The Cocoa Conspiracy (34 page)

“Good question,” muttered Henning. “I haven’t a clue.”

A hiss of steam swirled up from the stove. Arianna took up the kettle and silently fixed a fresh pot of coffee.

“The bishop,” muttered Henning “The bishop. The bishop.”

Saybrook started to refill his cup.

“The bishop.”

“Good God.” A splash of scalding coffee suddenly spilled over Saybrook’s fingers.

Arianna whirled around from the stove.

“Talleyrand,” said her husband. Shaking off the drops, he slapped his palm to the table. “Damnation, how did I not think of it before now. As a young man, Talleyrand was appointed the Bishop of Autun through his family’s influence.” A trickle of dark liquid seeped through the cracks of the oiled wood. “A notorious nonbeliever, he quickly abandoned the Church for politics, but still . . .”

The three of them exchanged wordless looks.

It was Henning who glanced away first. “You think Talleyrand is not the mastermind of all this but the
target
?” he asked with some skepticism.

“Yes, actually I do,” answered the earl slowly. “Indeed, when one looks at it from that angle, the pieces of the puzzle begin to fit together.”

“Nay, I dunna see it, laddie,” said Henning stubbornly. “The Prince is perhaps the most crafty, cunning mind in all of Europe. It’s hard to imagine him as a victim.”

“Oh come, as I pointed out earlier, you have studied history, Baz,” countered the earl. “How often have the mighty, however brilliant they be, fallen to an assassin’s blade or bullet? Only God is omniscient—assuming He exists.”

The surgeon scowled but had no retort. Instead he muttered, “Go ahead then—convince me.”

“Very well, let’s start from the beginning,” said Saybrook. “Davilenko had the misfortune to meet Arianna in the bookshop, where his regular exchange of secrets was so rudely interrupted. However, he recognized Arianna at Lord Milford’s shooting party and saw a way to salvage the situation. I suspect that the
Grognard
was brought in to create a diversion. Whether he killed me or simply wounded me didn’t matter—in the confusion, someone could steal into our quarters and retrieve the hidden codes.”

“And we know that someone did try to enter our rooms,” Arianna pointed out. “The man posing as a servant with the starched cravats.”

“Yes, but you say Grentham’s operatives confirmed that Davilenko hadn’t told his superiors about the book’s loss,” argued Henning. “How did he arrange for the
Grognard
to take a shot at you? And more to the point, why would he risk shooting at Rochemont?”

Saybrook mulled over the question for a bit. “From my experience, I know that the leader of a clandestine network keeps his identity a secret from his minions. My guess is Davilenko had a way of communicating with the network if he needed assistance, but had no idea that Rochemont was part of the group—”

Henning snorted.

Ignoring the interruption, Saybrook continued, “I’m assuming Davilenko was clever in his own way, so it wouldn’t have been too hard to think of a lie to cover the need to shoot at me.”

“Then why was the
Grognard
murdered?” demanded the surgeon.

“That’s the one point that puzzles me,” admitted the earl. “But wait a moment before you assume that smug smile.”

Henning thinned his lips.

“Do you deny that Kydd was recruited through the Scottish secret society? Which, by your own admission, was run by Rochemont.”

Henning gave a grudging grunt.

“You’ve also been told by your sources that the funding for these revolutionary groups came from Napoleon.”

“Aye,” admitted the surgeon. “My old friend told me that he had made several secret trips to France for the cause, and had met with the Emperor personally.”

“So we know the link between Rochemont and Napoleon to be fact, not conjecture.” Saybrook leaned back and steepled his fingers. “Which, as Arianna pointed out so sagely last night, raises the key question—what possible reason could Rochemont have for continuing his efforts to undermine England?”

“The Royalists aren’t aware of his betrayal,” suggested Henning. “Now that his former master is out of power, Rochemont offers them a way to foment trouble in Scotland, and as a weak England is always in the best interest of France, the new King agrees to fund it.
Voila!
” A snap of his fingers punctuated the exclamation. “The comte keeps his bread buttered on both sides and ends up looking like a hero.”

“I think that the French King is far too worried about consolidating his power at home to be funding unrest abroad,” said the earl. “No, I’d be willing to wager my entire fortune that the money is still coming from Napoleon.”

There was a moment of utter silence, save for the
drip, drip, drip
of the spilled coffee, before Arianna whispered, “So you think that the Emperor is planning to seize back his crown?”

“Yes,” said Saybrook. “That’s precisely what I think.”

Henning shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“The French King is weak—the real political power in France right now is Talleyrand,” insisted the earl. “And while we’ve assumed that Talleyrand is the force behind this plot, it would mean that he’s gone back to working for Napoleon, the leader he betrayed in ’08.”

“A not unreasonable assumption, given that the Prince has switched sides more often than a lady changes her . . . hair ribbons,” said the surgeon. His voice, however, lacked conviction.

“I know, I know,” said Saybrook impatiently. “But when I analyze the plot, nothing quite fits together with Talleyrand as part of Napoleon’s inner circle. It’s only when we see him as Napoleon’s
enemy
that it starts to make sense. If the most able diplomat in all of Europe is a loyal servant of the new King, he presents a formidable opponent to any plan to take back the throne.”

Arianna watched tiny beads of condensation form on the spout of the abandoned kettle. “You make a convincing argument, Sandro. What do you think, Mr. Henning?”

The surgeon’s chin took on a mulish jut.

“One last point,” offered Saybrook. “The second part of the message we just decoded—‘
And when the Well runs dry, the Castle will be ours and the Bee will once again rule the board
’—appears to hold the key to everything, correct ?”

“Aye, I’ll grant you that,” replied Henning guardedly.

“You’ve been cajoling me to sharpen my old skills at cutting through conundrums, so how about this? The castle is, of course, a chess piece, and I think we can all agree that it symbolizes the bailiwick—or, if you will, the country—of the King and Queen. As for the Bee, it’s well known that Napoleon adopted it as his symbol when he became emperor. With that in mind, the meaning of the phrase seems obvious.”

“Hmm.”
Henning made a rueful face. “I concede that the Castle and Bee reference seems to indicate that Napoleon is planning to escape from Elba and reseize the throne of France. But you still haven’t completely convinced me that Talleyrand isn’t part of the plot.” His jaw took on a pugnacious tilt. “Can you explain to me what the devil ‘Well’ means?”

The earl’s mouth quirked up. “As a matter of fact, I think I can.”

But before he could go on, Arianna suddenly straightened. “Well—Water! The serving maid mentioned that a secret guest is coming for the Carrousel. A general.”

“A general,” repeated Henning. All of a sudden, his eyes widened.

“Yes, and I ask you, who is the only general whose military genius rivals that of the former Emperor?” said Saybrook. “Who is the only man Napoleon might fear on the field of battle?”

“Wellington,”
whispered Arianna.

“Wellington,” repeated the earl, a note of grim satisfaction shading his voice. “Napoleon has beaten every Allied commander he’s faced—only the Russian winter put his army in retreat. But Wellington has bested the
crème de la crème
of the French generals. He, too, is undefeated on the battlefield.” His fingers began to drum a martial tattoo on the tabletop. “It would be a clash of Titans. And if I were Napoleon, it would not be an opponent I would want to face.”

The surgeon’s low whistle took on a tinny tone as it echoed off the hanging pots.

It had not yet died away when Saybrook delivered his
coup de grace
. “At the moment, the duke is serving as our government’s ambassador in Paris. But according to a comment I overheard Castlereagh make this afternoon, he is coming to Vienna for a private meeting with Talleyrand and Metternich to discuss France and the future balance of power in Europe.”

Arianna’s palms began to prickle.

“For now, it’s being kept a secret so the Tsar of Russia can’t stir up any opposition among the other delegates,” Saybrook went on. “Alexander and the Prussians will be invited to attend, but as the talks are not part of the official Conference agenda, Wellington will avoid all the regular balls and banquets. His only public appearance will be at the Carrousel, where he will watch the display of medieval martial skills from Talleyrand’s box.”

“ ‘When the Well runs dry,’ ”
recited Arianna. “You think Rochemont means to assassinate Talleyrand
and
Wellington.”

“I do,” replied the earl. “Europe’s greatest statesman and Europe’s greatest soldier—it would eliminate the two most dangerous obstacles in Napoleon’s path to recapturing his past glory.”

“By the bones of St. Andrew, you just might be right, laddie.” Henning blew out his cheeks. “So, how do we checkmate the Bee and his murderous bastards?”

“Chess is all about strategy, Baz. Knowing what moves our opponent is planning gives us an advantage but we shall have to play our pieces very carefully to turn that edge into outright victory.”

“Ye needn’t lecture me about the importance of strategy,” groused the surgeon. “I am well aware that chess is considered a metaphor for war. But tell me, what game are we playing with this so-called Carrousel? I take it the event is to feature real-life knights, but what are the details?”

The earl crooked a rueful grimace. “The Festival Committee has been planning the evening for months, and from what I’ve gathered, it’s meant to be the crown jewel of the Conference entertainments. Several aides have spent days in the Imperial Library poring over the accounts of past tournaments, so we can assume that the pageantry will be a dazzling spectacle.”

“Which will only make things more difficult for us,” grumbled Henning.

“Perhaps,” said the earl. “And yet, it may also work in our favor. Rochemont is likely counting on the blaring trumpets, the flapping banners and the colorful procession of champions to cover his dastardly preparations. We can take advantage of the same confusion.”

The surgeon chuffed a noncommittal grunt.

“It’s to be held in the Spanish Riding School, which has a large indoor arena designed for equestrian maneuvers. All the surrounding columns will be decorated with armor and various weapons from the Imperial Armory’s collection,” continued Saybrook. “At one end, they are building a grandstand for all the sovereigns—complete with gilded armchairs, I might add. At the other end will be a balcony for the twenty-four
Belles d’Amour
—the Queens of Love.”

Another sound slipped from Henning’s lips, this one far ruder than the last.

“
Dio Madre
, Baz, if you are suffering from gout or gas, kindly pour yourself a medicinal draught of whisky.”

“Sorry,” muttered the surgeon. “The antics of the aristocracy never cease to give me a pain in the gut.”

“Well, stubble your stomach’s sensitivity if you please. All of Europe will be hurting if we can’t figure out a way to beat Rochemont at his own game.”

“Sandro, that begs the question . . .” Arianna finished riddling the stove and dusted the soot from her hands. “Why not simply tell Talleyrand and Wellington what is planned and ask them to stay away?”

“For a number of reasons,” answered the earl. “First of all, it’s imperative to catch Rochemont in the act. Much as I hate to admit it, the evidence against him is flimsy enough that I don’t think he can be charged with a crime.” His gaze angled up, just enough for her to see the simmering anger in his eyes.

“You mean because I’m the only one who has actually uncovered the coded documents. The book, the hidden paper in the jewel case—it’s my word against his and most government officials will believe a titled gentleman over a lady whose background is, shall we say, somewhat uncertain.”

“That sums it up in a nutshell,” said her husband tersely.

“Bloody bastards.” It wasn’t clear to whom Henning was referring. She assumed it was everyone who moved within the exalted circles of the
ton
, that special place where wheels turned smoothly within wheels, greased with the drippings of privilege and pedigree.

The earl signaled the surgeon to silence and went on. “Secondly, I want to catch his cohorts. I’m not convinced Rochemont is Renard—there is a weakness about him, despite his cleverness. So if there’s a chance to catch the real fox, I don’t want to miss it.” He tapped his fingertips together. “And thirdly, being intimately acquainted with Wellington, I know exactly how he will react if I suggest a retreat from the enemy. He’ll look down that long nose of his and tell me to go to the Devil.”

“Men,”
murmured Arianna with a slight shake of her head. “In this case prudence ought to override pride.”

“It won’t,” said Saybrook flatly. “Trust me, you could light a barrel of gunpowder under his bum and he wouldn’t budge—” He stopped abruptly, the rest of the sentence still hanging on the tip of his tongue.

Arianna had been sweeping the dark grains of crumbled toast into a neat pile but her hand stilled.

Henning straightened from his slouch.

“Gunpowder,” repeated Saybrook.

“Medieval knights did not have gunpowder,” Henning pointed out.

“Thank you for the history lesson, Baz. But I’m not suggesting they are going to ride in dragging a battery of cannons behind their warhorses. However . . .” Picking up his notebook, he thumbed to the center section and read over several pages. “The preliminary drills will include the
pas de lance
—riding at full gallop and tilting at rings hanging by ribbons—as well as throwing javelins at fake Saracen heads and displaying prowess with a sword on horseback by slicing apples suspended from the ceiling.”