A Fatal Waltz

by Tasha Alexander

  “I’ll tolerate you living a debauched double life so long as it’s fictional. But I’m afraid I may have overstepped my bounds, offering to give him information.” The curl had fallen back in my face. Again I pushed it behind my ear, but it would not stay.

  “No doubt you have, but I admire your boldness.” He stared at me with an inspiring intensity.

  “I’m glad to hear it.” I opened my reticule to pull out a hairpin, refusing to admit defeat to a defiant curl. Instead of finding the pin, however, my hands rested on the cool surface of another of Mr. Harrison’s bullets. I placed it on the table in front of Colin. “Mr. Harrison’s been leaving these for me to remind me that he can reach me anywhere.”

  Colin grabbed both of my hands and squeezed them hard, his eyes full of concern. “How many times has this happened?”

  “I don’t even know. I seem to find them everywhere I go, including my hotel room,” I said. His face was calm. “I admit it scares me.”

  “It should. I’m not suggesting it should dissuade you from continuing your work, but you must proceed with extreme caution.”

  “I’m being careful. We’ve already spoken to the hotel manager about further increasing security, and Cécile’s going to have Sissi send a guard from the palace.”

  “An excellent idea. But…” He stopped and met my eyes. “It is so very tempting to order you to stop. To send you back to London. To—”

  “To behave like the typical overprotective English husband.”

  “The role does have some merits.” He squeezed my hand.

  “Not for us,” I said.

  “No, though it would make this much easier.”

  “Easy does not equal worthwhile.”

  “So what are you going to do about Mr. Harrison and his bullets?” he asked.

  “Be more vigilant,” I said. “I will take every reasonable precaution.”

  “Don’t limit yourself to reasonable ones.”

  I smiled. “Jeremy will keep me safe.”

  “I’m inclined to believe that Harrison won’t harm you. It wouldn’t forward his plans. But I can’t be certain. Are you sure you want to continue?”

  “There can be no answer to that question but yes,” I said. “You must trust me to be careful.”

  “I will, Emily. But be forewarned. If the situation deteriorates, I will put a stop to this.”

  “You can’t,” I said.

  “I can.” He folded his arms over his chest.

  “Well, I’d lose all respect for you if you did, so I suppose I’ll have to make sure it never happens.” My flip tone did nothing to lighten the mood. “Will you help me with Herr Schröder? Can you give me something for him?”

  “I can draw up some correct, official, and utterly useless documents. That should secure his trust. The key is to produce something that he can verify with just the right amount of difficulty. How did you manage to take over my work for me? At this point I think you’ve a better chance of uncovering his plans than I do.”

  “Perhaps, but you may be better able to stop them than I.”

  “Why does this make you more irresistible than ever to me?” he asked.

  “More irresistible than ever, am I? Have I mentioned that my mother’s hoping to have half the royal families of Europe at our wedding? Wouldn’t you prefer to elope?”

  “Can you convince the queen?” He smiled.

  “I’d rather work on you,” I said. “I know I’ve no chance with her.”

  “I’m known for my strength of will.”

  “Only because I’ve never really tried to tempt you.”

  “How is it that you’ve managed to construct a game in which my default position requires denying everything that I want?”

  “You’re too loyal to your queen, my dear,” I said.

  “It’s not that. I’ve already tried her patience once, when I refused the O.B.E. She handled it well enough, blaming my eccentricity on my family. She knows I come from a long line of gentlemen who turned their backs on royal attention. But I would hate to test her again.”

  “You turned down being made a knight?”

  “I’ve no desire to be ranked above anyone else. We have not earned our positions, Emily. We hold them because of luck.”

  “I do, certainly, but not you. The queen wanted to knight you because of the work you do for the Crown.”

  “Work I would never have been able to undertake had I not been born to a privileged life. It’s my duty to serve my country, but the manner in which I fulfill that obligation makes me no better than the lowest sailor in the Royal Navy. We are both doing what we can for Britain.”

  There is something about watching a gentleman who is not only passionate about what he does, but very good at it, too. Every nerve in my body was tingling as I listened to Colin speak.

  “You’re flushed,” he said. “Are you unwell?”

  “Quite the contrary,” I said. “You’re lucky we’re in a public place.”

  “Or unlucky.” He traced the rim of his coffee cup with a finger. “Though I don’t believe you’d speak with such restraint were we alone.”

  “You underestimate me.”

  He shifted in his seat. “That’s quite enough temptation, my dear.”

  “All right.” I flashed him a smile. “I’ll change the subject entirely. When can you get me something for Herr Schröder?”

  “I’ll send a set of papers to you at the Imperial. Let me know what your anarchist friend says after he sees them.”

  THE NEXT MORNING CÉCILE, Jeremy, and I breakfasted at Klimt’s studio. Cécile had ordered the staff at the Imperial to pack up and send over a stunning assortment of pastries, fruit, and even hot dishes. The only flaw was that the hotel’s coffee had not traveled well; it was entirely too cold. Undaunted, my friend prepared some herself on Klimt’s small stove.

  “She’s all energy,” Jeremy said, watching Cécile bustle about. I began to think that his manner towards me had thawed.

  “You’re quite right.” I passed him a nut-filled pastry. “Do you want anything else?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Have you spoken with Rina recently?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How is she?”

  “Fine, thank you.”

  “I—I’ve heard that you found a house for her. I—”

  “I’d prefer not to speak with you about this. Forgive me.” He stood up and walked away from the table, crossing to the far side of the studio and staring blankly at the pictures on the wall.

  “You must go easy on him,” Klimt said, leaving Cécile to manage the coffee on the stove.

  “I haven’t done anything,” I said, rubbing the soft fur of the cat that had taken up residence on my lap.

  “You let him fall in love with you. You can’t expect there to be no consequences.” He stepped back from his canvas, tilted his head to one side, and studied his work.

  “Consequences?”

  He did not answer for a moment, still looking at the painting in front of him. Then, all at once, he touched a brush to his palette and went back to work. “I’m an expert when it comes to such matters. It’s delicious to have people adore you, but it’s exhausting, too. Particularly when your own feelings don’t match theirs.”

  “Is that how it is between you and Cécile?” I asked.

  He laughed. “She would never allow that.”

  “No, I would imagine not.” The cat slunk off my lap and stalked after Jeremy, who took no notice of it brushing against his legs.

  “She and I are well suited. We understand one another,” he said.

  Jeremy did not speak to me for the rest of the morning. I hoped this would change on our way to Herr Schröder’s house that afternoon.

  “It’s colder today, don’t you think?” I asked once we were bundled into a fiacre.

  “I hadn’t noticed.” He did not look at me, focusing instead on the buildings we passed. So intent was his stare I found myself following it,
half expecting to find something stunning outside the coach rather than another row of elegant shops.

  “It always feels colder here when the sun’s out. Why is that?”

  “I’ve not the slightest idea.”

  “You’d think it would warm the air.” I watched him closely; he did not move, nor did he reply. “Have you plans for the evening?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  “Are you adamant about refusing to engage me in conversation?” I asked.

  “I’m tired and don’t feel like talking.”

  We sat in silence for twenty more minutes before we reached our destination. As we approached the house, Jeremy spoke at last. “It’s unlikely your friend is going to want to talk in front of me. If that’s the case, I shall stand directly outside the door of the room you’re in, eavesdropping in the most obvious fashion. Shout for me if you feel threatened in the least.”

  “Thank you, Jeremy,” I said. He did not return my smile.

  Herr Schröder’s house was not at all what I expected. It was in a fine neighborhood, elegant and graceful, nothing like the areas in which his compatriots lived. I could have imagined myself in Mayfair until I’d knocked on the door and Herr Schröder answered it himself.

  “You look surprised,” he said, ushering me into a cavernous entrance hall. No carpet covered the polished marble floor; our footsteps echoed as we walked. “And you’ve brought your favorite chaperone. How charming.”

  I ought to have introduced them, but stumbled over the words. How to announce a duke to an anarchist? Our host held out his hand.

  “Gustav Schröder.”

  “Jeremy Sheffield.” They shook hands.

  “Lord Sheffield?” Herr Schröder asked.

  “I’m a duke, actually, so it would be Your Grace, if you’re the sort of man who insists on standing upon ceremony. Otherwise you can call me Bainbridge.”

  Herr Schröder laughed. “In other circumstances I think I might like you, but as it is, I’ve no time to form a new acquaintance. You’ll forgive me if I don’t allow you to join me and your companion while we speak?”

  “So long as you’ll forgive me for hovering outside the door. I will not leave her alone.”

  “I’ll get you a chair.” He dragged an elaborately carved chair across the hallway and put it next to a doorway that led into a well-appointed sitting room. “We won’t be long.” He ushered me in and closed the heavy door behind us. The room in which we stood was furnished in the style of the Napoleonic era, much of it with an Egyptian flair, as had been popular after the Frenchman’s adventures in the land of the pharaohs. I was drawn at once to a spectacular stone panel that hung on the wall.

  “Is this authentic or a copy?”

  My host shrugged. “For the price my grandfather paid, it had better be genuine. Do you read hieroglyphs?”

  “No, but I wish I did.” I reached up, longing to touch the worn stone, to feel the words carved by ancient hands. “Your grandfather was a collector?”

  “I don’t know. I never knew him.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and turned to take in the rest of the room, full of shades of gold and green.

  “You don’t like my house?” he asked.

  “Why would you say that?”

  “You have an odd expression on your face.”

  “I confess to not having expected to find an anarchist living in such luxury.”

  “I come from a good family.”

  “You’re a man of contradiction. It’s fascinating. What do your peers think of your wealth?” I asked. “I’m surprised they haven’t demanded that you renounce your fortune. Or at least divide it equally among them.”

  “I’ll gladly renounce it the moment human beings are treated as equals in this world. Until that day, I need it to finance my work. Enough of this. What information have you brought me?” he asked. I handed him the papers Colin had sent to me. He gave them a cursory glance, then began looking at them more closely. “This is better than I could have hoped. Does he know you took this?”

  “Of course not. What do you take me for? I was…with him in his rooms last night and took them after he’d fallen asleep.” My cheeks felt hot as I said this. “I’ll need to return them before he gets home this evening. You’re free to copy whatever you want.”

  “Are you certain he hasn’t missed them?”

  “He hadn’t when he left this morning.” I watched him sit at a table and begin scribbling furiously in a notebook. “What do you have for me?” I asked.

  “I haven’t yet decided. You surprised me by being so successful with your acquisition. I confess to having had very little faith that you could do what you said.”

  “So will you give me what I want? Did someone in Vienna order Lord Fortescue’s murder?”

  “I will find out what I can. My ‘organization,’ as you call it, was not involved.”

  “What about Mr. Harrison?”

  “Give me twenty-four hours.”

  “You want to meet on Christmas Eve?”

  “Have you something more important to do?”

  “Not in particular. Shall I meet you here again?”

  “No. Go to the Stephansdom. I’ll come to you in Saint Valentine’s chapel at nine o’clock.”

  I agreed to the meeting, then stood up and started for the door. The sight of something hanging on the wall brought me to a dead stop: a dueling pistol embellished with the image of a griffin in profile, the arms of the Baron of Beaumont. I recognized it at once as the twin of the one used to murder Lord Fortescue.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “This is one of the guns from the duel in which my brother was killed. I keep it to remind me why I continue to fight for justice in this world.”

  I WENT DIRECTLY from Herr Schröder’s house to the offices of the Neue Freie Presse, towing Jeremy with me. He did not play unwilling companion on the journey, instead telling me in matter-of-fact tones what he’d seen while he waited for me in the hall: the Countess von Lange, wearing an evening gown in the middle of the afternoon, coming down the stairs. A friendly chat with a servant and a handful of change had confirmed his suspicion that she’d spent the night at the house.

  Once we arrived at the Neue Freie Presse, we did not emerge for nearly two hours, but when we did, I had with me an item cut from an old issue of the newspaper, full of details of a duel fought more than ten years earlier, in which it was reported a Mr. Robert Brandon had killed Josef Schröder.

  The duel that recently took place between Robert Brandon and Josef Schröder proves once again why this barbaric practice is illegal. Schröder was mortally wounded and Brandon fled the country immediately, but that was not the end of this tragic story. Schröder’s second, an Englishman, Albert Sanburne, was found dead yesterday morning, having killed himself with a single shot to the head. He used the same pistol that had ended the life of his friend. One can only suppose that the guilt he felt at not having been able to dissuade Schröder from fighting was overwhelming.

  But in a season of suicides, Sanburne’s is unremarkable when compared to that of the woman who jumped from a car on the Budapest express, ending up a tangled mess in her bloody wedding gown and veil.

  —NEUE FREIE PRESSE, 20 SEPTEMBER 1880

  Chapter 17

  This is very troubling,” Colin said, pacing in front of my fireplace at the Imperial, reading the article from the Neue Freie Presse over and over. “To have Brandon connected to this set of pistols more than once…Not good at all.”

  “No one knows but us,” I said. “Unless it was part of the information Lord Fortescue was holding over Robert, and whoever is in possession of that now decides to come forward with it.”

  “I can’t imagine that Fortescue would have missed such a detail. But unless we can find his private papers, we’ve no way of discovering what precisely he knew.”

  “He was too sharp to keep them somewhere people would search. I’m going to write to Mrs. Reynold-Plympton. Sh
e was more of a wife to him than any of his three legal ones, and so far as I can tell, she exerted a great deal of influence over him politically. They were more than lovers.”

  “I suppose now that Fortescue is dead she’d have no reason to keep his secrets hidden.”

  “Unless she’s planning on using them herself,” I said. “She might not be ready to relinquish her political power.”

  “Perhaps, but she’d have a difficult time wielding it without Fortescue.”

  “Doesn’t that depend on how spectacular the information she knows is?”

  “To a degree. But the fact is that without him, she has very little clout.”

  “I had one other thought,” I said. “I think Fortescue was also having an affair with Flora Clavell. Could his murder be a simple case of jealousy?”

  “You think Flora Clavell killed him? I seem to remember you suspected her husband at one point.”

  “I don’t think either of them is guilty. But what about Mrs. Reynold-Plympton? She wouldn’t have ever felt threatened by Lady Fortescue, but Flora’s young and pretty and smart.”

  “An interesting theory. But she wasn’t in Yorkshire.”

  “She was. At Highgrove, attending the Langstons’ party,” I said. “Jeremy was there, too.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “I remember it distinctly.”

  “That’s a lead worth pursuing.” He tossed the newspaper article onto a table. “Damn Brandon for lying about this.”

  “He lied?”

  “He was shown the gun—held it in his hands—and denied ever having laid eyes on it before,” Colin said.

  “I can’t believe he’d do such a thing.”

  “He was in desperate circumstances, Emily, and he probably assumed that no one other than Fortescue could make the connection between the guns. In theory, it shouldn’t matter, but if it were to be exposed during the trial…” He shook his head. “What I don’t understand is how the pair of pistols was separated, and how one of them wound up back in England if their owner died in Vienna.”