by Carrie Lofty
“I only want Lord Venner’s money returned,” he said at last.
“I…I can’t do that. My uncle won’t permit it.”
“Find a way to convince him. The alternative won’t be to either of your liking.”
He dropped his implacable stance and took her hands. Staring at where he petted a thumb over her inner wrist, she wished she could feel his skin—even as she hated the power he wrested.
“Don’t,” she forced out. “Bitte. Don’t.”
“Greta, I never intended to reveal your secret. I gave you my word. But any deceit against my employer must be redressed.”
He exhaled. For the briefest moment, he lowered the mask of detachment that shaped his features. Greta saw fatigue in the tight lines on either side of his mouth, in the puffed skin beneath his eyes. Perhaps he really had been up the night before, unable to sleep, staring at the colors of peacocks. The intimacy of that image and the intimacy of their clasped hands…she had believed the danger restricted to matters of her reputation, or even her virtue. There was even more danger in caring.
“I’ll speak with my uncle. I promise.”
“Danke, Greta.”
“Oliver?” came a man’s voice.
Greta jumped back. Her first and only thought was that no matter who walked down the long corridor, at least it had not been her uncle.
“Man, where have you run off to?”
“I’m here, Baron Hoffer.” At the stranger’s approach, Oliver offered a slight bow. His efficient demeanor was back at the fore. “Have you met Fräulein Zweig?”
The baron joined them in the center of the corridor and bowed over Greta’s hand. He was not as tall as Oliver, and far thinner. Cheekbones like knife edges jutted out above deep hollows, but he was otherwise a rather handsome man. Thick dark hair was gathered at his nape and equally dark eyes shifted endlessly—the opposite of Oliver’s steady regard.
“A pleasure, Fräulein. Are you a guest?”
“No,” she said, retrieving her hand. “Lord Leinz is my uncle. Now if you’ll both excuse me, I must retire for the evening. It was a pleasure to meet you, Baron Hoffer.”
Greta turned away. Forcing her feet to walk rather than run was one of the most difficult tasks she had ever managed. Baron Hoffer. Who was he? Would he reveal what he had seen? And why did his face strike her as familiar?
No matter. She had to get back to her room, to her studio. There she would be safe, at least for the night, even if disappointment would surely keep sleep at bay. Come morning she would have to confront her uncle, all the while praying that Baron Hoffer, whoever he was, proved as circumspect as a certain valet.
Chapter Seven
Karl’s grin bordered on a leer as he watched Greta flee. “Please tell me you’re on some mysterious errand for Lord Venner.”
Oliver, too, watched her go. This was a bad turn of events, he knew, even as he regretted such a hasty end to their stolen moments. His blood pulsed like a tide.
“And why would I do that?”
Karl snickered behind his hand. He reeked of perfume and smoke, and his hair had been tousled as if by a winter’s gale. “Because the idea of you wooing a Pfalzgraf’s niece while wearing that livery is simply too ridiculous.”
Old memories of being taunted for his bastardy turned Oliver’s hands into rock-hard fists. Never good enough. Not ever. To hear that mocking reminder from his oldest friend cut his pride even deeper.
The worst of it was the truth of Karl’s words. For a few minutes, holding Greta’s hand, Oliver had felt like a man—a man whose interest in a particular woman extended beyond pleasantries, or even business. No matter how ridiculous, his proposition had been genuine. Intoxicated by the strange scent of her hair, that combination of roses and linseed oil, he had wanted to take Greta in his arms and dance.
Or at least kiss her until they were both gasping. Breaking off their embrace for a second time had made his limbs shake.
“So? Was I interrupting matters of great political import?” Karl staggered slightly to the left. He gulped out a laugh. “Or something more personal?”
Oliver bit his back teeth together. The impulse to knock that smug expression off Karl’s face was strong and unexpected. As more time crept between the present and those moments with Greta, the more foolish he felt. Had he been trying to intimidate her because of the forged painting, or because he desired more from her?
Both.
“Leave it go, Karl.”
“No, I don’t think I will. For all my fine garments, I’m still just a man who derives an inordinate amount of pleasure from the folly of others.”
“I’m struggling to recall—were you always this long-winded? Or is that part of your new incarnation?”
“All new! Do you like it?”
“Not in the least.”
“Ah, well. It’s not meant for you, I suppose.” Karl staggered again, leaning heavily on the wall with a sloppy attempt at remaining vertical. “Gentlemen speak as if others will hang off their every utterance, no matter how inane.”
“A fine choice of words.” Oliver forced the violence out of his body. Whatever needed to be accomplished with Karl, it would wait until the man was sober. “You’ve had a few this evening, haven’t you?”
“Partaking in the privileges of, well, privilege.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because it’s diverting.” Karl stood so near that Oliver could smell brandy on his breath. He tugged on Oliver’s lapels, then smoothed them back into place. “And because there’s no one to stop me.” His slipshod expression hardened. “Is there?”
This was different, a bitter shift. Did Oliver need to defend himself against a man he once would have died to protect? Would he need to defend Greta against what Karl had surely seen? Close bodies. Whispered words. So much could be made of such a scene—all of it to her detriment.
“Is that a question or a dare?” Oliver asked.
“Hmm…both? I’m curious which will prove stronger—your sanctimonious character or your loyalty to Venner.”
As boys they had frequently sparred, more out of boredom than hostility. When not lifting jewels off unsuspecting ladies at a ball or stealing papers from his father’s office to burn, Oliver had directed his restless rage toward Karl—and had come to expect the same treatment in return. Fights had been part of their tumultuous friendship.
He had not yet adjusted to the desire to do Karl genuine harm.
“And now you’re threatening me,” he said.
“No, just the neat little arrangement you have with your, ahem, employer.”
“No difference. You know that.”
They held one another’s gaze for a thick, hard-edged moment. Any hiss of movement would be invitation enough for Oliver to take his frustration out on Karl’s face. Blood speeding and muscles tense, he needed a release.
But again came that knowledge he would be doing so because of Greta. Because of his pride.
Oliver unclenched his fists and put three feet of distance between them. He called on that source of strength that made submission possible, always recognizing when one step backward actually worked toward advancing his ends.
“I’m not going to fight you, Karl. Not here. Not when you can barely stand.”
“Fight?” Karl beamed. “Oh, do loosen up.” All antagonism slid away. He cuffed Oliver on the shoulder as would a boy at play. “So serious in your old age.”
“Forgive me, Baron Hoffer,” Oliver said, his voice fat with sarcasm. “I’m finding you very difficult to read this evening.”
“And that frustrates the hell out of you. Acknowledged.” Karl yanked on his cravat as if flinging away a snake. “Now, if you’re all finished playing state secrets, can we go home?”
“Naturally.” Hoping to keep from causing much more of a scene, Oliver began walking toward the exit, pleased when his friend followed.
“Unless I could make the Venners’ town home my new residence,” Karl said w
ith a wistful grin. “All the better to secure a more lasting arrangement with an obliging female. My flat is, well, a little humble. Hardly fitting.”
“I won’t vouch for you with Venner.”
“But I’m harmless and I’m entertaining.”
“Neither of those words apply at the moment, Karl.”
“I said—” he put a heavy hand on Oliver’s shoulder, “—don’t call me that.”
Oliver bunched his lips together to keep from speaking his mind. What would he say? Perhaps that the man in front of him more closely resembled a ghoul than a dear friend.
“Now, what do you think? Back to the town home?”
“I told you. No.”
“Ah, well,” Karl said with a shrug. “It was worth a try.”
“I’m glad you understand me.”
“But then, I wonder what all his political cronies would think if they learned what your real duties entail, all intrigue and keeping secret stock of the town’s finest.” He turned surprisingly sober eyes on Oliver. “And your true relationship.”
“So, we’re back to threats now.”
“You must understand my position, Oliver, mein alter Freund. I have this role I’ve created,” he said, waving his hands down at his expensive garments. “But I need a little more. Legitimacy.” He snickered, his eyes tightened to slits. “You know all about needing legitimacy. A few weeks as Lord Venner’s guest would do just the trick.”
Oliver shook his head, his shoulders suddenly heavy. His tongue felt too large for his mouth. “Don’t ask it of me.”
“Only this. And then you won’t ever need to see me again. I’ll vanish—disappear from your life.” He rocked on his heels, catching his balance with a hand on the nearest wall. “Some rich widow will fall in love with me and that will be that.”
“And you really expect to be able to accomplish such a ruse?”
“It’s nothing so nefarious, Oliver. Just trying to change my stars. You can understand that, I’m sure.” He laughed a little. “Remember how we used to dream of the future?”
“I remember us doing all we could to wind up under a jailer’s watchful eye.”
Karl seemed to ignore him. “But after the war—God, I couldn’t remember how to dream. This…help me have this.”
His expression softened, no pretense now. Oliver saw the young man he had once believed to be his best friend in the world. He hardly knew what to think of Karl Schulz now, but their shared past was still robust.
Although he knew that reference to their wartime experiences was well-timed, like a trump card revealed at just the right moment, Oliver could not deny its power. He owed Karl his life. That responsibility sat like a troll on his back, a nagging burden that would not be denied. Oliver exhaled and shifted his shoulders, readying to bear that burden a little longer.
“I’ll think about it.”
“That’s enough.” Karl’s earnestness melted into a smile of drunken triumph.
Oliver had not suffered nausea for a very long time. But he did throughout the ride back to Salzburg.
Greta cut a piece off a large hunk of umber and placed it in her mortar. Seated at her window bench, she settled into the task of pulverizing the pigment. The umber cracked into a half dozen smaller rocks beneath her pestle. Soon she developed a steady rhythm, able to stare out the window as her hand pushed and crushed. The muscles in her arms and upper back ached, but the steady task was a mindless one. She was able to float out of her studio, taking in the lush beauty of that brilliant summer day. The gentlest breeze brought the fragrance of honeysuckle and roses and warm loam, doing battle with the linseed oil stink of her studio.
The inevitable loomed, however. Soon. Soon she would need to speak with her uncle.
She switched sides, enduring the clumsiness of her left hand in order to give her right a rest. Pigment powder fluffed out of the little stone cup, smudging her apron.
And still the problem of her uncle remained. The longer she put it off, the tighter her chest became. She could hardly approach the thought of it without suffering that electric jolt of fear. He would dine at midday. He would take his afternoon walk. He would read his correspondence and play checkers with Anna and take his supper in the dining room. If she let the day pass without speaking to him, she would suffer the same torture again on the morrow.
How had such a coward lived twenty years?
By keeping in Uncle Thaddeus’s good graces.
She pushed the pestle with even swifter strokes, the muscles of her arm turning to hot lead. At last it was entirely pulverized. She added the pigment and the linseed oil to a bowl and began again, mixing, mixing. She had no say over her life or her fate, but she could make those two disparate ingredients yield.
When the umber paint was an ideal consistency, she set it aside and rolled her shoulders. Her hands cramped, so she bent her fingers backward against her thighs, pacing the studio.
Go now…or go in an hour?
In an hour.
She glanced at the mantel clock, giving herself an ultimatum. At two in the afternoon he would be sated by his midday repast, taking in the air in the garden. Could he really be angry with her amidst such a setting?
Rather than answer that question, she covered the umber and found her sketchbook. To paint now, in such an agitated state, would only mean frustration. Instead she vented, using paper and charcoal as her weapons. The mindless state of creation was all she desired.
Minutes passed. Longer even. She could not tell, so lost in the world of her art. Page after page. Sketch after sketch. Only when the clock chimed four did she jerk out of that haze. Her backside was numb and her neck stiff.
After a few blinks, licking dry lips, she looked down at the sketchbook in her lap. Oliver’s eyes stared back. She uttered a little gasp.
She had captured him exactly—so exactly that a shiver of awareness trailed down her back. His eyes were slightly narrowed, the line of his brow tugged down in that unnerving way. Scrutinizing. The arrogant jut of his chin contrasted with the hint of a wig she had sketched away from his temples.
Greta smoothed a thumb over the top of his cheek. Rather than reveal heat, her caress only fouled the cool paper. The charcoal smudged, rubbing into her dry skin. She thrust the sketchbook aside and wiped her hands along her apron.
She was obsessed, acting a fool. There was no future in even a playful, harmless infatuation. And if she delayed speaking with her uncle, she would suffer the consequences of Oliver’s keen intuition.
The sketchbook landed at an awkward angle, its pages bent. She stooped to retrieve it and return it to a high shelf, but another drawing caught her attention. She carefully studied her portrait of Baron Hoffer. Yes, the brow was just right, as was the set of his dark eyes—a little too close together and a little too narrow to be considered handsome. The sneer, too, touched her with that ethereal sense of life she was sometimes able to give her creations. The sneer was genuine.
And familiar.
She framed the drawing with her hands, angling the L-shapes of her thumbs and index fingers. The same niggling tickle of recognition slithered over her senses. She understood the impulse to place a name, face and moment of acquaintance, but she could not fathom her unease.
Baron Hoffer. No matter the deep push into her memories, she could not remember having heard of him before her cousins’ conversation. They considered him a fine catch—by rumor, mostly, because they had not met him before the ball.
The mantel clock chimed half past four. She exhaled, no longer able to delay the inevitable. The mystery of Baron Hoffer would simply have to wait.
After removing her apron and tidying her appearance, she traversed the manor’s many halls until she found Thaddeus in his study. She huffed a tight breath. If she had found him at two as she planned, this would all be over and done, accomplished in the garden rather than in his study. Books, dark furniture and the lingering scents of leather and pipe smoke marked his territory. The whole manor was his, b
ut no room more so. Even her cousins never dared conversation with him there.
Whether that made Greta brave or foolish she did not know.
She rapped gently on the open door. “Uncle? May I speak with you?”
He looked up from a ledger and nodded. “Of course. Come in.”
She closed the door behind her, quickly sending up a prayer as it snapped shut. The seat of her chair sank deeply under her weight, making her feel even less significant in the presence of her uncle’s intimidating demeanor. She laced her fingers together in her lap, looking down at her stained cuticles, searching for the voice that would not come.
“Margaret?”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Why are you here?”
She screwed up her courage along with her mouth. When paint dried on the hairs of her arms, she simply yanked it off. Painful. Necessary. Quick. This was no different.
“My lord, did you sell my copy of Casteels’ Peacocks to Lady Venner?”
“Yes.” He set aside his quill. “Am I to take it that you disapprove again?”
“My lord, yes, but for a different reason.”
“And what is that?”
Oliver, her brain shouted. He found me out. He sees me and he sees what I do.
Why was he the only one?
“I have it under good authority,” she began slowly, “that Lord Venner has reason to doubt its authenticity. He is displeased.”
Thaddeus’s face pulled into a scowl. Slim white eyebrows drew together. “Go on.”
“They would like the cost of the painting adjusted accordingly, or the original offered in its stead.”
He began with a slow nod. Then, inexplicably, his twisted mouth eased toward a smile. It held no mirth; that would be as unlikely as fairies flying in from under the door. No, his smile said that he and his darling niece shared a secret. Greta shivered.
“I see, Margaret,” he murmured. “I see what you’re trying to do.”
“My lord?”
“It makes sense, in a way. I almost admire your ingenuity.”
He appeared as if he had just learned the solution to a troubling puzzle, but Greta could claim no such assurance. “My lord, I don’t understand. Bitte…”