The Cocoa Conspiracy (3 page)

“And, of course, it would be a help to know what the Spaniards are thinking,” said Saybrook.

Another confirming nod. “That your mother was a Cata-lonian noblewoman will be a great mark in your favor. As will the fact that you have spent your childhood summers in their country and so are at home with their language and their customs.”

“A mark in my favor,” repeated Saybrook, a note of sarcasm edging his voice. “How ironic that my own countrymen see my mixed heritage as a stain on an ancient and venerable title.” Seeing Mellon frown, he quickly went on, “Oh, come, Charles, you know I’ve heard the whispers behind my back—how could the old earl have tainted the precious De Quincy blood by producing a mongrel as his heir?” He took a long sip of his drink. “A new batch of spice?”

“Yes,” said Arianna, knowing the question was directed at her. “I discovered a small shipment from the isle of Grenada at the market. Along with a sack of coffee from the Blue Mountains of Jamaica.”

Her husband took a moment to savor another taste. “It’s slightly more piquant than the nutmeg from Martinique.”

“Sun and altitude,” she pointed out. “Which do you prefer?”

Saybrook smiled. “As you know, I tend to choose bold over mild in most things.” Adding a pinch of powder from a dish on the tea table, he continued. “The mace looks to have a bit of bite as well.”

Mellon waited patiently for the discussion of food to end. “My palate is not nearly discerning enough to sense such nuances and how best to blend them together,” he remarked when they were done.

“Your expertise lies in judging the complexities of character, and how best to convince a group of conflicting personalities to come to a common consensus,” said Saybrook.

“It is all a matter of training, I suppose,” replied Mellon.

“And passion,” said Arianna softly. “I believe that one must care deeply about something to do it well.”

Mellon regarded her for a long moment. “I know your opinion of Society, Lady Saybrook—”

“It’s the same as mine,” interrupted Saybrook. “We both abhor the mindless conformity, the vicious gossip, and the gleeful attacks on anyone who dares to defy the petty-minded rules.”

His uncle expelled a sigh. “I—”

“But that said,” Saybrook went on, “we will be happy to attend the Marquess of Milford’s party, if you feel that our presence will be of any help to you and your negotiations.”

“It would be extremely helpful,” answered Mellon, looking much relieved. “Don Pedro Gomez Havela de Labrador, Spain’s envoy to the Conference, is a very proud man, and quick to take offense at any imagined slight. He and Lord Castlereagh, our representative, don’t rub together very well.”

“So in other words, if an English lord who happens to understand the quirks of Castilian character could manage to flatter Labrador’s vanity, he might be more amenable to supporting our government’s proposals.”

“Clearly you understand politics just as well as you do cuisine,” replied his uncle.

“More than I care to,” muttered Saybrook, threading a hand through his dark hair. “When should we be ready to leave for Gloucestershire?”

“In two days,” said Mellon apologetically. “It wasn’t until yesterday evening that we received final word that the Spaniards had consented to come.”

“It doesn’t matter. We have no other plans,” Arianna lied. The trip to visit a noted botany expert and his conservatory of rare tropical plants in Cornwall would simply have to be postponed to a later date, no matter that Saybrook had been looking forward to it. “If you send over the list of expected activities, I shall have Maria begin packing our trunks.”

“Oh, it will be the usual array of superficial entertainments,” replied Mellon. “The men will spend much of the day slaughtering birds on the marquess’s grouse moors while the ladies will amuse themselves indoors. There will be riding, picnics and scenic walks. And at night, there will be endless eating, drinking and dancing.”

“Put that way, how can we resist?” she said.

Mellon let out a brusque chuckle. “Quite easily, I imagine. Nonetheless, I am very grateful.” He rose. “In truth, you might not be as bored as you think. With such an international array of guests, the interlude is bound to offer some interesting diversions.”

 

“I shall cancel next week’s appointment at Kew Gardens,” said Arianna, looking up from her list as Saybrook returned from seeing his uncle to the waiting carriage. She then added another notation. “And I shall write to Professor Turner and tell him we must put off our visit.”

“I would much rather be scrabbling in the dirt of his hothouses than dancing attendance on a crowd of overfed aristocrats,” groused Saybrook as he settled into his favorite armchair and propped his booted feet on the hassock.

“As would I.”

“And what about my manuscript?” he said. “I need to consult some of Turner’s reference books to complete the current chapter.” Drumming his fingers on the worn leather, he scowled up at the ceiling. “How the devil can I write a book when I have such distractions?”

Arianna remained tactfully silent, as did the painted putti overhead.

He expelled a harried sigh. “But I couldn’t very well refuse Charles, could I?”

“Have another cup of chocolate,” she suggested. “Perhaps it will help sweeten your mood.”

A laugh rumbled in his throat. “Forgive me. I’ve been in a sour frame of mind all morning, and my uncle’s request was like . . . a splash of vinegar.”

“Is your leg hurting you?” she asked.

Saybrook had suffered a serious saber wound during the Battle of Salamanca. Invalided out of the army, he had been a morose, opium-addicted specter of his former self when first they had met. It was Mellon who had suggested that his nephew rekindle some interest in life by helping the Ministry of State Security investigate the attempted poisoning of the Prince Regent—though she suspected that he had quickly come to regret it.

The best laid plans of mice and men . . .
Arianna repressed a rueful smile. She had been the prime suspect, but luckily for her, Saybrook was one of those rare individuals who valued truth over expediency. Smelling a rat, he had refused to rush to judgment. Together, they had formed a wary alliance to pursue a common enemy; no matter that at first, they each had far different reasons and far different notions of justice.

Mistrust had slowly softened into respect, and then . . .

Her husband shifted and stood up. “It’s not my leg,” he quipped. “It’s the prospect of a fancy house party that’s a pain in the arse.” Moving to the sideboard, he spun the
molinillo
in the chocolate pot and poured himself a fresh cup. “As you see, my limp is gone—and I shall soon be losing my manly figure as well if you and Bianca keep stuffing me with sweets.”

“She thinks you are still far too thin.”

“Ha! Between the two of you, I fear I will grow as fat as Prinny and have to wear a corset.”

Arianna rolled her eyes. His long, lithe frame had fleshed out considerably since their initial encounter, but it was all lean muscle and whipcord sinew. “I should think twice about that, if I were you. Corsets are horribly uncomfortable. And they creak.”

“Ah, well, the sound would simply be another quirk added to my list of eccentricities.”

“In that, we are two peas in a pod.” She made note of yet another errand to be done and then looked up. “Is there any other reason you are in such an oddly maudlin mood?”

The dark fringe of his lashes hid his eyes. “Is it that obvious ?”

“Only to me.”

Saybrook shuffled to the bank of leaded windows and stared out over the gardens for several moments before answering. “A letter arrived from my sister Antonia this morning.”

“Has something happened?” she asked quickly. “Is she unwell? Unhappy?”

“On the contrary, she sounds quite cheerful.” He, on the other hand, did not. “She is enjoying her tour of the Lake District with Miss Arnold, and is looking forward to the new school term.”

“You must not feel guilty. For the moment, this arrangement is probably the best for her.”

“I know, I know,” he muttered. “And yet it seems cowardly to let her believe I am merely a distant relative, who takes a casual interest in her well-being.” It was only a year ago, on the death of the old earl, that Saybrook had discovered he had a younger sister. “Damn my father for never explaining the situation to me. Whatever was he thinking, to leave such important matters unspoken?”

“He undoubtedly thought he had time to do so,” answered Arianna. “He did not expect to fall from his horse during a fox hunt.”

Saybrook replied with an exasperated oath. “Having lost both his first wife and second wife—or lover—to sudden illness, he, of all people, should have understood how quixotic life can be.” His mouth thinned to a grim line. “If he was indeed married to Antonia’s mother, why did he keep the relationship a secret, and hide her away in a school after her mother’s death, instead of acknowledging her as his legitimate daughter?”

“We can only speculate as to his motives,” said Arianna softly. “I imagine that at first he was worried about how English society would react. Your mother was of noble birth, and still she was not accepted by many in the
ton
. Antonia’s mother was a commoner, and according to the notes you found among his papers, the ceremony took place in a small Papist chapel, rather than an English church. It seems that he meant to straighten things out, and prove it was a proper marriage. But”—she heaved a sigh—“fathers often keep secrets from their children.”

Her own father had been a prime example of that, she reflected. A brilliant but mercurial man, the late Earl of Morse had been forced to leave England with his young daughter after being accused of cheating at cards. He had been innocent of that crime, but his murder, and her subsequent quest to clear his name, had led to unexpected revelations.

“Whether it is out of guilt or shame or some emotion that eludes words, they don’t know how to explain their actions,” Arianna went on. “Your father may have feared that you would resent a sibling, or think her unworthy of the family name.”

“I should have been delirious with delight to discover I had a sister,” he said gruffly.

Arianna nodded. “I know that.” She paused, recalling the horrors of her own adolescence—an orphaned girl, alone and unprotected . . .

“I would be more than happy to have Antonia come live with us, if that is what you wish,” she assured him. “No matter what the gossips might whisper.”

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.”