Vienna Waltz (The Imperial Season Book 1) Page 22

  Two hours later, as she sat alone in the drawing room window, mending a pile of stockings, James stuck his head around the door and she beckoned him inside.

  “I never had the chance to give you the letter from Cousin Ivan,” she said, low.

  “I’m a bit worried about Cousin Ivan,” James confessed. “Papa’s just told me the Russians tried to arrest him and he escaped. They think he stole their document about the secret meeting with the Prussians. Apparently, he fought ten men to a standstill and then leapt bareback onto a horse and jumped it over a meat wagon to get away. Some people say he killed ten men, in which case I don’t see the tsar ever forgiving him.”

  “Oh dear,” Lizzie said, pressing her hands to her cheeks, then lowering them decisively. “But then, it’s probably not true.”

  Hastily, she repeated the gist of his letter. James sat down there and then to begin writing his list. He made two columns, one for Lizzie’s acquaintances and one for his own, so that he could write Lizzie’s down while she carried on sewing.

  “Oh, you know Grassic, do you?” James said thoughtfully when she came to that name. “What do you think of him?”

  “He’s good company, amusing and knowledgeable. Beyond that, I don’t know. Why?”

  James wrinkled his nose. “He’s a friend of Cousin Cedric’s.”

  “That certainly stands against him, but I don’t believe they’re close. Why do you ask? What do you think of him?”

  “Well…” James shifted in the chair and took a deep breath. “It was Grassic told me about the money to be made from selling particular documents.”

  Lizzie stared at him, letting her work fall into her lap. “Mr. Grassic put you up to it?”

  “Well, he put me in the way of it, told me where to go and when to deliver it and get paid. But dash it, Lizzie, he’s a man of the cloth! I don’t think he’s the villain Cousin Ivan’s looking for!”

  “Why not?” she asked baldly. “Just because he’s a clergyman?”

  “No, dash it, because he’s a gentleman. He was just helping me out of a hole, not running some international spying organization.”

  Lizzie gazed at him in frustration. “James. What sort of a gentleman suggests to a diplomat’s son that he steal an important document and sell it to strangers in the dead of night? If you have no concept of what your discovery would have done to your father, you may safely wager that Mr. Grassic does.”

  James stared into space, digesting that, then brought his eyes back into focus on Lizzie’s face. “You think I’m a bit of a fool, don’t you?”

  “I think your good nature combined with your lack of experience makes you too trusting,” Lizzie replied kindly, returning to her needlework. “I suspect it wouldn’t matter so much anywhere but here at this particular time. A better question is really what we do about Mr. Grassic?”

  After a few moments of thought, she became aware of James’ gaze, still riveted to her face, as though he were seeing someone quite other than his familiar and slightly odd cousin, Lizzie.

  She frowned. “You have stopped all this marriage nonsense, haven’t you?”

  “Oh no. I think it would be a capital idea to be married, don’t you?”

  “No! James, there is absolutely no need for this. My reputation is not in need of saving.”

  “Oh, I know that. And I’ll not deny the words first tumbled out in a fit of chivalry, but do you know, I liked them as soon as I spoke them. The idea grows on me all the time. I’d very much like to marry you, Lizzie.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” she said flatly. “I’d drive you insane in an hour. And besides, I’m too old for you and I regard you in something of the same light as I regard Michael, so marriage would not be comfortable!”

  “I won’t give up,” James announced, rising to his feet as the sounds of his mother and sister returning from some expedition drifted in through the door.

  “James, how can I be clearer? I won’t marry you and I won’t change my mind!”

  He only smiled in the annoying way of men who believe a mere woman can’t know her own mind. How could he have learned that and failed to grasp the basics of right and wrong as personified in Mr. Grassic?

  James strolled out. Lizzie heard a brief exchange in the hall and then Minerva came in to show her the new trim for her best ball gown which she had already worn several times.

  “It’s very pretty and will look most charmingly on that gown,” Lizzie approved, glad to see her taking an interest at last. It would please Aunt Lucy, although the reason might not. Minerva now wished to look her best for Mr. Corner.

  “I want to be an asset to him in every way,” Minerva confided. “I quite understand that impressions such as appearance can be important, especially at the beginning of a diplomatic relationship.”

  Lizzie smiled. “And a romantic one. Are you winning my aunt and uncle around?”

  “Not exactly. Mama won’t listen to anything about it and I’m fairly sure she hasn’t even mentioned it to Papa. But I’m quite fixed upon it.”

  “And Mr. Corner?”

  Minerva blushed. “He wishes to marry me, but he believes we should wait until Papa receives his promotion after the Congress. Mr. Corner will surely rise with him and this will be an excellent time to ask Papa for my hand.”

  Besides which, it gave the young people time to know each other better. Lizzie’s opinion of Mr. Corner’s good sense and his care of Minerva rose another notch.

  “But what about you, Lizzie? You’re really going to marry James?”

  “Of course I’m not!” Lizzie said irritably. “James said it in a foolish bout of misplaced chivalry. There is no engagement.”

  “Oh.” Minerva began wrapping her trimmings back up. “Pity. It would have been nice to have you as my sister.”

  Lizzie didn’t point out that she came with two sisters of her own, plus an illegitimate brother. And her own preferred independence in a cottage somewhere was less likely than ever now that she felt obliged to give Vanya the money back.

  “Oh, and Mama thinks you will have to start coming out with us,” Minerva said brightly. “At least to some events.”

  “Oh no. That was never in our agreement. None of us would enjoy my being the obvious poor relation and none of us can afford anything different.”

  “Well, Mama has found a dressmaker who’s just starting out on her own so her prices are excellent. She thinks we could afford you a new ball gown. We can share trims to change the appearance.”

  “You’re all so kind, but no, it wouldn’t be right.” Lizzie put away her work and stood, gathering up the mended stockings.

  “But you are going to Mrs. Fawcett’s, so what’s the difference?”

  Lizzie laughed. “Mrs. Fawcett is a force of nature.”

  “And you go to the Duchess of Sagan’s.”

  “I went once in the afternoon. Because Dorothée took us there. And talking of afternoon visits, I promised to go to Mrs. Fawcett early today…”

  The drawing room door flew open to admit an angry maid. “Miss, the dog eats my washing!” she raged.

  *

  At Mrs. Fawcett’s, Count Lebedev began to pass on what he’d learned from Vanya.

  “Then you’ve seen him?” Mrs. Fawcett said eagerly.

  “He accosted me in my rooms in the middle of the night,” Lebedev said wryly. “He’d been speaking to an Austrian policeman, who told him information is circulating like a plague. The same stolen documents are being bought and sold several times and everyone’s paying huge amounts of money in the belief that they’re buying something vital that no one else knows about. By now, they must have guessed the information isn’t always unique, but still they pay. And one man seems to be reaping the benefits. An Englishman.”

  “Mr. Grassic,” Lizzie said. “He’s an English clergyman—or says he is. I’ve written to the Bishop of Gloucester, who was a friend of my father’s, to find out if he really has a living in his diocese, but it will be some time befo
re we have an answer.”

  Count Lebedev blinked at her in clear surprise. “So that’s it,” he said, incomprehensibly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Nothing. So, we know who…but to save Vanya, we need to know who took the Russian document to sell to Grassic.”

  “We could ask Grassic,” Mrs. Fawcett said grimly. “I have two very stout footmen.”

  Count Lebedev, appearing to see nothing amiss with this plan, nodded thoughtfully. “I know a few Cossacks who’d be willing to hold him down, too.”

  “I suspect if you beat a man enough he’ll tell you what you want to hear rather than the truth,” Lizzie said sternly. “Isn’t our best chance to – ah – persuade him to do it again and catch him?”

  Lebedev eyed her with fascination. “How would we do that? Without opening the tsar’s government to further risk?”

  “Well,” Lizzie said modestly. “I have a plan.”

  *

  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 awa
y, 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?