“Never mind that that now,” said Arianna, her eyes still on Grentham. “We’re all far more interested in you, and how long you’ve been in league with the minister.”

  “Since Napoleon escaped from Elba,” answered Grentham. “Even before he re-seized the throne, I began hearing rumors in London that French agents were looking for a highly skilled engineer conversant with mining and explosives.”

  “Why in Britain?’ interrupted Saybrook.

  “Surely the answer to that is obvious—because our scientific expertise in engineering is the best in the world.” Grentham lifted his brows in challenge. “Don’t you think a better question is why did they want him?”

  A grim smile, fleeting as quicksilver. “I assume you’re about to tell us that.”

  “Alas, no. The trail became, shall we say, confused. Unsettling clues came to light indicating that the French were in league with one of our Allies, and perhaps a traitor within our own government—and before you ask me who, the answer is still unclear. I have my suspicions, based on rumors of a plot, which quickly died away as certain diplomatic visits to London were cancelled . . .”

  Grentham contemplated the dregs of brandy left in his glass. “While following those leads, I also decided to reach out to Mr. Fitzroy, whose reputation for creative innovations was growing within the scientific community. An acquaintance of mine was his professor of geology at Cambridge and a meeting was arranged.”

  “Were you aware of—” began Arianna.

  “No,” said Grentham. “I only learned of his personal connection to you quite recently. Apparently, a penchant for dangerous intrigue runs in the family, for Fitzroy agreed to work with me and see if we could draw the unknown enemy into making overtures to him.”

  “It didn’t require me to do anything terribly clever,” murmured Fitzroy. “I simply began to drop some comments about feeling it unfair that an accident of birth damns a man in Britain through no fault of his own, and prevents him from advancing on his own merit.”

  “I take the ploy succeeded,” she said.

  “The answer isn’t as simple as ‘yes’ and ‘no’.” It was Grentham who answered. “Though Fitzroy has still not learned the identity of any conspirators . . .” He looked to Arianna. “Save for Prince Orlov.”

  “We’ve been telling you for some time that he’s a thoroughly dirty dish,” muttered Sophia.

  “I was not oblivious to his many flaws and depravities, Miss Kirtland. But they were not my concern until they came into direct conflict with Britain’s safety and security.”

  “He’s a threat now?” asked Arianna.

  “I have reason to believe so. But we still have no idea what they are planning, or what they hope to accomplish. Let us hope your interference didn’t stir any suspicions about Fitzroy—”

  “I don’t think it did, sir. He seemed pleased with my work,” volunteered the engineer.

  “Which should be a frightening thought for all of us,” responded Arianna. “I worked out the calculations with you, and clearly he’s intent on destroying some sort of structure.” She drew in a measured breath. “Have you any idea what?”

  “Something large and weighty.” Fitzroy made a face. “At the moment, I can’t offer anything more specific than that. However, if I study the equations and initial conditions, I might be able to narrow down the possibilities.”

  Arianna couldn’t see how that could be of any help.

  It quickly became evident that Grentham was of the same mind. “It’s an utter waste of time to speculate. To have any chance of preventing whatever evil act the enemy is planning, we need to know the target and the time.”

  “Knowing the identity of the conspirators might also allow us to stop them,” she said. “We know one of them is Orlov . . .” Connections, connections—they needed to go back and look at the connections. “Earlier in the evening, I saw you and Orlov with two other gentlemen. One was Colonel Newton. Who was the fourth?”

  Fitzroy lifted his shoulders in a helpless shrug. “I was never told his name, and I didn’t think it wise to appear too curious.”

  “Your work demands that you be very observant, so think hard, and then describe everything you can remember about him.”

  Brow furrowing, Fitzroy squeezed his eyes shut in concentration.

  “Was he French? Prussian? Russian?” pressed Saybrook.

  “No—English!” exclaimed the engineer. “He spoke very little, and kept his face shadow by his upturned coat collar, but there was a distinctive cut to the tailoring of his clothing. It was fashioned by either Weston or Stutz.”

  “Well done,” murmured Arianna. “Now, think back on his face, or his mannerisms. What else comes to mind?”

  Another quiver of silence.

  “He had an aura of privilege about him—an aristocrat‚—as well as authority,” came the answer. “And while I only caught a glimpse of his features in the flickering torchlight, he had an engaging smile that belied the obsidian hardness of his eyes.” Fitzroy shifted uncomfortably. “They reminded me of a cold-blooded reptile.”

  Saybrook raised a brow but Grentham’s face tightened.

  “You recognize the gentleman?” asked Arianna.

  The minister shook his head. “Unlike Fitzroy, I have no poetic imagination—though if we’re looking for snakes, they are slithering through every nook and cranny of Paris.”

  It wasn’t an answer, but she didn’t press him. Mere speculation was only a distraction.

  “And speaking of snakes,” went on Grentham, “the Café des Aveugles, in the basement of the Palaise-Royal, is the best place in the city to hear gossip and gerüchte. It’s a well-known gathering place for spies and agitators.”

  “Gerüchte?” repeated Fitzroy.

  “Rumors,” translated the minister. “Von Gruner, who’s handling the military police in Paris for Wellington and the Allies, is Prussian and has coined that term for all the deliberately planted lies that are circulating through the city.” A pause. “I dare not show my face there, but you ought to visit the place this coming evening.”

  “But if there are naught but lies—” began the engineer.

  “Lies can be twisted twice, and become truth,” said Saybrook with a ghost of a smile. “Or several scraps pieced together into whole cloth.”

  Fitzroy looked a little bewildered.

  “You have much to learn about the netherworld of intrigue, young man,” counseled the dowager.

  “Enough of intrigue for now,” said Arianna, as a maid appeared with the supper tray. “Let us feed our guests, and then I suggest we all get what little sleep we can before the new day brings yet more challenges.”

  Chapter 19

  Laughter drifted out of the imposing stone shopping arcade, the exotic fragrances from the perfume vendors mingling with the lush summer scents of the former ducal gardens.

  “The guidebooks says the Palaise was once home to Cardinal Richelieu,” read Sophia, as she strolled beside Arianna and Saybrook. They had agreed that appearing as curious tourists provided a good reason for spending the late afternoon and evening exploring all the attractions of the city’s premier amusement spot. Constantina and Dampierre had, however, decided that walking through the sprawling enclave of palatial buildings and gardens would be too taxing, and instead planned to attend a dinner for diplomats.

  “And the Palaise then passed to the Duke of Orléans,” she continued, “who opened the first arcades and restaurants to refill the empty family coffers.”

  “Money tends to be the root of all evil,” murmured Saybrook, watching a nearby trio of brightly-painted harlots flirt with a group of Prussian officers. “After dark, this is a notorious pleasure spot. The upstairs rooms of the Palaise hold a wealth of gambling dens, along with the private rooms for the ladies of the night and their clients.”

  Arianna paused to peek into one of the shop windows. “There are a great many other sinfully sumptuous luxuries for sale,” she said dryly. “Including chocolate confections from the legendary Sulpice Debauve.”

  She inhaled the scent of sugar and spice drifting through the open casement . . . and decided she couldn’t resist the opportunity to sample the wares of Marie Antoinette’s former physician, whose innovations in the art of edible chocolate were fast becoming famous throughout Europe.

  “I shall catch up with you shortly.”

  Saybrook hesitated and swept the surroundings with a quick look. “Very well. But don’t be long,” he cautioned.

  “I have my pistol,” she murmured.

  “And I’d rather you didn’t have to use it.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me on that.” Pray God I never have to pull the trigger. With that, Arianna moved away and stepped between the classical marble columns into the shady coolness of the arcade’s main corridor.

  A bell tinkled as she pushed open the door to the chocolate shop.

  “Bonjour,” called a stout, middle-aged woman wearing a caramel-colored smock over her cocoa-brown gown. She and an elderly gentleman with cropped silver hair that curled in soft ringlets around his broad face were sampling some morsels of fruit-studded chocolate confections arranged on a porcelain platter.

  “I think the glacée pineapple is too sweet,” he murmured.

  “Oui,” she agreed.

  “Have Jean prepare another batch.” He pursed his lips. “Tell him to add a soupçon of lemon juice to the sugar. The tartness may add a more nuanced flavor to the recipe.”

  “If you are looking to cut the sweetness, monsieur, you might consider adding a dash of Malabar pepper,” suggested Arianna. “Or, for an even spicier bite, try Mexican achiote.”

  His brows shot up in surprise.

  “I have a bit of experience in creating chocolate confections,” she explained, and then added, “Dare I hope I’ve encountered the legendary chocolatier, Sulpice Debauve?”

  The gentleman gave a courtly bow. “At your service, madame, though I am hardly a legend—merely a humble cook.”

  “Not to me. Monsieur. I’ve studied your work and consider you a genius.”

  His cheeks turned a trifle pink. “And to whom have I the pleasure of speaking?”

  “I am Lady Saybrook, visiting from London,” she replied. “I grew up in the West Indies, and our housekeeper introduced me to the magical properties of Theobroma cacao. The ancient Aztecs believed the plant contained powerful healing properties—as do you.”

  Debauve offered her a sample of his confection. “What do you think?”

  “Definitely pepper,” murmured Arianna, slowly savoring the flavors after letting it melt on her tongue. “As it happens, my husband’s Spanish grandmother did a great deal of research on the history of Theobroma cacao and made some very interesting discoveries . . .” The chocolatier listened in rapt fascination as she went on to explain about the diaries and recipes.

  “How remarkable.” He released a wistful sigh. “I’ve never met anyone who knows the history and lore of chocolate.”

  Arianna smiled. “Perhaps we could exchange some of our secrets. I would dearly like to have your recipe for anise flavored chocolate crème. And return, I would be happy to copy the historical notes and send them to you on my return to London.”

  Amid a flurry of mutual thanks and expressions of goodwill, they exchanged addresses.

  “Are you enjoying Paris, Lady Saybrook?” asked Debauve.

  “Very much so,” she answered. “Tonight we are dining at the Café des Aveugles.”

  His mouth quirked. “Chez Pierre offers far superior food.”

  “Yes, but my husband has many friends among the diplomats stationed here in the city, so he is hoping he may encounter them at the café.”

  “Quite likely he will,” said Debauve pleasantly, though his voice held a note of caution. “It is quite popular with diplomats.”

  Arianna decided to venture another question. “Tell me, is there a restaurant that caters to the Russian officers? We have acquaintances from the Peace Conference in Vienna who may be stationed here, and we have heard that Prince Orlov and his friends spend time here at the Palaise-Royal.”

  The chocolatier’s face tightened and he darted a glance at his assistant.

  The woman’s expression turned wary. “Mauvaise, mauvaise,” she muttered under her breath.

  Bad, bad. The woman clearly knew something, thought Arianna. Dare I hope it’s a clue to our conundrum?

  “You are friends with Prince Orlov, milady?” asked Debauve carefully.

  Pitching her voice low, she answered, “No. My husband and I seek their company for reasons other than friendship.” Debauve was a man dedicated to healing. His patient, Marie Antoinette, had been sent to the guillotine, and for nearly 30 years he had seen his country engaged in constant war and bloodshed. “Now that peace, however fragile, has been made, it would be terrible if there were those who wish to shatter it.”

  “Boom.” The word was barely more than a breath of air, but the woman’s gesture—a silent explosion of her fingers—set off a warning echo in Arianna’s ears.

  She looked to Debauve. “Sir?”

  He hesitated, and then released a pent-up breath. “I can’t imagine that a lady who loves chocolate has any evil intentions.” Another glance at his assistant. “Marie-Claire, I think you should tell her.” To Arianna, he added, “Marie-Claire’s daughter works at Le Chevre D’Or, which is where the prince and his coterie gather ‘most every night. Like many men, they see only the bosoms and derrierres of the serving girls, and assume they have no ears.”

  “The prince is a man of prodigious appetites,” muttered Marie-Claire. “Not for chocolate.”

  “What has your daughter heard?” pressed Arianna.

  “She finds their talk terrifying,” answered Marie-Claire, after shooting a nervous look out the shop window. “They talk of an explosion, and how it will bring about a new and better world order.” A snort. “As if violence ever brings good rather than evil.”

  Arianna felt her insides clench. “What sort of explosion?”

  Marie-Claire shook her head. “That she doesn’t know.”

  “Please ask her to keep her ears open,” replied Arianna. “I will stop by daily to purchase chocolate bon-bons.”

  “What you ask is dangerous, madame.”

  “So is the prospect of Paris erupting into chaos,” murmured Debauve, his eyes pinching shut for a painful moment. “I have seen that horror and it is a sight straight out of hell.”

  Shadows stirred around them. The ghosts of all the innocent lives cut short by violence? “You can stop Prince Orlov?” demanded Marie-Claire.

  “Yes,” answered Arianna decisively. “But we need your help.”

  Her two companions exchanged hurried whispers. Marie-Claire huffed a sigh, but then gave a grim nod. “Come back tomorrow. My daughter stops by the shop every night on her way to work, so I shall ask her to do as you ask. Grâce à Dieu, I’ll soon have something to tell you.”

  Grâce à Dieu. Yes, by the grace of God, may we find a way to stop the miscreants from throwing the Continent back into chaos.

  “Merci,” said Arianna, giving the woman’s hand a quick squeeze. Saybrook, she noted, was pacing up and down the walkway just outside the display window. After quickly purchasing a packet of Debauve’s confections, she took her leave and rejoined him.

  “I know your interest in chocolate, but—” began the earl.

  “I wasn’t merely discussing sugar and spices,” she cut in, and went on to explain.

  “Hmmm.” He looked thoughtful. “Perhaps our luck is turning. We encountered Colonel Newton just now. Sophia invited him to join us for supper and he’s accepted.”

  “Excellent.” Arianna slipped her arm through his and they began walking to where the others were waiting. “Though I imagine he’s just as intent on playing cat and mouse as we are.”

  “Well. . . .” The earl allowed a feline smile. “We shall see whose claws are the cleverest.”

  The evening passed in oddly convivial conversation. Arianna watched in indecision as Newton exchanged yet another round of pleasantries with Sophia. He was either a consummate actor . . .

  Or his bluff of good cheer was unfeigned.

  She could tell by the flicker in Saybrook’s eyes, that he, too was uncertain of how to read the gentleman.

  “Tell me, Newton,” he said, after a light laugh from Sophia had died away. “Are you enjoying your work on Wellington’s staff?”

  “I am,” answered the colonel. “Very much so. At times, it’s a challenge to work with our allies, but finding common ground is important, and allows us to forge a lasting stability here in Europe.”

  “Let us hope so,” murmured Saybrook. He twirled the stem of his glass between his fingers. “I’m under the impression that Russia shares our thoughts on how to reorder the balance of power. So I imagine that Prince Orlov is a key negotiator for bringing the other delegations into line.”

  “Ah, Orlov.” Newton smoothed a finger over his neatly-trimmed moustache. His face was a trifle flushed from the wine, but his voice was steady. “He is a difficult fellow to read. One never quite knows what he is thinking. But then, I’ve heard it said the Russian mind leans more to the East than to the West. There is a penchant for Byzantine twists . . .”

  Realizing that he might have spoken too frankly, Newton quickly softened his assessment with a wry laugh. “However, I’m merely a humble soldier, so I can’t claim to understand the nuances of diplomacy.”

  “Isn’t your uncle involved in the world of discreet negotiations?” asked the earl.

  Newton smiled. “I wouldn’t call it that—nor would he. Sir Rowland considers himself an administrator.” His smile stretched wider. “He’s very good at organizing paperwork and logistics, and happily admits that the thought of intrigue and innuendo makes his innards curdle.”

  Arianna searched his face but found no sign of slyness.

  After sharing another bottle of excellent Bordeaux wine and enjoying the café’s famous blind orchestra, the colonel rose and excused himself.