The Cocoa Conspiracy

2¼ cups all-purpose flour
1 tsp. baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
1½ cups white sugar
3 tablespoons honey
2 eggs
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
2 cups bittersweet chocolate chips, or chopped bittersweet
chocolate

2. In a large mixing bowl, cream together the butter, sugar, honey, eggs and vanilla; gradually add the dry ingredients until a dough forms. Stir in the chocolate.

3. Drop 1-tablespoon portions of dough onto cookie sheets lined with parchment paper; bake for 8–9 minutes, rotating the cookie sheets after 5 minutes. Cool on a wire rack.

The brick warming her feet had gone cold and the blankets had slipped as the coach lumbered through a tight turn in the downward-spiraling road. Would her body ever be the same? Arianna shifted on the seat, trying to find a comfortable position. Every bone and bit of flesh felt bruised from the bumps.

They traveled hard, pushing at a bruising pace through France and across the Alps. The snowcapped peaks, rising majestically against a brilliant blue sky, had taken her breath away. She had never seen anything like it.

“This second coded letter is proving devilishly difficult to decipher,” muttered Saybrook, setting aside his notebooks with a sigh. “If you can tear your gaze away from the scenery, perhaps we should go over a few things, now that we are getting close to Vienna.”

Despite the chill, her skin began to tingle. “Tell me more about the main people we are going to encounter. The ones who are likely involved in the conspiracy, unwittingly or not.” The names were of course familiar, but she wished to commit the details about their strengths and weaknesses to memory.

“Let’s start with our prime suspect,” said Saybrook. “Ah, but where to begin with Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord?” The earl pursed his lips. “Some of this you already know, but it bears repeating.”

“He was born the eldest son of an ancient aristocratic family, but because of a lame leg, he was pushed into a Church career while his younger brother was anointed the heir of the family. Through the influence of his relatives, he rose to become a bishop, even though his faith was, shall we say, lax. Indeed, he quickly established a reputation for wit and charm in the drawing rooms of Paris—along with an appetite for fine wine, sumptuous cuisine and beautiful women.”

“Hardly. A cat, perhaps, seeing as he appears to have nine lives. But most of all, he is the consummate diplomat—a master of manipulation, though to give the devil his due, he’s a brilliant statesman, and his views on world politics have much to admire.”

“Very,” agreed Saybrook. “To say he is clever and conniving is an understatement. You have only to look at his career to see he has an uncanny instinct for survival. Through the influence of friends and his own natural abilities, he managed to serve as a trusted advisor to the Ancien Régime, the Revolutionary fanatics, Napoleon and now the restored French monarchy.”

“Aside from pleasure and plumping his own purse?” Saybrook shrugged. “God only knows. It’s well known that Talleyrand lined his pockets with bribes throughout his career—not to speak of his double dealing with the Russian Tsar in ’08.” He blew out his cheeks. “I think we can assume that for the Prince—in 1806 the Emperor granted Talleyrand the title of Prince of Benevento as a reward for his services—his own personal objectives are sovereign.”

Arianna took a moment to consider all she had heard. Talleyrand was cold, calculating. In her past life she had matched wits with many clever, unscrupulous men, but the thought of facing off against the Prince of Benevento sent a shiver snaking down her spine.

“A formidable opponent,” she repeated. “It’s hard to imagine that anyone else is orchestrating this plot.” Carefully keeping her eyes on the passing mountain landscape, she added, “Now, tell me about the others.”

Saybrook thumbed through the pages of his notebook. “Prince Metternich, the Austrian Foreign minister, is equally astute in the art of political negotiations. For the last decade, he has, by all accounts, been remarkably good at protecting Austria’s interests despite its daunting military defeats. And like Talleyrand, he’s known for his charm and smooth social graces.” A pause. “He also shares the Frenchman’s taste for seducing women.”

“I may have to return to my old habit of wearing a knife strapped to my leg in order to defend my honor,” said Arianna lightly.

“It might be a wise idea.” Her husband did not crack a smile. “Arianna, these men are used to getting what they want. Yes, they prefer to use charm, but don’t be deceived that they will graciously take no for an answer.”

For a long moment, the only sound inside the coach was the clatter of the iron-rimmed wheels over the flinty rocks.

The hazy half light seemed to accentuate his troubled scowl. “I have every respect for your formidable skills, my dear. And yet, I cannot forget that without my intervention, they would not have protected you from a horrible death.”

“We have gone over all of this. I understand and accept the risks, Sandro,” Arianna reminded him. “What else should I know about Metternich?”

He hesitated, and then gave in with a grudging sigh. “At the upcoming congress, he will be intent on creating order and stability on the Continent. He’s enough of a realist to realize that means peace with France, so he will be open to Talleyrand’s ideas. My guess is he’s more concerned with the mercurial Tsar of Russia, who looms as a large and unpredictable power to his east.”

“I see,” she said. “And Alexander? Is he really as bad as the picture painted in the English press?” The Tsar had recently paid a visit to London, and had earned scathing criticism for his arrogance and boorish manners.

“The Tsar is a complex person,” replied Saybrook. “He’s a strange mixture of conflicting characteristics. He was greatly influenced by his grandmother, Catherine the Great, who had him tutored in the liberal ideals of the Enlightenment. After coming to the throne, he championed the idea of sweeping social reform in Russia. But as of yet, little change has really happened. A part of him is very autocratic and intolerant of criticism. He has a mystical side—some would call it messianic—and believes that God has chosen him to be a spiritual leader.”

“Men like that are . . . dangerous,” she mused. “Are the reports of his amorous exploits true?” Gossip about the Tsar’s rapacious pursuit of women had been a popular subject in London during his recent visit to England.

“Alexander wants to feel loved,” answered Saybrook somewhat obliquely. “He flirts shamelessly and seems to feel that a woman’s physical surrender is an affirmation of his worth.”

An astute assessment. The earl was a dispassionate judge of character, an ability that sometimes left her feeling a little uncomfortable.

Tucking the fur-lined carriage blanket around her middle, Arianna leaned back against the squabs. It was, she decided, a question best left unspoken.

“I hear he is called the Angel,” she said, affecting an air of nonchalance to hide her uncertainty. “Is he handsome? I only caught a glimpse of him from afar when he was in Town, so it was hard for me to judge.”

“In his youth, he was considered ethereally attractive.” Saybrook’s expression finally betrayed a hint of humor. “But of late, he has been partying so hard that it is said he has put on a good deal of weight, so that a messenger had to be dispatched back to Moscow for a new set of uniforms.”

“Ah—a glutton for pleasure? Perhaps I can ply him with chocolate and coax some useful tidbits of information out of him.”

“Perhaps.” He turned pensive. “He and Talleyrand were close in the past, so it’s possible that he is in some way involved in this intrigue. However”—he ran a hand along the line of his jaw—“I think that we will find Talleyrand at the heart of this conspiracy. Of all the men coming to Vienna, he is the one to fear most.”

She shifted against the squabs and brushed a palm over the fogged window glass. “Vienna,” she murmured softly, now wide-awake as they rolled over the majestic stone bridge spanning the Danube River. The currents swirled, quicksilver flickers of sunlight dancing across the dark water.

“ ‘The haunt of the Hapsburgs is famous for its parks,’ ” read Saybrook, quoting a passage from the guidebook they had purchased in London. “According to this, we should be passing the Augarten at any moment.”

The coach lumbered past a vast swath of Baroque gardens, formal lawns and shaded walkways. “ ‘The flowering landscape is designed in the French style,’ ” Saybrook continued. “ ‘And its avenues are lined with stately chestnut, lime, ash and maple trees. Within the grounds are dining and dance halls for the public, as well as a grand palace.’ ”

The earl seemed to be enjoying his role as tour guide. As they rolled toward the center of the city, he thumbed to a new section in the book. “The walls of the old medieval town were said to have been built with ransom money from Richard the Lionheart.”

“Look up and you will see St. Stephen’s Cathedral.” Saybrook pointed out the soaring limestone cathedral with its Romanesque towers and intricately patterned tile roof. “Its main bell is one of the largest in Europe and was cast out of cannons captured from the Muslim invaders in 1711.”

Arianna still felt a little like a wide-eyed child as she looked out at the elegant storefronts and the streets crowded with wealthy merchants and regal aristocrats. “Is every royal in Europe here?” she asked, watching a procession of gilded carriages drawn by prancing horses.

“We are headed to our rooms now—not that we will have much time to recover from the rigors of travel,” apologized her husband. “We are invited to attend a soiree tonight given by our British envoy, and I think it best we begin work without delay.”

“Let us hope that we are allowed a few hours of respite from time to time.” She yawned again. “A splash of cold water and I shall be ready to hunt a fox.”

“The party is being held at Lord Castlereagh’s residence on the Minoritenplatz, which is close by,” said Saybrook, as he stepped into Arianna’s dressing room an hour later. “The evening should end early, for Her Ladyship’s entertainments are thought to be rather dull.”

“I would probably doze through a performance of whirling dervishes,” admitted Arianna. She arched her neck, so her maid could thread a seeding of pearls through the topknot of curls. “Gracias, Theresa. And thanks to you and Juan for putting our quarters in such perfect order so quickly.”

“The entertainment will not be nearly so lively,” said Saybrook as he moved through the candlelight to perch a hip on the edge of the dressing table. “There will be no dancing. For Castlereagh, conversation is the center of attention, which is why we are going out of our way to make an appearance.”

Her quip drew a faint smile. “Not only is it polite to pay our respects, but hearing the latest gossip will give us a good idea of the lay of the land, so to speak.” Flexing his shoulders, he rose. “Are you ready to go down to the carriage ?”

It was only a short journey through the smoke-scented night to the residence of Lord Castlereagh, the head of the British delegation.

“Ah, Saybrook. I wasn’t aware that you and your lovely wife had arrived.” Castlereagh greeted them with a polite nod. “I trust that your uncle is well?”

“Tell him that there is an old saying . . . Be careful what you wish for.” Castlereagh quirked a slight grimace after bowing over Arianna’s hand. “I fear that the talks are going to drag on far longer than anyone anticipated, and to what end, I would not hazard to guess.”

“Be grateful that you have come to enjoy the splendid cultural treasures of the city, rather than be mired in the mud of international politics. But I won’t rattle on about such boring matters—Mellon assures me that you have no interest in diplomatic wranglings.” Castlereagh gestured discreetly to a lady standing by the tea table. “My wife will be happy to introduce Lady Saybrook to her friends while I take you to meet some of my fellow diplomats. Several of them share your interests. Von Humbolt is here, and as you know, he is a serious scholar . . .”

It was nearly an hour before Arianna could gracefully withdraw from the circle of chattering ladies and join Saybrook in perusing a set of botanical prints hung by the side parlor.

“Did you know that the Countess of Sagan is called the Cleopatra of the North?” she murmured, accepting a glass of Tokay wine from one of the passing footmen. “And her rival, Princess Bagration, is known as the Beautiful Naked Angel because she wears only low-cut white dresses made of thin India muslin.”

“You see what a font of interesting information these parties provide,” he replied with a cynical smile. “Both ladies are vying to establish themselves as the reigning hostess here. They look to attract the most influential men and then parlay that power into gaining their own objectives.”

“In that they are no different than the opposite sex. The male leaders have come here to preen and prance around in their bejeweled and bemedaled finery, hoping to forge alliances and trade favors,” Arianna pointed out.

“True. The ladies simply negotiate without the formality of written treaties, but are no less skilled at getting what they want.” The earl assumed an expression of cynical detachment. “The countess and the princess both reside at the Palm Palace, so word is that people will be watching with great interest to see who turns left and who turns right when entering the courtyard.”

Arianna touched the rim of the faceted crystal to her lips. “And then there is Anna Protassoff, who allegedly served as the ‘tester’ for the guardsmen whom Catherine the Great chose for her bedmates.” She made a wry face. “Perhaps that explains why the Tsar has such an appetite for sex—he must have inherited his grandmother’s lust along with her throne.”

“Do you know how Catherine the Great is supposed to have died?” asked Saybrook. “The rumors involve a horse, a scaffolding and . . .”

He stopped abruptly as one of the English diplomats and his wife joined them in the alcove. “My dear, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Repton and his wife. They are friends of Charles and Eleanor.”

“How delightful to meet you at last, Lady Saybrook,” said Mrs. Repton. She flashed a smile, though her tone implied a faint criticism. “La, I was beginning to wonder if you were merely a will-o’-the-wisp.”

“Oh, well, it is not quiet here!” Mrs. Repton assured, ignoring her husband’s warning cough. “There are parties every night—balls, musicales, soirees! It’s so hard to choose, though often we attend two or three.”

The other lady took it as a cue to elaborate. “You must be sure to visit the salons of Lady Sagan and Princess Bagration.” Mrs. Repton lowered her voice a notch. “Both ladies are reputed to have slept with Prince Metternich. Of late, however, the Tsar of Russia is said to be pursuing the princess.”

His wife went on, oblivious to the hint. “Everyone is betting on how long it will take for him to slip between her sheets,” she confided. “The men are equally outrageous . . .”

Arianna listened politely. Cluck, cluck, cluck—the lady was a hen-witted goose. But as Saybrook said, gossip could be very useful, and clearly Mrs. Repton liked to gabble.

“It is hard to imagine how anything serious is supposed to be accomplished here,” she remarked, when the descriptions finally came to an end. “It seems that all people are thinking about is drinking, dining and dancing one’s latest lover into bed.”

Mrs. Repton gave a titter of laughter. “Oh, it is quite shocking all the things that go on.” She clicked open her fan and cooled her cheeks. “Now, allow me to offer a bit of guidance on where to go in order to see and be seen. Lord Castlereagh holds this soiree every Tuesday evening, so you must be sure to stop by.”

“Monday is Metternich’s night,” offered Repton. “And of course Friday belongs to the Duchess of Sagan and her rival across the courtyard. As for the other evenings, there is no lack of entertainment, but I daresay you will discover that for yourselves.”

“Oh, do be sure to visit the Apollo Saal.” Lady Repton clearly considered herself a font of knowledge on Viennese life. “You can waltz all night in the indoor gardens, which are decorated with faux stones and fairy tale grottos.”

“Thank you,” replied Saybrook. “Now if you will excuse us, we should probably be taking our leave. We are tired from traveling and wish to be rested for the Emperor’s ball tomorrow night.”

“Oh, that is definitely an evening not to be missed,” exclaimed Lady Repton. “It is said that the state dinner will include three hundred hams, two hundred partridges and two hundred pigeons, not to speak of three thousand liters of olla soup.”

The mention of food set Arianna’s stomach to growling. “I have heard that the Viennese appreciate fine food.”

“It’s tolerable, though they don’t know how to cook a proper joint of beef,” answered Mrs. Repton with a slight sniff. “For a special treat, you must try to garner an invitation to one of the French Minister’s dinners. He has brought the renowned chef, Monsieur Carême, with him from Paris to serve as his personal cook. Word is, the banquets are sumptuous—especially the pastries.”

“Talleyrand is a connoisseur of decadent pleasures,” said Repton, his face tight with disapproval. “And if we aren’t careful, he will gobble up power and influence that rightly belong to Britain.” He made a face. “After all, we were the victors, and he served the Corsican Monster.”

“I am sure that our government will be keeping a close eye on the French,” replied Saybrook. “And that it will be vigilant in defending all that was won on the field of battle from diplomatic intrigue.”

“Well said, sir. Well said,” enthused Repton. “Your noble military record is well known. It’s a pity that your uncle could not have convinced you to follow in his diplomatic footsteps. Whitehall could use more men like you.”

“A man of action, no doubt.” Repton signaled for a footman to refill his wine. “Ha—too bad there are no wars left to wage.”

Arianna watched his soft, fleshy hands cup the glass. Oh, how easy it was to spout such sentiments when you have never smelled the throat-choking stench of fear, of blood, of death.

“There are always battles to fight,” said Saybrook softly. “But I, for one, am not unhappy that words are the weapons of choice these days.”

Without further ado, the earl bid their new acquaintances’ adieu, and wasted no time in escorting Arianna out to the stairway.

“I would rather that the Almighty help us with a far more dangerous threat,” remarked Arianna. “However unwittingly, his wife was actually of some help tonight.” As she drew in a breath, she could almost taste a hint of sugar wafting in the smoke-scented air. “A connoisseur of cuisine with a fondness for sweets . . . I think we must contrive to meet Monsieur le Prince Talleyrand without delay.”

“That shouldn’t prove difficult,” said Saybrook. “Castlereagh just informed me that your other admirer, Comte Rochemont, is residing at the Kaunitz Palace as part of the French delegation. His family connections with the restored French King accord him such rank and privileges, though Talleyrand is not overly pleased with the arrangement.”

“However, it suits our needs perfectly,” she replied. “I see that I will have to encourage the attentions of both Rochemont and Kydd.” Even though there is an old adage about burning the candle at both ends. “And yet, I must take care not to ignite a rivalry between them.”

“On the contrary,” said her husband. “Jealousy will likely work in our favor. A man vying for the attentions of a beautiful woman will often allow passion to overrule reason.”

Saybrook’s expression betrayed no emotion. Cool. Calm. Controlled. She had never met anyone so in command of his feelings. The only hint that he was not so detached was the slow, silent flick of his lashes, shadowy specters of black obscuring his chocolate-dark eyes.

“I shall do my best not to embarrass you by stirring talk of my scandalous flirtations,” said Arianna slowly. “An unhappy wife, seeking amusements elsewhere—”

“Is nothing out of the ordinary,” he interrupted. “Dalliances are de rigueur for the ton. Any speculation on your amorous activities will be lost in all the gossip about the royal transgressions.”

“Let us pray it stays that way.” Saybrook took her arm—possessively, or so it seemed. “The less our unknown adversary has reason to turn his eye on you, the better.”