Vienna Dawn (The Imperial Season Book 3)

by Mary Lancaster

  If you know Dunya is safe and well, drop me a line in the morning. If you’re unsure, maybe you should send Vanya round there after all. You will know best.

  Always your friend,

  Eleanor Fawcett

  Lizzie frowned at this epistle. Mrs. Fawcett was the most practical and capable of women, and this uncertainty was quite unlike her. She was also extremely perceptive and if something worried her about her nephew there probably was good reason.

  On the other hand, she could not, for the life of her, imagine Vanya’s sister eloping with Mr. Fawcett. With Captain Trelawny, perhaps, who seemed to possess precisely the right mix of recklessness and easy good nature to appeal to Dunya. In fact, although Vanya had always suspected the engagement was a hum and a means to a quite different end, Lizzie was not so sure. There had always been something in the way each looked at the other, often when unobserved, that caused Lizzie to believe not only in their engagement but it their happiness.

  Yet, she wasn’t above manipulating others for her own ends. Loving Captain Trelawny would not necessarily prevent her from some mad escapade with another man. The very fact of his staidness might even commend him to Dunya for certain purposes, though what they were, she couldn’t begin to guess. Dunya appeared to share her brother’s wild, slightly erratic streak.

  In fact, now that she thought about it, Vanya had been behaving a little oddly today, disappearing to appointments he wouldn’t talk about, and with people he wouldn’t name. Not that she’d pressed him. She’d always understood he’d go his own way, had in fact been surprised when he promised fidelity. But she wished now she’d asked for more detail because if it had something to do with Dunya…

  She could wait for him to come home to ask him. He’d gone off with a couple of brother officers after Dorothée’s soiree but had said he wouldn’t be late. He generally wasn’t. But it was already after one o’clock in the morning and she hadn’t seen the Savarin ladies leave Dorothée’s.

  Abruptly, she stood up and dug Misha out of his cubby hole. “Vanya hasn’t been up to something with Dunya, has he?” she demanded.

  “Not with Dunya Petrovna,” Misha said carefully.

  “Has Dunya been up to anything on her own?”

  Misha shrugged. “Probably. She asked me to find Captain Trelawny when she first arrived, but I haven’t spoken to her much since then.”

  “Hmm. Do you know if she went home with her mother after the French embassy party?”

  Misha blinked. “I can’t imagine she didn’t. The Countess would have set up such a fuss they’d have heard her in Moscow.”

  Lizzie nodded decisively. “Very well. I’m just going to walk round to Countess Savarina’s.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Misha said, clearly aware of Vanya’s preferences in the matter.

  “I’d rather you stayed here with the children, at least until Vanya gets back. It’s only a step and I won’t be long.”

  It was rather more than a step, but the streets between were well lit. Besides, crime was low in Vienna, no doubt because police spies were so prevalent and punishment both arbitrary and harsh.

  She didn’t have to ring the bell at the Countess’s building. The front door stood slightly ajar, which surely meant that someone was up, either in the countess’s household or that of the house’s owners. She stuck her head around into darkness. “Hello?”

  No one answered, so she went in. A faint glow shone from the top of the stairs, so Lizzie went straight up, ignoring the darkness below. She hadn’t got half way before some movement behind her made her stomach dive. She spun around on the step, losing her balance, and hands seized her.

  She sucked her breath in to scream but a hard, none too clean palm clapped over her mouth, and she released no more than a low, muffled moan. Lizzie kicked and wriggled, trying to throw herself free of her captors—there were at least two of them—but she never really stood a chance. In oddly terrifying silence, she was half-carried, half-dragged back down the stairs and outside. She heard the rumble of carriage wheels on cobbles, the muted clop of slow moving horses’ hooves. Then she was all but slung inside a vehicle with plush seats.

  “Go!” a low voice commanded in French and she fell off the seat as the carriage lurched into motion. “Watch her!” the voice expostulated. “He doesn’t want her damaged!”

  “You sure she’s the right girl?” another voice asked doubtfully, while hands hauled her back onto the seat. She shook them off and sat upright.

  “She’s a Savarin,” the first voice said with certainty. “I’ve seen her before. She was in the right house, wasn’t she? On the staircase just as he said. She’s pretty enough, isn’t she? Why wouldn’t she be the right girl?”

  “She’s wearing a wedding ring.”

  There was a slight pause, then, “He prefers them married. Less trouble.”

  Lizzie stared at them, almost with pity. “Is that really what you think?”

  *

  Trelawny had almost laughed when he realized they were heading to the Emperor Inn. The respectable house seemed to becoming a villains’ trysting place of choice. And not just for romantic trysts, as he soon discovered.

  As soon as the carriage pulled up in the quiet inn yard, a man he recognized only too well, walked out of the house toward them. From the other direction, a sleepy ostler stumbled out of the stables, calling out something incomprehensible, presumably warning the innkeeper himself of his late night guests.

  Trelawny jumped down with the driver, who, he’d discovered on the journey, was Austrian and called Andreas. Going to the horses’ heads, Trelawny watched Etienne de la Tour disembark from the coach and walk a little way forward to meet Ferrand. Something changed hands, perhaps money, perhaps a document of some kind.

  “Until Elba,” Ferrand murmured.

  “Until Elba,” Etienne agreed. “Good luck,”

  Ferrand glanced toward the carriage, “And to you. You’ll need it.”

  They both would if they planned to tangle with Bonaparte’s fate. Although Trelawny was pretty sure Ferrand would be the scapegoat if they were caught. Etienne had already given himself a valid if reprehensible reason for leaving Vienna that had nothing to do with either Ferrand or Napoleon Bonaparte.

  Ferrand strode off in the direction of the stables, while Etienne turned back to the carriage to hand Jane down. Leaving Andreas talking to the ostler, Trelawny followed Ferrand to the stables. He needed to deal with him before intruding upon Jane’s elopement.

  He found Ferrand saddling his own horse by the light of two lanterns hanging on the wall. Although Trelawny entered silently, holding his sword close in to prevent it brushing against the stone, Ferrand turned immediately to face him.

  “Monsieur Ferrand,” Trelawny said, amiably enough.

  The Frenchman’s eyes didn’t change. Nor did they leave Trelawny’s, though he continued to fasten the girths. “You are mistaken. That is not my name.”

  “No, it probably isn’t,” Trelawny agreed, walking toward him. “I don’t know who you are at all, but I do know what you are. I remember you very well.”

  “I thought you did,” Ferrand said without emphasis. “At Countess Savarina’s ball.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  A hint of wry humor flickered in Ferrand’s eyes. “In my line of work it pays to know your friends as well as your enemies.”

  “Meaning you were observing the Comte de la Tour?”

  The horse was fully saddled and bridled, but Ferrand didn’t mount immediately. Keeping hold of the reins in one hand, he faced Trelawny. “Among others. I really don’t see that it’s any of your concern.”

  “But what happens in Elba is everybody’s concern.”

  Ferrand smiled. “And what, precisely, do you imagine could happen there? Guarded as it is by the British navy.”

  “I’m not sure,” Trelawny confessed. “And I don’t really care. I just know you can’t be allowed to act without consulting anyone. It’s a ty
ranny worse than any other.”

  “Worse than the tyranny of war?” Ferrand inquired lifting one foot into the stirrup. “Which deprived you of your arm.”

  Trelawny caught a glimpse of the glinting dagger, so smoothly drawn that if he hadn’t been looking for an attack, he’d never have noticed it. It might have been for defense only. It was more likely Ferrand meant to run him down and stab him in the throat on his way. Trelawny acted quickly. He seized Ferrand as soon as the Frenchman began to rise to the saddle, yanking him back down with as much force as he could muster, and as soon as he began to descend, he seized his sword hilt instead, whipping it upward to connect with Ferrand’s downward plunging chin.

  Unfortunately, he had no second arm to deflect the blow of the dagger which caught him a glancing swipe across his good shoulder. But as sword hilt and chin connected with a snap, Ferrand collapsed unconscious into the straw on the floor. He didn’t even have time to look surprised.

  Trelawny led Ferrand’s horse back into its stall and removed its saddle. Cutting off the straps, he used them to bind Ferrand’s wrists and ankles, after which, he dragged the Frenchman into an empty stall, which he closed and bolted from the outside.

  *

  Entering the Emperor Inn on the arm of her soon-to-be husband, Jane had begun to think that she might not have made such a bad decision after all. The comte had entertained her with light, cultivated conversation throughout the journey and seemed concerned to put her at ease. He’d made no vulgar advances to her, merely assured her that an English clergyman awaited them at the inn.

  Once married, her reputation would be safe, her position assured. Any accusation by the Fawcetts would be put down to sour grapes because she’d chosen to marry another. Of course, the clandestine nature of that marriage meant she would not be comfortable returning to Vienna, but this appeared to suit the comte, who spoke of Italy and Paris as their wedding trip, before taking to her to his main estate in France.

  The landlord himself, still in his nightcap, bowed them into his house in a respectful manner that gave her hope the place was as respectable as the comte had maintained.

  “Has a Prussian gentleman arrived perchance?” Etienne inquired, rather to Jane’s surprise.

  She was sure he’d said the clergyman was English and truly, she’d feel much more comfortable with an English priest officiating at her wedding.

  “No, sir, no Prussians. An English gentleman of the cloth arrived this evening, though, seemed quite put out not to find you here.”

  “Ah, excellent. Be so good as to invite him to attend us first thing in the morning.”

  “Oh no,” Jane said at once. “It must be tonight, sir. I will not stay under this roof with you as an unmarried lady.”

  “Oh, very well,” Etienne said with the first hint of irritation that she’d seen. She supposed he was as tired as she. “But perhaps you’re right and we should indeed be married before anyone tries to stop us.”

  “No one will,” Jane said sadly. She’d found a quiet room at the embassy in which to write to Mr. Fawcett explaining what she meant to do. She’d told herself she owed him that much, but in fact she’d secretly hoped he’d stop her. She’d glanced behind her as she’d entered the carriage, sure he must have received her note by now. But there had been so sign of him, either then or later as she’d glanced back along the road to Vienna.

  “Very well, wake the clergyman—Mr. Roberts, is it? Ask him to join us in the private parlor. You and my driver can stand as witnesses.”

  “What about your rather more gentlemanly friend whom you greeted in the yard?” Jane suggested, somewhat dismayed by the plebeian nature of her wedding.

  “Oh, he’s gone already,” Etienne said easily. “He was merely passing through. Show us to your parlor, my good man. A little light refreshment would be welcome to my wife-to-be.”

  Although she was being treated with every respect, Jane found herself growing more tense with every passing second. She began to wish she hadn’t insisted on being married tonight, and yet propriety demanded it. But she was about to tie herself for life to a stranger, one moreover who’d flirted with her while she was engaged to another man…..

  While they waited for the clergyman to make his appearance, she watched her almost-husband with fascination and dread. He was personable, charming and, so far, kind. But he was a stranger and she was about to deliver herself into his power.

  Her unspecific sense of foreboding rose into panic that she had to squash down, though she couldn’t quiet the words screaming in her head, What am I doing? What am I doing?

  Mr. Roberts appeared at last, a stout, bleary-eyed man whose spectacles sat squint on his nose, and who’d obviously got up in a hurry, because his coat buttons were fastened unevenly.

  “Ah, Monsieur le Comte, I presume,” he greeted Etienne. “I was expecting you earlier.”

  “My apologies. Sadly that proved impossible. Thank you for waiting. Allow me to introduce Miss Reid.”

  “The bride,” Mr. Roberts beamed. “Charmed to meet you, my dear.” He turned back to Etienne. “The special license, if you please, sir. And my fee, if you don’t mind,”

  Etienne passed him a packet, which he immediately pocketed, and a folded document, which he spread out and examined. Etienne walked to the door of the parlor and called for the landlord. “And bring my driver!” he added.

  But Mr. Roberts was scowling over the license. “Sir, there are no names of bride or groom written here.”

  Jane’s stomach heaved. For the first time, she wondered where a Frenchman could possibly have acquired a special license from the Archbishop of Canterbury, especially so soon after the war. Was it a forgery? A lie?

  “We can write those in easily enough,” Etienne said dismissively. “After all, I gave you our names when I engaged you, and Miss Reid is fully twenty-one-years-old. As you can see, the license is signed, sealed, and stamped just as it should be. The English friend who acquired it for me was in a hurry, and so, I suppose, was the registrar. But I assure you, it’s quite legal and binding.”

  Mr., Roberts lifted the document closer to the lamp and adjusted his spectacles. “Yes, I suppose it is in order,” he said, with some obvious relief. “Let me just sit down and write in your names—”

  “Oh for goodness sake, man,” Etienne snapped. “What difference does it make whether you write the names now or later? Can we proceed to the important matter of the ceremony?”

  “If you have the ring, sir,” Mr. Roberts said stiffly. “Both of you, please come and stand before me.”

  Jane, feeling as if she were in a dream, watching someone else go through these actions, stood up and went to Mr. Roberts. From the corner of her eye—her increasingly desperate attention was all on the clergyman—she noticed the innkeeper all but explode through the parlor door, dragging someone with him, presumably Etienne’s driver.

  But beside her, Etienne froze. “What the… How—You!”

  “Good evening,” said a familiar voice cheerfully.

  Jane stared at him, her mouth dropping open. “Richard? Richard! What in the world are you doing here?” Her heart beat like a rabbit’s. Was he her savior or her downfall?

  “Damn good question,” Etienne said dangerously. “I understood our appointment was for tomorrow morning.”

  Trelawny, looking almost whole in his great coat, replied, “It is. I gather you were planning to come back for our meeting before anyone associated you with Miss Reid’s disappearance. A brave decision. If you were indeed planning to come back?”

  Etienne raised his head haughtily. “I have never missed an affair of honor in my life!”

  “Affair of honor?” Jane repeated, looking from one to the other. “Are you talking about a duel? Richard, why are you here?”

  “Thought you might have changed your mind about marrying him, in which case, I’ll take you back to Vienna before anyone knows you’ve gone.”

  “I have to marry him, Richard,” she said tragica
lly. “It’s the only way.”

  “The only way to make a bad situation worse,” Richard said, looking directly at Etienne.

  “Your presence is not required here!” Etienne said furiously. “Landlord, please eject him from this private parlor and bring my driver as requested!”

  “But he is your driver,” the landlord protested. He turned his head, looking Richard up and down. “Looks more of a military gentleman to me. In fact, I’ve definitely seen him here before. You see all sorts these days. But he definitely got down from the box of your carriage tonight.”

  Etienne took a threatening step toward Richard. “What did you with Andreas?”

  “I sent him to bed,” Richard said, raising his eyebrows. “He seemed tired, poor fellow.”

  “We’re all tired,” Mr. Roberts interjected dryly. “May we proceed with the matter in hand? Sir, whoever you are—”

  “Trelawny,” Richard said helpfully. “Richard Trelawny.”

  Mr. Roberts inclined his head impatiently. “Mr. Trelawny, are you prepared to act as witness to this marriage?”

  “No, I’m not. To be honest, I rather hoped to talk the bride out of it.”

  Mr. Roberts, perhaps seeing the possibility of having to return his fee said hastily, “That is between the lady and God.”

  “And will be added to my grievances against you!” Etienne said between his teeth, striding up to Richard. “Now, get out before I throw you out!”

  “Monsieur le Comte!” Jane said sharply, but both gentlemen’s attention seemed to have abandoned her in favor of some new commotion in the hall beyond the open door. As one, both men walked through into the previously empty coffee room.

  “Anastasia Petrovna,” Richard said, bowing.

  “Evening Wahrschein,” Etienne said in French, and with a triumph Jane could find no reason for. “Pay up.”

  “Damnation!” came another furious male voice that sounded only too familiar to Jane. “How did you do that?”