“Don’t worry. You will never see me trying to use weeping to make men surrender their secrets,” Arianna assured him.
I prefer other weapons.
“Once again, I thank you for the tour. It was very enlightening.”
“You are most welcome, madame.” Carême bowed. “Come again some time.”
“Thank you. I will.”
And sooner than you think.
15
1½ cups flour
¼ cup plus 1 tablespoon Dutch-process unsweetened cocoa powder
¼ teaspoon kosher salt
10 tablespoons unsalted butter, cubed and softened
½ cup plus 2 tablespoons confectioners’ sugar
2 egg yolks, preferably at room temperature
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
1½ cups sugar
3 tablespoons light corn syrup
¼ teaspoon kosher salt
6 tablespoons water
6 tablespoons unsalted butter
6 tablespoons heavy cream
1 tablespoon crème fraîche
½ cup heavy cream
4 oz. bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped
Gray sea salt for garnish
1. Make the crust: Heat oven to 350˚. Combine flour, cocoa powder and salt in a medium bowl and set aside. Using a handheld mixer, cream the butter and sugar in a large bowl until mixture is pale and fluffy; mix in yolks and vanilla. Mix in dry ingredients. Transfer dough to a 9-inch fluted tart pan with a removable bottom and press dough evenly into bottom and sides of pan. Refrigerate for 30 minutes. Prick the tart shell all over with a fork and bake until cooked through, about 20 minutes. Transfer to a rack and let cool.
2. Make the carameclass="underline" In a 1-qt. saucepan, whisk together sugar, corn syrup, salt and 6 tbsp. water and bring to a boil. Cook, without stirring, until a candy thermometer inserted into the syrup reads 340°. Remove pan from heat and whisk in butter, cream and crème fraîche (the mixture will bubble up) until smooth. Pour caramel into cooled tart shell and let cool slightly; refrigerate until firm, 4–5 hours.
3. Make the ganache: Bring cream to a boil in a 1-qt. saucepan over medium heat. Put chocolate into a medium bowl and pour in hot cream; let sit for 1 minute, then stir slowly with a rubber spatula until smooth. Pour ganache evenly over tart and refrigerate until set, 4–5 hours. Sprinkle tart with sea salt, slice and serve chilled.
The branch of candles had burned down to small stubs, leaving the study shrouded in deepening shadows. Arianna heard the faint scratch, scratch, scratch of a pen before she could make out the shape of broad shoulders and bowed head hunched over the desk.
“Still at work, Sandro?” she asked softly.
Saybrook turned, his profile limned in the guttering flames. Fatigue shaded his features, along with some darker tautness that she couldn’t quite identify. “Yes, there was another idea I wanted to test, but it’s been a wasted effort.” He put down his pen and massaged his temples. “Perhaps I have lost my touch. I used to have some skill with codes.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Arianna came up behind his chair and began to knead the knots at the base of his neck. “When you were on Wellington’s staff you had a cadre of trained intelligence officers to help you. And yet you’ve told me that attempts to decipher a captured code failed more often than not.”
His muscles slowly relaxed beneath her probing fingers. “I suppose you are right. But I can’t help feeling that I am missing some key element that is staring me right in the face.”
“Why not let me have a try? I’ve none of your skills, but I have been studying the principles, and maybe a fresh set of eyes will see something you’ve overlooked. There is, after all, such a thing as beginner’s luck.”
Saybrook reached back and caught her wrist. “I would be grateful for your help, but it can wait until morning.” He pressed her palm to his cheek, and beneath the rasp of his whiskered skin, she could feel the strong, steady pulse of his heart.
After all the duplicity and deceptions of the evening, its warmth was immensely comforting. She blinked as the sudden, salty sting of tears prickled against the back of her lids.
“Is something wrong, Arianna?”
She shook her head. “Just tired.”
He gave a wordless growl and turned his face to brush a kiss to her fingertips. “How did your dinner go? I’m rather surprised that you are back at this hour. Didn’t Rochemont try to spirit you off to some secluded love nest? Or was he worried that in the process of wrestling you into his carriage he might scratch his pretty face?”
“He’s still complaining about your knocking him down on the rocks. I suspect that he thinks it was a deliberate attempt to mar his beauty,” answered Arianna. “As for seduction, it was likely on the comte’s mind, but Talleyrand demanded his attendance at an after-supper strategy meeting. And though it was obvious that he wished to refuse, he didn’t quite dare to defy the Prince.”
Saybrook let out a long breath. “So, another night wasted on frivolous entertainment.”
“Not exactly.”
Her husband must have heard the note of suppressed excitement in her voice, for he slowly sat up straighter and edged his chair around to face her. “How so?”
“I think I’ve come up with a way to gain access to Talleyrand’s household—to be part of his intimate, everyday routine so to speak, which would allow me to spy on both him and the comte.”
“Arianna, there are limits to how far I am willing to go for the good of my country.” Her husband’s voice turned dangerously soft. “So if you are about to suggest that you become the mistress of one of those lecherous Frogs, put the idea out of your head. Immediately.”
“No, not a mistress.” She couldn’t hold back a grin. “A chef.”
He blinked.
“Carême’s pastry sous-chef has deserted him, throwing plans for the elaborate dinners into question. Think about it. Since we arrived, we’ve been hearing how Talleyrand brought his chef from Paris to serve as a secret weapon of sorts. His intention is to win support for the French objectives here at the Conference, using butter and sugar rather than muskets and cannons.”
She paused to let him digest what she had said. “So, if an experienced chef with a talent for creating sweets appeared and inquired about a position, don’t you think the chances are good that Carême would snap him up?”
“Him,” repeated Saybrook thoughtfully. “You are suggesting that Monsieur Alphonse—”
“Makes a miraculous resurrection,” she replied with a note of triumph. “Though to be safe, he will have to assume a new name. Given that Renard was involved in our last investigation, he might remember Lady Spencer’s erstwhile chef.”
“Hmmm.”
That he didn’t dismiss the idea out of hand was encouraging.
“What about Kydd?” he asked carefully. “And, for that matter, Rochemont? Posing as a chef may be a clever cover, but we can’t put all of our eggs in one basket.”
“No, not with the fox running free in the henhouse.” The dying candle flame seemed to turned a touch redder, a taunting reminder that their enemy had eluded all their attempts to catch him. “I’ve thought this through and see no reason why it can’t work. I won’t have to give up my flirtations with Kydd. I will simply have to pick and choose which party invitations to accept. One of my demands will be that I only work three days a week for Carême. I’ve checked—that’s the number of diplomatic suppers that Talleyrand plays host to, so I believe the chef will accept the stipulation.”