The Wicked One (2 page)

Sniffling, Diane sent her landlord a wan, grateful smile. “You’ve already put a new mattress on the bed and repaired that awful, squeaking shutter. I couldn’t possibly ask you for anything else. You are a good man, Mr. Brunn. A very good man.”

His cheeks flushed a mottled red. Clicking his heels together, he sketched a bow. “Pay me at your earliest convenience, of course. I shall see myself out. Good day, Lady Cameron.”

“Mr. Brunn.”

Diane closed her door again, then leaned her forehead against the cool wood. Without her black gown and the tears she would very likely have been removed from her apartment just now. Previous to this, she’d had no idea of the power a dress conjured, of the ease with which a few tears could sway a stone heart. They were her armor now, her only ally.

Straightening again, she walked over to gather up her black shawl and reticule. Fastening on her black bonnet, she opened the door again and went down the narrow stairs to the street. From there she hired a hack to take her up along the Danube Canal to Johannes Strasse. Lady Darham had said a great many of her countrymen would be at the luncheon today, and at the moment she wasn’t certain whether that would be a good thing or a bad thing. For all she knew, Frederick owed most of them money. But they were her countrymen. They spoke the same language, knew the same people.

Over the past fortnight her own company had begun to wear very thin. In fact, if this solitude continued she would very soon go mad. Already in the silence she’d begun talking to herself—which was rather ironic, considering the few conversations that she and Frederick had had over the past two years and the fact that she’d never been spurred to chitchat with herself before now. It was the difference, she supposed, between having someone—no matter how incommunicative—about, and having no one at all.

She decided to carry her kerchief in her hand, ready to receive her tears on the chance that someone actually confronted her for money. It was so odd; a few weeks ago she would have been ecstatic to attend a luncheon with her fellows. A chance to hear gossip about familiar names, to make new friends, to have someone with whom to talk. Now, as alone as she felt, however, it had all become much more complicated.

When the hack stopped, Diane took a moment to gather her thoughts—and her wits—together. She would at least have need of the latter. “Please let there be a friendly face,” she muttered, gaining herself an odd look from the butler.

“Diane,” Lady Darham said too warmly, as the servant led her into the dowager marchioness’ drawing room. “My most sincere condolences. I didn’t expect you to attend today.”

“I needed some fresh air,” Diane returned. “And some fresh company.”

“Well, we can certainly oblige you with that. How have you been, my dear?”

“As well as can be expected, I think,” she commented truthfully, accepting a cup of tea and refusing to close her eyes at the warm, rich taste. Steeping tea leaves three or four times before discarding them made for little better than hot, bitter water. “Thank you again for inviting me.”

“Of course I invited you. We’re friends.”

Lady Darham was a friend who hadn’t bothered to come calling in a fortnight, but commenting on that would only see Diane asked to leave the luncheon. And she
did
miss the fresh air; previous to Frederick’s illness she’d gone walking nearly every day. Since his death she’d been forced to stay indoors both because of custom and because of the appearance she wished to present. Grief-stricken widows did not go trotting through parks. Neither did they go shopping—which was actually fortunate considering that she had no money to spend.

Patricia greeted another group of arriving guests, then returned to sit by Diane in the corner. “I heard a rumor that your finances are…lacking,” she muttered below the level of the animated conversation flitting about the large room. “That’s an unfortunate rumor to have attached to you.”

It must have been a very prolific rumor, if the luncheon’s hostess was actually speaking to her about it. Almost reflexively Diane lifted the handkerchief to her eyes. “I know. I’ve heard it everywhere. I’ve written to Frederick’s brother for information about which accounts are his and which are mine, because, well…it’s very confusing.”

The marchioness lifted an eyebrow. “So you do have funds, after all?”

“A widow’s stipend,” Diane lied. “At the moment. Once everything is settled with the solicitors and the courts, I should have a better idea of things.” None of it was true, of course, but she was already learning the lesson of assumed weakness versus actual weakness. Once Anthony received confirmation of the authenticity of Frederick’s will back at Adam House everything would be much, much worse, but the one advantage of being in Vienna was that it was far away from London.

“Well, that’s splendid,” Lady Darham said too brightly. “I knew things couldn’t be as terrible as everyone said.” She patted Diane on one knee. “Now. Will you excuse me for a moment?”

“Certainly. I didn’t come here to monopolize you.”

The moment Lady Darham left her side, the condolences began. It was practically a formal queue, every guest in attendance taking her hand and announcing how sorry they were to hear of her loss. None of them offered any assistance or to come calling for a chat or to take her to luncheon or a drive, but none of them asked to be repaid for whatever Frederick likely owed them, either. She supposed, then that she could count that as a small victory. A very small one.

A luncheon or tea party or whatever the dowager Marchioness of Darham chose to call her gathering had little appeal for Oliver Warren. Propriety—or the pretense of it—made his head ache.

At the same time, he’d never have a better opportunity to determine which of his countrymen were in Vienna, and which of the men he could challenge at the table. Legitimately now, of course. Cheating last night had been necessary. It wasn’t any longer. And he had enough pride to wish to conquer his fellows in a fair fight, as it were.

The butler showed him into the crowded drawing room. As a keen observer of human behavior it took only a moment for him to realize that the large room seemed…unbalanced. The northeast corner stood empty. Or nearly empty. He turned to look.

For a moment his brain simply stopped working. A black gown sat in the corner. Black meant mourning. The long, raven-colored hair and impossibly green eyes meant something else entirely. Something that settled into his gut and made him cast his gaze about to see if any other male present might be looking at her.

“Ah, Mr. Warren,” a warm female voice said, and he reluctantly turned away from the corner.

“Lady Darham.” The marchioness offered her hand, and he bowed over it.

“You do know every Englishman in Vienna, don’t you?”

She smiled. “Very nearly. A benefit of having lived here for the past twenty years. A bastion of England in the middle of Austria, I suppose.”

“Who is the woman in the corner?” he asked, returning his gaze to the slender figure draped in black. Generally he proceeded with a bit more subtlety, but she practically set him humming even from halfway across the room.

She followed his glance. “That is Lady Cameron. Her idiot of a husband died nearly a fortnight ago.”

His attention snagged by the comment, Oliver looked back at his hostess. “‘Idiot’?” he repeated.

“Well, perhaps it’s unkind to speak ill of the so-recently dead, but I don’t know a better epithet for a man who wagers poorly and constantly and leaves his wife nearly destitute in a foreign country.”

“Ah,
that
Cameron. Frederick Benchley,” Oliver recalled. He hadn’t heard that the earl was dead, but he’d only been in Vienna for three days. The gossip in Belgium had been still about Wellington’s victory at Waterloo. Evidently the English in Belgium didn’t fraternize with those in Austria. And that was likely a good thing.

“Yes. Him.”

“So introduce me, my lady.”

His hostess frowned. “No.”

Lifting an eyebrow, Oliver regarded Lady Darham. “Is something amiss?”

“I don’t know you well, Mr. Oliver,” she returned, “but I do have ears, and eyes with which I read old editions of the
London Times
. You are a mischief maker. It is my belief that Diane Benchley has had enough mischief in her life. Leave her be.”

If the old hen thought to keep him from the young chick, she was sadly mistaken. “Are you her mother?” he asked.

“I—no, of course n—”

“Well, knowing what I do of her husband, it seems entirely possible that mischief is precisely what Lady Cameron needs.”

“You wouldn’t be saying that if she were old and plump.”

Oliver eyed his hostess, who fairly well fit her own description. “I prefer to see things as they are. And I suggest you let Lady Cameron decide for herself if she wishes to converse with me.” Inclining his head, he strolled into the crowd.

From there he spent another handful of minutes watching the Countess of Cameron. New arrivals detoured to her corner to pay their respects, and she smiled and nodded and didn’t say much in return. No dear friends—no one—sat with her or said more than the official words of condolence. In fact, she seemed very much alone.

Considering how attractive she was, Cameron must have left her in dire straits, indeed. And others here knew about it.
He
knew about it. The difference was, he didn’t care how poor she might be or whether her husband’s nonsense had caused damage to her reputation. In fact, as far as he was concerned, the sleek, black-clothed, black-haired female was the only chit in the room.

Oliver strolled forward and seated himself in the chair directly beside her. “You’re Diane Benchley,” he said.

She turned her head to look at him, her emerald eyes assessing. “I am,” she said in a low, not-quite-steady voice. “And who are you, sir?”

“Oliver Warren.”

From the slight narrowing of her eyes, she recognized the name. He wasn’t surprised; his reputation had never been for bookishness or prudery. “Mr. Warren. I had no idea you were in Vienna.”

“Just arrived. You’ve been here for over a year, haven’t you?”

The countess nodded. “I have.”

“Splendid. Perhaps you might show me the sights.”

She blinked. “Beg pardon? My…my husband just died a fortnight ago. I am in mourning.”

And he found it interesting that the quaver in her voice had vanished once he’d surprised her. “So you want nothing but to be left in solitude? I’m quite amiable and interesting, you know. I might even be capable of taking your mind from your troubles.”

The countess visibly drew in a breath. “You don’t lack confidence, do you?” she commented.

Oliver shrugged. “I know what I want.”

Her soft-looking lips parted just a little in what might have been the beginnings of a smile. “And what is it you want, Mr. Warren?”

You
. He offered her a slow smile. “Perhaps I might escort you into luncheon, and we could chat.”

As if remembering that she was in mourning, the countess fashioned herself a wan expression then sniffed, dabbing at her face with her handkerchief. “I would be amenable to that, I think.”

Oliver shifted a little closer to her. The desire to touch her flowed through him like a fine brandy. He’d been touched by lust before, certainly, but never in response to such an…unlikely female, and never so overwhelmingly. Yes, she was lovely—stunning, even—but she was in deep mourning. And he wasn’t precisely Richard the Third, who would seduce a woman over the very body of her husband. “You loved your husband?” he asked in a low voice. Perhaps he was attempting a seduction, but he would desist if she showed any genuine grief.

“What kind of question is that?” she returned, her voice going from unsteady to an affronted squeak.

“Just a question.” Slowly he reached out and touched the sleeve of her gown, making a show of straightening it. “He left you penniless, did he not?”

“That’s a rumor.” With a shiver he could feel through his fingers, she shifted away from him.

“And all alone, certainly.”

“And yet here I am, surrounded by friends.”

Oliver sent a glance at the open space around them. “‘Friends’?” he repeated. “In a very liberal interpretation of the word, I suppose that’s true.”

Her gaze met his. “Do you often converse with widows in this manner?”

“Not a one, until you,” he answered truthfully. “Why is it we never met in England?”

“I was married at eighteen, a month after my debut.”

He wanted to kiss her, to taste that soft, sweet-looking mouth. “That is a damned shame. You were promised to Cameron then, I suppose?”

Brief surprise touched her green eyes. “Yes, but what led you to that conclusion?”

“Because if the rest of the males in London had gotten a look at you, Frederick Benchley wouldn’t have been able to manage so much as a quadrille.”

Long lashes shuttered her eyes for a moment. “You compliment nicely, though I have to wonder at your timing. And the setting,” she finally said, sending another glance around the room.

Several of the occupants had noticed the two of them sitting together. Olivier Warren with a female was anything but unusual, so the interest had to be due to his choice of female. As if he gave a damn what they thought. He could play with them later. Today he had a different game in mind. “Now is when I met you. Should I refrain from stating that I find you beautiful simply because your husband has died?
You
aren’t dead, after all.”