The Cocoa Conspiracy (41 page)

A squire patted the plumes of his velvet hat into place while another adjusted the girth of his knight’s mount. One of the heralds blew a low practice note on his trumpet, setting off another rustling of restless energy.

“A quarter hour,” intoned the master of ceremonies after consulting his jeweled pocket watch. “Our noble cavaliers will be arriving in a quarter hour.”

Banners fluttered in the breeze blowing in through the open gates. An air of expectancy swirled around the saddling arena as the participants jostled to take up their assigned positions.

A figure burst out of the main walkway, the crimson satin tails of his surcoat trailing behind him like tongues of fire.

“What the devil . . .” The master of ceremonies stared in slack-jawed shock as the flash of red streaked past him. “I’ve not been informed of any change in plan.”

“Out of my way!” The shrill shout rose above the confusion. Swinging the flat of his sword, Rochemont knocked down a groom and scrabbled into the saddle of the horse nearest the gate. The big animal whinnied and reared as the comte slammed his ceremonial spurs into its flanks, then shot off in a blur of flame-tinged charcoal and disappeared into the night.

“Stop! Stop!” wailed the master, waving a helpless hand as Saybrook sprinted toward the gate.

The earl veered around one of the startled grooms, and with a lithe grace grabbed the saddle pommel, speared the stirrup with his boot and vaulted lightly onto the back of the biggest charger. “Move aside, lad,” he ordered, fisting the reins in one hand and quickly bringing the powerful stallion under control.

The horse danced through the gates and then surged forward, muscles rippling, nostrils flaring, hooves kicking up clods of damp earth as it shot down the bridle path.

Ornate copper torches lit the way, blazes of bright gold against the darkness. Up ahead, the pale stone of the palace rose like a ghostly specter out of the evening mist.

“Damnation,” muttered Saybrook, urging his mount into a gallop. “If the dastard cuts through the side courtyard and reaches the main gates, he’ll have a good chance of escaping.”

In answer to the flick of leather, the stallion thundered through a tight turn and began to gain ground on the comte.

Rochemont was sliding from side to side, his big sword flailing as he fought to keep his seat in the saddle. Hearing the drumming of pursuit, he cast a desperate glance over his shoulder. His jaw fell open. His mouth moved, but any sound was swallowed in the wind.

Spotting an opening in the wrought iron fence, Saybrook guided his horse through the gap and cut through a series of zigzag turns. A low wall loomed up ahead, its frieze of gilded spikes a daunting hurdle for the big-boned charger.

“Up, up, on my signal,” murmured the earl as he squared his horse’s head and gave a light tap to its lathered flanks.

The stallion gathered its powerful legs and soared high. Horse and rider hovered for an instant in the air, a dark avenging angel silhouetted against the night, before thundering back to earth.

Saybrook was now neck and neck with his quarry. Ignoring the panicked kicks from the comte, he edged his horse sideways and forced Rochemont’s mount off the path to the Imperial gates up ahead. Hooves skidding and sliding over the smooth cobbles, both chargers rumbled through a narrow archway and into a side courtyard.

“You might as well surrender now,” called Saybrook, calmly reining his sweat-flecked mount into position to block the only avenue of escape.

Rochemont darted a desperate look around at the regal stone façade rising up on all sides. “Out of my way,” he screamed, brandishing his weapon high overhead.

Steel flashed in the moonlight as Saybrook gave a mock salute. “Alas, your skills with a sword don’t have me quaking in my boots. But if you wish for another clash, by all means come at me. I shall be happy to slice open your traitorous throat.”

The comte’s horse pranced nervously over the stones.

“If you promise to let me go, I’ll tell you all I know.” Rochemont’s bluster gave way to a wheedling tone as he circled into the shadows of the courtyard’s center fountain.

“You’re in no position to bargain,” countered Saybrook. “I want Renard’s name, and you don’t have it.”

“I lied,” cried the comte. “In fact, I have proof of his identity.”

“Proof?” repeated the earl.

“Come here and I shall hand it over.”

Saybrook’s low laugh was nearly lost in the splashing of water. “Do you think me a gudgeon? Throw down your sword and come out. If what you say is true and you help us apprehend Renard, the government may agree to spare your life.”

“W-will you drop your weapon as well?”

“That’s a fair request.”

A moment later came the ring of Rochemont’s steel falling to the cobbles. “Now it’s your turn, Lord Saybrook.”

“I’m a man of my word,” he called, letting his sword clatter to the ground.

Clack, clack.
Iron-shod hooves echoed the metallic sound.

Saybrook placed a hand on his pommel.

Clack, clack
—the equine steps quickened to a hard trot as Rochemont rode out from the gloom. A long pitchfork protruded from under his arm, the stout length of oak topped by a menacing crown of prongs.

“You
are
a gudgeon,” cried the comte, spurring his horse forward. “Let the joust begin!”

Saybrook reacted with martial quickness. Kicking free of the stirrups, he hurled himself to the cobbles and spun into a tight, twisting roll, causing Rochemont’s desperate lunge to miss by a hair. His hand shot out to seize his fallen sword, and in the same smooth motion he sprung to his feet and ran to block the archway. “Don’t be a fool, Rochemont. In a fight to the death, you won’t come away the victor.”

Swearing a savage oath, the comte yanked his mount around as he sought to regrip his weapon and charge again. Hands tangling in the reins, he lost momentary control of the pitchfork and the points raked across the other charger’s flanks. With a foam-flecked snort, the animal reared, lashing out wildly with his forelegs.

Spooked by the sudden melee, Rochemont’s mount shied sharply, throwing the comte off balance. He swayed and then tumbled from the saddle, pitching headfirst in between the panicked horses.

“Damnation.” Ducking under a flying hoof, Saybrook grabbed hold of Rochemont’s surcoat. A bruising blow caught him hard on the ribs, but he held on, even as he fell to his knees. “Keep your head
down
,” he warned, trying to haul the other man to safety.

But Rochemont lifted the pitchfork, intent on launching one last spearing attack. An evil grin split the comte’s face . . . an instant before a thrashing kick crushed his skull.

Saybrook slowly levered to his feet.

“If you live by the sword . . .” An out-of-breath Henning skittered to a stop beside him and eyed the dark pool of blood welling over the stones. “You must be prepared to die by the sword.”

“I’m afraid your favorite aphorism is falling on deaf ears,” said the earl drily.

“Sandro!” Lowering her pistol, Arianna edged around the surgeon and touched a hand to her husband’s dirt-streaked cheek.

“I suggest we all save the soulful sighs until later,” counseled Henning before she could say anything further. “In this case, discretion may be the better part of valor. The threat is over. If we leave now, the authorities will have a devil of a time ever piecing together what happened here tonight.” He shuffled his boot back from a trickle of viscous black. “Which I daresay is what our government would prefer.”

Saybrook nodded grimly. “I agree. However, there is the matter of the Champion’s Prize. Much as I respect your scientific skills, Baz, I would rather not have that infernal bomb brought anywhere near Talleyrand and Wellington. God knows, we’ve worked hard enough to keep them safe—I would hate to see all our efforts go up in a cloud of smoke.”

“Don’t worry, laddie. The eagle has had its talons removed.”

“How?” demanded the earl.

Henning took his arm. “Lady S, kindly grab yer husband’s other wing and help him fly.”

Saybrook scowled but allowed himself to be hustled through the archway.

“In answer to yer question, I heard the commotion and crept into the storeroom after you gave chase to the comte,” said the surgeon. “I removed the guts of the bomb and dumped the gunpowder in one of the fountains. The brass gears and bearings have been smashed with a farrier’s hammer. As for the acid . . .” Henning removed a vial from inside his coat. “If you don’t mind, I kept it. I’m curious to analyze the exact composition of chemicals.”

“You were told to wait out in the main courtyard, away from trouble,” muttered the earl.

Henning shot a sidelong glance at Arianna. “Yes, well, as you see, I’m not very good at obeying orders.”

A glint of starlight flashed off the fancy pistol as she waggled a return salute. “Neither am I.”

“You,”
growled Saybrook. “You, too, have a good deal of explaining to do.” His eyes narrowed. “Beginning with where in the name of Hades you got that weapon. It’s one of Manton’s special models, if I’m not mistaken, and worth a bloody fortune.”

“It’s a long story . . .”

 

Arianna carried a glass of brandy over to where Saybrook lay stretched out on the sofa. He had listened to her account of the evening with surprisingly few interruptions. But on seeing his expression, she guessed that the silence was about to end.

“I expect that it’s time for one of our jolly little councils of war, eh?” Henning clapped his hands together in anticipation. “But we had better make it quick, before I tend to my patient’s injuries and dose him with laudanum.”

The earl made a sour face. “It’s naught but a few bruises.” He was, however, looking a little pale as he quaffed a swallow of the brandy. “So, Rochemont’s superior here was Lord Reginald Sommers?”

“You were acquainted with him?” asked Henning.

The earl pursed his lips. “Only in passing. His father is, of course, a prominent peer—and well liked, I might add—which helps explain Lord Reginald’s position on Castlereagh’s staff. But he had done nothing to distinguish himself from the crowd of other gentlemen who frequent the gaming hells and brothels.”

“You think he was Renard?”

The earl mulled over the question for a moment. “No. Something in my gut tells me that the cunning fox is still running free.”

“Call it an instinct for survival,” said the surgeon. “So, we may have guarded the henhouse on this night—”

“But a dangerous predator is still on the loose,” finished Saybrook. “However, we are beginning to pick up a scent. The government should start sniffing out the details of Lord Reginald’s life and acquaintances. Combined with the information you acquired on Rochemont’s activities in Scotland, Baz, they should be able to narrow the field of suspects.”

“Especially as we now know for sure where his loyalty lies,” said Arianna.

“Napoleon,” said Saybrook. And yet he didn’t sound entirely convinced.

“You don’t agree?” she asked.

“We can’t dismiss the possibility that his—or her—only Master is money.”

The glitter of gold versus the fire of abstract ideals.
It was, she mused, an age-old conflict. One that had consumed countless lives.

Arianna fetched herself a glass of port, and settled into a cross-legged seat on the carpet, close to her husband’s head. “A mercenary rather than an idealist?” She thought for a moment about David Kydd and felt a slight pang of regret at the terrible waste of passions and intelligence. “You’re right of course.”

“That’s a conundrum for the coming days,” remarked Henning. “I have a more mundane question about the present. We now have three deaths to explain. And while I don’t give a fig about leaving the Austrian authorities to chase their own tails, our government is going to have to offer some sort of explanation.” He rubbed at his jaw. “To wit, what do you propose to tell your uncle about Kydd? And what should the duke know of his son’s treason? Or Talleyrand and the émigré community in London about Rochemont’s perfidy?”

Saybrook shifted his shoulders in a cynical shrug. “Remember, I am not in a position to make the final decision. But I would advise the Powers That Be to say nothing about the conspiracy. It serves no purpose. The parties involved are dead—there is no need for anyone to know of their betrayals.”

As he lifted his wineglass, Arianna watched the candle flame refract off the cut crystal, sending shards of light winking in all directions.

“The fewer people who know the truth, the better,” went on her husband. “Let Renard wonder just how his well-laid plans went so awry.”

“Cat and mouse,” quipped Henning.

“Yes. A game that is growing far too familiar.” The earl’s gaze found hers. “As is the one of masquerades.”

Her chin rose a fraction. “I play it rather well, don’t you think?”

Saybrook met the challenge with an unblinking stare. “It’s not your skills that I’m questioning. It’s the fact that I asked you to stay out of harm’s way and you didn’t.”

“Seeing as I was dressed as a male, it could be argued that I didn’t actually ignore your request,” she murmured. “You made no mention that a London street urchin was to stay away from the action.”

He tried to look angry but a telltale twitch crept to the corners of his mouth. “For someone who claims to have little regard for formal academic training, you parse philosophical points with the skill of an Oxford don.” He eyed her snug black breeches and lifted a brow. “And by the by, those look far fancier than your original urchin rags from Petticoat Lane.”

“Yes, and they are far more comfortable,” she said. “No wonder you gentlemen are willing to pay Weston an arm and a leg for his services as a tailor.”

Saybrook’s chuckle dissolved into a cough. Grimacing, he raised himself on his elbows. “I—”