The Cocoa Conspiracy (7 page)

As for Saybrook, she sensed a detachment in him. A distance. As if, at times, he was miles away. He was a complex man, hard—nay, maybe impossible—to understand.
Layers within layers.
It was not easy to peel away the protective covering around his innermost emotions.

He was prone to black spells of brooding.

As am I,
she admitted.
Like Sandro, I can be difficult. Prickly.

“Let us not quarrel.” His words interrupted her musings. After brushing a light kiss to the nape of her neck, Saybrook straightened and tugged off his shirt. Light dipped and darted over the chiseled contours of his chest, accentuating the sculpted muscles, the coarse curls of dark hair.

“Come to bed,” he murmured.

She did so.

And yet, even after the tension had been coaxed from her limbs, Arianna lay awake for a long time before falling into a troubled sleep.

1. Melt the chopped chocolate, condensed milk and salt in a heavy-based pan on low heat.

2. Put the nuts into a freezer bag and bash them with a rolling pin, until broken up into both big and little pieces.

3. Add the nuts to the melted chocolate and condensed milk and stir well to mix.

4. Pour this mixture into a 9-inch square foil tray, smoothing the top.

5. Let the fudge cool and then refrigerate until set. Cut into small squares.

A
rianna watched the morning mists drift in low, leaden skirls over the heathered moor. The sun had not yet broken through the clouds, leaving the hills looking a little sullen and bruised.

“So, the gentlemen are leaving early for their shooting?” she asked, turning away from the breakfast room windows.

A chorus of masculine voices rose in assent from the long table.

“Splendid morning for birds,” said Enqvist as he wolfed down the last bite of his shirred eggs.

Arianna gave silent thanks that she was not venturing out of the marquess’s well-feathered nest. Judging by the puffs of breath rising from the group of ghillies waiting with the gun wagons, it was quite chilly.

“Jawohl,”
agreed Lutz, and his comment was quickly echoed in several different languages.

The prospect of gunpowder and blood seemed to have stirred a convivial mood, despite the early hour. From outside came a flurry of barking as the kennel master and his assistants led the pack of bird dogs across the lawns. Several of the men quickly finished their coffee and pushed back their chairs, eager to get under way.

“Enjoy your day,” she said as Saybrook and Mellon joined the group trooping out the door.

The earl shrugged. He had come down earlier and was already looking bored. “I can think of better ways to spend my morning,” he murmured.

“As can I,” added his uncle. “However, I feel we must show the English flag, so to speak.”

“I doubt the poor grouse give a fig for what nationality is blasting them out of the air,” she replied. “Though given the amount of spirits that were consumed last night, the aim of the hunters might be a bit erratic.”

“Yes, and the flasks of hot coffee will be fortified with brandy,” said Saybrook. “So it’s not likely to improve.”

Mellon chuckled.

“Have a care,” she joked.

“You appear to be alone,” observed Mellon as Saybrook gathered up their hunting coats. Arianna was the only female who had come down to breakfast. “I fear that most of the other ladies won’t appear until noon.”

“I have plenty to keep me occupied,” she assured him. “I have brought a notebook of Dona Maria’s chocolate recipes to transcribe.”

Saybrook’s late grandmother had spent years researching the history of
Theobrama cacao
, and her collection of historical documents pertaining to the plant was a treasure trove of fascinating information. The earl was writing a history of chocolate and its various uses, from ancient Aztec times to the present, while she was compiling a cookbook.

“However, it’s deucedly difficult to work out the proper measurements,” she went on. “Especially when the ingredients are written out in German.”

Her husband quirked a sympathetic look. “Ah, I take it you have brought her journal on Austria and the Holy Roman Empire?”

“Yes, and I am learning that Charles VI and his daughter Maria Theresa were immensely fond of chocolate. She had her personal chef experiment with adding a number of flavorings, including the essence of certain fruits.”

“Chocolate was very popular among the Hapsburgs,” explained Saybrook to his uncle.

Mellon nodded abstractly.

“Don’t let me keep you,” said Arianna, thinking the poor man was growing tired of their constant commenting on cuisine. “The wagons look ready to set off.” Gathering her skirts, she seated herself at the table and signaled for tea. “After my breakfast, I intend to curl up in a cozy spot with my
flora
while you men pursue your
fauna
.”

Saybrook slapped his hands together in mock enthusiasm. “Indeed, the age-old masculine rite of spilling blood should put everyone in a jolly mood for the rest of the day.”

She shot him a look of silent reproach.

With that, the two men moved off, leaving her alone with the sumptuous smells wafting up from the line of silver chafing dishes.

A fortnight of playing aristocratic games?
An unappetizing thought, especially as she dared not upset convention by asking if she might spend some time in the marquess’s kitchens, experimenting with the contessa’s Austrian recipes.

Arianna cracked her knuckles. Thank God she had brought plenty of books to keep herself occupied.

 

The sudden whir of wings filled the air as a brace of birds exploded from the thicket up ahead.

“Lord Saybrook?” Rochemont, who had been paired with the earl for the morning beat, cleared his throat with a low cough. “I believe it is your turn to shoot.”

“Hmmm?”
Saybrook lifted his gaze from the patch of mossy ground beneath his boots. “Ah, sorry. I was distracted . . .”

The ghillie carrying the cartridge bags gave him an uncomprehending look before squinting into the hide-and-seek sunlight. “A plump pair,” he said somewhat accusingly. “But no matter, milord. The beaters will flush more.” He shaded his eyes. “The line of the hunt is shifting, sirs—we had better move to keep our proper place in line.”

“Are you not enjoying the shooting, milord?” asked Rochemont. “Your skill with a firearm is quite evident, and given your military background . . .” He let his voice trail off as he gave a Gallic shrug.

“As you say, I’ve spilled enough blood—the thrill of the hunt no longer seems exciting.” The earl hesitated, and then suddenly handed his fowling gun to their grizzled guide. “You go ahead and take my shots, Rochemont. I’ve just spotted an interesting species of mushrooms and wish to have a closer look. I shall catch up with you shortly.”

The comte raised a brow. “Mushrooms?”

“An uncommon variety for this part of England. I should like to examine the soil and surroundings, so that I may make proper note of the details,” answered Saybrook.

Shaking his head, the ghillie uncocked the gun and blew the priming powder from the pan—along with a few mumbled words about aristocrats being queer in the attic.

“Good hunting,” said Rochemont, his voice mildly mocking as he stepped over to take the earl’s position. “I shall try not to disgrace myself in your stead.”

Saybrook was already hunched over a patch of mossy ground, carefully picking away at a tangle of damp, decaying leaves. “Yes, yes,” he said absently. “I won’t be long.”

As the two other men moved off, he dug up one of the small speckled mushrooms and wrapped it in his handkerchief. “
Morchella esculenta
,” he murmured to himself. “And given their preference for limestone-based soil . . .” He swung around to survey the surroundings.

The shooting party had moved well past the copse of trees that fringed the denser strip of forest growing up the hillside. Placing the specimen in his pocket, he began to pick his way through the brush, intent on examining the mulch beneath the canopy of leaves and pine needles.

As he paused to unsnag a twist of thorns from his coat, a movement on the far side of the moor caught his eye. Flitting in and out of the gorse was a man, heading in a hurry for the dark shadows of the trees.

It appeared that someone else found the bird shooting as boring as he did. And yet . . .

Saybrook quirked a frown. There was something strangely furtive about the man’s movements.

The earl watched for a moment longer, then continued on his own way—but quietly, his steps lighter, his gaze sharper, his senses on full alert.

Like all the hunters of their party, the man was wearing a thick tweed shooting coat and oilcloth hat. The collar was turned up and the broad brim tugged low, making it impossible for Saybrook to make out his quarry’s identity.

Whoever he was, the figure suddenly looked around and then quickened his steps. Ducking low, he disappeared beneath the branches.

“
Dio Madre
, Arianna’s talk of specters has me imagining the worst,” muttered Saybrook under his breath.

The leaves stirred in the breeze, the dark greens going gray in the shifting shadows.

“Don’t be a birdwit. The fellow simply prefers privacy for a call of nature.” He straightened from his crouch, feeling a little foolish.

Recalling that he had promised to join Mellon at the next break for refreshments, Saybrook reluctantly decided there was not enough time to explore the woods. Turning away, he started to make his way back to where Rochemont was stationed.

And yet, the earl remained on edge. Every few steps, he paused to look back at the dark tangle of trees.

“Any luck with your
champignon
s?” asked the comte, stumbling slightly as he turned to look at Saybrook.

“I found one interesting specimen,” he replied gruffly, turning to steady Rochemont’s footing. “I plan to come back for a closer look at the woods behind us—”

The glint of sun on steel lasted only an instant as the barrel of a gun shifted ever so slightly within the gray-green foliage.

On instinct, the earl shoved the Frenchman down and dove for cover, just as sharp
crack
rent the air.

A gorse branch shattered close by his face, the splinters nicking his cheek.

“Damn,” he grunted, clapping a hand to his shoulder as he rolled up against the thorns. His fingers came away sticky with blood.

And then the sound of running footsteps thrashed through the bushes. “Sandro!” Mellon must have seen the earl fall, for he had cut away from his place in the shooting line and was rushing to help.

“Get
down
, Charles,” he ordered, grabbing his uncle’s legs and pulling him to the ground. “You too Rochemont. Don’t move.”

The comte gave a dazed moan. A purpling bruise on his forehead showed that he had struck his head on a rock. “My face, my face,” he whined. “I fear I shall have a permanent scar.”

“Stop squirming,” snapped Saybrook. “And stop mewling, unless you wish to draw another round of fire.”

“What the devil—” wheezed Mellon as the comte froze.

“Stay here.” Slipping a long-bladed knife from his boot, Saybrook scrambled to his feet and set off at a run.

 

Arianna didn’t linger long over her tea and toast. Discreetly avoiding the main drawing room, where her hostess was busy organizing a shopping trip to the nearby village, she hurried up one of the side staircases and took refuge in her chambers. Looking at lace or plumes held absolutely no interest for her. Feminine frills were more often than not a cursed nuisance. She much preferred the freedom of men’s garb—breeches and boots—rather than yards and yards of suffocating skirts and delicate slippers.

Arianna thought longingly of her buckskins back in Grosvenor Square, and the many times in her previous life that she had ventured into public dressed as a boy. Ha! The other guests, both male and female, would most likely swoon on the spot if she were to gallop across the marquess’s manicured lawns riding astride.

Not that she would give rein to any such unladylike urges. She had vowed to herself that Mellon would have no cause to regret his invitation.

Still, her spirits were brightened by the mere notion of shocking the
ton
.