“So you are suggesting that you light the coals under two different pots and see which one boils first?”
“Things shouldn’t become too hot for comfort. As you know, I have some experience in plotting these sorts of things,” replied Arianna. “To cover my occasional absence from the ballrooms, we’ll put out word that my health has turned delicate—ladies are always plagued by a variety of maladies. As for Rochemont, he’s no longer so important to dally with, now that I’ll have direct access to Talleyrand’s residence and servants.”
Saybrook took his time in replying. As he drummed his fingers on his papers, she could almost hear the gears whirring inside his head.
Like a carefully calibrated military chronometer, the earl’s mind always seemed to work with exquisite precision in analyzing every detail of information.
“You have a point about Rochemont. He would no longer be needed as a source of information.” Her husband raised his eyes from his papers. “In any case, I was already beginning to think that he was turning into more trouble than he was worth. His attentions are growing more heated, and a man of his hubris is not likely to accept no for an answer.”
“True,” conceded Arianna. “Push might have come to shove if Talleyrand hadn’t demanded the comte’s presence at an evening meeting.” She thought for a moment. “I think the Prince did it deliberately. Those lazy, lidded eyes don’t miss much.”
“Which is why I am reluctant to agree to your plan. Of all the men here in Vienna, Talleyrand is the most dangerous,” said Saybrook. “Never, ever underestimate him.”
“I don’t,” said Arianna quickly. “But it’s not as if he spends a great deal of time in the kitchens. He comes to consult with Carême each morning on the day’s menu. Other than that, he keeps to the upper floors of the palace. I shall demand to start work at noon and leave before midnight. Remember, chefs are allowed to be eccentric, and Carême is rather desperate for expert assistance. I believe he will swallow any reservations and hire me on the spot.”
The earl pursed his lips.
Pouncing on his hesitation, she hurried on. “It’s a golden opportunity, Sandro. Imagine—I shall have daily access to our main suspect’s lair, with plenty of chances to poke around.”
“How—” began Saybrook.
“I’ve already thought of a perfect excuse—I shall start making chocolate bonbons to leave in the bedchambers each night. And demand that I deliver them personally because my artistic sensibilities demand that I arrange the plate myself.”
“Damnation,” growled Saybrook. “How do you think I feel, allowing you to take all the risks while I sit here in the cozy comfort of my book-filled room, fiddling with pens, books and this maliciously maddening scrap of paper?”
“In this case, a chance to unmask our unknown enemy has appeared, and only I can seize it. We must be pragmatic, Sandro, and not let it slip away.” Threading her fingers through his tangled hair, she combed the dark strands back from his brow. “Reason must always overrule emotion—isn’t that what you always tell me?”
“Then I am a God-benighted bloody fool,” he insisted.
“I wish you were.” Understanding the flare of frustration, Arianna tried to use humor to defuse the moment. “Then I would have a far easier time leading you by the nose.”
As she had hoped, Saybrook allowed his mouth to quirk upward. In their earlier investigation, they had quarreled—and rather vociferously—about whether she was using her feminine wiles to manipulate him.
“I—”
“Let us not argue over this. I am sure your turn to jump into the fire will come soon enough.” Arianna leaned in and pressed her lips to his.
After several long moments, he broke away with a rough whisper. “Dio Madre. I suspect you are trying to lead me not by my nose but a far more primitive appendage.”
Arianna answered with a throaty laugh. “Oh, that would be awfully low of me.”
“Yes, and you’ve just finished telling me that you have no scruples about stooping to any ruse.”
“So I did.” Her arms slipped around his shoulders and drew him close. “Aren’t you glad of it?”
“You know what I think?” Rising in one swift, smooth motion, Saybrook lifted her easily into his arms. “I think that my brain is far too tired to wrestle with any more intellectual conundrums.”
After all the cloying colognes and decadent kitchen smells, the faint citrus scent of his shaving soap was like a breath of fresh air.
“So I suggest we defer all further discussion of conduct, codes and cunning criminals until morning.”
The papers crackled. “Hmmph.” After wiping a smudge of flour from his nose, Carême shuffled to the next page. “The Prince Regent, eh?” His eyes narrowed. “What did you cook for him?”
“A number of dishes, but his favorite was a tower built of sweet chocolate bricks,” answered Arianna without hesitation. “Surrounded by a moat of Chantilly cream and port-soaked cherries.”
“Edible chocolate?”
“Yes, like Monsieur Debauve of Paris.”
“Bah, Debauve has no imagination,” grumbled the chef.
“He deserves some credit for the concept,” countered Arianna coolly. A show of backbone was imperative if she was to have the freedom that she needed to poke around the premises. “But I agree, his creativity can’t hold a teaspoon to yours.”
Carême gave a grunt but his frown faded slightly. Turning to the chopping block, he picked up a paring knife and then whirled around with a flourish. “Alors, what is the recipe for crème anglaise.”
Arianna was just as quick with her reply.
“Hmmph.” Carême tapped the blade to his palm. “Your accent is odd, Monsieur Richard. I can’t quite place it.”
“I was raised in the West Indies,” replied Arianna truthfully, then quickly added a few embellishments. “My mother was English and my father was French, so I had an unorthodox upbringing. We were very poor, so I learned at an early age how to fend for myself. Cooking is one of the skills I acquired in the islands, and I found it to my taste.”
A tendril of steam curled through the brief silence. “One last question. Why do you want to work for me?”
“A man has to eat,” she quipped. “I find myself in need of funds. And since I must work, it might as well be for a genius of cuisine.”
The chef considered her reply for what felt like an age. Had she misjudged his temperament? She gave an inward sigh. Ah, well, too late to cry over spilled milk—
“Eggs and butter are here in this larder. Sugar and flour are kept in the west pantry, along with nuts, cacao paste and the other pastry supplies.” Carême tossed her an apron and a wooden spoon. “Come, there is no time for dallying. The Prussians are coming for supper, so let’s get to work.”
16
½ cup half-and-half
1 cup sugar
2 oz. unsweetened chocolate, chopped
2 oz. bittersweet chocolate, chopped
8 tablespoons butter
2 egg yolks, lightly beaten