The Cocoa Conspiracy (39 page)

The earl ignored his friend’s grousing. “If things go badly awry, I am counting on you to get Arianna safely out of the city,” he went on in a low voice.

“That goes without saying,” answered Henning.

“Not that I expect any trouble.”
Click, click.
Saybrook checked the priming of his pistol. “With the metal strip in place, there is little danger that the bomb will go off. In any case, I’ll be hiding behind the cabinet and will apprehend Rochemont before he puts the acid in place.”

“What if he has an accomplice?” demanded Henning.

“You think I’ve gone soft from all my wife’s sweetened chocolate and can’t handle two adversaries?” countered the earl.

“I’m simply warning you to stay on guard for the unexpected. We both know that when on a clandestine mission, it’s always a good idea to have someone watching your arse.”

The earl’s chuckle formed a pale puff of vapor in the night air. “Seeing as I have no intention of allowing either you or Arianna to ogle my bum tonight, I’ll have to trust that I have eyes in the back of my head.”

The surgeon didn’t smile. “I’m serious, Sandro. Be careful. Renard and his pack of varlets are utterly ruthless.”

“As am I, when I have to be.”
Click, click.
The hammer slid to half cock. “Save me a swallow of your Highland whisky.”

 

Thick as saddle leather, the earthy smells of horse and sweat filled Arianna’s nostrils as she crept along the row of empty stalls. The Hungarian stallions had been led to another part of the stables to await the final preparations for the Joust, leaving the area near the storage rooms dark and deserted. The only sounds were the creak of a loose gate and the faint scrabbling of cat hunting through the straw. Looped reins and silver-studded bridles hung from the dark beams, forcing her to keep her head down to avoid tangling in their web.

Saybrook had been adamant about keeping her away from danger, but what if he needed help? Her plan was simply to watch his arse. If all went well, he would never know . . .

Bent low, she suddenly saw a twitch of lamplight dart through a small gap between the planking and the floor. Edging into one of the storage alcoves, she held herself very still and cocked an ear to listen. Someone was moving slowly and stealthily along the row of stalls on the other side of the wall.

“You are late,” came a curt whisper.

Arianna inched closer to the rough wood.

“Be grateful I’m giving you a moment of my time.” It was Rochemont speaking, and he sounded angry. “I’m the one who has done all the planning, and taken all the risks. Why should I suddenly take orders from you?”

“Because I carry this.” A crackle of paper, followed by the clink of metal.

“Then I suppose I have no choice but to accept your authority, seeing as you bear his badge.” Rochemont’s tone had turned petulant. “Does that mean Renard is here in Vienna?”

The other man gave a humorless laugh. “If he wished for you to know that, he would tell you.”

“So, that means you aren’t him,” said Rochemont quickly.

“Jumping to conclusions is dangerous,
mon comte
.”

So, the man was the comte’s superior
. Arianna tried to catch a glimpse of his face through the crack, but the angle afforded naught but a view of highly polished Hessian boots and a hint of biscuit-colored breeches.

“Renard has survived by being clever and cautious as a fox,” the other man went on.

“I’m tired of toiling in the dark,” protested Rochemont. “From now on, I want to know who I’m dealing with.”

So do I.
Biting back an oath, Arianna balled her fists in frustration and looked around.

“Is that a threat, comte?”

A hesitation. “
Non
. Call it a request. If I succeed, I think I will have earned enough respect to merit it.”

“Succeed, and then we shall discuss further reward. As I recall, you’ve been paid quite handsomely for your efforts.”

Spotting a prick of light in a knothole, she reached up and hoisted herself onto one of the iron saddle racks, taking care not to make any noise.

“What is it you want to say?” demanded Rochemont sullenly. “I’m in a hurry.”

“Yes, well, that is what I wish to discuss. Renard wishes for me to deliver a few words of caution. He is concerned that you are becoming a bit reckless. First the
Grognard
marksman with his throat cut, and then Mr. Kydd with his head blown to flinders. Both deaths were a touch too dramatic for his taste.”

Damnation—too late.
The man had turned, and all Arianna could spy through the small hole in the wood was a dark head, half hidden by the upturned collar of a caped coat.

“I can’t be held accountable for what happened to the
Grognard
,” retorted Rochemont. “It was agreed that Davilenko was too untrustworthy to know of my role in Renard’s organization. Apparently the Russian worked through his local contact to arrange a diversion involving the wounding of Saybrook—why, I am still not sure. The poxy bastard nearly killed me instead.” The comte ran a hand over his smoothly shaven cheeks. “Davilenko told my local contact that the
Grognard
threatened to implicate him in the shooting if he didn’t pay more money, so he slit the fellow’s throat instead.” Again, a fraction of a pause. “I warned you that Davilenko was a loose cannon, but his accident has solved the problem. Any secrets he had are now buried with him in a watery grave.”

“And Kydd?”

“That was my initiative, and nobody questioned whether it was anything other than an unfortunate accident,” protested the comte. “Indeed, you and Renard ought to be glad that I can improvise so cleverly. Kydd was experiencing a belated attack of conscience and was on the verge of confessing his betrayal to Lady Saybrook.”

“Ah, yes. The countess and her husband.” The other man was silent for a moment. “Another concern.”

Rochemont let out a nasty laugh. “She is naught but a slut, who likes to play games with men. Oh, she may put on airs now that she is married, but I happen to know that before she coaxed an offer out of the earl, she was involved with a rakehell crowd of reprobates.” He paused. “The earl, I agree, is another matter.”

“A former military intelligence officer is not someone to take lightly,” agreed his superior.

“I’m aware of that,” snapped the comte. “From the start, I’ve pursued his wife in order to keep abreast of the earl’s activities.”

“A-breast,” repeated the other man coldly, adding his own inflection to the word. “Renard fears that perhaps you have allowed yourself to become distracted from your primary duties. Your predilection for whoring is becoming, shall we say, excessive.”

“Is it?” jeered Rochemont. “You will soon see that I’m thinking with more than my pego. I suspected that the earl was using his wife to sniff around me, so in another hour, she will be joining Talleyrand and Wellington in a rather untidy grave.”

His companion was silent for a long moment before replying, “Don’t make a mess of this, Rochemont. Or Renard will be most unhappy.”

The lamp flickered as a shutter slid shut, narrowing the beam to a thin blade of light. “Enough talk, then. Let me get on with my preparations,” muttered the comte.

“We shall meet later, at the appointed rendezvous.” A boot scraped over stone. “Assuming that you don’t fail.”

Through her spy hole, Arianna watched Rochemont and his superior move off into the gloom and split up.

Dropping down lightly into the straw, she made up her mind without hesitation about who to follow, and cut through a connecting passageway to pick up the stranger’s trail. Saybrook had been adamant in his demand to deal with the comte alone—and so she would take him at his word. In a
mano a mano
match between the two men, she had every confidence that her husband would prevail.

As for the comte’s superior, it was imperative she learn his identity.

Weaving her way through the gloom, Arianna darted past the granary and paused for an instant to listen.
Chuff, chuff
—was that the soft crunch of straw underfoot up ahead?

As she slipped out from behind the wooden post, her hand brushed against a groom’s smock hanging from a peg. On impulse, she tugged it on over her coat, and then added a battered leather hat beneath it. The fit was a trifle odd—it must have been some sort of practice headgear for the knightly games, for the top half of the crown was filled with a thick feather padding. But the brim shadowed her face, and the loose canvas overshirt helped further disguise her figure.

Given her quarry’s aristocratic London accent, he was likely part of the English delegation.

Shadows wavered and rippled in the dim dribble of moonlight coming in through the corner windows. Arianna slowed, straining to make out any shapes in the darkness up ahead. The ambient sounds of the stable made it hard to distinguish footsteps . . .

The strike came from behind, quick as a snake. A shovel smashed down on her head, sending her sprawling to the ground. Half stunned, she caught the glint of metal cutting through the air and managed to roll away from a second blow aimed at her spine.

Pain shot through her skull, but thanks to the padded hat, it was still in one piece.

Moving with a cold, calculating precision, her assailant slid a step sideways to gain a better angle and came at her again. No words, no hesitation, just a ruthless determination to land a lethal hit.

She coiled like a hedgehog, waiting until the very last instant to kick out. Her boot heel buckled his leg, and he dropped to one knee with a grunt, the shovel slipping from his grip.

Twisting out of reach, Arianna scrambled to her feet and kicked it away. Her assailant was back on his feet as well, and circling slowly to force her deeper into the storage alcove under the hayloft. Clearly he was no stranger to back-alley fights—his movements were calm and deliberate. Indeed, a fleeting flicker of moonlight showed that he was smiling.

A formidable opponent
. But then, she had faced other hardened, hell-bent rogues before and survived. Brains over brawn, she reminded herself. Saybrook would never forgive her if she were to stick her spoon in the wall after disobeying his command.

He turned slightly, giving her a quick view of his face.
Good God—so there was rot at the very heart of England’s aristocracy
. Lord Reginald Sommers, senior aide to Lord Castlereagh, was the younger son of a prominent duke.

Beneath Arianna’s smock, the pistols bumped against her hips.
Tempting
. However, forcing his surrender would be all for naught. Without proof of his perfidy, her accusation would likely fall on deaf ears. As for a shot, that might ruin Saybrook’s chances of catching Rochemont in the act.

Think, think.
Instead she drew her blade from her boot and made a quick feint.

Lord Reginald drew back a step. He was no longer smiling. “Why were you following me?” he demanded, then repeated the question in halting German.

“Geld,”
replied Arianna.
Money
. With luck, he would believe this was robbery gone awry.

His shoulders relaxed slightly.
“Geld,”
he repeated. “Unfortunately, you’ve just purchased your own demise. I can’t afford to let you live.” He too had a hidden sheath, and out slipped a knife twice as big as hers. “Boys shouldn’t go up against men.”

And men shouldn’t underestimate women.
Arianna had no intention of crossing steel with him. As long as Lord Reginald remained ignorant of her real identity, she held the upper hand. A trap could be set to catch him at treason.

But first she had to escape.

He made several quick probing jabs.

Arianna retreated, drawing him along with her. The wall was at her back. But so was a small ladder leading up through an opening to the loft. She had also spotted a bench with an open bottle of liniment perched on its edge.

“Tsk, tsk. A wrong move, boy,” drawled Lord Reginald. “You’re now right where I want you.”

Grabbing the bottle, she flung the stinging liquid at his face, then bolted up the ladder rungs as fast as she could. A quick jerk, a hard heave and the ladder landed alongside her.

Lord Reginald’s vicious oath reverberated in the darkness below. “Bloody imp of Satan, I’ll cut your guts into garters.” His fingers grasped the edge of the opening. A big, muscled man, he apparently meant to hoist himself up and finish the job.

A wrong move, Lord Reginald,
thought Arianna, slamming her boot down and feeling bones crack under her heel.

Still he came on.

As his snarling face appeared in the opening, she spun around and sprinted to the open end of the loft, where a thick rope for hauling the bales of hay was looped through a pulley attached to the ceiling beam. Catching hold of the iron hook in midstride, she jumped, giving silent thanks for the vagabond years spent sailing around the Caribbean. Her momentum swung her in a wide arc, the rope held taut by a bracket anchored to the wall.

Arianna landed hard on the stone floor, the impact knocking the wind from her lungs. Breathless, she took a moment to recover. Ahead of her, the corridor was only a few steps away . . .

With a muffled roar of rage, Lord Reginald snagged the rope with one hand on its swing back and launched himself into the air.

Oh, bloody hell
. Staggering to her feet, Arianna whipped out her knife and slashed the rope just above its knot.

A low whistle of wind was followed by the fleshy thud. She turned to see his body lying crumpled in a heap behind an iron anvil. Creeping close, she gingerly nudged him face up.

Swallowing hard, Arianna couldn’t help but recall one of Henning’s favorite aphorisms as she stared at Lord Reginald’s own knife protruding from his chest. Strange, but she felt no real remorse. The man was a cold-blooded murderer who had planned to plunge Europe into chaos. Be damned with pity—he was no longer a threat to peace.