Teresa Grant - [Charles & Melanie Fraser 01]

by Vienna Waltz

  Suzanne squeezed his shoulder, then drew her hand back. To do more seemed an intrusion. “Word of her visit to the Empress Rose must have got back to the conspirators. Young Heinrich told us someone talked to Axel and the tavern’s owner, and after that the tavern staff were told not to say anything. Presumably the conspirators paid them off.”

  “And so Axel arranged for the carriage to run us down.”

  The horror of those moments when Malcolm had lain unconscious coursed through her. “If they were willing to kill us—”

  “They could well have killed Tatiana because of what she’d discovered.” Rage flashed white-hot in Malcolm’s gaze. “And if they’d seen Fitz leaving her rooms the night of the murder and guessed he was her lover, they might have worried about what she’d told him. Us turning up making inquiries could have pushed them into thinking they should deal with Fitz.”

  Malcolm rubbed at the smeared ink on his fingers with more force than was necessary. A torrent of emotions raged behind the iron control in his gaze. Still-raw anger at Tatiana’s death. Bitter guilt at his inability to save her. But also, Suzanne thought, a measure of relief. They had spent the first part of the investigation uncovering sordid details about Tatiana’s life. Now Tatiana the blackmailer and dealer in stolen artifacts had become Tatiana the heroine who had uncovered a conspiracy that threatened to shake all Vienna.

  As always in their marriage, what lay beneath the surface was not to be discussed, so she fell back on practicalities. “There’s also the man who approached you at the opera and sent you to the Empress Rose,” she said. “One of the conspirators who had second thoughts but was afraid to openly betray his confederates?”

  Malcolm wiped a trail of ink from the side of the inkpot. “That seems the likeliest explanation.”

  A question not yet voiced hung in the air. A question with implications far beyond Tatiana Kirsanova’s violent death. “Who do you think is the target of the plot?”

  Malcolm shook his head. “The assassination of just about anyone could wreak havoc on the Congress. And just about every delegation might have reason to want someone in another delegation dead. In some cases there are probably competing views within delegations.”

  Suzanne frowned down at Malcolm’s deciphered text of Princess Tatiana’s note. “Malcolm. Princess Tatiana was an experienced agent. Yet there was no sign that she had struggled with her killer. Whoever it was had been able to get so close as to be practically embracing her.”

  She saw the flinch in Malcolm’s eyes at the image, but he regarded her with a steady gaze. “Meaning that perhaps the killer wasn’t one of these conspirators? Or—”

  “That perhaps one of the conspirators was someone she knew and trusted.”

  Their gazes locked.

  “It’s a compelling scenario,” Malcolm said. “Though of course there’s no proof.”

  “You don’t think Prince Metternich—?” Suzanne asked. “Or the tsar—”

  “Would be behind a plot to assassinate someone? One may smile, and smile, and be a villain. Not that there’s been that much smiling across the council table. I wouldn’t discount anything. Tsar Alexander came to the throne after his father was assassinated. There are rumors he may have been involved in the plot.”

  “And then there’s Talleyrand.”

  Malcolm lined up the pen and penknife on the ink blotter. “We know Dorothée told him about Fitz’s affair with Tania. But oddly enough, I’m less inclined to suspect him. Not because of his morals. Because he’s less rash than Metternich or the tsar. He’d know an assassination would unleash a chain of events he couldn’t control, no matter how much he wanted to get rid of the target.”

  “There are other people Princess Tatiana trusted. Count Lindorff. Fitz.”

  “Fitz involved in a secret plot? I can hardly say that’s impossible. But it would be a bit far-fetched for him to have staged the accident at the tournament tonight. There’s also Radley. Did you learn anything dancing with him?”

  The question sounded entirely casual. But Malcolm would sound just like that if he was trying to mask his suspicions. Difficult being married to a master of deception. Not that she was precisely a novice at it herself. “Just that his compliments are as fulsome as ever.”

  Malcolm gave a wry grin. “The things we do in this line of work. Well, I suspect you’ll have further chances. Radley has an eye for you.”

  He didn’t sound remotely jealous. He never did. She should be grateful to have a husband not susceptible to the green-eyed monster. Really, it made life so much easier.

  So why did his casual tone cut her to the bone?

  Castlereagh stared across his dressing room at Malcolm. “God in heaven.”

  “I rather suspect a more earthly power is behind the conspiracy, sir.”

  Castlereagh grimaced and reached for his tea. Malcolm had rapped at the door of the Castlereaghs’ suite at the earliest hour he thought remotely appropriate. Castlereagh, already awake, had murmured an explanation to Lady Castlereagh and summoned Malcolm into his dressing room where a tea service was set out. Perfectly brewed, with a milk jug and wedges of lemon. Castlereagh had insisted the British delegation hire their own staff to avoid Baron Hager planting spies among the servants. He’d also made sure the kitchen help could brew a proper pot of tea.

  Now he took a long swallow and regarded Malcolm over the rim of the Meissen cup. “You believe her.”

  “I see no reason not to.”

  “For God’s sake, lad, Princess Tatiana—”

  “Played all sides. But I fail to see why even Tatiana would have fabricated a plot and sent me evidence in a coded letter that was only to be delivered to me in the event some mischance befell her. What would have been the point?”

  Castlereagh drew a breath that fairly scraped with frustration. “With that woman God knows what the point was of anything.”

  “You weren’t so quick to dismiss her information in the past.”

  Castlereagh returned his cup to its saucer. “That was before I knew she’d been Napoleon Bonaparte’s mistress, and you yourself think she was still in communication with him.”

  “To keep tabs on him for Talleyrand.”

  “And that’s supposed to make me trust her intelligence?”

  Malcolm reached for his own tea and tossed down a swallow that burned his throat. Even after he and Suzanne had finally retired to bed, he’d had trouble sleeping. His head throbbed and his nerves felt as though they’d been stripped raw. “The most valuable intelligence doesn’t usually come from our friends but from people we have cause to be wary of. The trick is to weigh it and sift it and not reject anything out of hand. Sir, you have to at least acknowledge the possibility that Tatiana’s warning about an assassination plot might be true. And if it is true—”

  “We’re in the devil of a mess.” Castlereagh let out a sigh and dropped into the dressing table chair. “It was always the risk in bringing so many dignitaries together. Not just the diplomats but the sovereigns. I don’t know when we’ve had so much royalty assembled in one city. There was that plot against the Austrian emperor last summer, but Hager nipped it in the bud before it became serious. Since then we’ve seemed safe.”

  “And you’d like to believe we still are.”

  Castlereagh shot him a sidelong look. “Are you accusing me of not wanting to believe Princess Tatiana’s intelligence because it’s inconvenient?”

  “Of course not, sir.”

  “Impertinent puppy.” Castlereagh took another sip of tea. “You’re right. We can’t ignore the possibility.”

  Malcolm leaned against the dressing table beside his employer. “Do we take this to the other delegations?”

  “Has your brain stopped working, Malcolm?” Castlereagh clunked his cup back in its saucer, spattering tea over the blue and white tray. “Of course not. If we knew the target, we could warn them. But something this vague would only instill panic and accusation and rumors and counter rumors.”


  “Sir—”

  “Your mission remains the same, Malcolm. Find out who’s behind this plot and who is the target. And who killed Princess Tatiana.”

  “We have to at least tell Baron Hager.”

  Castlereagh frowned.

  “He has a network of informants,” Malcolm said. “Far more extensive than our own. As you pointed out, he and his people ably uncovered the plot against Emperor Francis. It would be criminal not to enlist his aid.”

  “Your mysterious source told you to trust no one.”

  “So now you believe my source?”

  “I’m taking your advice not to reject any information out of hand.”

  “In the event the Austrians happen to be behind this, we’d be tipping our hand. But I think it’s a risk we must take.”

  “In the event the Austrians prove to be behind an assassination plot at the Congress they’re hosting—”

  “You think it’s impossible?”

  “No, that’s the devil of it. After the past two months, I think anything is possible.”

  “The tension across the conference table is frequently so thick one could cut it with a knife. Or a sword.”

  “Quite. But this is different.” Castlereagh passed a hand over his face. For once he looked his forty-five years. “You think Vaughn’s horse was deliberately tampered with at the Carrousel last night?”

  “A shoe had been loosened.”

  “Where the devil does that fit into this?”

  Malcolm reached for his own teacup for a diversion. He’d promised Fitz he wouldn’t reveal his affair with Tatiana unless it became necessary. It wasn’t necessary. Yet. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s even possible it’s unrelated.”

  “Dear God, how much madness is in this city?”

  “Do you really have to ask, sir?”

  Castlereagh grimaced. “Get to the bottom of this, Malcolm. As soon as possible.”

  Fitz leaned back against the Bavarian lace–edged pillows piled high in his bed. “It doesn’t make sense, Malcolm. Who would want to kill me?”

  “Perhaps the same person who killed your mistress.” Malcolm dropped down on the silk coverlet.

  “But—”

  “You were with her just before she was killed. Perhaps only a matter of minutes.”

  “But I didn’t see anything.”

  “Someone may think you did. Or that Tatiana told you something. Or perhaps you saw or heard something and don’t realize the significance.”

  “For God’s sake—”

  “I need to know everything that happened between you and Tatiana that last night. Word for word, if you can remember it.”

  Distaste twisted Fitz’s face. “You can’t—”

  “This is no time to turn prude, Fitz.”

  Fitz glanced down at the tea and toast on his breakfast tray. “I told you—”

  “I need you to go over it again. In more detail. Re-create what happened as best you can remember from the moment you arrived at the Palm Palace.”

  Fitz reached for his tea, then set the cup down untasted. “I told you, Tatiana was upset when I got there. Incoherent, actually, which was unusual for her.”

  “What did she say exactly?”

  “That she’d never been spoken to in such a voice and the duchess had no right. Only it took me a while to make out that it was the Duchess of Sagan she was talking about. She kept saying ‘treated me like a servant’ and ‘she has no right to judge.’ Finally I realized she was talking about Wilhelmine of Sagan, and I got the story of the Courland casket. I tried to calm her down and tell her the Duchess of Sagan’s opinion didn’t matter, but she kept pacing. There was a wildness in her that night. As though she anticipated something. I couldn’t make out what. I asked if she was afraid the duchess would publicly accuse her of dealing in art treasures. But then she said, ‘she wouldn’t dare,’ quite coolly and with the greatest confidence. Almost as though—”

  “She had a hold on the duchess.”

  “Yes.” Fitz frowned and took a sip of tea. “Damned stuff. I swear they brewed the pot weak on purpose. Eithne insists on treating me like an invalid until Blackwell gives me a clean bill of health.” A spasm crossed his face at the mention of his wife’s name.

  “She was very concerned last night,” Malcolm said. “Terrified of losing you.”

  Fitz grimaced as though the tea was bitter rather than weak. “The shock made her forget for the moment. She’ll remember.” He put the cup down and pushed the tray aside. “We have more important things to talk about than the sorry mess I’ve made of my life. Tatiana started pacing again. I wonder now if perhaps her tension had nothing to do with the duchess. If it was because of whomever she was to meet later that night. Nothing I said seemed to calm her down, so finally I—” He swallowed. “I took her in my arms.”

  “And then? For God’s sake, Fitz, I know she was your mistress. Did you make love to her?”

  “No. She pushed me away, actually. She said she didn’t—that is, that she hadn’t—”

  “That she hadn’t taken the required precautions? She wasn’t prepared with a sponge?” said Malcolm, whose own wife used them regularly.

  Fitz flushed and nodded. Then he frowned, caught by memories he couldn’t look away from much as he might wish to do so. “There was one thing. After she pushed me away, she said at least that was one mistake she’d never made. Finding herself with child. But that one couldn’t be too careful. Malcolm—you don’t think perhaps she did have a child long ago? Could that be why she was so careful to take precautions?”

  Malcolm would like to have said he’d have known, but that was laughable. Tania’s face swam before his eyes for a moment, bright with familiar mockery. “I don’t know. She never said anything about it to me. But then there was a great deal she didn’t tell me.”

  “Why the new questions about the night she died? Have you learned something?”

  “Tatiana had discovered an assassination plot.” Malcolm told him about the letter he’d received the previous evening.

  “Good God.”

  “She said nothing about it to you?”

  “No. But could that have been what she was so keyed up about that night? She was going to confront someone?”

  “I’m beginning to think so.”

  Seated on the bed, Colin in her lap, Suzanne watched her husband as he recounted his conversation with Fitz. She nearly interrupted at one point, but she forced herself to stay quiet until he had done.

  “I know that look in your eyes,” he said. “Something Fitz told me means something to you.”

  “Possibly.” Suzanne got to her feet, swinging Colin in the air. “I need to call on the Duchess of Sagan, darling. I’ll explain if I’m right.”

  With Blanca’s advice she chose a Vitoria cloak of Pomona green sarcenet and a French bonnet of green velvet and white satin (she was, after all, calling on one of the most fashionable women in Vienna, though the purpose of the visit was not social), kissed Colin, and then walked round to the Palm Palace.

  After their last interview she wasn’t sure Wilhelmine of Sagan would be at home to her. She hoped the duchess’s anxiety about her letters would work in her favor. Sure enough, the footman who had taken her card to the duchess returned and showed her into a salon hung with rose-colored silk and bright with autumn sunshine.

  “Madame Rannoch.” Wilhelmine greeted her with a hand clasp and a light kiss on her cheek. “I’d have thought you would be lolling in bed this morning, relishing last night’s triumph, as I trust Doro is doing.” The duchess stepped back and scanned Suzanne’s face. “How is Lord Fitzwilliam?”

  “Chafing at being confined to bed on weak tea and toast. Dr. Blackwell says he should make a full recovery.”

  “I’m so glad.” Wilhelmine’s face showed genuine relief. “A piece of good news to share at my musicale this evening. I hope you and Monsieur Rannoch will be there. I’ve discovered a wonderful new talent to present.”

  �
��We look forward to it.”

  “Yet you had something to say to me that couldn’t wait for this evening.” Her gaze shifted over Suzanne’s face. “Perhaps your visit isn’t entirely social?”

  “I’m afraid not. I’ve made a discovery I thought you would wish to hear.”

  Fear radiated from the duchess’s petite frame, but she held her head high. “Sit down. Please.” She waved Suzanne to a sofa carelessly strewn with cushions. The salon was elegant but furnished with an eye to comfort.

  Suzanne sank down on the sofa and began to strip off her gloves. Half the trick to bluffing was stating one’s case with the assurance of certainty. “Duchess, do the papers Princess Tatiana had that so worry you concern a child you bore out of wedlock?”

  25

  Wilhelmine slumped back in her chair, gaze shattered. “You found the letters.”

  “No.” Suzanne laid a second amber-colored glove atop her reticule, beside the first. Blanca’s careful inquiries at Princess Tatiana’s dressmaker’s had yielded no result. “Not yet.”

  “Then how—”

  “I couldn’t work out what it could be that so frightened you.” Suzanne tugged at the ribbons on her bonnet and lifted it from her head. The lace edging obscured her view, and she needed all her senses to judge Wilhelmine’s reaction. “With most women one would think the papers were love letters, but you’re admirably comfortable with your love affairs. You have no husband whose jealousy to fear. And your birth and fortune give you an assured position in society.” She set her bonnet on the sofa and smoothed the green velvet ribbons. “Then it occurred to me that a child was the one thing in your past you might want to hide away.”

  Wilhelmine got to her feet and strode to the window, her jaconet skirts whipping about her legs. “Hiding her away was what caused all the tragedy.”

  For a moment, self-hatred scalded Suzanne’s throat at what she was doing to the woman across from her. “You have a daughter?”