Vienna Waltz (The Imperial Season Book 1) (26 page)

“I’ll try,” Lizzie said breathlessly.

Benson came in, bearing a silver plate with a card on it. “If you please, ma’am,” she said grimly, presenting the plate.

Aunt Lucy picked up the card. Her jaw dropped and she all but threw the card at Lizzie. “Countess Savarina! Now what do I do? Benson, have them tell her I’m not at home. No, wait, of course I am, it’s eleven o’clock in the morning… Drat it, Lizzie, do I want to offend the woman or not? Do I receive her?”

“With icy composure, if at all,” Lizzie advised.

“Benson, has Mr. Daniels left yet?”

“Yes, ma’am, an hour ago.”

Aunt Lucy gnawed her lip, gazing at Lizzie, then, abruptly, she threw back the covers. “I’ll be down directly,” she announced with decision. “Give the wretched woman refreshment. Lizzie, you must come with me.”

“Oh no, Aunt, that wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“Why ever not? You are my strength and besides, I want to show her exactly who she displaced.”

“Yes, but I…I met her last night when I was with Mrs. Fawcett at the inn and I’m afraid I wasn’t terribly…conciliatory. We didn’t…get along.”

Aunt Lucy’s smile was uncharacteristically ferocious. “What a shame,” she uttered.

“Shall I change into the better dress?” Lizzie asked, bowing to the inevitable.

“On no account,” Aunt Lucy ordered.

If Aunt Lucy expected to make the countess feel guilty for her treatment of the late baron’s family, Lizzie thought she was barking up the wrong tree. Countess Savarina did not strike her as the kind of woman who even noticed other people’s misfortunes, let alone accepted responsibility for them. On the other hand, Lizzie caught herself up for accepting Henrietta’s explanation of Johnnie’s—Cousin Ivan’s—conduct and blaming everything on his mother. She wanted to believe it too much.

Ten minutes later, she entered the drawing room in Aunt Lucy’s wake and discovered the countess seated stiffly on the chair by the fireplace. She rose as they came in and movement by the window caught Lizzie’s attention. Another figure turned to face them, in full military uniform. Lizzie’s heart seemed to dive straight into her stomach, churning up everything that was meant to be there. She couldn’t look at him, though she was fairly sure he bowed in their direction.

“Countess Savarina,” Aunt Lucy said coldly, dropping a stiff curtsey which Lizzie echoed. “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.”

“I assure you it’s of no moment.” The countess swallowed. “I apologize for calling upon you so early, but I felt I had to come immediately when my son explained to me how matters had been handled at Launceton.”

“Indeed?” Aunt Lucy was still impressively frosty. Lizzie hadn’t known she had it in her.

“I have come to beg your pardon,” the countess said with a clarity that sounded odd to Lizzie’s ears, as if she were enunciating very carefully in order to make the words easier to say. “And more particularly, the pardon of Miss Gaunt and her sisters. I never dreamed those imbeciles would evict you as they did. It was quite unforgivable and so I have written to them. They are, of course, dismissed. I can’t have my instructions so misconstrued.”

Not for a moment did Lizzie believe they had been misconstrued. On the other hand, she’d no intention of letting the countess take all the blame for this.

“We were told,” she said, “that the instructions came from the new Lord Launceton.”

The countess opened her mouth to reply, but before she could speak, the colonel said, “In my name, certainly, and for that I take full responsibility. I was entirely at fault and beg your forgiveness.”

The humble speech sounded so unlike him that she made the mistake of actually looking at him. His intense gaze captured hers at once, but she could find neither mockery nor insincerity of any kind there.

“Really?” she asked seriously.

At that, sudden laughter did spring into his eyes. Just as if they had truly been friends. “Really.”

“Lizzie,” Aunt Lucy hissed with a kind of strangled mortification.

“Forgive me,” Lizzie said without contrition, “are my manners at fault again? Lord Launceton, my aunt, Mrs. Daniels.”

As the colonel bowed again, Aunt Lucy frowned, peering at him more closely. “Colonel…Surely, Colonel Vanya?”

His smile twisted. “Only at masquerades. Colonel Savarin everywhere else. My father took my mother’s family name when they married; it works better in Russian than Gaunt.”

“Then you won’t use your title?” Aunt Lucy said. “Your English title.”

“Of course he will,” the countess answered for him, taking his arm. “Once this silly Congress is cleared up.”

“Thank you for seeing us,” the colonel said stiffly. “We’ll take up no more of your time.”

“No, please sit down,” Aunt Lucy said without cordiality. “I have in my possession a necklace that is part of the Launceton estate. My late brother lent it to me, but it undoubtedly belongs to you.” She blushed, no doubt recalling whatever had passed between her and the unknown Colonel Vanya concerning the necklace at the Emperor’s ball. That something had occurred, Lizzie didn’t doubt.

“Thank you,” the countess said, as though surprised by such honesty.

“I have no need of necklaces,” the colonel said, ignoring his mother’s stare. “Why don’t we continue the loan? We are, after all, cousins.”

Aunt Lucy’s eyes widened. Lizzie knew how she felt. The pain in her stomach seemed worse when she couldn’t keep hating him.

“But you will want to give it to your wife,” Aunt Lucy said faintly.

Just for an instant, Lizzie couldn’t breathe. She’d never even considered a wife. And yet such a being could make no possible difference to Lizzie’s fate.

Another twisted smile flickered across the colonel’s lips and vanished. “I’m not married. And if I were, I understand there are other jewels.” He reached out, firmly drawing his mother’s gloved hand through his arm. “Good day, Mrs. Daniels. Miss Gaunt.”

*

“Am I forgiven
now?” his mother demanded as he handed her into her carriage.

Vanya sighed. “Yes, Mother, you are forgiven. Provided you interfere no further.”

“Well, the aunt is very British but perhaps not so bad. The girl, on the other hand, has far too much to say. Her spirit is too independent. Unbecomingly so.”

“For one totally dependent, you mean?” he said wryly.

“Why do you defend her, Vanya? What is she to you?”

“A friend,” Vanya said firmly.
Or at least she might have been if you hadn’t turned me into Ivan the Terrible
. He kept the words to himself, though, and even as he strode off down the street alone, acknowledged that they weren’t actually fair, either. He hadn’t been interested in the English estate. Like his father, he’d believed the British branch of the family had turned their backs and he’d been in no hurry to build bridges when the old man had written.

His mother had sent on the news of the baron’s demise, but even then, he’d done nothing about it. Admittedly, he’d been wounded at the time, but he’d still been capable of stopping his mother in her tracks if he’d cared enough to do so. He could have guessed what she would do and why. For him.

Well, he’d tried to make it right now, as best he could. It didn’t and couldn’t change how she regarded him. Ivan the Terrible was only the beginning. He’d lied and pretended and made everything worse. The trouble was, he hadn’t expected to care. In the beginning, he’d only sought a little amusement while he righted a wrong perpetrated in his name, after which he’d doubted he would ever see her again. Only then, at the Emperor’s ball, he’d flirted with her and kissed her and something had changed.

And now he was found out and it was all over, and the darkness was closing in on him, urging him to the devil, to drink himself to oblivion and lose himself in whatever debauchery he could find. It had always worked before. He generally came out of his benders a better man with a sore head. Or at least, so he’d always believed. But in truth, he’d never taken much responsibility for whatever he did in such conditions. For years, it had just become his release from the horror of battle and the aftermath of grief. There was no need of grief here. No one had died, not even Herr Schmidt.

Herr Schmidt. Now there was a man he really needed to talk to. Russian soldiers—Blonsky’s soldiers—had been paid by an Englishman to kill him. Almost with relief, he seized on the mystery. He couldn’t let the darkness take him yet, because the would-be assassins had known about the inn. Whoever had sent them, had known where he went and it was quite possible they knew Lizzie went there, too.

On impulse, he swerved towards a coffee house where he’d once noticed Blonsky, surely at around this time of the day. There were a few Russians at the tables outside, so he went in, nodding acknowledgement to the few greetings sent his way. But, discovering no sign of Blonsky or any of the men he knew to be friends of his, he left again, and strode on to the next coffee house.

There were a lot of those in Vienna and he had no intention of wasting the entire day on searching them. There were other places he was more certain to meet Blonsky. However, in the third coffee shop, he spotted the major at an outside table by the door. His uniform coat was loosened, but he looked, otherwise, the perfect officer of the royal guard, relaxing off duty with his friends.

Without taking his eyes off Blonsky, Vanya strolled among the tables. The other soldiers nearby stopped talking, watching Vanya advance with varying shades of unease or excitement according to their character. The quiet spread quickly to Blonsky’s table, too, where the men tensed. Someone said the major’s name with quiet urgency and Blonsky, the last to notice him, finally glanced over, his coffee cup halfway to his lips.

The cup slipped, as if his fingers had suddenly gone slack, and coffee spilled onto the table. Between the fine whiskers, his lips parted. His eyes dilated. And Vanya knew.

Blonsky hadn’t expected him to be alive still. He might not have given the order, but he was in on it. Tempting as it was to make the man sweat by sitting next to him for the next half hour, Vanya didn’t really have the time to waste.

“Do you know,” he said to no one in particular, “I think I’ll drink my coffee somewhere more pleasant.”

I
n her first
day in Vienna, Mrs. Fawcett caused a major social stir by having an “at-home” afternoon with not only children but a large and unruly dog present. It was a risky strategy, but since Dog was enough under control to not actually jump on women’s elegant gowns and since the Duchess of Sagan, Dorothée de Talleyrand and Lady Castlereagh all chose to be amused, the afternoon was pronounced a success. Mrs. Fawcett was given the instant if undeserved reputation of hosting the most original entertainments.

The entire Daniels-Gaunt household was present, including Mr. Daniels himself and Mr. Corner. Lizzie, slightly alarmed that Vanya would turn up at any moment, dragged Mrs. Fawcett aside, into her bed chamber, and asked her outright if there was any chance of it.

“Oh, I think he’s busy until this evening,” Mrs. Fawcett said carelessly, “when he’s promised to escort me to Princess Bagration’s. Why, did you want to speak to him?”

“No,” Lizzie said flatly. Then, remembering the money for the “stolen” necklace, she offered, “That is, I don’t want to, but I need to.”

“Ah,” Mrs. Fawcett said, thoughtfully. “Are you condemning him for being Ivan the Terrible or the rakehell everyone in Vienna tells you he is?”

“Neither,” Lizzie said. “For lying to me.”
And kissing me and making me think…whatever it is I was thinking.

“Did he really lie? Does it not strike you, Elizabeth, that he did everything you asked of him and more?”

Lizzie gazed blindly out of the window at the uniformly gray sky. Perhaps autumn was finally here.

“You always seemed such good friends,” Mrs. Fawcett pursued relentlessly, “that I could see right away why you’d eloped together—in the days I still believed you
had
eloped together.”

Lizzie raised one eyebrow. “How many of those were there? One day? Two?”

“Something like that.”

“I’m sorry about the stories. I didn’t know at first if we could trust you. If
I
could trust you,” she corrected.

Mrs. Fawcett smiled faintly and drifted toward the bedroom door. “And now you’ve forgotten to trust each other. What a waste.”

*