“I’m not here about money,” said Saybrook, smiling slightly as he shrugged his bony shoulders. “As for Lady Spencer, I’m afraid that I’ll have to trespass on her hospitality,” he added. “I’ve come from Whitehall.”
The butler stepped back and allowed him to enter the town house. “If you would wait in the drawing room, sir . . .” A wave of a white-gloved hand indicated a pleasant, light-filled room to his right. “I will fetch Her Ladyship.”
Saybrook shuffled over the brightly colored carpet, eyeing the jade dragons on the mantel and bright silk pillows embroidered with unicorns nestled on the window seat. Next to it, a pair of faux-gold monkeys danced atop a brass tea chest.
“Do you like my menagerie, sir?”
Saybrook turned from his study of an alabaster lion. “You have collected quite a kingdom of wild animals,” he answered slowly. “Including the King of the Jungle.”
Her laugh was low and sultry, making her sound as if she had just tumbled out of bed. “Thank God that someone from Whitehall actually has a sense of humor. You cannot imagine how tedious that stiff-rumped Major Crandall has been this last week, glowering at me and my staff like we were a vile plague about to infect his private parts.”
Saybrook nodded gravely, though a tiny twitch did seem to play at the corners of his mouth. “I confess that I am also included on his list of noxious diseases.”
“I’m delighted to hear it,” she said cheerfully. “May I offer you some refreshment—tea, sherry, or something stronger—so that we may toast to the prospect of his phallus falling off in the near future?”
“Thank you, but no. Though I do second your sentiment.”
She smiled.
“As you can guess, this is not a purely social call, Lady Spencer.”
Sighing, she brushed an errant curl off her cheek. “Oh, very well. I suppose that you, too, have a barrage of questions you wish to fire at me, Mr. . . .”
“I’m Saybrook,” he said softly. “The—”
“The new earl?” exclaimed Lady Spencer.
His nod drew another peal of laughter. “How delicious—that is, once we put some meat on your bones.” She winked. “I would recommend my chef, who really does create the most divine delicacies, but I dare-say you might not find the suggestion a tasty one, given the circumstances.”
“I appreciate the offer, but perhaps some other time,” he answered. “For now, I will settle for having a few words with the man.”
Lady Spencer’s gaze lingered for an instant on his cane. “Please make yourself comfortable on the sofa, Lord Saybrook. I shall send someone to fetch Chef from his quarters.”
“No need,” replied Saybrook, though a sudden spasm of his leg seemed to say otherwise. “I would, in fact, prefer to go to him.”
“Unfortunately, that will entail a trip down a rather steep set of stairs, sir. You see, Chef resides in a small room off the kitchen.”
“Indeed? It’s a bit odd that he would choose to live with the likes of the boot boy or coal monkey.”
“Oh, he doesn’t permit anyone else to live downstairs with him.” Seeing Saybrook arch a brow, she explained, “He’s a trifle eccentric—or perhaps temperamental is a better word. But then, most great artists are.”
“Ah.”
“Truly he is—an artist, that is,” she assured him. “I do hope you haven’t come to arrest him. Even the Prince expressed hope that Monsieur Alphonse doesn’t end up on the chopping block. Prinny is very fond of the man’s boeuf en croûte and crème brûlée.” Her lips twitched. “And, entre nous, he is heartily sick of the beef tea and broths that Whitehall insists on sending.”
“England does not employ the guillotine, Lady Spencer,” the earl replied dryly. “If your Cook is innocent, he has nothing to fear from me.”
“Chef,” she corrected. “He is very particular about all the little details.” Her skirts fluttering with a silky swoosh, she turned for the door. “Come this, way, sir.”
4
Legend has it that Quetzalcoatl, the god of civilization and learning, was banished from Earth for bringing the gift of chocolate to mankind. The Aztecs believed that he would one day return in glory—and when Hernan Cortez and his fleet of galleons sailed over the horizon in 1519, he was thought to be the ancient god. Alas, poor Montezuma! Though it is recorded that he drank fifty cups of chocolate a day, his magical military elixir proved no match for the Spanish guns and horses. Cortez plundered Tenochtitlan and carried back a wealth of treasures to Spain, including gold, silver, and cacao. . . .
3 ounces (about ⅔ cup) cacao nibs
3 ounces (about 1 cup) piquin chiles
1 1-inch stick soft Ceylon cinnamon, coarsely chopped
½ teaspoon allspice berries
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon Spanish smoked paprika
1. Heat griddle or medium cast-iron skillet over medium heat. Add cacao nibs and dry-roast for 2 minutes, until fragrant, stirring constantly with wooden spoon. Turn into separate container and set aside.
2. Add chiles, cinnamon, and allspice berries to the griddle and roast the same way, stirring, for 2 minutes. Scrape into electric spice mill or coffee grinder with salt and paprika and grind to a fine powder.
3. Combine spice mixture and roasted cacao nibs in a mini food processor and process into a sticky paste, 3-4 minutes, stopping to scrape down sides of bowl. Turn onto a work surface and shape into 12 small balls. Let sit until thoroughly dried.
4. Store in tightly sealed jar. When ready to use, grate over any dish to add a piquant seasoning.
Thump, thump, thump. The sound of the graceless descent gave Arianna ample warning that her bailiwick was about to be invaded.
Sure enough, several moments later a man appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. He was tall and broad-shouldered, though at present his big body was slightly hunched in pain. Taking in the cane and the awkward shift of his weight, she guessed that his stiff left leg was its source.
She looked up. His face might once have been called handsome, but its chiseled planes had sharpened to the point of gauntness. Black lashes framed eyes dark as volcanic ash. Yet as his gaze met hers, she was almost certain that she saw a burnt-gold spark smoldering in their depths.
She had expected another soldier. Instead they had sent . . . Satan incarnate.
No need to let my imagination run wild, she chided herself. Not when an all too real Hell was already erupting around her.
Shaking off her flight of fancy, Arianna quickly slipped into her role of aggrieved Frenchman.
“ Sacre bleu, not another attack on my integrity,” she muttered, cutting an angry little swish through the air with her fillet blade. “I am fast losing my taste for London. It is clear zat my talents are not appreciated here.”
“I shall try not to take up too much of your time with my questions,” said the intruder, his ash-black eyes following the flight of her hands.
“Hmmph!” Scowling, she waved him on. “Come, if you wish to talk, you will have to do it while I prepare ze stew for supper, Monsieur . . .”
Who the devil was he?
“De Quincy,” he answered. After a fraction of a pause, he added, “Or Saybrook, if that comes easier to your tongue.”