The Cocoa Conspiracy (2 page)

“Chocolate,” repeated Arianna, pausing to study the details of a criolla tree and its fruit. Her husband was, among other things, a serious scholar of botany, and cacao—or chocolate—was his particular field of expertise. The text was Spanish, and the date looked to be—

A sudden nudge from behind nearly knocked the book from her grasp.

“I beg your pardon.” The deep voice was edged with a foreign accent.

Arianna turned, about to acknowledge the apology with a polite smile, when the man gave her another little shove.

“I beg your pardon, but that book is
mine
,” he growled. “Hand it over at once.”

Sliding back a step, she instinctively threw up a forearm to parry his grab. “I’m afraid you are mistaken, sir. It was lying on the display table, free for anyone to choose.”

“I assure you, there is no mistake,” he replied. “I must have it.”

Turn over her treasure to a lout who thought to frighten her with physical force?
Her pulse kicked up a notch, its hot surge thrumming angrily in her ears.

“Sorry, but I saw it first.”

Her husband had jestingly warned her that serious book collectors were an odd, obsessive lot, and this one in particular sounded slightly deranged.
Or demented.
But, be that as it may, Arianna was not about to be intimidated by his bullying tactics.

“You will have to look around for something else, for I intend to purchase it,” she added, and not just for spite. She had already decided that the engravings were the perfect present for her husband.

“You can’t!” he exclaimed in a taut whisper.

Closing the covers, Arianna hugged the book to her chest.

As the man edged closer, a blade of light cut across his pale face. Sweat was beading his forehead, and several drops hung on his russet lashes. “I tell you, that book is meant for
me
.”

“Then you should have asked the clerk to put it aside.” She gestured at the other volumes arrayed on the square of dark velvet. “Come, there is no need to squabble like savages. You have plenty of other lovely choices.”

He snarled an obscenity.

“Be advised, sir, I know plenty of worse words than that,” responded Arianna with a grim smile, and she added a very unladylike curse to prove it.

His eyes widened for an instant, then narrowed to a slitted stare. “Give me that book,” he repeated. “Or you will be sorry.”

His strike was quick—but not quick enough.

Her reactions honed by half a lifetime of fighting off drunks and pimps, Arianna caught his wrist and pivoted, twisting hard enough to draw a grunt of pain. “I wouldn’t wager on that.”

“Poxy slut.” Breaking away, the man clenched a fist and threw a wild punch at her head.

She ducked the blow and countered with a kick that buckled his knee. “True—if I were a real lady, I would be falling into a dead swoon.” Her jab clipped him flush on the chin. “But as you see, I’m not. Not a lady, that is.”

Staggered, the man fell against the display table, knocking several books to the floor. His curses were now coming in a language she didn’t recognize, but the edge of panic was unmistakable.

What madness possessed him?
It was only a book, albeit a lovely one.

Arianna glanced at the archway, intent on making a strategic retreat. The last thing she wanted to do was to ruffle the rarified feathers of Messrs. Harvey & Watkins by brawling among their rare books. Such a scene would only embarrass her husband, who, ye Gods, had suffered enough gossip on her account . . .

Bloody hell.
A glint of steel drew her eye back to her assailant.

His fumblings inside his coat revealed not only a book hidden in the waistband of his trousers but a slim-bladed knife.

“Try to use that on me, and you’ll find your cods cut off,” she warned softly.

He blinked, looking torn between anger and fear.

The sliver of silence was broken by the sound of hurried steps in the adjoining room. “Is someone in need of assistance ?” called a shop clerk loudly.

Her assailant hesitated for an instant, then whirled and darted for the archway, bumping into the other man as they crossed paths.

Smoothing the wrinkles from his sleeve, the clerk frowned at Arianna. “This is
not
a place for sordid assignations, miss,” he chided, looking down his long nose at her chipped straw bonnet and drab serge gown. As his gaze slid to the fallen books, he added a sharp sniff. “I must ask you to leave—immediately. We cater to a very dignified clientele who expect an atmosphere of decorum when they visit us.”

Ah, no good deed goes unpunished,
thought Arianna sardonically. On her way home from the rough-and-tumble markets, she had stopped her carriage on impulse to browse through the fancy books. Better to have waited until she had swathed herself in silk and satin for the requisite morning calls in Mayfair.

“First of all, it is
madam
,” she corrected. “And secondly, I am quite aware of what sort of patrons frequent your shop.”

The clerk winced at the word “shop.”

“However, you might want to take a closer look at the so-called Quality you allow through your door,” Arianna continued, assuming an air of icy hauteur. “That man was certainly no gentleman. He had a knife, and was probably cutting prints out of your precious volumes.” Her husband had explained how some unscrupulous collectors sliced up rare books for the maps or prints, which were sold individually to art dealers for a much higher profit.

The clerk’s look of disdain now pinched into one of horror.

“He also stole a book,” she added. “I saw it hidden under his coat.”

“B-but he has made several purchases recently, all properly paid for,” protested the clerk. Another glance, another sniff
.
“You must be mistaken. By all appearances, he is a perfect gentleman; no matter that he is a foreigner.”

“Well he’s not,” shot back Arianna. “You may take my word for it.”

His mouth thinned. “And who, might I ask, are
you
?”

“The Countess of Saybrook.” Arianna held out the chocolate book. “Now, before you toss me out on my arse, kindly wrap that and write up a receipt. And do make it quick. My carriage is waiting and the earl does not like for his prime cattle to take a chill.”

1. Whisk cocoa into ⅓ cup boiling water.

2. In a saucepan, combine coconut milk, brown sugar and salt. Simmer, stirring, until sugar is dissolved, about 2 minutes. Whisk in hot cocoa and chopped bittersweet chocolate until smooth. Stir in vanilla.

3. In bowl of an electric mixer, beat egg white on medium speed until it begins to foam, about 1 minute. Add superfine sugar tablespoon by tablespoon as mixer is running. Beat until egg white stiffens to soft peaks and is shiny, 5 minutes. Dollop onto cups of hot chocolate.

H
eels clip-clopping over the black and white marble tiles of the entrance hall, Arianna crossed to the side table and tossed down her bonnet. It was, she admitted, a hideous head covering. But until now, she hadn’t noticed the smudge of green slime on the peak of its poke.

“You are looking very fetching, my dear.”

As she turned abruptly, several hairpins slipped free, loosening a lopsided spill of curls across one cheek.

“And is that a new perfume you are wearing?” Alessandro Henry George De Quincy, the fifth Earl of Saybrook, gave an experimental sniff. “Eau de Rotten Cabbage, perhaps ? Or is it turnip?”

“Oh, please. Don’t ask.”

“Very well.” His gaze moved to the neatly wrapped package tucked under her arm. “What have you there?”

“Never mind,” she said tartly to her husband. “It’s a surprise.”

He made a face. “I am not overly fond of surprises.”

“This one is perfectly harmless,” Arianna assured him. Anxious to change the subject, she gestured for the maid who had accompanied her on the shopping expedition to take the baskets of fresh produce down to the kitchens. “Elena, tell Bianca that there were no cèpes to be had,” she instructed. “Though I do think she will find the goat cheeses a perfect match for the Seckel pears she purchased yesterday.”

Her husband raised a teasing brow as he surveyed her disheveled appearance. “Did you have to battle a regiment of Soult’s cavalry for the last wedges?”

“The market was crowded this morning,” she answered evasively. “I know I look a fright.”

“You would look ravishing wearing a burlap grain sack,” he replied with a grin. “Still, you may wish to change before joining Charles and me in the library for tea.”

“Your uncle is coming by? Good Lord, then I’d better hurry.”

Saybrook coughed. “Actually, he arrived just a few moments before you did.”

It was only then that Arianna noticed the tall, elegantly attired figure standing in the shadows of the marble staircase.

“Forgive me for intruding without notice at this early hour.” Charles Mellon stepped forward and bowed over her hand.

“Nonsense, sir. You know that you are always welcome here.” Despite the quick assurance, her smile was a little tentative. She suspected that Mellon was not very pleased about her recent marriage to his nephew, though he was too much of a gentleman to be anything but scrupulously polite in her presence.

“Thank you, milady,” he replied with grave formality.

That he hadn’t approved of her at the beginning of their acquaintance was no secret.
And with good reason,
Arianna thought wryly. At the time, she had been a fugitive from justice, and because of her, Saybrook had been drawn into a tangled web of corruption and conspiracy. It was only by the grace of God—and their cleverness—that they had escaped with their lives.

“It is always a pleasure to see the two of you,” Mellon went on.

More than a few men may have been less sincere in such sentiments. After all, with the earl’s demise, the Saybrook title and fortune would have passed to Mellon. However, Arianna had never doubted the affection that the older man had shown for his nephew.

“I won’t take up too much of your time,” he finished.

“It’s nearly noon—you must join us for nuncheon,” she said. “Bianca will be bitterly disappointed if you miss her special Serrano ham.”

“Tempting.” Mellon allowed a faint smile. “But a meeting at the ministry demands my presence. I cannot stay for long. I’ve simply stopped by to ask a favor . . .” His pause was barely perceptible. “Of you both.”

“Anything—” began Saybrook.

Mellon cut him off with a quick wave. “It’s never wise to agree to a proposal before knowing all the details. I would rather that you and your wife hear me out before giving an answer.”

“I’ve already rung for the refreshments, my dear,” said Saybrook, an oblique reminder for her to make haste.

“I shall only be a few minutes in freshening up,” promised Arianna.

Taking the stairs two at a time, she couldn’t help but wonder what help her uncle-by-marriage could possibly need from her. For the most part, they moved in very different circles. A senior diplomat in the Foreign Ministry, Mellon spun effortlessly through the gilded splendor of London’s haute monde. While she preferred . . .

No use speculating.
Arianna expelled a harried sigh. She would find out soon enough.

 

“Attend a country house party?” Saybrook stirred a pinch of grated nutmeg into his cup of hot chocolate. “For a fortnight ?”

Mellon nodded. “I am aware of how little you—both of you—like such frivolous entertainments. But the Marquess of Milford has kindly consented to hold a shooting party at his estate in Wiltshire. There will be a number of foreign diplomats present, including a delegation from Spain.”

“I see,” murmured Saybrook.

His expression, noted Arianna, gave nothing away. As a former military intelligence officer attached to the staff of Arthur Wellesley—now the Duke of Wellington—during England’s Peninsular campaign to drive Napoleon’s armies out of Spain, he was well trained in keeping his thoughts to himself.

“Given the upcoming Peace Conference in Vienna, our government is, of course, anxious to work in harmony with all of our wartime allies,” continued Mellon.