Teresa Grant - [Charles & Melanie Fraser 01]

by Vienna Waltz

20

  The sour, pungent smell of beer seemed to have leached into the rafters and the floorboards of the Empress Rose tavern. Smoke from pipes and cigars, forbidden in most of Vienna’s more elegant cafés, hung thick in the air. Suzanne stepped through the door that Malcolm was holding open for her. Guessing Princess Tatiana would have costumed herself for the venue, Suzanne had dressed in a simple poplin covered by a scarlet wool cloak. A deep-brimmed cottage bonnet covered her hair, which was in turn covered by a blond wig.

  Malcolm, garbed in a sturdy wool coat that might belong to a middling tradesman, followed her into the tavern. Heads turned in their direction. Though several women were present, their gaudy, low-cut gowns and bright hair dyed in shades of gold and red suggested that they were there in search of custom. It was just past eleven o’clock, but a number of men filled the tables as well. Tradesmen and clerks, judging by the cut and fabric of their clothes. And some, with flashy coats and spotted handkerchiefs in place of cravats, who Suzanne suspected were cardsharps or even thieves or fences. The smattering of accents that assailed her ears as talk resumed came from a variety of classes and districts, and she caught fragments of French, Dutch, and Italian layered in with the German.

  Malcolm took her arm and steered her to an empty table. Ostentatiously in the middle of the room. Today they wanted not to hide but to observe those about them. When a waiter appeared, Malcolm ordered two glasses of beer but made no effort to ask questions. Safer to settle in first.

  Suzanne untied her cloak and let it fall over the rough-cut slats of the chairback. She felt a crossfire of curious gazes shot their way. Hostility from several of the women, frank appraisal from a number of the men. Her gown had a modest neckline but clung to the curves of her body and the blond wig had luxuriant ringlets that fell over her face for added protection. She caught a negotiation over terms, in progress at a nearby table between a lady with bright gold hair and a stout, red-faced gentleman. Fragments of other conversations drifted through the air—the rise in the price of candles and laundry soap during the Congress (a lot of dirty linen to be washed, one man joked), the money to be made if one had rooms to let, and the gullibility of foreigners. In particular the English, if she heard correctly. Malcolm must have heard the same, for she saw a grin reflected in his eyes.

  Their waiter returned and set two foaming glasses of pilsner before them. Suzanne looked up at him, her gaze turned beseeching. “If I could ask you—You see, we didn’t just happen to come into this tavern.” She hesitated, eyes downcast, as though modesty forbade her to frame what she needed to say next.

  “My wife is in search of her sister,” Malcolm said.

  The waiter, a thin young man with straw-colored hair and sharp blue eyes, looked between them. “Ladies don’t come here often.” He cast a glance round the tavern, indicating that he would not class the other women present as ladies.

  “That’s just it,” Suzanne said. “Constanze ran away.” She put a hand to her face.

  “Meine liebe, you’re getting it all muddled.” Malcolm gripped her hand and drew it down to the table. “My wife’s sister ran off with a scoun—A man of whom the family did not approve. I fear it wasn’t the first—” He coughed. “That is neither here nor there. We have been searching for my sister-in-law in vain for some weeks—”

  “You didn’t try hard enough.” Suzanne pulled a handkerchief from her felt reticule and blew her nose.

  “Liebling, as I’ve told you many times, I want her safely home as much as anyone. The scandal isn’t good for business.”

  “You and your wretched shop.” She wadded up the handkerchief and threw it on the table.

  Malcolm spared her a brief, quelling glance. “Suffice it to say, we had no luck in discovering my wife’s sister’s whereabouts until yesterday. Someone reported seeing Constanze come into this tavern three days ago.”

  Suzanne reached into her reticule again and drew out a pewter-framed miniature. A Titian-haired young woman, loose curls falling about her face, a gauzy white muslin gown slipping from her shoulders. When Malcolm had first shown it to her, she’d been startled by how young Princess Tatiana looked. Young and unexpectedly artless, though worldly wisdom still glinted in her eyes. Suzanne suspected the princess had had that from childhood.

  The simplicity of her gown and hairstyle fit well with their charade. The fair-haired waiter took the picture and held it to the light from the windows, raised his brows, frowned, then shook his head. “I was here three days ago, from opening until closing. I saw no one resembling this lady. More’s the pity.”

  “She might have disguised herself,” Suzanne said. “Changed the color of her hair perhaps.”

  “Believe me, I’d have remembered this lady. Whatever her hair color.”

  “She might even have been dressed as a man,” Malcolm suggested.

  “Mein schatz—” Suzanne protested.

  “God knows what your sister might get up to.”

  The waiter grinned, then shook his head again. “Even dressed as a man, she’d have stood out.”

  Suzanne studied him with wide, pleading eyes. “Could you ask the others who might have been working that day?”

  “They won’t remember differently.”

  Malcolm took a sip from his glass of beer. “I’m sure I need hardly say how highly we would value news of my sister-in-law.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a purse. He slid out a handful of banknotes. “Very highly.”

  Something flickered in the waiter’s eyes for a moment. Then he gave a reluctant grin. “Sorry. I’d like to. But I’d have to fabricate a story.”

  That smile was just a bit too practiced. Suzanne’s blood quickened. She didn’t risk a glance at Malcolm, but she knew he had sensed it as well. The waiter was lying.

  “All the same,” Malcolm said, “if we could talk to the others who were working that day. I fear my wife will give me no peace if we do not pursue all possible avenues.”

  Wariness settled in the waiter’s eyes for an instant. Then he inclined his head. “Of course.”

  Two other waiters, a kitchen maid, and a potboy returned the same negative answers. One of the waiters made appreciative noises over Tatiana’s picture. The other answered in monosyllables. The kitchen maid fidgeted with the tie on her apron. The potboy stared fixedly at the worn toes of his shoes. His eyes widened at the sight of Tatiana’s picture. For an instant Suzanne thought he was about to tell them something. Then he cast a sidelong glance at the fair-haired waiter and went silent.

  Malcolm and Suzanne lingered at their table for a time in case any of the staff tried to approach them on their own, or any of the tavern’s regulars who had overheard them (they had taken care to speak in tones that carried) offered information, but no one came forward. At length they wrapped themselves in their outer garments and left, their glasses of beer still half-full.

  A light rain was falling when they left the tavern and an autumn chill had settled in the air. The unseasonable warmth was at last giving way to the promise of winter. Malcolm gave her his arm, and they proceeded down the street at a slow pace.

  A whistle sounded as they passed an alley on the left. “Mein herr.” The voice was low, fierce, and high-pitched.

  It was the potboy. Heinrich. He was a thin child of perhaps ten or eleven, with brown hair in want of trimming and a smattering of freckles across his pale skin. Malcolm stepped quickly into the alley, bringing Suzanne with him, so the skirts of his greatcoat and the folds of her cloak shielded Heinrich from view.

  The boy’s wary gaze shot between them. “I wanted to tell you. But I knew I’d get a whipping. If they find out—” He cast a nervous glance in the direction of the tavern.

  “There’s no need for them to find out,” Malcolm said.

  Heinrich gave a quick nod. He looked at Suzanne. “The lady with the red hair—she’s your sister? She’s in trouble?”

  “We fear so,” Suzanne said. “Did you see her?”

  “Three days ago.
She must have dyed her hair or been wearing a wig like you said, sir. Her hair was dark as boot blacking. But I remember her face. Her smile—it was kind.”

  “Was anyone with her?” Malcolm asked. “Or did she meet anyone at the tavern?”

  “No. She came in alone. And she wasn’t meeting anyone. She wanted information.”

  “About?” Malcolm asked. Suzanne heard the edge of tension in her husband’s voice.

  Heinrich scraped his foot against the cobblestones. “She wanted to know if a group of men met in the tavern.”

  “And do they?” Malcolm’s voice was gentle and steady.

  The boy gave a quick nod. “In a room above the taproom.”

  “Who are they?”

  Heinrich dug at a loose cobblestone with the worn toe of his shoe. “Gentlemen, from their coats and linen. Here for the Congress.”

  “How do you know?”

  “They speak German with an accent. And when they’re alone in the room, they speak another language. I don’t know which.”

  Malcolm cast a glance at Suzanne. “Was it this?” He offered a phrase in French. “Or this?” He tried Italian, Spanish, Russian, Polish, Dutch, Swedish.

  Heinrich listened, brows drawn with concentration, but shook his head. “I never heard more than vague sounds through the door. The few times I was sent into the room with a pot of ale or a plate of food they stopped talking. They always spoke to me in German.”

  “When did they start coming to the tavern?”

  He frowned, knocking the loose cobblestone against its fellows. “A month since, perhaps. They come about once a week, sometimes twice. Not always on the same night. And sometimes they don’t come at night at all. The last time was a week ago yesterday.”

  “You told the lady about them?”

  “Axel did. The waiter you first talked to. But then later a man came to the tavern and spoke with him for a long time and with Herr Franck, who owns the tavern. Afterward Axel said we were to say no more about the men. When I asked a question he cuffed me.”

  “You’re very brave.” Malcolm reached into his pocket and drew out the purse he had offered to Axel.

  Heinrich stared at it, then lifted his gaze to Malcolm, his shoulders straightening with pride. “I didn’t ask for money.”

  “No, but you’ve rendered us a great service, at considerable risk to yourself. I hope you’ll allow us to show our gratitude. It will help ease our consciences from the fear that we’ve brought danger upon you.”

  The boy hesitated a moment longer, then gave a quick, shy smile and accepted the banknotes Malcolm pressed into his hand. “Is the lady with the red hair in danger?”

  “Not anymore,” Malcolm said. “And your information will help us ensure no one else is put in danger. Do you know Café Hugel?”

  Heinrich nodded.

  “If you discover anything further or if your situation at the Empress Rose becomes difficult, go there and ask for Lisl. She’ll know how to find me.”

  Heinrich gave a grave nod, pleased to be treated as an adult and equal. He inclined his head to Suzanne, then darted down the alley.

  Malcolm put up an umbrella and gave Suzanne his arm as they moved back into the street, quiet now as most had gone inside for the midday meal. The rain was falling harder, tumbling in sheets off the overhanging roofs, washing the street with gray and obscuring the view.

  “Who do you think these men are?” Suzanne asked.

  “They could be anyone, from the boy’s description. Damnation.” Malcolm stared at the sodden cobblestones. “If only I’d been in Vienna those last days.”

  “Do you think—”

  She broke off as a carriage rumbled down the street, at a speed only allowed by the lack of traffic. Wheels rattled, horse hooves pounded against the rain-slick cobblestones, sending up sprays of water. They drew to the side. The carriage veered, thundering straight toward them.

  Malcolm half threw her into a doorway. She stumbled and caught her hand against the doorjamb, just as a hoof struck Malcolm, and he fell on top of her.

  His body slammed into her own and crushed the breath from her chest. Pain shot through her injured shoulder. A broken spoke of the umbrella jabbed her near the eye.

  “Malcolm?” She pushed side the wreckage of the umbrella, slid out from under Malcolm, and shook her unresponsive husband. His eyes were closed, his hat knocked from his head. She pulled him into her lap, carefully, tugged off her gloves, and felt sticky blood on the back of his head. “Darling?”

  She put her fingers to his throat and found a pulse that sent a wave of relief coursing through her. She slid her fingers into his hair and explored his scalp gently, seeking for how bad his injuries were.

  He jerked away from her touch and lifted his head with a sound of protest.

  Air rushed into her lungs.

  He sought for purchase on the rain-splashed stone, trying to push himself up. “What the devil—”

  “A carriage tried to run us down. Do you remember?”

  “Got hit. Stupid—”

  “Hardly stupid. You got me out of the way and managed not to get yourself killed. For both of which I’m exceedingly grateful.”

  “Should have been quicker.”

  “You’re the one always saying not to waste time on regrets. Hold still a moment, darling. Your head’s bleeding.”

  Malcolm might be too hard on himself, but at least he wasn’t foolhardy. He stayed still while she finished examining his scalp. Though blood matted his hair, it had stopped flowing and the wound did not appear serious. She helped him sit up. “Are you dizzy?”

  “No.”

  “Liar.” She retrieved his beaver hat, which had rolled into the corner by the door, brushed it off, and returned it to him. “Do you think they were trying to kill us or just scare us?”

  “I don’t know, but we certainly could have been killed.” He settled his hat on his head. “Either way, it could have been a trap by the man who spoke to me last night and sent us to the tavern, but why—”

  “Send us somewhere we could obtain real information.”

  “Quite. I think it’s more likely Axel sent word after we spoke with him. There would have been time to arrange for the carriage while we were interviewing the others and then talking to Heinrich.” He pushed himself to his feet, almost steadily if one didn’t look too closely, and reached down to help her up. He tucked her hand through his arm, but she wasn’t the one he spoke to. “Tania, what the hell had you stumbled into?”

  21

  “You think Tatiana Kirsanova discovered some sort of secret conspiracy that threatens the Congress?” Lord Castlereagh stood at the desk in his study, drumming his fingers on the polished mahogany.

  “That’s what the evidence suggests.”

  Castlereagh fixed Malcolm with the stare he used across the council table. “The evidence is that Princess Tatiana visited a tavern in a less than savory part of town and asked questions about a group of men meeting there.”

  “Foreign men meeting about something so secret someone tried to kill Suzanne and me when we got too close to it.”

  “The carriage could have been an accident.”

  “Believe me, sir, I know the difference.”

  Castlereagh strode to the windows and stared out across the rain-drenched square at the lodgings of his half brother, Lord Stewart, Britain’s official ambassador to Vienna. “These men could be dealers in stolen artifacts. We know Princess Tatiana was one herself.” He turned and regarded Malcolm, the gray light from the window at his back. “We have matters to consider that are weightier than personal feelings. But I’m not insensible of the strain the princess’s death has placed upon you.”

  “Believe me, sir, I’m perfectly capable—”

  “For God’s sake, Malcolm.” Castlereagh took two impatient steps toward him. “Suzanne isn’t here. We can stop pretending. I know what Tatiana Kirsanova was to you. I won’t say I approve your relationship with her. But I wouldn’t be huma
n did I not make allowances for your feelings for her.” Castlereagh, notorious through Vienna for his surprising fidelity to his wife, tugged a crisp shirt cuff smooth beneath the well-cut superfine of his coat. “And I believe I am human, whatever some of my detractors in the House of Commons may say.”

  “Sir.” Malcolm clasped his hands behind his back. “I learned long since to put my personal feelings aside when it comes to matters of policy.”

  “My dear boy, you’re desperate to believe there was some good in Princess Tatiana, and that she thought more of you than of all the others she played against one another.” Castlereagh crossed to Malcolm and gripped his shoulders. “Desperate enough that you’ll grasp hold of any shred of evidence. Desperate enough that you’ll overlook the fact that Tatiana Kirsanova was an unscrupulous adventuress who lived by her wits. Who took a string of men to her bed, including Napoleon Bonaparte. Who occasionally gave us worthwhile information but was no more loyal to us than to anyone else and had the morals of a—”

  Malcolm jerked away from Castlereagh’s hold. He stopped himself, hand raised, a split second before he struck the foreign secretary a blow to the jaw.

  Castlereagh regarded him steadily. “Point taken, I believe.”

  “Your pardon, sir,” Malcolm said, appalled. “I—”

  “It’s all right, Malcolm. I provoked you to it. Deliberately.”

  “And proved your point to admirable effect.” Malcolm rubbed his hand. “But granted I’m not the most clear-sighted person where Tatiana is concerned, of all the people we have access to, I best understand the workings of her mind. You ordered me to discover who killed her.”

  “I’m beginning to question my judgment.” Castlereagh moved back to the desk and folded the London-couriered copy of the Morning Post that lay atop it into neat quarters. “You’ve been talking to Adam Czartoryski.”

  “I thought talking to our fellow diplomats was the point of the incessant round of entertainments we endure in Vienna,” Malcolm said, mindful of the secrecy he owed Czartoryski.

  Castlereagh set the newspaper aside and aligned the papers on his ink blotter. “I should have known Czartoryski’s veneer of liberal principles would draw you in.”