“I shall depend on you to be the eyes in the back of my head,” said the earl.
Henning made a strange face. “Alas, I fear my orbs will be turned elsewhere.” He withdrew a letter, much stained from travel, from his pocket and tossed it on the table. “My sister has just sent urgent word to me—my nephew has gone missing from his studies at the university and she fears that he’s the victim of foul play.”
“I’m so sorry,” Arianna said.
Saybrook took longer to reply. “I take it she gave a more detailed reason for her fears.”
“Aye.” The surgeon looked grim. “Angus had apparently been recruited by a group of fellow students to join a secret political society.”
Arianna felt her throat go a little dry.
“The Dragons of St. Andrew?” asked Saybrook.
“Aye, the very devils, as I just discovered.” replied Henning. “The lad was made head of the pamphlet committee—a bloody dangerous job, given the recent military crackdown on dissent—and his friends admitted that they haven’t seen him since he was summoned to attend an urgent late-night meeting.” His hands clenched into fists. “This is no longer an inquiry that I can entrust to someone else. Like you, I am readying myself for a trip. Desmond has promised to tend to my patients, so I shall be leaving for Scotland tomorrow.”
The earl thinned his lips.
“Auch, ye need not look guilty, laddie. It seems that Fate had decided I was going to be dragged into this tangle, whether you asked me or not.”
“Fate,” repeated Saybrook. “Or some other sinister force?”
“Who else other than Grentham knows that Mr. Henning is involved in our investigation?” mused Arianna aloud.
“A good question,” replied her husband. “An even better one is who else other than Grentham knows that an investigation is taking place. Davilenko supposedly took that secret with him to a watery grave.”
“You aren’t thinking fish have ears?” said Henning cynically.
“No, I’m thinking rats have tongues,” answered the earl. “And it looks like it’s up to us to smoke the vermin out of the woodwork.”
13
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
1. Preheat oven to 375º F. In a small mixing bowl, mix together the flour, baking soda, and salt.
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.”
She nodded.
“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.”
“So, he is not a saint,” observed Arianna.
“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.”
“Then if he is our enemy, he is a formidable one,” she said.
“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.”
“Does he believe in any abstract principle?” she asked.
“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.
“I’ve seen enough of deceit and depravity not to make such a naive mistake, Sandro,” she answered.