The Cocoa Conspiracy (33 page)

“Can I help?”

“I don’t know.” His temper sounded dangerously frayed.

Arianna was about to retort when all of a sudden, she spotted the uncertainty in his eyes.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Sandro,” she whispered as Henning bid them good night and headed off to the spare bedchamber on the floor above.

“Ah, yes—it’s only a matter of life and death,” he replied, his voice sharp with sarcasm. Unknotting his cravat, he tugged it off and tossed it onto the sofa. “Sorry,” he muttered after expelling a low oath. “This whole damnable mission has me feeling as if I am dancing on a razor’s edge.”

“While playing blind man’s bluff,” she added.

A ghost of a smile flitted over his lips. “With two grenades in my outstretched hands, the fuses cut short to explode at any moment.”

“Is that all?” She waggled a brow. “And here I thought you were trying to do something difficult.”

He laughed.

“Come, get some rest.”

“I will.” His gaze had already slipped down to the papers. “I’ll just be a little while longer.”

 

Arianna woke several hours later, her mind too restless to sleep any longer despite the bone deep fatigue of her body. A hazy gray glow had begun to lighten the horizon. Clouds hung low in the pewter skies, heavy with the promise of rain.

Stifling a yawn, she pulled on her wrapper and padded out to the parlor.

The candles had burned out and in the murky shadows, she saw that Saybrook had fallen asleep in his chair. Tiptoeing across the carpet, she stood over his chair and watched the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

“Sandro.” The word was a whisper that barely stirred the air. She pressed a palm lightly to his unshaven cheek, feeling the rough stubbling of his skin, the faint thud of his heart. Shadows, dark as charcoal, hung in half moon smudges beneath his closed eyes, and the hollows in his cheeks made his face look even leaner.

When Arianna had first met her husband, he had been thin as a cadaver and living on a diet of laudanum—a pernicious mix of liquid opium and precious little else. It was a wonder that he had survived the dangerous web of intrigue that had first drawn them together.

Grentham . . .

No, she would not think of Grentham. The tangle of deceptions and betrayals was twisted enough here in Vienna. If the threads, once unknotted, eventually led back to the inner sanctum of Whitehall, they would deal with that when the time came.

Slipping the coded papers out from beneath Saybrook’s sleep-slack fingers, Arianna carried them over to the desk.

“Patterns, patterns,” she murmured to herself, feeling a bittersweet smile tug at her lips on recalling her late father’s admonitions.

See the patterns and you see the logic, poppet,
he would always say.
Then it’s simple to solve the problem.

Oh, what a sad disappointment she must have been for him. Here he had passed on his gift for mathematics, only to have his own flesh and blood refuse to join him in a business partnership of manipulating numbers into profits.

Resolutely setting aside such distracting thoughts, Arianna smoothed out the two coded sheets. The past could not be changed, but the future lay here under her gaze, waiting, waiting.

Waiting for a look to unlock its secrets.

She began counting the frequency of individual letters within the seemingly meaningless string of gibberish. As Saybrook had pointed out, having two examples should increase the chances of cracking the encryption.

Her pencil point tapped against the blank sheet of foolscap she had set between the two coded messages.
Tap. Tap.
For the next hour she worked in methodical silence, save for an occasional tap, drawing up grids and testing her hunches.

Damnation.
Frowning in frustration, she sat back for a moment to rub at the crick in her neck. If only the letters were numbers, she thought. Equations seemed so much more straightforward.

“Speak to me,” she crooned, hoping to coax some stirring of inspiration from her own muzzy brain.

A tiny draft curled through the window casement and tugged at the corner of the paper she had found in the chocolate book. Arianna was about to press it back in place when another gust lifted it higher and a ray of early morning light skimmed across the page.

The wind blew again, and the paper fluttered anew, forming a soft, creamy curve that brought to mind the shape of a ship’s sail.
A bizarre flight of fancy, stirred by fatigue ?
Arianna wasn’t sure why the momentary image triggered a sudden thought.

She closed her eyes and pictured Rochemont’s desk. The polished pear wood . . . the fancy pens . . . the crystal inkwell . . . the single leather-bound volume prominently positioned on the leather blotter.

The Corsair.
A wildly romantic poem by Lord Byron.

She had thought it odd, for Rochemont didn’t seem the type of man who read poetry. And yet, the ribbon bookmark had been set at a certain page of Canto II, and a word in one of the stanzas had been underlined with several bold slashes.

It had stuck in her mind because it had seemed such a strange choice to highlight.

“Demons,” she murmured aloud.

At the sound, a prickling of gooseflesh raced down her arms.

No, the idea was absurd—a figment of an overwrought imagination.

But as Arianna tried to dismiss it, a niggling little voice in her head reminded her that Sandro always stressed the importance of intuition. Trusting a hunch was key to solving conundrums.

With rising excitement, she pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and quickly drew in a rough Vigenère Square. Using “Demons” as the key word, she worked through the conversions. It was a slow, tedious process, but when she was done, the result was no longer gibberish.

After checking and rechecking, Arianna was sure she hadn’t made a mistake.

Setting down her pencil, she hurried over to give his shoulder a shake.

“Sandro, wake up! I have something to show you.”

1. Heat oven to 350°. Grease a 9-inch x 13-inch baking pan with butter and line with parchment paper ; grease paper. Set pan aside.

2. Pour enough water into a 4-quart saucepan that it reaches a depth of 1 inch. Bring to a boil; reduce heat to low. Combine butter and chocolate in a medium bowl; set bowl over saucepan. Cook, stirring, until melted and smooth, about 5 minutes. Remove from heat; set aside.

3. Whisk together eggs in a large bowl. Add sugar, brown sugar, vanilla and salt; whisk to combine. Stir in chocolate mixture; fold in flour. Pour batter into prepared pan; spread evenly. Bake until a toothpick inserted into center comes out clean, 30–35 minutes. Let cool on a rack. Cut and serve.

H
enning let out a low whistle as he read over the deciphered messages. “The two of you make a formidable team.”

“It was Arianna who came up with the solution,” said Saybrook. “I merely helped her apply it to working out the second message.” He gave a wry smile. “Though I suppose that I deserve some credit for knowing she would be brilliant at this.”

“Let us not start celebrating quite yet,” she cautioned. “We can’t forget that while we have worked out the text of the actual messages, we have yet to figure out what it all means.”

Henning grunted in assent. “Aye, it’s still cryptic.” He pursed his lips in a wry grimace. “We had better order up a big breakfast, seeing as you claim to think better on a full stomach.”

Arianna suddenly found herself craving a steaming cup of coffee and hot muffins studded with chunks of sweet chocolate. “I’ve a better idea. Let us go down to the kitchen, and I’ll tell Theresa that I will take charge of the cooking.” Given the need for secrecy and security concerning their activities, they had brought their own trusted household servants with them to Vienna. “The aroma of sugar and spices is an added stimulant to my brain.”

“Far be it from me to object,” said the surgeon, patting his bony ribs. “Your shirred eggs with peppered cheese are ambrosial.”

“I’m hungry too . . .” Saybrook gathered up the papers. “For a solution.”

“I shall try to serve up some inspiration,” she quipped.

A short while later, the sound of the kettle whistling on the hob punctuated the sizzling of butter in the frying pan. Platters of sausages and fresh fruit, freshly baked rolls, and steaming pots of cinnamon-scented chocolate and rich, dark coffee crowded the work table.

“Delicious,” murmured Henning, forking up another mouthful of
omelette aux champignons
.

Saybrook pushed back his plate, and cleared a place for his papers. “Try to devote an equal amount of enthusiasm to the problem at hand, Baz.”

“I’m chewing over the possibilities, laddie,” retorted the surgeon. “Read us the messages again.”

The earl picked up Arianna’s transcription. “The one that was hidden in the chocolate book reads, ‘
K’s use to us will end in Vienna. Too risky to allow him to return to England. Removing the pawn from the board must be your first move.
’ ”

“So Kydd’s death was planned from the start,” mused Arianna. “I confess, I feel a bit better knowing that I was not the cause. I know he was a traitor, but I’m sorry he was murdered. He wasn’t evil, merely misguided. Men far more devious than him manipulated his passions to their own advantage.”

Saybrook’s jaw tightened for an instant and then released. “Nonetheless, he would have hanged for his betrayal.”

“There is one thing that I’ve been wondering about the messages hidden in the chocolate book,” said Arianna. “Wouldn’t it have set off alarm bells that they didn’t reach Vienna.”

“Not necessarily,” replied her husband. “It’s always assumed that some of the messages won’t make it through. Davilenko was likely just one of several couriers. I would imagine that copies of the document stolen from Charles, along with duplicates of the coded notes, were dispatched with other carriers. And much as I hate to give the devil his due, Grentham arranged Davilenko’s death to appear a plausible accident, so it would be unlikely to raise suspicion.”

Henning had stopped eating. “I, too, have a question. Do you plan to expose the secret society in Scotland?”

“Rochemont’s cohorts must be rooted out, Baz. As for the other Dragons of St. Andrew, I shall do my best to see that they escape England’s lance.”

The surgeon nodded curtly.

Arianna touched his sleeve. “Your nephew—”

“It’s too late for him. I’m assuming he’s been murdered by Rochemont and his bloody bastards.” Henning fingered his knife. “Though I haven’t the heart to say so to my sister. God knows, we’ll likely never find the body.” The blade drew a tiny bead of blood, more black than crimson in the muted light. “It will add to her pain not to be able to give the lad a decent Christian burial.”

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

In the shifting shadows, the surgeon’s craggy face looked as bleak as a storm-swept chunk of Highland granite. “So am I, lassie. So am I.” He curled a fist. “Which is why we must crush these men before they harm anyone else.”

Saybrook cleared his throat. “The second message is what will help us do so, Baz. The plan is spelled out here in black and white. We just have to be clever enough to read between the lines.”

“ ‘While the Kings watch the Queens, the Knight to Bishop, Q 4,’ ”
recited Arianna. She had already committed the brief message to memory.
“ ‘And when the Well runs dry, the Castle will be ours and the Bee will once again rule the board. ’ ”

Henning made a face. “It seems to indicate a chess game of sorts.” He looked at the earl. “Can you make any sense of it?”

The earl stared up at the ceiling for a long moment, watching the thin plumes of cooking smoke snake along the age-dark beams. “Knight to Bishop Q 4 seems the clearest message. In chess, that means the knight knocks the bishop from the board.” His lashes flicked slowly up and down, like the silent swish of a raptor’s wings, and with his forefinger, he started to sketch a pattern of imaginary squares upon the scarred tabletop. “And Q 4 is one of the center squares, so it might be a metaphor for doing the deed in the middle of a gala entertainment.”

“Yes,” agreed Henning. “That seems a reasonable guess.”

“So, a bishop is the target,” said Arianna, feeling a little like a round peg whose contours didn’t quite fit into the hard-edged outline. “That blows all of my theories to flinders. I had assumed from the very start that a politician or a royal was the intended victim.” She broke off a piece of bread, but merely crumbled the crust between her fingers. “I’m more confused that ever. How the devil is religion linked to England’s security?”