3. Heat gently, then add bittersweet chocolate and dark rum. Whisk briskly until chocolate dissolves, about 5 minutes. Serve topped with whipped cream.
Setting her hands on the railing, Arianna leaned out and watched the crowd below forming the figures for a Hungarian csárdás.
Rochemont came up behind her and placed his hands on her bare shoulders. “Have a care, Lady Saybrook. That’s a little dangerous. What if you lost your balance?”
“Oh, but what fun is life if you don’t take a few risks?” She turned into him and made no protests as his palms slowly slid down her arms. “All these balls are becoming tiresome. I am looking forward to the Carrousel. I hear it is going to be quite a display of pomp and pageantry.”
“Having some knowledge of the arrangements, I can promise you that the evening will be unforgettable.”
Arianna looked up at him through her lashes. “Alas, Saybrook has refused Lord Castlereagh’s offer of tickets. He wishes to work.” A coy flutter. “While I wish to play.”
His gaze seemed to sharpen.
“I don’t suppose I could ask you to take me as your guest?” she asked. “As the head of the French delegation, your Prince must have a private box.”
“Indeed. It is in a place of honor, right in the front row,” replied Rochemont. “Unfortunately, the seats are all taken, for Talleyrand has a special guest coming.”
“Oh?” Arianna assumed a petulant pout. “Who?”
“It’s a secret,” said the comte is a low voice.
“I promise not to tell.”
“Perhaps . . .” The soft leather of his gloves slid down her bare arms. Turning, he drew her into the shadowed corridor leading to the side saloons. The sound of muted laughter swirled in the smoke-scented air, its music melding with the faraway melody of the violins. “Perhaps I could arrange a favor, Lady Saybrook. But tell me, what are you willing to give me in return?”
“That would depend on how special the favor is,” she countered.
“What would you say to being part of the pageantry?”
The slithering sensation on her skin had nothing to do with his touch. “You could arrange that?” she asked. “I’ve heard that the program has been worked on for months, and that every detail has been carefully planned. Surely the organizers won’t allow a last-minute change.”
“True. However there has been one change concerning the presentation of the grand prize to the winning knight. Due to the importance of the Prince’s guest, Von Getz, the secretary of the Conference, has appointed me to be in charge of arranging a slight variation to the original ceremony.”
A change to the ceremony? Arianna felt her pulse begin to quicken. “That must have cost you a fortune—it’s said that von Getz’s influence does not come cheap.”
“The secretary likes money—but he also has a weakness for chocolate bonbons.” Rochemont smirked. “Monsieur Carême recently hired a pastry chef who created some unique treats. No matter that the man turned out to be a criminal and was forced to flee when we caught him robbing the palace. There were enough of the sweets left that I was able to assemble a very sweet bribe.”
Nearly overcome with the insane urge to dissolve into giggles, she managed to keep a straight face. “How clever of you.”
A rough laugh, and suddenly Arianna felt herself shoved deeper into the alcove between the archway colonnade. Cold marble kissed against her back as the comte pivoted and pressed his body against hers. “I’m clever at a great many things, Lady Saybrook. Including seducing a woman into my bed. You’ve led me on quite a chase, but I sense that I’m getting close . . .” His lips were now hovering a hairsbreadth from hers. “Close enough to taste triumph.”
Touching her fingertips to his chest, she forced a fraction more space between them. “I was under the impression that men like the thrill of the hunt.”
“We like the thrill of the kill even more—metaphorically speaking, of course,” replied Rochemont.
“Of course.” Arianna met his gaze without flinching. “So, what part do you have in mind for me?”
“It’s been decided that Talleyrand’s guest will present the prize to the champion, instead of the Austrian Emperor. I’ve been wondering just how to orchestrate the ceremony, and then it suddenly occurred to me that you, my dear Lady Saybrook, would be the perfect person to carry out the trophy,” explained Rochemont. “What say you? Is that a sweet enough enticement?”
“Oh, yes,” she said.
Oh, yes. Did the fox think he was pursuing a helpless rabbit? Ha! She intended to lead him right into the snapping jaws of Saybrook.
A low, feral sound rumbling in his throat, he sought to capture her mouth.
She evaded the embrace with a sly turn of her cheek. “Tut, tut, my dear comte. You’ll have to wait until late night hours after the Carrousel. A smart lady never lifts her skirts until she has been paid in advance.”
Rochemont allowed her to slip free. “You drive a hard bargain. Lady Saybrook.” He brushed a wrinkle from his sleeve and patted his cravat into place. “I shall expect you to come to me then—and to make the experience worth my while.”
“You may count on it being unforgettable,” replied Arianna, her voice a silky, smoky whisper. “I perform at my best with men like you.”
“Nothing.” Henning grimaced as he put the papier-mâché head of a snarling Saracen back in the cabinet. In the wavering light, the grotesque teeth seemed to gleam in mockery. “Twenty-four of the bloody grinning Infidels, and not a single suspicious hinge or hollow space that I can make out.”
Saybrook shook the head he was holding before placing it on its rack. “I agree that they appear harmless—the layers of paper are so thick that the space left inside isn’t big enough to hide much of a threat.”
“Ye think Lady S’s suggestion that they are planning to use some sort of gunpowder bomb is bang on the mark?”
“Actually I do,” answered the earl. “Rochemont’s burned hands are too much of a coincidence to dismiss. Besides, the other alternatives are too hit or miss. Even if they convinced one of the knights to charge Talleyrand’s box with scimitar flashing or lance lowered, the chances of him killing both men aren’t very good. Wellington is, after all, a man much experienced in war. He won’t sit there like a petrified pigeon waiting to be slaughtered.” Vapor rose up from the stone floor in slow, serpentine swirls. Chafing his hands together to ward off the chill, Saybrook watched a ghostly tendril wrap itself around the metal lantern. “No, a man as clever as Renard would choose a more reliable method.”
“Think of the Grognard,” said Henning suddenly. “If I were Renard, I’d put a marksman in the crowd. Be damned with a bomb—a well-aimed bullet and the deed would be done in a flash.”
Saybrook shook his head. “I might agree if it were only one target. But two?” His fingers twined and tightened together into a fist. “No, there are too many variables working against gunfire. Even with the crush of the crowd, a rifle would be hard to smuggle in. And then there is the time it would take to reload.”
“A brace of pistols,” suggested the surgeon, loath to give up his idea. “They are easily hidden inside a coat, and at close range it would be hard to miss.”
“It won’t be all that easy to get close to the section reserved for the dignitaries,” argued the earl. “It’s possible that one of the diplomats has been recruited to be the assassin, but still . . . the first shot would set off a panic. In the chaos, aiming a second shot would difficult, even for a battle-hardened soldier.”
“Bloody hell, Sandro. If you’re so convinced it’s a bomb, how the devil is Renard going to deliver it?” He scowled. “And then detonate it? We’ve gone over the weaponry with a fine-tooth comb.”