Vienna Waltz (24 page)
Authors: Teresa Grant
Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Historical, #Romance, #Historical Romance, #Mystery & Suspense
He caught her free hand and drew it overhead, so their clasped arms made a half circle above them. “In fact I think the most warmth I’ve ever seen Malcolm Rannoch display was when he looked at the princess.”
Head turned to the side, she kept her gaze steady on his own as the dance required. “You saw them together in Spain?”
“Oh yes. Malcolm told you he knew Princess Tatiana in the Peninsula?”
“Of course,” she said, gaze locked with his own. “What I didn’t realize until recently was that you had known the princess there.”
There was something between them,
Dorothée had said,
but not a love affair, even a past one.
There was something between them,
Dorothée had said,
but not a love affair, even a past one.
Radley’s fingers tensed ever so slightly on her own. “Our paths crossed.”
“Princess Tatiana was working for British intelligence in the Peninsula.”
“Malcolm has told you a great deal, hasn’t he?” He spun her forward into his arms. “But of course intelligence missions were his business, not mine.”
“Yet you crossed paths with the princess.”
His eyes glinted down at her. “My dear Suzanne, are you jealous? I danced with her once or twice at regimental balls—she was using an alias, of course—but for what it’s worth she never shared my bed. As I said, Malcolm was the one who knew her.”
“They were friends.”
“Such an interesting word. In French you can’t tell whether it means friend or lover.”
“And yet lovers can just as easily be enemies.”
The tempo increased. Radley slid his arms round her, holding both her hands prisoner behind her back. “Relieved to have your husband off your hands? Or jealous? I can’t imagine you don’t feel at least a bit of pique.”
“Your imagination, Colonel, has its limits.”
“So that’s how the wind lies. It makes sense you’d take to a Continental marriage. Enjoy being able to cast your own eye about?” He spun her faster, circling after the other couples. “You know, I find myself deluged by memories.”
“So do I,” said Suzanne, in a tone that indicated the nature of those memories.
“My darling. I have no desire to interfere with the agreeable life you’ve built for yourself.”
The words should have been comforting. But then she knew just how little she could rely on Radley’s word.
“But,” he continued, “I find I cannot contemplate another man’s ring on your finger without feeling my own twinge of—”
“Pique?”
He pulled her closer and looked straight down into her eyes. She felt the warmth of his breath on her skin. “Jealousy.”
Aline stared at Colonel Radley twirling Suzanne beneath his arm. Her foot came down on Geoffrey Blackwell’s toe. “Damnation.” She looked up at him. “Sorry.”
His mouth twitched. “I won’t tell your mother.”
“Mama could hardly complain about my using a word I learned from her. I think when she received billets-doux from three different lovers with her morning chocolate, all appointing rendezvous at the same ball. I meant sorry for treading on your toes.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“You’re a very kind man, Dr. Blackwell.”
“You’re clearer sighted than that, Aline. I have a reputation as a curmudgeon.”
“Which serves very well to get you out of things like squiring débutântes through dances. It’s kind of you to dance with me.”
“My dear girl. I don’t do it to be kind.”
“Chivalry lies in action more than words. And I don’t mean tilting with lances or throwing javelins at ghastly models of Saracen heads.” Aline cast a sideways glance down the circle of dancers. “I suspect you’re much more chivalrous than Colonel Radley.”
Dr. Blackwell followed the direction of her gaze. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she thought she felt his fingers tighten for a moment on her hand. “I shouldn’t worry about Suzanne. She’s better equipped to look after herself than most soldiers of my acquaintance.”
“You don’t like Radley.”
Blackwell twirled her to the side and pulled her back to a very correct six inches away from him. He was a surprisingly good dancer. He made her quite forget about minding her steps. “Radley’s fearless on the battlefield. He lacks the imagination to really appreciate danger.”
“And?”
He grimaced. “His behavior toward the Spaniards didn’t help the reputation of the British army.”
She regarded him with the candor of Frances Dacre-Hammond’s daughter. “How many girls did he seduce?”
Blackwell’s mouth tightened. “Thank God I don’t know. He left at least two with child.”
“The Peninsula sounds very like Vienna.”
“Some things don’t change the world over.”
“Vienna rather does it to excess, though. The society here reminds me of Mama’s stories about Paris before the French Revolution.”
“A number of people at the Congress would like to turn the clock back to the
ancien régime
.”
ancien régime
.”
“And the romantic intriguing goes along with the reactionary politics?” Aline glanced at the couples circling the dance floor, then looked up at Blackwell. She had known him her whole life, but he had never been part of the particular intrigues that her mother and so many of her mother’s friends indulged in. “You never really tried to play their games, did you?”
“Whose?”
“Mama and her set.”
“My dear Aline, I was hardly in that league.”
“Because you’re far too sensible.” She studied his familiar features. The intense eyes, the strong nose, the flexible mouth. Odd to think that he had once been her age and perhaps as bemused by her mother’s set as she was herself. “When I was seven I was passing round tea after dinner at one of Mama’s parties. I was horrid at passing tea, I always sloshed it into the cups. But I had to do it. Mama wouldn’t let me hide in the schoolroom or the library all the time. That day as I handed round the teacups, I heard one of the ladies say, ‘She takes after her mother, which is a mercy. No telling who her father is.’”
This time his arm definitely did tighten round her. “I’m sorry, Allie.”
“Don’t be.” She looked up at him with a laugh. “I didn’t really mind, even then. It explained the odd way Papa sometimes looked at me. It was vaguely interesting, but after a bit I gave up speculating on who my father might be and decided it really didn’t matter. As I grew older I was quite grateful for Papa’s benign neglect and the fact that Mama allowed me to be myself, though I think she often hasn’t the least idea what to make of me. But then I can’t imagine living a life like Mama or the Duchess of Sagan. It seems exhausting.”
“So I’ve always thought. Your mother says it means I lead a sadly dull life.”
“Yes, I don’t suppose Mama’s life is dull. Or that Aunt Arabella’s was.” Aline thought of Malcolm’s mother. For a moment she could see the restless glitter in Arabella Rannoch’s eyes and hear her brittle laugh. “But at least in Aunt Arabella’s case, it doesn’t seem to have made her very happy.”
Blackwell’s gaze clouded. Though Aline could never recall seeing him engage in the flirtation that was so common in her mother’s drawing room, she had a distant memory of seeing his gaze rest on her Aunt Arabella with startling tenderness. Even at the age of seven she’d felt a shock of surprise at the softness in his eyes. There was no mistaking the pain in his usually cool gaze now. “I don’t think much of anything made Arabella happy,” Blackwell said. “She spent her life looking for distraction. Not very comfortable for her children, I’m afraid.”
“I sometimes think that’s why Malcolm takes his responsibilities so seriously. Because neither of his parents was particularly responsible.” Aline saw her cousin’s stricken face as he knelt over Fitzwilliam Vaughn. “What happened to Lord Fitzwilliam—it could easily have been worse, couldn’t it?”
“Much.” Blackwell’s voice turned grim. “If he’d hit his head differently or landed on his neck. Or if the horse had struck him.”
Aline frowned at the top mother-of-pearl button on Blackwell’s waistcoat. “Malcolm would never have forgiven himself. I’m afraid he’s going to have a hard time forgiving himself as it is.”
Eithne met Suzanne and Malcolm at the door of her and Fitz’s bedchamber when they returned from the ball, wrapped in a dressing gown, hair tumbling down her back. “He’s sleeping. Dr. Blackwell just looked in. He says Fitz’s breathing and pulse are good. And Fitz hasn’t reported any headache.”
Despite the shadows of fatigue on her face, the tension was gone from about her mouth, and her eyes had a glow that Suzanne hadn’t seen of late.
Malcolm pressed Eithne’s hand. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear it. You will try to sleep yourself? You’ll be little good to Fitz if you drop from exhaustion.”
Eithne smiled. “I think I’m actually calm enough I might manage to.”
Suzanne hugged her friend. “Wake me if you need anything. Even just the reassurance of someone to talk to.”
“Malcolm,” Eithne said, as they started to move off.
Malcolm turned back to her. “You’ll find who did this?” Eithne asked. “Tampered with Fitz’s horse?”
“I’ll make every effort to do so.”
She nodded. “Whoever was riding against him would have knocked him from his horse, you know.”
“It’s kind of you to say so, Eithne. But the devil of it is, I can’t help replaying every moment of the joust. I’m only glad no permanent harm was done.”
Suzanne and Malcolm went down the passage to their own bedchamber in silence. At last Malcolm was able to pull Tatiana’s note from his shirt cuff. Suzanne lit the tapers on the escritoire, and he spread the note on its polished surface. Block capitals, all run together with no spaces between words.
“Get the Shakespeare, will you?” Malcolm said. “
Hamlet,
Act I, scene iii.”
Hamlet,
Act I, scene iii.”
Suzanne took the leather-bound volume from a shelf against the wall. Shakespeare was one of the first things she and Malcolm had shared. It shouldn’t be surprising that he had shared the Bard with Princess Tatiana as well. With determination she opened the book to the appropriate scene and perched on the edge of the escritoire while he took a sheet of writing paper from a drawer, dipped a pen in the inkpot, and began to write, stopping every so often to refer to the page of Shakespeare that held the key to the code. He had Aline’s gift for numbers and patterns, a gift inherited from his mother.
Malcolm,
I hope you never receive this. I hope I can give you the information myself. But I am learning caution. I found a fragment of paper in the grate after my reception the night before last. In code. From what I could decipher, it referred to a plot. No clue to who the plotters were or whom they plotted against, but it was clear the substance of their plot was assassination. Of a person of importance. I also found the name of the Empress Rose tavern. I visited it and determined that a group of foreign gentlemen have been meeting there. I still don’t know their nationality or whom they plot against. But I have every expectation that I will have more information for you by the time I see you. In the event that I don’t, you will at least know what I know.
Always,
T.
24
F
or a moment, both Malcolm and Suzanne sat absolutely still. The smell of fresh ink hung in the air. In the circle of light cast by the single taper, the black letters glistened on the cream laid paper. Malcolm’s handwriting bringing Tatiana Kirsanova back to life. Simple words that changed everything.
or a moment, both Malcolm and Suzanne sat absolutely still. The smell of fresh ink hung in the air. In the circle of light cast by the single taper, the black letters glistened on the cream laid paper. Malcolm’s handwriting bringing Tatiana Kirsanova back to life. Simple words that changed everything.
Suzanne stared down at her husband. The candlelight turned him into a creature of shadows, sharpened the lines of his face, caught the weight of horror in his gaze. He ran his finger over the still-damp ink. “Oh, Tania. You always had a knack for sniffing out the worst dangers. What a damnable time for me to have been gone from Vienna.”
Suzanne touched her husband’s shoulder. “Even if you’d been here, even if she’d been able to tell you this in person, there’s no guarantee you’d have been able to prevent her murder.”
His muscles tensed beneath her touch, but he didn’t pull away as she half expected him to do. “Perhaps not. We’ll never know. In any case, there’s nothing to be done about it now.” His voice was clipped and matter-of-fact. His gaze said he would never stop wondering.
Suzanne squeezed his shoulder, then drew her hand back. To do more seemed an intrusion. “Word of her visit to the Empress Rose must have got back to the conspirators. Young Heinrich told us someone talked to Axel and the tavern’s owner, and after that the tavern staff were told not to say anything. Presumably the conspirators paid them off.”
“And so Axel arranged for the carriage to run us down.”
The horror of those moments when Malcolm had lain unconscious coursed through her. “If they were willing to kill us—”
“They could well have killed Tatiana because of what she’d discovered.” Rage flashed white-hot in Malcolm’s gaze. “And if they’d seen Fitz leaving her rooms the night of the murder and guessed he was her lover, they might have worried about what she’d told him. Us turning up making inquiries could have pushed them into thinking they should deal with Fitz.”
Malcolm rubbed at the smeared ink on his fingers with more force than was necessary. A torrent of emotions raged behind the iron control in his gaze. Still-raw anger at Tatiana’s death. Bitter guilt at his inability to save her. But also, Suzanne thought, a measure of relief. They had spent the first part of the investigation uncovering sordid details about Tatiana’s life. Now Tatiana the blackmailer and dealer in stolen artifacts had become Tatiana the heroine who had uncovered a conspiracy that threatened to shake all Vienna.
As always in their marriage, what lay beneath the surface was not to be discussed, so she fell back on practicalities. “There’s also the man who approached you at the opera and sent you to the Empress Rose,” she said. “One of the conspirators who had second thoughts but was afraid to openly betray his confederates?”
Malcolm wiped a trail of ink from the side of the inkpot. “That seems the likeliest explanation.”
A question not yet voiced hung in the air. A question with implications far beyond Tatiana Kirsanova’s violent death. “Who do you think is the target of the plot?”
Malcolm shook his head. “The assassination of just about anyone could wreak havoc on the Congress. And just about every delegation might have reason to want someone in another delegation dead. In some cases there are probably competing views within delegations.”
Suzanne frowned down at Malcolm’s deciphered text of Princess Tatiana’s note. “Malcolm. Princess Tatiana was an experienced agent. Yet there was no sign that she had struggled with her killer. Whoever it was had been able to get so close as to be practically embracing her.”
She saw the flinch in Malcolm’s eyes at the image, but he regarded her with a steady gaze. “Meaning that perhaps the killer wasn’t one of these conspirators? Or—”
“That perhaps one of the conspirators was someone she knew and trusted.”
Their gazes locked.
“It’s a compelling scenario,” Malcolm said. “Though of course there’s no proof.”
“You don’t think Prince Metternich—?” Suzanne asked. “Or the tsar—”
“Would be behind a plot to assassinate someone? One may smile, and smile, and be a villain. Not that there’s been that much smiling across the council table. I wouldn’t discount anything. Tsar Alexander came to the throne after his father was assassinated. There are rumors he may have been involved in the plot.”
“And then there’s Talleyrand.”
Malcolm lined up the pen and penknife on the ink blotter. “We know Dorothée told him about Fitz’s affair with Tania. But oddly enough, I’m less inclined to suspect him. Not because of his morals. Because he’s less rash than Metternich or the tsar. He’d know an assassination would unleash a chain of events he couldn’t control, no matter how much he wanted to get rid of the target.”
“There are other people Princess Tatiana trusted. Count Lindorff. Fitz.”
“Fitz involved in a secret plot? I can hardly say that’s impossible. But it would be a bit far-fetched for him to have staged the accident at the tournament tonight. There’s also Radley. Did you learn anything dancing with him?”
The question sounded entirely casual. But Malcolm would sound just like that if he was trying to mask his suspicions. Difficult being married to a master of deception. Not that she was precisely a novice at it herself. “Just that his compliments are as fulsome as ever.”
Malcolm gave a wry grin. “The things we do in this line of work. Well, I suspect you’ll have further chances. Radley has an eye for you.”
He didn’t sound remotely jealous. He never did. She should be grateful to have a husband not susceptible to the green-eyed monster. Really, it made life so much easier.
So why did his casual tone cut her to the bone?
Castlereagh stared across his dressing room at Malcolm. “God in heaven.”
“I rather suspect a more earthly power is behind the conspiracy, sir.”
Castlereagh grimaced and reached for his tea. Malcolm had rapped at the door of the Castlereaghs’ suite at the earliest hour he thought remotely appropriate. Castlereagh, already awake, had murmured an explanation to Lady Castlereagh and summoned Malcolm into his dressing room where a tea service was set out. Perfectly brewed, with a milk jug and wedges of lemon. Castlereagh had insisted the British delegation hire their own staff to avoid Baron Hager planting spies among the servants. He’d also made sure the kitchen help could brew a proper pot of tea.
Now he took a long swallow and regarded Malcolm over the rim of the Meissen cup. “You believe her.”
“I see no reason not to.”
“For God’s sake, lad, Princess Tatiana—”
“Played all sides. But I fail to see why even Tatiana would have fabricated a plot and sent me evidence in a coded letter that was only to be delivered to me in the event some mischance befell her. What would have been the point?”
Castlereagh drew a breath that fairly scraped with frustration. “With that woman God knows what the point was of anything.”
“You weren’t so quick to dismiss her information in the past.”
Castlereagh returned his cup to its saucer. “That was before I knew she’d been Napoleon Bonaparte’s mistress, and you yourself think she was still in communication with him.”
“To keep tabs on him for Talleyrand.”
“And that’s supposed to make me trust her intelligence?”
Malcolm reached for his own tea and tossed down a swallow that burned his throat. Even after he and Suzanne had finally retired to bed, he’d had trouble sleeping. His head throbbed and his nerves felt as though they’d been stripped raw. “The most valuable intelligence doesn’t usually come from our friends but from people we have cause to be wary of. The trick is to weigh it and sift it and not reject anything out of hand. Sir, you have to at least acknowledge the possibility that Tatiana’s warning about an assassination plot might be true. And if it is true—”
“We’re in the devil of a mess.” Castlereagh let out a sigh and dropped into the dressing table chair. “It was always the risk in bringing so many dignitaries together. Not just the diplomats but the sovereigns. I don’t know when we’ve had so much royalty assembled in one city. There was that plot against the Austrian emperor last summer, but Hager nipped it in the bud before it became serious. Since then we’ve seemed safe.”
“And you’d like to believe we still are.”
Castlereagh shot him a sidelong look. “Are you accusing me of not wanting to believe Princess Tatiana’s intelligence because it’s inconvenient?”
“Of course not, sir.”
“Impertinent puppy.” Castlereagh took another sip of tea. “You’re right. We can’t ignore the possibility.”
Malcolm leaned against the dressing table beside his employer. “Do we take this to the other delegations?”
“Has your brain stopped working, Malcolm?” Castlereagh clunked his cup back in its saucer, spattering tea over the blue and white tray. “Of course not. If we knew the target, we could warn them. But something this vague would only instill panic and accusation and rumors and counter rumors.”
“Sir—”
“Your mission remains the same, Malcolm. Find out who’s behind this plot and who is the target. And who killed Princess Tatiana.”
“We have to at least tell Baron Hager.”
Castlereagh frowned.
“He has a network of informants,” Malcolm said. “Far more extensive than our own. As you pointed out, he and his people ably uncovered the plot against Emperor Francis. It would be criminal not to enlist his aid.”
“Your mysterious source told you to trust no one.”
“So now you believe my source?”
“I’m taking your advice not to reject any information out of hand.”
“In the event the Austrians happen to be behind this, we’d be tipping our hand. But I think it’s a risk we must take.”
“In the event the Austrians prove to be behind an assassination plot at the Congress they’re hosting—”
“You think it’s impossible?”
“No, that’s the devil of it. After the past two months, I think anything is possible.”
“The tension across the conference table is frequently so thick one could cut it with a knife. Or a sword.”
“Quite. But this is different.” Castlereagh passed a hand over his face. For once he looked his forty-five years. “You think Vaughn’s horse was deliberately tampered with at the Carrousel last night?”
“A shoe had been loosened.”
“Where the devil does that fit into this?”
Malcolm reached for his own teacup for a diversion. He’d promised Fitz he wouldn’t reveal his affair with Tatiana unless it became necessary. It wasn’t necessary. Yet. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s even possible it’s unrelated.”
“Dear God, how much madness is in this city?”
“Do you really have to ask, sir?”
Castlereagh grimaced. “Get to the bottom of this, Malcolm. As soon as possible.”
Fitz leaned back against the Bavarian lace–edged pillows piled high in his bed. “It doesn’t make sense, Malcolm. Who would want to kill me?”
“Perhaps the same person who killed your mistress.” Malcolm dropped down on the silk coverlet.
“But—”
“You were with her just before she was killed. Perhaps only a matter of minutes.”
“But I didn’t see anything.”
“Someone may think you did. Or that Tatiana told you something. Or perhaps you saw or heard something and don’t realize the significance.”
“For God’s sake—”
“I need to know everything that happened between you and Tatiana that last night. Word for word, if you can remember it.”
Distaste twisted Fitz’s face. “You can’t—”
“This is no time to turn prude, Fitz.”
Fitz glanced down at the tea and toast on his breakfast tray. “I told you—”
“I need you to go over it again. In more detail. Re-create what happened as best you can remember from the moment you arrived at the Palm Palace.”
Fitz reached for his tea, then set the cup down untasted. “I told you, Tatiana was upset when I got there. Incoherent, actually, which was unusual for her.”
“What did she say exactly?”
“That she’d never been spoken to in such a voice and the duchess had no right. Only it took me a while to make out that it was the Duchess of Sagan she was talking about. She kept saying ‘treated me like a servant’ and ‘she has no right to judge.’ Finally I realized she was talking about Wilhelmine of Sagan, and I got the story of the Courland casket. I tried to calm her down and tell her the Duchess of Sagan’s opinion didn’t matter, but she kept pacing. There was a wildness in her that night. As though she anticipated something. I couldn’t make out what. I asked if she was afraid the duchess would publicly accuse her of dealing in art treasures. But then she said, ‘she wouldn’t dare,’ quite coolly and with the greatest confidence. Almost as though—”
“She had a hold on the duchess.”
“Yes.” Fitz frowned and took a sip of tea. “Damned stuff. I swear they brewed the pot weak on purpose. Eithne insists on treating me like an invalid until Blackwell gives me a clean bill of health.” A spasm crossed his face at the mention of his wife’s name.
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