The Cocoa Conspiracy Read Free Page A

would have passed to Mellon. However, Arianna had never doubted the affection that the older man had shown for his nephew.
    “I won’t take up too much of your time,” he finished.
    “It’s nearly noon—you must join us for nuncheon,” she said. “Bianca will be bitterly disappointed if you miss her special Serrano ham.”
    “Tempting.” Mellon allowed a faint smile. “But a meeting at the ministry demands my presence. I cannot stay for long. I’ve simply stopped by to ask a favor . . .” His pause was barely perceptible. “Of you both.”
    “Anything—” began Saybrook.
    Mellon cut him off with a quick wave. “It’s never wise to agree to a proposal before knowing all the details. I would rather that you and your wife hear me out before giving an answer.”
    “I’ve already rung for the refreshments, my dear,” said Saybrook, an oblique reminder for her to make haste.
    “I shall only be a few minutes in freshening up,” promised Arianna.
    Taking the stairs two at a time, she couldn’t help but wonder what help her uncle-by-marriage could possibly need from her. For the most part, they moved in very different circles. A senior diplomat in the Foreign Ministry, Mellon spun effortlessly through the gilded splendor of London’s haute monde. While she preferred . . .
    No use speculating. Arianna expelled a harried sigh. She would find out soon enough.
     
    “Attend a country house party?” Saybrook stirred a pinch of grated nutmeg into his cup of hot chocolate. “For a fortnight ?”
    Mellon nodded. “I am aware of how little you—both of you—like such frivolous entertainments. But the Marquess of Milford has kindly consented to hold a shooting party at his estate in Wiltshire. There will be a number of foreign diplomats present, including a delegation from Spain.”
    “I see,” murmured Saybrook.
    His expression, noted Arianna, gave nothing away. As a former military intelligence officer attached to the staff of Arthur Wellesley—now the Duke of Wellington—during England’s Peninsular campaign to drive Napoleon’s armies out of Spain, he was well trained in keeping his thoughts to himself.
    “Given the upcoming Peace Conference in Vienna, our government is, of course, anxious to work in harmony with all of our wartime allies,” continued Mellon.
    “And, of course, it would be a help to know what the Spaniards are thinking,” said Saybrook.
    Another confirming nod. “That your mother was a Cata-lonian noblewoman will be a great mark in your favor. As will the fact that you have spent your childhood summers in their country and so are at home with their language and their customs.”
    “A mark in my favor,” repeated Saybrook, a note of sarcasm edging his voice. “How ironic that my own countrymen see my mixed heritage as a stain on an ancient and venerable title.” Seeing Mellon frown, he quickly went on, “Oh, come, Charles, you know I’ve heard the whispers behind my back—how could the old earl have tainted the precious De Quincy blood by producing a mongrel as his heir?” He took a long sip of his drink. “A new batch of spice?”
    “Yes,” said Arianna, knowing the question was directed at her. “I discovered a small shipment from the isle of Grenada at the market. Along with a sack of coffee from the Blue Mountains of Jamaica.”
    Her husband took a moment to savor another taste. “It’s slightly more piquant than the nutmeg from Martinique.”
    “Sun and altitude,” she pointed out. “Which do you prefer?”
    Saybrook smiled. “As you know, I tend to choose bold over mild in most things.” Adding a pinch of powder from a dish on the tea table, he continued. “The mace looks to have a bit of bite as well.”
    Mellon waited patiently for the discussion of food to end. “My palate is not nearly discerning enough to sense such nuances and how best to blend them together,” he remarked when they were done.
    “Your expertise lies in judging the complexities of