Charmed and Dangerous
Page 8
“Shh. He’ll hear you.”
“I think he has already gotten the message.”
“I didn’t mean to be rude,” protested Laura, “but I couldn’t bear…”
“Was it his military exploits, or his theories on education?”
She looked up, surprised.
“I have attended a number of dinner parties with the baron,” he explained dryly.
“What he says might be interesting if…”
“If someone else were saying it,” he finished.
A guilty laugh escaped her. “Do you know the way out of here?” she said to change the subject.
“The paths are laid out in rough concentric rings. If you keep walking along any one of them, you go in circles.”
“How did you discover that?” she asked in surprise.
“I make it my business to learn such things.”
“In case of men with knives?” she couldn’t resist responding.
“In case of…anything. And I asked you not to speak of that.”
“I can’t help thinking—”
“You could if you tried harder.”
Laura had to pause to get a grip on her temper. Gavin turned onto another path and led her past a fern that was at least ten feet tall.
“Do you think this evening will do Prince Talleyrand any good?” she said then.
He gave her a sidelong glance.
“It is a dilemma, isn’t it? People want to punish France for the war, but they have just restored the king there, and I suppose they have to have some consideration for his feelings.”
He laughed.
“What?” said Laura, piqued.
“I was trying to imagine the feelings of Louis Bourbon.”
“I suppose he is glad to have his throne back.”
“Yes, I think it is safe to conclude that.”
“You don’t like him?”
“From what I have heard, there is little to like. His subjects seem to think so anyway. You are full of questions this evening.”
“I am curious. If the French don’t like their king, what will—” She was cut off when Gavin suddenly moved, pulling her between two sweeping branches of some sort of evergreen and into his arms.
“Will you give this up?” he demanded, his mouth inches from hers.
“Will you?” she retorted, pulling back against the iron of his embrace.
“I think not.” He bent to kiss her, as he had before.
But Laura was prepared this time. She had been expecting him to try something of the sort in these surroundings. She bent and twisted, ducking out of his grasp and stepping quickly back onto the path. “You will have to find some new tactic,” she said breathlessly. “That one is shopworn.”
He looked angrier than she had expected. So angry, in fact, that when he made a move toward her, Laura fled down the path in the direction they had been going. Very soon, she found herself in a large open space that obviously occupied the center of the building. A number of the guests had congregated there around their host, and she was relieved to see the Pryors among them. “I lost my way,” she murmured when she joined them. Catherine looked concerned, but said nothing.
Conversation ebbed and flowed around them. The general was talking to a Frenchman Laura hadn’t met. Seeing an empty bench nearby, partly screened by a potted palm, she went to sit down, accepting a glass of wine that a passing servitor offered. Her heart was still beating rather rapidly, and she felt an odd disappointment in the party. She must do better with the information George Tompkins had given her, she thought.
Noticing Sophie Krelov some distance away, Laura ducked farther behind the sheltering palm. Sophie looked gorgeous in cobalt satin; she also looked quite capable of marching over and asking Laura what she was up to. Concealment seemed the better part of valor at the moment.
“Signorina!” said a caressing voice. Oliveri, the artist, sat down beside her. “You are sitting alone? These northerners are idiots.”
Catherine wasn’t going to like this, Laura thought. Oliveri leaned toward her, his dark eyes intense. “I have been longing to see you again,” he added in Italian. “The music of your voice has haunted me.”
He was a refreshing change from men who continually ordered one about, she decided. “Have you seen this place before?” she asked, indicating their exotic surroundings with a gesture.
“Never.” He pulled the frond of a palm slowly through his fingers. “It is glorious. This man has the imagination of the great god Pan himself.”
“Is the owner here? I have not heard anyone mention meeting him.”
Oliveri leaned even closer. “I have heard that he is a recluse, and that he is hiding somewhere among the branches, watching us enjoy his creation without speaking to anyone.”
Laura looked around. She couldn’t decide whether this notion was charming or unsettling.
“I imagine him with wild curling hair and a great bushy beard,” continued the Italian, “peering out through the leaves like the ancient statues of Pan and Bacchus in my country.”
“You have a vivid imagination, signor,” responded Laura, resisting the impulse to look over her shoulder into the foliage.
He laid a hand on his breast and bowed his head a bit, as if accepting an accolade. “I was born to be an artist.”
“How is your painting going?”
Oliveri spread his hands. “The background is finished. But it is difficult to persuade the heads of the delegations to come and pose.” He smiled wickedly at her, teeth flashing white against his dark skin. “They are too busy posing elsewhere.”
She laughed.
“I will probably have to content myself with sketching them at occasions such as this. I always have my drawing materials with me and take every chance to get a likeness.”
“That is clever of you.”
“Oh, I am terribly clever, signorina.” He paused. “Though, not quite clever enough to know how my painting should end up.”
“What do you mean?”
“Before I can decide on the final placements, I must know how the congress comes out, eh? Do I place the czar in the center, beaming with triumph? Is Prince Talleyrand in the main composition, or do I put him off to the side, looking disappointed? My painting must tell the observer not only what these people looked like, but also what happened at this momentous meeting. So I wait, and I watch.”
Laura nodded.
“But perhaps you have some insight for me, signorina?”
“I?”
“You are surprising, no? You know things one does not expect you to know.”
“I don’t understand,” replied Laura.
His gaze was intense and unavoidable. “Your visit at Mokstrasse. This is quite surprising.”
Mokstrasse was George Tompkins’s address. How did he know she had been there? wondered Laura, suddenly seeing Oliveri in a new light.
“Very few people go there. And all of them are…powerful.”
“I really don’t know what you mean.”
He leaned uncomfortably close, his shoulder brushing hers. “You can tell me, Signorina Devane. It is only for my art, you see—to make my picture right. I have no other interests.”
Everyone at the congress had other interests, she thought. The hard part was sorting them out. Was Oliveri part of the plot she had already brushed up against? she wondered. Or was this some other intrigue entirely? “I don’t think I have anything useful to tell you.”
“You don’t know what I might find useful,” he responded quickly, his face too close to hers.
“Signor,” she protested.
He pulled back, as if conscious of going too fast. “It is so interesting—all of these leaders gathered here. And I am so anxious to paint it well. This could bring me many other commissions, you see.”
“Come to my studio and see my work,” he urged, handing her a card. “Then you will understand what I ask.”
What meaning lay behind his urgent tone? Laura slipped the card into her glove, putting off deciding.
“Good,” he said. “We cannot talk here. It is too public.”
As if to confirm this, they were interrupted by a deep voice saying, “Miss Devane?”
Gavin Graham had approached from the side. Laura wondered how much he had heard.
“Mrs. Pryor is looking for you,” he added. “She asked me to bring you to her.”
Laura stood. “You must excuse me, Signor Oliveri.”
“Of course.” He had also risen, and now gave her a deep bow. “It was my very great pleasure to speak with you,” he said in English.
Gavin pointedly offered his arm. Laura took it, and he swept her off before she could reply. “She really is looking for you this time,” he said.
“It was very kind of you to fetch me, then.”
He was quite unaccountably angry, Gavin thought. It was all these ridiculous parties—a complete waste of time. “She was shocked that you would stay talking to Oliveri for such a long time. He is not a suitable object for such marked attentions.”
“Catherine said that to you?” she answered in an irritatingly innocent tone.
“Anyone would say it.”
“We were simply talking, in full view of…”
“Skulking behind a fringe of trees,” he corrected.
“Skulking!”
“If you are going to allow yourself to be deceived by the most obvious kind of wastrel—”
“You think he was trying to seduce me?” She looked astonished, as if this hadn’t even occurred to her.
She was a very odd combination, Gavin thought, feeling inexplicably lighter. She would speak of things that other women would blush to mention. Yet she seemed to be unaware of the reality of the idea. “It is an obvious conclusion,” said Gavin. “He is that sort of man.”
“Is he? I suppose that would explain… But then why…?”
He bent his head to catch the murmur, but she said nothing further. “You should be more careful in your associations.”
“Indeed?”
She turned her eyes full on him. Gavin experienced a strange shock of recognition.
“I imagine I should avoid men who haul me into dark gardens and assault me, then?”
“I did not assault—”
“You know, Signor Oliveri did not attempt to pull me into the trees and…just what did you have in mind?”
“I was going to kiss you,” he said harshly.
“And you dare to warn me about other men?”
“If you would rather kiss Oliveri, be my guest!”
Spotting the Pryors, he pulled her several steps in their direction and then left her to join them on her own. He was furious, he realized, as he strode away. He was as angry as he’d been in ten years of suppressing his hot temper. Laura Devane was impossible, he thought. She was going to get herself into serious trouble, and no doubt General Pryor would blame him for it. Why couldn’t she be like other females? he wondered fiercely. Any normal woman would have fled weeping back to England by this time. Instead, she flung his insults back in his face. She pushed him away, and then sat chattering to that popinjay Oliveri for twenty minutes, looking as if she was enjoying herself thoroughly.
He had wanted her to let him be, a small, sane inner voice pointed out. He had wanted her gone. He had set out to frighten her off, not to have her hanging about, flirting with any man who presented himself. She was supposed to be on a boat for Dover by this time. He was supposed to be free, as he was thoroughly used to being.
Gavin pushed aside a hanging branch with unnecessary force. He didn’t have time for this. He had far more important things to consider. He had had plans for this gathering, which so far had been thwarted. He slashed at a tendril of grapevine that was curling quite innocently at the edge of the path. He would find Sophie, he determined, and continue to explore her motives in detail. And he would do so in full view of Laura Devane, he concluded with savage satisfaction.
Six
“Are you sure this is where you meant to go, miss?” asked the young maid Laura had brought with her on her errand.
It was a larger question than she realized, Laura thought. What did she mean to accomplish by visiting Oliveri? “The map says this is the street,” she replied, looking from the city map she had procured to the seedy buildings on either side. A number of them were warehouses, and the pedestrians around them looked as if they spent their days hauling crates and boxes. She was very glad she had brought the maid, Laura thought. She rather wished she had added a couple of footmen. “Here is the number,” she added, matching the address on the card Oliveri had given her with that painted on one of the doorways.
The young maid didn’t comment, but her expression was eloquent. Laura regretted her fears, but she had required a companion. She wasn’t so foolish as to visit Oliveri alone.
But how foolish was she? she wondered as she pushed open the door and stepped into a small entryway. She wasn’t very experienced in this sort of game. Yet. But now that she had been pulled into it, she couldn’t resist playing a part. She had spent too many years making safe choices, hiding her abilities behind convention. More than likely she would do so again. But not today. She wanted to know how Oliveri had discovered her visit to George Tompkins.
There was no sign of the building’s inhabitants, merely a twisting stairway that might once have been grand. Laura consulted the card again. “Third floor,” she said and started to climb, the maid trailing reluctantly after her.
The stairway would have benefited from a coat of paint, but it wasn’t dirty. Their footsteps echoed. No sounds suggested the presence of tenants behind the closed doors they passed.
“Here,” said Laura finally. She noticed with some relief that another copy of the card she held had been tacked to a door on the third-floor landing. She knocked on it.
There was no response.
“Maybe no one’s home,” said the maid hopefully.
Laura knocked again.
“A moment,” called a voice from within.
Footsteps approached the other side of the door. It was flung open. Oliveri looked inquiring, then astonished. “Signorina Devane!”
“Hello,” said Laura.
“But…this is wonderful. Come in.”
“You invited me to see your work.”
“Of course. I am honored.”
He ushered them in, and Laura looked around with a good deal of curiosity. His quarters appeared to be one huge room with lines of windows on two sides. Screens partly hid a bed and washstand in the far corner. To the right was a table and chairs and a small coal stove. But most of the space was taken up by painting equipment and a massive canvas that rested against the left-hand wall. It had to be ten feet long, Laura thought, and half as high. The partially finished painting showed a vaguely classical background, with a great deal of blue sky and some picturesque pillars. In the foreground, human figures were sketched in, but they showed no detail. Signor Oliveri was of the historical school of painting, Laura concluded. She also noticed that the canvas was rather dusty, as if it hadn’t been touched in some time.
“You see there is one central figure here,” Oliveri pointed out in Italian, bustling to stand in front of the unfinished painting. “He will hold a scroll, representing the treaty.” He gave her a brilliant smile. “I am still assuming the congress will produce a treaty, you see. These others will be pointing to it, showing that all are in accord.” His smile broadened. “This is the artistic imagination, to bring harmony to chaos.”
Laura had to smile. The delegates were cert
ainly exhibiting very little harmony in reality.
“But who is it to be?” Oliveri gestured toward the central figure. “You have a guess, perhaps?”
His gaze was very sharp. Laura shook her head.
“Come, come. You must have some opinion.”
“I am simply an interested observer.”
“But you have extremely…reliable sources of information.”
Laura gazed back at him blandly, as if she didn’t know what he meant.
“You hear things, perhaps? You are a sympathetic listener.”
“General Pryor never speaks about his work,” she replied. “Have you been painting long?” There were no other canvases in the room, she noticed as she looked around. And the tubes of paint scattered over a battered table looked dusty as well.
“Since I was a boy,” Oliveri claimed. “But I am rude. You must sit down. A glass of wine?”
“No, thank you. I don’t want to keep you from your work.”
If he heard the irony in her tone, Oliveri ignored it. “No, no. You must stay a little. You haven’t told me how you are enjoying Vienna. You have met many interesting people?” His dark eyes sharpened. “George Tompkins, for example?”
He must be terribly eager to know, Laura thought, to ask so baldly and directly. It must be even more unusual than she’d realized for Mr. Tompkins to receive someone like her. “I don’t believe I know that name,” she lied.
Oliveri looked frustrated. He frowned in the ensuing silence. “You…you live in London? You have traveled a great deal, perhaps?”
Laura shook her head, rather enjoying this game. “This is my first trip outside England.” Let him make what he could of that, she thought.
“Ah. You have family there, I suppose. Perhaps your father, or your brother, is in the government.”
“Oh, no. My father cares for nothing but horses.”
“Horses.”
“And what about you, signor? Your family is in Italy?”
Oliveri spread his hands. “Alas, I have none. I am alone in the world.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter. Art is my family, and my country. I care for nothing else.”