“Excellent, excellent.” And yet the earl looked strangely pensive.
“That’s not all.” Arianna took the gold-embossed invitation out of her reticule and placed it on the table. “Rochemont has invited me to a dinner party hosted by Talleyrand tonight—sans you, of course.”
“Let us hope the Prince serves up some useful information along with his chef’s decadent nougat desserts. I am growing damn tired of watching him start to salivate every time you enter the room.”
Was there an odd edge to his voice?
Oh, surely he didn’t think that she was enjoying her role as taunting temptress.
Suddenly defensive, she stiffened, recalling Grentham’s nasty innuendos. Your wife enjoys the company of dissolute men. It was true that in her first investigation with the earl, she had also played the role of wanton jade. Not because she took any pleasure from it, but because it had been the only way to bring about justice.
But perhaps he was tiring of her unorthodox skills. Most men wanted wives who were . . . respectable.
Which I am decidedly not.
“That reminds me—I’m famished,” said Saybrook, seemingly oblivious of the subtle change in her stance.
“No doubt because you dined on naught but tea and toast this morning.” Arianna glanced down at his jumbled work papers and realized that he too must be feeling frustrated. He had been working like the devil to decipher the remaining coded letter, but it did not appear that he was making much headway. The sheets were covered with cryptic squiggles and scrawls, all scratched out with slashes of black ink. “I take it that your work is going slowly.”
Although they were alone in the room, the earl lowered his voice to a taut whisper. It was well known that the Burg’s magnificent walls possessed an uncanny ability to see and hear through wood and stone.
“As I’ve said before, finding the key to unlock our conundrum could take weeks. Months. Years.” He tapped a long finger to a set of small leather-bound books hidden beneath the illustrated folios on Theobroma cacao. “I found several obscure Renaissance texts on cryptology in the Mathematics Room. They contain some interesting new permutations to try, but . . .” He flexed his shoulders. “Let me finish this one section and then we’ll walk to the Café Frauenhuber for some refreshments.”
Her own moodiness forgotten, Arianna was quick to agree. “Take your time. I noticed that one of the galleries along this corridor has a lovely collection of chocolate pots on display. I shall wait for you there.”
Saybrook nodded vaguely, his attention already back on the diabolical little string of coded letters that he had copied into his notebook.
Leaving the earl to his solitary struggles, she quitted the room and began to retrace her steps. The Emperor was generous in allowing access to his priceless collections of art, as well as his rare books and maps. She passed by a gallery of Quattrocento Italian art and one of classical coins before turning into an airy room devoted to decorative Limoges porcelain.
The Spanish princess Anne of Austria had introduced chocolate to France in 1615 as part of her wedding trousseau—and judging by the beauty of the vessels on display, her new subjects had enthusiastically embraced the new beverage.
“Exquisite,” murmured Arianna, leaning in so close that her breath misted the glass case. All worries dissolved for the moment as she stood in rapt study of the small treasures. The pots showcased a dazzling variety of elegant designs, their delicate colors and gold leaf highlights set off to perfection by the black velvet backdrop. Most were crowned by a distinctive pierced lid, which allowed the handle of a molinillo to protrude.
“Exquisite,” she murmured again, captivated by the elegant simplicity of a pot formed in the shape of a swan.
“Not as exquisite as you.” Rochemont’s silky whisper caressed the nape of her neck. His breath was warm, and yet its tickle raised a prickling of gooseflesh along her bare arms. “Though I confess,” he went on, “the curves have a certain voluptuous shape that makes my mouth water.”
Arianna felt his hand graze her hip. Willing herself not to flinch, she waited a moment before drawing back from his touch. “Why, sir,” she drawled. “Clearly you have a taste for fine things.”
“Yes.” He placed his palms on the glass and slanted her a sly look. “I’m insatiable when it comes to sampling the best.”
Arianna reacted to the innuendo with a carefully calculated smile. “Oh? Then you must be looking forward to this evening. I hear that Monsieur Carême is a true artist with food.”
Her teasing provoked a sinuous smile.
“Imagine butter and cream, meltingly warm in your mouth.” Rochemont kissed his fingertips. “The French have a way of creating sublimely sensual pleasures, Lady Saybrook.”
As well as grimly horrific wars.
The comte made a face. “Alors, perhaps too much so. Poor Carême is very unhappy that the King of Wurttemberg just lured away his sous-chef, leaving him shorthanded for the duration of the Conference.”
A sudden tingle started to snake down her spine.
“Indeed?” replied Arianna. Hot and cold, hot and cold—men like the comte were tantalized by a challenge. “Then perhaps his performance will not rise quite as high as promised.”
Their eyes met for a molten moment before she deliberately looked away.
“Like all Frenchmen, Carême will have no trouble performing at his peak for a beautiful lady.” Rochemont sidled closer, his soft leather boots stirring nary a sound on the thick carpet, until they were standing thigh to thigh. “I am looking forward to introducing you to a sinfully seductive experience.”
“I appreciate your kind offer to keep my wife amused while I attend a meeting of scholars tonight, Rochemont.” Saybrook could move as lightly as a prowling panther when he so chose. “However, might I ask that you unglue yourself from her skirts so that she might accompany me to tea.”
The comte smiled, though a telltale ridge of red on his cheekbones betrayed his pique at the interruption. “But of course,” he replied. Bowing to Arianna, he said, “Until later, chérie.”
The earl didn’t react to the blatant endearment. Emboldened by the silence, Rochemont tauntingly added, “Don’t spoil your appetite.”
“A toast.” As the servants cleared the platters of viands and sauced vegetables from the dining table, Talleyrand raised a wine goblet, his bejeweled fingers winking like brilliant bits of fire in the fluttery light of the gold candelabras. “To friends old . . .” His lazy, lidded gaze fixed upon Arianna. “And new.”
The crystalline clink of glass rang out over the muted chink of silver and porcelain.
“A divine meal. Absolutely divine.” The Russian attaché leaned back in his chair and blew out a satisfied sigh. “Carême is a God of the Kitchen. I don’t suppose the Tsar could trade you a province for his services, eh?”
“A country perhaps,” replied Talleyrand lightly.
Everyone laughed.
“I swear, Carême is more valuable than my entire staff when it comes to melting old enmities and solidifying new friendships,” murmured the envoy from Bavaria.
“Indeed. I have told Paris that I don’t need secretaries, I need saucepans.”
More laughter.
The Prince took a sip of his Burgundy wine. “And how did you enjoy the chef’s menu, Lady Saybrook?”
“Superb,” she replied in all honesty. “I have never had such a magnificent meal.”
“It is not quite over. I have heard that your husband has a scholarly interest in Theobroma cacao, so I asked Monsieur Carême to create a special chocolate confection in your honor.”