Vienna Dawn (The Imperial Season Book 3) Page 7

  *

  Late on the morning after the ball, Countess Savarina’s dressmaker called to fit the younger ladies with some of their new gowns. Dunya, who would have gone in rags to hear Beethoven conduct his music, was nevertheless glad to have an elegant new dress for the occasion. However, she found it difficult to be still for the dressmaker. Misha hadn’t come to give her any news of Captain Trelawny, and Trelawny himself still hadn’t called. She had to hope that Misha would bring tidings with him to the afternoon’s public dance.

  On the other hand, it came to her as Frau Gabriella made an adjustment to the side seam of her ball gown, that she’d really coerced the captain into a difficult position. Although he’d seemed to be amused at the time, it was more than probable he had neither the energy nor the inclination for such a masquerade as this. The chances were, he’d already left Vienna, where he’d never had any desire to be.

  The thought lowered her spirits. There were, of course, many other ways to obtain Etienne’s attention, but she had rather looked forward to scheming with Captain Trelawny, and making him happy, too. And well. Surely, if she’d only met him again, his lady love would have come back to him.

  “Who will be at the concert?” she demanded of her yawning mother. “All the British and the French, I suppose?”

  “Probably not,” the countess replied, just a little ruefully. “I tried to persuade General Lisle to attend, but I believe the British are largely shunning the event because of Russia and Prussia’s behavior over Saxony.”

  “What has that to do with Beethoven?”

  The countess shrugged. “Nothing. Except that his chief patron is Count Razumovsky, the Russian ambassador. I’m told the audience will largely be Russian and Prussian. The Austrians and the British will stay away. As will the French, if anyone cares for them.”

  Dunya gave an impatient little jerk, and Fraulein Gabriella emitted a tut of annoyance. Dunya apologized, though in the same breath she said to her mother, “I suppose we must care for them, too. After all, they are not Bonaparte’s French, are they?”

  Her mother curled her lip. “Talleyrand was once.”

  Dunya forbore to point out that nearly everyone at the Congress had been allied with Bonaparte at some point or other, including the Tsar. Instead, she said casually, “Did you see Etienne de la Tour last night?”

  The countess paused with her hand over her mouth to glance sharply at Dunya. “No, I did not. He has not behaved well to us and I advise you to leave off childish affections and have nothing to do with him.”

  “I am engaged to Captain Trelawny,” Dunya reminded her mother.

  “Are you?” her mother said. It wasn’t really a question, but Dunya let it go. The countess placed her hands in her lap, watching critically as the dressmaker worked. “In any case, he has no time for us. He is pursuing heiresses, by all accounts. He needs the money to put his newly returned French lands in order.”

  “How do you know these things?”

  “Rumor, my dear. Vienna is thick with it. Too many people living cheek-by-jowl in a small city and hobnobbing together every day! Yes, that gown will do very nicely for afternoons. Where is Anastasia?”

  Anastasia was duly discovered discontentedly turning the pages of a fashion magazine in the drawing room. “I’ve had all my fittings,” she told Dunya.

  “Oh good. Is Nikolai coming with us to the Apollo Saal?”

  “No,” Anastasia said flatly. “He said it was not the thing and he had an appointment with Prince Czartoryski at the Hofburg.”

  Drat the man. “Well, you and I could go,” she said brightly. “He did not forbid it, did he?”

  “No, but who would escort us there? And in any case, how can I go, knowing he dislikes the idea?”

  Hence her discontent. Biting her tongue, Dunya left it there, but she felt bad for Misha and his abused maid when she’d promised to help.

  On her way out, she noticed Nikolai’s mask lying on the side table by the door. He must have dropped it there when they’d returned from Mrs. Fawcett’s. An idea popped instantly into her head. She picked up the mask as she passed and carried on her way.

  *

  Three days of rest, good cooking, and the general pampering by his friends, had done Trelawny a world of good. His fever had not returned and he no longer felt quite weak enough to fall over if anyone bumped into him. And although his encounter with Dunya Savarina seemed very distant from his real life, he retained the memory, like an echo of pleasure or distant happiness. He suspected he was no longer necessary to her erratic plans or would even be terribly welcome, but he had every intention of going to the Beethoven concert just to see her. Because he owed her his resurgence of life.

  On the afternoon of that day, Captain Ambrose hired an open carriage and took him into the Viennese suburbs, where wider roads and the space between buildings gave a greater impression of fresh air than the busy, crowded streets of the inner city.

  “How does one get tickets to the Beethoven concert?” he asked, realizing at last that he might have left it a little late.

  Ambrose cast him a humorous look. “One asks Julia nicely.”

  “Really? How many does she have?”

  Ambrose wrinkled his nose. “Two. How many do you want?”

  “Just one, but—”

  “Then take Julia. Seriously, I’ll consider it a favor. I don’t mind dancing to music, but sitting still just listening to it, is my definition of boredom! I’ve no idea who this chap is that they’re all making such a fuss over. I only said I’d go to please Julia. Fancy stretching your legs?”

  “I think I need to. You’ve spoiled me so much my body’s forgotten how to walk.”

  Ambrose laughed and shouted to the driver to pull up. “Take a look at this place,” he added to Trelawny, nodding across the road. “The Apollo Rooms. It’s all glass and plants and, at this hour, tea dances.”

  “Not sure I’m up to dancing,” Trelawny said, stepping down from the carriage unaided, while Ambrose paid the driver.

  “Well, we can just watch the girls. Not sure it’s gentle folk day there today, but I don’t believe they bother so much in daylight.” Ambrose winked. “Who knows? You might snare a rich widow.”

  Ambrose led Trelawny into a tall, glass building lined with fir trees and resonant with music. The foliage smell was a trifle overpowering in places, but Trelawny imagined he’d grow used to it.

  Once inside, they handed over a few coins for their entry, and the girl offered them the hire of masks and dominos. Ambrose grinned and shelled out for those, too. Without a word, he casually tied Trelawny’s mask for him and they strolled into the ballroom.

  They sat at a table under a palm tree, and while Ambrose wandered off to find them refreshments, Trelawny stretched out his legs and examined his fellow revelers with interest. Several couples were dancing in the center of the room, to the strains of the orchestra just visible at the far end, behind another row of firs. Others sat around the outside at tables like his own, watching or animatedly talking. Their masks and colorful dominos lent them all an air of exotic mystery and drama. It was more or less impossible to tell the class, or the nationality of his fellow patrons. Trelawny rather liked that.

  In fact, he liked quite a lot just now. He particularly liked the feeling of coming alive again that had come upon him in the carriage ride from the inn to Vienna, and had been growing every day. The grace of a dancer, the curve of a girl’s mouth, the sound of a violin or a man’s laughter, all seemed to affect him. He realized he’d actually been enjoying his time with Rosie and Julia, not just tolerating it.

  And so, when a masked lady, returning from the dance floor with her partner, caught his eye and smiled, he smiled back quite naturally. She sat at the table next to his, along with her escort and another two men, both of whom seemed to be begging her to dance next with them. Laughing coyly, she snapped her fingers and a maid appeared—a personal maid, not one of the establishment’s staff—from behind a large, bus
hy plant, to pour coffee from a large pot on the table.

  As the maid moved around the table, one of the men ran his hand quite blatantly over her rear. The poor girl jerked and coffee sloshed into the saucer and spilled over onto the table. Her mistress, who must have seen the groping hand, snapped something at the girl who set down the pot and hastily dabbed at the mess.

  It was a distasteful if not uncommon incident. But what interested Trelawny was the fact that the bush behind which the girl was clearly meant to wait when not required had actually waved, as if in a gust of wind, when the girl was being molested. Someone else clearly hid there, too.

  Intrigued, Trelawny stood up and strolled in the plant’s direction until he could see behind it. There, the maid, although she kept glancing fearfully about her, was in deep conversation with a masked man. At last, the maid pulled on a mask with apparent reluctance and the man threw a domino cloak about her shoulders. Then they hurried away, using Trelawny to shield them from the view of the beautiful lady at the table.

  Amused, Trelawny moved on around the bush and circled back, keeping the odd pair in sight. They sat down at a table some distance away, beside a solitary lady in a bejeweled mask. The man appeared to be introducing the two women. After a quick speech, the lady gave a quick, bright smile, and Trelawny’s heart jolted.

  Even here, he imagined Dunya. Worse, his moment’s inattention caused him to bump into the chair of the maid’s mistress. Her startled and incredibly lovely masked face looked up at him and he bowed, murmuring a word of apology.

  “Oh no, forgive me,” the lady said unexpectedly. “It was I who moved my chair without looking. I only hope I didn’t injure you.”

  “Not in the slightest.”

  Trelawny would have moved on again, only one of the men at the table smiled at him. “My wife is like a butterfly, sir, quite lovely but subject to sudden changes of direction. My name’s Fischer.” The man stood and stuck out his hand, obliging Trelawny to shake it.

  “Richard Trelawny,” he murmured.

  “Delighted to meet another British friend. I suppose you are here in Vienna for the Congress?”

  “No, just passing through, really.”

  “We are a small, friendly city, overwhelmed by all our grand visitors,” Herr Fischer said amiably. “Please, won’t you join us?”

  “You’re very kind, but my friend and I have a table—”

  “Of course your friend must join us, too,” Fischer said jovially, already pulling a chair out for him. Frau Fischer snapped her fingers, but of course, the maid did not appear.

  Trelawny sat, quite suddenly, not because he had any real desire to be with these people but because coming directly toward him was the young lady who smiled like Dunya. Only, she wasn’t smiling now. And with her was the masked man, and the maid, bravely removing the borrowed mask and cloak.

  She moved like Dunya, too, all quick grace and determination. Covertly, Trelawny drew his domino further over his right side to hide his missing arm. He wanted to know what she had to do with these people.

  “Madame Fischer?”

  It was definitely Dunya’s voice, though colder than he remembered it. So who was the man with her? He was clearly protective, although he kept a respectful distance. Some relative of the maid’s, perhaps?

  Frau Fischer glanced up at her in surprise. “Madame?”

  “Might I have a private word?”

  Trelawny could see Frau Fischer assessing Dunya before she said, “Please, Madame, join my husband and me, and our other guests.”

  “No, thank you, I won’t stay.” When Frau Fischer didn’t rise to move somewhere more private, Dunya said, “It’s a domestic matter.”

  Frau Fischer’s eyes widened as they took in her maid at Dunya’s shoulder. The girl looked terrified.

  “Has my stupid girl spilled something over you, too?” Frau Fischer said. “She has no business wandering around the room. I can only apologize.”

  “There is no need,” Dunya said frostily. “I asked to speak to her. The upshot is, I have engaged her. I tell you as a courtesy. Good day.”

  Frau Fischer sprang to her feet. So did her husband. And Trelawny, which brought him between Dunya and Herr Fischer.

  “You can’t poach my servants!” Frau Fischer raged.

  Dunya merely raised one haughty eyebrow.

  Herr Fischer, who had clearly grasped the standing of the poacher more quickly than his wife, added smoothly, “Not without compensation.”

  Dunya curled her lip. “Really?” She turned on her heel and walked away, the maid and their escort following.

  Herr Fischer lunged, not at Dunya but at the maid. Once he had her in his grip, Trelawny guessed she would be too frightened to leave. Fischer was clearly banking on Dunya not making that much of a fuss in so public a place.

  On impulse, Trelawny stuck out his foot and Fischer tripped mid-lunge, stretching himself out on the floor.

  Dunya’s escort put his arm around the maid and they hurried on.

  “So sorry,” Trelawny murmured. “So clumsy today. Let me help you up.” As he crouched down, Dunya glanced back over her shoulder. Between the slits of the mask her eyes gleamed. She smiled once, blindingly, directly at him. She’d no idea who he was, hadn’t even looked at him until now. But she knew what he’d done.

  A rescuer of abused servants. Somehow, he’d never have thought it. But it seemed she was more than just a spoiled, lively young lady trying every trick in the book to achieve her own ends. She had compassion and responsibility, and it seemed she went out of her way and her own comfort to act upon them.

  *

  Dunya found the maid, Maria, an unexpected choice for Misha. Past her first blush of youth, she was timid, anxious, and polite. However, no doubt the anxiety came from her bully of a mistress. And to Dunya, it stood in the woman’s favor that she looked frequently at Misha for encouragement or approval as she spoke. The girl had honest and quite pretty eyes. Dunya guessed she cared for Misha and was at the end of her tether with her current post.

  “Why don’t you just get married?” she suggested as she caught up with them after leaving the awful Fischers.

  Maria flushed hotly, staring at her feet, and walked faster.

  Misha muttered, “Can’t right now, can we? I sleep in a cupboard in the colonel’s attic.”

  Dunya conceded the point. “You can dance if you like,” she said generously. “I’m in no hurry.”

  But it seemed fear overwhelmed any romance in Maria’s soul. “Please, I would rather leave,” she whispered.

  Dunya cast a disappointed glance at the dance floor. She wondered if the masked man in the black domino, who’d tripped the unspeakable Fischer, would dance with the even more appalling Frau Fischer. She hoped they wouldn’t fleece him.

  Leaving the ballroom in the wake of Misha and Maria, she heard music drifting from another room. Drawn by the melody, she moved closer to a door flanked by rose trees in pots. Their blooms were lush and scarlet, thriving in the hot house provided by the glass ceiling.

  Dunya opened the door and the music rushed over her. A trio of musicians were playing to a sparse but rapt audience. Dunya leaned against the door and listened, too. The musicians’ talents were breathtaking, the music of the kind that made you weep with joy.

  Unfortunately, it was just finishing. Surreptitiously, Dunya pressed her mask into the corner of her eye to catch the drip, then took a deep breath and let the door close on the musicians. Turning with decision to catch up with Misha and Maria, she all but bumped into the man in the black domino. The one who’d tripped Fischer.

  He was tall and lean beneath the cloak, and the bottom edges of the black mask brushed cheek bones that hinted at a handsome countenance. His lips, firm, well-shaped, and manly, looked as if they should smile often. And yet they didn’t. A thrill passed through her, a mixture of danger and interest and, surely, a sense of familiarity.

  “Excuse me,” she murmured.

  He didn’t im
mediately step back. Instead, he reached to one side of the door and plucked one of the budding roses. He bowed, silently, and presented it to her.

  Her breath caught. She was alone in a public place with no idea who or what this man was. She had the feeling her mother would forbid her to accept roses from strangers wherever they were. And yet, the gesture seemed at once so spontaneous and so dramatic—no doubt the fault of the masks—that she found herself accepting it.

  The brush of his fingers was warm, even through her gloves. His steady eyes held hers through the slits of his concealing black mask. Something struggled for recognition, some interest, or memory, or even emotion. But that was silly.

  “Thank you,” she murmured and whisked herself away. But after only two steps, she paused again and turned back. He was still watching her, still silent. And she owed him a debt. “Don’t play cards with them,” she blurted and then fled after Misha.

  Chapter Seven

  Dunya wasted no time in introducing her new maid to the household, although she did so to her mother and their housekeeper separately, so that she could somewhat deviously imply to each that the other was responsible for engaging Maria. Neither seemed terribly interested, just slightly irritated that they hadn’t been informed earlier. Dunya suspected optimistically that they wouldn’t refer to the subject again.

  The first duty she gave her maid was to put the single rose in a small vase in her bedchamber. She wasn’t really sure why she kept it, except that it was her first token from a man, however little it meant to him. Or to her, whose heart had long been given to Etienne. But, she thought, smiling at the memory, it did her courage no harm to remember a handsome, masked stranger, tongue-tied by her presence.

  She wrote hastily to Vanya and gave the delighted Misha the letter to take back with him.

  “Found your captain, by the way,” Misha said over his shoulder on his way out. “He’s staying with another British officer in a tiny apartment on Anna Gasse.”

  Dunya crowed with delight because Trelawny was still in Vienna after all. And as Maria helped her to dress—she did appear to be an excellent lady’s maid—she began to think what she would write to him tomorrow. For tonight, there was only Beethoven.