A Fatal Waltz lem-3

by Tasha Alexander

  A Fatal Waltz

  ( Lady Emily Mysteries - 3 )

  Tasha Alexander

  Lady Emily Ashton is back in her third episode of romantic suspense set in the Victorian world of mannerly gentlemen, conniving mothers, and scandals behind closed doors. Forced to join a group of socialites at the home of formidable and odious Lord Fortescue, whom she loathes (and whose daughter covets Emily’s fiancé, Colin Hargreaves), Emily and others in the party feel little regret when Fortescue is murdered. Unfortunately, her best friend’s husband, Robert, is arrested and imprisoned in the Tower, after witnesses confirm his fight with the victim. Resolved to exonerate Robert, Emily heads for Vienna on the killer’s trail. Austria proves rich with intrigue, and this portion of the story really shines as readers take a tour of nineteenth-century Vienna—its parties and its cafés—in the wintertime, shadowed by decidedly evil characters. Emily’s sparkling wit makes up for the somewhat convoluted plot and large cast of characters who move from England to the Continent and back at the slightest provocation. This is a captivating addition to the adventures of an irresistible Victorian iconoclast.

  Tasha Alexander

  A Fatal Waltz

  For Anastasia Sertl,

  Who I wish was here to see it

  Anybody can be good in the country.

  There are no temptations there.

  Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

  Cast of Characters

  Emily, Lady Ashton (Kallista): daughter of Earl Bromley, widow of the Viscount Ashton (Philip), and a scholar of Greek language and art.

  Colin Hargreaves: a gentleman of independent means who is frequently called upon by Buckingham Palace to investigate matters requiring discretion.

  Cécile du Lac: a French woman of a certain age, iconoclast, patron of the arts.

  Ivy Brandon: Emily's childhood friend, a perfect English rose.

  Robert Brandon: Ivy's husband, an up-and-coming politician and very traditional gentleman.

  Margaret Seward: daughter of an American railroad tycoon, she is a Bryn Mawr-educated Latinist who has little tolerance for society's rules.

  Catherine, Lady Bromley: Emily's mother, wife of Earl Bromley, former lady-in-waiting to Queen Victoria.

  Jeremy Sheffield, Duke of Bainbridge: childhood friend of Emily's whose twin goals are to avoid marriage and to be the most useless man in England.

  Basil, Lord Fortescue: Queen Victoria's most trusted political advisor, widely considered the most powerful man in the empire.

  Mrs. Reynold-Plympton: a lady who takes great interest in politics; Lord Fortescue's longtime mistress.

  Mary Fortescue: Lord Fortescue's third wife.

  MR. Harrison: a political ally of Lord Fortescue.

  Mr. Michaels: an Oxford don, Latinist.

  Kristiana, Countess von Lange: an extremely elegant Viennese lady.

  Gustav Schröder: the leader of a group of Austrian anarchists.

  Elisabeth, Empress of Austria: Sissi, Cécile's friend since they were girls. A famous beauty during her youth.

  Meg: Emily's maid.

  Davis: Emily's incomparable butler.

  Chapter 1

  I had not noticed it when she first arrived: the way she leaned too far towards him as he kissed her hand, the hint of surprised recognition in his eyes. But having spent an afternoon in the same room as them, watching the effortless manner in which they fell into familiar conversation—two striking individuals against an equally spectacular backdrop—I could not deny that they were more than casual acquaintances. Never had I suspected my fiancé was so close to another woman.

  I was accustomed to, and often amused by, the parade of young ladies who flirted with Colin Hargreaves at every opportunity. The fact that he looked something like a Greek statue of ideal man—by Praxiteles, of course—made him irresistible to debutantes. His enormous fortune, family lineage that could be traced to the time of William the Conqueror, and well-tended estate ensured that he was equally attractive to their parents. But until today, I’d never seen him react to a woman the way he did to the Countess von Lange.

  “And you know, Schatz, the Baroness Meinz thought that Tintoretto had done the doors of the Duomo in Florence. Can you imagine?” she asked. Schatz? I was shocked to hear her use a term of endearment in such an intimate tone of voice.

  “Well, perhaps she’s no scholar of art, but—,” Colin began.

  “Scholar? Darling, she’s absolutely hopeless. Why, even you know who Tintoretto is, don’t you, Lady Ashton?”

  “Of course,” I said, my lack of knowledge of Renaissance art making it impossible for me to add anything more.

  “You understand, I hope, why Tintoretto couldn’t have done the doors?” she asked, her green eyes dancing as she looked at me.

  “My expertise is in classical art, countess,” I said. “I’m afraid I’m unable to discuss the nuances of the Italian Renaissance.”

  “Nuance has nothing to do with it. Tintoretto was a painter. Ghiberti was a sculptor. He did the doors—Michelangelo called them ‘gates of paradise.’” She pushed against Colin’s arm playfully. “You are going to have to educate her. I can’t have you married to someone who’s as foolish as the baroness. It would be unconscionable.”

  “You’ve nothing to fear on that count,” he said. “Emily’s brilliant.”

  “Spoken like a man in love.” She had turned so that her back was almost to me, cutting me out of the conversation.

  “Will you excuse me?” I asked. There are moments when one is overwhelmed with a feeling of awkwardness, when grace and sophistication and even coherence are goals more remote than that of a woman in evening dress climbing Mount Kilimanjaro or of my mother convincing me to adopt her definition of a successful life. This was one of those moments, and I had no desire to prolong it. As I stood up, my heel caught the silk hem of my gown, and I tripped. Not daring to look at the countess, I mustered as much dignity as possible following what was a decidedly inelegant recovery and headed for the tea table.

  Every inch of the mahogany surface was covered by dainty china platters heaped with sandwiches, biscuits, and cakes. Although I did not doubt for an instant that it was all delectable, none of it appealed to a stomach seared by embarrassment. I poured myself a cup of tea, my unsteady hands sloshing the golden liquid onto the saucer, and took a seat on the other side of the parlor.

  “Stunning woman, the countess, wouldn’t you say, Lady Ashton?” Lord Fortescue dropped onto the chair across from me, its delicate frame bowing under his weight. “Great friend of Hargreaves’s. They’ve known each other for years. Inseparable when he’s on the Continent.”

  I’d had the misfortune in the past year of drawing the attention and ire of Lord Fortescue, confidant of Queen Victoria and broadly considered to be the most powerful man in the empire. I despised him as much as he despised me, and wondered how I would survive for days on end trapped at Beaumont Towers, his extravagant estate in Yorkshire. Ignoring his question, I looked across the drawing room at a gentleman sprawled on a moss green velvet settee. “Is Sir Thomas asleep? That can’t bode well for this party.”

  “So unfortunate that you had to postpone your wedding,” Fortescue drawled. “But we needed Hargreaves in Russia. Couldn’t be avoided.” Colin and I had planned to be married as soon as possible after I’d accepted his proposal, but he was called away just two days before the wedding—no doubt by Lord Fortescue—to assist with a delicate situation in St. Petersburg. This had caused a considerable amount of gossip, as we’d bowed to family pressure to invite several hundred guests.

  “Mrs. Brandon tells me that Sir Thomas has a terrible habit of dozing in Parliament. I marvel that his constituents continue to reelect him.” I t
urned my head to stare out the window across the moors.

  “I wouldn’t expect Hargreaves to be in a hurry to marry you now that he’s renewing his acquaintance with the countess.” He tapped on the side of his empty glass, which a footman immediately refilled with scotch. As soon as the servant had stepped away, my adversary resumed his offensive. “I’ve no interest in protecting your feelings, Lady Ashton. You will never make an appropriate wife for him, and I shall do everything in my power to make sure that he never marries you.”

  “I wonder if I could fall asleep in Parliament,” I said, refusing to engage him. “I shouldn’t think the benches are that comfortable, though it’s not difficult to believe many of the speeches are tedious enough to induce even the most hearty soul to slumber. But I’d wager the House of Commons is more lively than the House of Lords.” Across the room, the countess had pulled her chair closer to Colin’s, her hand draped elegantly over his armrest.

  “You will not avoid conversation on this topic,” Lord Fortescue said, his voice sharp, his already ruddy complexion taking on an even brighter hue.

  “You’re quite mistaken.” At last I allowed my eyes to meet his. “Let me assure you that I have every intention of avoiding it entirely. My private life is exactly that: private.” I was resolved to let this man see me as nothing but unflappable. “It’s rather cold in here, isn’t it? It can be so difficult to heat large houses.”

  “The sooner you learn your place, the better,” he said.

  “Lord Fortescue, there is little less appealing to me than having to pass even an hour in close quarters with you. But we’re both here, and rather than spending the duration of this party bickering, I shall do all I can to be pleasant.” I gave him my most charming smile. “Let’s begin again. I was surprised to receive your invitation. It was good of you to acquiesce to Mr. Brandon’s request.” Robert Brandon, who was married to one of my dearest friends, Ivy, had recently entered politics. His quick mind and steady character appealed to Lord Fortescue, who decided to groom the younger man for greatness. It was Ivy who had wanted me at this party.

  “Do you really think I agreed to invite you to amuse Brandon’s wife? For a woman who claims an above-average intelligence, you are rather dim-witted.”

  There was no point in replying to this. Unfortunately the only thing I could focus on other than Lord Fortescue was not a welcome distraction: the intent look on Colin’s face as he listened to his beautifully sophisticated companion. Thick, dark lashes framed eyes that sparkled when she spoke, with lips more red than should be found in nature. I bit my own, hoping to deepen their hue, then applied myself to my rapidly cooling tea. I was thankful when Flora Clavell sat next to me.

  “Emily, Gerald decided to give the British Museum that Etruscan statue you found in our house.” I had met Flora soon after her marriage to Sir Thomas’s son, and though we were not much in each other’s company, I had always enjoyed speaking with her. She and my friend Margaret Seward had attended the same school in New York when they were girls, but unlike Margaret, who had gone on to graduate from Bryn Mawr, Flora did not continue her education. Nonetheless, she was enlightened enough to have invited me to search her husband’s estate when she’d heard about the project on which I’d embarked, a quest to locate and catalog significant works of art buried in country houses.

  “How wonderful,” I said. “Your family does a great service by making it permanently accessible to scholars. And I’m grateful beyond measure that you allowed me to record the rest of the objects in your collection.”

  “I’ve heard of your efforts regarding this.” Mr. Harrison, who I had not met before he joined us that morning, approached us. Tall and wiry, he was all angles and bent down to give Lord Fortescue’s hand a sharp shake before sitting next to him. “They are much to be commended.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “I can’t imagine your meddling in private estates is much appreciated,” Lord Fortescue said, finishing his scotch with a loud gulp and shooting Flora a strange sort of too-long look. The footman refilled the glass the moment it was drained. “Why must you harass people, Lady Ashton? Aloysius Bingham still rages about your inappropriate behavior.”

  “He may rage all he likes. I did nothing inappropriate. And he did, as I’m sure you well know, donate the silver libation bowl to the museum.” I was still pleased with this triumph, which had taken more than an entire London season to achieve. Mr. Bingham had refused to part with the bowl, not because he admired it but because he did not approve of a lady pursuing any sort of academic agenda. I had no difficulty picturing him and Lord Fortescue as the closest of friends. If, that is, Lord Fortescue bothered to have friends.

  “I didn’t know. I shall have words with him.”

  “I’m sure he would welcome that,” I said. The strained look on Flora’s face reminded me that I ought to at least attempt to get along with this odious man, although I confess to being surprised that she showed such concern for Lord Fortescue. The expression on his face while he looked at her gave me further pause. He nodded almost imperceptibly, an admiring shine in his eyes as they met hers.

  “Brilliant,” Mr. Harrison said, giving me a broad smile. “It’s been far too long since I’ve seen someone spar openly with you, Fortescue. Wouldn’t have thought a lady could do it.”

  “Watch yourself, Harrison. I’ve no need for your nonsense.”

  “Gentlemen, please!” Flora said. “This is to be a sporting party, not a weekend of argument.” Mr. Harrison apologized at once; Lord Fortescue held up his glass for still more scotch. At that moment Ivy, cutting an elegant figure in a gown of dark green brocade, entered the room. As always, she was dressed in the latest fashion, her waist impossibly small, the sleeves of her dress fuller than what had been popular the previous year. I was relieved at the opportunity to remove myself from the conversation and nearly knocked over my chair as I leapt out of it to rush to my friend, who greeted me with the warmest embrace.

  “You look as if you’ve narrowly escaped from Lord Fortescue,” she said in a low voice. We retreated to a window seat far across the room, away from the other guests. Had the weather been better, the view would have been spectacular: the estate overlooked the moors, and was considered by many to have the most sweepingly romantic location in England. As it was, a heavy mist had settled above the ground, limiting the distance one could see. This was not an entirely bad thing; I half expected to see Heathcliff striding purposefully towards the house.

  Like the rest of Beaumont Towers, the drawing room was an exercise in ostentation, every piece of furniture upholstered in the finest silk or velvet, the parquet floor covered with an Axminster carpet. But quality and extravagance do not guarantee comfort. It was more like a state reception hall than a place to entertain friends. Rumor had it that Mrs. Reynold-Plympton, Lord Fortescue’s longtime mistress, had overseen extensive redecoration of the house and that she considered this, the drawing room, her greatest triumph. The ceiling, all mauve, green, and gold, was at least twenty feet high, its plaster molded in an intricate pattern of entwined rosettes. The gilding continued in a diamond pattern against a taupe background down the top two-thirds of the walls, below which was paneling too dark for the room. On this, at regular intervals, characters from Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice had been painted.

  “If only it were possible to escape,” I said. “I wouldn’t have agreed to come here for anyone but you, Ivy.” The party was not to be a large one, populated by a select group of politicians and their wives. When the men were not buried in meetings, they would be out hunting the estate’s birds, the ladies left with very little to do inside. A typical shooting weekend.

  “I know he’s awful, but he’s so good to Robert. We owe him everything.” Robert’s ascent in politics had been hastened by Lord Fortescue’s support, and in return, Robert was expected to give his mentor absolute loyalty.

  “I wonder which is less pleasant, being Lord Fortescue’s protégé or his enemy?” I a
sked. “At least his enemies don’t have to spend as much time with him.”

  “But they do. Lord Fortescue makes a point of keeping his enemies near. That’s why Mr. Harrison is here this weekend.”

  “You mean I’m not the only unwelcome guest?”

  “Oh, Emily, let’s not talk politics. What do you know about the Countess von Lange? I’m told the attachés in Vienna speak of nothing but her. Her parties are infamous.”

  “Her existence had entirely escaped my notice until today,” I said, frowning. “A statement Colin clearly could not make.”

  “They do look rather cozy. He must know her from his work on the Continent.”

  “Yes, Lord Fortescue was kind enough to let me know that.”

  “Oh, dear. We shan’t talk about it,” Ivy said, and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Lord Fortescue seems awfully friendly with Flora Clavell.”

  “I noticed the same thing. I thought he was devoted to Mrs. Reynold-Plympton?” For years she had acted almost as a wife, offering considerable assistance to him in political matters, particularly when he required personal information concerning his rivals. He was on his third marriage—his first wife had succumbed to fever when they were visiting the West Indies, the second to the rigors of childbirth. Like her predecessors, the current Lady Fortescue did not seem troubled in the least by her husband’s mistress.

  “Devoted is perhaps not the right word, but he certainly hasn’t dropped her. I saw them together last weekend at Lady Ketterbaugh’s in Kent. There was perhaps a coldness between them, but it was obvious that they’re still very much attached. Have you been to the Ketterbaughs’ estate? The house is gorgeous beyond belief.”

  “No, I haven’t—”

  “Her conservatory is absolutely unrivaled. I don’t know when I’ve seen such an array of plants, and—”