12 ounces 70 percent dark chocolate, chopped, or 12 ounces semisweet chocolate, chopped
1 14-ounce can condensed milk
Pinch salt
1 cup shelled pistachios
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.
Arianna 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.
Highborn ladies do not soil their dainty little hands with manual labor.
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.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
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.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
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.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
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 champignons?” 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.
Silence.
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.
Humming a cheerful Bach fugue, Arianna began gathering up her projects. There was Dona Maria’s journal, with its deucedly difficult German script to decipher—not to speak of measurements and ingredients that sounded even more foreign. Without a kitchen close by for constant experimenting . . .
Huffing a sigh, Arianna set the notebook aside in favor of starting with a simpler task.
Coward, she chided herself.
But she quickly assuaged all twinges of guilt by reminding herself that tomorrow was Saybrook’s birthday, so it made sense to take advantage of his absence and wrap his gift now.
Perhaps the magnificent engravings of the cacao fruit would help assuage whatever ill was plaguing him, she mused. Chocolate was, after all, considered to have potent medicinal benefits. Even Saybrook’s good friend Basil Henning, the highly skeptical Scottish surgeon, conceded that its effects on both body and spirit were intriguing.
Taking up her purchase from the rare book shop, as well as a colorful pasteboard box, scissors and ribbon, she carried them to the escritoire.
Once the brown paper wrapping had been stripped off the leather-bound volume, Arianna paused to once again admire the exquisite detail and subtle hues of the colored illustrations. They were truly lovely works of art, and she looked forward to seeing Saybrook’s expression when he opened the cover—
Her own face suddenly fell as her fingers touched upon the inside of the back binding. A corner of the marbled end paper had come loose.
“Damnation,” she muttered under her breath. It must have been snagged during the scuffle.
Setting the book down on the blotter, she angled it to the light and smoothed at the rough edge. The damage appeared to be minor, so perhaps if she could find a glue pot in the marquess’s library . . .
How odd.
There seemed to be a bulge beneath the decorative paper. She took a moment to check the front cover.
Yes, yes, there is a distinct difference.
Frowning, Arianna fetched Saybrook’s silver book knife from the adjoining room. Sliding the slim blade into the opening, she ever so gently worked it up and down.
A bit more of the paper popped up.
Sure enough, she could now see that several sheets of folded paper had been tucked inside the binding. Slowly, slowly, she eased the sharpened metal down the edge of the marbling, loosening the glue. When finally the gap seemed big enough, she gingerly extracted the hidden papers.
Secret chocolate recipes? A smile tweaked on her lips. Oh, wouldn’t that be a delicious discovery. Or perhaps it was a pirate map, with a skull and crossbones marking buried plunder. Or . . .
Or perhaps I should stop reading Mrs. Radcliffe’s horrid novels.
The reality would likely prove much more mundane. A packing list, a notation of expenses, tucked away for safekeeping during a trip.
A faint crackling teased at her fingertips as she unfolded the sheets. There were three in all—two were grouped together, while the third was on its own. Sitting back, she skimmed over them quickly.
“Oh, bloody hell.”
Arianna closed her eyes for an instant, and then read them again. “Bloody, bloody hell.”
Like the hapless grouse flushed into flight on the moors, all notions of a peaceful country interlude had just been blasted to flinders.
Saybrook crossed the clearing in a flash and darted into a stand of oaks. Pressing up against a gnarled trunk, he held his breath and peered into the gloom, looking and listening for any sign of movement within the grove.
He detected nothing, save for the silent, shifting shadows. The air was very still, the earthy musk of damp decay tinged with lingering traces of burnt gunpowder. The earl waited a moment longer before heading deeper into the trees.
Leaves crunched softly beneath his boots, punctuating the whispery brush of the pine boughs against his coat. He stopped every few steps and listened for footfalls up ahead, but heard only the distant cackle of a raven and muffled cracks of gunfire out on grouse moor.
“Damn.” After surveying the tangle of underbrush and the dense thickets ahead, he swore again.
“Sandro?”
“Over here, Charles,” he answered. As Mellon crashed through the brambles, the earl added an exasperated warning. “For God’s sake, man, try not to rouse the dead.”
“Sorry.” Mellon stumbled up beside him, gasping for breath. He had lost his hat and his normally impeccably groomed hair was standing on end. “I haven’t as much experience in this sort of thing as you do.”
“Which is exactly why I ordered you to stay where you were,” snapped Saybrook.
“What the devil is going on?” Mellon’s expression pinched in shock. “Christ Almighty, you’ve been shot!”
The earl touched his shoulder. “It’s naught but a scratch.”
“It is hard to believe a poacher would be so bold—or stupid—to be shooting with our party close by.”
“It wasn’t a poacher, Charles. A poacher would not possess a rifle,” replied Saybrook grimly. “Such a weapon is very expensive.”
“H-how do you know it was a rifle?”
“The sound. It’s quite different from that of a musket.”
“But who . . . ?” Mellon left the rest of the question unsaid.
“I haven’t a clue.” The earl swung his gaze back to the forest. “And there’s no point in trying to chase after the fellow. He’ll have no trouble losing himself in the forest.”
Mellon blinked, suddenly noting the blade in Saybrook’s hand. “You were going after the fellow armed with naught but a knife?”
“As you say, I am experienced in warfare.” He shifted his grip on the hilt. “You, on the other hand, have no such excuse.”
“I couldn’t very well let you charge off into danger on your own,” muttered Mellon.
“We’ll argue the fine points of battlefield strategy later,” said Saybrook. “Come, let us return to the hunt.”
But as he edged back to let his uncle go first, his eyes narrowed. “A moment,” he murmured, angling another look through the overhanging leaves. Several quick strides took him over a fallen tree and through a screen of young pines. An outcropping of weathered granite rose up from the center of a tiny clearing. It was the spattering of bright crimson on the gunmetal gray stone that had first caught the earl’s gaze. However, as he came closer, he saw what had caused it.
Crouching down, Saybrook placed a finger on the side of the man’s slashed throat. “No pulse,” he murmured as Mellon came up behind him. “But the flesh is still warm.”
Mellon closed his eyes and, repressing a gag, quickly looked away. “Why would someone deliberately shoot at you?” he croaked, once he had recovered his voice. “Have you been stirring up any trouble?”
“Not that I know of.” Saybrook sat back on his heels. “And yet, trouble seems intent on rearing its ugly head.” Expelling a grunt, the earl went on to explain about seeing a man sneak into the woods just before the shot.
“And you didn’t recognize the fellow?”
Saybrook shook his head. “No, but I’m certain this is not him. The man I saw was dressed like a member of our shooting party, in heavy woolens and a broad-brimmed hat.” He felt inside the corpse’s moleskin jacket, and then made a check of the pockets. “There’s nothing that might help identify him.”
Mellon nudged the short-barreled gun lying half buried in the russet needles. “You were right about the rifle.”
“Yes.” The earl checked the firing mechanism and frowned. “And it’s equipped with the latest mercury fulminate percussion caps.” Flicking away a grain of gunpowder, he looked up at his uncle. “A design that is only available to our elite military regiments.”
“Christ Almighty,” whispered Mellon. “I fear something very sinister is afoot here.”
“As do I, Charles. As do I.” Thinning his lips, the earl wiped a bloody hand on his breeches. “You know, it might not have been me that the shooter was aiming at. Rochemont was right in the line of fire as well.” He paused. “Is there any reason our government might be unhappy with the French émigré community in London? Rochemont is one of its leaders, and while they were a useful wartime ally, now that the monarchy has been restored to France, their loyalty will lie with a foreign sovereign and a foreign country.” A pause. “So perhaps they are no longer viewed as a friend.”
Shouts rose from the edge of the grove before his uncle could answer.
“I sent our ghillie to raise the alarm,” explained Mellon. He stood and called an answer to the group.
A few moments later, a half dozen of their party were milling around the macabre scene, their shocked murmurs underscoring the agitated whine of the bird dog.
“Good God, what happened?” demanded a pale-faced Enqvist.
Mellon lifted his shoulders. “Someone shot at Lord Saybrook. We gave chase”—he shuddered—“and stumbled upon this.”
“The devil take it, you’re wounded, Saybrook!” exclaimed Bellis, one of Mellon’s associates in the Foreign Ministry.
All eyes fixed on the dark stain spreading over the torn fabric of his coat.
“The bullet merely grazed me,” replied the earl.
“I can’t say that I blame you for slitting the cur’s throat,” muttered Bellis, casting a look at the knife in Saybrook’s hand.
“No, no—Saybrook didn’t kill him,” protested Mellon. “As I said, we found the fellow with his throat already cut.”
One of the men coughed. Several shuffled their feet.
“We’ll need to bring the body back to the manor house,” said Bellis. “The local magistrate will have to be summoned and an inquest arranged, seeing as there’s been a violent death.”
Mellon gave a brusque wave to the ghillie. “Go, man, and bring back the cart, along with a few of your sturdiest fellows.”
“Aye, sir.”
The servant hurried away, and the others slowly followed.
Saybrook rose and carefully slid his blade back into his boot. When he looked up, it was to find Grentham watching him, a scimitar smile curled on his mouth.
“Tut, tut. You’re getting a little careless, Saybrook,” mocked the minister. “The last two times a man ended up dead from a knife wound, you made sure that no witnesses caught you at the scene red-handed.”
The earl’s expression remained impassive.
“If you recall, I did warn you to watch your step.” Grentham dropped his voice to a whisper as he brushed by. “But it seems you have slipped. And now you and your sharp-tongued wife have nothing to barter. You are on your own.”