The Cocoa Conspiracy (42 page)

Henning quickly rose from his chair and placed a hand on the earl’s chest. “Don’t move until I get a few bandages wrapped around you, laddie. I think you have a few cracked ribs.”

“Speaking of bones, I’m going to break every last one in Grentham’s body when we get back to London,” growled the earl. “I swear that this is the last time that any of us risk life and limb to do his dirty work.”

1. Preheat oven to 325°. Grease two 8-inch round cake pans with 1 tbsp. of the butter and set aside. Stir together the baking soda and ¼ cup boiling water in a small bowl and set aside.

2. Whisk together flour and salt in a medium bowl and set aside. Combine 8 tbsp. of the butter and the brown sugar in a large bowl and beat with an electric mixer until fluffy. Add the eggs one at a time, beating briefly after each addition. Working in 3 batches, alternately add the flour mixture and buttermilk, beating briefly after each addition. Add the baking soda mixture (stir before adding) and chocolate and stir to make a smooth batter.

3. Divide the batter between prepared pans and bake until a toothpick inserted in the middle comes out clean, 35–40 minutes. Set the cake pans on a rack to let cool.

4. While the cakes are cooling, make the icing. Melt the remaining 6 tbsp. butter and transfer it to a large bowl. Add the confectioners’ sugar, heavy cream, cocoa and vanilla and beat until well combined and fluffy, about 2 minutes. Set aside.

5. Loosen the cakes from their pans. Place 1 cake on a large plate and spread top evenly with about 1 cup of the icing. Top with the second cake and use the remaining icing to spread over the top and sides. Serve immediately or refrigerate until ready to eat.

G
rentham leaned back in his chair, his gunmetal gray eyes focusing on the far wall of his office rather than meeting Saybrook’s gaze.

Arianna waited for a moment and then, matching his deliberate rudeness, twisted around in her chair. Rain pattered against the mullioned windows, the watery light blurring the details of the gilt-framed painting that the minister appeared to be studying.

“Turner’s seascapes are far more interesting,” she commented. “But then, I suppose that one must have some artistic imagination to appreciate them.”

Tap, tap, tap.
Ignoring her barb, the minister continued to drum his fingertips together in echo of the passing shower. After allowing the silence to stretch a little longer, he finally spoke. “You mean to tell me that Talleyrand and Wellington were the intended targets?”

“Yes,” replied Saybrook.

“And you think the assassination attempt was all part of a plot that indicates Napoleon is planning to break out of Elba and retake his throne?” Grentham’s inflection on the former Emperor’s name added an extra measure of sarcasm to his tone.

“Yes,” said the earl.

“I’ve heard no such whispers from my sources in Europe,” sneered the minister.

“It is not my problem that your sources have their heads wedged up their arses,” retorted Saybrook. “If they were so competent, you wouldn’t need me—or my wife—to clean up the mess they make of things.”

Grentham’s nostrils flared, but he was quick to cover his anger with a mocking smile. “In case you have forgotten, England has an official observer stationed on the island precisely to prevent the former Emperor’s escape. His monthly reports say that nothing is out of the ordinary.”

“Perhaps you ought to send in another set of eyes,” suggested Arianna. “As well as consider the purchase of a pair of spectacles to help sharpen your own vision.” She folded her hands in her lap. “Blindness is often a problem when a man approaches his dotage.”

“My friend Henning knows a very skilled lens maker,” offered Saybrook.

The minister’s face turned an ominous shade of puce. “Oh, yes, the two of you possess such a clever sense of humor. You are going to need it where you are going.”

“More threats?” Saybrook sounded bored.

A mocking smile. “Good heavens, no. Simply a statement of facts. The choice of what to do about them will, of course, be entirely up to you. But given your absurdly fierce sense of loyalty . . .”

Determined to end the verbal duel between the two men before it turned truly ugly, Arianna intervened. “Get to the point, sir.”

“The point?” Grentham’s gaze turned to her. “The point is, Mr. Henning’s nephew is in a British military prison in the Highlands. A rather cold, isolated place, with precious few comforts.” He made a low clucking noise. “Indeed, I’ve heard that few survive more than a short incarceration.”

“We heard he was already dead,” said Arianna quickly. “Killed by Rochemont’s henchmen for wishing to resign from the group.”

“As luck would have it, the lad was apprehended by my operatives, who were tipped off about a secret meeting. Unfortunately the others escaped, but thanks to me, young Mr. MacPhearson is still alive.” A deliberate pause. “For the moment.”

“You bastard,” growled Saybrook. “You know he’s innocent. The lad was but a pawn, manipulated by lies. He’s no threat to England.”

“What I know is that there is still a French spy loose within our government,” countered Grentham. “Root him out once and for all, and then we can negotiate.” A pause. “There is still the matter of Mellon’s reputation.”

“Just as there is the matter of yours.”

“True. But in this case I think I shall call your bluff. If you go public, I shall suffer some temporary embarrassment, but I daresay I shall survive. But Mellon would almost certainly be ruined.”
Tap, tap, tap.
“As for Henning, and his Scottish kin . . .”

The earl clenched his jaw. “The lad goes free now rather than later?”

The minister gave a tiny nod. “I’m willing to be magnanimous. That is, if you agree to pick up Renard’s trail in St. Andrews and follow it until you bring him to ground once and for all.”

Arianna met his gaze as Saybrook muttered a curt assent.

“Pack plenty of warm clothing.” It was Grentham’s turn to toss out a taunt. “The north of Scotland is quite chilly at this time of year.”

 

M
uch of the action in this book takes place at the famous Congress of Vienna, which convened in the fall of 1814 in order to reorganize Europe after Napoleon’s exile to the isle of Elba. The gathering, an unprecedented convocation of rulers, influential diplomats and their entourages, was meant to be a grand ending and a grand beginning—the movers and shakers were looking to close the book on the strife and upheavals of the Napoleonic Wars and begin a new chapter of world peace. (In many ways, it was the precursor to the United Nations.) Countless books have been written on the complex negotiations and their ramifications—Henry Kissinger wrote his PhD thesis on the Congress—so I won’t attempt to delve into its nuances. Suffice it to say, it was an extraordinary attempt to consider a vast range of issues, both political and social, and to structure a “balance of power” to ensure that there would not be another world war. For those of you interested in an an overview of both the people and the politics, I highly recommend
Vienna, 1814
by David King and
Rites of Peace
by Adam Zamoyski. In addition,
Talleyrand
, the classic biography by Duff Cooper, provides a fascinating look at the era.

Many real people play minor roles in the book, for the cast of colorful real-life characters at the Congress of Vienna makes truth appear stranger than fiction. Prince Metternich, the powerful Austrian Foreign Minister, was a savvy negotiator, a polished diplomat—and a rakish lady’s man. Prince Talleyrand, the worldly and sybaritic French Foreign Minister, was perhaps the most brilliant—and cunning—statesman of the era. He really did bring the famous chef Antoine Carême to Vienna with him, not only for his own pleasure but to butter up potential supporters of French interests over sumptuous dinners and desserts. (At one point he wrote to Paris and wryly said he needed more saucepans, not more secretaries.) And then there was Tsar Alexander I of Russia. It seems he was also determined to seduce every female within arm’s reach. One of my favorite anecdotes involves him seeing the wife of a prominent diplomat at a party. As she was alone, he sidled up and asked if he could occupy her husband’s place for the evening—to which she replied coolly, “Does Your Majesty take me for a province?”

I have tried to stay true to their character in my story, and all the descriptions of the parties and the Carrousel are based on actual events. However, I have taken a few liberties with history. The Duke of Wellington was indeed serving as Great Britain’s representation in Paris at the time, and later replaced Castlereagh as the head envoy at the Congress of Vienna. But my having him make a secret visit to confer with Prince Talleyrand in Vienna is pure fiction, as is my elaborate assassination plot and the chemical concoction discovered by Saybrook and Henning.

I hope you have enjoyed the history behind
The Cocoa Conspiracy
. For more fun facts and arcane trivia, please visit my Web site at
www.andreapenrose.com
. I love to hear from my readers and can be contacted at andrea@andrea
penrose.com
.

A
jolt of the coach bounced the open book in her lap, rousing Lady Arianna Saybrook from a fitful half sleep. Wincing, she shifted against the leather squabs and flexed her aching shoulders, trying to loosen her knotted muscles as the wheels hit another frozen rut.

Hell—this was truly the Devil’s own journey
.

Though instead of rolling through fire and sulfurous brimstone, they seemed to be entering a bleak realm of ice and frigid vapors. With each passing mile, the landscape looked more and more leached of all color.

Touching her numb fingertips to the page, she couldn’t help but wish that the handwritten recipe for hot Spanish chocolate might transform from ink and paper into a large pot of steaming, spice-scented liquid. Despite the fur throw wrapped around her, she was chilled to the bone by the damp cold seeping in through the creaking woodwork.

And the weather looked to be turning worse.

December was not an auspicious time to be traveling from London to Scotland.
Not that there had been any choice,
Arianna reminded herself with an unhappy sigh.

Peering out the windowpane, she saw that large flakes of snow had begun to fall, smudges of dull white against the grim grayness of the windswept moors. A shiver skated down her spine. There was something about the dark, desolate surroundings that stirred a prickling of unease.

Her two companions, however, appeared untouched by worry. Alessandro Henry George De Quincy, the fifth Earl of Saybrook—and her husband of little more than a year—was slumbering quietly on the facing seat, his long legs wedged against her bench to steady himself against the bumps. Basil Henning, his good friend and former military comrade, was not quite so peaceful in repose. His raspy snores were growing louder by the minute.

But then, Henning was always a little rough around the edges—stubbled chin, wrinkled clothing, irascible temper . . .

A clench of guilt squeezed at her chest. He wouldn’t be forced to make this miserable trek if it hadn’t been for his loyalty to her and Saybrook in their previous adventures.

“Damn that bastard Grentham,” swore Arianna under her breath, tucking the wrap tighter around her middle. The government’s Minister of State Security was renowned as a ruthless, manipulative master of intrigue. Most people feared him, and didn’t dare to challenge his authority.

But not me
.

“He is not a good man to have as an enemy,” she acknowledged in a wry whisper. A fact that hadn’t stopped her from sticking a needle into his puffed-up vanity on several occasions.

She had won those skirmishes. But as for the war . . .

Another lurching bump. And then all went very still.

“Why are we stopping?” she asked.

Saybrook came instantly awake. Leaning close to the opposite window, he brushed a hand to the fogged pane and squinted into the swirling shadows. “Perhaps a tree has fallen across the road.”