Stolen Splendor

by Miriam Minger

  "You have done well, Count Althann."

  Adolph's eyes widened. Count Althann . . . He knew that name. Sophia had insisted he learn all the names of the aristocratic families in Vienna, and some of their history. But which Althann?

  The two men fell silent as the serving maid brought their beers, waiting until she had moved well away before continuing their hushed discussion. The Turk laughed at some whispered remark, then Adolph heard the unmistakable chink of money, muffled by a cloth bag. He surmised shrewdly that gold was changing hands, the opiate of any spy.

  "We had agreed on twice this amount, if I recall, my friend," Althann muttered, his blue eyes searing into his companion's dark gaze.

  "Ah, how stupid of me," the Turk replied, his voice echoed by another thud upon the table. "You have a good memory, Frederick."

  "That is why I am so well paid, Hasan."

  Adolph shook his head in disbelief. So Count Frederick Althann, one of the most favored young aristocrats at the Viennese court, and a godson of the emperor, was a spy for Achmet III, Sultan of the Ottoman Empire! Yet it made sense. He was the fourth son in his family, heir to little but the title of count. What quicker way to earn his fortune than as a spy?

  Adolph's face split into a sarcastic grin, though he hid it well with his sleeve, pretending to wipe his nose.

  "Let us leave this place," Hasan murmured, his cunning eyes sweeping the darkened room, lit only by shallow oil lamps and the cooking fire roaring beneath a greasy hearth. He could barely mask his disgust. "Surely you know of another more comfortable establishment, where one might sample the delicacy of a refined Viennese courtesan?"

  Frederick nodded. "I know of such a house," he murmured with a wry smile. "But I must warn you, Hasan. The women there could steal a man's soul. They are well versed in all manner of carnal . . . amusement."

  "All the better! Let us be on our way, my friend," Hasan replied eagerly. "I have only one night to taste the pleasures of this city."

  Adolph watched as the two men rose from their chairs. They passed by him so closely that the Turk's cloak swept against his table. Grateful that he had changed from his rich clothes into more drab attire, he feigned idiocy by staring with glazed eyes straight ahead and drooling into his beer.

  "In my country they kill poor wretches like him at birth," Hasan muttered scornfully. "That creature is repulsive."

  Adolph winced, Frederick's terse comment lost to him as they moved away. He glanced over his shoulder when he heard the door swing shut, then shoved the beer away and leaned back in his chair, an idea forming in his mind.

  A slow smile cut across his face. It was perfect, he thought slyly. The perfect solution to his dilemma. Here was a man who would no doubt do anything—anything—to preserve his deadly secret and his life. All that was needed was one little word to Sophia, and this traitor, this spy against his own people, would take the distasteful responsibility of Lady Kassandra Wyndham from his hands forever.

  Adolph threw a few coins on the table for the serving maid, then stood on the low stool on which his feet were resting and jumped to the floor. He could not wait to tell his mistress of his ingenious plan. It was the stuff of which her wicked dreams were made.

  Chapter 30

  Count Frederick Althann stepped elegantly from the gleaming carriage, ignoring the bewigged footman holding the door for him. His shrewd gaze swept along the grand façade of the von Starenberg mansion. It gleamed blinding white in the bright afternoon sun, like a great iced cake, with exuberant ornamentation flanking the tall windows and front entranceway. He lifted his tricornered hat from his head with a practiced flourish and settled it under his arm, then turned to the driver.

  "Wait here, man. I won't be long."

  "As you wish, my lord." The carriage driver nodded, tightening his grip on the reins. The two barrel-chested bays stamped their hooves upon the drive at this restraint, their black manes and tails twitching impatiently.

  Frederick walked up the marble steps and through the open doorway, his own impatience barely concealed beneath his polished veneer of nonchalance. His final meeting with Hasan was scheduled for later that afternoon, at the same riverfront tavern where they had met the night before. He had little time for unexpected social calls, though this one he could hardly have refused. Rank and position always dictated special consideration.

  Frederick handed his hat, gold-topped cane, and gloves to another footman, allowing himself just a moment to straighten his silk cravat. He had absolutely no idea why Archduchess Sophia had summoned him, and with such insistent urgency.

  Their acquaintance stretched back several years, but it had always been on a purely superficial level. They moved within the same aristocratic circle, attended many of the same court functions and galas, but that was the extent of their interaction. He had long ago sensed in her a temperament much like his own, a dangerous combination he had done his best to avoid. Theirs had been merely a relationship of flowered flattery, simple jests, and the most frivolous exchanges.

  "Archduchess von Starenberg awaits you in the salon, my lord," the footman intoned.

  "Lead on, then," he murmured, following the stiff-backed servant across the hall to a set of double doors. They were quietly opened, revealing a room of startling white and gilt, awash with sunshine streaming from tall, arching windows. Yet there were candles burning in a glittering chandelier, the light reflecting off furnishings upholstered in the most opulent gold brocade. And ensconced on a wide divan, the archduchess herself, a stunning vision in scarlet satin embroidered with gold thread.

  Easy . . . Frederick cautioned himself, his pulse racing at the sight of her seductive beauty. Do not forget your role. He extended a silk-stockinged leg in front of him and swept her a low bow.

  "Count Althann . . . Frederick, if I may," Sophia purred, a beguiling smile curving her lips. What an amusing game this would be, she thought fleetingly, as he straightened once again. She had not missed the hot flash of admiration in his ice-blue eyes, hardly the reaction a woman would receive from a man with a preference for boys . . . "Please, come in." She gracefully waved her hand toward an armchair set near the divan. "Sit down."

  Frederick obliged her, affecting his most grandiose walk as he crossed the floor to the chair. He sat down with fastidious poise, sweeping his coattails from beneath him and crossing his legs carefully at the knee, the better to show off his fine silk garters imported from Italy, and red-heeled shoes. He leaned casually on one elbow, his gaze not meeting hers until he had flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his breeches.

  "Are you comfortable?" Sophia asked, when it seemed he was finally settled.

  "Oh, quite, my lady," Frederick replied, pulling a white lace handkerchief from his pocket. It was the fop's counterpart to a lady's fan, used for emphasis in speech, or to coyly hide an expression in its scented folds. He pursed his lips, sniffing delicately. "You sent for me with some urgency, Archduchess von Starenberg," he began. "Might I inquire—"

  "Please, call me Sophia," she interjected, marveling at the pretty show he was affording her. If Adolph had not apprised her of this man's true character and vocation—a spy for the Turks, no less—she would never have guessed it in a thousand years. His foppish performance was flawless.

  Frederick was slightly taken aback by her intimate request, but he shrugged it off. Anything to indulge the lady, he thought dryly. "Very well. Sophia," he murmured, with a deferential nod. "Your invitation was most unexpected, and though I am charmed by your sudden interest, perhaps you could tell me why I have been so honored."

  "Of course, Frederick," Sophia replied, leaning forward on the divan. "There is a certain matter I wish to discuss with you—"

  A sharp rap on the door interrupted her, and she rose in a cool rustle of silk. "Ah, I believe Adolph has brought us some refreshment," she murmured. Perfect, my little man, she mused. You are right on cue.

  Frederick glanced over his shoulder, blanching as a dwarf, swathed in a Turkish c
ostume complete with turban and boots with curled-up tips, stepped into the room bearing a silver tray laden with crystal goblets and a tall decanter filled with deep red wine. An unsettling feeling gripped him. He could swear he had seen that dwarf somewhere before. But where?

  Sophia noted his expression with a satisfied smile. All was proceeding exactly as she had planned. Adolph stopped in front of her and held the tray while she poured wine into the two goblets, then she set the decanter on a nearby table and offered one of the goblets to Frederick. He rose from his chair and accepted it, waiting as she lifted up her own.

  "Leave us, Adolph," she commanded softly. "But stand just beyond the door, in case I have need of you."

  Frederick's gaze followed the dwarf as he quietly left the room. Then he looked back at Sophia.

  "Surely you realize, my lady, that all things Turkish are banned in Vienna." He sniffed, holding his handkerchief to his nose in feigned distaste. A reaction any outraged citizen would have made if presented with such a scene, he thought shrewdly.

  Sophia waved off his comment. "Only a trifling indulgence on my part, Frederick, within the confines of my home," she explained with a throaty laugh. "I am sure there are many in this city who harbor a fascination for . . . the Orient."

  Frederick's hand tightened imperceptibly on the stem of his goblet, but he smiled and nodded. "It shall be our secret, then," he offered gallantly.

  "Our secret," Sophia agreed, raising her goblet. She threw back her head, her topaz eyes alight with a strange fire. "Let us drink a toast, Frederick."

  "Very well."

  "To secrets . . . may they be well kept . . . and to our new alliance."

  The rim of the goblet stopped abruptly against Frederick's mouth, some of the wine sloshing out and staining his cream silk cravat. "Alliance?" he queried, perplexed, lowering the goblet to his side. "What alliance?"

  Sophia set her glass down next to the decanter. Her wine, too, was untouched. Her smile had faded, replaced by an expression of deadly seriousness. "Funny," she murmured, almost under her breath. "If you were truly a fop, as you pretend to be, you would have been more concerned with your precious cravat than with what I have just said."

  Frederick set down his goblet and took a step toward her. "What are you talking about?"

  "Cease your game, Frederick. It has grown tiresome," she replied. "I know everything about you. Everything." Her eyes narrowed with cunning. "Perhaps in the future, when you frequent decrepit taverns for your clandestine . . . meetings, you might do well to look about you first. You never know who might be listening."

  As if by an arranged signal, Adolph stepped into the room, grinning from ear to ear. He leveled a cocked pistol at Frederick's chest, knowing well that desperate actions were committed by desperate men. "My lord," he muttered with a slight bow of his turbaned head. "Your costume today fits you far better than that of a Bohemian peasant."

  Frederick felt a sickening knot in his stomach, his thoughts racing. The tavern . . . That's where he had seen this ugly little dwarf, drooling into his beer! Stunned, he looked from Adolph back to Sophia, her sinister smile sending a cold shiver through his body. He longed for nothing more at that moment than to grab her by her slender throat and throttle the self-satisfied expression from her face. But with the pistol trained at his heart, it appeared these two accomplices had thought of everything.

  Except for the emperor's guard, he mused darkly. If he was discovered, then where were the authorities? Surely Sophia was aware of the rich reward paid for the capture of spies.

  Sophia's dusky laughter broke into his thoughts as if she had read his mind. "You're far too precious a commodity to waste upon the bloody rack, Frederick. And as you can see" —she waved her arm around the opulent room— "I have no use for the emperor's reward." She took a step toward him, her eyes flashing menacingly. "What I do have need of is an assassin," she stated bluntly.

  Frederick understood immediately, though he said nothing. Obviously there was a bargain to be struck here, an evil one.

  Sophia paced slowly in front of him, the heavy scent of her perfume drifting over him like an ominous cloud. "You're no fool, Frederick," she began, studying his face. "I'm sure you are aware that your life is forfeit if it becomes known you are a spy for the Turks. But perhaps, to avoid such an unpleasant fate, you might consider taking on a certain task, of a distasteful nature in itself but one in which you would earn my undying gratitude . . . and my silence." She stopped in front of him. "Shall I go on?" she queried.

  "Please," Frederick muttered.

  "Good. It's quite simple, really. If you accomplish my task, then I will keep your secret. Now, what do you say?"

  There was no choice but one, Frederick mused grimly. Life . . . or death.

  "What is your task, my lady?" he asked quietly, an unspoken agreement passing between them. As she clapped her hands together with sheer pleasure, he could only guess as to the depths of her depravity.

  "There is a young woman who must die," she said simply. "Her name is Lady Kassandra Wyndham."

  Frederick's eyes widened in shock, but again he held his tongue.

  Sophia had not missed his response. "Yes, you know her. That simpering English girl," she muttered bitterly, her almond eyes reflecting the intensity of her hatred. "She must die at once . . . for reasons that shall remain my own."

  At his terse nod, Sophia moved closer to him. "I do not wish to know of your method, Frederick . . . Just see that it is done. And one other thing," she murmured, smiling faintly. "It must appear to be an unfortunate accident, or our agreement is waived. Do I make myself quite clear?"

  Frederick could barely suppress a shudder. He did not doubt she meant exactly what she said. "Yes," he said.

  "Splendid," she purred, trailing a cold finger down the side of his face. "Oh yes, Frederick, I'd almost forgotten. If you perhaps entertain any thoughts of revenge, I would suggest you consider such a move very carefully. I've written a letter, which is in safekeeping, outlining everything we have discussed this day, including your chosen profession as a spy. A letter that would certainly fall into the proper hands if, shall we say, anything should happen to me . . ."

  Bitch! Now he truly had no alternatives, Frederick thought. He was not only a spy, but a soon-to-be murderer. He might as well have sold his soul to the devil, for it seemed that Satan and Sophia were one and the same.

  Sophia moved away from him so suddenly, he was taken by surprise. She sat down on the divan and leaned back against its soft upholstery. "You may leave us, Adolph," she commanded. "I think we have nothing to fear from our handsome spy." She waited until he had left the room, than she spoke again, her voice almost a whisper.

  "Adolph told me something else about you, Frederick," she murmured, stretching her arms languidly above her head. "I don't think I believe those rumors about you anymore . . . that you prefer boys to women."

  Frederick appraised her heatedly, desire flaring within him at the open invitation gleaming in those unfathomable topaz depths. So he was to be her whore as well. Well, there were worse fates, he considered with dark amusement. He walked slowly to the divan and knelt down beside her.

  "Show me that you are a man, Frederick," she breathed huskily, her arms snaking around his neck. Her laughter echoed as he expertly forced her scarlet bodice down beneath her breasts, the voluptuous globes, high and firm, leaping into his hands. She laughed no more, but shrieked in wild delight as he bent his head over a taut nipple, and bit it.

  Chapter 31

  Isabel sighed heavily as she closed the door to Stefan's chamber, her attempt to discover the reason for the lovers' quarrel between him and Kassandra thwarted once again. She simply could not get an explanation out of either of them! A strained pall had hung over the mansion for over a week now, ever since they had been found safe and unharmed—much to her tearful relief!—at the hunting lodge the morning after that dreadful thunderstorm.

  She walked slowly down the corridor, shaking her
head in bewilderment. She had never seen such strife between two people who were intending to be married. Stefan and Kassandra had virtually avoided each other at every turn.

  When she would breakfast with Kassandra, and Stefan would walk into the room, he would wheel around and stalk out again. Or when she was discussing an estate matter with Stefan in the library and Kassandra would enter, she would slam her book shut and practically flee at the sight of him.

  And then there was the evening that, in hopes of encouraging a reconciliation, she had planned a special dinner for them, complete with many of the cook's most elaborate dishes—pheasant, roast mutton stuffed with oysters, brandied custard sprinkled with sugared almonds for dessert, and more. But she had ended up eating alone, Kassandra pleading a headache and Stefan concocting some nonsense about important letters he had to write. The past few days had been a dizzying whirl of such perplexing events, with, unfortunately, no end in sight.

  It was not the homecoming she had envisioned for Miles, she thought unhappily. She had wanted everything to be perfect. But there seemed to be no rhyme or reason when it came to matters of the heart, especially between those two. They couldn't be more stubborn and strong-minded. And though she fervently wished it otherwise, there didn't seem to be anything she could do about it. Obviously this quarrel would have to take its natural course, without any help from her.