The Cocoa Conspiracy Read Online Free PDF Page B

you are not here to cook up any new trouble?”
    “No, I shall leave making a hash of things to you, sir.” She smiled sweetly on seeing a tinge of color rise to his cheekbones.
    “A hash calls for dicing a slab of flesh into mincemeat, does it not?” replied Grentham. “I prefer a more sophisticated style of cuisine. One that requires delicate carving skills . . .” His well-tended fingers flicked at his lapel. “Rather than a few heavy hacks with a cleaver.”
    Arianna had stabbed a man to save Saybrook’s life, and the minister knew it. But she would be damned if she let him guess that the memory still gave her occasional nightmares.
    “Ah, yes,” she riposted. “I’ve heard that you have a great deal of experience in roasting a man’s cods, and then slicing them into amuse-bouches .” It was, she knew, childish to provoke him. But she couldn’t help it. “Tell me, do you spice them with oregano or rosemary? Or do you serve them plain, with naught but a sprinkling of salt?”
    “You have a clever tongue, Lady Saybrook,” replied Grentham softly. “Have a care that it doesn’t land you in a vat of boiling oil.”
    He moved away without further comment as a shadow fell across the recessed corner.
    “Was that self-important prig harassing you?” demanded Saybrook in a low growl as he came up behind her.
    Arianna shook her head. “The minister and I were simply exchanging pleasantries.”
    Her reply elicited a phrase unfit for the elegant surroundings.
    “There are ladies present,” she cautioned. “Not that such language offends my ears. But I daresay that the others would fall into a swoon were they to overhear you.”
    He chuffed a disgruntled sigh.
    “Speaking of ladies, I can’t help but be curious—is Lord Grentham’s wife here?” She wondered what sort of female could live with such an unrelenting lack of humor.
    “I believe he’s a widower,” replied Saybrook.
    Arianna suspected that the minister was standing on the other side of the tall Chinoiserie curio cabinet, and couldn’t resist a parting dig. “Ha. My guess is he either tortured the poor woman in some foul dungeon. Or”—the pause was deliberately drawn out—“she simply expired from boredom.”
    Saybrook gave a chuckle.
    “Honestly,” she went on. “Does the man think of nothing but work, and how he can persecute the people around him?”
    “It’s his job to be a nasty, nosy son of a bitch. And he does it extremely well.” Her husband disliked the minister even more intensely than she did. He hadn’t revealed the reason, but she guessed it was very . . . personal.
    “Forget Grentham,” muttered Saybrook. “Come, let us mingle with the other guests and be polite.”
    Rochemont, the French Adonis, was engaged in conversation with the Duke of Ellis and two military officers from the Horse Guards. As she passed close by, Arianna heard him describing a hunting trip to Scotland.
    “The Paragon of Masculine Beauty appears to speak perfect English,” she observed.
    “The comte has lived in London for nearly two decades,” answered her husband.
    “He must be delighted to see Napoleon exiled and the House of Bourbon restored to the throne of France,” she mused.
    Saybrook shrugged. “I would imagine it all depends on how power shifts. No one likes to lose his position of influence. The British government treated the émigré community in London as an important ally. Now that there is no Napoleon to fight against, Rochemont and his followers might become irrelevant.”
    “I hadn’t thought of it in that light.” Arianna pursed her lips, finding it hard to understand the allure of the political world. As Saybrook said, it must all come down to a craving for power.
    While, I, on the other hand, satisfy my innermost desires with chocolate.
    “What has stirred such a cat-in-the-cream-pot smile?” inquired Saybrook, arching a dark brow.
    “I was giving thanks to God that we will not have to be involved in all the