by Carrie Lofty
“I cannot shelter you from the truth, no matter how distressing.”
Christoph lifted one wickedly arched brow. “And here I thought I paid you well enough.”
“Not that well.”
They had only been on speaking terms for a little over four years, but now Oliver could hardly imagine life without the brother he respected above all other men of his acquaintance. He had no one else, not after years in the Prussian army. Not after his wayward youth. That no one actually knew they were brothers was of little importance, not when he enjoyed the security and purpose inherent in his position.
A young woman in Ingrid’s circle caught Oliver’s attention—caught it and held it. Her well-proportioned figure was wrapped in a comely silk gown of deep shimmering blue. The high waist held her full breasts up to be admired. White lace trim fell toward the floor along a series of pleats that made the most of her diminutive height. But no matter how decadent her body, her face was even more arresting. Oliver had believed such melancholy banned in good society.
Christoph cleared his throat. “Do you recognize her?”
Shaking his head, Oliver was unable to speak. Why did she appear so sad?
“She’s the Pfalzgraf of Leinz’s niece. Those are his daughters there with her.” Christoph finished his champagne and, with no waiter nearby, handed the empty glass to Oliver. “I was at Leinz Manor last month to solicit funds for the city defenses. Leinz introduced me to all three, who were in the midst of planning a mid-August ball. He seemed rather too eager to get them off his hands.”
That prodded Oliver from his reverie. “Aren’t most fathers these days?”
Napoleon had declared himself Emperor of France only seven months earlier. Few leaders and even fewer ordinary citizens doubted that his armies would soon resume their bloody plunder of the Continent. Women were entering the marriage market at younger and younger ages, and with even more urgency.
“Margaret Zweig is her name, but she’s called Greta.”
“She’s divine,” Oliver said.
“Indeed.”
At his brother’s subtle humor, Oliver tightened his fingers around the stem of the champagne coupe. He could no more approach a woman like Greta Zweig than he could ride a hobbyhorse to the South Pole. Which would be his more repulsive attribute—that he was a bastard or a spy posing as a lowly valet? Neither would recommend him to a lady of quality.
Oliver indulged in one last look at the delicious young woman. Piles of blond hair sat on her head like a supple crown. Pale skin smoothed over plump cheeks and an elegant throat, down to where shadows formed in the deep hollow of her cleavage. He licked his lower lip. And yet he was still drawn to her eyes, to her strangely detached expression.
He inhaled sharply and let the breath out in a huff. Enough of this.
Soon the intermission would end. Soon he would be back among the loose-limbed servants and their gossip. He had his duties: to protect the only family he had left and to investigate rumors that had crept through the city’s guts for weeks. He and his brother had worked tirelessly to position Christoph as one of Duke Ferdinand’s primary political confidants. The duke’s future would determine that of their family. To lose their new leader to assassination would be the foul end to two years of subtle labor. Beyond that, all of Salzburg was already jumping at Napoleon’s shadow.
Another assassination attempt against the duke could completely topple public confidence.
“Enjoy the rest of your opera,” Oliver said, smiling as he issued an efficient bow.
Christoph rolled his eyes to the ceiling, as if beseeching patience from the highest possible authority. His lack of appreciation for the arts was legendary in a city that defined itself by a zealous commitment to music. “I endeavor merely to stay awake.”
A flicker of movement in the shadows bristled the hairs on Oliver’s neck. He handed back the champagne coupe.
Christoph frowned. “What is it?”
“Go. Stay close to Ingrid.”
Oliver edged along the outer wall of the hall. The figure had ducked into an alcove, one that faced where Duke Ferdinand stood in a loose knot of attendants.
Enjoying the burst of aggression in his veins—such a welcome change to restraint, manners and one particular sad-eyed woman—Oliver closed in on the alcove. At the mental count of three he ducked inside and lodged his forearm against a stranger’s windpipe.
The man gurgled. His face purpled, almost obscuring his unexpectedly familiar features.
Oliver’s heart thudded twice. His stomach tied into a hard knot as old, old memories assailed him like a hard wind.
“Karl?” He released the pressure only slightly. “My God, Karl, is that you?”
“You should see your face, Oliver,” the man choked out. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
Chapter Two
Oliver staggered back and smoothed a shaky hand over his mouth.
A flashing line of memories stretched out before him. Karl, stuck on the highest limb of a decrepit old crabapple tree. Or polishing the brass buttons of his army uniform, never in his life so dignified or dashing. Or ragged, thin and unaccountably chipper during that hellish winter campaign. He had smiled as he said goodbye. “Save me a few sausages and a piece of torte” had been his parting words, knowing full well that supper would again consist of melted snow and soggy, mealy biscuits.
“Karl,” he breathed. “You’re not dead.”
Karl smiled, that same broad and guileless expression of his youth—although a few wrinkles around the eyes showed his age. “Not dead in the least, mein Freund.”
The joints of Oliver’s shoulders and hips still carried the excited flush of having cornered his suspicious target. Hot, rubbery aggression drained away, replaced by joy.
His best friend. Alive!
Oliver wanted to embrace him and give him a few hearty smacks on the back, but they were in the middle of Carabinierisaal. “You certainly caught me out,” he said with a slight bow. “A thousand years and I never would’ve thought to see you here.”
“I always did enjoy when I managed to surprise you—rare day when it happened.” Karl stepped away from the wall and rubbed his throat. “Although I did pay for it.”
“Sorry about that.”
Oliver smoothed his hand along the back of his neck. Napoleon in the flesh would have been less of a surprise. He wanted to forego his disguise and flag down the nearest waiter. Although champagne might have been a cooling relief, he was in the mood for a snifter of brandy.
But why had he assumed the worst of his old friend? For years Oliver had been blessed with an uncanny ability to detect lies. The flicker of an eyelid out of time with its twin. The subtle twitch of a lip. The flutter of a hand along a throat drawn taut with tension. All read to him like words across a page.
He had seen something untoward in Karl. But what?
His clothes were neat and well tailored—impeccable, really, if a bit dandyish. His hair was combed straight back and secured with a ribbon. Always long-limbed and trim, he was a collection of sharp angles like broken twigs. His thinness aside, he seemed entirely recovered from the heinous conditions of that long-ago winter camp. Recovered…and flush with funds.
“You’ve done well for yourself,” Oliver said, still unaccountably tense. “I’ve never seen you looking so smart.”
Karl straightened the knot in his green silk cravat. “I was meant to wear clothes such as these. Only took me a few years to deduce how to acquire them.”
“I wouldn’t have cared had you worn sackcloth and ashes. It’s good to see you, Karl.”
“About that…I wish you wouldn’t call me Karl any longer.”
“No?”
The smile was gone now. Karl’s lips tightened but still his eyes darted and bulged ever so subtly. He appeared guilty.
For assessing his friend in such a cold way, Oliver felt as disgusting as a speck of gristle on a mustache. But professional habits would not be quelled. N
either would his gut reaction.
“Because,” Karl whispered, “I’m known here as Baron Mathias Hoffer.”
“Baron?”
The word echoed off the ceiling frescoes. Oliver glanced around, conscious once again of their very public locale. From across the crowded room—only the collective noise of which obscured Oliver’s gaffe—he caught Christoph’s stern half frown, the one he wore when disappointment was imminent.
Oliver inconspicuously grabbed Karl’s arm and edged him back into the alcove. “A baron? Are you mad? You’re the son of a weaver and a blacksmith.”
A curiously blank expression erased all traces of the friend he had known. “And you’re the son of a reprobate Vizegraf and a scullery maid.” Karl flicked the topmost brass button of Oliver’s livery. “Yet you’ve done well for yourself, too.”
“I’m a valet. I’ve done nothing so grand as to assume a title of nobility. How do you expect to accomplish such a scheme?”
“At this moment, by convincing you to keep your mouth shut.”
“So you can perpetuate such a deceit?”
“I’m not asking you to introduce me to anyone of good standing, although I wouldn’t refuse the courtesy. Just let me see this through.”
Older, uglier memories resurfaced. Karl Schulz had never shied from even criminal behavior. For that matter, neither had Oliver. Lying. Theft. Violence. There had been a time when none of it scared them—or satisfied them. Seeing Karl again filled Oliver with a hot dread of the young man he had been, and a reminder of how hard he worked to keep that angry, aimless past behind him.
But could he say the same about his old friend? If Karl had come to Salzburg with the intention of affecting a noble lineage, then he might be none so well off as Oliver had assumed. The clothes, the boots, the expensive cologne he wore—all could be stolen goods.
“Nothing good can come of whatever you’ve planned,” Oliver said.
Karl’s dark brown eyes tightened. The lines framing his compressed lips become more pronounced. “You owe me.”
A shiver jostled down Oliver’s backbone, a faint echo of the violent tremors that had tortured him for two months. No matter how debilitating that illness had been, he always considered himself fortunate. Karl was the one who had suffered.
“No one,” Karl said, his words low, “not even your haughty half brother, should remember me. Not here. Not dressed like one of his own. All you have to do is let me play my game—and I’ll play yours.” He grinned. “A valet to your brother? Hardly.”
An usher chimed a brass bell. The opera was about to resume.
Oliver’s thoughts were so tumbled that he almost missed a strange glint of candlelight off metal. He followed it to a man who, though nondescript and replete in evening finery, showed all the physical signs of impending violence—posture defensive, eyes rapidly shifting. Bodies blocked his way but he was a mere ten feet from Duke Ferdinand.
Abandoning Karl, Oliver slipped past a trio of elderly gentlemen. His skin tingled and his respiration surged, yet his thoughts were calm as he moved toward the duke. He knew from experience that the duke’s guards were on the lookout for masked marauders in rags, not elegantly dressed gentlemen. And to start a panic now by shouting an alarm might afford the man a chance to escape—or to strike. So Oliver pursued. Quietly.
He had almost doubted his natural gift but the facts proved him right. Karl had been acting in a suspicious manner. That uncanny talent for detecting falsehood in the faces of others had served Oliver well for years. He hoped this was another such moment.
The suspicious man was nearly to his apparent target. Only Duke Ferdinand’s thick ring of admirers blocked the way. Oliver neared to within two body lengths. His heart mimicked the steady beat of a horse’s galloping hooves. He pushed past a stylish woman who gasped and then cursed with the practiced skill of a sailor. Another two parted in advance of Oliver’s pursuit.
The man was raising his arm, taking aim at the back of the duke’s head.
Oliver shoved forward and knocked the pistol upward. It discharged with a sharp crack. Patrons and servants alike screamed. Some ducked. The bullet struck the ceiling fresco, releasing a shower of plaster. Oliver yanked the pistol from the man’s hand. The weapon skidded across the marble.
Two swift jabs to the assailant’s kidneys had him doubled over and groaning. Oliver swept his boot from left to right. Momentum propelled the man to all fours. But with surprising swiftness and strength, he leaped up and twirled the dress cape from his shoulders. The heavy fabric briefly obscured his movements.
When Oliver could see once again, his breath shuddered. The stranger had produced a knife and was clutching young Greta Zweig against his chest, hooking her arms behind her back. The lush breasts Oliver had admired now huffed in a faltering rhythm. Her eyes widened to nearly perfect circles. Her lips parted and shut like those of a gasping fish.
The would-be assassin held the knife to her throat.
Waves of prickling heat spilled over Greta’s skin. The cavernous splendor of Carabinierisaal melted into streaks of black, gold and white. Although her lungs pumped, she couldn’t catch her breath. The air stank of gunpowder. Her feet must be on the floor but they felt as distant as stars and as numb as flesh in a freezing wind.
Wake up!
No number of frantic shouts in the wild of her brain banished the cold sliver of sharpened steel. Her captor’s whim would determine the span of her life. Whoever he was, his irregular exhalations brushed her nape and behind her ears—a startling intimacy. If she never learned anything more about him, she would know his hot and rasping breath.
Hundreds of people had filled the hall. Now few remained, having hustled away after the lone gunshot. Abandoning her. Greta freed a strangled sob. The knife pressed deeper.
Into the tense quiet came a man’s words. “Let the Fräulein go.”
Greta searched for the source. The gentle baritone was steady and strong, when she felt fashioned of nothing more substantial than wisps of wool. No bones remained in her body. No muscles. Just a terror so bright as to blunt every sense. She could only hope that the man who spoke was well-armed and merciless—an avenging angel come to save her. She could muster no greater courage than to pray.
“Harming her will only make the outcome worse for you,” the voice continued.
Greta blinked and inhaled, forcing her vision to clear. A slim, athletic man neared. He wore oxblood-colored livery and a powdered wig.
A valet?
He could hardly be the one who had spoken with such command. But there was no one else. The remaining attendees, their faces contorted, had shuffled into far corners to look upon the scene as if from behind glass.
Greta envied their security but also their view of her attacker’s face. Would seeing him worsen her spiking fear or relieve it? Would an ordinary countenance—any other than the devil himself—do her fears justice?
Only the valet remained. He was joined to Greta and her captor in a most unusual trio. Bent forward slightly, he had the posture and poise of a predator. But his hands were empty. No weapon. No readied fists. He kept his palms up and forward.
“She’s no part of your fight, is she?” he asked.
“The duke is a minion of that butcher, Napoleon!” The flat edge of the knife nestled deeper against Greta’s throat. She winced.
“Then you have that blade pressed against the wrong neck.”
“I want out of here alive!”
“We may be past that now.”
“Give me a guarantee or the girl dies.”
Greta jerked and tensed, but his free arm yanked hers higher. Bone gnashed in her shoulder. Hot panic made her skull feel stuffed. “Please, don’t kill me,” she whispered.
“Hold still,” the valet said. “Don’t fight.”
Although he flicked his gaze toward her, he kept the bulk of his attention on the stranger. Was he closer now? She could hardly trust her vision, so badly did she want that to be true.
“Margaret?” came another plea from the crowd. This one Greta recognized instantly. “Dear God, let her go!”
“Stay out of this, my lord,” said the valet.
“I’m the Pfalzgraf of Leinz. I’ll pay any sort of ransom.”
“Quiet!” screamed her captor.
“Just let my niece go,” Uncle Thaddeus said, more desperately now. “I beg of you.”
Greta closed her eyes and imagined that her uncle begged because he cared. But another motive for his desperation seemed more realistic. Could it be that he merely feared the loss of his most prized asset? Her blood spilled in Carabinierisaal would mean no more forgeries.
“My lord, please step back.” The trim valet’s command was surprisingly firm—firm enough that Thaddeus obeyed. Greta had never heard a servant speak to a nobleman with such force. But then, she had never been in a position where a life was nearly forfeit.
Her life.
At that unforgiving thought, all color slurred to black. Her eyes lolled closed as she welcomed the soothing darkness.
The stranger scooped the young woman over his shoulder before she reached the floor. Sweat glossed his face as he slowly retreated toward the backstage entrance.
Guards had closed around Duke Ferdinand and the other aristocrats. Oliver had never worked with an audience, yet here he was—the only man with the opportunity to set this right.
“You can still save yourself.” He pursued with one deliberate step, then another.
“No!” Greta’s captor kicked open the stage door and crossed the threshold. “You think this can all be over but it won’t end. Our so-called leader is from Tuscany. What can he know of Salzburg? What loyalty will he have to us? He’ll sell the city to Napoleon!”
His rant had the effect of further isolating them from the rest of the crowd. The hall was all but deserted now. Everyone else had backed away with shuffling steps. Oliver certainly did not mind additional distance between that knife and other innocent people. But if the man locked the door, he would be out of sight backstage with his hostage. While the knife was still in play, Oliver could not attack.