For a fleeting moment, Irenna wished that his mind were as well formed as his features. But that would make him a formidable gentleman, indeed, and one she would never feel comfortable with. It was just as well his head was stuffed with feathers and foolishness.
“I shall pine away the hours until Saturday,” he said, giving a theatrical sigh.
“It’s only two days.” Irenna smiled to soften her words.
“We are looking forward to it as well,” Aunt Sophie said, rallying. “Let me see you to the door, Lord Percival.”
“No need,” he said, rising. “You deserve a moment to sit with your niece. Adieu, bright flowers of the day.”
He gave them a charming smile, swept a bow fit for a king, and let himself out of the drawing room.
Aunt Sophie sighed and leaned back in her chair. “I ought to at least ring for the butler to see him out.”
“I doubt even Lord Percival could get lost on the way to the front door,” Irenna said. “Besides, on the off chance he overhears anything, he doesn’t understand Bavarian. He thought the count was whispering words of love to you.”
“What a romantic fellow the viscount is. Well then, no harm should come from it, though I’m a rather derelict hostess. Still, this news from Lombardy has me unsettled. I hope we are safe here in London.”
“I can’t imagine why not.”
“The Sardinians.” A worried line formed between Aunt Sophie’s brows. “Perhaps we oughtn’t attend the opera after all. I must discuss it with the ambassador.”
Irenna took a last sip of her cooling coffee. “The viscount will be disappointed if we don’t go.” In truth, she would be a bit sorry, too.
“He will weather the setback, I’ve no doubt. But nothing’s decided at this point. Try not to fret about this news until we know more, and I will do the same.”
Irenna nodded, but worry settled coldly in the pit of her stomach. Even as removed from politics as she considered herself, she knew that if the Sardinians were uprising, it could only mean trouble.
Anthony paused a moment outside the drawing room, waiting to see if Countess Dietrichstein would ring for the butler. Happily, for his purposes, the man did not appear, so Anthony began to amble down the hallway.
There were many fine paintings displayed on the walls, and he could always cover his behavior by saying he’d merely been admiring the art. In truth, of course, he was planning to eavesdrop at the doors and see what he could glean.
He knew the people of Northern Italy were unhappy under Austrian rule—but had they gone so far as to rise up and throw the government out? It was a worrying development.
Midway down the hall, he was rewarded with the sound of people speaking Bavarian. Silently, he drifted up to the door, then paused with his ear at the crack. It was difficult to make out every word, but the gist was enough to notch his pulse up.
The people of Milan had thrown the Austrians out and the very next day Venice had followed suit.
“Foolish Italians!” The ambassador’s voice rose. “Next thing you know, they’ll be declaring war.”
Anthony’s gut clenched. He very much feared the ambassador was right. Good thing he’d already inserted himself into Countess Dietrichstein’s circle. The situation would need close watching, and he couldn’t help but worry that the hotheads among the Sardinian contingent in London might take action against the Austrians.
He’d need to have a word with the authorities in Buckingham Palace to make sure they remained alert for any situations that might bring the opposing factions into contact.
Like the opera. Anthony frowned. Perhaps he should cancel that outing after all, though it was a perfect opportunity to collect more intelligence. He’d have to wait and see how things developed—or deteriorated—in the next few days.
The ambassador’s voice grew louder, and Anthony quickly removed himself from his listening post and continued down the hall. Within three minutes he’d collected his things from the butler, and was gone before anyone was the wiser.
It was drizzling as usual, puddles widening on the cobblestones. He turned up the collar of his coat and hailed a cab to take him back to Percival House.
As they jolted down the streets of Marleybone, he folded his arms and reviewed the events at the embassy. His mind was a bit unsettled, and not all due to the recent news. In truth, even before the ambassador had come in, he’d felt a bit on edge. During tea there’d been a handful of moments when he felt as though Miss Brunner saw through his façade, and that was worrisome.
She was a perceptive young woman, her general reserve hiding a sharp mind, and he’d do very well to remember that fact.
Luckily, his terrible poetry had seemed to throw her off the scent, but he’d need to watch himself. Something about Miss Irenna Brunner made him feel reckless, and he could not afford to jeopardize his cover, especially as the Continent teetered on the edge of war. Now, more than ever, it was essential he maintain the pretense of the foolishly foppish Lord Percival.
No matter how much he might want to see a spark of true admiration in a certain pair of sherry-colored eyes.
Chapter Four
Two days later, Anthony waited in the foyer at Chandos House to escort the countess and her niece to the opera.
Despite the worsening situation between Sardinia and Austria—or rather, because of it—Queen Victoria and her advisors had directed him to remain in close contact with the Austrians.
He could see the sense in it, though he didn’t like taking the ladies into a potentially difficult situation. Still, it was the opera. Surely no harm could come to them there. He’d remain extra vigilant, and, upon his recommendation, there would be members of the Queen’s Guard scattered throughout the crowd.
He did not have long to wait before Countess Dietrichstein and her niece appeared at the head of the staircase, dressed in their finery. With a stab of amusement, he saw that once again he and Miss Brunner had worn very similar colors.
He gown was sage green with a silvery gauze overskirt that matched his silver-embroidered green waistcoat to perfection. The dress revealed the creamy curve of her shoulders and bosom, the full skirts accentuated her trim figure, and, despite himself, Anthony’s mouth went dry at the sight of her.
Damnation—what was it about this woman that affected him so? He could not afford any type of infatuation, no matter how mild, to cloud his mind.
“My dear countess,” he said, resolutely turning his attention to the older woman as she descended the stairs, “how splendid you look this evening.” It was true; her golden gown and matching topaz jewelry set off her complexion perfectly. But, like a sundial attuned to the noonday sun, his attention returned inexorably to her niece. “And you, Miss Brunner, look like a nymph stepped out of the deep woods. Your gown is an exceptional color.”
Her brows rose slightly and she glanced at his clothing, no doubt noting the hue of his waistcoat.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said softly.
“Good evening, Lord Percival,” the countess said. “I cannot help but notice that you and my niece are once more in perfect sartorial agreement. One might almost think your stars are aligned.”
“It is a happy coincidence,” he said. “But I must say, I will be completely eclipsed by the beauty on either side of me.”
“Never fear.” The countess descended the last stair and set her gloved hand on his arm. “You are splendidly attired yourself.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Anthony flourished his black silk opera cape. It was a silly thing to wear, but it fit his persona perfectly. “My carriage is waiting outside. Shall we?”
The butler and a footman shadowed them with umbrellas as they stepped into the rainy night. Anthony scanned the street for any threat, but everything was clear. He handed the ladies into the carriage then took the seat across from them. The lamp sent a warm glow over the interior, burnishing Miss Brunner’s hair and making the jewels at Countess Dietrichstein’s throat sparkle.
; “A pity the ambassador cannot join us this evening,” he said.
“He is much occupied these days.” The countess’s voice was strained. “Perhaps you’ve heard of the recent troubles?”
“I can’t say that I have,” he lied. “Is something the matter in Austria?”
“There are difficulties in Lombardy, that is all,” she said. “But we needn’t let politics spoil our evening.”
“Nothing could spoil it while I’m in the presence of two such lovely ladies,” he said. “Not to mention going to see an opera based on Byron. I declare, my life is complete.”
A smile flitted over Miss Brunner’s lips at his absurdity. He was tempted to declaim another extemporaneous poem, just to make her smile more widely, but the time wasn’t quite right. Later, perhaps.
“I hope you stand ready to assist me in my comprehension of the libretto, Miss Brunner,” he said. “Though you needn’t translate as they sing. A brief summary between scenes ought to suffice.”
“I’ll do my best,” she said, and he imagined he could hear a faint disappointment in her voice.
Squelching the urge to confess he was actually fluent in several languages, Anthony instead gave her a bland smile.
Soon enough they arrived at the Queen’s Theater. As he alighted from the carriage, he exchanged a look and a nod with his driver, who also happened to be one of the few people aware of Anthony’s double life. The man would keep an eye on things outside, and send a note if he saw any trouble brewing.
In the meantime, though, the rain had stopped and the crowd at the opera seemed the usual sort: lords and ladies in their finery making their way to their boxes, the middle class taking their places in the less desirable seats, while over it all came the sound of the orchestra tuning up in the pit.
Anthony ushered the ladies to the box reserved for Austrian dignitaries, then went to the railing and pulled a pair of gold-chased opera glasses from his pocket.
“I must see if there is any royalty about,” he said, by way of excuse. “Perhaps the queen and prince are in attendance tonight.”
He knew they weren’t, of course, but under cover of looking, he scanned the crowd for members of the Sardinian embassy. Unfortunately, in a box across the way, he spotted Countess Rossi, the ambassador’s wife, along with her usual entourage. She was a former opera singer, so he supposed it wasn’t odd that she’d chosen to attend. Her presence didn’t alarm him. However, the hotheaded young men—relatives of Count Rossi—might cause problems if they knew the Austrians were beneath the same roof.
Even if any trouble arose, however, he felt confident in his ability to protect the ladies. He had his walking stick, and, even better than that, training in some of the self-defense arts of the Orient. It was not a skill he advertised, of course, but it had come in very handy several times in the past. He blessed the old man who’d given him instruction, and hoped Master Nakata was enjoying his well-deserved retirement in the sunny climes of Majorca.
“Irenna, you and the viscount take the front row,” the countess said. “I’ll sit behind you and make sure you don’t get up to any trouble.”
She laughed, and Miss Brunner replied in a slightly exasperated tone, “You know very well that if I whisper to Viscount Percival, it is only to translate the action on the stage.”
“And I thank you for it.” Anthony marked the location of the Sardinians firmly in his mind, then lowered the binoculars.
“Lady Dietrichstein,” he said, “you are more than welcome to make use of my opera glasses.” They’d served their purpose for him, after all.
“Thank you,” she said. “I believe I neglected to bring mine. Not that we are so very far from stage, but I do like being able to see the costumes more clearly. Irenna, you may share with me if you like, but your young eyes probably need no assistance.”
The gaslights dimmed, and the crowd quieted at the signal the opera was about to begin. Anthony settled beside Miss Brunner as the first strains of the overture began.
He hadn’t intended his request for translation as an excuse to sit next to her, but he didn’t regret it. In the dimness, he could smell the scent of roses on her skin. Pretending carelessness, he let his arm brush hers.
It was foolish; he was acting like a green youth with his first infatuation. Yet he could not deny it made his pulse race. This was nothing like his usual flirtations and seductions, and that made his attraction—for yes, he must admit it as such—to Miss Brunner all the more poignant.
For her part, she did not shift away. Perhaps she was not aware of his arm touching hers, but he doubted it. The music flowed over them, the costumed performers took the stage, but as far as he was concerned, the most vibrant presence in the opera house was the self-contained young woman at his side.
When the first act ended, Miss Brunner leaned over and softly explained what he already knew: the Doge of Venice’s son had returned from exile, only to be unjustly convicted of murder amid his wife’s lamentations and his father’s sorrow.
“Ah yes, I recall it from the play,” Anthony said. “Matters do not proceed for the better in Act II, I daresay.”
He was proved correct, of course. Not only was Byron’s tale melodramatic, the opera took it to nearly ridiculous heights. As was the task of art, he supposed—to draw things in broad, sweeping lines. A pity that life itself was so muddied and uncertain, more scribble than heroic brushstroke.
At the end of the second act, the lights came up. Anthony glanced at the Sardinian contingent, gauging the mood of the young men he’d noted earlier. The fact that the opera was set in Venice would no doubt stoke their patriotism, and it appeared that the occupants of the box were breaking out champagne. No doubt many boisterous toasts would follow, and he felt a prickle of foreboding.
Drunken Italians were never a good idea.
“As you probably saw in Act II,” Miss Brunner said to him, “things are falling out quite badly for our poor hero. Exile from his home and family is imminent.”
“A pity the doge can do nothing to save his son,” Anthony said. “What good is it being a ruler if one cannot act to help family in times of trouble?”
“That is the tragedy,” Miss Brunner said. “For a man of honor, duty must come before all.”
His heart twisted inside him. It was a burden he was all too familiar with. He’d never known his father, who’d died fighting Napoleon at Waterloo, unaware that his wife was going to bear him a son.
Anthony had grown up under a hero’s shadow, and vowed that he would follow in his father’s footsteps. It was impossible to make a ghost proud, but he tried.
Eventually, of course, he must start a family of his own and produce an heir, but the time had never been right. Besides, how could he marry anyone when he could not show his true self?
As he had done countless times before, he stuffed the question away. No doubt it would spring upon him again, pricking him with its sharp claws, but for now there were far more pressing matters than pondering such fruitless questions.
“I would like to freshen up,” the countess said. “Do accompany me, Irenna.”
Anthony quickly got to his feet and offered Lady Dietrichstein his arm. “Allow me to escort you from the box. It would be terribly remiss of me to do otherwise.”
In fact, he intended to take them both to the very door of the ladies’ retiring room, making sure they did not leave his side for any other reason.
Despite the crush, the ladies were delivered safely. Anthony took up a station nearby, his senses focused on the crowd. He was pleased to find that the Sardinians seemed to have stayed in their private box and not ventured out to make trouble.
He bowed his head and pretended a preoccupation with his appearance, brushing lint from his sleeves and fiddling with his cuffs. Long ago he’d discovered that if a person appeared not to be listening, talk flowed more freely.
There was little to be gleaned, however. Most of the inhabitants of London, even the lords and ladies, paid little att
ention to matters outside their own sphere. Of course, when the news made it to Parliament it would cause a stir, but so far the tensions between Austria and Sardinia were a distant cauldron that had not, quite, bubbled over.
He prayed it would remain that way.
Countess Dietrichstein and Miss Brunner emerged from their toilette just as the lights flickered to signal the end of intermission. Anthony felt his tension ease as he led them back up the grand staircase toward the safety of their box.
“Oh, dear.” Miss Brunner paused with her hand on the railing. “I left my fan in the ladies’ room. Do take my aunt to our box—I won’t be a moment.”
“Wait.” Anthony reached for her, but she’d already turned and whisked away, her steps brisk.
His fingers curled and he could feel his expression harden. Every instinct told him to follow. But he could not abandon Countess Dietrichstein in the middle of the stairs, and the lights were already dimming.
“You may go after her,” the countess said.
Anthony gave a quick shake of his head. “Once you’re settled, I will.”
No matter what his heart said, the safety of the ambassador’s wife’s was more important than that of her niece.
To her credit, the countess stepped quickly down the hallway. After what felt an eternity but was only a minute or two, they reached the box.
“Go.” The countess waved her gloved hand at him.
He pivoted and sprinted back down the empty hall. Surely he’d meet Miss Brunner coming back, and he’d be able to dismiss the anxiety tightening his gut.
But he did not see her; not in the hallway, and not even coming up the wide staircase. He did, however, hear something that made his pulse spike. A voice with a heavy Sardinian accent and a taunting tone that made rage flash across his vision.
He leaped down the stairs two at a time, vaulted the railing, and raced in the direction of that voice.
There, by the coat check. Miss Brunner stood facing three young Sardinian men. Her chin was raised, but he could see fear in her wide eyes and imagined he could feel her pulse thudding.
Her Majesty’s Scoundrels Page 25