Vienna Waltz (23 page)
Authors: Teresa Grant
Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Historical, #Romance, #Historical Romance, #Mystery & Suspense
The crowd settled back and the tournament resumed.
Malcolm and Fitz faced each other in the next-to-last joust. For a moment Suzanne forgot Fitz’s deception, Princess Tatiana, Eithne’s pain, and the poisoned gulf between her husband and his friend, in the sheer pleasure of admiring Malcolm’s and Fitz’s skill. Dust rose as their horses thundered over the sand-strewn ground. Lances crashed against shields. They wheeled and rode at each other again, lances glinting into the candlelight. Metal met metal in another resounding crash.
And Fitz tumbled to the ground.
Malcolm caught Fitz’s horse by the reins and brought it to a standstill before it could trample its fallen rider. Then he swung down from the saddle and knelt beside his friend. Where the Prince of Lichtenstein had shown no sign of hurt, the candlelight gleamed against blood spilling from Fitz’s head, staining the sand crimson. Dorothée gave a stifled cry and gripped Suzanne’s hand.
In the gallery where the British delegation sat, a fair-haired woman in white had risen to her feet. Eithne. Suzanne cursed that she was so far away. A slender figure in yellow rose and put her arm round Eithne. Aline.
The squires hurried out with another stretcher and carefully lifted Fitz onto it. Malcolm followed them from the field, fear and self-recrimination in the taut set of his shoulders.
Dorothée’s fingers bit into Suzanne’s hand like an iron shackle. “God in heaven. What have we done?”
Count Clam-Martinitz knelt opposite Malcolm across the stretcher where Fitz lay. “What the devil happened?”
“Someone tampered with his horse.” Malcolm picked up Fitz’s hand and drew a breath of relief when he felt the blood pulsing through Fitz’s wrist. “Find Geoffrey Blackwell. He’ll be with the British delegation.”
“I’m here.” Blackwell strode into the room, Aline and Eithne behind him.
Malcolm moved aside to give Geoffrey his place beside Fitz. Eithne hung back, gaze fastened on Fitz as though her world had shrunk down to his each indrawn breath. Malcolm went to her side and squeezed her hand. “His pulse is strong.”
Fitz’s eyes were still closed. Geoffrey examined the wound on his head with brisk, methodical care. “Nasty looking, but with luck it won’t leave him with more than a headache.”
It was, Malcolm thought, a hideous echo of his and Suzanne’s encounter with the carriage outside the Empress Rose earlier in the day. For the first time he understood what Suzanne had gone through as he lay unconscious. But he had recovered consciousness far more quickly than this.
Fitz stirred. Eithne dropped down beside him and took his hand.
Fitz stared at his wife, then looked round in confusion. “What—?”
“I’m afraid I unhorsed you.” Malcolm knelt beside Eithne. “Your horse had a shoe loosened.”
“Why—”
“Never mind about that now.” Geoffrey pressed a brandy-soaked cloth to Fitz’s wound. “You’re a fortunate man, Vaughn. Head injuries can be exceedingly dangerous. Don’t move too quickly.”
Fitz’s gaze focused on his wife. “Eithne. Shouldn’t—”
“Hush, love. It’s all right.” Eithne folded his hand between both her own.
While Blackwell wound lint round Fitz’s head, Malcolm got to his feet and addressed Count Clam-Martinitz. “Who had access to the horses?”
Clam-Martinitz frowned at the implications. “Almost anyone. The stables weren’t locked. But why—”
“For want of a nail—The nails on one of the shoes of Fitz’s horse had been loosened. It was only a matter of time until the shoe came loose, and one could predict Fitz would suffer an accident. It was clear who would ride which horse, from our last rehearsal.”
“Good God.” Clam-Martinitz stared at him. “You think someone wanted to harm Vaughn?”
Malcolm glanced at his friend. Fitz’s head was now swathed in folds of lint. Blackwell was snipping off the ends, while Eithne stroked Fitz’s hair. “It very much looks that way.”
“In God’s name, why?”
“That,” Malcolm said, his gaze still on Fitz, “would seem to be the question.”
23
“C
hampagne, Your Majesty?” Adam Czartoryski bowed to Elisabeth, a crystal champagne glass held steady in one hand.
hampagne, Your Majesty?” Adam Czartoryski bowed to Elisabeth, a crystal champagne glass held steady in one hand.
“How kind of you, Prince.” Elisabeth accepted the glass and smiled at Adam, remembering him opening a bottle of champagne during a stolen interlude in an abandoned gardener’s cottage nearly two decades ago. Remembering, too, the warmth of the log fire he’d kindled, the slither of blankets on their bare skin, the pounding of rain on the roof. And the flash of lightning reflected in his eyes as he’d lowered his body to hers.
A betraying wave of heat shot through her. She felt the pressure of myriad inevitable gazes turned in their direction, but no one could take exception to Adam bringing her a glass of champagne. Harp music from wandering minstrels cascaded through the supper rooms, masking their conversation. “Have you heard how Lord Fitzwilliam does?” Elisabeth asked.
Adam shook his head. “I think he’s been taken back to the Minoritenplatz.”
Elisabeth stared at the frothy bubbles in her glass. “I saw his wife’s face when he was carried from the field. As though her whole world had been destroyed. It made me realize—”
“How you’d feel if it had been Alexander?” Adam asked.
Elisabeth looked up at him. She saw concern in his gaze and something else beneath. He masked it well, but she had long since learned to read every nuance of his expression. The embers she saw in his eyes now were jealousy. An absurd, traitorous triumph rushed through her, headier than if she had downed the entire glass of champagne.
“No.” She scanned his face, marveling at the power that lay in knowing one was loved. “How I’d feel if it had been you.”
“You think Fitz was deliberately targeted?” Suzanne regarded Malcolm over the rim of her champagne glass. All about them jewels flashed in the candlelight, satin slippers and kid shoes pattered against the floor, crystal glasses clinked. The smell of oranges and cloves and cinnamon hung in the air. Thank goodness she and Dorothée had arranged for wandering minstrels to entertain at the ball following the Carrousel. The music (much of it authentic, at least from the sixteenth century, they had spent hours looking for it) washed over the room and prevented conversations from carrying.
“I don’t see any other explanation,” her husband said.
“Because of something Princess Tatiana had told him? Or something he knew about her?”
“The implication is unmistakable, but if so it’s something he’s been keeping secret.”
“Dear God.” Dorothée joined them in a rustle of satin and velvet. Lines of strain bracketed her mouth. “It seems this evening will never end. With all the things I lay awake worrying could go wrong, it never occurred to me someone would be hurt. What a criminal fool I’ve been.”
“Doro, no.” Suzanne put her arm round her friend, heedless of crushing their gowns. “You couldn’t have foreseen this.”
“Believe me, Madame la Comtesse,” Malcolm said, “I’ve seen enough death to know that guilt is the inevitable sequel and to realize how fruitless it is. And in this case, quite misplaced. Lord Fitzwilliam’s horse was tampered with.”
Dorothée stared at him. “But who on earth—” Her eyes narrowed. “Because of his relationship with Princess Tatiana?”
“Perhaps.” Malcolm’s gaze skimmed over Dorothée’s face. “Besides Suzanne, who else had you told about Fitz’s affair with Princess Tatiana?”
“No one. That is—” Dorothée fingered the full sleeve of her gown. “I mentioned it to my uncle, but—”
“When?” Malcolm asked.
“Yesterday after the rehearsal. Monsieur Rannoch, surely you can’t think—”
She broke off, her gaze fixed unseeing on a juggler in green and red who was passing through the crowd.
Malcolm touched her arm. “Any number of people may have known of the affair. Gossip has a way of spreading in Vienna.”
“There you are. It takes half an hour just to cross a ballroom in Vienna.” Geoffrey Blackwell joined them, Aline at his side.
“Lord Fitzwilliam?” Dorothée scanned Geoffrey’s face with anxious eyes.
“Back to the Minoritenplatz with Lady Fitzwilliam. He shows reassuring clarity of mind. I’ve instructed Lady Fitzwilliam to keep him awake for at least three hours and to send for me if he shows any signs of confusion.”
“Thank God.” Dorothée gave a heartfelt sigh. “He’ll recover fully?”
“If there aren’t complications.” Geoffrey was not one to sugarcoat matters, but he smiled at Dorothée with reassurance as he said it.
“He kept telling Eithne he loved her,” Aline said. “It’s enough to make one lose one’s cynicism about marriage.”
Dorothée shook her head. “I knew Vienna was dangerous. But I never thought the dangers would be so—”
“Bloody?” Aline asked.
“Frowning, Madame la Comtesse?” Count Clam-Martinitz joined them. “You should be enjoying your night of triumph.”
“It doesn’t feel very triumphant.”
Clam-Martinitz smiled down at her. “What happened to Vaughn was terrible, but I hear he will make a full recovery. The near tragedy doesn’t lessen your achievement. Dance with me.”
“I can’t—”
Suzanne squeezed Dorothée’s shoulder. “He’s right. No help will come from dwelling on it.”
Dorothée hesitated, as though teetering on an unseen precipice. Then her face relaxed into a smile, and she took the count’s arm. Geoffrey offered his arm to Aline, who took it with less surprise than she had shown when he asked her to dance at the Metternich masquerade.
“Leaving us free to speculate,” Malcolm said, “though there seems little more to be said.”
Suzanne took a sip of champagne, remembering the bottle they’d shared on their wedding night. Some of it had ended up spilled on the sheets. “Do you think it could really be resolved so simply?”
“What?”
“Fitz and Eithne. Could a moment of danger wipe away all the bitterness?”
“No,” Malcolm said in a flat voice. “She’ll never again see him as the man she thought he was. But perhaps with time she’ll come to—”
“Appreciate the man he is? Darling, coming from you that sounds positively romantic.”
“There’s a great deal to be said for realism.”
“Then we’re exceedingly fortunate.” She meant the words to be light, but they held an edge like smashed crystal.
He watched her for a moment, his gaze unreadable, then held out his hand. “Shall we—”
“Still a pattern card of courtly love. You’d look right at home at the court of Louis XIII.” Count Otronsky, in the dark Russian uniform Tsar Alexander also affected, medals glittering on his chest, stopped before them and swept a bow. “You both gave superb performances this evening.”
“Thank you, Count.” Suzanne gave him her hand. His gaze seemed to slice through the velvet and satin of her gown, but unlike many gentlemen he seemed to be probing for the secrets of her mind, not her body. “But I merely sat in the stands and danced the minuet to open the ball.”
“Don’t underestimate the value of evoking a mood, madame. Rannoch, I knew you British were good at putting your horses over fences in pursuit of foxes, but I didn’t realize you were so adroit at the more elegant maneuvers.”
Malcolm shook Otronsky’s hand. “We have more finesse than our Continental friends sometimes credit.”
“Believe me, Rannoch, I never make the mistake of underestimating the British.” Otronsky’s gaze locked with Malcolm’s own for a moment. “I understand Vaughn has recovered consciousness?”
“And Dr. Blackwell is hopeful of a full recovery.”
“A tragic accident.”
“Tragic, yes. But not an accident. His horse was tampered with.”
Otronsky frowned. “Vaughn is one of the last people in Vienna I’d have thought to find the victim of a plot. Perhaps he’s more like you than I realized.”
“Are you implying my husband has enemies, Count?” Suzanne asked, masking her words with a playful smile.
“Merely that your husband is a man of secrets, madame.”
Suzanne followed Otronsky with her gaze when he moved off. “Tsar Alexander still has him watching us.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if Tsar Alexander has him investigating Tatiana’s murder. I can only hope he hasn’t learned about the tsarina’s papers.”
“Champagne?” A young man—a boy really, he could not have been more than sixteen—appeared beside them with a tray of glasses.
Suzanne shook her head. Her glass was still more than half-full.
The footman inclined his head. But instead of moving off, he pressed a sealed paper into Malcolm’s hand. “I was to give this to you tonight, sir. The lady was most specific.”
“Lady?” Malcolm asked.
“With the red hair. She said if she didn’t tell me otherwise before, I was to give you this letter at the Carrousel.”
Malcolm’s fingers closed on the paper. “When did she give it to you?”
“Three days since.”
Malcolm gave the waiter a coin, and he moved off. Suzanne stared at the paper in her husband’s hand. It was sealed with a lavender wafer, impressed with an unadorned button. Malcolm slit it open. A series of nonsense letters stared up at them. A code.
“Tatiana?” Suzanne asked.
“Tatiana.”
Three days ago, she would have laughed in bitter mockery at the suggestion that she would ever be relieved to see her husband receive a communication from Tatiana Kirsanova. But evidence was evidence. Not that that stilled the lurch in her chest as she watched Malcolm run his fingers over the paper.
Quickly as it had come, the tenderness in his eyes was gone. He tucked the paper into his sleeve, his diplomat’s mask well in place. “We’ll draw comment if we leave too early. Everyone seems to be dancing. We might as well—”
“Rannoch. Mrs. Rannoch.” Colonel Frederick Radley materialized soundlessly out of the shifting crowd. A prince of cats. “My compliments, Mrs. Rannoch. The evening was a triumph.”
“A triumph marred by tragedy.”
“That’s a bit strong, surely. Sad about Vaughn, but I understand he’s expected to recover.”
“It looks that way,” Malcolm said. “It’s too early to be sure.”
Radley regarded Malcolm. “Must have been difficult coming so close to killing your best friend in battle. One would have thought that sort of thing went out with Palamon and Arcite.”
“It was hell,” Malcolm said in an even voice. “Though as it turns out, someone tampered with Vaughn’s horse.”
“Good God. Plots within plots. Of all the men in the British delegation, Vaughn’s the last I’d have thought would have an unseen enemy. But then perhaps Vienna’s changed him.”
“Or perhaps he was an unwitting victim.”
“So many unanswered questions.” Radley turned to Suzanne. “But we can’t allow them to mar Mrs. Rannoch’s triumph. Would you honor me with a dance?”
Suzanne hesitated, gaze instinctively going to Malcolm. But Malcolm merely smiled and inclined his head. “By all means do, my dear. I need to speak to Count Nesselrode.”
There was nothing for it. She allowed Radley to lead her through an archway into the ballroom as a new waltz began. A smooth, gloved hand clasped her own as they stepped into the promenade that began the dance. Then his other arm encircled her waist. She could feel the warmth of his fingers on her back through the kid of his glove and the layers of her velvet gown and satin underdress and the corset and chemise beneath. Or perhaps the warmth came from memory.
“I always knew you had formidable talents,” Radley said, his breath stirring her hair. “But I confess I never envisioned you orchestrating a tournament.”
“Dorothée Périgord orchestrated it.”
“As I hear tell, you were a great help. The Comtesse de Périgord says so herself. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I always knew you were a consummate actress.” His gaze shifted over her face. “You still teach torches to burn bright.”
Bile rose up in her throat. Shakespeare was Malcolm’s code for talking to her. For Radley to use it seemed a desecration. “Rank flattery, Colonel.”
He swung her to the side. He led in the dance as he did in other things, with a casual assurance that his partner would follow. “Your husband’s an obliging fellow. If you were my wife, I don’t think I’d send you off so lightly to dance in another man’s arms.”
They were positioned facing in opposite directions. His hip-bone jutted against her own. “My dear Colonel, if you had a wife, I suspect you’d be so busy pursuing your latest flirtation that you wouldn’t have the least idea with whom she was dancing.”
“Touché. You know me well.” His smile still dazzled like diamonds in firelight. His arm settled with confidence across the front of her gown, where her fitted bodice met her full gathered skirts. “But then I expect your husband has his own interests as well. I understand he was very close to poor Princess Tatiana.”
“That seems to be the general impression.” She curved her arm across the braid and gold buttons of his coat.
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