“Talleyrand is a threat. He misses very little.”
“I agree,” said Arianna quickly. “I am taking care to stay well out of his sight when he comes down for his daily meeting with Carême. It’s not difficult. Kitchens are smoky or steamy, and there are a number of storage pantries, all of them dark.” Recalling their first encounter, she essayed a note of humor. “And if push comes to shove, I am rather skilled in using a carving knife to defend myself, as you have reason to know.”
He did not crack a smile.
“Sandro, unless you wish to abandon the effort and leave Renard to execute his murderous plan, we cannot walk away from the opportunity to gain access to Talleyrand’s palace,” she reasoned. “That both the Prince and the comte are in residence makes the chance even more important. With Kydd dead, it’s our one—our only—lead.”
He looked as if he wished to argue.
She had held her best weapon until last, when his defenses had already been battered. “But if you wish, we can pack up and return to London. That will, of course, mean having to admit to Grentham that we failed to track down the traitor.”
Saybrook drew in a harsh breath. And then let it out in a mirthless laugh. “You are utterly remorseless.”
“And unscrupulous.”
Perching a hip on the arm of her chair, he touched his palm to her cheek. “Ruthless,” he murmured.
“Heartless,” she responded.
His hand slid down to just above her left breast. “Oh no, you have a heart. You simply keep it well guarded.”
The heat of him seeped through the singed silk of her gown. “That is rather like the pot calling the kettle black.”
“So it is.” His eyes had a strangely molten glow, perhaps from the burn of the brandy. “I hate being in the dark, Arianna. It makes me feel helpless to protect you.”
“I don’t expect you to,” she whispered.
“That has no bearing on what I expect of myself.”
How to answer?
Looking away, she watched the play of shadows on the far wall. “I won’t take any unnecessary risks.”
“Liar.” There was no heat behind the accusation. Indeed, he said it with a reluctant smile. “Of course you will.”
“No, truly. I have no desire to stick my spoon in the wall just yet. So I shall be careful.”
“I suppose I must be satisfied with that for now,” said Saybrook. He turned to the hearth and began to bank the glowing coals. A hiss of smoke rose from the crackling sparks.
“But that may change.”
17
Canola oil, for greasing
1½ cups sugar
¾ cup light corn syrup
¼ cup honey
1 cup water
3 tablespoon unflavored powdered gelatin, softened in
½ cup cold water
¾ cup Dutch-process cocoa powder, sifted
2 tablespoons cornstarch
1. Grease an 8-inch x 8-inch baking pan, line bottom and sides with parchment paper, and grease paper. Grease a rubber spatula; set aside.
2. Combine sugar, syrup, honey, and ½ cup water in a 2-qt. saucepan over medium-high heat. Bring to a simmer; cook, without stirring, until syrup reaches 250° on a candy thermometer. Remove from heat; let cool to 220°.
3. Meanwhile, bring ½ cup water to a boil in a small saucepan. Place bowl of gelatin over boiling water; whisk until gelatin becomes liquid. Transfer to the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a whisk; add ½ cup cocoa powder. Add cooled sugar syrup to gelatin; whisk on high speed until mixture holds stiff peaks, 5–6 minutes. Pour mixture into prepared pan; smooth top with oiled spatula; let cool until set, 5–6 hours.
4. Combine remaining cocoa powder and cornstarch in a bowl and transfer to a strainer; dust work surface with mixture. Slide a knife around edge of pan to release marshmallows; remove from pan. Dust cocoa mixture over top. Using a slicing knife dusted with cocoa mixture, cut marshmallows into forty 1½ inch squares. Toss marshmallows with remaining cocoa mixture.
Yield: 40
“Damnation, damnation, damnation.” Saybrook balled the sheet of paper and lobbed it into the fire. “Would that you hadn’t taken your bloody secrets along with you to the grave, Kydd.”
He stared at the coded document. “None of the words Arianna wrested from you work, which leads me to believe that, as I suspected, you were but a pawn on this diabolical chessboard. So . . .” Tap, tap, tap. His pen drummed an impatient tattoo on the desk. “Who is moving the pieces around the board? There has to be a clue that I have missed. But for the love of God Almighty, I can’t figure out what it is.”
Another bout of scribbling.
Another crumpled missile arced into the flames.
“If only Baz were here,” muttered the earl. “He is always willing to bat ideas back and forth, no matter how outlandish they sound.”
Slapping a fresh sheet down upon the blotter, he dipped his pen in the inkwell. But before he could begin to write, a clatter of footsteps on the stairs distracted his concentration.
“What in Hades . . .” Uttering a fresh string of oaths, Saybrook set down the quill. “Jose knows that I’m not to be disturbed. Whoever the arse is, it sounds like he is intent on waking the dead.”
The earl was half out of his chair, intending to ring a peal over the miscreant’s head, when the door flew open.
Saybrook sat back down with a thump. “Well, well, speak of the devil.”
Basil Henning looked even more disheveled than usual. Unshaven, bleary-eyed, hair standing out from his head in drunken spikes, the surgeon looked like a wild Viking sailing in on the North Wind. His clothing, never very tidy to begin with, looked as if it had been slept in for days on end.
“Ye look like Hell yerself, laddie.” Henning glanced around as he unwound his ragged muffler and tossed it on the sofa. “I don’t suppose ye can offer me a dram of good Scottish whisky to wash the travel dust from my throat.”
“You will have to settle for French brandy or Hungarian slivovitz,” answered the earl.
“Hmmph. A paltry offering considering all the hardships I’ve endured on your behalf.” The surgeon dropped into the armchair by the hearth. “Brandy, if I must,” he added. “Where’s Lady S?”
“Working,” replied Saybrook with a grim smile. “But first questions first.” He quickly poured a glass of the requested spirits and brought it over to his friend. “You are supposed to be in Edinburgh. So why in the unholy name of Lucifer have you journeyed to Vienna?”
“Not for the chocolate mit schlag or the cream cakes,” quipped Henning. He gave a quick grimace before tossing back his drink. “I’ve uncovered some important information.”
“Your ugly phiz is not an unwelcome sight, however there is such a thing as a diplomatic courier. You could have asked my uncle to forward it.”
“Knowing that Whitehall is as leaky as a sieve?” Henning shook his head and made a rude sound. “No, I didn’t dare trust anyone but myself to bring the news. It’s too explosive.”
The air crackled with tension as the surgeon rose abruptly and went to refill his glass.
“Well, go on,” growled the earl. “Or do I have to hold a flame to your arse?”
“You should be kissing my bum,” retorted the surgeon. “I’ve gone through nine circles of hell to get here in time to warn you.”