Teresa Grant - [Charles & Melanie Fraser 01]

by Vienna Waltz

  “It was never supposed to go this far.”

  Malcolm stared at the desperate eyes of the man before him. “You’re the one who sent me the notes. Why—”

  “Later.”

  “When’s the attack set for?”

  “During the second half of the concert.”

  “How?”

  “Originally it was supposed to be a sniper. Now—God knows what else Otronsky’s changed along with the date.”

  “Will you recognize the assassin?”

  “I’ve never seen him.”

  Some six thousand people were packed into the Redoutensaal for the concert. Malcolm took Lindorff’s arm and dragged him across the room to Suzanne, whose aubergine velvet gown was blessedly easy to spot, and the others.

  “Lindorff’s just informed me of an impending attack on the tsarina,” he said, breaking into an anecdote Fitz was telling. “Suzanne, go to the tsarina. Get her somewhere secluded. Don’t let her eat or drink anything.”

  Dorothée stepped to Suzanne’s side. “I’ll go with you. They’ll be certain to let me into the imperial box.”

  “It could be anyone,” Malcolm said. “A footman, a waiter, a seeming friend.”

  Suzanne gave a quick nod.

  Malcolm cast a glance at the others, who had all gone admirably still. “The rest of you fan out round the hall. The greatest threat is a shooter, but the attack could come in any form. Fitz, Clam-Martinitz, go to the box opposite the Russian imperial one. Schubert, can you get me backstage? Good. That’s the likeliest place for a sniper to shoot at the boxes.”

  “Willie.” Dorothée seized a fold of her sister’s violet lustring skirts as she and Suzanne passed her on the stairs to the boxes. “Come with us. No time for discussion. Alfred, there may be an armed man in the hall. Planning an attack on the tsarina. Monsieur Rannoch and Karl and others are searching for him. Go to the box opposite the Russian one.”

  Alfred von Windischgrätz blinked, but nodded and set off in the direction she indicated.

  “Good God,” Wilhelmine said, permitting her sister to pull her along. “You’re serious.”

  “It’s the plot Princess Tatiana uncovered,” Suzanne said as they pushed through the suffocating crowd. “We think Count Otronsky is behind it.”

  Instruments could be heard tuning from the hall. The crowd surged toward the doors in a press of silk, velvet, cassimere, and superfine, expensive scent and overheated flesh. Three slender ladies were able to slip through the throng with comparative ease, but it still took maddening minutes to negotiate the masses clogging the stairs and corridors. Suzanne’s sarcenet slipper skidded on an orange peel. She would have fallen had the Courland sisters not caught her by both arms.

  At last they reached the gilded door of the box allotted to the Russian imperial party. Two footmen in powdered wigs stood outside. Wilhelmine stepped between them with an unshakable air of authority and opened the door.

  They passed through the box’s antechamber and stepped through rose-colored curtains into the box itself as the first notes of Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony crashed from the orchestra.

  The tsar and tsarina sat in chairs at the railing. The tsar’s sister, Grand Duchess Catherine, had left the box, probably to join the Crown Prince of Württemberg, whom she was earnestly pursuing. Adam Czartoryski had positioned himself protectively just behind the tsarina. Count Otronsky sat in the back row beside Count Nesselrode.

  All eyes turned to the curtains as the three ladies stepped through. A smile crossed Tsar Alexander’s face at the sight of Wilhelmine. Czartoryski’s gaze went to Suzanne, dark with worry.

  Suzanne positioned herself between Otronsky and the tsarina.

  “Forgive the intrusion,” Wilhelmine said, as a plaintive phrase gave way to another crescendo. “Your Majesties, might we have a word in private?”

  Alexander frowned. “After the concert, surely—”

  “We have reason to believe the tsarina may be in danger.”

  Elisabeth got to her feet. So did Otronsky. Czartoryski hurled himself at the count. “You bastard, what you have you done?”

  “Here.” Schubert directed Malcolm through a side door and up a narrow flight of stairs. For today’s concert, a stage had been set up at one end of the large hall. The crash of the symphony’s opening notes echoed down the stairs.

  “If we see him, try to draw his attention,” Malcolm told Schubert as they pounded up the stairs.

  A blaze of candlelight bouncing off chandelier crystals greeted them as they reached the top of the stairs. In the shock of light, the musicians were a dark-coated blur. Brass and cymbals sounded, answered by strings. Malcolm paused at the head of the stairs, trying to make out shapes.

  There. As the man moved he was caught against the light, a rifle in his hands. At the same moment Malcolm saw him, Schubert let out a whistle in a break in the music. Malcolm hurled himself forward and tackled the man from behind. The shot went wide, pinged off a chandelier, and buried itself in the white and gold plasterwork, the report drowned out by a crescendo.

  40

  Tsar Alexander took a half step toward Czartoryski and Otronsky. “What the devil—”

  “Lisa,” Czartoryski said, gripping Otronsky’s shoulders, “I suggest you go into the anteroom. Alexander, I advise you to accompany your wife.”

  “In God’s name—”

  “Your Majesty.” Wilhelmine’s lilac-kid-gloved fingers closed round the tsar’s arm with a command few would have dared.

  They moved into the anteroom, Czartoryski gripping Otronsky. Otronsky made no effort to escape, but he fixed the prince with a hard gaze. “Czartoryski, have you taken leave of your senses?”

  The door to the corridor opened to admit a footman with a bucket of champagne.

  “Not now,” the tsar said. “Leave it and go.”

  The footman set down the champagne bucket. The tsarina twitched her amber silk skirts out of the way. The footman straightened up. Then he collapsed to the floor as Suzanne pulled the trigger on the pistol she’d taken from her reticule.

  Dorothée screamed. For a moment after, it seemed no one moved or even breathed. Music spilled through the curtains, a riot of quickening, insistent melody. Blood dribbled from the footman’s mouth. His eyes already had the fixed glassiness of death.

  “In God’s name—” The tsar broke off, his gaze on the lethal knife clutched in the dead waiter’s hand.

  The tsarina put her hand to her throat. “It seems I owe you my life, Madame Rannoch.” The knots of cinnamon-colored ribbon on her gown trembled as she drew a breath. “Might we prevail upon you to explain?”

  Czartoryski, still holding tight to Otronsky, had his gaze on Elisabeth. Wilhelmine had put her arm round her sister. Tsar Alexander stared in stupefaction from the dead man to his wife. Count Nesselrode stood silently by the curtains.

  “Count Otronsky hired an assassin to kill the tsarina,” Suzanne said, lowering the pistol. Acrid smoke lingered in the air.

  Otronsky pulled away from Czartoryski’s grip. “I won’t even dignify that with a response. We all know your husband very likely murdered Princess Tatiana. And with this man conveniently dead, you can’t possibly have any proof.”

  The door opened. Malcolm stepped into the anteroom, propelling a slight, nondescript man in a dusty coat. He had a pistol pressed to the man’s side. “Your Majesties.” Malcolm inclined his head to the tsar and tsarina. “I caught this man—” He broke off, staring down at the dead footman.

  “You were right about not trusting the footmen,” Suzanne said.

  His gaze went from her face to the smoking pistol in her hand. The nondescript man stared down at the dead man, eyes gone wide.

  “He wasn’t acting alone,” Malcolm said. “I caught this man taking aim at your box from the wings, Your Majesty.” He tightened his grip on the nondescript man’s shoulder. “Do you see the person who engaged your services?”

  The man hesitated, gaze still on his dead confede
rate.

  Malcolm pressed the pistol closer to the man’s side.

  “Him.” The nondescript man jerked his head at Otronsky.

  Otronsky stared at the man for a fraction of a second, then gave a shout of incredulous laughter. “How much did Rannoch pay you to say that? Or is the pistol pressed to your side sufficient incentive?”

  The nondescript man glanced down at the blood spilling from his dead confederate onto the gold swirls of the rug. “I’ve kept every communication you sent to us.”

  The candlelight from the wall sconces jumped in Otronsky’s eyes. “Any proof you claim to have must be a fabrication.”

  “Oh, you didn’t put any details in writing, I’ll grant you that. But the communications prove you were in contact with us. And I think His Majesty there will recognize your hand.”

  “That’s preposterous—”

  The door was jerked open on his words. Gregory Lindorff stepped into the room. His gaze went to the tsarina, then froze on the dead footman. “I’m sorry I wasn’t sooner.”

  “What do you know about this, Lindorff?” Tsar Alexander demanded.

  “Enough to tell you Malcolm Rannoch is speaking the truth.”

  Otronsky jerked toward Lindorff. “You damned liar—”

  Tsar Alexander’s arm shot out, cutting Otronsky off mid-sentence. “How can you be sure?” he asked Lindorff.

  Lindorff kept his gaze steady on his sovereign. “Because I was his confederate.”

  Violins from the hall cut into the stunned silence that followed. Otronsky lurched at Lindorff. “You can’t drag me into your plots.”

  “Silence.” Alexander grabbed Otronsky by the back of his coat. “We will go somewhere better suited to talk.”

  “I believe there is a salon across the corridor,” Malcolm said.

  They progressed across the corridor to the larger chamber, Malcolm keeping the pistol pressed to the nondescript man. Alexander held Otronsky’s arm. Czartoryski walked close to the tsarina. Suzanne, Dorothée, and Wilhelmine clustered close together. Count Nesselrode brought up the rear, closed the door and set his slight shoulders against it.

  Alexander fixed Lindorff with a hard stare. “You claim you and Otronsky were involved in a plot to assassinate me?”

  “To assassinate the tsarina.”

  Alexander’s gaze jerked to his wife. “Why—”

  “Otronsky seemed to feel she represented a danger. I was never able to determine precisely why.”

  “And you went along with it—”

  “To uncover proof.” Lindorff was very pale but his gaze remained unwavering. “I never felt I had enough to bring the matter to Your Majesty. I knew I would get just the questions I’m getting now. I was hoping for some tangible evidence. I thought I had time. Then Otronsky moved up the date of the attack and urgent action was required.”

  “That’s a tissue of arrant lies.” Otronsky stepped toward the tsar.

  “Your word against mine,” Lindorff said.

  “You were the one who came to me—”

  Lindorff folded his arms and surveyed Otronsky. “Yes?”

  “You were at the Palm Palace the night of the murder, Otronsky,” Malcolm said. “You went to search for papers you thought Princess Tatiana had in her possession. The only thing I’m not sure about is whether or not you killed her.”

  “For God’s sake, she was dead when I got there.”

  The silence was deafening. Otronsky seemed to be the last person in the room to realize what he’d said.

  “Nesselrode,” the tsar commanded in clipped tones, “you will escort Count Otronsky back to the Hofburg. He is to remain in his rooms until further notice. Place a guard outside the doors.”

  “Your Majesty—” Otronsky’s voice was hoarse.

  The tsar turned his back to his former favorite. “I have nothing further to say to you for the present. Lindorff, I will speak with you in private.” He glanced at the would-be assassin. “Rannoch, you will deal with this person?”

  “I still can’t believe it.” Dorothée looked from her sister to Suzanne and Malcolm. They were in a side salon at Count Stackelberg’s. The afternoon’s near tragedy had gone unnoticed by the majority of those at the concert and had not put an end to Stackelberg’s evening reception. “Even after everything else we’ve been through, I never thought to find myself in the midst of such a fantastical scene.”

  “Nor did Talleyrand,” Wilhelmine said.

  Talleyrand had met them in the corridor when they left the salon at the Redoutensaal. He’d obviously heard rumors of something being amiss. He’d moved with a quickness that belied his clubfoot, and his gaze had fastened on Dorothée with the sort of heartfelt relief that comes only after bone-crunching fear. Shock had washed through Malcolm and an unexpected welling of kinship.

  “Good God,” Wilhelmine said, staring across the salon, “there’s Gregory Lindorff. I was certain he was about to be clapped in irons.”

  Malcolm excused himself and crossed to meet Lindorff. Once again, Lindorff made no effort to evade him.

  “We need to talk,” Malcolm said without preamble.

  “By all means. I believe there’s quite a cozy anteroom through that door that’s stocked with cognac.”

  Malcolm closed the door to the anteroom behind them. “You’re a man of great ingenuity, Lindorff.”

  “You thought I’d be under guard like Otronsky?” Lindorff splashed cognac into two glasses. “I’d have given even odds on it as well. The tsar grilled me for over an hour. I gave him the names of the other conspirators. He dispatched men to round them up. He seems to have decided I’m an ally.”

  “Baron Hager seems to have decided the same about me. I turned the surviving assassin over to him. He thanked me and had the decency to admit he’d been mistaken.”

  Lindorff crossed the room to give Malcolm the other glass. “What’s the title of that play of your Shakespeare’s? All’s Well That Ends Well?”

  Malcolm’s fingers closed round the crystal. “The tsarina could have been killed.”

  “Otronsky was caught.”

  “It was a damn near run thing.”

  Lindorff tossed down a swallow of cognac. “You must believe I never thought Otronsky would change the date of the attack or—”

  Malcolm scanned the other man’s face. The guilt was plain and seemingly genuine. So was the fear that lurked in the back of Lindorff’s usually ironic gaze. “Or what?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Suffice it to say I’m not proud of many of the choices I’ve made.”

  Malcolm turned his glass in his hand. The candlelight bounced off the crystal and turned the amber liquid to gold. “You faced up to what you’d done. I acknowledge that, at least.”

  Lindorff moved to the red-tiled stove. “I didn’t have much choice.”

  “You could have let the attack go forward instead of risking exposing yourself.”

  Lindorff’s gaze snapped to Malcolm’s face. “If you think I’d have let the tsarina be killed—”

  “Quite. And once the attack had been foiled you could have run. There was only my word to connect you to it.”

  “You have a way of making your word listened to, Rannoch.” Lindorff stared down at the burning coals. “Besides, I couldn’t risk Otronsky getting away with it. That would have made it all for naught.”

  Malcolm studied Lindorff’s thin, intent face. “What game are you playing?”

  Lindorff looked up with a crooked grin, but his eyes remained bleak. “The same game we’re all playing in Vienna. Survival. And redrawing the map to our liking.”

  “You can’t convince me you decided to entrap Otronsky entirely on your own.”

  “You don’t think I’m so brave? So clever? So ruthless? I wouldn’t argue with you on any of those counts. But there’s no proof otherwise.”

  “How did Tatiana get the tsarina’s letters?”

  “Tatiana was a very enterprising woman.”

  “With an ex-lover in th
e Russian delegation.”

  “Rannoch—” Lindorff studied him for a moment, as though weighing trust in the scales against an incalculable weight of risk. “I haven’t been my own master for so long I’ve forgot how it feels. And I’ve seen the risks of trying to go one’s own way.”

  “In Tatiana’s example.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you think your master—”

  “Oh no, Rannoch. I’ve given you a great deal already. Far more than I should, I suspect. But you can be dangerously persuasive. Tatiana warned me about that.”

  “You may face more questions from the tsar.”

  “That’s my lookout. I’ll manage. I’m more worried about Czartoryski deciding to wring my neck.”

  Malcolm swallowed the last of his cognac. “Czartoryski may be a romantic, but he’s also a pragmatist. And ultimately he knows who stopped the attack on the tsarina.”

  “And who instigated it. But I take your point.”

  Malcolm turned to the door. “As you said, you’ve told me a great deal. What’s left for me now is to confront your master.”

  41

  In the gray morning light, the lines in Talleyrand’s face appeared harsher and more deeply scored than usual. The habitual sangfroid was still there, but something else was visible beneath. Emotions unexpectedly stirred and not quite under control. The man showing through the mask. “I understand we all have to thank you and your charming wife for your heroics last night,” he said, waving Malcolm to a chair. “While I didn’t entirely understand what was happening at the time, I confess to feeling a certain degree of alarm on Dorothée’s account.”

  “Your nephew’s wife is an intrepid young woman. As is her sister.”

  “Dorothée has blossomed in Vienna. But I would never forgive myself if she came to harm.”

  “Particularly as this particular harm was at your instigation.”

  Talleyrand’s brows shot up. “I’m accustomed to making leaps of thought with you, Malcolm, but this is beyond even me.”

  “I should have seen it sooner. I forget sometimes how ruthless a strategist you can be. You think Tsar Alexander is the greatest threat to stability on the Continent at present.”