Vienna Waltz (16 page)

Read Vienna Waltz Online

Authors: Teresa Grant

Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Historical, #Romance, #Historical Romance, #Mystery & Suspense

BOOK: Vienna Waltz
9.35Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
15
A
nnina looked up at Malcolm as he slid into a chair across from her at a table in the back room of Café Hugel. “You must have just come from the funeral.”
“Yes.” The image of the open casket was burned in his memory.
Annina rubbed at a lip-rouge smear on her cup of mocha. “I couldn’t go. Admission by invitation only, and all the spots saved for dignitaries.”
“It wasn’t about Tatiana.” Malcolm could still feel the artificial press of the hot air in the room. “Not the real Tatiana. She was gone the night before last. This was a public show. People were there to speculate about Tania and gape at those close to her. Though that didn’t stop Tsar Alexander from weeping. I think Metternich did as well, though less openly.”
“Did you?” Annina asked.
“Not at the funeral.”
Annina met his eyes in a moment of understanding. Her own were still red. “You didn’t ask me here to talk about the funeral. What have you learned?”
A waiter set a cup of coffee before Malcolm. He took a measured sip. “Did you know Tatiana was selling looted art treasures?”
Her dark blue eyes widened. “I’d have told you.”
“Would you?”
“Why keep it secret now?”
“Perhaps because you wanted to sell them yourself.”
Annina gave a harsh laugh. “I might have done, at that. If I’d known about them. But that’s a secret she’d have thought too dangerous to share with me.” She jabbed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Where did she get these art treasures?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. From one of her lovers? Or more than one?”
Annina took a sip from her cup of mocha. “The tsar and Prince Metternich gave her the occasional bit of jewelry, but I can’t see them giving her art treasures to sell off, no matter how besotted they were.”
“Surely there were others. What about before her involvement with the tsar last spring?”
“I told you, I didn’t know the name of every—” She broke off, gaze appraising. “Gregory Lindorff.”
“From the Russian delegation?”
“He came to Paris with Tsar Alexander, as a military aide. I heard him boasting one night about the riches he’d seen as the Russian army moved across the Continent.”
Malcolm had caught a brief glimpse of Lindorff at the funeral. His normally carefree face had seemed uncharacteristically gaunt. “He was Tatiana’s lover?”
“I think so. In Paris, last spring. Before her affair with the tsar began. She was having difficulties with her creditors at about that time, and then suddenly she paid them all off and ordered a new wardrobe. So the timing would fit.” Annina cast a quick glance round the café. The back room was mostly empty, but she leaned closer to him. “Do you think someone is looking for these bits of art?”
“Why?”
“I woke last night, and I was sure I could hear someone moving about in the princess’s bedchamber. I got up and went to look—” She caught Malcolm’s frown. “Yes, I know. But I took a knife with me. In any case, by the time I got to her room it was empty. So were her boudoir and the rest of the apartments. But the latch on the bedchamber window wasn’t secured, and I’d swear I’d checked it before I went to bed.”
“Was anything taken?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Did you notice any unusual paintings or sculptures or other artwork in the last few months? Or anything she had locked up?”
Annina fingered a fold of her shawl, a fringed blue silk that had once belonged to Tatiana. “She was always adding new bits and pieces to her rooms and then changing things about when a new decorating style came into vogue. Remember when she had everything Egyptian? One of the times you paid us a secret visit in Paris. And then it was all Greek or Roman or something a bit later. But there were some paintings last spring that didn’t seem the sort of thing she’d normally have chosen. I remember one in particular. A man and a woman with a small child. They wore dark, old-fashioned clothes. The lady had full skirts and a ruff that stood up at the back and the gentleman had a plumed hat. I kept staring at the way the light fell across their faces. The fabric of their clothes seemed to shimmer.”
It sounded very like a Rubens.
Annina reached for her cup. “She took them down or got rid of them before we came to Vienna.”
“Anything she might have kept hidden?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Did you ever see a silver casket?”
Annina frowned. “No, nothing like that.”
“And her box of secret papers. Where might she have hidden that?”
Annina shook her head.
“At least one person thinks I’m in possession of it.”
“Who?” Annina set her cup down with a clatter.
Malcolm drew a breath of the coffee-scented air. “That’s what I’m trying to discover.”
The smell of sweat hung in the air as Malcolm stepped into the Fogelmann’s Fencing Academy. A foil clanged against another. A lithe, agile man with tawny hair showing beneath his fencer’s mask parried his opponent’s attack, disengaged his blade with a whir and scrape, and danced to the side. He moved with controlled violence. Fighting off the emotions stirred by Tatiana’s funeral? As his opponent moved in for a fresh attack, the tawny-haired man darted under his guard and touched him on the chest, just over his heart.
“My point, I think. Good match, Esterhazy.” The tawny-haired man tugged off his mask to reveal the angular features of Count Gregory Lindorff. He strolled to the edge of the floor and grabbed a towel to drape round his neck.
“My compliments,” Malcolm said. “That was neatly done.”
“Rannoch.” Lindorff returned his blade to a waiting attendant and regarded Malcolm with raised brows. “Don’t usually see you here. Heard you were going to take part in the Carrousel tomorrow. But that’s lances, not rapiers.”
“Still hand-eye coordination. But I came in search of you, as it happens. Could I have a word?”
Lindorff’s eyes narrowed, but he merely said, “There’s a tavern across the way. I don’t know about you, but I could do with a glass of beer.”
Lindorff said little more until he had donned his coat and they had crossed the street and were settled on oak benches in the tavern with tankards of Bavarian beer. The sound of a zither playing a ländler filled the air. Music was everywhere in Vienna, even taverns.
Lindorff took a long swallow and regarded Malcolm over the rim of his tankard. “I can guess why you’re here, of course.”
Malcolm took a drink from his own tankard. Lindorff had always struck him as one of the quickest of the Russian delegation. “Why?”
“Tatiana. What else can any of us think or talk or even dream about these last two days?”
“I hadn’t known,” Malcolm said.
“About Tatiana and me?” Lindorff leaned back against the slats of the bench. “No, I flatter myself we were reasonably discreet. Who told you?”
“Annina.”
“Difficult to hide one’s dalliances from a maid or valet.” Lindorff’s voice was light, but for a moment the sunlight slanting through the thick glass of the tavern windows caught a weight of grief in his eyes. “It was never very serious. It was never meant to be very serious. But she was an extraordinary woman.”
“And you took it more seriously than you intended?”
“Probably.” Lindorff reached for his tankard and stared into the depths. “Perhaps it’s as well the tsar took an interest in her before I could make a complete fool of myself. And you?”
The look in Lindorff’s eyes brought Tatiana vividly to life. For a moment Malcolm almost fancied he could smell the tuberose of her scent over the sour beer and fried sausages that filled the tavern’s air. “Tatiana meant a great deal to me.”
“Words that cover a multitude of sins.”
And when it came to Tatiana, his sins would live with him forever, as would his memories. Malcolm took a swallow of beer and decided a bold feint was the only way to force his opponent out from under cover. “You must have cared for her a great deal yourself. You passed a fortune on to her.”
“A fortune?” Lindorff threw back his head with a shout of laughter. “My dear Rannoch, I’m a third son of a family who are still considered Swedish upstarts by people like the Otronskys, even if we have lived in Russia and served the tsars for three generations. Three generations with a weakness for gaming and bad luck at the tables. I don’t have a fortune myself, let alone one to pass on to a lover, however cherished.”
“I was referring to the art treasures you acquired in the Russian army’s advance on Paris.”
Lindorff pushed back his bench, scraping it against the floorboards. “How the devil do you know about that?” His voice was as taut as a rapier blade.
“My dear Lindorff, you weren’t the only one to profit from looting. I have little interest in exposing your actions, and I’d look the worst sort of hypocrite, given the number of my countrymen who made off with loot at Vitoria.”
Lindorff’s gaze skimmed over his face, as though scanning enemy terrain for snipers. “Why bring it up, then?”
“You cared for Tatiana, that’s plain. I would think you’d want to learn who killed her.”
“You think this is connected to who killed her?”
“Anything Tatiana was involved in may be connected to the reason she was murdered.”
Lindorff cast a quick glance round the tavern and leaned across the table. “To own the truth, I wasn’t sure what to do with them. Tatiana knew. How to sell them discreetly. At least she told me she knew. Dear Christ, do you really think that’s why she was killed?”
“Even if it was, it doesn’t make it your fault. Guilt isn’t good for problem solving. How many art pieces were there?”
“I don’t remember exactly. A dozen. Fifteen perhaps. Some small paintings and statues. Jeweled snuff boxes. Nothing very large.”
“Where did she keep them?”
“In her rooms. Some of the paintings and statues she had out in plain sight.”
“A medieval Spanish dagger that she kept in her salon?”
“Yes, that was one of the pieces, she—Oh God.” Horror shot through Lindorff’s gaze. “Was that—”
“If it hadn’t been in her salon, the murderer would have made use of something else.”
Lindorff turned his tankard between his hands. “One can’t but wonder.”
Malcolm shut his mind to his own memories of congealing blood and cold flesh. “There was a silver casket that had belonged to the Courland family.”
“That—” Lindorff bit back whatever he had been going to say. “I remember it.”
“Do you have any idea why Tatiana would have refused to sell it?”
Lindorff shook his head. “Not unless the price was too low.”
“Wilhelmine of Sagan offered her a great deal for it. Tatiana refused to sell at any price.”
“Odd. She wasn’t a sentimental type.”
“Could it have had a special meaning for her?”
“What sort of meaning?”
“Perhaps it was one of the last of the treasures left?”
“You mean as a remembrance of me?” Lindorff gave a laugh sharp with irony. “It’s an appealing thought. But—No.”
“You sound very sure.”
Lindorff looked up at Malcolm as though to give a quick denial, then took a drink, his gaze on the beer-stained wood of the table.
“There’s something special about that piece, isn’t there?” Malcolm said.
Lindorff glanced round the tavern again, as though to reassure himself that the other occupants were busy with dice and newspapers and conversation. Then he spoke quickly in a lowered voice. “That particular piece didn’t come from me. If she treasured it as a memory of a lover, it was a memory of a different man.”
“Who?”
“You don’t know?” Lindorff scanned his face for a moment. “Odd. I thought of all her lovers she shared the most with you.” He wiped a trace of condensation from the side of his tankard. “I only had a brief time with Tatiana, snatched between her liaisons with two great men. If I hadn’t caught her at the right moment, I doubt she’d have looked twice at me.”
“You said your liaison with her ended because of the tsar. And before you met her—”
Lindorff looked up and met his gaze. “Before she became entangled with me, Tatiana had been the lover of Napoleon Bonaparte.”
16
T
he sweet strains of the zither echoed in Malcolm’s head, like an insistent fact he should have seen. Bloody hell. Even from beyond the grave Tania’s secrets could chill him to the bone.
Lindorff’s gaze glinted with mockery. “Don’t look so shocked, Rannoch. Knowing Tatiana, can you be surprised she caught Bonaparte’s eye?”
“Hardly. But surprised that—”
“She didn’t tell you?” A smile curved Lindorff’s mouth. “She was a woman of secrets. If it’s any comfort, I don’t imagine a lot of people knew this one. Bonaparte was very concerned not to cause any ripples in his marriage to Marie-Louise at the time.”
“But Tatiana confided in you?”
“I was rather in a position to be confided in at the time the affair ended. The new person who happens to be across the pillow usually is.”
A dozen questions raced through Malcolm’s mind, most of which he couldn’t put to Lindorff. “Why did the affair end?”
“It would have been difficult for it to continue with Bonaparte on Elba and Tatiana in Paris.”
“So they were lovers up until Napoleon’s abdication and exile?”
“As Tatiana tells—told—it.” Grief shot through Lindorff’s eyes at the reminder she was gone.
“And she told you straight out that Bonaparte gave her the Courland casket?”
“With no prevarication. It was the one keepsake she had of him. Come to think of it, it was after she showed it to me that I told her about the trifles I’d—er—acquired during the war. She quite adroitly put the idea in my head. Damned clever woman.”
“Did she display the Courland casket openly?”
“No, she kept it in a chest in her rooms. I suspect she knew even then the sort of fuss the Duchess of Sagan would kick up if she knew Tatiana had it.”
“So I can imagine.”
Lindorff stared at him for a moment. “See here, Rannoch. Wilhelmine of Sagan’s a strong-minded woman who doesn’t like to crossed. But surely you don’t think she’d kill over a bit of silver, however long it had been in her family.”
Malcolm drained the last of his tankard. “Who’s to say why anyone kills? Armies regularly do so over a little patch of ground.”
“And then a final curtsy.” Dorothée observed the
belles d’amour
as they completed the minuet that was to open the ball after the Carrousel. “Perfect. Suzanne? How does it look from the left?”
“Lovely,” Suzanne said from her vantage point across the room. “Marie, you’re in the lead. Make sure you signal with your arm a bit to cue the other ladies.”
Marie Metternich, Prince Metternich’s pretty, bright-eyed seventeen-year-old daughter, nodded as though the Carrousel was the most important matter at hand. Which, at the moment, it was.
“Be sure to return your veils to the attendants,” Dorothée said. “You should all have your gowns by now. Let me know if there have been any difficulties.” She crossed to Suzanne and her sister Wilhelmine. “I need to check on how the gentlemen are progressing in the riding school. Wait for me? I’ll need reassurance when this is over.”
As the other ladies milled about, returning their veils to attendants and exchanging comments about the performance tomorrow night, Suzanne and Wilhelmine of Sagan moved into an anteroom that had been set aside with refreshments.
“Poor Doro. She’s quite brilliant at this. Far more organized than I am. But I’m afraid she’s going to make herself ill.” Wilhelmine moved to a table that held a decanter of pale gold wine. “A glass of wine, Madame Rannoch? I think we’ve earned it.”
“Thank you.” Suzanne sank down upon a tapestry settee. “In truth, I’ve been hoping for a moment to converse with you.”
“For reasons that aren’t entirely social, I imagine.”
“What makes you think that?”
The duchess poured two glasses of wine. “My dear Madame Rannoch. I may not have the best sources of information at the Congress, but I would be a sad failure if I didn’t know your husband is investigating Princess Tatiana’s murder.”
Suzanne plumped the settee cushions. “Baron Hager is investigating Princess Tatiana’s murder.”
“Officially.”
“You can scarcely expect me to comment on anything unofficial.”
“You’re a good diplomatic wife, Madame Rannoch.” Wilhelmine crossed the room in a stir of muslin and Valenciennes lace and put a glass of wine into Suzanne’s hand.
Suzanne took a sip. From Alsace. Light, fruity, yet dry. Airy and elegant, like the duchess. But the duchess’s defenses were so well constructed that her gauzy gown and sarcenet spencer and filmy scarf might have been plate armor. Suzanne decided on an attack direct. “I know you quarreled with Princess Tatiana over the Courland casket.”
Wilhelmine of Sagan sank into a chair across from Suzanne, her own glass held negligently between two fingers. “Oh dear. I should have known it wouldn’t remain secret. I know poor Doro overheard us, though I don’t think she realized what the subject was. Quarrels are so vulgar. You’d think I’d have learned not to lose my temper.”
“Her refusal must have been very provoking.”
“Exceedingly. The casket is a Courland heirloom. I was quite prepared to pay her for it, though I’m sure she didn’t come by it honestly.”
“And so you went back to demand it of her again the night she died.”
Wilhelmine went still. “Who told you that?”
“Someone the princess confided in later that evening.”
“So you know the princess was alive when I left her rooms.”
“I never suggested otherwise.”
Wilhelmine took a sip of wine. “Dorothée had cut our discussion short. I thought I could reason with the princess.”
“But she still refused.”
“She said nothing would compel her to give up the casket.” Suzanne took a sip from her own glass. “Was Princess Tatiana wearing her locket when you saw her?”
“Her locket?” The duchess blinked at this turn of the conversation. “She had a cameo necklace on—”
“Earlier in the evening she was wearing a gold locket as well, perhaps tucked into the bodice of her gown. Apparently she always wore it. But it was missing when we found her after the murder.”
Wilhelmine frowned. “I can’t be sure—No, I do remember something gold round her throat. It glinted when she stood by the candles. I was surprised because she was wearing the cameos.” The duchess shook her head. “Odd to remember that when I was in such a temper.”
“It must have been particularly trying to have her refuse your offer when she was quite prepared to sell other pieces. I can understand why you lost your temper.”
Wilhelmine settled back in her chair. “But now, of course, you’re wondering if I went back that night and killed her over it.”
“That would be a rather extreme reaction.”
“Someone had an extreme reaction to something Princess Tatiana did. And if I read your husband correctly, he won’t let the matter rest until he discovers the truth.” The duchess regarded Suzanne, her head tilted to one side, her dark gold ringlets falling with artful abandon about her face. “It can’t have been easy watching him with Princess Tatiana. The intimacy was obvious.”
Suzanne took another sip of wine, holding her fingers steady. “I’m hardly the only woman in Vienna whose husband demonstrates intimacy with another woman.”
The duchess shook her head. “My dear child. You’re really very young, aren’t you? And I suspect you care for your husband far more than you’ll admit, perhaps even to yourself.”
“There are all sorts of caring. And all sorts of marriages.”
The duchess gave a dry laugh. “I should know, I’ve had two of them. Louis de Rohan married me for my dowry and was quite content to live on my money until I decided it would be less expensive to get rid of him. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson, but after the divorce I made the same mistake with Prince Troubetskoi. So handsome, but he proves all the clichés about Russians being grim and depressing. Divorces are shockingly expensive. I’ve finally learned that it’s much more sensible to simply take lovers.”
“A luxury not all women can afford.”
“True. I’m blessed with a substantial fortune of my own. You, I believe, were not in a similar position when you married.”
“No.” Suzanne slammed the shutters closed on a host of memories. “I lost my family in the war in Spain.”
“I’m sorry for it.” Compassion, warm and seemingly genuine, flashed in the duchess’s dark eyes. “I can well imagine how you’d have accepted any marriage offer made to you in such a situation. But you appear to believe in your husband as only a young romantic can.”
“Believe me, Duchess, I went into my marriage with my eyes open.”
Wilhelmine twirled the fluted stem of her wineglass between her fingers. “Have you seen Mozart’s
Così fan tutte
? That aria of Dorabella’s, ‘È amore un ladroncello.’ Calling love a thief is perhaps the most accurate description I’ve ever heard.”
“
Così
rather questions whether love exists at all,” Suzanne said. “Something I’ve done myself on more than one occasion.”
“On the contrary.
Così
acknowledges that love is delightful, so long as one doesn’t take it too seriously. Or make the fatal mistake of expecting it to last.”
The duchess’s light words nicked beneath the lacing of Suzanne’s corset. Wilhelmine of Sagan was a master of verbal fencing. It was past time to deflect the attack. “Is that what happened between you and Prince Metternich? Boredom?”
Wilhelmine shrugged. “Adoration sounds delightful, but it can become smothering. People change.”
“And yet you left him to return to an old lover.”
For a moment the worldly ennui in Wilhelmine’s eyes softened. Her mouth curved in a rueful smile. “I never claimed to be consistent. I suppose I never properly got over Alfred von Windischgrätz. Which is odd, because so often as soon as one achieves the object of one’s affections, the attraction begins to pall.”
“And the tsar?”
Wilhelmine pulled the sky blue folds of her scarf about her shoulders. “Tsar Alexander is not my lover. But he’s a prime example of a man who grows bored once the conquest has been achieved. Princess Bagration is learning that. Princess Tatiana would have learned it soon enough.” The duchess regarded Suzanne for a moment, her gaze sharp but not unkind. “I suspect part of the reason your husband continues to fascinate you is that you’ve never been entirely sure of his affections.”
Suzanne took a sip of wine, a little too quickly. “My husband never made me any promises.”
“Which only makes him all the more elusive and intriguing. Falling in love with a spouse is dangerous. When one happens to be married to the object of one’s affections, one is rather compelled to wallow in the ashes after the fire burns out.”
“That assumes the fire was there to begin with.”
“Oh, I think I’ve observed you with your husband enough to be confident of that.”
Suzanne fixed her gaze on the pale wine in her glass. Clever fingers teasing her skin, the heat of his mouth meeting her own, the ragged scrape of his breath. Whatever her marriage was, she couldn’t claim it was cold.
“I applaud your good sense in helping him with his investigation of Princess Tatiana’s murder,” Wilhelmine continued. “A lesser woman would have turned shrewish.”
Suzanne forced her fingers not to tighten on her glass. “Like Malcolm, I want to learn the truth of what happened to Princess Tatiana.”
“Truth’s a difficult commodity to come by in Vienna. Though at least you’ve managed to learn the rather prosaic reason for my quarrel with the princess.”
Suzanne stared down at the tufted silk cushions. “To own the truth, I’m wondering if there’s more to it.”
“You don’t think Princess Tatiana’s intransigence is enough to explain our quarrel? I told you I have a tendency to lose my temper.”
Suzanne leaned forward, her gaze fixed on the duchess’s own. “I know you have no cause to confide in me. But would it change things if I told you we have reason to believe a box of Princess Tatiana’s private papers is missing from her lodgings?”
Wilhelmine of Sagan’s glass tumbled from her fingers and shattered on the Turkey carpet at her feet.
“I thought so,” Suzanne said. “She was in possession of information that concerns you? Letters?”
“I said nothing of the sort.” Wilhelmine brushed her hand over the spilled wine on her skirt.
“Not in so many words.” Suzanne set her glass down on a porcelain-tiled side table. “Duchess—My husband has every intention of finding this box of papers. Knowing Malcolm, he is likely to succeed. I can be of more assistance to you if I know what you’re afraid of.”
“Why should you wish to be of assistance to me?”
“I don’t like the idea of anyone’s private miseries being used as capital.”
The duchess’s laugh was like the snap of crystal. “Private miseries are the coin of the realm in Vienna. In most European courts. Surely you’ve learned that?”

Other books

A Rare Ruby by Dee Williams
The Neon Bible by John Kennedy Toole
Waggit's Tale by Peter Howe
Lasting Lyric by T.J. West