The Cocoa Conspiracy (12 page)

“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.

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.

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.”