16 tablespoons unsalted butter, plus more for greasing pan
8 oz. bittersweet chocolate, cut into ¼-inch pieces
4 eggs
1 cup sugar
1 cup firmly packed dark brown sugar
2 teaspoon vanilla extract
½ teaspoon fine salt
1 cup flour
1. Heat oven to 350°. Grease a 9-inch x 13-inch baking pan with butter and line with parchment paper ; grease paper. Set pan aside.
2. Pour enough water into a 4-quart saucepan that it reaches a depth of 1 inch. Bring to a boil; reduce heat to low. Combine butter and chocolate in a medium bowl; set bowl over saucepan. Cook, stirring, until melted and smooth, about 5 minutes. Remove from heat; set aside.
3. Whisk together eggs in a large bowl. Add sugar, brown sugar, vanilla and salt; whisk to combine. Stir in chocolate mixture; fold in flour. Pour batter into prepared pan; spread evenly. Bake until a toothpick inserted into center comes out clean, 30–35 minutes. Let cool on a rack. Cut and serve.
Henning let out a low whistle as he read over the deciphered messages. “The two of you make a formidable team.”
“It was Arianna who came up with the solution,” said Saybrook. “I merely helped her apply it to working out the second message.” He gave a wry smile. “Though I suppose that I deserve some credit for knowing she would be brilliant at this.”
“Let us not start celebrating quite yet,” she cautioned. “We can’t forget that while we have worked out the text of the actual messages, we have yet to figure out what it all means.”
Henning grunted in assent. “Aye, it’s still cryptic.” He pursed his lips in a wry grimace. “We had better order up a big breakfast, seeing as you claim to think better on a full stomach.”
Arianna suddenly found herself craving a steaming cup of coffee and hot muffins studded with chunks of sweet chocolate. “I’ve a better idea. Let us go down to the kitchen, and I’ll tell Theresa that I will take charge of the cooking.” Given the need for secrecy and security concerning their activities, they had brought their own trusted household servants with them to Vienna. “The aroma of sugar and spices is an added stimulant to my brain.”
“Far be it from me to object,” said the surgeon, patting his bony ribs. “Your shirred eggs with peppered cheese are ambrosial.”
“I’m hungry too . . .” Saybrook gathered up the papers. “For a solution.”
“I shall try to serve up some inspiration,” she quipped.
A short while later, the sound of the kettle whistling on the hob punctuated the sizzling of butter in the frying pan. Platters of sausages and fresh fruit, freshly baked rolls, and steaming pots of cinnamon-scented chocolate and rich, dark coffee crowded the work table.
“Delicious,” murmured Henning, forking up another mouthful of omelette aux champignons.
Saybrook pushed back his plate, and cleared a place for his papers. “Try to devote an equal amount of enthusiasm to the problem at hand, Baz.”
“I’m chewing over the possibilities, laddie,” retorted the surgeon. “Read us the messages again.”
The earl picked up Arianna’s transcription. “The one that was hidden in the chocolate book reads, ‘K’s use to us will end in Vienna. Too risky to allow him to return to England. Removing the pawn from the board must be your first move. ’ ”
“So Kydd’s death was planned from the start,” mused Arianna. “I confess, I feel a bit better knowing that I was not the cause. I know he was a traitor, but I’m sorry he was murdered. He wasn’t evil, merely misguided. Men far more devious than him manipulated his passions to their own advantage.”
Saybrook’s jaw tightened for an instant and then released. “Nonetheless, he would have hanged for his betrayal.”
“There is one thing that I’ve been wondering about the messages hidden in the chocolate book,” said Arianna. “Wouldn’t it have set off alarm bells that they didn’t reach Vienna.”
“Not necessarily,” replied her husband. “It’s always assumed that some of the messages won’t make it through. Davilenko was likely just one of several couriers. I would imagine that copies of the document stolen from Charles, along with duplicates of the coded notes, were dispatched with other carriers. And much as I hate to give the devil his due, Grentham arranged Davilenko’s death to appear a plausible accident, so it would be unlikely to raise suspicion.”
Henning had stopped eating. “I, too, have a question. Do you plan to expose the secret society in Scotland?”
“Rochemont’s cohorts must be rooted out, Baz. As for the other Dragons of St. Andrew, I shall do my best to see that they escape England’s lance.”
The surgeon nodded curtly.
Arianna touched his sleeve. “Your nephew—”
“It’s too late for him. I’m assuming he’s been murdered by Rochemont and his bloody bastards.” Henning fingered his knife. “Though I haven’t the heart to say so to my sister. God knows, we’ll likely never find the body.” The blade drew a tiny bead of blood, more black than crimson in the muted light. “It will add to her pain not to be able to give the lad a decent Christian burial.”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
In the shifting shadows, the surgeon’s craggy face looked as bleak as a storm-swept chunk of Highland granite. “So am I, lassie. So am I.” He curled a fist. “Which is why we must crush these men before they harm anyone else.”
Saybrook cleared his throat. “The second message is what will help us do so, Baz. The plan is spelled out here in black and white. We just have to be clever enough to read between the lines.”
“ ‘While the Kings watch the Queens, the Knight to Bishop, Q 4,’ ” recited Arianna. She had already committed the brief message to memory. “ ‘And when the Well runs dry, the Castle will be ours and the Bee will once again rule the board. ’ ”
Henning made a face. “It seems to indicate a chess game of sorts.” He looked at the earl. “Can you make any sense of it?”
The earl stared up at the ceiling for a long moment, watching the thin plumes of cooking smoke snake along the age-dark beams. “Knight to Bishop Q 4 seems the clearest message. In chess, that means the knight knocks the bishop from the board.” His lashes flicked slowly up and down, like the silent swish of a raptor’s wings, and with his forefinger, he started to sketch a pattern of imaginary squares upon the scarred tabletop. “And Q 4 is one of the center squares, so it might be a metaphor for doing the deed in the middle of a gala entertainment.”
“Yes,” agreed Henning. “That seems a reasonable guess.”
“So, a bishop is the target,” said Arianna, feeling a little like a round peg whose contours didn’t quite fit into the hard-edged outline. “That blows all of my theories to flinders. I had assumed from the very start that a politician or a royal was the intended victim.” She broke off a piece of bread, but merely crumbled the crust between her fingers. “I’m more confused that ever. How the devil is religion linked to England’s security?”
“Good question,” muttered Henning. “I haven’t a clue.”
A hiss of steam swirled up from the stove. Arianna took up the kettle and silently fixed a fresh pot of coffee.
“The bishop,” muttered Henning “The bishop. The bishop.”
Saybrook started to refill his cup.
“The bishop.”
“Good God.” A splash of scalding coffee suddenly spilled over Saybrook’s fingers.
Arianna whirled around from the stove.
“Talleyrand,” said her husband. Shaking off the drops, he slapped his palm to the table. “Damnation, how did I not think of it before now. As a young man, Talleyrand was appointed the Bishop of Autun through his family’s influence.” A trickle of dark liquid seeped through the cracks of the oiled wood. “A notorious nonbeliever, he quickly abandoned the Church for politics, but still . . .”