Teresa Grant - [Charles & Melanie Fraser 01]

by Vienna Waltz

  “No.” Suzanne slammed the shutters closed on a host of memories. “I lost my family in the war in Spain.”

  “I’m sorry for it.” Compassion, warm and seemingly genuine, flashed in the duchess’s dark eyes. “I can well imagine how you’d have accepted any marriage offer made to you in such a situation. But you appear to believe in your husband as only a young romantic can.”

  “Believe me, Duchess, I went into my marriage with my eyes open.”

  Wilhelmine twirled the fluted stem of her wineglass between her fingers. “Have you seen Mozart’s Così fan tutte? That aria of Dorabella’s, ‘È amore un ladroncello.’ Calling love a thief is perhaps the most accurate description I’ve ever heard.”

  “Così rather questions whether love exists at all,” Suzanne said. “Something I’ve done myself on more than one occasion.”

  “On the contrary. Così acknowledges that love is delightful, so long as one doesn’t take it too seriously. Or make the fatal mistake of expecting it to last.”

  The duchess’s light words nicked beneath the lacing of Suzanne’s corset. Wilhelmine of Sagan was a master of verbal fencing. It was past time to deflect the attack. “Is that what happened between you and Prince Metternich? Boredom?”

  Wilhelmine shrugged. “Adoration sounds delightful, but it can become smothering. People change.”

  “And yet you left him to return to an old lover.”

  For a moment the worldly ennui in Wilhelmine’s eyes softened. Her mouth curved in a rueful smile. “I never claimed to be consistent. I suppose I never properly got over Alfred von Windischgrätz. Which is odd, because so often as soon as one achieves the object of one’s affections, the attraction begins to pall.”

  “And the tsar?”

  Wilhelmine pulled the sky blue folds of her scarf about her shoulders. “Tsar Alexander is not my lover. But he’s a prime example of a man who grows bored once the conquest has been achieved. Princess Bagration is learning that. Princess Tatiana would have learned it soon enough.” The duchess regarded Suzanne for a moment, her gaze sharp but not unkind. “I suspect part of the reason your husband continues to fascinate you is that you’ve never been entirely sure of his affections.”

  Suzanne took a sip of wine, a little too quickly. “My husband never made me any promises.”

  “Which only makes him all the more elusive and intriguing. Falling in love with a spouse is dangerous. When one happens to be married to the object of one’s affections, one is rather compelled to wallow in the ashes after the fire burns out.”

  “That assumes the fire was there to begin with.”

  “Oh, I think I’ve observed you with your husband enough to be confident of that.”

  Suzanne fixed her gaze on the pale wine in her glass. Clever fingers teasing her skin, the heat of his mouth meeting her own, the ragged scrape of his breath. Whatever her marriage was, she couldn’t claim it was cold.

  “I applaud your good sense in helping him with his investigation of Princess Tatiana’s murder,” Wilhelmine continued. “A lesser woman would have turned shrewish.”

  Suzanne forced her fingers not to tighten on her glass. “Like Malcolm, I want to learn the truth of what happened to Princess Tatiana.”

  “Truth’s a difficult commodity to come by in Vienna. Though at least you’ve managed to learn the rather prosaic reason for my quarrel with the princess.”

  Suzanne stared down at the tufted silk cushions. “To own the truth, I’m wondering if there’s more to it.”

  “You don’t think Princess Tatiana’s intransigence is enough to explain our quarrel? I told you I have a tendency to lose my temper.”

  Suzanne leaned forward, her gaze fixed on the duchess’s own. “I know you have no cause to confide in me. But would it change things if I told you we have reason to believe a box of Princess Tatiana’s private papers is missing from her lodgings?”

  Wilhelmine of Sagan’s glass tumbled from her fingers and shattered on the Turkey carpet at her feet.

  “I thought so,” Suzanne said. “She was in possession of information that concerns you? Letters?”

  “I said nothing of the sort.” Wilhelmine brushed her hand over the spilled wine on her skirt.

  “Not in so many words.” Suzanne set her glass down on a porcelain-tiled side table. “Duchess—My husband has every intention of finding this box of papers. Knowing Malcolm, he is likely to succeed. I can be of more assistance to you if I know what you’re afraid of.”

  “Why should you wish to be of assistance to me?”

  “I don’t like the idea of anyone’s private miseries being used as capital.”

  The duchess’s laugh was like the snap of crystal. “Private miseries are the coin of the realm in Vienna. In most European courts. Surely you’ve learned that?”

  “I don’t have to agree with it. Nor does Malcolm.”

  “Your husband wouldn’t have survived this long in the diplomatic corps if he hadn’t learned to put information to use.” Wilhelmine reached down to pick up the pieces of broken crystal, then muttered a curse. Blood spurted from her finger.

  Suzanne crossed the room and dropped down beside Wilhelmine’s chair. She pressed her handkerchief into the duchess’s hand. “The sooner we learn why Princess Tatiana was killed, the sooner people will stop asking questions.”

  Wilhelmine stared at the handkerchief for a moment as though she could not make sense of what to do with it, then wrapped it round her finger with an almost vicious tug. “You’re either hopelessly naïve or a bare-faced liar, Madame Rannoch. Some questions never go away. And some truths are more destructive than cannon fire.”

  Malcolm had two hours to observe Prince Talleyrand across the conference table during a meeting at the Austrian chancellery about the Polish situation. Adam Czartoryski, speaking for the tsar, reiterated Russia’s determination to turn the majority of Polish territory into a kingdom of Poland. A kingdom that, naturally, would pay fealty to Russia. Czartoryski was less arrogant than Tsar Alexander or Count Otronsky, but that only made him seem more implacable. Not by so much as a flicker of an eye did he betray the alliance he had made with Malcolm, who sat beside Castlereagh, busily taking notes.

  When the official meeting broke up and Castlereagh was talking with Metternich and Prussian chancellor Hardenberg, it was a simple matter for Malcolm to meet Talleyrand’s gaze and glance toward the pedimented white door to an anteroom. It was more of a surprise that Talleyrand followed him.

  Malcolm closed the anteroom door and regarded the French foreign minister, the man who had served Napoleon Bonaparte and now served the French king, the man he had known since he was a child. “Did you set Tatiana to seduce Napoleon Bonaparte?”

  Talleyrand’s strong brows lifted. “My dear Malcolm. Your imagination is beginning to run away with you.”

  “Which part is imaginary?”

  Talleyrand’s walking stick thudded against the parquet floor. He moved to a high-backed chair and sank into it without haste. “If you think I had any control over Tatiana in recent years, let alone over whom she took as a lover—”

  “So you admit Bonaparte was her lover?” Malcolm moved away from the door to face Talleyrand.

  “Why should it be up to me to admit it? You seemed very sure in your initial accusation.”

  “You were in Paris. You’d have seen them together. You can’t tell me you wouldn’t have known.”

  Talleyrand smoothed his frilled cuff. “The wonder is that she didn’t catch Bonaparte’s eye sooner. But then there was Marie Waleska and Mademoiselle Georges, and the quarrels and reconciliations with Josephine. At last I suppose the timing was right. Marie-Louise threw a tantrum over his continued visits to Josephine, and her jealousy was enough to make his eye wander elsewhere.”

  “It would have been a convenient time for you to have a source close to Bonaparte.”

  “Because I wasn’t in his favor myself at the time? Yes, I suppose it would. It would have been quite clever. If I�
�d thought of it.”

  “Did Tatiana communicate with Bonaparte after he was sent to Elba?”

  Talleyrand leaned against the chairback, his ringed fingers relaxed on the arms. “You know as well as I do how carefully Bonaparte’s communications are monitored.”

  “And who better than a mistress to smuggle secret information to him.”

  “My dear boy.” Talleyrand’s voice was bland as cambric tea, but his gaze turned even more hawk-like than usual. “What you’re accusing me of would be treason.”

  “Damn it, sir, you’ve been playing all sides of every question since before I was born.”

  “And knowing me as you do, you can’t possibly have expected me to answer this particular question. So why ask it?”

  “Because I wanted to observe your reaction.”

  Talleyrand regarded him from beneath hooded lids. “What did my reaction tell you?”

  “That I was a great deal nearer the mark than I realized.”

  17

  Dorothée paused on her way upstairs at the Kaunitz Palace. The door to Talleyrand’s study was closed, but she’d grown accustomed to looking in when she returned from an outing. He seemed to appreciate it, no matter how busy he was, and she found herself looking forward to these brief snatches of conversation. She moved to the door, rapped once, and opened it without waiting for a response.

  Talleyrand lifted his gaze from the papers strewn on the desk before him. A smile crossed his face. “My dear. You’re a refreshing sight on a dreary afternoon.”

  “I was at the riding school rehearsing all afternoon. Willie and Suzanne Rannoch had to ply me with wine and convince me all will be well tomorrow. I’m just on my way upstairs to dress for the opera.” But something in his gaze instead drew her into the room. She crossed to stand beside his desk. “I’m looking forward to it. I like The Marriage of Figaro.”

  “A charming blend of realism and romance.”

  “I hope you can enjoy it.” Dorothée perched on the edge of Talleyrand’s desk, breathing in the familiar smells of fresh ink and eau de cologne and hair powder. She looked down to study his face. The shadows beneath his eyes seemed more strongly marked than usual. “You look as though you’ve been brooding.”

  Talleyrand gave a wry laugh and tossed the pen he was holding onto a sheet of cream laid paper. It left a jagged black line. “I can’t imagine why. It’s merely that Russia’s refusing to budge on Poland, and Prussian troops are in Saxony, while Tsar Alexander and Metternich circle each other like a pair of prize gamecocks, and Castlereagh dances round trying to break up the fight without throwing his lot entirely in with France.”

  Dorothée touched his ringed hand where it lay on the ink blotter. “No progress at today’s meetings?”

  “None.” His voice was unusually clipped and flat.

  She left her hand resting on his own. “It’s as though Tsar Alexander is two different people. He can be quite charming and agreeable and talk with the greatest seeming sincerity about enlightened principles, and then he turns into an autocrat who’s quite ready to impose his will by force. He reminds me of my little boys in that he can switch from one mood to the other in the blink of an eye. Only he’s much more dangerous when crossed.”

  “Astute as always, my dear.”

  “I saw him talking to Count Otronsky quite intently at the Metternich masquerade.”

  “I’m afraid Alexander listens to Otronsky all too much these days.” Talleyrand returned the pressure of her hand, forced a smile to his face, and looked up at her for a moment. “Dorothée—How did the rehearsal go?”

  She thought perhaps that wasn’t what he had originally intended to ask, but then as much as she was coming to know him she was never quite sure what Talleyrand was thinking. “Well, all things considered. Malcolm Rannoch and Fitzwilliam Vaughn have learned their parts admirably in a very short time. Though Malcolm had to hurry off to a meeting at the chancellery.”

  “Yes, I saw him there. You’d never have guessed he was about to take part in a joust. He’s clever at juggling multiple activities.”

  “He and Lord Fitzwilliam have quite saved the Carrousel. And I don’t think I could have managed to organize it all without Suzanne Rannoch. She’s splendid at details and she has a wonderful sense of the theatrical.”

  “You’ve become quite good friends with her.”

  “She’s one of the few people I’ve met in Vienna to whom I can really talk.”

  “She strikes me as a very clever woman.”

  “That’s one of the things I like about her.”

  Talleyrand picked up a jade-handled penknife and turned it over in his hands. “And her husband?”

  Dorothée tugged at a fold of her French silk walking dress. “I like Malcolm Rannoch.”

  “But—?” Talleyrand’s shrewd gaze darted over her face.

  “I’m not sure what to make—”

  “Of his attentions to Princess Tatiana?”

  Dorothée fingered the embroidered cuff of her spencer. “I’m the last person to make an issue of fidelity between husband and wife. But I can tell that Monsieur Rannoch’s attentions to Princess Tatiana hurt Suzanne, even though she denies it. Perhaps especially because she denies it.”

  “Princess Tatiana was a difficult woman for any man to ignore.”

  “And yet at times I’ll catch Malcolm Rannoch looking at Suzanne, and I’ll swear he cares for her. With startling depth. But if he does, I don’t see how he can let her be so hurt.”

  “Motives are rarely simple. Just because Malcolm Rannoch cares for his wife doesn’t mean he didn’t also care for Princess Tatiana. And while I can’t claim to understand his motives, I think he rarely does anything for purely personal reasons. Any more than I do.”

  Dorothée looked into the eyes that could be so kind and at the same time so inscrutable. In the ease of sharing a moment like this or working on a communiqué or laughing together over some nonsense in the newspapers, she forgot that he had been manipulating the fate of nations for forty years before she was born.

  He looked back at her with a steady gaze that made her glance away. She twisted her gold bracelet round her wrist. “Malcolm is going to partner Suzanne in the Carrousel. I thought it might help. I tried to reassure her. I told her—” She bit back the words. In Vienna, one learned to be careful with secrets, even with someone one trusted.

  “Yes?” Talleyrand said.

  Dorothée clasped her hands in her lap. Talleyrand negotiated with England. The information might help him. “That Princess Tatiana was the mistress of Lord Fitzwilliam Vaughn.”

  Rare surprise flickered through his gaze. “Ah. I didn’t realize.”

  “I didn’t think Princess Tatiana would have been involved with both Lord Fitzwilliam and Malcolm Rannoch. I thought it would calm Suzanne’s fears.”

  Talleyrand reached up to push a curl behind her ear. “My dear child, in many ways you’re still quite an innocent. It’s most refreshing.”

  His touch was merely the lightest brush of fingertips against her cheek. He dropped his hand back to the desktop at once, but she could still feel the imprint against her skin. Odd. Gentlemen touched her more intimately simply in the course of dancing the waltz. She found herself staring fixedly at the chased-silver inkpot and the row of pen nibs. “You think Princess Tatiana might have been having affairs with two members of the British delegation at the same time? I thought—”

  “That she targeted her interests more neatly? So she did in general. But I certainly wouldn’t put it past her to juggle two lovers who happened to be colleagues, if she saw a reason for it. Or if she simply found it amusing.”

  Dorothée forced her gaze back to her uncle. Her uncle by marriage. They weren’t blood relatives at all. “Most people in Vienna seem to treat love as a game. But it’s a game that causes a great deal of bitterness.”

  “Perhaps because it’s difficult to take it as lightly as one should.”

  For a moment, Dorothée had a
vivid memory of how ardently Talleyrand had once looked at her mother. For some unaccountable reason she shivered. “Why all the questions about Malcolm Rannoch? You knew him as a boy. I thought you understood him better than most of the British delegation.”

  “So did I.” Talleyrand reached for the penknife. “But I begin to think Malcolm may be a great deal more dangerous than I anticipated.”

  Malcolm stepped into his bedchamber at the Minoritenplatz to find his wife sitting on the floor, the skirts of her evening dress spread about her in a tangle of ivory lace and pearl-beaded champagne silk, rolling a red ball to their son.

  “Dada.” Colin jumped up and toddled across the room to fling his arms round his father’s knees.

  “Good show, old chap.” Malcolm swung his son up in his arms. “You’ll be on the cricket pitch before we know it.” He looked at Suzanne. “I’m not sure Blanca would approve your recklessness with your evening gowns.”

  Suzanne twitched her crumpled skirts out from under her. “It isn’t nearly so dangerous now Colin’s past the stage where he’s likely to be sick at a moment’s notice. Do you remember the embassy dinner for Wellington in Lisbon?”

  “It’s forever imprinted on my memory.” He’d had to help her strategically pin her scarf after Colin threw up down the back of her gown. He pressed his lips to Colin’s forehead and studied his wife over their son’s tousled hair. He knew that look of taut excitement. “From the glint in your eyes, the game’s afoot.”

  “You received a letter, darling. Plain paper, no crest on the seal. I’m afraid I was a shockingly prying wife.”

  “You opened it?”

  “And decoded it. A substitution code. Not very difficult.”

  He found himself grinning. For all they were still strangers in so many ways, sometimes he was shocked by how similarly their minds worked. “And?”

  “The anteroom off the grand salon at the opera, ten o’clock. On all accounts come alone. Bring the materials in question. I will bring payment.”