by Jane Ashford
Laura was silent a moment longer, then seemed to make up her mind. She nodded.
“Splendid.”
Catherine had hurried away then, making all the subsequent arrangements so that Laura could not change her mind. And those arrangements had brought them here, to the shop of one of the leading dressmakers in London, to outfit Laura for her new role.
And to startle her yet again, Catherine thought, watching Laura run a critical eye over a bolt of material in a luscious rose red. Catherine had expected to be asked for advice, perhaps even to choose the wardrobe that Laura would take to Vienna, but she had been relegated to the background from the first. Laura had very definite ideas on the sort of clothes she wanted, and exquisite taste. It made Catherine wonder why every gown she had seen her wear was drab and forgettable.
“Yes,” said Laura to the dressmaker. “I would like that pattern you showed me made up in this fabric. And the other in that green.”
“That green” was precisely the color of her eyes, Catherine thought, feeling superfluous. It would bring them out admirably.
They finished at the modiste’s late in the afternoon, leaving the dressmaker deeply gratified by the size of their order. As they rode back to their hotel in a hack, Catherine said, “What would you like to do while we are waiting for the gowns to be made up? We might visit some of the sights, perhaps see a play.”
“Yes.” Laura sounded like someone waking from a sound sleep. “I need to get used to being…out.”
The general’s wife was touched. Laura appeared to be seeing this opportunity as a second debut, making up for her aborted first one. “We won’t be invited to any balls or that sort of thing here in London,” she felt obliged to warn her.
Laura turned.
Her whole manner was different now, Catherine thought. She looked at one directly, almost dauntingly. Sometimes, she seemed to see right through one in the most unsettling way.
“Of course not.”
They pulled up in front of the small, respectable hotel Catherine had chosen and walked through the reception area and upstairs to their rooms.
“We might make some calls,” the general’s wife added as they were taking off their wraps. “If you would like to go to…”
“I wouldn’t want to encounter the Leiths,” Laura interrupted.
No, thought the older woman, much struck. That would be odd. The countess was known to be a flighty, temperamental creature. What would she do if she met her former governess in a drawing room?
“I did not mean that I was expecting invitations,” Laura added. “Only…” She paused. “A governess is little more than an upper servant, you know. The post requires a great deal of…circumspection.”
Catherine gazed at her.
“I found it was best not to be noticed by anyone except one’s charges,” she went on. “And perhaps, now and then, by the mistress of the house.”
The general’s wife frowned in confusion.
“Perhaps you know the Earl of Leith and his set?”
Comprehension dawned. Leith was a womanizer, and not very discreet about it. “He did not…”
“He did not notice me,” said Laura. “Nor did his friends. No one noticed me, unless I wished them to, and I almost never did. I was a great success as a governess.” She smiled.
Catherine nearly took a step backward in surprise. The vivacity, the charm weren’t gone. Apparently, they had simply been in hiding.
“And now I must become accustomed to attracting notice once again,” the younger woman finished.
Perhaps Laura Devane would be able to catch Graham’s attention after all, Catherine thought. Undoubtedly, she would capture someone’s.
Two
Laura stood in the great ballroom of the house that the Danish delegation had hired for the duration of the Congress of Vienna, her heart racing behind a calm facade. The roar of a hundred conversations swirled about her, nearly drowning out the strains of the musicians playing in the far corner. The huge room was lavish with white and gold ornament, the tall windows draped in midnight blue velvet. Laura could hear five languages being spoken just in the area around her. How fortunate, she thought, that languages had been one thing the Countess of Leith wished her daughters to learn. One of the very few things. Teaching them had kept Laura’s skills honed, and even added to them. She could converse quite easily in French, Italian, and German. But not Russian, she thought with regret, listening to two burly men behind her murmur in that tongue. If she had only known she would be coming here, she would have learned Russian.
An impish grin lit her features. She automatically suppressed it, and then shook her head slightly. She didn’t have to do that any longer. For a while—for the brief period of this unimaginable change in her life, this adventure—she was free. The grin broke loose, making Laura’s deep green eyes sparkle.
“Are you all right?” said Catherine, who stood next to her.
Laura nodded.
“They should be along quite soon now.”
The sparkle in Laura’s eyes deepened. General Pryor was bringing Gavin Graham to this ball—to make sure he showed up for their meeting, Laura imagined. He would hardly be eager. For the hundredth time, she wondered how she would fulfill the task she had accepted. She was determined to do what she could in exchange for this escape—however brief—from the life she had been leading. But how, precisely, did one divert a seasoned man of the world from a lovely foreign spy?
She had absolutely no idea. She was hoping that something would occur to her when she encountered him again. At least she wasn’t a naive, ignorant eighteen-year-old any longer, she told herself.
She had to control a spurt of laughter. In the last ten years, she had vastly broadened her horizons by reading almost every book in the Earl of Leith’s extensive library. She had learned a great many things that gently reared young women were not supposed to know. She had been startled, shocked, occasionally revolted—and as time went by, more and more intensely curious. This would most likely be her only chance to discover the reality of some of those words on the page. She intended to make the most of it.
“That gown is a most unusual green,” said a woman in French behind her.
“Yes,” answered her companion in the same language. “Dark, but quite striking.”
“A little daring, without going too far. The sleeves are very chic.”
Laura glanced at Catherine to see if she was following this critique of Laura’s gown, but she showed no sign of understanding.
“She is not French,” stated the second observer with certainty.
“No. Yet she has a certain… Spanish, perhaps?”
Laura could almost hear the shrug that followed this guess. She found she was extremely pleased at being difficult to categorize.
“Ah,” continued the first French voice. “There is that Englishman, Graham.”
At the same moment, Catherine gave a discreet wave at her approaching husband.
“You have heard of him? They say he is a fantastic lover.”
“An Englishman!”
“So they say. A veritable poet of the bedchamber.”
“Incredible.”
Laura had to exert a good deal of control to keep her expression bland. A poet? she thought. What would that mean, exactly? She watched Gavin walk toward them. His hair was still that unusual dark gold, like a sovereign burnished by the years. No doubt his eyes were still a cool gray-blue as well. He still stood half a head taller than most of the others in the room. But otherwise he was quite different from the young man she had known. His figure had filled out—shoulders broadening, chest deepening, arms and legs more heavily muscled. And he moved with an assurance and grace that he had not begun to possess ten years ago. Each move he made seemed slow and deliberate. He drew the eye, Laura thought, seeing people turn and look after him as he pass
ed. He made you wonder, in this city full of Europe’s aristocracy, whether he was some great magnate, or even royalty.
“There’s Gavin,” said the general’s wife quite unnecessarily.
Catherine sounded nervous, Laura thought. And perhaps she was just slightly nervous as well. Gavin Graham had no control over her, she reminded herself. No one even expected her to succeed in interesting him. Three days with the Pryors had made that obvious. Catherine had somehow moderated the general’s disappointment in his supposed lure, but his hopes had clearly been dashed upon her arrival. The expression on his face when they met had declared the case hopeless. Perhaps, and perhaps not, Laura thought. She prided herself on performing what she promised.
“Very nice,” said one of the Frenchwomen behind her. “What a leg he has.”
“Umm,” agreed her friend. “And what else, I wonder?”
Their laughter chimed out as General Pryor introduced his wife to Gavin Graham. “And you know Miss Devane, of course,” he added.
“Of course,” murmured Gavin.
Mocking, thought Laura; he had decided to be supercilious and mocking, and he did it very well. She had a moment’s flash of uneasiness, then pushed it aside.
“What do you think of Vienna, Miss Devane?” he asked.
“It seems a pleasant city. And the work going on here is very interesting.”
“Work?”
“Of the congress.”
Gavin cast a lazy glance around the ballroom, taking in the chattering groups, the faces flushed from too much champagne. “Do you think anyone is working?”
The general cleared his throat. Gavin’s hooded gaze came to rest on him as if he were some sort of odd carnival exhibit.
“Splendid music,” stated Pryor. “One thing you can say for Vienna—good music.”
Gavin continued to gaze at him just too long. Or just long enough, Laura thought. It depended on your point of view. Then he said, “Would you care to dance, Miss Devane?”
It was a waltz. Laura knew this because she had read about the new dance, which was not yet accepted in England. She had heard the steps described, and the scandalous proximity of the partners deplored. She could see that he expected the invitation to unsettle and embarrass her—and to be refused. He would have to do better than this, she thought. “Thank you,” she answered, wondering whether she would be able to mimic what she had read without stepping on his highly polished shoes.
“Laura,” protested the general’s wife, who obviously did not approve of the waltz.
“Good thought,” put in the general. With a gesture, he urged them toward the couples dancing at the other end of the room.
“Matthew!” said his wife.
Gavin offered his arm. Laura took it, her head held high.
Laura was surprised at what a pleasure it was to walk with him. Despite his greater height, their strides matched somehow. They seemed to fall into a similar rhythm automatically. It made her feel graceful and powerful and ready for anything. She blinked. Her imagination was running away with her. It had been too long since she’d been out in a crowd, she thought.
At the edge of the circle of dancers, Gavin turned to her, encircling her waist with one arm and taking her right hand in a firm grip. It was very different from a country dance or quadrille, Laura thought. His coat lapel was inches from her face, and warmth was spreading through her back from where his hand rested.
As he guided her onto the floor he said, “Have you ever waltzed before?”
The gloves were coming off, Laura thought. His tone was quite different now that they were alone—cold and uncompromising. She was to be shown what he thought of the general’s plots, she realized. “No,” she replied.
“Endeavor to follow me, then.”
Laura bit back a sharp response. She would show him that she was well able to follow him.
It took a little while. At first, he was almost pushing her in the proper direction and lifting her through the turns. But then Laura caught the cadence and began to really dance. Once again their limbs fell into rhythm with each other, and it felt as if they were floating. She seemed to know instinctively how his body would move, what direction he would choose. It was very odd.
“You learn quickly,” commented Gavin, not sounding pleased.
She looked up at him, fully meeting his cool gaze for the first time. She hadn’t really known anything about him ten years ago, she thought. Had that intelligence been there then? That wary scrutiny? “Very quickly,” she answered.
“And what do you expect to learn in Vienna?” he asked harshly. “Beyond the waltz.”
“Something about the world.” Laura was shocked at her own honesty. She hadn’t even told Catherine that. She had hardly understood it herself until this moment.
“The world?” he repeated sarcastically.
“The larger world, the world where things are decided. History is…” She couldn’t finish. It sounded too silly.
“History.” It was close to a sneer.
“I wish you would stop repeating what I say.”
One of his brows went up slightly.
“It’s annoying,” Laura added. Immediately, she felt guilty. She had promised to try to fascinate Gavin Graham. Quarreling with him was hardly the way to do so. She remembered the instructions her mother had given her before her first debut. Men liked women who were deferential and admiring, she had said; one should create opportunities for them to show off their superiority. Laura’s nose wrinkled at the memory. She hadn’t been terrifically good at that even at eighteen. And she had only succeeded as a governess by not speaking at all.
“You look as if you’d encountered a bad smell,” said Gavin.
“Oh. Sorry. I was thinking of something else. From years ago.”
He gazed down at her as if he was not accustomed to such distraction in his dancing partners.
“You dance very well,” said Laura, hoping to salvage the conversation.
He continued to look at her.
“You…you have traveled a great deal, I understand,” she added, remembering her mother’s admonition that men most enjoyed talking about themselves.
The musicians were making their final flourishes. The dance was about to end. Suddenly, Gavin’s arm tightened around her waist. As he turned in the dance, he pulled her close, pressing his body against hers. Her breasts were taut against his chest. The skin at her temple tingled as it brushed his jaw. Vertigo gripped Laura. She was off balance, too startled to react. It was like being suddenly snatched up by storm winds. His arms molded her to his own contours, demanding surrender.
The music stopped. He let her go and stepped away with a mocking little bow, his eyes filled with cool amusement. Around them, other dancers separated and moved away.
Laura felt as if she’d been dipped in fire. Her face flamed, and so did the rest of her. She was breathless and shaken and utterly humiliated. How many people had seen? How dare he treat her this way? A gentleman would not make such a spectacle of any woman.
Gavin Graham offered his arm. Laura wanted to turn her back and stalk away from him, but that would only attract more attention. She already felt as if hundreds of staring eyes were boring into her. Gathering all her fortitude, standing very straight, she put her fingertips on his forearm and allowed him to escort her back to the Pryors.
* * *
Gavin threw the last of the pasteboard squares back onto the silver tray his man had used to present the mail. Six invitations for next week alone. It was ridiculous, he thought. The congress was turning into a gigantic tea party. The powers had gathered here to settle the fate of Europe in the wake of Napoleon’s defeat. Instead they were spending their time dancing and dining and wracking their brains for witty conversation—which damned few of them were capable of.
There was a discreet knock at the door. “Co
me,” said Gavin.
His servant entered, a small wiry man from a country on the other side of the world. He held out another envelope with a look that made Gavin grow alert. “Something interesting?” he asked.
The man made a gesture, half shrug, half dismissal. He was adept at communicating with silence.
Gavin took the envelope. If Hasan thought it significant, it was. The man had been with him through events that would stagger most of his colleagues, and Hasan had never shown himself less than completely capable and trustworthy.
The envelope was pink and rose-scented, the handwriting full of loops and flourishes. It was a note from Sophie Krelov, expressing her hopes of seeing him that evening. Gavin smiled sardonically. He had promised the general he would not pursue her, and he wouldn’t. What Pryor didn’t know was that he had never pursued her. On the contrary, almost from the moment he had arrived in Vienna weeks ago, Sophie had been haunting his footsteps, exhibiting her considerable charms, and offering…what?
Gavin fingered the letter. It was odd. Though he didn’t underrate his own attractions, Sophie Krelov never wasted herself on simple love affairs. Her favors were exchanged for other kinds of concessions, or for information vital to some country’s interests. The name of the country varied with the season and the payment on offer. The question was—what did she want from him?
Gavin was aware that he possessed a great variety of information. He had had postings in many vital parts of the British Empire. He had met powerful people, and he had been involved in a number of delicate and secret negotiations. But which bit of knowledge was attracting Sophie and her employer?
If he could discover the identity of the latter, he might find the answer. Sophie had worked for France. Had Talleyrand engaged her to help him salvage what he could from the wreck of Boney’s imperial dreams? Sophie’s husband, the deplorable count, was Russian. And the czar was raging around Vienna like a wounded bear, demanding possession of Poland when almost no one wanted to give it to him. Had he engaged Sophie to find something he could use to get it? Or was she working for Austria, or Prussia?
