by Carrie Lofty
“Giving pointers on vice? Save your breath.”
“Very well.” Christoph flipped two gold florins on the table and stood. “Get sotted before noon. Take a doxy upstairs. But I have two things to say before you do.”
Oliver rolled his fingertip around the edge of one of the coins. “What?”
“If you think the better of it, I should like your assistance this afternoon. I’ve received a request from a Baron Hoffer to meet with me.”
The center of Oliver’s stomach froze into a cold lump. “Go on.”
“I should like to know more about him. And I should like you there with me when he comes to visit.” Christoph shrugged his sharp shoulders, a gesture that always seemed forced. “I’ve been distracted of late because of the duke and because of Ingrid. You catch what I miss.”
Oliver dropped his head. Damn you.
“And if I decide to stay here with the beer and the doxy?”
Christoph nodded to the wig, which sat on the bench like a white dog’s pelt. “Then I want you looking presentable before you return home. I don’t pretend to know what ails you of late, but you will not worry Ingrid. I won’t stand for it.”
He made it to the front door before Oliver shoved his disturbing temper back into a box in his chest. Only grief came from being unreliable or selfish. And if his suspicions were correct, Karl was planning something inappropriate, maybe even illegal. If Christoph went into such a meeting believing Karl a fellow nobleman, he could be drawn in to whatever that plan might be. Christoph was not a gullible man, nor was he particularly trusting. But he relied on Oliver for a reason—a second pair of eyes, a second set of ears, a second intellect to unravel thorny problems.
Oliver could not very well do his job if he bathed his brain in booze.
He struggled back into the hateful wig, pressed the gold coins into Eliza’s hand and kissed her cheek. “Take care, Fräulein.”
He stepped back into the spiteful sunshine. The gulps of beer had done little to blunt his senses. Christoph was waiting there.
“Not a word,” Oliver said.
The older man nodded, a neutral gesture. But his brow softened slightly and the skin at the corners of his eyes relaxed.
Relief.
They set off for the Venners’ town home.
Greta was one matter, a fantasy he could not allow to become real. But Karl? He had never anticipated being forced to choose between the two men—one joined by blood, one by friendship and an old obligation that Oliver could never repay.
Christoph remained silent, leaving Oliver to wonder just how much his brother had guessed of his problems. But short of a direct question, he was unlikely to find an answer. All he could do was present a good face and hope these matters became easier to balance. Soon.
They arrived at the townhouse. Each window had been opened to usher even the most reluctant breeze indoors, but the air was hellishly warm. The entire residence was a bustle of activity as every free hand helped clean and cook for that evening’s concert. Oliver swallowed the bitter beer taste at the back of his tongue. He should have been here, helping, making Ingrid’s job easier—or at least behaving in a way that did not require being fetched home by her husband.
The butler, Hans, closed the door behind them and offered to take Christoph’s coat. “No, danke,” Christoph replied. “Has Baron Hoffer arrived yet?”
“Yes, my lord. He awaits you in the library.”
“We’ll have coffee there, bitte.”
Oliver nearly smiled past his discomfort. So bound to tradition and appreciative of routine, his brother would take afternoon coffee in the middle of a volcano. And he would be honor-bound to accept the request of another nobleman, especially if that request was as easy to grant as providing a few weeks’ shelter. Karl—whatever he had planned—would take that inch of kindness and stretch it into something unclean, perhaps even illegal. Standing there in the sweltering foyer, Oliver felt guilty for putting such faith in his assumption. But suspicions about his friend remained firm and unchanged.
As Christoph turned to climb the stairs to the library, Oliver took his arm. “A word, my lord?”
“Coffee, Hans,” Christoph said, dismissing the butler. When they were alone, he nodded once. “Go on.”
“This will go better for us all if I tell you what I know, and then you see him alone.”
Sharp eyebrows lifted. “Tell me.”
“He’ll ask you for lodging.”
“And you are certain of that?”
“I am.”
“You know him. From before that night at the opera.”
“He and I served together.”
Moments dripped between them, as pronounced as the tick of a clock. The itchy, hot wig seemed to melt and fuse to Oliver’s skull.
“Consider everything you know about him and about the people living here,” Christoph said at last, his words smooth but firm. “How shall I frame my reply?”
“I…” Oliver shifted to stand as if at attention. “Deny his request, my lord. Trust nothing he says. But…as a personal favor to me, please offer him a place at tonight’s recital as a show of goodwill.”
“Will you tell me what this is about?”
“Not yet, my lord. Let me do what I can. In the meantime, mention nothing of my advice nor my suspicions.” He paused. “Please, Christoph.”
In an unaccustomed display of agitation, Christoph drummed his fingers against the wooden balustrade. “Very well. I’ve already squandered too much time on the subject. Go find Ingrid and lock her in her bedchamber if she’s in any way exerting herself.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Christoph strode up the stairs, his profile carved of marble.
Oliver remained on the bottom riser, his heart beating madly. In trying to navigate a path between two allegiances, he had done neither justice. Karl would blame him. Christoph would lose faith in him. But he could do no less by either man.
He chafed his palms over the back of his neck and exhaled heavily. A few days. He had a few days to figure out what Karl planned. A few days to keep his growing obsession for Greta under tight control.
A few days…but then what?
Chapter Ten
Caught up in the air of excitement building in the Venners’ residence, Greta did what she could to assist in the preparations. That Ingrid kept telling her to relax while waddling through each chore on her extensive list seemed entirely in keeping with the woman’s temperament. But Greta helped anyway, much as she did whenever Anna and Theresa handled arrangements. There was a certain sort of peace in being able to help someone else realize an artistic vision. Canvas, sonata, social engagement—they all started as ideas in an eager mind.
In the kitchen, maids in matching starched white aprons assembled floral bouquets from a mass of bulk flowers that had been delivered early that morning. Ingrid said she’d selected these three young women in particular because of their talents for arrangement. Greta had to agree, admiring their work. Each bouquet was a study in contrasts, without ever veering toward garish. Untutored though they probably were, the maids created masterpieces of balance, color and texture. Greta would have enjoyed painting any one of them.
She took another batch of flowers into the great hall where massive stone vases waited to be filled. Only a dozen more to go. Male servants, not yet formally dressed for the evening, still wore the standard household uniform, all sumptuous gold and oxblood. They arranged chairs into rows of twenty each, separated by a central walkway. Others climbed high ladders to replace candles in the chandeliers and to polish the brass.
None of them was Oliver. But Greta checked anyway.
She turned to fetch another batch from the kitchen when the sound of a violin stopped her progress. Just beyond the great hall, from a small room that appeared to house family portraits, came the deliciously dark strains of music. Greta felt drawn to it, pulled, until she stood outside the ajar door.
They must be the musicians, Arie and Mathi
lda De Voss. He sat with a cello while she stood with a violin, both of them playing now. Together they made magic. Goose bumps raised on Greta’s arms as she stood soaking in the sound. She closed her eyes. Music followed her, animating the colors and forms, shapes and textures she conjured. If her paintings could one day touch people the way this music moved her, she would consider her career a success.
But more than their music, the De Vosses radiated closeness. They shared the same rhythm, the same breath, the same artistic vision. That was enough to bring tears to Greta’s eyes, no matter their creation.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Greta opened her eyes to find Ingrid Venner standing at her side, also visibly affected by what they heard.
Herr Weiser was with her.
“Indeed.” Greta’s voice cracked. It was the first time she had seen him since the introductory dinner at Leinz Manor. “And Herr Weiser, I didn’t know you were here.”
“I arrived just this hour, on instruction from your uncle that I should be your companion this evening.” Being hirsute and portly, he did not look capable of affecting a sharp, neat appearance, no matter the value of his clothes. But he had not even changed from his travel clothes. A faint sheet of sweat lined his forehead. The cravat he wore appeared far too tight.
“How thoughtful of him.” Ingrid wore a smile that completely hid any sarcasm, but Greta was convinced of its existence.
Weiser grinned as if the idea had been his. His gaze loped between each woman before settling, seemingly irrevocably, on Greta’s décolletage. She rued the square neckline of her gown. No garment could be modest enough when suffering his overt interest.
Oh, why him?? Why did his appreciation make her skin creep and itch, while she relished such attention from Oliver? Although Herr Weiser was not ideal, he could offer a rare combination of security and freedom—such was the power of a solid fortune. But did his interest have to make her so dreadfully embarrassed? Something about it was unwholesome, no matter the little time they had spent in one another’s company.
Greta decided the best way to combat her intended fiancé was to pretend he wasn’t there. To Ingrid she asked, “How do you know this evening’s performers, my lady?”
“Mathilda De Voss is my dearest friend. For all intents we were raised as sisters. She ran my father’s household before her first marriage.” Ingrid’s smile tipped toward nostalgia. “After she was widowed, she came to live with Lord Venner and me.”
“I’ve heard she’s quite the talent,” Weiser said. “And a great beauty.”
Ingrid canted her head. Light refracted through her diamond earbobs and shimmered across her plump cheeks. “She would say she’s entirely too ordinary to notice, which is, of course, utter rubbish—especially when she performs with her husband.”
“Is he as frightful as everyone says?” Greta asked.
“Absolutely.” The teasing glint in her eyes made Greta smile.
And as if on cue, a grumbled male curse came from inside the small practice room. The language was similar to German, but Greta could understand only its frustration. Mathilda De Voss’s violin screeched, the musical interlude coming to an end.
“Best I’m here, then,” Weiser said, “to protect women of quality from such eccentricities.” He extended a hand toward Greta. “Shall we, Fräulein?”
Greta blanched. She felt trapped in ways that extended well beyond that moment.
“You go on, Herr Weiser.” No longer teasing or warm, Ingrid’s words were an undeniable command. “Fräulein Zweig and I still have work to attend. Brandy and refreshments await you in the billiards room. Excuse us, bitte.”
Without rushing, she took Greta’s hand and guided her down the corridor. Greta could not help but admire the easy way she had of navigating her domain. Smiles for various servants. Kind words. No haste. The aura of her determination, however quiet, was obeyed by all. Busy men and women parted to let her pass. Greta wondered if this was in deference to her delicate condition, but she could imagine no situation in which Lady Venner failed to get her way.
“You looked ready to be sick,” she said when they reached a secluded corner. “I thought I would give you the chance to do so privately.”
Greta hugged her elbows. “No, I am well.”
“Is it Herr Weiser? Has he done something to give you offense?”
“You won’t be deterred in anything, will you?” Greta said with an edgy laugh. Then she bit her bottom lip. “Forgive me, my lady, I didn’t mean to be impertinent.”
“I’ve asked that you call me Ingrid.” She smiled. “And I certainly wouldn’t be so obtuse as to mistake a compliment for impertinence. Now, tell me.”
“He’s caused me no offense.”
“Other than take an excessive interest in how you so nicely fill your bodice. I’d like to say it’s a credit to God’s design and the skill of your dressmaker, but I owe Herr Weiser no such generosity.” She seemed to wait for Greta’s unavoidable giggle. “I won’t pry any further. Mathilda always goes on about how I pry. Just know that Venner’s man, Oliver, will be lurking all evening. You say the word and I’ll have him affect a much less dramatic rescue than at the opera.”
Greta’s heart fluttered. “Oh?”
“He’s very good at coming up with reasons for…well, for anything. Polite reasons. For example, if I cover a yawn with the back of my hand rather than my palm, he’s to swoop in with some pressing concern and whisk me away. Very useful when dealing with more tedious guests.”
“He’s around?” Greta tried for nonchalance. “Perhaps I failed to recognize him.”
“That would bother you, wouldn’t it? Not recognizing him?”
Greta could hardly breathe. She felt naked, exposed, caught in Ingrid’s keen blue gaze. “I wouldn’t want to be rude. He did save my life.”
“Naturally. I don’t know where he is now, but during the performance he’ll be in the high gallery that lines the ballroom. Usually on the east side, but why I can hardly deduce. He and Venner rather enjoy all of this society subterfuge. It spoils his fun if I know where he’s lurking.”
“They’ve had good reason to be cautious, on occasion.” Greta reflexively touched the scar on her neck.
Ingrid nodded and curled a hand low across her stomach. “Which is why I now find other subjects for teasing.”
“My uncle…” She stopped fussing with the draped fabric at her hips. Ingrid had invited the confidence, and Greta wanted to accept her offer. “My uncle intends that I shall marry Herr Weiser.”
“Ah.”
“The match is a decent one.”
“On paper.”
“Yes,” Greta said with a sigh. “On paper.”
“All the more reason to summon Oliver if you need him. You’re not a married woman yet.”
She gave Greta’s shoulder a gentle squeeze and departed, providing no opportunity to ask her to clarify that enigmatic statement. Greta feared she knew exactly what was meant, as well as its absolute impossibility.
“A word, good sir?”
Oliver, standing outside Ingrid’s bedchamber in the midst of searching for the irascible woman, turned at that familiar voice. Karl leaned against a wall some three yards down the corridor. A shiver of foreboding wiggled up Oliver’s spine.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said. “This floor is reserved for family and guests staying overnight.”
“And indeed, I am neither of those. You saw to that.”
“Your pardon?”
Karl pushed away from the wall, his garish purple velvet coat a strong contrast to his pallor. “My appointment with Lord Venner went none so well as I’d hoped. I had been in mind of at least a little more civility, but the man fairly treated me with a most chilly disregard. I’d say his manner bordered on, dare I say, suspicious.”
“Can you wonder at it? You appeared out of nowhere and asked favors of a man whose entire life is steeped in the knowledge of noble associations.”
“And
you made certain he smelled the stink of my father’s smithy long before I even opened my mouth.”
“That’s not true.” Oliver kept his hands clasped behind his back. The aura of strangeness around his old friend was like the stillness of a pond laden with algae—unnatural, cloying, and concealing all that existed under the surface. Suspecting Karl of underhanded dealings was one thing; suspecting him of genuine madness made Oliver’s breath come up short. “I only advised him against presenting you with too many favors.”
“You say as much with no regret. A fine thing, mein alter Freund.”
“I have interests in this household to protect.”
Karl removed a case from his coat pocket and took out a fresh cigar. He lit it with the sloth of a man who had all evening to do so. “None of which include me.”
Smoke slunk into Oliver’s lungs, making him cough delicately into his gloved fist. “I’m afraid not. Now, let us return to the public rooms. Surely the concert will begin soon.”
But Karl did not move. His eyes narrowed, partly obscured by the silvery trail of his exhale. “I did not come here for the concert, Oliver, and you know it. I’ve come to express how terribly disappointed I am in your conduct. Is this the thanks I get? Is this the welcome back to your acquaintance that I deserve?”
Oliver’s old gratitude turned into a heavy weight on his shoulders. “I owe you my life. I would have died that winter without your dedication and aid. But that does not mean I’ll force others to help me repay such a debt.”
“Such a debt cannot be repaid, so don’t bother with the attempt. Do this out of friendship. Your word on an evening like this would make for a most profound welcome among Lord Venner’s acquaintances.”
“I told you no, and I meant it.” Oliver lowered his voice, leaning nearer. “I have some money saved, if that’s what you seek. Such funds might properly see you on your way.”
A glint of something sinister flashed in Karl’s eyes. “And then your conscience would be clear? How fortuitous for you.”
“You helped saved my life and I’m eternally grateful. What has my conscience to do with it?”