1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened, more for greasing pan
2 cups all-purpose flour, more for dusting pan
5 ounces unsweetened chocolate
¼ cup instant espresso powder
2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder
1 cup boiling water
1 cup bourbon, rye or other whisky, more for sprinkling
½ teaspoon kosher salt
2 cups granulated sugar
3 large eggs
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
1 teaspoon baking soda
Confectioners’ sugar, for garnish (optional)
1. Grease and flour a 10-cup-capacity Bundt pan (or two 8–or 9-inch loaf pans). Preheat oven to 325 degrees. In microwave oven or double boiler over simmering water, melt chocolate. Let cool.2. Put espresso and cocoa powders in a 2-cup (or larger) glass measuring cup. Add enough boiling water to come up to the 1 cup measuring line. Mix until powders dissolve. Add whisky and salt; let cool.
3. Using an electric mixer, beat 1 cup butter until fluffy. Add sugar and beat until well combined. Beat in the eggs, one at a time, beating well between each addition. Beat in the vanilla extract, baking soda and melted chocolate, scraping down sides of bowl with a rubber spatula.
4. On low speed, beat in a third of the whisky mixture. When liquid is absorbed, beat in 1 cup flour. Repeat additions, ending with whisky mixture. Scrape batter into prepared pan and smooth top. Bake until a cake tester inserted into center of cake comes out clean, about 1 hour 10 minutes for Bundt pan (loaf pans will take less time; start checking them after 55 minutes).
5. Transfer cake to a rack. Unmold after 15 minutes and sprinkle warm cake with more whisky. Let cool before serving, garnished with confectioners’ sugar if you like.
Yield: 10 to 12 servings.
“Bloody hell, that’s quite a lot to digest,” muttered Henning as he pushed away his empty plate. “Theft, treason, murder.” Shaking his head, Henning refilled his glass with whisky. “And here I thought ye were savoring the idea of a quiet, peaceful autumn.”
“I seem to stir up trouble in His Lordship’s life,” observed Arianna.
“A toast to Trouble,” said the surgeon, raising his drink in salute. “Ye have to admit, it keeps things interesting.”
“If we have finished philosophizing, perhaps we could go have a look at my erstwhile assailant.” Saybrook scraped back his chair. “The body is being kept down near the kitchens—in the game room, aptly enough, though the chef is apparently not happy about it sharing the space with his dead birds and skinned rabbits.”
“Why?” quipped the surgeon. “The room’s sole purpose is to hang carcasses until the flesh is ripe enough to peel off the bone.”
“Thank you for the graphic explanation, Baz,” said Saybrook, leading the way into the servant stairwell.
“No point in mincing words, laddie.”
Arianna winced at the word “mince.”
As they descended in the gloom, Henning checked that the small chamois bag of surgical instruments was well hidden in his coat pocket. “We’ll just have a little poke around before the formal inquest begins.”
“Nothing overt,” cautioned Saybrook, as he peeked out from the landing to check that the corridor was clear. “I’ve enough to worry about without being accused of tampering with the evidence.”
“Don’t worry, laddie. I’m very good at what I do.”
Moving quietly, the three of them slipped past the pantries and entered a dark, stone-floored chamber, taking care to close the heavy oaken door behind them.
“Light the lanthorn,” whispered Henning.
Flint scraped against steel and a curl of smoke rose through the shadows. Arianna shivered as her husband shuffled forward and shone the beam on the dead man’s face. Though bronzed by the sun, the skin had turned yellowish-white. A dull sheen made it look as if the death-softened features were carved out of candle wax.
“Big fellow, eh?” grunted the surgeon. The man laid out on the slab of granite was over six feet tall. “Bring the light closer.” The surgeon leaned in and plucked up the corpse’s eyelid.
“Hmmph.” Next he drew back the dead man’s lips and examined his teeth. Seemingly satisfied, he brushed his fingers on the front of his coat. “Lady S, would ye take charge of the lanthorn while Sandro gives me a hand in looking at the wound.”
Swallowing hard, she watched as he and Saybrook gingerly peeled back the cloth hiding the slashed throat. Perhaps breakfast hadn’t been such a good idea after all.
“Hmmph.” After poking and prodding at the ghastly wound, the surgeon’s only remark was a curt grunt.
Setting aside his scalpel, he took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. “Help me remove his upper garments, laddie, and let us see what else we can learn about him.”
Arianna closed her eyes for a moment, finding the soft whisper of cloth against the lifeless flesh faintly obscene.
“Well, well, well. What have we here?” Henning sounded a little surprised.
Her lids flew open.
“A tattoo,” confirmed Saybrook. Like Henning, he was peering intently at the dead man’s bicep. “A rather distinctive one. An eagle and a crown . . .”
“It’s the mark of Les Grognards—the Grumblers,” announced the surgeon after a closer inspection.
Saybrook swore under his breath.
Looking up at Arianna, Henning quickly explained. “That’s the nickname of the First Foot Grenadiers Regiment. Along with the Second Foot Regiment, they made up the Old Guard, the most elite unit of Napoleon’s Grenadier Guards.”
“The Guards were Napoleon’s personal favorites,” added Saybrook. “A man had to have served in the army for ten years and distinguished himself in battle to win a place in their ranks.”
“Aye. And every detail of their service was personally approved by Boney—their pay, their uniforms, their insignias,” said Henning, slanting a meaningful look at the tattoo. “They were bloody good soldiers. Tough, disciplined, and fiercely loyal to their leader.”
“Dio Madre.” Saybrook peered more closely at the intricate design. “Are you sure about this?”
“At the Battle of Salamanca, I sawed off the arms of several wounded Grognards captured by our regiment. So yes, laddie, I am quite sure.”
Arianna noted a grimness tighten her husband’s expression, making the hollows under his eyes look deeper. Darker. “Can we please hurry?” she asked sharply. “It would be best if we weren’t found here. And Sandro needs to get some rest.”
“Arianna—” growled Saybrook
“Save yer breath te cool yer porridge. Lady S is right. Ye need te keep up your strength. Grentham has already bared his teeth and will be looking to go for the jugular.” Henning chafed his palms together and spoke softly to the corpse. “Alors, monsieur. What else can you tell me about yourself, eh?” He palpated the chest, and then took up a thin metal probe to push back the hair around the ears and check inside the canal.
“Nothing usual.”
“Save for his sun-colored face and forearms, don’t you think?” remarked Saybrook. “It’s been a very rainy summer here in England.”
“A good point, laddie.” Henning pursed his lips. “Have any of the locals been asked if they recognize the fellow?”
“Yes, several in fact,” replied the earl. “The ghillies helped carry the body out of the woods. None of them had ever seen him before.”
“Hmmph.” Frowning, the surgeon cleared his throat and gestured for Arianna to look away. “Avert your eyes, Lady S, while we pull down the fellow’s breeches for a moment.”
She arched her brows but complied. “What in God’s name do you hope to discover—or dare I ask?”
The surgeon bit back a chuckle. “Best leave no stone unturned, so to speak. Ye never know—perhaps he’s part of some exotic sect of Eastern eunuchs. Or boasts a second tattoo on his privy parts that points—”
“Men and their schoolboy humor,” Arianna gave the lanthorn an impatient shake. “Do get on with it.”
Something metallic fell to the floor. “Damn.” Henning quickly bent down. “It’s just a coin,” he muttered, shoving it into his pocket. A few more rustling noises, punctuated by the thud of flesh upon the stone slab.
“I’m finished here,” he announced, putting away his instruments and donning his coat. “Let’s be off.”
The earl chose to lead them through the deserted scullery and out to the back lawns. The early morning air, heavy with the scent of the mist-dampened grass and the ripening apples in the nearby orchard, helped flush the dank smell of decay from Arianna’s lungs. Breathing deeply, she tipped her head up to watch a skein of dark clouds scud across the sun. A gust ruffled through the leaves and tugged at her skirts.
“Rain is blowing in,” groused Henning. “The bloody roads back to London will be mired in mud.”
London. At the moment, the city and the sanctuary of their town house seemed very far away.
Arianna fisted the folds of flapping silk and held them close to her body. “So, what do you intend to do about the letters, Sandro?” she asked. “And Charles.”
“Before ye answer that,” said Henning. “Allow me te voice a few questions of my own, eh?”
The earl nodded for him to go on.
“Have ye considered that mayhap Grentham has planned all this? We know that he is diabolically clever. And when you look at how this web of intrigue weaves together, it’s clearly been created by a cunning spider.” Henning picked a loose thread from his sleeve. “He plants one of yer uncle’s documents along with incriminating evidence of a traitorous plot, turning suspicion on your family while he continues to hand over secrets to England’s enemy. Taking a shot at you only raises further questions about why someone would want you dead.”
“You are forgetting that Rochemont may well have been the target,” countered the earl. “That a Grognard—”
Henning cut him off with an impatient wave. “I grant you, it’s possible that one of Napoleon’s former officials has a grudge against Rochemont. He’s one of the leading Royalists, and by all accounts has made a number of enemies with his arrogance. Not to speak of his flagrant dalliances. But bear with me for now, and let us stay focused on Grentham for the nonce.”
“Very well,” agreed Saybrook. “Your theory is interesting, and it’s certainly devious enough for the minister’s mind. But I don’t really think it’s plausible. There is no way he could know Arianna would buy that book. It was pure chance.”
“It’s known that you make regular purchases at that rare book emporium,” countered Henning. “And how many rich aristocrats have an interest in chocolate?”
The earl didn’t answer.
“You still think that Grentham may be conniving with the French?” Arianna made a face. In their previous confrontation with the minister, they had reason to wonder whether he was corrupt to the core. “I thought we had answered the questions concerning his integrity.”
“As you have pointed out in the past, lassie, a smart criminal makes sure that his underlings never know the real truth about his involvement.” Henning paused. “We have only Grentham’s word that he was innocent of any wrongdoing. And that I take with a grain of salt.”
She shivered in spite of the sunlight. “So you think the hidden papers may be a trap?”
“I don’t think ye were meant te find them yerself. My guess is Grentham’s plan would be to arrive at your town house with his lackeys from Horse Guards, and then make a show of discovering the hidden documents in the book. Catching you red-handed, as it were, would be a very clever ploy.” The surgeon snapped his fingers. “Voila ! The government would be convinced that the French threat is eliminated, leaving him free to play his filthy games. At the same time, the minister also gets his personal revenge on you for ruining his previous plan.”
“Perhaps you ought to take up novel writing,” said Saybrook drily. “You have a very vivid imagination.”
“Which has saved our necks on more than one occasion,” retorted Henning. “Look, as I was waiting in the side parlor for the footman to send you word of my arrival, I overheard the minister and his secretary as they were passing through the corridor. He mentioned you by name and said, ‘The writing is on the wall.’ ”
“That is a common turn of speech,” Saybrook pointed out. “I think you are reading too much into it. Don’t forget, Grentham saw me crouched over a dead body, holding a knife.” He fixed his friend with a level gaze. “I know your feelings about figures of authority, especially ones who are charged with keeping order.” As a Scotsman, Henning was all too familiar with England’s iron-fisted tactics of repressing dissent. “Take care that your loathing doesn’t color your judgment.”
The surgeon scowled. “My scenario may sound farfetched, but the fact is, we all know Grentham bitterly resents you for solving a mystery that stymied him,” Henning retorted. “You showed yourselves to be very, very clever—and that may have him worried. If there is a highly placed traitor in the government, I say he is the most likely suspect.”
“I can’t help but wonder, Sandro . . .” Arianna could no longer keep from asking a question that had been bothering her for some time. “Mr. Henning makes a good point. If Grentham is not a traitor, the depth of his enmity is hard to fathom. Granted, we did not allow him to control us during the previous investigation, but in the end, we saved him from a great deal of public embarrassment.”
The alteration of Saybrook’s face was almost imperceptible. His expression didn’t change—it simply hardened just enough to appear as if it were carved out of stone.
Ignoring the oblique warning to retreat, she pressed on. “Is there a reason I don’t know about as to why the two of you dislike each other so intensely?”
“Yes,” he replied curtly.
Arianna waited for him to go on.
“But at the moment, I don’t care to discuss it. The details aren’t really relevant.”
His refusal hurt more than she cared to admit.
“Far more important are the questions concerning Charles and the incriminating documents.”
“If the decision of how to deal with the damn papers were mine, I know what I would do,” said Henning.
Metal rasped against metal as a gust of wind swung the lanthorn in her hand.
“Like Lady S, I’d be tempted to fight fire with fire, and turn them into ashes.” The surgeon slanted a challenging look at Saybrook. “But then, my morals have always been a trifle more flexible than yours.”
“And if they aren’t a trap?” asked the earl.
“Auch, well, then I suppose the trouble is very real,” conceded Henning.
“Trouble,” repeated Arianna.
Saybrook appeared to be staring at some far-off spot on the heathered moors. His brow suddenly creased, and with a muttered oath, he turned abruptly, gravel crunching under his boots. “I must return to our rooms. I’ve just had an idea.”
Arianna took yet another turn around the perimeter of the sitting room, taking great care to step as lightly as she could in order not to wake Henning, who was dozing on the sofa. Rain drummed against the windowpanes, echoing her inner turmoil. Truth and lies. Henning’s cynical suggestions concerning their present predicament had stirred her own imagination to life. A pelter of possible explanations were spinning inside her head—none of them good.
Did I push Grentham over the edge?
Guilt nibbled at the edges of her consciousness. In the past, her temper and her tongue hadn’t been cause for concern. She had been willing to suffer the consequences of her actions. But now, her decisions were no longer so simple. Like a stone striking water, they sent waves rippling out far from the original point of impact.
Which stirred an even more unsettling ripple in her head.
Had marriage been an impetuous mistake? The thought had been niggling at her for some time now. Having experienced the unfettered freedom of a vagabond nobody, she would never be entirely happy living within the gilded cage of aristocratic London. But she couldn’t simply unlatch the door and fly away. She had obligations. Commitments. Responsibilities.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
Looking away from the gloom outside the glass, Arianna stared at the closed door of her husband’s bedchamber. Not that Saybrook had any taste for the superficial glitter and glamour of Polite Society. He too seemed happier in his own private world.
A growl of thunder rumbled over the distant moors.
“Eh?” Henning opened an eye. “Did ye say something, Lady S?”
“The storm seems to be gathering force,” she murmured. “I shall send down a request for a room to be made up for you tonight. I’ll not have you traveling in such nasty weather.”
The surgeon rubbed at his bristly chin. “I fear the atmosphere here may become even nastier.”
She heaved a sigh. “You think I should have destroyed the documents?”
He shook his head. “Auch, let’s not piss in that pot, lassie.”
“Aye, hold your water, everyone.” Saybrook emerged from his room and padded across the carpet, a sheaf of papers in his hands.
“Any luck?” asked Henning.
“Aye,” replied the earl with grim satisfaction. “Luck, Chance, Fate—whatever you wish to call the fickle force, it has worked in our favor today.”
In spite of her misgivings, Arianna felt a spark of excitement. “You mean to say you actually deciphered the code?”
“Aye,” he repeated. “As I told you, intuition plays a key role in the process. Baz’s discovery of the military tattoo and his mention of the Grenadiers at Salamanca got me to thinking. It seemed worth a try to test some of the basic ciphers used by Soult’s forces during the last campaigns of the Peninsular War. I figured that a French operative would be familiar with that system, and likely to adopt it for his own use. After all, he had to train others, and coming up with a whole new system is no easy task.”
“Clever lad.” Henning swung his legs off the sofa, making room for the earl and Arianna.
“Unfortunately, cleverness is a two-edged sword.” Saybrook sat down and dragged the tea table around for his papers. He spread them out, then traced a finger over the lines of jumbled lettering. “The encrypted message indicates that the person responsible for stealing the government document from my uncle’s files is the young man he has been mentoring for the past several years.”
Arianna felt her throat tighten. “David Kydd? The young man from Scotland?”
He nodded.
“But he seems so . . .”
“Incapable of betrayal?” suggested Saybrook grimly.
She stared down at her hands, recalling her encounters with the young diplomat at several of Mellon’s soirees. Unlike many of the junior members of the Foreign Ministry, who seemed to think that being bland and boring was a virtue, Kydd had not been afraid to express his individuality. He was earnest, intelligent, articulate, and yet possessed a sly sense of humor. Character and conviction. No wonder he had been the only person she had actually enjoyed conversing with during the long and tedious evenings.
“To me, he appeared to be a man of lofty principles,” Arianna finally answered. “His ideas and enthusiasms were interesting. And I got the impression that he admired Charles very much.”
“Appearances can be deceiving,” said Saybrook, echoing one of Henning’s favorite sayings.
The surgeon grimaced. “You took the words right out of my mouth.”
“Merde,” muttered Arianna.
“You too.”
Saybrook quirked a humorless smile. “It is indeed a cesspool, and a foul one at that.” Just as quickly, his expression tightened. “For along with passing on the details of Mellon’s activities, Kydd also included a brief update on a meeting he had with a coconspirator. It says”—the earl picked up one of his note papers and read—“ ‘Met with R and all is going according to schedule. I’ve been appointed to the English delegation and our contact in Sx is also in place. Expect me in V by October. By the last week in November, the Deux will be dead. It will happen by the Night. ’ ”
He let the paper drop back onto the table, as if unwilling to soil his hand with it a moment longer than was necessary.
“R for Renard?” Arianna asked.
Her husband shrugged. “As we said before, it’s possible. But we ought to be careful about making such an assumption.” He looked at Henning. “Baz might say Grentham is merely being extra diabolical in eliminating my uncle’s protégé.”
The surgeon made a face. Shifting on the sofa, he shoved his hands in his pockets, then took them out again. “Aye. It’s possible,” he grumbled, fiddling with the coin he had picked up earlier. “It’s . . .” His voice stopped abruptly as he stared at the markings on the coin. “Bloody hell.”
“What?” demanded Saybrook.
“It’s an old Scottish Punnd Sasannach,” he said tersely. “One doesn’t often see them here in the South.”
“Unless . . .” The earl pursed his lips in thought. “Unless one has been paid by someone from the North.”
Henning looked as if he wanted to protest but kept quiet.
“It could be coincidence of course,” Saybrook went on. “But Kydd is Scottish, and that he and our Grognard have something in common makes me even more inclined to think this is not a trap designed by Grentham.”
A noncommittal grunt was the only sound from the surgeon.
Silence gripped the room for an uneasy interlude until the earl dispelled it with a shrug. “But forgetting Grentham for the moment, let us get back to the coded message and its meaning.” Looking down at the paper, he reread the message aloud.
“V . . . ‘In V,’ ” mused Arianna, quick to take up the challenge. “It sounds like a place—”
“Vienna,” interrupted Henning. “Given the document stolen from your uncle’s office, V has to mean Vienna.”
The earl nodded.
“So the message seems to indicate that a murder is planned to take place at the Peace Congress in Vienna,” the surgeon went on. He made a face. “But who, or why? ‘The Deux will be dead. It will happen by the Night’ is hardly a helpful hint.”
“A good question. And as yet, we haven’t a damn clue.” Saybrook paused. “Though ‘Deux’ in French means two, so maybe it’s a double murder.”
“Dio Madre,” murmured Arianna.
“Or it’s simply a code name for the target,” pointed out Henning. “Or one of a thousand other possibilities.”
“A million,” corrected Saybrook glumly. Leaning back from the table, he threaded a hand through his tangled hair. “The second note is penned in a different hand and uses a different code, one that looks to be more difficult. As of yet, I’ve made no headway on it.”
“Ye have worked bloody miracles making sense of this,” said the surgeon. “How your mind sees aught but gibberish is beyond me.”
“Patterns, relationships . . .” The earl began to drum his fingers upon the table. “Kydd was educated at King’s College, Cambridge,” he continued after a pensive pause. “And everyone there agreed that despite his humble origins, he appeared to have a brilliant future in front of him. But it seems his background needs further scrutiny.” His gaze slanted to the surgeon. “He is from Edinburgh, Baz.”
Henning evaded eye contact, a troubled expression pinching at his features.
“So I am wondering—have you friends there who might do a little digging into Kydd’s personal life? Most people have something to hide.”
“Blackmail is the first thing that comes to my mind,” offered Arianna. “A family scandal, perhaps? Or a gambling debt?”
Silence hung in the air for a long moment. The surgeon shifted and scratched at his chin before expelling an audible sigh. “Not necessarily. Seeing as he is Scottish, the first thing I would look at are his politics, lassie.”
“But why?” she asked, perplexed by the suggestion. “Why would he betray England to the French?”
“Because you English—and your monarchy—are hated by a good many Scots,” replied Henning bluntly. “The republican principles trumpeted by the French after their Revolution—liberté, égalité, fraternité—appeal to idealistic young men who believe that merit, not birth, ought to allow for advancement in Society.”
“Regardless of sex,” added Arianna under her breath.
“I am in complete sympathy with Mrs. Wollstonecraft and her manifesto for feminine equality,” said the surgeon. “But alas, in that regard, you will find the Scots just as conservative as the English.”
“Hypocrites.”
Saybrook’s lips quirked, but he quickly steered the conversation back to Kydd. “You think he might be a member of a secret political society?” Scotland was known to be a hotbed of radical idealism, especially among the university students.
Henning hesitated before answering. “Many bright, educated men are. And I can’t say I blame them.”
“If you would rather not get involved . . .” began the earl.
“I didna say that,” shot back Henning. “Ye know where my loyalties lie.”
“I do. I also know where your heart lies. I would rather not ask you to choose between the two.”
“There is a difference between theory and reality. While I believe in a good many radical ideas, I think fanatics of any cause are dangerous. Fomenting change through violence and bloodshed is not something I espouse.”
Saybrook held his friend’s gaze for a long moment, and then looked away.
Arianna was loath to break the bond of silent camaraderie, but she couldn’t help asking. “Wait—Napoleon has been banished to the isle of Elba and the monarchy has been restored to France. So while Kydd may have sympathized with the Republican ideals, why would his allegiance be to the new King?”
Henning blew out his cheeks. “It’s not love of the French; it’s about hate of the English. Many young, educated Scots feel that any enemy of England is a friend of theirs. They believe that working to weaken the British government will help further their own goals.”
His voice tightened. “On my last visit north, I spent time with a cousin who blistered my ear with his radical ideas. Whitehall ought to be listening carefully—else it might find the bloody conflict isn’t over just because Boney’s been banished to some speck of rock in the Mediterranean.”
“I agree with you,” said the earl tersely. “But for now, let us stay focused on this particular powder keg. Arianna raises a very good point about France, and the spy we call Renard. During our previous encounter, there was little question that he was working for Napoleon. But now, the Emperor is gone, and the Ancien Régime has been returned to power. Which begs yet another round of whos and whys.”
Saybrook pursed his lips and thought for several moments. “My work in military intelligence has taught me that in order to solve a conundrum, one must work with both fact and conjecture. I know that security in my uncle’s office is very strict—there are guards, and special locks for sensitive documents. So I think it’s fair to assume Kydd took the documents.”
Arianna and Henning nodded.
“I also think it’s fair to say he’s not working alone. The documents indicate a complex plot that likely is based in Vienna. Again, it’s a rational deduction, given the important Peace Conference scheduled to begin next month.”
He paused before continuing his thought. “It’s my conjecture that a group of Scottish radicals don’t have the connections to put something like that together. It would take a more powerful network. Which is why I come back to Renard. We know that he is capable of weaving a sophisticated web of betrayal.” The earl paused. “For now, logic dictates that he is the obvious suspect. And yet, it begs the question of who he is working for. And why he is still intent on sabotaging our dealings with the European powers.”
Henning didn’t hesitate in answering. “Not everyone is as principled as you, laddie. Renard probably doesn’t give a fig for whose hand holds the ruling scepter. He’s either loyal to his terroir—the sacred mother earth of France—in which case he sees England as his natural enemy.” The surgeon picked up his near-empty whisky tumbler and spun it between his palms. “Or he’s being paid obscenely well for his work.”
Arianna watched as the few remaining drops in the glass blurred to a blink of gold.
“Look at Talleyrand, for God’s sake.” Henning gave a sardonic grunt. “He changes masters as easily as he changes his fancy silk stockings.” Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord, the current French Foreign Minister, was known for dressing in the elaborate old style of the previous century—velvet breeches, starched satin cravats and jeweled shoes, topped off by a powdered wig. “He’s served Louis XVI, the radical Revolutionaries, the Directoire, Napoleon, and now the newly restored King.”
“Really?” asked Arianna.
“You don’t know his history, lassie?”
She shook her head. “Remember, I grew up in the West Indies.” After the murder of her father, she had fought a tooth-and-nail struggle every day simply in order to survive. “I didn’t have the luxury of studying the nuances of European politics.”
Hidden by the shadow of his lashes, Saybrook’s eyes were unreadable. “Like you, my dear, Talleyrand had an uncanny knack for survival,” he murmured. “Though born into one of the noblest families of France, he somehow managed to keep his neck intact when so many other aristocratic heads were rolling.”
“No doubt because he is willing to do a deal with Satan if it suits his purpose.” Henning made a face. “He’s an unprincipled rogue, a self-serving opportunist. Why, in France, he’s called le Diable Boiteux—the lame devil, and not just on account of his deformed foot. It’s well known he betrayed Napoleon’s secrets to the Russians and the Austrians in ’08.”
She frowned.
“Claiming that he had become disillusioned with the Emperor’s unrelenting wars,” Saybrook pointed out.
The surgeon made a rude sound.
The talk of international intrigue was making Arianna’s head spin. Was the world naught but ever-twining concentric circles of lies and betrayals?
“Let me see if I understand what you’ve both just said,” she said slowly. “It seems we’ve now established that no matter who he works for, Renard is a threat to England. But why assume that he is in league with Talleyrand?”
“You are right—it’s pure speculation. But there is solid reason on which to base it. Talleyrand is a master conniver. Although he represents the newly restored French King at the Peace Conference, you can be sure that he will be working on pushing his own personal agenda,” said Saybrook. “And God only knows what that is.”
“If Talleyrand means to deceive yet another master, then the presence of a Royalist minion like Rochemont in Vienna might be a nuisance,” Henning observed. “However, as you say, all this is mere conjecture. At this point, we are merely spinning in circles.”
“Which brings us back to the question of Charles,” said Arianna reluctantly.
Her husband seemed to retreat even deeper into his personal shadows.
“Are you going to tell him that Kydd has betrayed his trust? Or do you mean to keep him in the dark?”
Henning seemed intent on playing the devil’s advocate. “If there has been a betrayal, I’ll allow that what we’ve come up with makes the most sense. However, I still say it’s not impossible that Grentham has orchestrated all of this. He knows Kydd is your uncle’s protégé. Perhaps the young man is being sacrificed along with Mellon. The minister may well view them as mere pawns, to be swept aside in order to put Sandro in checkmate.”
“That would require a cold-blooded ruthlessness rivaling that of Attila the Hun,” remarked Saybrook.
“You think Grentham is all sweetness and light?” asked Henning sarcastically.
“No.” Saybrook began to sketch a doodle on his notepaper. “But nor do I think he is a twisted monster who has become obsessed with personal vengeance.”
Henning’s response was a bristly silence.
“Be it an elaborate trap or a carefully constructed plan to destroy England’s political power, whoever has designed this diabolical plan is an enemy we all should fear,” said Arianna.
Her gaze fell on the earl’s paper, where his pencil was just finishing the outlines of a fox. “Is it Grentham or Renard ?” she went on. “I don’t know, but it’s my opinion that whoever it is, we’ve already faced off against him once, and were lucky to escape with our lives.”
The surgeon waited for Saybrook to speak, but his only reaction was to start another drawing. This one was of a serpent.
“Grentham or Renard,” repeated Henning. “Choose your poison.” A scowl pinched at his features. “If it’s not our minister, I would wager it’s Talleyrand who is behind this—there’s a good reason Napoleon now calls him shite in silk stockings.”
“I would tend to agree,” said Saybrook, still intent on his artwork. He lapsed into a long moment of thought, drawing in a wicked set of curving fangs before going on.
“And it makes some sense when you think about the would-be assassin. My guess would be that the French Guardsman was simply a starving ex-soldier, hired because of his elite credentials to kill or wound me so that the conspirators could get the book back.”
Arianna looked at Henning, waiting for his reaction.
“Or, much as we both give little credence to the concept, it could be coincidence,” the earl went on. “The shooting may have been arranged by a jealous husband who has been cuckolded by Rochemont.”
“Dio Madre!” exclaimed Arianna. “We could keep turning in circles, tying ourselves in knots. But the fact is, we can’t afford to do that. We must decide on a direction and move forward.”
“A pragmatic assessment, Lady S.” The surgeon cocked his head. “So, laddie, what do you intend to do?”
Choices. Choices.
Arianna shot an involuntary glance at the coals in the hearth.
Saybrook finally looked up. “I plan to take the documents and what I have learned from them to the proper authorities.”
“You are sure about this?”
“I don’t see that I have the luxury of pondering over the choice of moral imperatives. The clock is ticking and we are in a race to see that the newly won peace in Europe doesn’t explode in our faces.”