Her Majesty’s Scoundrels

by Christy Carlyle

  “Flattery,” Aunt Sophie said, laughter in her voice. “Lord Percival, may I present my niece, Miss Irenna Brunner.”

  The viscount turned to Irenna and made her a similar bow, though not quite so exaggerated. “Charmed,” he said. “I see the family resemblance, certainly. What lovely hair you both have. The very shade of fine cognac, sipped before a fire, while a storm rages outside. I’ve never seen any color more particular.” He punctuated his words with a twisting flourish of his hand.

  Irenna blinked at the florid compliment. Her brown hair had never been so overdramatically praised before. Well, almost never. And then she’d been humiliated and laughed at, her appearance mocked by the very man she thought she’d loved. She winced at the memory and shoved it away. At least Lord Percival seemed harmless, unlike her former so-called admirer.

  The viscount turned to Aunt Sophie, somewhat in the manner of a lapdog who has performed a trick and expects a treat in return.

  “My dearest countess, nothing could make the evening more resplendent than if you would grant me a dance,” he said. “Dare I ask you for the waltz?”

  “I’m afraid my waltz is already claimed,” Aunt Sophie said, though Irenna was fairly certain she was lying. “You may have the mazurka. And in return, you may dance with my niece for the waltz.”

  “Two of the loveliest ladies at the ball have agreed to dance with me. Such a bounty of blessings!” The viscount laid his hand on his chest. “I am, indeed, the luckiest of fellows. In the meantime, might I fetch you charming young ladies some refreshment?”

  Aunt Sophie nodded her assent. “Champagne, for both of us.”

  The viscount bowed and hurried away, and Irenna gave her aunt a sidelong look.

  “I don’t mind you encouraging him,” she said. “But can’t you leave me out of it, Aunt Sophie?”

  In truth, she’d far prefer to be back at Chandos House, in the refuge of the library, not being forced to waltz with a foppish stranger.

  “Not at all,” Aunt Sophie replied. “You’re here for the specific purpose of getting out in Society more. We both know you’ve been too sheltered, Wren.”

  Or not sheltered enough. Irenna glanced at the parquet floor of the ballroom. Why must she have been born into a well connected family, with its obligations and expectations? She was not suited to the role. Indeed, she wished she could fly off with a quiet flock of her own kind, not be forced to don the gaudy plumage that was her lot.

  All too soon, Viscount Percival returned with their champagne. He struck a pose, one foot out, and bowed as he handed Aunt Sophie her glass.

  “A sparkling drink, to complement your effervescent personality, Countess,” he said, giving her a long look from his deep blue eyes. “Indeed, I need only spend time in your presence to feel giddy.”

  Aunt Sophie tapped him on the arm with her folded fan. “You are a flirt, Lord Percival.”

  “How could I be otherwise, surrounded by such beauty?” He turned to Irenna and held out her glass. “Miss Brunner, I ought to have brought you sherry, instead, to complement the color of your eyes. I say, you’re made up of the finest vintages.”

  The compliments stung, salt on the too-recent wounds she bore from the Austrian court, and a flare of anger overrode her usual reticence.

  “Sherry would not do at all,” she said, taking her champagne. “You might find that type of cloying beverage to your taste, my lord, but I prefer a strong cup of coffee.”

  Irenna accompanied these words with what she hoped was a piercing look. Likely her insinuation that he wasn’t manly enough to drink black coffee would fly right over that aggravatingly handsome head. At least he was harmless. Such striking good looks in a more intelligent man would prove a deadly combination.

  His eyes widened a fraction, and then he let out a whinny of a laugh. “Of course—coffee. Thought I admit, when I drink it at all, I take three lumps and plenty of cream in my cup. One shouldn’t deny the sweetness of life, after all.”

  So, her suspicions had proved correct. “I believe one should accept the bitter, and not try to mask it with falsity.”

  “I declare, Miss Brunner. Next you’ll tell me you like to add a bit of vinegar in order to accentuate the bite. I wouldn’t have thought it.”

  “Irenna is a complex young woman,” Aunt Sophie said.

  “As you Austrians are.” He turned back to Irenna’s aunt. “Full of exciting depths.”

  Irenna didn’t know whether to take offense at his overblown compliments or be amused by them. Clearly Aunt Sophie had decided upon the latter, enjoying the viscount’s attentions without giving them undue weight.

  “I believe our dance is about to begin,” she said, finishing off her champagne. “Stay out of trouble, Irenna.”

  Irenna gave her aunt a nod. She would retreat to the edge of the ballroom with the rest of the wallflowers, sip her champagne, and attempt to dismiss her irritation with Viscount Percival. It wasn’t the man’s fault that he was a brainless ninny as well as a flirt.

  He’s harmless, she reminded herself. Unlike Baron Andris, who had set out to seduce her on a bet. And she, foolish innocent, had fallen right into his trap.

  She was wiser now. A touch more bitter, too—the viscount was correct on that point. But life was strong and dark and often unpleasant. It was better to drink it down in a quick gulp than to dress it up with frivolities in an attempt to disguise the pain.

  Chapter Two

  Anthony summoned the force of his wit, concentrating on making Countess Dietrichstein laugh. She was a good-natured woman. Unlike her prickly niece, who clearly disapproved of him.

  Good thing it was not Miss Brunner whom he must try and seduce. Though he had plenty of charm, he suspected the reserved young woman would remain unimpressed. She was wary in the face of his flirtation, which made perfect sense when he recalled the dossier on her. Apparently she’d been the victim of a seduction bet placed by two unsavory young Austrian nobles.

  No wonder the poor thing was skittish.

  “Go gently with my niece,” the countess said, as if reading his thoughts. “She’s recovering from a recent encounter with a most unsuitable young man. Although her reputation remains intact, I’m afraid her heart is bruised.”

  He glanced down at Countess Dietrichstein, rapidly revising his plans. Perhaps the countess was more interested in him for Miss Brunner’s sake than her own.

  “My dear countess,” he said lightly, “are you certain you ought to confide such things to me? I fear I’m not worthy.”

  “I believe you are,” she said. “In fact, would you like to come for tea tomorrow?”

  “It would be my pleasure.” The smile he gave her was genuine. “I could think of no better company in all of London.”

  The more time he spent with the Austrians, the more intelligence he’d be able to gather for the queen. Even if Countess Dietrichstein was pushing him at her niece, he could still flirt with the ambassador’s wife, and maybe even steal a kiss. Which was doubtful in the case of Miss Brunner.

  Besides, the countess would know far more about Austria’s intentions toward Sardinia than her niece. It was his duty to discover everything he could on that score. Luckily, the countess’s schemes dovetailed with his own. He’d be glad to attempt a flirtation with the reserved Miss Brunner if it kept the doors of Chandos House open to him.

  “Come at two in the afternoon,” Countess Dietrichstein said as their dance ended.

  “Will I have the honor of meeting your husband?” Anthony was curious to hear her answer. If she said no then perhaps she was, after all, interested in pursuing an affair with him.

  The countess gave him an arch look. “Perhaps you will meet the ambassador, and perhaps not. Now, let us go find my niece. I believe the waltz is next.”

  “By all means.” He smiled blandly. It seemed he’d have to prepare for both possibilities—playing up to either the countess or her niece. “And I must say that, though I’m sorry to lose such an engaging partner, I
have no doubt Miss Brunner will prove equally good company.”

  The countess raised one brow. “She is very well read. Perhaps you two might discuss literature.”

  He would enjoy that—but it would ruin his carefully crafted façade of ignorance. “I only read Byron,” he lied. “Such a profound fellow, from what I can grasp of it.”

  “I see.” His partner gave him a considering look. “Do you attend the opera? That might do for a topic.”

  “I shall take it under advisement. I hear you have lovely opera houses in Austria. Do you miss your country?”

  She sighed. “I do, a bit. It’s always difficult being away from one’s homeland. But for the sake of the ambassador, I persevere.”

  “Let me assist you in making your exile more tolerable,” he said, pressing her hand. “When I come to call tomorrow, perhaps you can show me your library.”

  “I thought you didn’t read,” she said with surprise.

  “I don’t. But libraries make such lovely trysting places. So many dim nooks to disappear into.”

  “You are a scoundrel.” She laughed and tapped him on the arm with her fan. “I expect you to be on better behavior with my niece.”

  “I expect she won’t accept anything less. Rather shy, isn’t she?”

  “A state that has only grown worse since the unfortunate attentions of that despicable young man.” The countess let out a breath.

  “Enough melancholy.” Anthony swept her into a twirl. “We cannot have any frowns settling upon your lovely face. Tell me, what do you like best about London?”

  The rest of the mazurka passed in trivial chatter, but he had long ago learned to sift through the chaff for a grain or two of truth. During the course of their conversation he was able to determine that, indeed, tensions between Austria and Sardinia were high, even in the relative neutrality of London. He gathered that the ambassadors had exchanged heated words, and were no longer on speaking terms. Even worse, apparently some members of their households had come to blows, though it had never been reported to the authorities.

  The music came to an end, and Anthony twirled his partner one last time.

  “Thank you, my lady, for the dance,” he said as he escorted the countess to the side of the ballroom where her niece waited. “It was the highlight of my evening.”

  “I do believe the waltz is about to begin,” Countess Dietrichstein said as they halted before Miss Brunner. “I hope you find it equally inspiring.”

  “How could I not?” He bowed to Miss Brunner, who looked distinctly nervous at the prospect. Time to dispel her fears and re-establish his persona.

  “Wait, wait.” He tilted his face dramatically toward the ceiling. “I feel a poem coming upon me. It’s rather like a sneeze, you know. A particular tickling at the back of the nose.”

  The countess and her niece exchanged an amused look, as had been his aim.

  “Ah, here it is.” He cleared his throat. “She walks in loveliness as the day, her smile is like the sun, it smites me to my very soul, and does not make me… run.”

  He paused, one arm outstretched, and held the pose. Finally, the countess applauded, her gloves muffling the sound. Looking a bit perplexed, Miss Brunner clapped her hands together once or twice as well.

  “Thank you, thank you.” He made them both a flourishing bow. “When inspiration strikes, one must heed the muse.”

  “That was quite… original,” Countess Dietrichstein said.

  Miss Brunner shot her aunt a glance, then blinked at Anthony. “Are you a fan of Lord Byron’s poetry, by chance?”

  “Indeed! It is the only thing I read. But what a compliment, to be compared to the bard himself.”

  “I believe it is not Byron, but Shakesp—”

  “Oh, listen,” the countess said. “The music is striking up, and, all questions of poetry aside, you two ought to find a place upon the floor before it becomes overcrowded. Now, go.” She made a shooing motion with her fan.

  “My lady.” Anthony offered his arm to Miss Brunner, glad to see her take it with little hesitation. His foolishness had done its job and set her mind at ease.

  He guided her to a place near the edge, where he would be able to twirl her about. After her comments about his coffee drinking, he wished to impress her with his dancing, as if to make up for the fact that his persona never would. A pity he must always play the fool.

  “I hope I might do the waltz justice. After all, it originated in Vienna.” He infused a forlorn note into his voice. “I fear you’ll find our English version a poor substitute.”

  “I… haven’t danced it often, Lord Percival, so you need have no fears on that account.”

  “Still, I shall endeavor to come up to snuff.”

  Along with his skills at flirtation and subterfuge, he’d spent hours with the dancing master. Not only to better his own abilities at the dance, but to master the art of making any lady, no matter how clumsy, appear graceful upon the floor.

  To his pleasure, he found that Miss Brunner was not one of those dancers he must labor with. Quite the contrary. Despite her claims of inexperience, she stepped lightly over the polished oak, responding to his lead as they swooped and whirled about the floor.

  He was peripherally aware of the murmurs and glances as they soared about the room, and knew the ton would be gossiping the next day about how Lord Percival had added another conquest to his very long roster. But at the moment, he was caught up in the waltz.

  Miss Brunner was the perfect height for him, the crown of her head coming to the bridge of his nose. Despite her reserve, she knew how to lean into his arms, following his lead effortlessly. Her hair shone a glossy brown from the gaslight chandeliers overhead, and despite his earlier flattery, it was true that her eyes were the clear golden-amber color of fine sherry. Even more attractive, however, was the intelligence that sparked in their depths.

  Her quick wit showed a quick mind, and even though it made his job more difficult, it was also more enjoyable.

  She had a thin nose and high cheekbones, and a little pointed chin that put him in mind of some inquisitive creature—a cat, perhaps, or a fox. It was not a face that would be called beautiful, necessarily, but she was quite lovely enough in his opinion.

  And a bit flushed. He slowed their pace, returning to a more sedate step so that she might catch her breath.

  “I hope you’re enjoying London,” he said. “Your aunt tells me you’ve only recently arrived. Have you had the opportunity to attend the opera?”

  “I haven’t, although I am a fan of the opera. However overwrought it might be.” She accompanied this with a pointed look.

  Anthony decided to accept the challenge. “I declare, it is the very highest of art forms, capturing the particulars of human emotion as no other medium can. I simply adore the opera.”

  At least, the foppish Lord Percival did. Anthony, however, would have to agree with Miss Brunner’s assessment. Most operas were rather over the top.

  “Even more than the work of Lord Byron?” she asked, with the slight raise of an eyebrow.

  “Put the two together, and I believe mortals have achieved heaven. Indeed,” he said brightly, as if the thought had just occurred to him, “the opera by that Italian fellow, based on a play by Byron, is going to be performed this weekend at Her Majesty’s Theater in Haymarket. Perhaps you and your aunt would like to attend with me?”

  “I due Foscari by Verdi, you mean?”

  “You speak Italian as well? Splendid—you may explain the words to me as they are sung. Such a pity the Italians don’t write more operas in English. Although one can follow the storyline well enough if the acting is competent. This one is majestically tragic, if I recall Byron’s work correctly.”

  She simply gazed at him, as if unsure how to respond. With a wry, inward smile, he decided to save her from the burden of replying to his inanity by whirling her into another swooping turn.

  He did speak Italian, of course, as well as French, Spanish, Germa
n, and enough Bavarian to get by outside of Vienna. His Portuguese was weak, however, and his Russian very poor indeed. Which was one of the reasons he was put to best use among the embassies in London, where, due to his persona, his ability to understand foreign languages was often underestimated. More than once, he’d gained an essential bit of knowledge by simply pretending not to understand the conversations flowing around him.

  Pretense, and more pretense. For a moment weariness settled upon his soul at the knowledge that he would never be able to simply be himself in London society.

  “Are you well, my lord?” Miss Brunner asked, glancing up at him.

  Luckily, the music had slowed, signaling the final bars of the dance, so he had a ready excuse.

  “Did I sigh aloud? My apologies. I was only thinking how sad it is that our waltz is coming to an end.”

  He pivoted, drawing them into one last turn, and she followed beautifully, the azure skirts of her gown swinging out like a bell. Gently, he drew them to halt, then paused, looking down into her face. Her lips were slightly parted, and the irresponsible urge to kiss her, right there in the middle of the ballroom, swept over him.

  Damnation—what had come over him? His kisses were to be used in the service of the Crown, and not for his own desire. He tamped down the impulse and lowered his arms, releasing her from the embrace of the waltz.

  “It was my pleasure,” she said, a ring of sincerity in her voice. “You dance very well.”

  “So I’ve been told. You are quite light upon your feet as well.” He gave her the simpleton’s look he’d perfected. “Perhaps something in the Viennese water makes you natural waltzers.”

  He offered his arm to escort her back to her aunt, and she took it, resting her gloved fingers upon his forearm. It was only his imagination that he could feel heat radiating from her touch.

  “Surely that must be it,” she said. “Just as British air makes one naturally desire tea instead of coffee.”