The Cocoa Conspiracy (9 page)

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Authors: Andrea Penrose

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BOOK: The Cocoa Conspiracy
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She drew in a measured breath, willing her heart to stop thudding against her ribs. In the past, the choice would have been a simple one for her. Concepts like right and wrong were mere abstractions when one was scrabbling hand over fist to survive. She would have done what was practical and pragmatic without a second thought.
But Saybrook was a man of unyielding honor, of unbending principle, she thought with a harried sigh. And strangely enough, she had come to believe in such platitudes.
Though how and why, I can’t explain—even to myself.
The damnable documents posed more than a personal dilemma. Their existence indicated a far more insidious danger. Saybrook would say it was their moral duty to show the evidence to the proper authorities, no matter the consequences.
Arianna bit her lip. She was very good at hand-to-hand combat—but she hated wrestling with her conscience.
“I much preferred it when I didn’t have one,” she whispered wryly.
The sudden clattering of a horse cart rolling into the courtyard interrupted any further philosophical musings.
Her breath had fogged the windowpanes, so it took a moment to wipe away the vapor. Through the blurred glass she saw that a length of canvas was covering something in the back of the cart. Two ghillies jumped down from the backboard and the horse was quickly led away to the back of the manor.
Craning her neck, she watched the procession of grim-faced hunters come marching up the drive. In contrast to the casual camaraderie of the morning bantering, they appeared silent, subdued.
Saybrook was not among them.
Arianna turned away from the window, trying to quell a sense of unease.
A dog began barking in high-pitched yips that echoed sharply off the stately limestone walls.
Her nerves on edge, she nearly jumped out of her skin when an urgent knock suddenly sounded on the suite’s entryway. Sliding the papers back inside the book, she rushed to open the door.
“Madam, there seems to have been an accident involving the earl. I was told to tell you that”—the agitated footman paused to catch his breath—“that you had best come quickly.”
Dio Madre.
Arianna rushed to retrieve her shoes, which she had slipped off while sitting at the escritoire. As she shoved aside the chair, her gaze fell on the chocolate book and its hidden secrets.
On impulse, she carried it to the bed and shoved it beneath the mattress before hurrying down the stairs.
 
“There is no need to fuss, Arianna.” Saybrook tried to fend off her hand. “It’s naught but a scratch.”
Ignoring his protest, she turned to a footman. “Have a basin of hot water, scissors, bandages and basilicum powder brought to the West Parlor—and quickly.”
“Yes, madam!”
“And a vial of laudanum.” Noting that her husband’s face looked as pale as the surrounding Portland stone, she gestured at Mellon. “Charles, please assist His Lordship.”
“I don’t need any help,” muttered Saybrook. But in truth, he looked a little unsteady on his feet as he started up the entrance stairs. “And I would prefer to go to my own rooms, if you please.”
“The parlor, Charles,” ordered Arianna. The bloodstain spreading over the singed wool was alarming.
Once inside the room, she had him strip off his coat and take a seat on the sofa. After propping a pillow behind his shoulders, she drew the side table closer and took up the scissors to cut away his shirt.
A hiss escaped her lips as she stared at the jagged wound. “You thick-headed man. Why, it’s a wonder you didn’t bleed to death! Did you not think to put a pad on the wound to staunch the bleeding?”
“I was . . . distracted,” he answered.
Mellon, who had retreated several steps to give her room, cleared his throat. “What did Grentham say to you?” he asked tautly.
Grentham.
Arianna felt a chill snake down her spine. “How is the minister involved in this?” she asked, carefully sponging the gore from Saybrook’s shoulder.
“He was among the men who found us with the body,” replied the earl.
“Body,”
she repeated.
“A man was murdered in the woods near the hunt. We found him,” replied the earl.
“Let us not read too much into Grentham’s presence,” said Mellon quickly. “Our ghillie raised the alarm, and the shooters closest to us came to investigate.” He shifted his stance. “It was coincidence that the minister was among them.”
“I don’t put much faith in coincidence,” she said softly. “Especially when it involves that bastard.”
She felt Saybrook’s muscles tense as she bandaged the wound. And yet, he remained stoically silent.
“Now, kindly explain to me exactly what happened,” Arianna insisted.
Mellon gave a terse account of the action.
“Charles, will you please bring me a glass of brandy?” Arianna added a few drops of laudanum and handed it to the earl. “Drink this.”
“I don’t need any damnable narcotic,” he growled.
“Ordinarily, I would agree with you.” She considered opium a pernicious substance. “However, in this case, I’ve no ingredients to brew a more effective painkiller, and I want you to rest for a bit before I allow you to move.”
“Bloody hell, I’m not at all tired. But I suppose it will be more trouble than it’s worth to argue with you.” Making a face, he swallowed the brandy in one gulp.
She made him lie down and arranged a blanket over his chest. Despite his protests, the earl quickly dozed off.
“It looks like he lost of lot of blood.” Mellon looked down at the crimson-soaked remains of Saybrook’s shirt. “Is he in danger?”
“I know, it looks gruesome,” replied Arianna. “But Sandro was right. It’s just a flesh wound, though the bullet cut a nasty gash.” She let out a pent-up sigh, thinking how close the bullet had come to splitting open his skull. “Thank God his soldier’s instinct for survival is still sharp.”
Mellon returned to the sideboard and poured himself a drink. “Amen to that.” He held up the decanter. “May I offer you one as well?”
Arianna shook her head. She needed to think clearly.
He stared meditatively into the spirits before taking a sip.
“Charles, I . . .”
I wish that I could coax a spark of warmth in your eyes. You are so cordial. And so cold. Is there nothing I can do to win your trust?
“I . . . am concerned,” she finished, deciding this was not the right time to broach their uneasy relationship.
“As am I.” Mellon sucked in his cheeks. “Grentham is a dangerous enemy to have.”
“I know that.” Arianna hesitated. “Just as I know that I am the cause for the friction between them. I am sorry—you have every right to be upset with the situation.”
And with me.
It was several long moments before Mellon replied. “Sandro is a complex man. Most people find him hard to understand. He is intensely introspective—perhaps too much so. And prone to fits of brooding.”
Aren’t we all,
she thought.
“But you seem to be drawing him out of himself. He seems . . . happy.”
“Thank you,” said Arianna softly. “I imagine that was not easy for you to say.”
His mouth quirked. “A diplomat is trained to say the correct thing, regardless of his personal feelings.”
An oblique statement if ever there was one
. Especially considering the contents of the hidden letters. But negotiating any terms of a personal truce would have to wait for a less volatile time.
“We will need every bit of eloquence we can muster to counter whatever maliciousness Grentham has in mind,” she said in reply.
Mellon’s expression turned grim.
“Might I leave you to sit with Sandro for a short while?” she went on. “I have a few things I wish to arrange while he is napping.”
 
“You sent for Henning? Blast it all, there was no need for that.” Saybrook awoke from his nap in an irritable mood. “He’s got patients who have far more need of him than I do.”
“His friend Desmond can take care of them in his absence,” answered Arianna. Their good friend Basil Henning was an irascible Scottish surgeon who held clinics for former soldiers too poor to pay for medical care. “There is no point in arguing. I have already sent a messenger, mounted on one of the marquess’s fastest stallions.”
She offered Saybrook a plate of cold chicken and rolls, knowing he tended to be snappish when his stomach was empty. “I’ve also dispatched our coach to wait in Andover. In order to save time, I’ve asked Mr. Henning to hire a private conveyance in London and travel with all possible haste to meet it there.”
“Baz doesn’t have much money,” grumbled Saybrook after taking a reluctant bite of food.
“Along with the message about your injury, I included a note for him to give our housekeeper. Bianca will supply him with funds,” replied Arianna. “I expect that he will be here by morning.”
The earl shifted against the pillows. “You’ve already patched up the scratch. And if there is any need for further care, we could have summoned a local physician.”
She carefully smoothed a crease from the blanket. “I would rather not trust a stranger to mix any powders or potions for you.”
Saybrook muttered an oath.
“It’s not simply a question of your treatment,” Arianna continued. “Given what has happened, and the impending inquest, it is important to have Mr. Henning make a close inspection of the corpse.”
“Your wife has a point,” murmured Mellon.
Saybrook frowned but didn’t argue.
“The angle of entry, the shape of the blade—Mr. Henning can give expert testimony that it wasn’t your knife,” she added.
“Don’t be daft. Grentham is well aware that Baz is a friend and former army comrade of mine,” countered the earl. “He’ll do his best to discredit any such statements.”
“Perhaps,” she replied, ignoring his sarcasm. “But Henning is still a qualified medical man, and his observations, expressed openly in a public inquest, will force the coroner to take a closer look at the evidence. Murder is a very serious charge to bring against a peer of the realm.”
His brows rose. “You have this all figured out?”
Arianna smiled sweetly. “As you once pointed out, I have a Machiavellian mind.”
Her husband gave a grudging laugh. “And as you once pointed out, I should be extremely grateful for that fact.”
“Yes.” She stood up and brushed the crumbs from her skirts. “You should be.”
Saybrook finished the last morsel of chicken and set the plate aside. “Thank you, my dear. But I think the threat is not as real as you think.”
Oh, yes. It is.
Arianna rose and handed him the fresh shirt brought down by his valet. “If you are feeling better, shall we go up to our rooms? I think you will be more comfortable there.”
He didn’t miss the subtle change in her voice. “Yes, of course.”
“I should go dress for supper.” Mellon stood up as well. “I shall see you later, then.”
Once they were halfway up the guest wing staircase, and away from prying ears, Saybrook murmured, “I take it you have something pressing that you wish to discuss in private.”
“Yes,” replied Arianna. “And I fear . . .”
Fear.
The word raised a hot-and-cold prickling sensation at the nape of her neck.
Fire and ice.
“I fear you are not going to like it.”
“Do go on,” he said drily. “The bullet didn’t kill me, but the suspense of waiting for this explanation might.”
“Ha, ha, ha.” She gave a weak laugh as they turned down the corridor to their rooms. “I don’t mean to wax dramatic, but I’ve made a very disturbing discovery.”
“What . . .” began Saybrook, only to turn the question into a growled oath. “What the devil?”
Up ahead, a footman was fumbling with the door latch of their suite. The carpet must have muffled their footsteps, for he whirled around at the sound of their voices, a spasm of guilt pinching at his face.
“Your pardon,” mumbled the man.
To Arianna, he sounded more nervous than he should.
“I—I was told to bring these freshly starched cravats to your rooms, milord.”
The sconce light flared and she saw that despite the coolness of the corridor, a thin beading of sweat rimmed his upper lip. She tensed, her senses on full alert. “Does not the Marquess of Milford have a large enough staff for the household to function properly?” The menial task of delivering laundry was the job of an under maid, not a footman.
“I—I wouldn’t know, madam,” stammered the servant. “I—I was merely doing as I was asked.”
Arianna glanced at the folded linen that had fallen to the floor. “By the by, those are not His Lordship’s cravats.”
The footman crouched down to gather up the neck-cloths. “They must have made a mistake downstairs. Forgive me for disturbing you.” Crabbing back from the door, he rose hastily and fled without further word.
“Damnation,” said Saybrook under his breath, staring for a moment at the stretch of shadows before following her into their suite.
The door fell closed with a soft snick.
“What mischief is afoot here?” he went on. “The cursed fellow was clearly up to no good. But why would he be stealing into our rooms? The emeralds are valuable.” His mouth pursed. “But I would not have thought them worth the risk of murder.”
“I don’t think he was after the emeralds.” Arianna took the volume of engravings out from its hiding place. “I think he was after this.”
7
From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks
Bittersweet Chocolate Ice Cream
2 cups heavy cream
1 cup milk
½ cup sugar
⅛ teaspoon kosher salt
8 ounces dark chocolate (preferably 72 percent cacao),
roughly chopped
1 tablespoon whisky or rum
1. In a saucepan over medium-low heat, simmer cream, milk, sugar and salt, stirring occasionally until sugar dissolves.

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