The Cocoa Conspiracy (29 page)

Another shrug. “I think it was a military toff—a General Something-Or-Other. Water . . . I think mebbe his name had something te do with water.”

Hiding a twinge of frustration, Arianna gave a curt wave of dismissal. She waited for several minutes, giving the girl ample time to gain her attic room, before taking the sketch of the palace floor plan from her pocket and unfolding it on the worktable. Saybrook had found the architectural plans in the Burg’s library and had made a rough copy. Tonight was the first opportunity to put it to use.

It was, she guessed, just a little past midnight. Talleyrand and his advisors, along with his niece, had left an hour ago to attend a party given by Dorothée’s sister, the Duchess of Sagan. They would likely be gone for at least several hours, providing a perfect chance to have a look around upstairs. The only slight complication was Rochemont. Since the day after the Peace Ball and its explosive ending, the comte had been sequestered in his room, sending word that he was too ill to rise from his bed.

But by this time of night, he would likely be fast asleep, and the sketch showed his bedchamber was at the end of a long corridor, overlooking the rear gardens.

The risk of being seen was slim. And besides, she would have a plate of chocolate bonbons to serve as an excuse.

She studied the plan for a bit longer, making a few last notations in pencil, and then put it back in her pocket. Between the breakfast list posted in the butler’s pantry and Saybrook’s handiwork, she now knew exactly who slept where, and which rooms were used for the delegation’s official work.

The thought of entering Talleyrand’s private study sent a frisson of heat tingling down to her fingertips. Or was it a chill?

Dangerous
. Arianna didn’t need reason to remind her of the consequences should she be caught in the act of riffling his papers. She was dealing with cold-blooded killers. Two men lay dead because of their involvement in this intrigue—three if one counted Davilenko’s demise at the hands of Grentham’s men. No mercy would be given.

“I can look out for myself,” she whispered, her flutter of breath blowing out all but a single candle. Taking up the pewter stick, she angled past the massive cast iron stoves and into the back passageway. A tin of her buttery cinnamon-spiced chocolates was tucked away in the pastry pantry. A sprinkle of golden demerara sugar would top off . . .

The thump of the main kitchen door being thrown open was followed by the scuff of boots on stone.

On instinct, Arianna extinguished her light and stood very still.

A pot rattled, followed by a low oath.

Rochemont?
What the devil was he doing down here? she wondered. If he were hungry or thirsty, he could have woken his servant. The comte did not strike her as a man who lifted an elegant finger to perform everyday tasks for himself.

Curious, she crept out of the pantry and inched forward in the darkness until she could steal a look through the passageway opening.

“Merde!”
Rochemont cursed angrily as he fumbled with the top of a heavy crock. His hands lacked their usual grace, for oddly enough they were clad in bulky gloves.

She frowned, noting that he looked dressed for going out into the frosty night.
A sudden recovery?
It was not so strange that he might crave company after several days of being bedridden.

Save for the fact that he was so intent on opening a container of bacon fat.

“Merde,”
he muttered again, the lid slipping from his grasp and clattering against the stone counter. Shifting his stance, he clumsily stripped off his gloves.

In the glow of his lamp, the white gleam of the bandages stood out like a sore thumb. After hurriedly unwinding the linen strips, Rochemont dipped a finger into the crock and with a low grunt began to massage a dollop of grease over his singed knuckles.

Arianna held back a gasp. She had enough experience working in kitchens to recognize burnt flesh when she saw it.

The comte flexed his hands. Seemingly satisfied, he quickly replaced the lid and rewrapped the bandages.

Ducking back into the pantry, Arianna crouched behind a flour barrel as he hurried past her hiding place. A moment later she heard the bolt thrown back on the tradesmen’s entrance.

A rasp of metal, a groan of oak
. And then all was silent.

In the cramped space, the thumping of her heart seemed to echo loud as cannon fire against the rough wood walls. Arianna drew in several calming gulps of air and made herself think. The burned flesh had brought back a searing image of Kydd’s lifeless body. Dear God, was it possible . . .

But to confirm her suspicions, she needed some evidence, some proof.

Thump, thump, thump.
Her pulse had slowed to a more measured beat—which seemed to be drumming Saybrook’s warning into her head.
Careful, careful, careful.

Yes, she had promised him that she wouldn’t take any risks, but in the heat of battle one must seize the moment and be unafraid to improvise.

“I’m sorry, Sandro,” whispered Arianna. As a concession to prudence, she relit her candle and quickly assembled a plate of chocolates. If caught, they might serve as a plausible excuse. Rochemont’s Adonis looks had no doubt attracted the eye of both sexes. Monsieur Richard could always act the part of love-struck admirer.

Moving swiftly and silently up the stairs and down the long corridor, she made her way to the comte’s quarters. The door was locked, but a steel hairpin, hidden beneath her frizzy wig, made quick work of releasing the catch. Drawing the door shut behind her, Arianna paused for a moment to survey her surroundings.

The silvery shading of moonlight was just strong enough to illuminate the opulent furnishings, the gilded chairs, the Baroque pear-wood desk set by the bank of mullioned windows.

Hurry, hurry.
Crossing the carpet, she set to work riffling through the papers on the blotter. She had no idea how long she had to explore. It was imperative not waste a second.

The pile proved to be nothing more than a handful of ornate invitations, a bill from a boot maker, and a memo from Talleyrand’s secretary regarding the upcoming schedule of diplomatic suppers.

“Damnation.” Her search of the drawers also yielded nothing suspicious. One was locked, but it turned out to hold only several unopened bottles of expensive cologne.

Arianna tried to decide where to look next. She had already eliminated the set of painted bookcases flanking the hearth. Searching through the volumes would take far too long. As for the dressing table, it was doubtful that Rochemont would hide any correspondence among the silver-backed brushes and hair pomades.

Unless . . .

A wink of silver drew her closer. The box, fashioned from dark rosewood and rimmed in precious metal, sat between the shaving stand and the tortoise-framed looking glass. Opening the top, she saw it contained the usual male fripperies—several carnelian watch fobs, a gold stickpin highlighted by a large, liquid-blue topaz, and a gold signet ring, its crest worn with age. The items lay atop a velvet lining, its midnight black hue accentuating the richness of the jewelry.

She was just about to snap the lid shut when a curl at the corner of the fabric caught her eye. Taking up the stickpin, she gently lifted the edge, revealing a hidden paper.

Her heart hitched and began to thud against her ribs. Easing it out, Arianna felt a spike of triumph as she saw the writing was in code.

And then Reason quickly reasserted control, and the surge of savage elation gave way to disciplined detachment.

“Sandro needs to see this,” she whispered. He had explained how having two examples of a code greatly increased the chances of deciphering it.

Hurrying to the desk, she found paper and pencil. Holding her breath, she transcribed the sequence of letters, taking care that the low light and her own suppressed excitement did not draw a mistake.

Shoving the finished copy into her pocket, Arianna set to work eliminating all traces of her visit.
Rochemont—or Renard—mustn’t suspect that his lair had been searched
. . . She shifted the inkwell and pens a fraction to the left . . .
He was no fool . . .
Rechecking the drawers, she made several minute adjustments . . .
Not a hair could be out of place.

All that remained was to replace the incriminating code back in the box, exactly as she had found it. “The top of the page aligned with the left corner,” she reminded herself, edging back the velvet—

From the depths of the first floor came the sound of voices in the entrance hall.

Stilling the shaking of her hands, Arianna forced herself not to panic.
Two minutes,
she gauged.
Maybe three before anyone could reach the bedchamber door
. Paramount was to slip the code back in place. And then . . .

The paper eased into position.

And then . . .

Boot heels clattered on the marble stairs.

The footsteps were now in the corridor and coming on quickly.

Snatching up the jewelry, Arianna dropped the box on the floor. A wild sweep of her hand sent the glass bottles sailing helter-pelter. A kick cracked the leg of the Rococo chair.

Shouts of alarm echoed from outside.

Racing to the desk, she knocked all the carefully arranged items to the carpet.

The locked latch rattled. Fists pounded on paneled oak.

Arianna flung open one of the leaded windows and scrabbled up to the ledge just as the door to the room burst open.

“Stop! Thief!”

A short jump landed her atop the slanting roof of the bowfront window directly below. Slipping, sliding over the slates, Arianna dropped to a crouch and caught hold of the carved cornice. She swung over the edge and grabbed for one of the decorative columns that graced the lower facade of the building. A bullet whistled past her ear and slammed into the limestone overhead, sending up an explosion of pale shards.

“No shots, you fools!” It was Rochemont who called the order, his voice taut with fury. “After him on foot—take the stairs and cut him off in the garden. Whatever you do, don’t let him get away!”

The fluted stone scraped her palms raw as she slid to the ground. Giving silent thanks for her earlier surveillance of the grounds, Arianna whirled around and sprinted along the line of the privet hedge, making for the gate that she knew was set in the far right corner of the garden wall.

A door slammed somewhere on the terrace and suddenly there were footsteps peltering in pursuit.

“Stop sneaking a peek at the clock, laddie. The hands have moved naught but a tick since the last time ye looked.” Henning closed the folder of Saybrook’s notes. “Which, by the by, was only a minute ago.”

“She’s never been this late before,” said Saybrook.

“Something must have come up,” replied the surgeon.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” came the earl’s gloomy retort.

Henning ran a hand through his hair, the gesture doing little to smooth the spiky tufts. “Don’t worry. Lady S is exceedingly clever and resourceful.”

“She is also exceedingly unconcerned when it comes to her own safety.” Saybrook scowled. “And now that you’ve brought the news that Rochemont is a duplicitous viper, I have damned good reason to be worried.”

“Laddie, if I thought she was in danger right now, I would be urging you on with a red-hot poker. But be reasonable. You’ve told me that she’s been a week working in the kitchens and has had no trouble so far, eh?”

Saybrook conceded the point with a wordless shrug.

“So there’s no reason to think tonight will be any different.”

“Damnation, Baz. If you would tell the details, I could decide that for myself.” The earl sounded tired. Frustrated. And a little frightened, despite the Sphinx-like stare. His face appeared carved out of stone, but his dark chocolate eyes simmered with anxiety.

“I told you, I’ll explain it all when Lady S gets home. It’s a long story and I’d rather tell it only once,” replied Henning. “And as soon as she is here, we can also have a council of war about how to continue.” The surgeon wagged a warning finger. “But don’t have high hopes that she will want to abandon the masquerade. We still don’t know how all this ties together, and Lady S isn’t one to leave loose ends hanging.”

“Bloody hell,” swore the earl softly. “Why is she determined to take such dangerous risks?”

“I might ask the same of you,” countered his friend. “And I suggest you think of an answer that does not include any mention of women being the weaker sex. Unless, of course, you want your ballocks served up for breakfast by your lovely wife.”

“Don’t remind me of cooking, if you please,” muttered the earl. He rose and slowly circled past the hearth to the sideboard where he paused to uncork a bottle of port. “May I pour you a drink?”