Chocolate was served during religious rites and celebrations. It was often mixed with such flavorings as vanilla, cinnamon, allspice, chiles, hueinacaztli—a spicy flower from the custard apple tree—and anchiote, which turns the mouth a bright red! The Aztecs also believed that the dried beans of the cacao tree possessed strong medicinal properties. Indeed, warriors were issued cacao wafers to fortify their strength for long marches and the rigors of battle—a fact that Sandro will undoubtedly find of great interest. I, too, have remarked on the nourishing benefits of hot, sweetened chocolate. . . .
8 cups milk
¼ cup achiote seeds
12 blanched almonds
12 toasted and skinned hazelnuts
2-3 Mexican vanilla beans, split lengthwise, seeds scraped out
¼ ounce dried rosa de Castillo (rosebuds)
2 3-inch canela (soft Ceylon cinnamon sticks)
1 tablespoon aniseeds
2 whole dried serrano chiles
8 ounces 70% dark chocolate
sugar to taste
1. In a heavy saucepan, heat milk with anchiote seeds over medium heat. Bring to low boil, stirring constantly. Reduce heat to low and let steep for 10 minutes, until milk is brightly colored with the anchiote.
2. Grind almond and hazelnuts together to the consistency of fine breadcrumbs. Set aside.
3. Strain out achiote seeds from milk and return milk to saucepan. Add the ground nuts, along with the vanilla beans and rosebuds, cinnamon, aniseeds, and chiles. Bring to low boil. Reduce heat and simmer for 10 minutes. Remove from heat.
4. Stir in chocolate. Taste for sweetness, and add sugar to taste. Strain through a fine mesh strainer.
5. Transfer chocolate to tall, narrow pot and whisk vigorously with a molinillo (wooden chocolate mill) or handheld immersion blender. It adds a wonderful frothy head. Serve immediately.
Steam rose from the boiling water, enveloping the stove in a cloud of moist, tropical heat.
“Hell.” A hand shot out and shoved the kettle off the hob.
Cleaning up after such a feast would likely take another few hours, thought the chef irritably. But that was the price—or was it penance?—for choosing to work alone. A baleful glance lingered for a moment on the kitchen’s worktable, the dirty dishes and pots yet another reminder that the aristocratic asses upstairs were gluttons for decadent foods.
More, always more—their hunger seemed insatiable.
But it wasn’t as if their appetites for sumptuous pleasures came as any great surprise to Arianna Hadley. Contempt curled the corners of her mouth. Indeed, she had counted on it.
Turning away from the puddles of melted butter and clotted cream, she wiped her hands and carefully collected the scraps of paper containing her recipes. The edges were yellowing, the spidery script had faded to the color of weak tea, and yet she could not quite bring herself to copy them onto fresh sheets of foolscap. They were like old friends—her only friends, if truth be told—and together they had traveled. . . .
Her hands clenched, crackling the papers. Not that she cared to dwell on the sordid details. They were, after all, too numerous to count.
She closed her eyes for an instant. For as far back as she could remember, life had been one never-ending journey. Jamaica, St. Kitts, Barbados, Martinique, along with all the specks of Caribbean coral and rock too small to have a name. Foam-flecked, rum-drenched hellholes awash in rutting pirates and saucy whores. And from there across the ocean to the glittering bastion of civilized society.
Ah, yes. Here in London the scurvy scum and sluts were swathed in fancy silks and elegant manners. Fine-cut jewels and satin smiles. All thin veneers that hid a black-hearted core of corruption.
Tracing a finger over a water-stained page, Arianna felt the faint grit of salt and wondered whether it was residue from the ocean voyage or one of the rare moments when she had allowed a weak-willed tear. Of late, she had disciplined herself to be tougher. Harder. But as the steam wafted over the sticky pots, stirring a sudden, haunting hint of island spices, she blinked and the words blurred. Light and dark, spinning into a vortex of jumbled memories.
Fire. Smoke. The lush scent of sweetness licking up from the flames.
“Breathe deeply, ma petite .” Her voice lush with the lilt of the tropics, the mulatto cook leaned closer to the copper cauldron. “Drink in its essence.” She sprinkled a grating of cinnamon, a pinch of anchiote over the roasting nibs. “Watch carefully, Arianna. Like life itself, the cacao is even better with a bit of spice, but the mix must be just right. Let me show you. . . .”
Dark as ebony, Oribe’s hands fluttered through the tendril of steam. “Theobroma cacao —food of the gods,” she murmured. “Now we must wait for just the right moment to douse the flames. Remember—its magic cannot be rushed.” From a smaller pot, the cook poured a measure of hot milk into a ceramic cup. Adding a spoonful of ground beans, thickened with sugar, she whipped the concoction to a foaming froth with her molinillo. “But patience will be rewarded. Drink this—”
Then the image of the old servant dissolved, and Arianna found herself staring into the shadows.
Shadows. She remembered shifting shapes of menacing black, and the rumblings of thunder from a fast-approaching storm. Dancing to the drumming of the wind against the shutters, a tendril of smoke had swirled up from the lone candle, casting a trail of twisted patterns over a bloodstained sheet.
“Drink this, Papa.” She was holding a glass of cheap rum to her father’s trembling lips. “A physician will be here soon with laudanum to help ease the pain, ” she lied, knowing full well that not a soul would come rushing to help two penniless vagabonds.
“I would rather have a sip of your special chocolate, my dear.” He tried to smile, despite the jagged knife wound gouged between his ribs.
So much blood, so much blood. Cursing the stinking wharfside alleys and the shabby tavern room, she pressed her palm to the scarlet-soaked handkerchief, trying to staunch the flow.
“I—I shall always savor the sweet memory of you,” he went on in a whisper. “I . . . ” A groan gurgled deep in his throat. “God in heaven, forgive me for being such a wretched parent. And for sinking you in such a sordid life.”
“You are not to blame! You were falsely accused.”
“Yes, I was—I swear it,” he rasped. “But . . . it doesn’t matter. Not for me.” He coughed. “But you—you deserve better. . . .”
“Never mind that. You deserve justice, Papa. Tell me who did this to you.”
“I . . .” But there was no answer, only a spasm of his icy fingers and then a silence louder than the wailing wind.
Arianna shifted on her stool, recalled back to the present by the clatter of footsteps on the stairs. Her skin was sheened in sweat and yet she was chilled to the bone.
“Chef! Chef!” Fists pounded on the closed door. “Monsieur Alphonse, open up! Something terrible has happened!”
Smoothing at the ends of her false mustache, Arianna quickly tucked the papers into her smock and rose.
Perhaps it was too late for justice. Perhaps all that mattered now was vengeance.
“Indeed?” Lord Percival Grentham’s expression remained impassive. A senior government minister in Whitehall’s War Office, he was in charge of security for London, which included keeping watch over the royal family. And with the King lingering in the netherworld of madness and his grown children mired in one scandal after another, it was a task designed to test his legendary sangfroid.
Grentham’s assistant nervously cleared his throat. “But he’s going to survive, milord,” he added hastily. “A physician happened to be treating a patient next door and was summoned in time to purge the poison from the Prince’s stomach.”
“More’s the pity,” snapped Grentham’s military attaché, who was standing by his superior’s desk, arranging the daily surveillance reports. “Bloody hell, if Prinny can’t control his prodigious appetites, he could at least have the decency to fall victim in his own establishment.”
The assistant didn’t dare respond.
Leaning back in his chair, Grentham tapped his elegant fingertips together and stared out the bank of windows overlooking the parade ground. Rain pelted against the misted glass, turning the vast expanse of gravel to a blur of watery gray. Beyond it, the bare trees in St. James’s Park jutted up through the fog, dark and menacing, like the jagged teeth of some ancient dragon.
“How long until he can be moved from Lady Spencer’s town house?” he asked slowly.
“Er . . .” The assistant consulted the sheaf of papers in his hands. “Another two or three days.”
“Bloody, bloody hell,” swore the attaché. “If word of this reaches the newspapers—”
“Thank you, Major Crandall.” The tapping ceased—as did all other sounds in the room. Turning to his assistant, Grentham continued with his inquiries. “I take it that the other guests have been sworn to absolute secrecy, Jenkins?”
“Yes, milord. And they’ve all promised to be silent as the grave.”
“Excellent,” he replied mildly. “Oh, and do remind them that they had better be, else their carcasses will be rotting on a transport ship bound for the Antipodes.”
“Y-yes, milord.” The young man was new to the job and hadn’t yet dared ask what had become of his predecessor. Rumors of Grentham’s ruthlessness were rife throughout the halls of the Horse Guards building, and it was whispered that even the Prime Minister feared to provoke his ire.
Taking up his pen, Grentham jotted several lines on a fresh sheet of foolscap. “Do we know for certain what poison was used?”
“Not as yet, sir. The physician says it is difficult to discern, on account of the, er . . . substance that the Prince ingested.” The young man paused, looking uncertain of whether to go on.
“Well, do you intend to keep me in suspense all afternoon?” asked Grentham softly. “Or is this meant to be an amusing little guessing game, seeing as I have nothing else to do with my time?”
“N-n-o, sir.” The assistant gave another glance at his notes. “It was . . . chocolate.”
“Chocolate?” repeated Crandall incredulously. “If this is your idea of a joke, Jenkins—”
“It’s n-no joke, sir, it’s the God-honest truth.” Jenkins held out a piece of paper with a suspicious-looking stain streaked across its bottom. “You may see for yourself.”
Grentham waved away the offending document with a flick of his wrist. “I am a trifle confused, Jenkins,” he murmured. “I thought you said Prinny ate the stuff, not drank it.”
“He did, sir. It says here in the physician’s report that the Prince Regent collapsed after eating a disk of solid sweetened chocolate.” Seeking to forestall another acerbic attack, he quickly went on. “Apparently the confection is a recent culinary creation, developed in France. It is said to be very popular in Paris.”
“Chacun à son goût,” said Grentham under his breath.
“Sir?”
“Never mind. Go on—anything else of interest in the report?”
“Well, milord, the man does mention the possibility that the Prince might have sickened from overindulgence, and not from any toxin.” Jenkins swallowed hard. “But the Prince’s private physician questions whether chocolate in this new, solid form might have naturally occurring poisonous properties.”
Grentham thought for a moment. “So in fact, we don’t have a clue as to whether this was an attempt on the reigning sovereign’s life, or merely another example of his appetite for pleasure getting him in trouble.”
Looking unhappy, Jenkins nodded. His superior was known as a man who preferred to view the world in black and white. An infinite range of grays merely muddied the subject—which did not bode well for whoever presented the ill-formed picture.
“I should be tempted to let him stew in his own juices . . . ,” began the Major, but a sharp look from Grentham speared him to silence.
The minister fingered one of the leather document cases piled on his desk. “Given the current situation, it is imperative— imperative—that we ascertain whether foul play was involved. What with the upcoming arrival of the Allied delegation and our troubles with the upstart Americans, the death of the Prince Regent could be catastrophic for the interests of England.”
The assistant instinctively backed into the shadows of the dark oak filing cabinets, though he had a feeling that the basilisk stare of his superior could see straight through to the deepest coal-black pit of hell.
“And so,” he mused, “however unpleasant a task, we must extract the truth from this sticky mess.”
Jenkins gave a sickly smile, unsure whether the minister had just attempted a witticism.
“The question is, who among our operatives is best equipped to handle such an investigation?” Grentham pursed his lips. “Any suggestions?”
The Major quickly shot a look at Jenkins.
“Well, milord, I . . . I . . .”
“Spit it out, man,” ordered the Major. “We haven’t got all day.”
Sweat beaded on the assistant’s brow, though his throat remained bone-dry. “I was just going to say, perhaps one of our Peninsular allies might prove u-u-useful. Seeing as it was the Spanish who brought cacao to Europe from the New World, it would seem logical that they would be the most knowledgeable on the subject.”
Grentham looked thoughtful.
The Major’s gaze narrowed to a crafty squint. “Yes, I was just going to say that I think it an excellent idea to look outside our own circle of intelligence officers,” he said quickly. “They are all personally acquainted with the Prince, and we wouldn’t want any question of impartiality to color the conclusion of the investigation. I mean, sir, if anything were to . . .” He let his voice trail off.
Grentham flashed a semblance of a smile. “Good God, I may actually have a body or two around me with a brain.” Setting down his pen, he contemplated his well-manicured hand for a bit before slowly buffing his nails on his other sleeve.
Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. The sound was soft as a raptor’s wing-beat, as the bird homed in on its kill.
“Send a messenger to Lord Charles Mellon. Tell him that I wish to see him as soon as possible.”
Arianna added a spoonful of sugar to her morning coffee and slathered a scone with butter. The condemned ought to eat a heartier meal, she thought sardonically as she broke off a morsel of the still-warm pastry and let it crumble between her fingers.
If Luck was indeed a Lady, the traitorous bitch had a perverse sense of humor.
Biting back a grim smile, Arianna had to admit the irony of the situation. After all her meticulous plotting and carefully calculated moves, one unfortunate little slip had wreaked havoc with her plans.
The best-laid schemes of mice and men go often askew, and leave us nothing but grief and pain.. . . Her father, who had carried a love of poetry—and precious little else—with him from England to Jamaica, had enjoyed reading Robert Burns to her on the rare evenings when he wasn’t sunk too deep in his cups. Arianna had cherished those times together, curled in the comforting shelter of his arms.
She sucked in her breath, her lungs suddenly filled with the memory of his scent—an earthy mix of tobacco, leather, and citrus-spiced sandalwood.
Oh, Papa, she thought, expelling a slow sigh. So brilliant, yet so naïve. Scandal had stripped him of all his rightful honor, forcing him to survive on his wits. But even his enemies admitted that Richard Hadley, the Earl of Morse, was a charming dreamer. Like fine brandy, his mellifluous laugh was smoothly seductive, making even the most grandiose schemes seem plausible. The earl was so convincing that over the years he had come to believe his own lies.
Blood must run true, mused Arianna, for it seemed that she had inherited his gift for deception.
Raising a defiant finger, she traced the burnt-cork stippling that darkened her jaw. A short stint with a theater troupe in Barbados had taught her the art of disguise. Paint and glue. False hair and feather padding. With the right touch, a skillful hand could alter one’s appearance beyond recognition. It helped that most people were easy to fool. They saw only what they expected to see and rarely noticed what lay beneath the surface.
“Mr. Alphonse!” The shout cut through the quiet of the kitchen. “Captain Mercer will see you. Now!”
“Oui, oui, I am coming,” she called. Thank god her voice was naturally husky—a slight roughening of the edges was all it required to mimic a masculine growl.
Making no effort to hurry, Arianna paused to make one last check of her reflection in one of the hanging pots. She would have preferred to be interrogated here in the kitchen, where she was master of her own little Underworld. The light was kept deliberately murky, while the crowded racks of cookware and herbs created added distraction. However, if there was one thing she had learned over the years of fending for herself, it was how to improvise.
“Step lively,” snapped the guard, punctuating the command with a rap of his pistol against the door. Though dressed as a footman, there was no mistaking his military bearing. “The likes o’ you ought not keep your betters waiting.”
She took her time mounting the stairs.
“Bloody frog,” he muttered, shoving the gun barrel between her shoulder blades to hurry her up the last few treads.
The guard escorted her into the breakfast room, where a big, beefy army officer sat perfectly centered on the far side of the dark mahogany table. All the other seating had been cleared away, save for a single straight-back chair set directly opposite him. It looked rather forlorn in the wide stretch of empty space.
“Sit down,” he barked.
For an instant, Arianna debated whether to remain on her feet. Goading him to anger might distract him from his intended line of questioning. But she quickly decided against the strategy. However cleverly padded, her body was best not put on prominent display.
“Merci,” she mumbled, slouching down in her seat. It was only then that she noticed a second figure standing by the bank of mullioned windows. He, too, was dressed in scarlet regimentals, but the color blended neatly into thick damask draperies of the same hue. The slanted shadows and angled sunlight made his features hard to discern. It was his carefully groomed side whiskers that caught her attention. Sparks seemed to dance through the ginger hair as if it were on fire.
“Well, what have you to say to defend yourself, Mr. Alphonse?” went on the officer seated at the table.
Shifting her gaze to the papers piled in front of the pompous prig, Arianna replied with exaggerated surprise, “Am I being accused of something, mon General?”
“Oh, so you think yourself a clever little bastard, eh, to make light of an assassination attempt on the Prince Regent of England?” The captain, whose rank was clearly denoted by the stripes on his sleeve, thinned his lips. “I promise that you will soon comprehend it is no laughing matter.”
“ Non, iz not amusing. Not in ze least,” she agreed, deliberately drawing out her French accent. “Iz grave, very grave.”
The captain glared, uncertain as to whether he was being played for a fool. Snapping open a leather-bound ledger, he scanned over several pages of notes before speaking again. “I have sworn statements that you were the only one working in the kitchen the night the Prince was poisoned. Is that true?”
“Ça dépend—that depends,” answered Arianna calmly. “The servants who carried the dishes up to the dining room were in and out all evening.” She paused. “I’m sure you have been told that the supper was a lengthy affair, with numerous courses.”
“Did you see anyone tampering with the food?” he asked quickly.
“Non.”
“Nor anyone lingering below stairs?” It was the officer by the window who asked the question.
“Non,” replied Arianna, not looking his way. While her first response had been the truth, this one was a lie. She had seen someone, but she had no intention of sharing that information with the Crown.
Shoving back his chair, the captain rose abruptly, setting off a jangle of metal. Arianna watched the flutter of ribbons and braid as the gaudy bits of gilded brass and enameled silver stilled against his chest. Did the man have any notion how ridiculous he looked, strutting about in his peacock finery? His martial scowl was belied by the fleshiness of his hands as he braced them on the polished wood. They looked soft as dough.
A bread soldier, thought Arianna. A staff flunky. Put him in a real fight and a butter knife would cut through him in one swift slice. As for the other one, he looked to be made of sterner stuff. She guessed that he was the man in command.
“Mr. Alphonse!” Raising his voice to a near shout, the captain leaned in and angled his chin to a menacing tilt. “Did you try to murder the Prince Regent?”
Arianna ducked her head to hide a smile. Conceited coxcomb—I’ve been bullied by far more intimidating men than you.
“If you answer me honestly, it will go a lot easier for you,” he went on. “Otherwise future interrogations could become quite unpleasant.” His mouth twitched into a nasty smile. “For you, that is.”
“I have told you ze truth. I did not poison the Prince,” she said. “If you don’t believe me, why don’t you search the kitchen?”
The draperies stirred, echoing a low laugh. “What do you think my men are doing as we speak?” The officer there moved to stand in front of the windows. Limned in the morning light, his silhouette was naught but a stark dark shape against the panes of glass—save for the halo of ginger fire.
“I have nothing to fear,” she answered calmly. The bag containing her disguises was well hidden beneath a pantry floorboard, with the weight and odor of the onion barrel discouraging too close an inspection of the dark corner. “I am innocent of any attack on your Prince.”
The captain replied with a vulgar oath.
“Am I under arrest?” asked Arianna, deciding it was to her advantage to end the interview as soon as possible. She had overheard two of the guards discussing their orders earlier, and was aware that Whitehall was sending another interrogator later in the day. She would save her strength for that confrontation.
“Not yet, you stinking little piece of—”
“Leave us for a moment, Captain Mercer.” The other officer cut off his cohort with a clipped command.
The captain snapped a salute. “Have a pleasant chat with the Major, Froggy,” he muttered under his breath.
The Major’s boots clicked over the parquet floor, echoing the sound of the door falling shut. Approaching the captain’s vacated chair, he picked up a penknife from the table and slowly began cleaning his nails.
Snick. Snick. Snick. The faint scrapings were meant to put her on edge, thought Arianna as she watched the flash of slivered steel. Like her, the Major understood the importance of theatrics.
The noise ceased.
Bowing her head, she remained silent.
“I think you are lying to us, Mr. Alphonse,” he said in a deceptively mild tone.
She lifted her shoulders in a Gallic shrug. “What can I say? Iz hard to offer proof for an act that I haven’t committed.”
“Oh, I don’t expect you to speak right now. I am perfectly happy to let you stew a little longer about your fate.” He stroked at his side whiskers, and his fingers came away with a trace of Macassar oil on their tips. “You see, I expect you to die. But if you give us the information we want, the process will be a good deal less painful for you.”
Arianna kept her expression impassive.
“What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”
“Arguing with you would only be a waste of breath,” she murmured. “Am I excused? The household expects to eat at noon.”
“Go.” He placed the blade atop the captain’s sheaf of notes. “But be assured, you haven’t heard the last from me.”