“Of what,” asked Saybrook through clenched teeth.
“That in your hunt for the elusive Renard, you and Lady S have been following the wrong scent.”
“Is there anything else that you wish for me to do, Monsieur Richard?” The scullery maid finished drying the last of the copper kettles and hung it on its hook. “I’m done with my regular tasks, so unless . . .”
“Non, you may retire for the night,” replied Arianna gruffly. “I wish to sort through the cacao beans, and check the inventory of spices before I leave. Monsieur Carême tells me we have several very important suppers scheduled for next week, and I must be prepared to perform up to his standards.”
The girl shuddered. “Be prepared for him to whack the flat of his cleaver to your bum. He gets very bad tempered when we have important guests to serve.”
“Ha! He shall have nothing to complain about.” Arianna twirled her false moustache. “My pastry skills are far superior to his.”
“Yes, so you have told us.” The maid turned away, not quite quickly enough to hide a snigger. “More than once.”
Arianna had made it a point to be obnoxiously arrogant. She didn’t wish to encourage any overtures of friendship from the other kitchen servants. “You shall see, chérie.”
“Don’t forget to latch the pantries and close the larders. Otherwise, Le Maitre will roast you over the coals in the morning. I warn you, he’s already in a foul mood, on account of all the fuss surrounding the visit of some fancy foreigner.”
“What foreigner?” asked Arianna, her senses coming to full alert.
“Dunno. It’s all very hush-hush,” answered the girl carelessly. “I overheard the Prince’s secretary telling the butler that it’s supposed to stay a secret. Talleyrand wants it to be a big surprise for that fancy party, the Carra . . . Carooo . . .”
“The Carrousel?” suggested Arianna. At breakfast that morning, Saybrook had made mention of the upcoming gala, an elaborate re-creation of a medieval joust that promised to outshine all the other Conference entertainments for pomp and grandeur.
The girl shrugged. “Yeah, that sounds about right.” Her expression pinched to a grimace. “Imagine spending a king’s ransom to prance around in swords and suits of armor. I swear, these rich royals are dicked in the nob.”
“Queer fish,” agreed Arianna. She allowed a slight pause before asking, “You are sure they didn’t mention the visitor’s name? I should like to think of a suitably special dish to impress him.”
Another shrug. “I think it was a military toff—a General Something-Or-Other. Water . . . I think mebbe his name had something te do with water.”
Hiding a twinge of frustration, Arianna gave a curt wave of dismissal. She waited for several minutes, giving the girl ample time to gain her attic room, before taking the sketch of the palace floor plan from her pocket and unfolding it on the worktable. Saybrook had found the architectural plans in the Burg’s library and had made a rough copy. Tonight was the first opportunity to put it to use.
It was, she guessed, just a little past midnight. Talleyrand and his advisors, along with his niece, had left an hour ago to attend a party given by Dorothée’s sister, the Duchess of Sagan. They would likely be gone for at least several hours, providing a perfect chance to have a look around upstairs. The only slight complication was Rochemont. Since the day after the Peace Ball and its explosive ending, the comte had been sequestered in his room, sending word that he was too ill to rise from his bed.
But by this time of night, he would likely be fast asleep, and the sketch showed his bedchamber was at the end of a long corridor, overlooking the rear gardens.
The risk of being seen was slim. And besides, she would have a plate of chocolate bonbons to serve as an excuse.
I will just have to chance it.
She studied the plan for a bit longer, making a few last notations in pencil, and then put it back in her pocket. Between the breakfast list posted in the butler’s pantry and Saybrook’s handiwork, she now knew exactly who slept where, and which rooms were used for the delegation’s official work.
The thought of entering Talleyrand’s private study sent a frisson of heat tingling down to her fingertips. Or was it a chill?
Dangerous. Arianna didn’t need reason to remind her of the consequences should she be caught in the act of riffling his papers. She was dealing with cold-blooded killers. Two men lay dead because of their involvement in this intrigue—three if one counted Davilenko’s demise at the hands of Grentham’s men. No mercy would be given.
“I can look out for myself,” she whispered, her flutter of breath blowing out all but a single candle. Taking up the pewter stick, she angled past the massive cast iron stoves and into the back passageway. A tin of her buttery cinnamon-spiced chocolates was tucked away in the pastry pantry. A sprinkle of golden demerara sugar would top off . . .
The thump of the main kitchen door being thrown open was followed by the scuff of boots on stone.
On instinct, Arianna extinguished her light and stood very still.
A pot rattled, followed by a low oath.
Rochemont? What the devil was he doing down here? she wondered. If he were hungry or thirsty, he could have woken his servant. The comte did not strike her as a man who lifted an elegant finger to perform everyday tasks for himself.
Curious, she crept out of the pantry and inched forward in the darkness until she could steal a look through the passageway opening.
“Merde!” Rochemont cursed angrily as he fumbled with the top of a heavy crock. His hands lacked their usual grace, for oddly enough they were clad in bulky gloves.
She frowned, noting that he looked dressed for going out into the frosty night. A sudden recovery? It was not so strange that he might crave company after several days of being bedridden.
Save for the fact that he was so intent on opening a container of bacon fat.
“Merde,” he muttered again, the lid slipping from his grasp and clattering against the stone counter. Shifting his stance, he clumsily stripped off his gloves.
In the glow of his lamp, the white gleam of the bandages stood out like a sore thumb. After hurriedly unwinding the linen strips, Rochemont dipped a finger into the crock and with a low grunt began to massage a dollop of grease over his singed knuckles.
Arianna held back a gasp. She had enough experience working in kitchens to recognize burnt flesh when she saw it.
The comte flexed his hands. Seemingly satisfied, he quickly replaced the lid and rewrapped the bandages.
Ducking back into the pantry, Arianna crouched behind a flour barrel as he hurried past her hiding place. A moment later she heard the bolt thrown back on the tradesmen’s entrance.
A rasp of metal, a groan of oak. And then all was silent.
In the cramped space, the thumping of her heart seemed to echo loud as cannon fire against the rough wood walls. Arianna drew in several calming gulps of air and made herself think. The burned flesh had brought back a searing image of Kydd’s lifeless body. Dear God, was it possible . . .
But to confirm her suspicions, she needed some evidence, some proof.
Thump, thump, thump. Her pulse had slowed to a more measured beat—which seemed to be drumming Saybrook’s warning into her head. Careful, careful, careful.
Yes, she had promised him that she wouldn’t take any risks, but in the heat of battle one must seize the moment and be unafraid to improvise.
“I’m sorry, Sandro,” whispered Arianna. As a concession to prudence, she relit her candle and quickly assembled a plate of chocolates. If caught, they might serve as a plausible excuse. Rochemont’s Adonis looks had no doubt attracted the eye of both sexes. Monsieur Richard could always act the part of love-struck admirer.