A Fatal Waltz lem-3

by Tasha Alexander

“I shan’t force the issue in such a public place,” I said.

  “Thank you.”

  “How did you find me?” I asked.

  “Sheer luck. I was coming from an appointment and saw you on the other side of the street. I could tell at once that you were following someone.”

  I frowned. “And I thought I was being so discreet. It’s bad enough that both you and Herr Schröder were on to me, but even worse that I didn’t notice Harrison tailing me, too.”

  “That’s because you weren’t suspecting it.”

  I recounted for him what had passed between Mr. Harrison and me and showed him the bullet I’d found in my pocket. Concern filled his eyes, and he took my hand.

  “From now on you must be better aware of your surroundings. I don’t like you being pursued by someone whose motives are so distinctly not innocent.”

  “I wouldn’t object should your motives become less innocent,” I said.

  “You, my dear, are certain to send me to an early grave.”

  “Not if we’re married.”

  “No, not if we’re married.”

  “I’m free tomorrow,” I said. “You?”

  “If only,” he replied.

  “Where are you staying? Are you at the Imperial?”

  “No, I come here so often I’ve rooms close to the Stephansdom.”

  “Near the von Langes’ house,” I said.

  “Yes. How do you know where they live? Have you been there?”

  “I called on the countess as soon as I’d arrived. She was singularly unhelpful.”

  “Kristiana knows you’re in Vienna?” he asked.

  “I’ve seen her twice.”

  “She didn’t tell me,” he said. “I wish—”

  “You’ve seen her as well?” I asked.

  “I’m working with her.”

  “I see.” I did my best to exhibit not the smallest sign of jealousy, but in truth, I decided at that moment to abandon the guarded disdain I’d felt for the woman and let myself openly despise her.

  “Emily—”

  I waved my hand in the air in what I hoped was a sophisticated dismissal. “She’s of no consequence to me.”

  “Is that so?”

  I did not like the way he was smiling.

  “None whatsoever.” I stood, composure itself.

  “And you’ve nothing further to say on the subject?”

  “Heavens, no. Tedious, tedious, tedious.”

  “Good girl. Though I will say I’m aggravated that she didn’t tell me you were here all this time. It’s not like her to be deceptive.”

  “No, I would imagine most sources of covert intelligence aren’t deceptive in the least.”

  “Emily—”

  “Don’t scold me. I won’t stand for it. Perhaps you don’t know your friend quite so well as you thought. At any rate, it doesn’t matter. You’ve found me.”

  “And now that we’re both in Vienna, we’ll have to waltz,” he said, an obviously forced smile on his face. There was no question that he wanted to move our conversation in any direction so long as it was away from his erstwhile lover.

  “After Robert is exonerated.”

  “You can’t work all the time, my dear. Every covert investigator needs periodic breaks. Besides, you never know where you might learn something that will prove to be useful. There’s a ball tonight at the Sofiensaäle. Strauss’s orchestra is playing. I’ll expect to see you there.”

  There were an impossible number of balls in Vienna during the winter: masked balls, state balls, debutante balls, and court balls, where five hundred bottles of Moët et Chandon, the emperor’s favorite champagne, would be consumed in an evening. The most dedicated person could not manage to attend even a quarter of them. But the crush of people inside the Sofiensaäle, one of the city’s famous public ballrooms, made me wonder if the entire population of the city had decided to dance that night. Cécile and I had arrived late, bringing Jeremy with us.

  The atmosphere was incomparable: spectacular dancing, effervescent music, beauty in every direction. We’d stepped out of winter into a summer garden, flowers spilling everywhere, swans swimming in a pool whose water reflected sparkling electric lights. The dance floor was so crowded it was difficult to waltz, but with effort, and a single-minded partner, it was possible to carve out enough space to turn.

  “You’re certain to find someone who can amuse you here,” Cécile said, leaning close to Jeremy as soon as we’d ducked inside. “I don’t know a single person in Vienna who is not having an affair. If you don’t have a paramour by the end of the evening, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”

  “I’ve decided to become a paragon of virtue in what will undoubtedly be a futile attempt to impress Emily,” he said, a broad grin on his face.

  “Futile indeed. You may as well dance with me,” Cécile replied, and they disappeared onto the floor. I made my way to a refreshment table and took a glass of champagne, then looked around for somewhere to sit.

  “Lady Ashton! Can it be you?”

  “Lady Paget,” I said. “How good to see you.” Walburga, Lady Paget, was the wife of the British ambassador to Austria. I’d met her on several occasions—she and my mother were friends—and she was one of England’s most respected ladies.

  “Have you been in Vienna long? Are you managing the weather?”

  “Only a fortnight, and I must confess to being utterly charmed by the snow.”

  “No! It’s hideous. When I first came here, I wondered daily to what purpose such a climate exists. The wind is extraordinary. One can hardly breathe. But I suppose you are young enough to tolerate it. Did Worth design your dress? It’s exquisite—the perfect shade of blue. No one here has worn anything but pink for the past year. I wonder if it even occurs to them there is another color.”

  Lady Paget was perhaps a bit hard on the ladies of Vienna. Yes, many wore pink, but the room was filled with every other color a person could want. My own gown, pale ice blue with shots of silver embroidery through the silk, had a skirt with enough fullness that it begged to be spun while dancing. The bodice was décolleté, the sleeves the barest caps. Meg had placed diamond pins through my hair and clasped over long, white gloves a wide platinum and diamond bracelet that matched the choker around my neck.

  “The music is magnificent. I don’t know how I’ll bear anything short of Strauss himself at a ball again. I can’t wait to dance,” I said.

  “Ladies, greetings.” Mr. Harrison stood in front of us, bowing.

  “Oh! It’s so good to see you.” Lady Paget gave him her hand. “You, of course, know Lady Ashton?”

  “All too well,” he said.

  “A perfect choice of words.” I did not hold out my hand.

  “Mr. Harrison is absolutely indispensable to the ambassador,” Lady Paget said. “I don’t know what we would do without him.”

  “You’re too kind,” he said.

  I should very much have liked to reply, but forced a thin smile instead.

  “Lady Ashton was just telling me how she’s longing to dance. You really ought to—”

  “That’s not necessary,” I said. “I—I—”

  “I’m afraid I’ve no time for you this evening, Lady Ashton, and, regardless, I’ve already promised the next dance.” He kissed Lady Paget’s hand again, and disappeared. Lady Paget raised an eyebrow and turned to me, about to speak. Thankfully, just at that moment Colin approached us. He bowed neatly to me and bestowed on Lady Paget a perfect handküss.

  “How Austrian of you, Mr. Hargreaves,” she said. “Please assure me that you haven’t completely abandoned your Englishness.”

  “Not at all, Lady Paget. I’m merely embracing the local culture.”

  “If I see you adopting the dreadful manners that I see in the Hapsburg court, I shall insist that you be returned to London at once.”

  “Then I shall limit my emulation of the Viennese to the ballroom. It is there where one finds the souls of our Austrian hosts.�
��

  “You are quite mistaken, sir. It is the copious libation of beer and the inordinate consumption of schnitzel and Kaiserschmarren that chains the Austrian souls to this earth.” Lady Paget closed her eyes and shook her head with an air of elegant hopelessness as she spoke.

  “You have spent more time here than any of us, Lady Paget, so I shall defer to your superior knowledge. But I will say that I am rather fond of Kaiserschmarren.”

  “Dear Mr. Hargreaves, I worry for you. If you insist on being Austrian this evening, dance with your fiancée.”

  “You have anticipated me, Lady Paget.” He took my hand.

  “Do call on me soon, Lady Ashton,” she said. “I’ll make sure you’ve invitations to all the best parties while you’re here.” I thanked her without noticing the words I used. The moment Colin’s hand touched mine, my heart began to race, and the skin beneath my glove tingled at his touch.

  “Kaiserschmarren?” I asked as we began to dance.

  “I’ve no interest in discussing pancakes with you.” He held me close and led me around the floor with a marvelous grace; I could hardly breathe. Our eyes held each other’s gaze as the room flew by us in a blur. Guiding me firmly, he spun us around and around more quickly than I would have thought possible. The Viennese waltz moved at a much quicker pace than anything I’d danced before. I do not think my feet touched the ground; it was intoxicating. An ordinary waltz would be a disappointment after this.

  As we swirled again and again, a pair of figures caught my attention, snapping out of the haze and into focus: Mr. Harrison and the Countess von Lange, standing far too close together in the corner of the room.

  22 December 1891

  Berkeley Square, London

  Dear Emily,

  I am enclosing all the most recent articles from the London papers that include references to Robert’s plight. Aside from everyone believing he’s guilty of murder, people have begun speaking openly of treason and financial ruin. The papers are careful to avoid charges of libel, but the gossips share no such worries. It’s surprising, really, when you consider the fact that everyone despised Lord Fortescue. I wouldn’t have thought people would take such an interest in his murder—at least not in a way that involves viciously attacking an innocent man. But apparently suffering a violent death has made the victim likable. All anyone remembers now are the people he helped. No one dares mention those he ruined, his propensity for blackmail, his disgusting behavior, ill manners, well…I need not go on. You know perfectly well what I mean.

  And I need hardly tell you how great the toll has been on Ivy. I tried to visit Robert yesterday, but he wouldn’t see me, and he continues to refuse to see his wife. She’s disconsolate. You can see how dire are his straits. You can’t merely prove him not guilty, Emily, you’ve got to find out who committed the crime. Otherwise I fear that no one will ever believe his innocence, and there will always be a cloud of uncertainty hanging over him.

  On a less serious note, my dear Mr. Michaels is overwrought that I’ve not returned to Oxford and wrote me a passionate note reprimanding me for abandoning my studies. In the course of my reply to him, I disagreed with him about certain analogies in Ovid’s Ars Amatoria. This so disgruntled him that he sent his own reply by express.

  I confess to finding that unexpectedly exciting.

  Finally, Davis is moping. It’s been three days since he’s had a letter from Cécile’s maid. Tell Odette to send one posthaste. Your butler is no fun when he’s morose. He’s hidden Philip’s cigars, and I can’t find them anywhere. I’m so irritated with him that I think I would return his Christmas gift if I hadn’t had it engraved. What a pity I know no one else with the same initials.

  I am yr. most devoted, etc., friend,

  Margaret

  Chapter 12

  I awoke the next morning full of satisfaction, pulled on my dressing gown, and flung open the curtains in my suite. Snow was falling again, huge flakes that made it impossible to see across the street. It was a lovely sight. Lovely, that is, until I looked down at the windowsill and saw a bullet sitting on it. Mr. Harrison had been in my room.

  I picked it up, but my trembling hands could not hold on to its cold smoothness, and it flew to the ground, striking the parquet floor with a ping that sounded far too innocent. Had he come in while I was sleeping? Or when I wasn’t here? The distressing feeling of violation that was pressing, unwelcome, on my chest was familiar. I’d been the target of a cat burglar in London only a few months ago. In the end, however, that had turned out harmless. This time, my intruder was unquestionably an enemy. I retrieved the bullet, my head spinning as I bent over.

  Meg opened the door a sliver. “Madame du Lac and the duke are already breakfasting, milady. That painter was here, too, but he’s already left.” She wrinkled her nose, disapproving of Klimt’s presence so early in the morning. I, on the other hand, welcomed the distraction and considered shoving the bullet into my night-stand drawer. I willed away my feeling of unease and wondered when Klimt had appeared at the Imperial—he hadn’t been at the ball or the café afterwards, and I thought it unlikely that he’d come for breakfast. Unfortunately, I’d have to wait until I had Cécile alone to find out any details.

  “Are you ready to get dressed, ma’am?” Meg asked.

  I was in no mood to rush, and took my time selecting a gown of the softest midnight blue wool. Its bodice crossed in a deep v in front, blue paisleys embroidered along the edges. Underneath was a matching high collar, trimmed with dainty Venetian lace identical to that peeking out from the bottoms of the sleeves. The color brought out the blue of my eyes, and my cheeks were flushed with the memory of dancing with Colin the night before. I was succeeding, at least for the moment, in distracting my mind from Mr. Harrison’s bullet.

  I went out to the sitting room, where Cécile was pouring coffee for Jeremy.

  “Em, it’s not right for you to be so alluring this early in the morning,” Jeremy said, adding no fewer than four lumps of sugar to his coffee.

  “Apologies,” I said, taking a cup of tea. I put the bullet on the table and told my friends where I’d found it.

  “Mon dieu,” Cécile said. “This is unacceptable.”

  “We shall have to ask the hotel to provide us better security,” I said. “I cannot have this man in our rooms.”

  “Let me speak to the manager for you,” Jeremy said.

  “I’d appreciate that. If he could perhaps station someone at the top of the steps, watching the hallway, I’d feel much better.”

  “I can’t imagine there will be any difficulties in arranging that.”

  I picked up an apricot pastry. “You look exhausted.”

  “Dancing until four and rising at eight is taking its toll on me,” Jeremy said.

  “Perhaps you’re getting too old to stay out so late,” I said. I felt something tugging on my skirt. “Brutus! Stop!” I picked up the dog and handed him to Cécile, who glared at him and fed Caesar a biscuit.

  “That’s unfair, Emily. I’m in the prime of life and intend on staying there.” He took a long drink of coffee, frowned, and started adding more sugar. “I’ve already decided to never admit to being older than thirty-two. That is, once I reach thirty-two.”

  “Darling, you forget that I know exactly how old you are,” I said. “I’ll do whatever I must to keep you honest.”

  “You do know, I hope, that no man under the age of forty can even approach fascinating,” Cécile said.

  “I’ve no interest in being fascinating, Madame, merely young,” Jeremy said.

  “Such a mistake.” Cécile shook her head. “You’ll learn eventually.”

  “I wouldn’t want to set you up for disappointment. I rarely learn anything.” Satisfied that his coffee was at last sweet enough, he drained the cup and filled it again at once.

  “So am I to believe that Klimt is not yet fascinating?” I asked.

  “He will be in time. For now, he’s merely amusing.”

  “
And brilliant,” I said.

  “Yes, brilliant, too,” Cécile said.

  “So a chap can be brilliant without being fascinating?” Jeremy asked.

  “Yes,” Cécile and I answered in chorus, then started to laugh.

  “You ladies are brutal,” Jeremy said, spooning up more sugar, then dropping it back into the bowl. He scowled and pushed his coffee away from him. “Where are we off to this morning, Em?”

  “The count asked to meet me here,” I said. “But I didn’t want him to come to our rooms. So we’re to see him at the Griensteidl.”

  “I take it he won’t be expecting me?” Jeremy asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “Capital.”

  “How is the empress, Cécile?” I asked.

  “Melancholy, depressed. I worry for her. She’s beginning to remind me of Hamlet, which is toujours disappointing in a friend.”

  “Will you have time to see her this morning?” I asked.

  “Not before my guests arrive.” At the ball the previous evening, we’d had Lady Paget introduce us to Frau Eckoldt and her daughter. Cécile, who had heard all about Friedrich’s plight, had convinced Anna’s mother that she was in dire need of someone to help her with conversational German. This was nonsense, of course. Cécile’s command of the language was flawless; she’d even mastered Wienerisch, the Viennese dialect. Furthermore, everyone at the Hapsburg court spoke French. But Frau Eckoldt was easily deceived, and I had no doubt that Cécile would face little if any difficulty in persuading her that Anna was the perfect person to coach her on idioms.

  I glanced at the clock on the mantel. “We’d better hurry, or we’ll be late.”

  “I’ll go find us a carriage,” Jeremy said, abandoning his coffee.

  “We’re walking,” I said. Meg helped me with my coat and I slipped my hands into a fur muff as Jeremy moaned.

  “Walking? In the snow?”

  “It’ll be fun.” I had purchased new boots several days earlier and was confident that my feet, protected by thick leather, fur lining, and sturdy soles, would remain warm and dry for the duration of our stroll. We bade farewell to Cécile and headed outside. Jeremy frowned at me as he lifted the hat from his head and knocked off the snow that was quickly piling on it, but he gave me his arm and we set off along the Kärntner Ring towards the opera, where we turned onto Operngasse and then Augustiner Straße. The fresh snow was soft, piling on top of the frozen sidewalks and cushioning our steps. Jeremy started to slide through it rather than walk as we made our way along the Hofburg.