Vienna Dawn (The Imperial Season Book 3)

by Mary Lancaster

  Slowly, he pushed her back far enough to gaze into her eyes. His breath caught. “But maybe I can. If you love me enough.”

  Her stomach dived deliciously. “Don’t be silly. I barely know you. George—”

  “Let me change that. I love you so much already, I have enough for us both. Come away with me, Anastasia.”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “Run away with me,” he said excitedly. “Leave your husband and we’ll be together without anyone knowing or caring who we were before. We can have a new life together.”

  She pushed him away. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “Am I?” His arms fell to his sides. “Tell me then that you don’t feel it, too, this burning attraction, this need to be together,”

  Averting her gaze, she said honestly, “I can’t, not entirely. But I won’t give in to a silly crush. I won’t throw away my marriage, my family, my honor.”

  “Where is the dishonor in love?” he demanded. “It is the only honor,”

  His words thrilled her. And somewhere, the prospect of simply walking out on her responsibilities, on Nikolai’s disapproval, Dunya’s mad starts, and her mother’s constant social striving, was alarmingly appealing.

  “I need to go back now,” she said firmly.

  “At least promise you’ll think about it. I need to leave Vienna tomorrow night. I can take you with me, whisk you away to love.”

  “You’re mad,” she said shakily.

  “Then you will think about it?”

  “I will have to, now you’ve mentioned such a thing! But my answer will be no.”

  “I can live with no,” he said softly. “Now that I know you love me.”

  “You can’t know any such thing.”

  “Yes, I can. It’s in your kiss.”

  She closed her eyes in anguish. “George, don’t!”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t help myself. Come, I’ll take you back. I think the curtain’s about to go up again.”

  The passages and stairs were certainly much quieter, and by the time they reached her mother’s box, there was no one in sight at all. So Anastasia let him take her back into his arms and kiss her. It would be the last time, for she’d no intention of meeting him tomorrow, and certainly none of running away with him.

  “Until tomorrow,” he whispered. “At the Talleyrands’.”

  *

  Richard Trelawny was no help to Jane. Although he answered her summons promptly enough, he seemed distracted, even impatient to get away.

  “I cannot even tell if it affects him at all,” she said miserably. “He has barely spoken to me!”

  “Well, if he wished to break it off, I’m sure he would have spoken,” Richard said reasonably. “At any rate, I’ll speak to him when I can. This is hardly the place for difficult private conversations.”

  “No, of course not,” she agreed. “You’ll be wanting to call on your betrothed, and in any case, as you see, he isn’t even here.”

  Richard stayed only long enough to exchange pleasantries with the Mrs. Fawcetts, and then departed. A few moments later, while she scoured the boxes and theater pit for any signs that people might be watching her or whispering about her, Etienne de la Tour sat down beside her.

  “Mademoiselle, you look distressed,” he said in a voice of deep concern.

  She pasted on her smile. “Of course not, monsieur. Don’t you find the dancing exquisite?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied. “I haven’t been watching the dancing. I’ve been gazing at you.”

  She couldn’t help herself. His flattery was balm for her soul. She laughed, tapping her closed fan on his wrist. “You are a practiced flirt, monsieur.”

  “I have been,” he allowed. “And I assure you I am happy to keep flirting with you for as long as you’ll tolerate it. But I beg you also to let me help with whatever is troubling you.”

  “What could be troubling me, monsieur? You are quite wrong.”

  He bowed. “If you say so. Only, I beg you, take seriously my offer to help. You must know I would do anything for you. Anything at all.”

  Unexpectedly, her eyes filled with tears, which would undoubtedly ruin her reputation as the ice maiden if word of it ever got out. “Thank you, monsieur. That means a lot to me.” He touched her hand and sat quietly beside her until the curtain came up. He and Fawcett met in the doorway, exchanged cold bows and parted.

  Jane could never see the point of dancing, or plays. She preferred the social aspect of the theater, seeing and being seen, and she was quite happy to talk through whatever performance was taking place. On this occasion, she could only listen in to the gossip of the older ladies on the other side of the box. Between them and her, sat Fawcett, silent and unapproachable.

  At last, she could bear it no longer. Leaning toward him, she murmured, “Mr. Fawcett—Thomas—will you not speak to me?”

  He shifted in his seat. “What would you like to discuss?”

  “What I said to you earlier. Please, sir, tell me your thoughts.”

  He turned toward her at last, though his face was hardly encouraging. Her tongue, which had had more to say, stuck to the roof of her mouth.

  “My thoughts,” he said coldly, “are that you lied to me and agreed to marry me for my wealth and my position in society. And that Dunya Savarina is a very beautiful, unaffected girl. Excuse me.”

  Jane couldn’t even watch him leave. A blush rose up from her toes, a stain of shame and embarrassment that surely the whole theater could see. Uncomfortably, she edged backward.

  So that is it. My engagement ends and the little countess wins all. She has all the men from my life devoted to her. Richard, Fawcett, and even Etienne. While I have no one. Just because I made one stupid mistake…

  But no, perhaps Dunya no longer had Etienne. “I would do anything for you,” he’d said. “Anything at all.”

  *

  Trelawny finally made it to the Savarins’ box during the second interval. At first glance, the noisy activity within seemed to reflect the amiable chaos of their lives. At second glance, the amiability appeared to be absent.

  They had several visitors, all noisy. Countess Savarina was talking with General Lisle and another matron. Anastasia chatted with great animation to two young men and a plain young girl who was gazing between her and Dunya with a worshipful expression. Dunya herself, was trapped between General Lisle and Mr. Fawcett, who sat much too close to her, almost leaning over her in his eagerness to talk to her and gaze upon her.

  Trelawny didn’t even try to be understanding. He knew that Jane must have hurt the man, but there was no excuse for subjecting Dunya to such discomfort. He could see at once that Countess Savarina would not discourage him. After all, Fawcett would be a fine feather in the family cap. Somewhere, he knew his anger at that had much to do with his own lack of prospects, but he refused to let that influence him. He was, for all intents and purposes, engaged to Dunya, and he was quite prepared to use the privilege on her behalf.

  After the merest bow toward her mother, who scowled at him, he spoke directly to Dunya. “At last! I seem to have been fighting my way to you all evening and never getting there.”

  Dunya’s smile of pleasure and sheer relief was reward enough.

  He stretched his arm over Fawcett to his betrothed, who took his hand at once. “Walk with me a little. It’s cooler in the corridor. Sorry, Fawcett,” he added casually.

  Without making a scene, Fawcett could only stand and let her pass. Without even looking at the others, she walked with him out of the box and into the corridor, which was busy without being crowded.

  “Thank you,” she breathed. “He was suffocating me! And Jane will think I’m encouraging him.”

  “Jane has other problems to worry about. Is everything well?”

  “Not really. Vanya’s friend, the Austrian police agent, told me I should stay away from Etienne. Why would he say that if Etienne wasn’t dangerous? Etienne must be part of whatever your Ferrand is
up to. Also, Anastasia and Nikolai have had a huge quarrel and I found her kissing Major von Wahrschein. I don’t know what to do about that either.”

  Wahrschein…the bad company kept by Etienne, according to Sebastian Niven who undoubtedly knew all about that subject. Etienne and Wahrschein and Ferrand. Although he didn’t understand such an odd combination, he definitely didn’t like it.

  He touched Dunya’s hand on his arm. “Nothing might be best. These things have a way of solving themselves, if they’re meant to. As for Ferrand, perhaps if the Austrians are on to him, we need do nothing more.”

  “Really?” She sounded disappointed. “I was quite looking forward to a little spying of my own. It would be an adventure!”

  “Haven’t you had enough of those?”

  “Lord, no,” she said cheerfully. “I was thinking we should follow this Ferrand and make sure he doesn’t assassinate anyone we like.”

  Fear shot through Trelawny with a strength that left him speechless for several seconds. Which he hoped devoutly she would put down to his considering her plan, rather than the truth, which was that he searched frantically for the means to prevent her doing anything so dangerous. Forbidding her would have the opposite effect.

  “I don’t believe that would work,” he said, trying to sound disappointed. “You are too noticeable and it’s his job to be observant. He was at your ball, after all. But you’ve given me a good idea.”

  She gave a mutinous little pout. “I don’t see that you’re less noticeable. After all, he knew you even before our ball.”

  “Perhaps. But I can slum it in all sorts of places that you would never be allowed into.”

  She brightened. “You can pretend to be foxed and loiter at street corners and even pretend to be asleep right next to him in some horrid gambling den. Do spies go to gambling dens?”

  “If they’re villainous enough.”

  Her lips flickered into one of her adorable smiles. “You’re laughing at me,” she said without rancor. “But I take your point.”

  With difficulty, Trelawny prevented himself sagging with relief.

  “And anyway,” she added ruefully, “I should probably look out for Anastasia. Something’s made her very unhappy and I don’t know if Wahrschein is her problem or her solution.”

  Trelawny hesitated. “I don’t know him personally, but from what I hear, Wahrschein is unlikely to be the solution to anything.” For the first time he became aware of the relative quiet of the corridor and the music coming from the auditorium. “I think we’ve missed the beginning. Come. I’ll take you back to your box.”

  She grimaced. “What if Fawcett is still there?”

  “Then I’ll turf him out.”

  She laughed and gave his arm a little squeeze. “I believe you would!”

  “Count on it,” Trelawny said with a shade of grimness.

  In fact, Fawcett had gone by the time they got to the Savarin box. Dunya smiled, and whether or not from relief, silently invited Trelawny to take the vacant seat beside hers. The countess frowned in quick irritation. Nikolai’s face was stern and unbending, but then he seemed to have looked like that all evening.

  Trelawny, inclining his head to the countess as though the invitation had come from her, sat beside his betrothed, and for the rest of the evening, let the secret happiness wash over him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Trelawny was about to part from the Ambroses in the coffee house, where they’d repaired after the theater, when he caught sight of Mr. Fawcett and a couple of fashionable young bucks spilling out of a carriage at the opposite side of the road. They turned the corner into what was little more than an alley and vanished into a doorway.

  On impulse, Trelawny gave his friends an abrupt farewell and bolted after the three men. Although his original plan had been to call on Fawcett tomorrow at a civilized hour, he wasn’t opposed to having a quiet word somewhat sooner.

  Behind him, Captain Ambrose protested. If they’d been alone, Rosie would have come, too, which might have been preferable, given that the doorway he followed Fawcett through led to some steps down into a somewhat threatening basement. But Rosie would never leave his wife alone at this hour, so Trelawny was definitely on his own. His fingers flexed at his side as he descended the stairs, itching to grasp the sword he wished he was wearing.

  Another door, guarded by an exquisite with a dirty face, opened at the foot of the stairs, admitting him to a huge, noisy room full of gaming tables and people from all walks of life. Scantily dressed women sat on the knees of the wealthier, or perhaps the more successful players, ready to fleece them if the table didn’t. Trelawny doubted anyone won here, except those the house wished to return with the rest of their fortune. In fact, it was just the sort of slightly dangerous place that well born young men came to slum it and feel brave. The sort of place Etienne de la Tour might frequent when not seducing rich women or breaking the hearts of naive young girls with false protestations of love.

  Trelawny moved through the room, searching out his chief quarry of the moment, but keeping his eyes peeled for others.

  Fawcett was about to sit down at one of the tables when Trelawny caught up with him.

  “Apologies,” Trelawny murmured. “Might I have a word before you play?”

  Fawcett, who’d clearly been indulging in brandy at some point between the theater and here, blinked at him with owlish surprise. “Trelawny.” He just about managed the difficult name. “About to play a little hazard. Sit down with me.”

  “Maybe later,” Trelawny said diplomatically.

  Taking a firm grip of Fawcett’s arm, he dragged him away from the table to a quieter corner of the room. Fawcett glanced longingly back over his shoulder at the table he’d just left. Trelawny waved him into one of two slightly sticky chairs at a low table and sat somewhat gingerly in the other.

  “Word to the wise, Fawcett,” Trelawny said amiably. “This doesn’t seem the sort of place you should come to in your cups. They’ll fleece you and bleed you dry.”

  Fawcett grinned in what he probably imagined was a wolfish manner. “They can try.”

  Trelawny shrugged. “Your funeral. In any case, it was on something else entirely I wished to speak to you.”

  “What’s that, then?” Fawcett’s erratic gaze found the ample bosom of a passing female and he smiled.

  “Your betrothal,” Trelawny said brutally.

  Fawcett’s smile faded. In fact, he seemed to sober up. “Not sure that’s any of your damned business, Trelawny.”

  “Not sure it is,” Trelawny agreed. “But as you know, Miss Reid is a long-standing friend of my family and she has confided in me a little. And I know she would never have let this misapprehension continue had she not had a deep and sincere regard for you.”

  “Or for my money,” Fawcett muttered, although he had the grace to blush under Trelawny’s stare.

  “Listen to yourself,” Trelawny said quietly. “The truth is, you are seriously considering casting her off because she has no money. Which of you is mercenary then?”

  Fawcett’s jaw dropped.

  “Think about it,” Trelawny advised. “And don’t throw away a good and beautiful woman who is everything you want in a wife, over a moment of pride.” He stood, and leaned over the still staring Fawcett. “And talking of wives, sir, I really will take it amiss if I find you again trying to sit in the lap of the lady who will be mine.”

  Fawcett’s eyes widened. “What the devil do you mean?” he spluttered.

  “I mean keep a civil distance. I won’t have her distressed.”

  “Then you really are engaged to marry her?”

  Trelawny adopted the steely gaze that had reduced insolent subalterns and hardened private soldiers guilty of quite horrendous crimes, to quivering jellies.

  “Oh, absolutely, old chap,” Fawcett said hastily. “Never meant to offend the lady, or stand on anyone’s toes. Bowled over by her, to tell the truth.”

  “No,” Trelawny said pa
tiently. “You’re bowled over by Jane.” On which note, he straightened and walked away. He really did want to hit Fawcett, which wasn’t entirely fair when Dunya had deliberately encouraged him the night of the ball, however repelling she’d been since.

  Still, he felt he’d sewn a couple of seeds in Fawcett’s brain. If only the fool could remember them in the morning and let them bear fruit.

  In the meantime, Trelawny moved around the tables as though trying to decide between vignt-et-un, hazard and roulette. Inevitably, he eventually bumped into an English acquaintance with one of the house ladies on his arm.

  “Lost a little, won a little,” the Englishman explained with a grin. “What’s your game, Captain?”

  “Haven’t decided yet.”

  “First time here?”

  “Yes, actually. I thought,” he added cunningly, “it might be the place recommended by the Comte de la Tour.”

  “Never seen him here,” the Englishman said doubtfully. “I think he prefers the den off Singer Strasse.”

  “Where’s that exactly?” Trelawny asked.

  *

  The gaming establishment favored by the Comte de la Tour turned out to be a rather cleaner, more luxurious version of the first den. The décor was better, the waiters more assiduous, and the ladies better mannered, but its function and basic method were undoubtedly the same.

  Trelawny had spent a couple of bored winters in Portugal watching his men play, gamble, and fleece each other. As a result, there weren’t many cheats he couldn’t spot. The Comte de la Tour wasn’t exactly playing the house at its own game, but he seemed to have developed a neat way of fleecing the other players and standing up before the house could win it back. Then he would move to another table and systematically begin again.

  As such, he had acquired a little audience which he didn’t deign to notice. Trelawny stood among them, watching from behind. Of course, he couldn’t stay there indefinitely without being noticed. For show, he used up some of his meager coin to play dice at one of the lower-stake tables, but was once again among Etienne’s admiring audience when Major von Wahrschein wandered into the den. Almost immediately, the Prussian swerved toward Etienne’s table.