Vienna Waltz (The Imperial Season Book 1) Page 20

  Vanya’s lips fell open. “I have never betrayed you.” He was too surprised for there to be more than simple sincerity in his words and tone. Perhaps it was this that made the tsar finally look at him.

  “And yet the paper is now in the hands of the British,” Blonsky observed.

  The tsar’s fair lashes swept down over his blue eyes and he swung away from Vanya as if the sight of him hurt.

  “What paper?” Vanya demanded.

  “Do you take us for fools?” the braided man demanded.

  “Right now, yes!” Vanya said unwisely. “What is it I’m supposed to have done?”

  “You were supposed to stop when the Imperial Guard requested it,” the tsar spat. “You were supposed to submit yourself to a search, not half-kill them and go on your merry way.”

  Vanya closed his mouth, gazing at Blonsky with something like awe as he began to understand. “That’s really quite clever,” he allowed.

  Blonsky had got himself out of any potential charge by getting in a far greater one against Vanya first. Pretending his men had been on the road to stop him passing some paper or other to British allies in the inn.

  “You’re under arrest, Savarin,” the tsar said bitterly. “For treason.”

  “Am I to have no defense?” Vanya demanded as Blonsky opened the door to admit the soldiers.

  “Yes, you will have your say,” the tsar said tiredly. “But not now. I can’t look at you right now. Escort the colonel back to his barracks where he will remain under arrest until we send for him.”

  “Your Majesty, his Cossacks will just free him,” Blonsky said. “Might I suggest my own regimental barracks, instead?”

  Vanya laughed. “I certainly won’t escape there.”

  The tsar nodded and swung away.

  “Sire,” Vanya said urgently. “It isn’t me you want. It’s the Englishman.”

  The tsar paused without turning back to face him. “What Englishman?”

  “I don’t know yet, but he has to be—”

  Blonsky laughed, drowning out anything else, and the tsar didn’t stay to listen. “Your sword, Colonel Savarin.”

  As the soldiers waited, Vanya slowly drew his sword, but he was damned if he’d surrender it to Blonsky. The man’s tongue was practically hanging out for it. Instead, he stepped back and turned, presenting it to Czartoryski.

  “I mean it,” he said. “There’s an English paymaster at the bottom of this.”

  Czartoryski took the sword with a distracted click of his heels. “We’ll investigate,” he promised.

  But, of course, it wasn’t down to Czartoryski’s investigations or anyone else’s. It was down to the capricious will of the tsar, and right now Blonsky was whispering poison in his ear.

  Czartoryski nodded, turned on his heels and followed the tsar.

  “Take him to the barracks, lock him up,” Blonsky commanded. “I must say, Vanya, it will be a pleasure to have you with us again. Almost like old times.”

  It was a threat as well as a reminder. It crossed Vanya’s mind, as he strolled to the door with his escort, that he’d never survive this imprisonment. Blonsky couldn’t afford to let him live in case the truth made more sense than Blonsky’s lies. Besides which, childish enmity had been turned into something much deeper and more dangerous by the duel they’d fought two years ago. Blonsky wanted Vanya dead.

  As Vanya crossed the main reception, the occupants stood back as before and watched him in utter silence. No one, even supposed friends, would speak to the traitor for fear of contamination.

  Except Boris, who burst into the room just as they were leaving. For once, his normally calm friend’s eyes were wild, boiling with fury and helpless frustration. “My God, it’s true! But who the hell gave you to Blonsky?”

  “His Majesty,” Blonsky snapped. “Stand aside!”

  Boris, breathing deeply, stared at Vanya, who smiled and shrugged, more to comfort his friend who was clearly thinking much as he had about Blonsky’s custody. Only Boris couldn’t know that Vanya had no intention of staying in anyone’s custody right now.

  “I know you didn’t do this, Vanya,” Boris said intensely.

  “You’re obsessed with a legend that was never real,” Blonsky sneered and pushed Vanya onward with a contemptuous shove between the shoulder blades.

  Vanya added it to his list for payback; it was the only way not to thump Blonsky now and find himself in chains. He walked on with an insouciant wink at Boris.

  Outside, the courtyard, usually bustling with the Austrian Emperor’s soldiers and servants, was almost empty. Only a courier stood by his horse on the other side of the yard, idly talking with a groom while he waited, presumably, for whatever he was to carry.

  “So how am I travelling the ninety miles to your barracks?” Vanya inquired. “Tied across a saddle? Discreetly chained to a coach shared with your watchful self and a loaded pistol? Walking?”

  The rumble of wheels and a vaguely sad clopping of hooves drawing closer gave him a clue. Through the open outer gates, a sorry looking horse pulled a battered vehicle behind it.

  Blonsky’s lip curled. “In the supply wagon. With the rest of the meat.”

  Vanya laughed, watching the wagon’s approach. “That does make your day, doesn’t it, Sasha?” Which, in the end, was Vanya’s prime motivation, too: he refused to give Blonsky his day.

  Without warning, he seized each soldier by the belt and swung them into each other with a crash that would have made his own eyes water had he not been already sprinting across the courtyard, not for the wagon, or even the gates, but for the courier and his horse.

  “Shoot him!” Blonsky screamed over the chaotic scuffling and shouting.

  “In the Emperor of Austria’s palace?” said one of the soldiers, fortunately keeping his head better than his major.

  “Just stop him!” Blonsky raged.

  The courier, who’d just received his bag from some palace functionary, was staring with his mouth open as Vanya charged directly at him.

  “What the…?” uttered the groom, backing smartly out of the way. He still held onto the reins, from some instinct trying to shield the horse from the approaching madman, turning the stirrups away from him.

  Vanya didn’t need stirrups. He’d learned from the Cossacks. He simply leapt, hurling himself from the ground onto the animal’s back. The horse, terrified by the suddenness of the rude arrival in its saddle, reared, neighing with fright, dragging the reins free of the groom’s helpless hold. Vanya clung on with his knees, swept up the reins, and urged the horse forward before its front hooves had hit the ground. Since his desires coincided with the horse’s instincts to bolt, bolt they did, and with hands and knees and heels, Vanya made sure it was toward the open gate.

  Blonsky and one of the soldiers were trying to close it. More soldiers were pouring out of the building, the Russians falling over Austrian guards who’d run out to see what was going on, while the wagon horse and its driver watched proceedings open-mouthed. Up at the open first floor window of the tsar’s apartments, heads were sticking out and hands gesticulating. Vanya was sure someone laughed, so in grateful spirit, Vanya lifted one hand from the reins and waved, even while charging full tilt for the half-open gate.

  Blonsky, seeing he was never going to close it in time, threw himself into the horse’s path instead. Vanya laughed and rode straight at him. He could see the whites of Blonsky’s eyes, the rapid dilation of his pupils as the major realized Vanya really would ride him down.

  And then Blonsky leapt aside with absolutely no time to spare.

  Viciously disappointed, Vanya galloped through the gate and out into the city.

  Chapter Eighteen

  James, who was escorting his mother and sister to the theatre before they were to join Mr. Daniels at some ball or other—Lizzie had become totally lost as to whose party happened when—had a spring in his step as he overtook her on the stairs.

  “You’re looking more like yourself,” Lizzie said
, pleased.

  James grinned. “Solved a few problems. You can stop worrying about me, now.”

  “Oh good,” Lizzie said warmly, although, as she followed him more sedately, she did wonder how so huge a problem could have been fixed so quickly. A rich and amiable friend, probably, in which case the problem was merely postponed, not solved.

  “Aren’t you coming to the theatre this time?” James called over his shoulder.

  “No, I’m a little tired,” Lizzie excused herself. “Besides, you’re all going on to the ball afterwards, aren’t you? I’ll have a quiet evening with the children.”

  James grinned. “Contradiction in terms, coz!”

  Lizzie smiled, glad to see him so much more his old self. In fact, she should have felt much happier about everything. Minerva, spending more time with Mr. Corner, was reaching an understanding that gave her a rather charming inner glow and Lizzie, having pointed out to her aunt that Mr. Daniels had been in no better a position than Mr. Corner when she had married him, had hopes that parental opposition would disintegrate in time. She usually rejoiced in her wishes and schemes reaching fruition, or at least the hope of fruition, but today she couldn’t shake off glumness. Restless and unhappy without reason, she could settle to nothing since returning from Mrs. Fawcett’s.

  As she played a game of Jack Straws in the drawing room with the children, memories kept floating inconveniently in front of her eyes. Not least of them was Cousin Ivan, when she’d last had any hope that he was merely Johnnie, throwing himself into the inn parlor, covered in blood, yet desperate only to see that she and the children were unharmed. That wasn’t the behavior of a monster, but of a protective man, a friend.

  In any case, who was she to place such value on honesty? Hadn’t she paid him to steal something just because she wanted the money for the children’s and her own comfort? It had belonged to her father, but it certainly wasn’t hers, and she’d had no right to it. Or to the money still burning a hole in the carpet bag under her bed.

  Just for a moment, she thought of Johnnie, Vanya, and Cousin Ivan as one man, and of the fun and excitement and sheer emotion she’d known around him in whatever guise. Her heart skipped a beat, because she had no reason not to trust him, every reason to remain his friend. She’d behaved badly through sheer pride, a vice she hadn’t known she possessed until now.

  She drew in her breath, distractedly taking her turn in the game, pulling free the straw and watching without interest as the whole edifice crumbled, to cries of outrage from the children.

  “Sorry!” Lizzie exclaimed, just as the door opened and the maid announced Mrs. Fawcett—or at least she tried to, but that lady barged straight past her before the maid had got beyond, “Frau—”

  Dog and the children launched themselves across the room to greet her, although the children were pulled up short by the sight of a tall, finely dressed stranger and a military gentleman with fine whiskers who looked vaguely familiar. Mrs. Fawcett was dressed for a ball in fine sapphire blue silk with sapphires and diamonds sparkling around her throat and wrists and in her ears and hair.

  “Goodness,” Georgiana said awed. “You look…gorgeous.”

  “Don’t I?” Mrs. Fawcett said complacently. “But do you know, I believe, for once, I’d rather Dog didn’t get to me. Do you think you could take him somewhere else, just to give me a few moments to talk to Elizabeth? You can bring him to my house tomorrow morning and let him jump all over me there, instead.”

  Laughing, the children obligingly hauled Dog off, leaving Lizzie looking uncomprehendingly from Mrs. Fawcett to the soldier whom she finally placed as Johnnie’s cohort, Misha, to the other gentleman who seemed familiar, too. He’d been at the Duchess of Sagan’s.

  “Elizabeth, this is Count Boris Kyrilovitch Lebedev. He’s a friend of…your Cousin Ivan’s. Misha, of course, you already know.”

  Both men bowed, though Misha appeared horribly embarrassed. Until Lizzie looked at him more closely and realized he’d been crying.

  Foreboding galloped through her. Her fingers crept up the front of her gown to her throat, nestling there for comfort.

  “What’s happened?” she asked.

  Mrs. Fawcett flapped one arm at Count Lebedev, who said flatly, “Vanya was arrested this afternoon for treason. They’re saying he stole a sensitive document and gave it to the British.”

  Astonishment widened her eyes. She frowned at Count Lebedev. “Why?”

  “Why?” he repeated.

  “Why would they think such a thing? Why would he do such a thing? He wouldn’t. It makes no sense. Quite aside from his character, he’d have no reason.”

  Mrs. Fawcett allowed, “He doesn’t need money; he has no grudge against the tsar and no need to curry favor with the British. He’s wealthy twice over in two different countries. On the other hand…” She took a deep breath and fixed Lizzie with her piercing gaze. “If a lady asked him, dared him—”

  He had a history. He’d stolen the necklace because she asked. Or at least…

  “He didn’t. And he doesn’t. And if you imagine I’ve been inveigling him to betray his country as some kind of favor to my uncle, or whatever your—”

  “I imagine no such thing,” Mrs. Fawcett interrupted calmly. “But it may well be what the Russians are imagining. Because of the somewhat…bizarre nature of your meetings.”

  In the carriage behind the theatre; secretly in the garden, masked at the Emperor’s ball, at an unfashionable inn off the beaten track…

  Lizzie sank down on the nearest sofa. “But that’s silly! Herr Schmidt knew all of that and even he acknowledged we were harmless!”

  “To Austria,” Mrs. Fawcett pointed out. “Besides which, Herr Schmidt had the felicity of spending time in your company. None of the Russians, save Misha here, ever did.”

  Lizzie lifted her gaze to Count Lebedev who stood frowning down at her. “If you’re his friend, you know he didn’t do this.”

  A smile flickered across the count’s face and vanished. “Of course I know. My problem is proving it.”

  “Speak to him,” Lizzie advised, jumping to her feet once more. “Where is he?”

  Misha and the count exchanged glances.

  “We don’t know,” Count Lebedev admitted. “He escaped minutes after his arrest, which frankly, has done his cause no good.”

  Misha exploded in a torrent of Russian, which Count Lebedev translated. “Misha says it’s done his survival chances a lot of good. You see, it was an old enemy of his who arrested him and probably persuaded the tsar he was guilty in the first place. Blonsky has motives coming out of his ears to set Vanya up for this and everyone knows it. If we can talk the tsar back to rationality, His Majesty will know it, too.” He sighed. “For now, he’s too angry. Misha thinks Vanya knew he’d be dead before we talked the tsar back round and that’s why he bolted.”

  Lizzie searched Lebedev’s serious dark eyes. “Is that what you think?”

  “No,” the count said. “I think he bolted because he could and he wouldn’t give Blonsky the satisfaction. He didn’t wait for the better chances he’d inevitably have had on the road. He took the earliest one, in front of the tsar and everyone else watching out of the windows, the one that would cover Blonsky with the maximum embarrassment possible.”

  She opened her mouth to ask what was between Blonsky and Vanya, but Mrs. Fawcett forestalled her.

  “Count Lebedev wants to know if either of us can shed any light on this business. Apparently Vanya blames an Englishman for the undoubted disappearance.”

  “What Englishman?” Lizzie asked in surprise. “How would it benefit Britain to cause trouble between the allies?” She could tell at once that her question was naive.

  “Oh, everyone’s jostling for position,” Mrs. Fawcett said. “And for allies within the allies, if you see what I mean. Preventing too close an understanding between Russia and Prussia would be seen as an advantage to both Britain and Austria. And probably to France as well, if anyone we
re talking to the French.”

  “And this document was related to some agreement between Russia and Prussia?” Lizzie asked, frowning.

  Count Lebedev shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. “I’m afraid I can’t say,” he said stiffly. “But it’s something the British accused the Russians of first thing this morning. Talks are breaking down before they’ve properly begun and the tsar is not being well regarded. He feels betrayed.”

  “And Vanya believes an Englishman, not a Russian or even a Prussian, is responsible?” Lizzie said thoughtfully.

  Mrs Fawcett swept further into the room and sat opposite Lizzie. “The accusation is that Vanya was bringing the documents to us in the inn when the tsar’s guardsmen tried to wrest them from him on the road.”

  Lizzie’s lips parted. “Oh no, that’s not right. We know we’re involved in nothing like that. Yet someone definitely attacked Vanya, whether they believed it to be true or for some other reason entirely. Oh dear,” she added, suddenly stricken. “Perhaps the Russians know that Herr Schmidt was already investigating Vanya and me!”

  “Who is Herr Schmidt?” Count Lebedev asked, bewildered.

  “One of Baron Hager’s policemen.”

  Count Lebedev paled. “Why?”

  “It was a misunderstanding and all my fault.” Lizzie dismissed the explanation with the wave of one hand. “Herr Schmidt knows that. So…how do we go about finding who this Englishman is?”

  “It must surely be someone who is at least close to diplomatic circles,” Count Lebedev said thoughtfully, “though he could be in some menial position, even a servant… but he’s probably someone who has a little more money to spend than usual.”

  Lizzie’s stomach gave an unpleasant little twist.

  “That doesn’t really help,” Mrs. Fawcett observed. “There must be hundreds of such Englishmen in Vienna just now…Elizabeth? Have you thought of someone?”

  “No, no,” Lizzie said quickly. “Just trying to think… If we find the culprit, Count, what would we do? Give the proof to the tsar? Would Vanya then be able to come back? Or would he still be in trouble for escaping?”