Stolen Splendor

by Miriam Minger

  Stefan eyed her quizzically, laughter welling up inside him. He had almost been fooled by her display of grief, but this last gesture confirmed his suspicions. He knew Sophia far too well. She had never expressed any concern for her husband while he was alive. Why should it be different after his death? He lifted her chin, her topaz eyes meeting his steadily.

  "Sophia, you cannot fool me," he said, smiling. "You are incredibly wealthy and free at last from a marriage you despised. Now, tell me. What will you do with this newfound freedom?"

  Sophia did not speak for the briefest instant, her gaze softening, then her red lips drew into a smile. "Oh . . . there are many things to occupy me for a time," she breathed huskily. "But when they are completed, perhaps I shall seek a husband . . . someone who is more worthy of me."

  "Then as you drank a toast to me, I shall drink to you," Stefan offered gallantly. He signaled to- a servant bearing a silver tray laden with crystal glasses filled with red wine. With a flourish he took two glasses from the tray and held one out to her, then lifted his own. "To this most worthy of husbands . . . may he bring you happiness."

  Sophia raised the glass to her lips and drank deeply, her eyes never leaving his face.

  Chapter 22

  "Your knowledge of literature is extraordinary," Prince Eugene complimented Kassandra as they walked along the hall leading back to the ballroom, the thin poet following them like a discreet shadow. "My library is open to you whenever you should take a fancy to visit it," he offered graciously.

  Kassandra smiled her thanks. She studied with interest the paintings, lustrous clusters of rock crystal displayed on marble pedestals, and alabaster statues he pointed out to her along the way, his comments punctuated by knowledgeable remarks from Rousseau. She had very much enjoyed her tour, even though it had passed so quickly, and truly hoped she would have occasion to visit the palace again.

  Prince Eugene had shown her not only his magnificent library, which was filled from floor to ceiling with thousands of books bound in Moroccan and Turkish leather dyed red, blue, and yellow, but also three drawing rooms hung with portraits, both life-size and miniature, and the finest tapestries from Brussels. He had even allowed her a glimpse of the Blue Room, with its splendid furnishings upholstered in complementary shades of blue and turquoise, and the Golden Cabinet, its walls hung with shimmering gold brocade.

  "And now, Lady Kassandra, I must take my leave," Prince Eugene murmured, with a courteous bow, at the entrance to the ballroom. "The banquet is soon to begin, and I must see that all is in readiness. Perhaps we may have a chance to converse again later in the evening."

  He lifted her hand to his lips and lightly kissed her fingers. "You have been most charming, my lady," he added, his dark eyes twinkling kindly. "Count Stefan is a man to be envied. I must congratulate him on his excellent fortune."

  Kassandra gazed after him as he moved away, followed by Rousseau after he, too, had expressed his pleasure in her company. The two distinguished men were immediately surrounded by other guests.

  Congratulate Stefan? she wondered, mulling over his words. Surely he hadn't already told Prince Eugene of their marriage plans . . .

  His marriage plans, she amended irritably, her gaze sweeping the ballroom. Blackguard! He had no right to discuss even the possibility of a wedding until they had received consent from her fath—

  All thoughts fled her mind, her gaze widening in shock as it came to rest on Stefan. He was seated upon a wide divan, engrossed in conversation with a curvaceous dark-haired woman whose back was turned to her. She watched, motionless, her feet rooted to the floor, as he threw back his head and laughed at some private joke, then suddenly spied her across the room. After a quick word to the woman, he abruptly rose and strode toward her.

  It was only when the woman rose as well, in a swirl of shimmering black satin, and began to follow him, that Kassandra recognized her. "Sophia," she whispered, her heart lurching within her breast, just as Stefan reached her side.

  "Did you enjoy your tour?" he asked with some concern, noting the heightened color on her cheeks and the animosity simmering in her eyes. Strange, he thought fleetingly. Her expression was hardly what he would have expected, considering she had been so gay only a half hour past, when she had left with Prince Eugene.

  "Perhaps not quite as much as you have enjoyed my absence," she replied cryptically, barely restraining her angry words. Damn him! It wasn't enough that he sought the company of his mistress virtually every night. Now he was flaunting their sordid relationship in her face so she would have no doubt as to her own role in his life.

  What the devil could she have meant by that? Stefan wondered, puzzled. But Sophia's graceful approach prevented him from answering, much to his rising irritation.

  "What a pleasure to see you again, Lady Kassandra," Sophia purred smoothly. Her careful expression was one of polite concern, but her almond eyes glinted harshly. "Stefan has told me of your narrow escape from serious harm at the theater yesterday afternoon." She leaned forward and lightly touched Kassandra's arm. "You must be watchful of Viennese carriage drivers, my dear," she murmured, shaking her head. "They are the most daring in the world, and the most skillful, but often foolhardy in their haste to reach a destination."

  Kassandra shivered at her touch and stepped back. "I shall take your advice to heart, Archduchess von Starenberg," she said with a fixed smile, though her throat constricted painfully. "Now if you will both excuse me, I believe I shall find my place at the table. Prince Eugene has informed me the banquet is soon to begin."

  With a stiff nod, she brushed by them and walked swiftly to the table, searching the gold engraved placards set beside each plate for her name. She was so intent in her task that she bumped headlong into Count Frederick Althann as they both converged upon the same chair.

  "My apologies, my lady," he exclaimed, catching her around the waist. Fighting to regain his own balance, he brought her hard up against his chest, one hand firmly grasping the back of the nearest chair as his other arm held her tightly.

  "Oh!" Kassandra gasped, blushing with acute embarrassment. Yet she could not help thinking he was amazingly strong, all vestiges of the effeminate posturing he had displayed earlier now vanished. Then, just as suddenly, he drew away from her, fluttering his hands about his person, adjusting his linen cravat, smoothing his waistcoat, and checking the alignment of his wig, which had been knocked slightly askew.

  Kassandra stared up at him, both bemused and intrigued. How odd, she thought, quickly regaining her composure. She could almost swear this gentleman was pretending to be something he was not.

  "I believe this seat is yours, my lady, not mine as I had thought," Frederick offered, one red-heeled shoe placed before the other as he bowed elegantly. He pulled the cushioned chair away from the table, waiting until she was seated before pulling out his own and sitting down beside her. He pursed his lips indignantly. "The servants have placed the placards so close together, it's hardly clear which seat belongs to whom—"

  "Please, it was a simple mistake," Kassandra interrupted, studying his features. "Don't trouble yourself any further."

  "You are most forgiving, my lady," Frederick murmured, averting his eyes and fussing with the napkin on his plate. Careful, man, he berated himself. This is the closest you have come to giving yourself away . . .

  He let out a breath. It was just his luck that he was seated next to the most beautiful woman in the room, making his foppish role all the more difficult to play. He had seen the flash of intuition in Lady Kassandra's gaze when she looked at him a moment before. No doubt it would take all of his resources not to further arouse her suspicions, as well as keep his mind on his mission . . . to see and hear everything, and forget nothing.

  Just think of the Sultan's gold, Frederick, he admonished himself sarcastically, with a faint smile. It always gets you through.

  Kassandra started at the jarring sound of a chair scraping along the floor and turned her head, noting that
Stefan was sitting across the wide table that separated them. Her face fired heatedly at his dark scowl, directed more at the gentleman on her left than at her, but it gave her an idea.

  Two can play at your little game, Stefan von Furstenberg, she thought defiantly, pointedly ignoring him and turning back to Count Althann. She quickly appraised him. He was handsome enough, with his ice-blue eyes and angular features, as blond as Stefan was dark. Though she wasn't attracted to him, she could not deny that she sensed an air of mystery about him, as revealed to her during their mishap.

  Not a lover . . . but an intriguing dinner partner, to be sure, she mused, leaning toward him and returning his smile.

  ***

  Stefan stood at one end of the ballroom, watching in grim silence as two lines of couples met at the center of the polished floor where the table had been, now cleared away for the dancing that would last well into the evening. The lilting strains of a minuet floated through the air and the first dance began, the men bowing and advancing, the women retreating in a rustle of petticoats, silk, and satin. Then the women advanced, dipping and swaying, and joined hands with the men, each graceful turn punctuated by whispered compliments, furtive glances, and seductive smiles.

  Stefan took a long swallow of brandy, his eyes darkened with fury. He briefly noted Sophia in the group of dancers, then dismissed her from his mind, his gaze moving instinctively to Kassandra. He followed her every movement, her lighthearted laughter ringing in his ears, as she stepped blithely from one gentleman to the next, finally arriving again at her original partner, Count Frederick Althann.

  Stefan's hand tightened on the glass, his jaw set in anger. Damn it all! If Count Althann wasn't such a useless fop, he would have called him out at dinner and been done with it. But somehow he had restrained himself. He knew he could hardly test his sword against a man who was better known for his impeccable taste in clothes—and his rumored predilection for young boys, he thought with disgust—than his prowess with weapons.

  Stefan's lips drew into a sardonic smile. He could not believe he was so jealous of such a man, if one could even call him that. But he was, painfully so. Or perhaps it was any man who looked at Kassandra with the slightest interest; he had certainly seen many occasions this night. It seemed she had charmed every gentleman at the gala, including his commanding general.

  As she has never sought to charm you, he thought fiercely.

  He quickly set down his glass for fear he might crush it in his hand. Try as he might, he could not suppress the feelings Kassandra roused in him, feelings of wild, extraordinary proportions. That she would bestow her vivacious charms, smiles, such precious laughter, on other men infuriated him beyond reason. Except for the brief period when they had first arrived at the gala, she had never granted him what she was so freely giving this night!

  Women! He would never understand them. He had actually begun to think he had won her favor, then only the devil knew what had happened to cause her sudden change of heart. Now he was no longer sure of anything.

  Except that she is playing you for a fool, he mused grimly. And he would know the reason . . .

  Stefan strode toward the dancers, but a hand tugging on his arm stopped him. His eyes flashed angrily at this sudden hindrance, only to find Prince Eugene's personal chamberlain at his elbow.

  "My lord, Prince Eugene must speak with you," Clemens whispered urgently, out of breath. "If you would follow me, he is waiting in his library."

  Stefan nodded, and with a last glance over his shoulder at Kassandra, he left the ballroom. His expression was guarded as he entered the impressive library, for he surmised it could only be an important military matter that would draw his commander away from his guests. He noted the sodden and exhausted messenger standing at attention beside Prince Eugene's desk, confirming his suspicion.

  "Forgive me for calling you away from the dancing, Count Stefan," Prince Eugene began, looking up from a letter spread before him. He indicated the messenger with a slight nod. "This man has just arrived from the winter camp. It seems Commander von Paar has been injured in a riding accident and must return to Vienna for immediate care. I want you to replace him as commander in chief."

  Stefan's gaze widened imperceptibly, his mind working fast. He had already prepared to leave for the camp within the week to join his cavalry forces, and had even told Isabel as much. But he hadn't expected this! And he had yet to say anything to Kassandra. Now there would be little time, if any, to discuss the matter.

  "I accept with honor, General," he stated.

  Prince Eugene studied him intently. "It is a heavy responsibility, Count Stefan, and usually reserved for an officer with more years under his belt. But you have proven your ability to command time and again with the cavalry. When I join you at the camp in early spring, I shall expect to find the men well trained and keen for battle."

  "And so they will be. I shall leave this very night," Stefan said, already looking forward to the challenge.

  "Tomorrow morning will be soon enough," Prince Eugene replied, rising to his feet. "The roads are far too treacherous by night." He turned to the messenger, a lad of scarcely seventeen years. "I commend you for your bravery, young man, riding well past sunset as you did to reach me with your message. So you say the wolves are fierce this winter?"

  "Yes, General. They brought down my extra horse, and would have taken me down as well if I had not carried another pistol at the ready."

  Prince Eugene patted him on the shoulder. He glanced at Stefan. "I'd say he would make a fine candidate for the cavalry, wouldn't you, Commander?"

  "I shall consider him one of my own men from this day," Stefan agreed seriously, "for he certainly deserves it."

  "Th-thank you, my lords," the lad stammered, a proud grin splitting his face as he looked from Prince Eugene to Stefan.

  "Now, Clemens, see that he is fed and given a warm bed to sleep in," Prince Eugene told his chamberlain. "He will have a long ride back to the camp on the morrow, in the company of my esteemed commander in chief."

  "Yes, my lord," Clemens replied with a bow. "Come with me, lad." He hastened from the library with the messenger at his heels.

  Prince Eugene sat back down at his desk, perusing the papers before him. "It appears I must forgo my guests for a short while," he said matter-of-factly. "I must write some letters to the other officers at the camp, notifying them of my decision. They will follow your commands explicitly. I'll give them to you in the morning, before you set out. If you leave Vienna by eight o'clock, you should be at the camp by late afternoon."

  He glanced up at Stefan, his serious expression softening. "Go and enjoy what is left of the evening, Count Stefan. No doubt Lady Kassandra is anxious for your return to the ballroom. I would not leave such a charming beauty waiting much longer."

  Stefan winced, his thoughts flying back to Kassandra. What he would give if that were true. "Very well, my lord." He bowed, then turned and walked from the library. His footsteps echoed down the long hall as he made his way to the ballroom, a strange eagerness seizing him. It felt as if he had been away from her side for hours rather than a few moments. Now they had so little time left . . .

  Familiar feminine laughter greeted him at the entrance to the ballroom, setting his pulse racing. But he stopped cold in his tracks at the sight of Kassandra surrounded by four young gentlemen, the ever-present Count Althann hovering close to her like a preening butterfly. She was smiling prettily at some remark, then out of the corner of her eye she spied him. She laced her arm through the nearest gentleman's, her lilting voice loud enough for him to hear.

  "Of course I will dance with you, Count Bonneval, and the rest of you gentlemen, if you will only await your turns."

  Damn it all, he had heard and seen enough! Stefan raged, unreasoning jealousy seizing his heart once again. He would not share the woman who was to become his wife! He strode after them and gripped Kassandra's arm just before she and her companion joined the swirl of dancers.

 
"I believe you have reserved this dance for me, Lady Kassandra," he muttered tersely, throwing a dangerous look at the hapless gentleman at her side.

  "In-indeed, Count von Furstenberg, I had no idea," the stunned aristocrat acquiesced, stepping back as if he had been stung. He bobbed his head to Kassandra, then hurried away.

  "How dare you," Kassandra gritted, though a quiver of fear shot through her at the dark, storm-tossed expression in his narrowed eyes. She bit her lower lip to keep from crying out, his tight hold a painful vise on her arm. "You're hurting me."

  Stefan did not answer, merely steered her toward the arched entrance to the ballroom. He would have to offer his regrets to Prince Eugene in the morning, but at least he now had another excuse besides Kassandra's wanton display for leaving the gala early.

  "Where are we going? What about the gala?" Kassandra whispered. Her cheeks fired with embarrassment at the inquisitive looks being cast their way by guests—Count Althann, Count Bonneval, a sullen Sophia—and servants alike, and she said no more, her eyes downcast.

  Stefan ignored her, paying little heed that she had to practically run to keep up with his long strides as they hurried through the hallway and down the winding staircase to the marble entrance hall. "Our capes, man," he grated to the startled footman, who quickly obliged them. "Go to the kitchen and tell my driver we are leaving at once." The footman nodded and fled down the corridor, holding on to his wig.

  They were ushered out the great doorway, a servant holding a lantern high as they made their way in the new-fallen snow to the carriage. By the time they were settled, with piles of warm furs wrapped around their legs and draped over their laps, the driver had hoisted himself into his seat and the carriage slid into the street, borne upon sleek wooden traineaus.