At the flick of his finger, the door opened and a pair of liveried footmen marched in, bearing an enormous platter between them.
A collective gasp greeted the elaborate pastry.
“He is a master of what we French call pièces montées,” explained Talleyrand, a smile taking shape on his sensual mouth. “A form of edible architecture meant to surprise the senses.”
Arianna felt her jaw drop ever so slightly as the servants set the creation down on the center of the table. Formed of molded chocolate, marzipan and sugar, the towering creation stood nearly two feet high and was a replica of Westminster Abbey.
“Chef studies architectural books for his inspiration,” Talleyrand went on. “He chose a London landmark in your honor.”
“You see, chérie. I promised you a treat,” whispered Rochemont. “I have some influence with the minister, and so . . . voila!”
Someone let out a little moan as a knife sliced off a piece and set it on Arianna’s plate.
“Art is meant to be savored,” said Talleyrand as the servant added a dollop of nougat and meringue to the pastry. “Enjoy.”
The room went silent, save for the crunch of spoons cutting through the sugary chocolate and almond paste.
Talleyrand tasted a small bite, his smile stretching wider as he watched the expressions of bliss form on the faces of his guests. Setting aside his serviette, he tapped his perfectly manicured fingertips together. “Does it meet with your approval, madame?”
“Carême deserves his reputation as a genius,” she replied. “I wonder . . . might I get the recipe?”
“Perhaps you had better ask him yourself.” The Prince’s eyes lit with a twinkle of unholy amusement. “I consider myself a skilled negotiator, but I’ve yet to extract such privileged information from him. Carême guards his culinary creations more carefully than most countries do their secret alliances. But the appeal of a beautiful lady may win a concession.” A lazy wink. “He is, after all, French.”
“I would at least like to thank him for such an ambrosial treat,” said Arianna.
Talleyrand lifted a hand to summon the servant stationed by the door. “Ask chef to come—”
“Actually, might I see him in the kitchens?” She accompanied the request with a flutter of her lashes. “That is, if you don’t mind me spying on your territory. I am curious as to what sort of graters and molds he uses.”
“Seeing as the Peace Conference is all about creating international accord and harmony, I give you my blessing to look around my palace to your heart’s content, madame .” A clap set the spill of creamy lace at his cuffs to dancing in the buttery light. “Send Monsieur Jacques to escort Lady Saybrook to chef’s inner sanctum.”
A plume of steamy air wafted up the stairwell, its warmth redolent with the spicy scent of caramelized sugar and roasted cacao nibs.
Arianna breathed in deeply and smiled, the sweetness stirring old memories of—
“Non, non, NON!” The pained shout from the main kitchen was punctuated by the whack of a cleaver. “You must never grate ginger! It must be minced!” Whack, whack. “Like so!”
“Perhaps this is not the best time to ask chef a favor,” she murmured to the under butler who was accompanying her.
“Monsieur Carême possesses a . . . very sensitive nature,” replied her guide. “And delicate nerves. It is difficult to predict what will, and will not, upset him.”
“Ah.” She nodded sagely. “You mean he is a tyrant, prone to tempestuous tantrums.”
The under butler did not bat an eye. “Precisely, madame .” He stopped in front of the half-open door. “Would you mind terribly if I allowed you to, er, introduce yourself to Le Maitre? I have not yet had my supper, and if he blames me for the interruption of his artistic genius, I might very well have to go to bed hungry.”
Arianna repressed a wry grin. “Not at all. I am experienced in dealing with temperamental chefs.”
Looking grateful, the man bowed and hurried away.
“Into the frying pan—or is it the fire?” she murmured to herself.
The door yielded to her touch and as she crossed the threshold, she was immediately assaulted by a swirl of delicious smells.
Hearing the swish of her silken skirts, Carême whirled around. With the cleaver still clutched in his fist and his toque falling rakishly over one eye, he looked a little like a demented pirate about to commit unspeakable acts upon anything within arm’s reach.
“Mmph,” he grunted, eyeing her finery. “You have taken a wrong turn, madame. The withdrawing room for ze ladies is up ze stairs and to ze left.” The information was accompanied by a shooing gesture of the steely blade. “Bonsoir.”
Arianna stood her ground, inwardly amused by her first sight of the celebrated chef. “Forgive me for intruding on your atelier, Monsieur Carême. I know that great artists dislike any disturbance of their creative process. But I couldn’t resist coming to offer my humble admiration for your prodigious talents.”
Like butter placed in a warm pan, Carême’s scowl was softened by the egregious flattery.
“Merci, madame.” The cleaver dropped a notch. “Not everyone understands how difficult it is to turn food into a form of art.”
“One of the ingredients is, of course, genius,” she murmured.
“Oui, oui, zat is true.” The chef preened. “Also the freshest meats, fruits and vegetables. Prince Talleyrand understands this, and never quibbles about the cost of my supplies.”
“Might I have a quick tour of your kitchens?” asked Arianna. “I should love to see what it takes to achieve perfection.”
His smile was turned even rosier by the overhead rack of hanging copper pots. “Alors, I rarely allow anyone to see my works in progress. But for you, madame, I shall make an exception.” With a Gallic flourish, Carême turned to the chopping table. “Follow me.”
For the next quarter hour, Arianna was subjected to a lengthy explanation of stove temperatures, proper chopping techniques and the merits of iron versus copper for cooking. Prompted by her questions, the chef also revealed that the recent defection of his sous-chef had thrown his well-ordered kitchen into disarray.
“I should like to slice out his liver for leaving me in the lurch,” grumbled Carême. “Zat is the thanks I get for teaching him some of my special secrets?” His hand flew to his heart. “I am hurt.”
“How disloyal,” she agreed. “Was his specialty pastries ?”
“Oui,” answered the chef. “Thanks to God, my helpers with meats and vegetables are devoted to me. Zat part of the meals shall not be affected. But as for my desserts . . .” He blew out a mournful sigh. “I shall have to work very hard to see that they don’t suffer.”
“Speaking of desserts, I don’t suppose you would consent to give me the recipe for tonight’s creation. My husband adores chocolate.”
He pursed his lips. “Ask me almost anything else, madame , and I should be happy to oblige. However, my recipes I share with no one—not even Prince Talleyrand.”
“I understand,” said Arianna. She had expected no less. But it didn’t really matter. She was leaving with exactly the information she had come for.
“Merci for that,” he responded. “Some ladies resort to tears. And much as I hate to see females cry, I never yield to such ploys.”