“I look forward to it,” she replied.
“Excellent!” He bowed slightly and offered his arm, setting off the chink of gold on gold as his myriad medals brushed up against one another. “We shall discuss the details while we dance.”
“Alas, I seem to have twisted my ankle during some vigorous activity earlier this evening,” Arianna flashed a coy smile. “My husband was just about to take me home.”
“Lucky man,” murmured the Tsar. “When you are fully recovered—”
“Are you ready, my dear?” Saybrook, who had been conversing with one of the English military attachés, turned and placed a proprietary hand at the small of her back. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I must get my wife to bed. If an appendage is left to swell, it can turn very painful unless properly treated.”
Alexander nodded—a little hungrily, thought Arianna.
“Do take care, Lady Saybrook. I look forward to meeting again when you are able to perform all the movements required of . . . the waltz.”
Men, she thought wryly. No matter how civilized and sophisticated they were, rivalry to impress the opposite sex often brought out the most primitive instincts.
Saybrook waited until the porter had brought him his overcoat and they had moved out to the entrance portico before saying in a low voice, “I saw Rochemont by the refreshment table watching your exchange with the Tsar.”
“Let us hope he comes to the conclusion that the light-fingered chef was simply one of the many petty criminals who have come to Vienna to profit from all the wealthy people gathered here for the Conference.”
Their breath formed pale puffs of vapor as they hurried down the line of carriages to their waiting driver.
“We may have won a skirmish,” observed Saybrook, draping his coat around her shoulders. “But I am damnably worried about the outcome of the war. We may now have a better idea of who our enemies are, but the truth is, with Kydd dead we have lost our only real lead. So, barring a stroke of luck, I fear we are fighting a nigh impossible battle in trying to stop them.”
The door clicked shut, throwing his face into shadow. “If only . . .” he muttered, sounding tense and tired. “If only I could break the damnable code . . . if only we knew their target . . .” His breath released in a harsh sigh. “If only I didn’t feel as if I was waltzing in damnable, dizzying circles.”
Arianna settled back against the squabs, the slight movement drawing squeals of silent protest from her bruised body. And yet, despite the aches and scrapes, she managed a grim smile.
“I can’t say for sure, but my own merry dance tonight may have led me to a bit of luck.” She winced as she rubbed at the back of her neck. “I trust you have that scrap of paper tucked safely in your pocket.”
19
½ cups (7 ounces) unbleached, all-purpose flour
½ cup unsweetened cocoa (not Dutch process)
1 teaspoon ancho chili powder
1 teaspoon cinnamon
½ teaspoon cayenne pepper
¼ teaspoon cloves
¼ teaspoon fine sea salt
1 cup unsalted butter (2 cubes), at cool room temperature
1 cup sugar
2 egg yolks, lightly beaten, at cool room temperature
finely grated zest of 1 large orange
1 teaspoon espresso powder, dissolved in 1 teaspoon hot water
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
½ teaspoon orange oil (or 1 teaspoon orange extract)
1. In a medium mixing bowl, sift the flour, cocoa, chili powder, cinnamon, cayenne pepper, cloves, and salt together. Reserve.
2. Using a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream the butter and sugar together thoroughly, about 3 minutes.
3. Add the egg yolks and continue beating until creamy.
4. Add the orange zest, dissolved espresso, vanilla, and orange oil, and incorporate.
5. Add the flour mixture and mix very briefly, only until incorporated.
6. Divide the dough into 3 equal portions and flatten each portion to a ½-inch thick disk on a sheet of plastic wrap. Seal the plastic wrap around each portion of the dough and refrigerate for at least 4 hours, or preferably overnight. (The sealed dough can be refrigerated for 2–3 days if necessary.)
7. Remove one portion of dough at a time from the refrigerator so that the dough stays cold while you are working with it. With a floured, cloth-covered rolling pin, roll the well-chilled dough out thinly (¼-inch or less) on a generously floured pastry cloth. Cut out shapes with cookie cutters.
8. Arrange on a parchment-lined baking sheet, decorate with clear sanding sugar if desired, and bake at 375º for 6–8 minutes. Watch closely to prevent cookies from overbrowning. It is difficult to tell when these cookies are done because color is not a cue.
9. Remove from the oven and cool on wire racks.
10. When completely cool, store in airtight cookie tins in a cool, dry location.
“Slàinte mhath.” The brandy in Henning’s glass cast a swirl of fire-gold patterns over his rugged face. “I was beginning to get a bit worried about you two,” he said as Saybrook and Arianna entered the parlor. “Pour yourselves a drink and let us toast to dodging disaster.”
“Amen to that,” said the earl. He chose port.
To Arianna’s eye, its dark ruby richness was uncomfortably close to the color of blood, but the sweetness was soothing on her tongue.
“Slàinte mhath,” she repeated, moving to the hearth and warming her hands over the dancing flames. A wrapper of finespun merino wool had replaced her purloined finery, and between the soft fabric and the flickering fire, the lingering chill was finally dispelled from her bones.
Saybrook sunk into the armchair facing the surgeon. “Much as I appreciate your peculiar sense of humor, Baz, I would appreciate it if you would stubble the clever remarks.” A grunt rumbled in his throat as he shifted his long legs. “And cut to the bloody chase, now that Arianna is here.”
“I’ve missed you too, laddie,” drawled Henning, lifting his glass in ironic salute.
The earl responded with a rude suggestion.
“And you, Lady S.” His tone turned a touch more serious. “You are a feast for sore eyes. Indeed, it warms me from my cockles to my toes to see you standing in one piece.”
She returned his smile. “It’s good to see you too, Mr. Henning. Ignore Sandro’s snarls. You know he’s always in a foul temper when he’s hungry. I’ll fetch a plate of chocolates from the kitchen to sweeten his mood.”
“I don’t want chocolate,” growled the earl. “I want information.”
“And you shall have it, just as soon as I return with some sustenance,” said Arianna. She had come to understand that his barbed exchanges with Henning were part of some arcane masculine ritual of friendship. By the time she came back with the confections, the needling would be done and they could get down to business. “Besides, I am famished, and you know that I think better on a full stomach.”