The Cocoa Conspiracy (38 page)

Oh, be honest, she chided herself. Fear was the foremost force, spinning in a tight vortex that left her stomach lurching against her ribs. Strange how frightening a simple word could be. Strange how it could provoke such a visceral reaction. Fire sizzled up her arms. Ice slid down her spine.

“Love,” she whispered, the single syllable feeling so very, very foreign on her lips.
Love
. A part of her feared making herself vulnerable.
Dio Madre
, she had spent half a lifetime hardening her heart against its hurt. A father who loved brandy and the allure of money more than he did his own flesh and blood. She had forgiven him—but she had also vowed never to let its pain wound her again.

That she felt safe and secure in Saybrook’s arms had her feeling confused. Conflicted.

Fighting against devils like Rochemont felt like second nature, while wrestling with her own inner demons seemed to sap her of all strength.

Should I surrender to trust?
Her mouth quirked. That felt a little like donning a blindfold and stepping off the edge of a precipice.

“I suppose that is what is meant by a leap of faith,” she murmured. And yet, she never trusted in anyone but herself.

Arianna spun around as the earl and Henning entered the parlor. “Thank God you are safe—I was beginning to imagine the worst,” she said.

Henning hurried on to the sideboard and poured out a generous measure of brandy. “For once, I think even your colorful mind would fall short of the task.” He drained his glass in one swallow.

She looked at her husband and noticed several new cuts and scrapes on his hands. “I’ve some interesting news, but I think you had better go first. Did you run into trouble during your search?”

Saybrook made a wry face. “That depends on how you define trouble.” Waving off the surgeon’s offer of a drink, he dropped into the nearby armchair and ran a hand through his hair. “No, we did not have any problem entering the Spanish Riding School. Nor did we encounter any guards.”

Her clenched hands relaxed ever so slightly.

“And in fact, we discovered how Rochemont means to kill Talleyrand and Wellington. It’s a bomb—a diabolical bomb.”

“Aye,” chimed in the surgeon. “For it’s likely to reduce them and a good many people close by into fragments of flesh no bigger than mincemeat.”

“Good God,” intoned Arianna. “But I thought you said a bomb would be unlikely, given the smoke and smell of a burning fuse—”

“This bomb doesn’t need a conventional fuse. It’s a brilliant piece of chemistry,” said Henning. His face pinched to an unhappy expression. “Like mathematics, science can be used for good—or for evil.”

“How—” she began.

Anticipating her question, Saybrook was quick with an answer. “Another bit of cunning. It’s hidden inside the Champion’s Prize. I’m not sure how he means to arm the infernal thing. Timing is critical, but somehow I am sure he has that worked out. Someone is going to serve as his pigeon, offering the Eagle to Wellington for the special presentation.”

“That would be me.” She sat down rather heavily on the arm of his chair and let out a little laugh. “And here I thought I was being so clever, teasing him into allowing me to be part of the ceremonies.”

“He asked you carry the Eagle?” In contrast to the expressionless ice of his face, her husband’s voice shivered with molten fire. “He’s a dead man.”

“Sandro . . .” she began, then fell silent as their eyes met.

“We’ve sabotaged the bomb, but still, on second thought, I prefer not to take any chances,” Saybrook went on. “I’ll need to catch him in the act of trying to arm it with the acid, and then . . .”

“And then prevent him from carrying out the dastardly deed,” said Henning blandly. “An excellent plan. Any ideas how we’re going to do it?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I have.”

Arianna felt his big hand clasp hers in a hard, possessive hold.

“To begin with, Arianna is not going anywhere near the Spanish Riding School.”

His gaze glittered in challenge.

After a long moment, she looked away.

“Thank you for not arguing,” said her husband softly. “As for you, Baz, I want you positioned by the rear gate a half hour before the Carrousel is scheduled to begin, while I . . .”

Arianna listened in silence. It was a good plan.

But she had a better one.

1. Preheat oven to 375°. Line a muffin pan with paper liners (I simply buttered my silicone muffin pan).

2. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, salt, ground nutmeg, and oats.

3. In a medium bowl, whisk together melted butter, egg, yogurt, milk and vanilla extract until smooth. Pour into dry ingredients and stir just until no streaks of flour remain. Stir in chocolate chips and candied ginger.

4. Divide batter into prepared muffin pan, overfilling each muffin cup so that the batter slightly rises above the top of the pan.

5. Bake for 20–25 minutes, or until muffins are lightly browned and a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean.

6. Cool on a wire rack. Serve slightly warm. Makes 12 muffins.

A
h, well. It is not the first time I’ve ignored an order
, thought Arianna as she crouched in the shadows and tucked her breeches more securely into the tops of her boots.
And likely not the last.
No matter that Saybrook’s display of pyrotechnics on learning of her foray would no doubt put the famed Steuer fireworks to blush. Lucifer could light up all of Hell and she would still crawl through the burning sparks and flaming cinders to be part of the action.

Rolling her shoulders, she gave a mental salute to the earl’s expensive London tailor, who despite his initial reservations, had crafted a sturdy set of dark masculine garments for her that fit like a glove. No rustling lace, no whispering silk—a predator had to move sleekly, silently through the night.

A carriage rattled over the cobbles, causing her to duck deeper into the murky alleyway. Arianna quickly squeezed through the sliver of space and then hesitated as she reached a gap in the buildings. A left turn would take her directly to the Spanish Riding School, while a right turn would lead to a more circuitous path past the Amalienburg wing of the Emperor’s palace.

Risk and reward.
She patted her empty pockets, loath to face off against a dangerous enemy with naught but the slim knife in her boot. Saybrook had taken his pistols with him, leaving her bereft of gunpowder and bullets. But she knew from the Russian Tsar’s garrulous boasting that he possessed a pair of deadly accurate dueling weapons, recently purchased on his visit to London.

The chiming of the astrological clock echoed through the courtyard of the Amalienburg wing as Arianna edged around the towering fountain and peered up at the pale stone facade. Lights blazed in the windows of the first-floor salons, but on the floors above, where the Tsar was quartered, all was dark.

 

A side entrance for servants yielded to her hairpin, and it took no more than a minute to gain access to Alexander’s sumptuous suite of rooms. All was quiet, and in the corridor leading to the monarch’s private chambers, the gilded moldings gleamed in silent splendor, lit by only a single wall sconce flickering on the far wall.

A thick Turkey carpet muffled her cautious steps.
Thank God for Alexander’s hubris.
In his blatant flirtations with her, the Tsar had described in detail exactly where his bedroom was located. With luck, the royal valet would be enjoying a well-deserved rest from the rigors of dressing his monarch . . .

Arianna froze in her tracks as one of the sky-blue paneled doors cracked open.

A shuffle of bare feet, a querulous mutter, and then the flutter of embroidered silk as a portly figure padded into the dimly lit passageway.

Blinking the sleep from his eyes, Tsar Alexander lifted his candle a touch higher, suddenly aware of a shadowy intruder just steps away from his person. With her hair knotted at the nape of her neck and a black knitted cap drawn low on her brow, Arianna knew that she must appear an ominous threat.

To his credit, Alexander did not cry for help. Assuming a pugilist’s pose, he swung a meaty fist at her face. “Scrawny scoundrel! How dare you invade my private quarters.”

Arianna easily dodged the clumsy blow and caught hold of his cuff. Whatever his other faults, Alexander was no coward. “Your Highness,” she began, only to find an elbow flying at her face. She twisted away just in the nick of time, but her hold on his dressing gown pulled the Tsar off balance. He teetered on one foot for an instant and fell backward, landing on his Royal rump with an audible thump.

“Merde.”
They both swore in unison.

“My apologies, Your Highness,” added Arianna, making no attempt to disguise her voice.

Alexander’s eyes widened as his gaze traveled up the length of her legs. “You make a
very
attractive boy, Lady Saybrook,” he murmured, regarding her snug breeches with obvious approval. “Is this some new English game of seduction? It’s quite diverting, however I think that I prefer you dressed in frilly feminine attire.” A leering wink. “Or nothing at all.”

“I’m afraid this is not a social call, Your Highness,” replied Arianna, wondering what the consequences would be for lashing a hard kick to the Imperial jaw. She couldn’t afford to waste time in flirting. “I need a favor, but not one that involves sliding between your sheets.”

“How disappointing.” He patted his plump stomach and sighed. “However, I confess that I’m not feeling very frisky this evening, so perhaps it’s for the best. My physician has ordered complete quiet and bed rest for the next few days.”

“What a pity that you must miss the Carrousel. It promises to be quite a colorful spectacle.” Arianna offered a hand to help him up. “I’m here to ensure that the hues don’t include blood red.”

His expression sharpened slightly. “Indeed?”

“I need to borrow your dueling pistols—the ones you purchased from Joseph Manton on your recent trip to England.”

“My Mantons?” His jaw dropped. “But they are far too dangerous for a lady. They have hair triggers and are deadly accurate—”

“Which is precisely why I need them,” interrupted Arianna. She smiled sweetly. “
Now
, if you please.”

The curt command rendered him momentarily speechless. The weapons were not only frightfully lethal, but frightfully expensive.

“Why?”
he finally sputtered.

“I haven’t time to explain, but a cadre of conspirators is seeking to throw Europe back into chaos. Saybrook and I intend to stop them.”

As Alexander shifted, she began gauging the distance between her fist and his chin. On second thought, a knee to the crotch might be a more effective way of rendering him immobile—

“Wait here.” He was lighter on his feet than she expected. Stepping over the still-smoking candle, he disappeared into his bedchamber. Arianna heard a drawer bang, and then he was back, brandishing two perfectly matched pistols. “I wouldn’t lend these to just anyone, but you strike me as someone who knows how to handle them.” The burnished walnut butts were smooth as satin against her hands as the Tsar passed them over. “However, be forewarned that if you lose them, you will have to pay a forfeit. A rather large one.”

“Agreed, sir.” Arianna slid them into her pockets. “But I don’t intend to lose either your weapons or my virtue—or the battle against a traitorous bastard.”

 

“Ye are sure ye don’t need my help, laddie?”

“We’ve been over this, Baz. It’s best that you stay here.” After a quick look at the time, Saybrook handed the surgeon his pocket watch. “The pageant is scheduled to last just over an hour. If I am not back by a quarter to nine, force your way to Talleyrand’s box. Wellington will recognize your ugly phiz, and as we agreed, I sent him a note this afternoon informing him that if you appear, he is to follow your instructions without question.”

“Aye, I know the plan.” Henning listened to the music drifting out from the palace. “But I still hate playing second fiddle. You are the one waltzing into danger.”