Vienna Waltz (The Imperial Season Book 1) (31 page)

Mrs. Fawcett insisted
that Lizzie’s plan would work much better if she went out more in society and, so, rather doubtfully, Lizzie allowed her friend to buy her two new evening gowns, one of which she wore to Prince Metternich’s masquerade ball.

Minerva, delighted to have her cousin’s company, was effusive in her admiration. Lizzie suspected she would have enjoyed the clothes and the ball a lot more a week ago. The glittering occasion, the sumptuous surroundings and dazzling guests, to say nothing of their supremely sophisticated host, now left her just a little flat. If it hadn’t been for her goal of discovering the English secret-trader, she would have been dull company, indeed.

Instead, she strove to sparkle, to dance and make witty conversation, in which she was helped by Dorothée, who introduced her to a wide new circle of international acquaintances. It would all, Lizzie hoped, add to her attraction as a woman with knowledge for sale. And it seemed to be working. By the time Mr. Grassic approached her for a dance, she only had one place left on her card—deliberately so.

Of course, her success was not universal. As she strolled between dances with Dorothée, they stopped to converse with a group of people who included Countess Savarina and another beautiful Russian woman Lizzie was sure she’d seen at the Duchess of Sagan’s. As introductions flowed, Lizzie made a point of smiling at the countess and remarking in friendly fashion that they were already acquaintances, being almost cousins.

The countess, her eyes like flint, gave the smallest, coldest inclination of her head and deliberately excused herself. A week ago, Lizzie might have felt hurt or humiliated. Now, she knew only a childish desire to stick her tongue out at the countess’ back.

“Don’t worry about her,” the younger Russian lady murmured beside her, as conversation endeavored to cover the countess’ rudeness. “On principal, she dislikes all women associated with her son.”

“One can’t help one’s birth,” Lizzie said lightly.

The lady lifted exquisite, not quite amused eyebrows. “It’s hardly your birth that’s the problem.”

Lizzie lifted her chin. “What do you mean?” she asked directly.

“I mean everyone knows it was you he galloped off to meet every day.”

Heat seeped into Lizzie’s skin. “I don’t know what you mean. I visited an old family friend, mostly in company with my horde of siblings and animals. There is no scandal for the countess to fear.”

“Of course not,” the lady soothed, quite blatantly disingenuous.

Lizzie gazed at her, uncomfortably suspicious. “I’m sorry, there were so many introductions, I stupidly missed who you are.”

The Russian lady smiled. “Let’s just say Countess Savarina didn’t speak to me, either. Until you came along. Thank you. You are really an excellent distraction. Or were, before his fall from grace.”

She’d known, of course; she’d always known about his women. And this one was very beautiful. It was her flippant tone that rankled.

“His fall doesn’t concern you?” Lizzie asked.

“Vanya always has a way of landing on his feet, so no, it doesn’t.” She smiled and tapped Lizzie’s cheek gently with her closed fan. “Accept the advice of one who has played the game for a long time and knows him very well. Enjoy the fun and invest nothing of yourself or he’ll break your heart. I never cling and he always comes back to me.”

“How nice for you,” Lizzie murmured inanely. “Excuse me. I’m promised for this next dance.”

*

For Vanya, revealing
the corrupt trade in secrets had become not merely a means of proving his innocence but an end in itself. Anger at his accusers, from the tsar downwards, churned his blood. He was aware that even if he managed to turn this back on Blonsky, that bitterness at his supposed friends’ lack of trust, the ease with which Blonsky had turned everyone against him, would always be with him.

But he wouldn’t leave it alone. He’d rub his innocence in their faces, kill Blonsky if he could, and then walk away, resign. Go to England and…no, he couldn’t bear that, either. Maybe he’d just go to the devil as everyone expected and not care about anything or anyone. It was easiest if he just didn’t think beyond the immediate task.

Which was shadowing Blonsky about the city, seeing where he went and with whom he spent time. Tracking down a single enemy in a city wasn’t quite the same as finding and laying ambushes for French units in the vast, freezing landscape of Russia, but his earlier experience did seem to stand him in good stead. He moved silently, used whatever cover he could find, and listened. And he talked to people, found out who lived in the houses Blonsky visited. Sometimes Vanya followed him into taverns or public events from troop reviews to masked balls, just to observe who his friends were, especially among the British.

Although he was glad to accept the help of Misha and Boris, he wasn’t selfish enough to go near them after that first night. He knew the tsar’s agents were looking for him in his own barracks, at his mother’s house, even at Sonia’s. He suspected they’d been out to the Emperor Inn, too. But, fortunately, they had to be careful in another sovereign’s capital. They couldn’t tear Vienna apart to find him and he made the most of that.

Misha had smuggled him out some necessities such as civilian clothes and he’d found a grotty room in a run-down part of the city. He only slept a few hours there, washed, shaved, and changed his clothes, so its insalubrious character never bothered him.

What did bother him was when he followed Blonsky into a masquerade ball at Prince Metternich’s summer palace and he saw Lizzie waltzing with the Austrian Captain von Reinharz.

In that instant, he lost sight of Blonsky, just in gazing at Lizzie. She amazed him all over again. Her mask had slipped, which was how he’d spotted her so quickly, and she was trying to retie it while continuing to dance. Both she and her partner obviously found this most entertaining. She was so beautiful, laughing, vital, graceful…and in the arms of that
rake
. Vanya actually found himself halfway across the dance floor to snatch her from the man and knock him down, before he remembered he had neither the right nor the luxury. Besides which, she would hardly thank him for such a scene. He should be glad that her family had let her out to have a little fun, and part of him was. But the other, darker, stronger part was eaten up with the sort of fury that could only come from jealousy. And the total impossibility of his feelings.

Swerving off the dance floor, he tore his gaze away from her and went in search of Blonsky, instead. Vanya found him paying court to Sonia, who was far too experienced a flirt to treat him with more than amused indifference, only bestowing the odd glance, enough to give him hope. Once, Vanya had looked upon that as a challenge, one he’d risen to and won. Too easily, perhaps. It struck him that, although they were both aware of the rules of the liaisons game, he hadn’t treated Sonia terribly well. He’d led her back into their old affair and then abandoned her because he’d discovered he didn’t even want to touch a woman who wasn’t Lizzie.

He’d thought at first he just needed to wait for the obsession to go away, for he knew when she found out he was the reviled cousin, Ivan the Terrible, there would be no chance for him. And so it had proved, although just for a moment, the look in her face when he collapsed at her feet in the inn with relief at her safety had given him hope. If she could forgive him for the Vanya-Johnnie mix-up, maybe she would look afresh at Cousin Ivan…

But, of course, she didn’t. Her hurt tore him up, not just because of her suffering but because it proved some measure of care for him, for Vanya or Johnnie. If it hadn’t been for Ivan the Terrible, he might even have stood a chance.

But he didn’t. There was no chance. And now, to cap it all, he stood accused of treason and had bolted rather than answer the charge, which probably made him a deserter, too. And his obsession only grew worse, making him yearn to hit old friends who had the temerity to dance with her.

An almost-distraction from his own pain occurred when, from his brooding position behind a pillar, he saw Blonsky move away from Sonia and into the path of the man just passing Vanya’s pillar.

“Grassic,” someone murmured, by way of greeting, and the man passing Vanya made a polite response.

Grassic. Tall, dark, elegant… The name had been passed on to Vanya by Misha in a bare note passed in a crowded market square. Vanya took it for what it was, the name of the Englishman at the root of the problem, the likeliest mutual acquaintance of James Daniels and Blonsky.

Vanya kept his gaze on Grassic and on Blonsky’s approach. They did, indeed, exchange greetings, but they moved on without stopping or even bowing. Still, Vanya resolved to observe them both and elected to follow Grassic for the rest of the evening.

He shouldn’t have been surprised when the Englishman danced with Lizzie. He certainly wasn’t prepared when the pair slipped through a garden door to take some fresh air in the rather more licentious atmosphere outdoors. Now fear for her overcame the fresh surge of jealousy. It hadn’t struck him before that Lizzie might actually be in danger from Grassic. Surely she was too smart to fall for his nonsense, especially now she knew about James and…and how much did she know?

From the shadows of the building, Vanya watched over her. Anger and anxiety bubbled up, seething, for she seemed to be
flirting
with him. Certainly they talked a lot, though Vanya couldn’t make out the words through the distant music and conversation from the building. At least, when Grassic took her hand, she slid it free at once and began to walk back to the ballroom.

And suddenly, Vanya just wanted it all over and done.

M
r. Grassic reached
his room at the top of a tall, narrow Viennese house, by an outside staircase for which his landlady frequently apologized, thinking it unseemly, apparently, for a man of the cloth to have to climb so far out of doors. Grassic always assured her with great patience and good humor that the exercise was good for him and brought him closer to God. In fact, he preferred the freedom to come and go unobserved, and had quickly learned how to do so without making the rather rickety stairs screech.

Mr. Grassic was in an excellent mood. He’d had a good day’s trading and was well up in his takings. What was more, and just a little exiting, he was sure he had Daniels’ niece just about in his pocket, which would more than make up for the loss of James. Miss Gaunt was pretty, charming, clever – and Cedric’s cousin. He couldn’t make up his mind whether he should marry her or just ruin her. On the whole, he inclined to marriage, since she was such a refined catch. A man could go far with a noble wife, even if she was poor.
Especially
if she was poor, since it made her hungrier…

Mr. Grassic smiled as he climbed the stairs, counting to avoid the noisy steps and weaving to avoid the areas that creaked. His door and the lock were well oiled, too, so his key slid in silently and he was able to enter his attic and even close the door without a sound.

Only then did everything begin to unravel. Without warning, lamplight blinded him, as if someone had suddenly thrown off a heavy cover. Instinctively, Grassic lifted his hand to block the light, while still trying to peer through it to the still figure who sat by his desk, bathed in the white glow.

Although not a physically brave man, Mr. Grassic was not used to fear. He relied on his wit and intelligence to keep himself safe. That and the protection of the cloth. None of those things had kept a stranger out of his room.

He swallowed. But before he could even begin his poor man speech, a deep, soft voice said, “Don’t make a sound. Don’t move a muscle. Or I’ll shoot you were you stand.”

Only then did Grassic see the pistol pointing steadily through the light. Fear paralyzed his brain as well as his body.

“We understand each other?” the stranger inquired.

Grassic nodded desperately and, at last, his brain began to work. “Of course,” he said hoarsely and cleared his throat. “I think you are a troubled man. I’d like to help you.”

“Oh, I am,” the stranger agreed. “And you will. You paid Blonsky’s soldiers to assassinate me.”

So that was it… Colonel Savarin. Probably the worst of all the possibilities Grassic had been imagining. Plus, he’d found his way here. There was no point in denying it.

“My hand was forced,” Grassic croaked. “All I could do was persuade them not to try too hard and that obviously worked.”

“You’re good,” Colonel Savarin allowed. He sounded amused. Grassic wasn’t sure yet whether that was a good thing or a bad.

Cautiously, now that his eyes were more used to the light, he studied his opponent. Savarin wore civilian dress and looked a little rough, like a working man wearing a rich man’s cast-offs.

“I presume,” Savarin said, as if he didn’t much care, “that my doting cousin, Cedric, paid you to—ah…get me out of the way, so that he can be the next Baron of Launceton. When that didn’t work, you and Blonsky made the best of the tsar’s discovery of stolen documents and implicated me, instead. My death was bound to follow one way or another.”