by Carrie Lofty
“I can get members of the duke’s guard to look into it.”
Oliver held up two hands, warding off the suggestion. “Like they helped save Greta? I require no such assistance.”
“Then what are your recommendations?”
Back on firm ground now—just Lord Venner and his trusted man. Oliver much preferred that arrangement to prickly trips back through time. The past was gone. It shaped how he thought and how he tried to behave now, but it could not be changed.
“Keep the staff on alert that he should not be admitted,” Oliver said. “I will learn what I can about his intentions.”
“And these bills? Shall I pay them?”
“Bitte,” Oliver said. “To honor the man who saved my life. But make it clear to the shopkeepers that this is a one-time favor. Otherwise, I’m afraid his lack of principles would take advantage indefinitely.”
“Done.” Christoph penned himself a note, his scrawled handwriting at stark odds with every other aspect of his neat character. “Now, we must meet with the duke’s cabinet after Mass.”
“On a Sunday?”
“Ferdinand returns to Salzburg shortly, on the assurance that Napoleon is on his way. We must take stock of how many Hussars are at our disposal.”
Oliver was gratified to move on to subjects of a less personal nature. “How soon?”
“Weeks, but perhaps less. It all depends on what sort of army we can raise. Even a small defense force may make them reconsider outright occupation—or send him on to more appealing targets.”
“It’s not going to be enough. You know that. Members of the council will drag their feet, unwilling to offer up any more than is absolutely necessary.”
Christoph rubbed his eyes. “We have to try.”
“Agreed. But I must suggest that we continue preparations for the worst.”
“Agreed. Oh, and Lord Leinz is arriving on Sunday. He will be taking the women home midweek, hopefully somewhere safe and far away from here.”
“Greta too?”
Oliver realized his mistake too late. Naturally Leinz would take Greta home. And Oliver had no genuine reason to refer to her by her given name, let alone care about her comings and goings.
“Yes,” Christoph said slowly. “Fräulein Zweig too.”
“Of course.”
“Is there something else you should tell me, Oliver?”
That was why his brother was such a fantastic politician. His starched professional nature gave way to a moment of endearing personal entreaty. Who could resist?
Oliver could.
He stood and offered a formal bow. “My lord, I’ve already taken up too much of your time. Guten Tag.”
Greta loved the Dom.
The largest cathedral in Salzburg, it seated thousands of parishioners comfortably and boasted room enough for a choir, organ and full orchestra, conducted that morning by none other than Arie De Voss.
And the color…!
She gazed up at the stained glass in rapt fascination. This was her third Mass in the beautiful place of worship, but she would no more tire of it, ever, than she could capture its grandeur.
At the massive altar, the bishop delivered his sermon, but Greta’s mind was elsewhere, his words only a steady droning behind her exploration of the Dom’s artwork. Shape and texture, color and light—she opened her mind to absorbing as much as she could.
Theresa nudged her. “Hymn,” she whispered.
Greta grabbed a hymnal and opened to a random page, but soon her gaze was drawn back to the carvings and stained glass. She rationalized that she was paying homage to God by best appreciating the magnificent achievement His servants had brought into being.
She was on the end of the row—all the better to admire the nearest bank of windows. In the shuffle of standing for the hymn, someone tapped her elbow from behind. But no one was there when she turned. Everyone in the row behind her now stood, their voices erupting in song.
Then she saw him. Three rows back. Oliver.
“I need air,” she said quietly to Theresa.
Not giving her cousin the chance to reply, Greta returned her hymnal to its holder and walked down the outside aisle toward the main entrance. Voices swelled in strong, lush harmonies at her back. She kept walking, hoping Oliver was at her back too.
What would they do? What could they do, with only a few stolen moments?
Greta smiled. She had ideas, at any rate.
On silent feet she proceeded to the main doors, which stood far opposite the altar. Everyone’s attention faced forward toward the bishop. She hurried on until she emerged into the cloudy midmorning air. Oliver stood just outside, standing at attention as smartly as a military man. Greta was so happy to see him—their unexpected tryst—that she nearly rushed to him.
Only, the sight of her uncle stopped her cold.
“Fräulein Zweig, His Lordship asked that I retrieve you from the Mass,” Oliver said formally, his gaze somewhere in the middle distance. He was not the man she adored but once again a means of enacting another’s bidding.
Greta’s heart had jolted from one surprise to another. Then her spirits simply sank. She, too, was transformed in an instant into a whole other person. From Oliver’s daring clandestine lover to Thaddeus Leinz’s dutiful, cosseted niece. Had she been offered the choice, right then, as to who she wanted to remain forever, she would have been torn in two by the lives they stood to provide.
“Uncle Thaddeus,” she said, recovering her voice. She dropped into a curtsy. “How wonderful to see you again, my lord. Your daughters will be pleased as well. Shall I fetch them?”
“No. Let them take in the rest of Mass. Thank you, lad,” he said to Oliver. “That will be all.”
Greta steeled herself against the desire to bid Oliver goodbye, or at least snatch a backward glance. Her uncle was too perceptive and would catch any such gesture. Only out of the corner of her eye did she see his stiff return to the Dom.
“Come, Margaret. Walk with me.”
Forced to the man’s will by long habit and obligation, Greta did as she was told. Someday, she feared, she would not. And then the path of her future days would change forever. The uncertainty alone of facing such a change was enough to keep her strides in time with his.
“I trust you’ve enjoyed a pleasant stay?”
“Yes, Uncle. It’s been most eventful.”
“Anna wrote to me about your assistance with Lady Venner’s, ah, time of need.”
Greta covered a smile with her gloved hand. Euphemism always served when it came to matters of pregnancy and childbirth. “I was happy to help her after the kindness she’s shown the three of us.”
“I’m glad you feel the slate is clean.”
“Pardon?”
“You’ve done your part, which, though unnecessary, is actually quite a boon. Now, when you hear that inquiries have been made into your cousins’ marital futures, all because of this fortuitous connection with Lady Venner, you won’t feel as if she’s been ill-used.”
Greta grimaced. The inference there seemed to be that she was overly sensitive to such things as favors and fairness, which balled her free hand into a fist.
“I’m pleased that they will be well looked after,” she managed to say.
“And Herr Weiser was most pleased with your time together, although he did seem disappointed that the event did not allow you more time together. What was it—at some concert?”
Had he been in touch with everyone who might be able to report Greta’s activities?
“Yes, my lord, at a sonata hosted by Lady Venner.”
“She has a great deal of influence for being born a commoner.”
“But if it suits our ends, Uncle…”
“Indeed, quite right. I suppose the same can be said of Maria Lucca.”
Greta frowned slightly, missing the leap he’d obviously made. “The duke’s…companion?”
“That’s right. She’s purchasing your copy of that one by Benjamin Block. Th
e one of the Ansbach nobles. They were relatives of hers, apparently, although I can hardly believe the connection.” He sneered in such a way that ruined whatever good looks he could boast. Greta only saw the profile of a man who had no notion of what he was enacting.
Maria Lucca buying a forgery. Dear God, what a disaster!
“Now,” he said firmly, but with a strangely solicitous air. “I took you into my confidence because I want to propose a truce. The money secured by this sale will be enough to ensure the girls will marry well, and that Herr Weiser accepts your hand.”
“My lord, may I suggest—”
“In return, I would appreciate if you do not whisper to the servants about this exchange. The painting has already been delivered to her residence. She wrote to me personally about how pleased she’ll be to have it in her collection when she returns to the city.” He shrugged casually. “Airs and graces aside, she’s ensured that all will be well for our family.”
For all her turmoil, Greta’s heart still twisted. He was stubborn and decidedly unethical, but he intended only the best for his daughters—and maybe even for her. That he went about it with so few scruples and so little regard for their emotional well-being seemed almost secondary when confronted with his earnest worry.
But even her unexpected sympathy for his position did not ease Greta’s flood of dread. Because there was still the issue of Maria Lucca.
The rest of their walk passed as an achingly slow torture. Uncle Thaddeus continued to talk about the architecture and the inadequacies of newly titled citizens who held sway in this reprobate new world. Greta’s ability to understand his words, however, dimmed as she plotted and fretted and feared.
Was this a new skill she had developed, the ability to endure the impossible? Because what she faced was impossible. A trap closed around her, one to which her uncle was not privy.
He escorted her back to the Venners’ residence. “I’ll be staying as a guest of Count Peltzer at his town home. I’ll come for you and the girls on Wednesday when we’ll return to Leinz with Herr Weiser.”
“Wednesday,” Greta said tightly. “So soon?”
“It’s no longer safe to linger. Anyone with means should be out of harm’s way as soon as possible, lest we find ourselves at Napoleon’s mercies. We’ve worked too hard for that.” He patted her arm. “Why, Margaret, you look exceptionally pale. Whatever is the matter?”
“Uncle…” She clasped her laced fingers so tightly that pain shook through her knuckles. “I wish you would reconsider this deal with Maria Lucca. The woman is a known connoisseur of art. Surely my copies are none so good as to fool an authority on the matter.”
“An authority? Hardly. She will see what she wants to see, just as she does with her own so-called lineage. The duke’s attentions have her thinking far too highly of her redeeming qualities.” An angle of sunlight glinted off his bald head as he shrugged. “Your work is well enough for the likes of her.”
Greta swallowed past a gritty lump of frustration. He never took her seriously, not even on the one topic where she might claim some conviction. Perhaps it was best to admit that he never would. But she had to try one more time.
“Sir, I insist. This will do nothing but undermine our family name. I assure you, Maria Lucca will realize that painting is not genuine—and then all we’ve worked for will be threatened. Surely you can see that!”
“I can see that you are overwrought.” His frown tightened over the threat of a scowl. “I suggest you go rest.”
Whatever kindness might have lurked in his concern was nothing to her heartsick disappointment. He spoke to her with the same condescension he had always used like a weapon against her mother.
Greta found herself replying as she remembered from years past, with enough deference and gratitude to end the conversation—because he was beyond listening to reason. “Danke schoen, Uncle Thaddeus. I think I will.”
The Venners had already returned from Mass. Anna and Theresa bounded down the corridor to their father. Greta wondered, then, if the wall between her and her cousins had been built because of just such a scene. The girls loved their father without reservation. They had none of Greta’s resentment, none of her memories of how his influence and might had ruined her parents. On the issue of Thaddeus Leinz, she and her young cousins would never be reconciled.
Finally held by the privacy of her room, she confronted the facts. She would leave on Wednesday. The span of her time remaining in Salzburg could be realistically measured in hours—mere hours before she and Oliver would never see one another again. Now, added to that heartbreak, her uncle did not suspect the danger in which his scheme had placed the family.
Soon she would be discovered. Oh, very soon.
And it had nothing to do with informing Maria Lucca. Thaddeus’s fraud would be uncovered and the family reputation would suffer. Her cousins would never marry respectable men, and Herr Weiser would certainly rescind his proposition. Greta would never be able to paint again.
Anyone with the slightest knowledge of Salzburg society—the society her uncle blinded himself to out of pure snobbery—would have known of Maria Lucca’s affinity for art. A forgery billed as an original would be discovered. Greta knew it, dreaded it, as she wiped her tears with a handkerchief.
The light had faded toward dusk when she finally calmed. The idea that had come over her was so daring and dark that she hiccupped in fear at the mere thought. Maria Lucca had a painting she should never see. That meant Greta would have to take it back.
Chapter Nineteen
She waited until just after midnight before climbing out of bed.
Greta reached the windowsill and looked down to where the gated garden rested in dark tranquility. She found the spot where she had knelt between Oliver’s legs. A rush of warmth and need made her shake. But even Oliver, for all of their unexpected passion, could do nothing to make this right. She placed her palms against her heart and pushed. It beat even faster beneath that pressure. Her paintings had always been such a source of joy, but now they were set to cause her misery.
The quiet remained unbroken. She found her pelisse and pulled it on, just as the clock struck a quarter to one. Her idea was reckless and terrifying, but she needed to try. For her cousins and for her own reputation, she would get that painting back.
On silent feet she crept out of her room and down the main stairs. She felt unbearably conspicuous, but using the servants’ stairs would have been even more perilous. The staff was more likely to be up and about at this hour, perhaps even scurrying off to a quiet rendezvous. She knew a little more about their secret lives now, how the obscurity of their work often gave them more freedom than she could even dream about.
If she were a ladies’ maid, she would marry Oliver Doerger. A real maid would probably shear Greta’s hair for coveting such circumstances. The goal was not to idolize their lives. Far from it. But Greta could not help but envy any woman who could claim a legitimate opportunity to make Oliver her husband.
The wood railing was cool under her fingertips as she hurried toward ground level. She exited through the garden door Oliver had used, knowing the front door would be guarded. No one could see her.
Once outside, she continued past the topiary lions to the locked gate at the rear of the garden. She hoped her letter had got through to Baron Hoffer.
A harsh laugh pushed into her throat. Baron! He was Karl Schulz, who had once been employed among her uncle’s kitchen staff. She knew she had seen that face before. Only his appearance at the De Vosses’ recital had spurred her memory to match familiar features with a long-buried name. Why he had come to Salzburg posing as a nobleman was only beyond her with regard to details. He had been a climbing, grasping man even as a servant, dismissed for altering shipment records—and pocketing the difference.
That he was trying his hand at his own sort of forgery came as no surprise.
Greta squeezed her knuckles until they popped. Perhaps that was why she so disliked her uncl
e’s scheme. Forging his paintings had been her means of contributing to the family’s safety. His decision to sell them as originals lumped her in the same category as people like Karl Schulz, who used trickery to advance their stations. She wanted to be known as an artist, not a swindler.
A rustle beyond the gates made her heart leap. Shrinking into the shadows, she pulled her dark pelisse tighter around her body. Then she waited.
“I don’t know why you’ve summoned me,” came a man’s voice, “but I never decline an invitation from a lady.” Karl’s face appeared between the upright metal bars of the garden gate. The bars mimicked those of a jail cell, which struck Greta as rather appropriate.
“You got my letter, then?”
“I did.” He leaned casually against the gate as if he had no fear of discovery. But why should he? He had come dressed as a commoner.
“Your clothes are none so sumptuous as I remember them, Baron Hoffer.”
“Why waste the effort on a woman who knows the truth?”
“More like, why risk being caught out in a situation that risks your disguise.”
“That too. I imagine you should’ve taken similar steps, or would your uncle approve of you meeting a man in the middle of the night?”
Greta’s stomach clenched as if she had been force-fed spoiled beef. “Since you’re here, you understand the nature of my letter.”
“I read well enough to recognize blackmail, even when written in a woman’s fine hand. So what do you require of me, Fräulein Zweig?”
“I need the name of someone who would be willing to steal a painting.”
Karl blinked and straightened. Greta was oddly amused that she had taken him by surprise. “Well, well. That’s quite a request.”
“Indeed. But I’m sure you can accommodate me.”
“Oh?”
“Your, shall we say, lifestyle at present suggests a certain level of deceit—false patents of nobility and family trees, that sort. So I assume you have connections with less savory folks than do I.”