
, Theresa. And thanks to you and Juan for putting our quarters in such perfect order so quickly.”

“De nada, señora.”
Her maid performed one last adjustment and then quietly withdrew from the room.

“The entertainment will not be nearly so lively,” said Saybrook as he moved through the candlelight to perch a hip on the edge of the dressing table. “There will be no dancing. For Castlereagh, conversation is the center of attention, which is why we are going out of our way to make an appearance.”