Portrait of Seduction

by Carrie Lofty

  She needed to leave him at that.

  “And then there’s always Baron Hoffer,” Theresa said.

  Greta blinked. The sun had changed angles on the leaded glass, casting a new shade of yellow across their afternoon respite. The girls had moved on from the menu to the guest list, leaving Greta to wonder how long she had indulged in illicit daydreams.

  “Who?” Anna asked.

  “Baron Hoffer. He’s newly arrived from somewhere in Prussia. I heard from Eliza Schau that he’s very handsome and quite well-heeled.”

  Anna wrote the man’s name on a list that had grown longer than her forearm. “Where does he live?”

  “How should I know? Is there a place called Hoffer?” Theresa shrugged. “Simply put his name on the invitation and let the postmen figure it out. That is their job.”

  “Oh, you can be so very thick,” Anna said with a wave of her fine-boned hand. “Greta, you will be attending, surely?”

  Greta nodded. “And I’ll even have Marie help me dress.”

  Relief slid across Anna’s pretty features. She had remarkable green eyes, but perhaps that was because they were so large and brilliantly colored in such a small, pale face. One could not help but notice them. “I’m glad of it. Poor Marie really must tire of waiting for you to ring her.”

  “I’m sure she has other duties to attend.”

  Anna frowned slightly, as if she had never considered the question. In truth Greta had hardly ever ventured near the subject of servants and the lives they led outside of duty. Oliver Doerger had needled her with the possibility that she was missing out on a great deal.

  “Pardon me, Fräulein Zweig?”

  One of the workmen who had boxed up her copy of Baptism of Christ was standing in the doorway. He was fingering the brim of his flat cap, his eyes shifting nervously over the scene.

  Greta took a breath. Something was not right.

  “Yes? What is it?”

  “Begging your pardon, but could you show me which painting this is?” He held out a slip of paper.

  “Those silly paintings,” Theresa said. “You’d think they were diamonds for the fuss you make over them.”

  Greta dabbed a napkin at the edges of her mouth. “More true than you know.”

  She forced her feet and knees and legs to lift her to a standing position. Uncle Thaddeus was doing it again. He was selling another painting. She wondered if she could get to a washroom before that wonderful torte emerged once again into the world. Only the servant’s anxious expression and his extended slip of paper grounded her. To anyone else she must appear the strangest creature.

  “Excuse me,” she said.

  Taking the paper, she nodded for the man to accompany her. The long corridor felt especially chilly after having spent the previous hour in the solarium. Here there were no windows to let in the late summer sun, only paintings that chided the effort she had expended.

  When she was out of sight of her cousins, she dared open the slip of paper. Pieter Casteels’ Peacocks in a Green Landscape. Her steps faltered. The man with the flat cap took her elbow and steadied her before releasing his grip.

  No flicker of warmth. No spark. Greta took some comfort in that observation. At least she was not so bored or depraved as to find all servants arousing. Just Oliver.

  But this…

  Hurried steps came to a stop when she reached Peacocks. Here she had managed to get the color exactly right—turquoise and azure, emerald and a lush, beautiful crimson. The only problem had been with form. Her peacocks were fantastic creatures but without a semblance of weight. They looked flat. Bored, even.

  “He’s selling this one, isn’t he?”

  The man made a noise in his throat.

  “Did he mention to whom?”

  “No, Fräulein Zweig.” He would not meet her eyes.

  “Were you told to keep this information from me?”

  “That’s right. But…” He swallowed. “But I cannot read, ma’am.”

  “There’s no shame in that.” She handed back the slip of paper. “What is your name?”

  “Thomas, ma’am. Thomas Beltzer.”

  “Thank you, Thomas. You needn’t mention any of this to His Lordship. Go about your business, bitte.”

  He bowed but Greta was already turning away. The gesso on her latest canvas would be dry soon. She could start work once more. But for the first time in her life, the prospect of beginning a new painting held no joy.

  Oliver rolled his shoulders as much as he could manage without appearing improper. The briefing with Grand Duke Ferdinand’s representatives was taking far longer than anyone had predicted. Additional security measures had been proposed, revised and ultimately discarded in favor of new ideas. Since the assassination attempt, the grand duke, his mistress, Maria Lucca, and his children had fled under heavy guard to a retreat in nearby Berchtesgaden. Changes would need to be approved and implemented before he returned.

  Christoph had once said that all politics was about territory. Physical territory such as kingdoms and castles, wives and cattle—obvious enough. This slothful, well-mannered discussion, however, was about the territory of duty and favor. The palace guard, city managers and even the outlying barons wanted their say, and all wanted to blame someone else for the breach in security.

  And underneath their posturing and bickering remained a stark yet unnamed fear. None of these petty concerns would amount to a blessed thing if Napoleon marched through.

  Four hours into the endless rounds of talk, Oliver’s feet were numb from standing along the wall with the other aides. He could concentrate on little else, not even the enigmas of Greta Zweig and Karl Schulz. His eagerness to once again see his friend had of yet come to naught. Karl, or Baron Hoffer, kept no known address in the city, which niggled Oliver with another bout of suspicion. He was going to have to dig a little deeper.

  But later.

  Catching Christoph’s eye across the huge oval table, he almost grinned. His stalwart brother was the soul of patience, but even he was in the midst of stifling a yawn.

  Forty-five minutes later they emerged from the stately splendor of the Residenz, the duke’s palatial home. Like boys ready to make mischief at the end of an interminable school day, they strode south through the Dombogen—the towering two-story marble arches that led to Domplatz.

  Oliver nearly hopped as he walked, so keen on seeing the sun again. Mountain air touched his face, a sweet reminder of life outside agendas and haggling. He felt alive, free—unaccountably so. That feeling of freedom was welcome, but it also reminded him of his youth, of near scrapes and misdeeds. The more respectable choice was to keep his impulses close.

  At that moment, however, still haunted by moonlight and wide blue eyes, he could not muster the strength to care.

  “Guter Gott, Herr Kleinmayrn is a nuisance,” Christoph said. “I never thought he would stop talking.”

  “If he only tried varying the pitch of each syllable—not by much, mind you—he would increase the effectiveness of his arguments by half.”

  “I find myself wanting to agree with him just to shut him up.”

  Oliver grinned. “A subtle tactic on his part, if that brings him success.”

  “What? He saps opponents of their will to breathe? Quite a keen political adaptation.”

  “I’m simply glad to feel my feet.”

  Christoph looked his way, his hawkish features softening slightly. He shook his head. “I don’t know how you do it.”

  The uncharacteristic acknowledgment was as welcome as it was gratifying. “Thank you.”

  And then he was Christoph again, the stern-faced Lord Venner who all but a few believed to be the full measure of his personality. “Now what did you find out?”

  “Unfortunately very little.” Oliver ticked off a list on his fingers. “Kleinmayrn’s granddaughter may or may not be in a delicate condition by a second cousin who visited last month. And expect an invitation to Baron Reitzweller’s second wedding.”<
br />
  “To Lady Georges?”

  “Yes, still running from Napoleon’s blacklist and willing to bed a man three times her age to do so.”

  “I don’t like it,” Christoph said. “We spend hours dancing around what no one dares speak. If the French head eastward, they will retake Salzburg. There is no escaping that fact. We’re a mere bump in the road to Vienna.”

  Oliver frowned at his brother’s slight edge of temper. “What are you thinking, my lord?”

  “We must have other preparations in place. Contingencies.”

  “Yes. And soon.”

  They turned the corner into Kapitelplatz, where vendors had set up stalls along the perimeter. Flowers, fruit, vegetables and fresh pastries created a wildly sweet atmosphere. Oliver’s stomach moaned, his hunger a renewed ache.

  “Me too,” Christoph said, his gaze fastened on a nearby array of roasted meats.

  But only a few hundred feet from home, they pushed on. Their strides consumed long lengths of Kapitelgasse. Oliver liked the feel of his muscles after hours of inactivity, as if his body had been reanimated. Maybe he and Christoph would find time later that afternoon to take up their foils and spar. Such activity was most welcome after tedious days.

  “Oh,” Oliver said. “And on a lighter topic, Arie and Mathilda De Voss would like permission to debut their new sonata at your residence.”

  “Why didn’t they just ask Ingrid?”

  “They did, and she heartily approved. But it will involve several hundred people in the ballroom. They insisted on garnering your approval too.”

  Christoph smiled tightly. “I do so admire a sensible couple. Very well.”

  They arrived at the townhouse, a sleek marble structure that towered four stories above the street. Each row of windows was smaller than the one below, creating the illusion of even greater height. Christoph had come to own the building upon marrying Ingrid. Their union, when discussed by the strictest social matrons in Salzburg, was still a scandal, but Oliver viewed it as the oldest sort of match—influence meets money. Few seemed to realize advantages gained by each. Christoph’s good sense tempered his wife’s tendency toward caprice, while her verve ensured that he would never dry up and float away out of pure loneliness. Oliver had known him before Ingrid, back when he was miserable company.

  Oliver’s habit of late had been to scrutinize successful marriages, picking apart their matched components to understand the whole. It was either that or sink into his own little well of loneliness, one that had deepened on the evening he met Greta Zweig. It was probably nothing more than contemplating what he did not have, coupled with the fact that it had been months since last taking a lover. Three hours in the arms of a widow from Burgundy had been a delightful diversion, but Oliver was beginning to crave more.

  He could not decide whether to credit or blame Greta for that, if at all.

  As Ingrid greeted her husband in the townhouse’s foyer, Oliver had to look away. A surge of envy shook him from hair to heel.

  He took Christoph’s coat.

  “You two look as if you watched puppies drown all afternoon.” Ingrid’s hand cupped the back of Christoph’s neck.

  “Nothing so diverting, meine Liebe.”

  “Oh, you’re terrible. Come in. Eat.”

  Christoph let himself be led down the corridor. “My office in one hour, Oliver. We’ll look at all the possibilities.”

  Ingrid cleared her throat. She clasped his hand in hers, her expression soft and inviting.

  “Make that two hours,” Christoph said.

  Oliver tightened his grip on his half brother’s discarded coat. “Yes, my lord.”

  He looked down to find that he’d crumpled the wool lapels. Another chore to attend—and how fantastic to be one of his own making.

  But no number of chores, especially not attending to Christoph’s garments, seemed likely to banish his unusual melancholy. He begrudged his brother no happiness, but that did little to produce an equal measure of happiness for himself. To simply disappear with Greta for two hours and indulge…what would that be like? To be able to do so without fear or censure?

  He laughed softly to himself, wondering if he would find her nearly so attractive if she weren’t forbidden fruit. At least he was sensible enough to speculate. Maybe there was hope for him yet. And maybe he needed to head down to the Stadttrinkstube, the city drinking rooms, to indulge in a dose of female company.

  But he knew he would not, at least not that evening. The books he had requested from the university—ostensibly on Christoph’s behalf—had arrived early in the morning. Greta had thought him an uneducated servant. On the subject of art, at least, she had been frustratingly accurate. Her forgeries could be the worst in the history of larceny and Oliver would never know. Through the years he had taken to remedying such deficiencies once he recognized them. This task took on the added imperative of being about Greta.

  He would not be so ignorant if they ever met again.

  Oliver was just about to find his way to the kitchen, his stomach still a knot of hunger, when the butler ushered two workmen into the foyer.

  “What’s this?” Oliver asked.

  Hans, the sixty-year-old butler, was a grave character. His demeanor was dour enough to trump even Christoph’s. “A delivery for Lady Venner.”

  The workmen placed the thin, flat crate on the floor. Oliver asked for the delivery papers. A quick glance over the docket proved his suspicions, that the crate contained a painting.

  A painting delivered from Leinz Manor.

  “Well, well,” he said under his breath. Ingrid must have done a little shopping, perhaps while Oliver was so intriguingly engaged on the garden terrace.

  But thoughts of Greta roused his suspicions.

  “Where shall we direct it to be delivered?” Hans asked. He always spoke in the third person, which never failed to strike Oliver as comical.

  Only, his laughter was nowhere to be found just then. “To Lord Venner’s office. Don’t tell Lady Venner of its arrival just yet. He’ll want to surprise her.”

  “Yes, Herr Doerger.”

  If it proved to be a forgery, Oliver would need to inform Christoph. He had made a promise to Greta, one he planned to keep if at all possible, but first and foremost his loyalty remained with his family.

  Chapter Six

  For the second time in nearly a month, Oliver was in a carriage bound for Leinz Manor. Only this time he traveled with Karl. He also did so without an explicit invitation.

  Karl—or rather, Baron Hoffer—had been invited. And, when Oliver had finally located his friend in a temporary lodging across the Salzach, the so-called baron had been in need of a valet.

  “This must be your brother’s doing.” Karl sat on the velvet bench across from Oliver. Again his clothing and bearing bespoke a man who should be welcomed into any respectable household. And again Oliver could see flashes of a wild blacksmith’s son in Karl’s every movement, in his restlessness and an ambition that practically seethed from his pores. “I cannot imagine him lending us a carriage for anything other than official business.”

  “He has his reasons,” Oliver said. “But please do not ask me to discuss them. Suffice it to say that this arrangement benefits all parties. Does it not?”

  An animalistic grin split Karl’s face. “I get to arrive in fine style and treat you like my personal servant all evening? Yes, it does indeed suit.”

  “You take too much pleasure in that prospect, mein Freund.”

  “Too much?” Karl straightened his cravat. “No, I like to think of it as just enough.”

  A game. A game. The phrase kept repeating in Oliver’s mind. Karl was up to something, his dark eyes on some objective that remained just out of sight.

  But Oliver had more pressing concerns to investigate. His secret study of art books had been more than just a boon to his pride. He strongly suspected that the painting Ingrid had purchased was another of Greta’s copies. Accepting commissions for copies
was one consideration—a fair occupation with a long history. As long as there were wealthy people, there would be a market for ways of protecting that wealth. But peddling fakes was unacceptable.

  Christoph had not been pleased with the news. “Find out,” he’d said. “By whatever means you deem necessary.”

  So after a few tactful inquiries, traded for favors and goods, Oliver had located Karl’s whereabouts. Securing him an invitation had been easy enough to acquire—apparently Leinz’s daughters had already been trying to determine his whereabouts. That revelation bedeviled Oliver too. Just how was his old friend managing to ensconce himself so quickly into polite society?

  One carriage and one valet later, the mysterious Baron Hoffer had been ready for the ball.

  The horses’ harnesses jangled as the carriage came to a stop.

  “We’re here,” Karl said, his grin almost manic now. “You and me, Oliver, at Leinz Manor. It’s what we’re due.”

  “Hardly. We’re both here under false pretenses.”

  A dark scowl flashed over Karl’s features. “Most men come to power under false pretenses.” And with that his darkness dispersed. He slid a preening hand down the back of his hair and nodded to the door. “Lead on, my dear valet.”

  Oliver studied the man for a moment longer, but none of that acid returned to his demeanor. Karl was a puzzle for another time. Until proved otherwise, he would simply assume his old friend was as capricious as always, with nothing more sinister than his ruse underway.

  No, on that evening Oliver needed to concentrate on uncovering a different fraud. Greta.

  Her name blinked to life in his brain like flint struck in the pitch black. He would see Greta again. He would confront her. Again. This time, however, he had no designs on claiming a kiss. If his suspicions were correct and the painting proved a fake, he would read it on her face and demand a refund.

  For his sanity’s sake, then, he would be done with Greta Zweig.

  Oliver opened the coach door, hopped down and pulled the steps into place. Karl descended like the baron he was supposed to be, all fine manners and disdainful glances.