Arianna’s palms began to prickle.
“For now, it’s being kept a secret so the Tsar of Russia can’t stir up any opposition among the other delegates,” Saybrook went on. “Alexander and the Prussians will be invited to attend, but as the talks are not part of the official Conference agenda, Wellington will avoid all the regular balls and banquets. His only public appearance will be at the Carrousel, where he will watch the display of medieval martial skills from Talleyrand’s box.”
“ ‘When the Well runs dry,’ ” recited Arianna. “You think Rochemont means to assassinate Talleyrand and Wellington.”
“I do,” replied the earl. “Europe’s greatest statesman and Europe’s greatest soldier—it would eliminate the two most dangerous obstacles in Napoleon’s path to recapturing his past glory.”
“By the bones of St. Andrew, you just might be right, laddie.” Henning blew out his cheeks. “So, how do we checkmate the Bee and his murderous bastards?”
“Chess is all about strategy, Baz. Knowing what moves our opponent is planning gives us an advantage but we shall have to play our pieces very carefully to turn that edge into outright victory.”
“Ye needn’t lecture me about the importance of strategy,” groused the surgeon. “I am well aware that chess is considered a metaphor for war. But tell me, what game are we playing with this so-called Carrousel? I take it the event is to feature real-life knights, but what are the details?”
The earl crooked a rueful grimace. “The Festival Committee has been planning the evening for months, and from what I’ve gathered, it’s meant to be the crown jewel of the Conference entertainments. Several aides have spent days in the Imperial Library poring over the accounts of past tournaments, so we can assume that the pageantry will be a dazzling spectacle.”
“Which will only make things more difficult for us,” grumbled Henning.
“Perhaps,” said the earl. “And yet, it may also work in our favor. Rochemont is likely counting on the blaring trumpets, the flapping banners and the colorful procession of champions to cover his dastardly preparations. We can take advantage of the same confusion.”
The surgeon chuffed a noncommittal grunt.
“It’s to be held in the Spanish Riding School, which has a large indoor arena designed for equestrian maneuvers. All the surrounding columns will be decorated with armor and various weapons from the Imperial Armory’s collection,” continued Saybrook. “At one end, they are building a grandstand for all the sovereigns—complete with gilded armchairs, I might add. At the other end will be a balcony for the twenty-four Belles d’Amour—the Queens of Love.”
Another sound slipped from Henning’s lips, this one far ruder than the last.
“Dio Madre, Baz, if you are suffering from gout or gas, kindly pour yourself a medicinal draught of whisky.”
“Sorry,” muttered the surgeon. “The antics of the aristocracy never cease to give me a pain in the gut.”
“Well, stubble your stomach’s sensitivity if you please. All of Europe will be hurting if we can’t figure out a way to beat Rochemont at his own game.”
“Sandro, that begs the question . . .” Arianna finished riddling the stove and dusted the soot from her hands. “Why not simply tell Talleyrand and Wellington what is planned and ask them to stay away?”
“For a number of reasons,” answered the earl. “First of all, it’s imperative to catch Rochemont in the act. Much as I hate to admit it, the evidence against him is flimsy enough that I don’t think he can be charged with a crime.” His gaze angled up, just enough for her to see the simmering anger in his eyes.
“You mean because I’m the only one who has actually uncovered the coded documents. The book, the hidden paper in the jewel case—it’s my word against his and most government officials will believe a titled gentleman over a lady whose background is, shall we say, somewhat uncertain.”
“That sums it up in a nutshell,” said her husband tersely.
“Bloody bastards.” It wasn’t clear to whom Henning was referring. She assumed it was everyone who moved within the exalted circles of the ton, that special place where wheels turned smoothly within wheels, greased with the drippings of privilege and pedigree.
The earl signaled the surgeon to silence and went on. “Secondly, I want to catch his cohorts. I’m not convinced Rochemont is Renard—there is a weakness about him, despite his cleverness. So if there’s a chance to catch the real fox, I don’t want to miss it.” He tapped his fingertips together. “And thirdly, being intimately acquainted with Wellington, I know exactly how he will react if I suggest a retreat from the enemy. He’ll look down that long nose of his and tell me to go to the Devil.”
“Men,” murmured Arianna with a slight shake of her head. “In this case prudence ought to override pride.”
“It won’t,” said Saybrook flatly. “Trust me, you could light a barrel of gunpowder under his bum and he wouldn’t budge—” He stopped abruptly, the rest of the sentence still hanging on the tip of his tongue.
Arianna had been sweeping the dark grains of crumbled toast into a neat pile but her hand stilled.
Henning straightened from his slouch.
“Gunpowder,” repeated Saybrook.
“Medieval knights did not have gunpowder,” Henning pointed out.
“Thank you for the history lesson, Baz. But I’m not suggesting they are going to ride in dragging a battery of cannons behind their warhorses. However . . .” Picking up his notebook, he thumbed to the center section and read over several pages. “The preliminary drills will include the pas de lance—riding at full gallop and tilting at rings hanging by ribbons—as well as throwing javelins at fake Saracen heads and displaying prowess with a sword on horseback by slicing apples suspended from the ceiling.”
“An apple is the same size as a small grenade—like the one used to kill Kydd,” said Arianna softly.
“An interesting observation.” The earl added a notation to the page.
“How would he ignite it?” asked Henning quickly.
“For the moment, let’s not discard any idea,” said Saybrook. “No matter how outlandish it might seem.”
“Fair enough,” replied the surgeon with a solemn nod. “You’re right—we need to keep an open mind about how they intend to do the murderous deed. We know they are devilishly clever, so we must be too.”
“I suggest we backtrack for a bit, and go through the whole program,” offered Arianna.
“Right.” The earl took a moment to consult his notes. “Twenty-four gentlemen have been chosen to be a knight in the extravaganza. All are from prominent titled families—Prince Vincent Esterhazy, Prince Anton Radziwill, Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld, to name a few. As I mentioned, twenty-four highborn ladies have also been invited to be a Queen of Love. Metternich’s daughter Marie is one of them, as is the Duchess of Sagan, Dorothée de Talleyrand-Perigord and Sophie Zichy. Each will carry her knight’s colors and sit in a special section”—the earl’s voice took on a note of sardonic humor—“where she will cheer her champion on to glory.”
“With any luck, several of the idiots might manage to kill themselves,” quipped Henning.
Saybrook grimaced. “Not likely. Though it’s been dubbed a medieval joust, the participants will be wearing snug hose, fancy velvet doublets and plumed hats decorated with diamonds rather than awkward and uncomfortable armor.”
Arianna stifled a snicker on imagining the absurdly elaborate spectacle.
Her husband’s brows waggled in silent agreement. “Oh, it gets even better. At precisely eight in the evening, there will be an opening procession, complete with squires toting shields, and pages waving banners. Our noble nodcocks will follow their minions, mounted on black Hungarian chargers. They will gather in front of the sovereigns and give a flourishing salute with their lances. Then the games will begin.” He paused. “After the pageant, there is a banquet for the guests of honor scheduled, but that need not concern us. Talleyrand and Wellington have already indicated that they do not plan to attend.”