Portrait of Seduction

by Carrie Lofty

  Greta turned her head to follow his departure. “Where will he go?”

  “His mother is a seamstress with a family on Judengasse.”

  Oliver took one look back at the Venners’ empty home. They had managed to cram Christoph, Ingrid, baby Franz, and twelve people into the carriages, with another six armed men on horseback to keep them safe. Their mounts would serve as replacement horses along the journey to Anhalt. Everyone else had abandoned the manor. They would stand a better chance of avoiding plunder and violence if they stayed with common folk.

  “Oliver, there’s nothing more you can do.”

  “And that’s a terrible feeling.” He squeezed the reins in frustration. But Greta was right. He could do nothing more. His job now was to see the carriages and their precious cargo out of the city. “You ready?”

  Greta nodded once, then urged her horse forward. Oliver tapped his heels into his mount’s flanks, moving alongside her in the packed streets. Carriages lined Kaigasse. People, their backs and arms laden with possessions and small children, filled in every cranny of space. The Venners’ vehicles had progressed only the length of three houses. With patience and slow moves, Oliver drew his horse even with the rearmost of their family guards.

  “Dieter, I’m going on ahead to help clear a path. Will you stay with Greta, please?”

  The guard’s white-blond hair looked almost ghostly as the air thickened with smoke. “Of course, sir.”

  “Good. Greta, I won’t be long.”

  He put more urgency into his command of the horse, forcing the animal’s body through the crowd. As the weakened autumn sun shone down on desperate faces, the push of bodies was nearly too much to overcome. But Oliver continued on. He fought to the front of the Venners’ lead carriage, greeting two more of their guards with a grim nod.

  “Slow going, sir,” one said.

  “I can see that. Do what you can to clear a path farther ahead. I’ll stay here.”

  “You armed, sir?” the other asked.

  Oliver patted his hip where his muzzle-loading pocket pistol rested heavily. He had not worn it since surviving combat. He certainly had no desire to use it, there among Salzburg’s anguished citizens, but he would not leave his people unprotected. “I’ll be fine. Go now.”

  He watched as the two large men fared better at shoving a little distance between bodies. God, it ripped at his heart. These people had so little. It seemed wrong to try and shove carriages down such a street. But the future of his family depended on getting clear. He had little of Christoph’s faith that their relatives in Anhalt would offer sanctuary without being reimbursed. In an odd way, at that moment, he could understand Thaddeus Leinz’s desperate actions. What would he risk if he had daughters to protect? What decisions would he make, perhaps later to regret? Probably too many, but immediate threats crystallized what was important.

  A cannon fired with a tremendous boom—a mere mile away, if that. The blast rumbled the ground and blew out the windows of two nearby buildings. Women screamed. Two horses reared up on their hind legs, scattering the crowd. A scene that had been polite chaos turned ugly. Two men fought with bloodied fists, although Oliver hadn’t been privy to the scuffle’s origin. Every inhale of gunpowder shuttled him back to distant battlefields.

  “Sir!” One of the guards had turned back. “A carriage with a busted axle is blocking the way.”

  Oliver was off his horse in a blink. He rounded up four of the guards and handed the horses off to one of them. “The rest of you, with me.”

  They shoved through the crowd and came to the carriage, a grand vehicle with gilt trimming over black lacquer. Its occupants were still inside.

  “Out! Now!” Oliver yanked open the door. When the startled couple and their servants would not exit, they were none-so-kindly assisted by the Venners’ guards. “You’re blocking the way for the entire street.”

  “We were waiting for our man to return with the tools to fix it.” Oliver recognized him as a banker named Klaus Jensen.

  “Herr Jensen, your man is probably across the Salzach and halfway to Vienna by now. We must get this carriage out of the way.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Oliver and the other men worked on moving the vehicle to one side of the road. His head hurt, as if he’d run for miles in the blazing heat without a single drink of water. His back ached and his arms screamed for mercy, but he worked as fiercely as the guards who’d all been hired for their brawn. Urgency was like a potion making him stronger and more determined.

  Slowly, with patience and brute strength, he and the men shuffled the carriage on a lazy diagonal toward the right side of the road. Almost immediately the glut in the street eased. The larger vehicles were able to cut through with room to spare, and the people calmed with more space between shoving bodies.

  Oliver pushed back toward the lead carriage, only to find it had moved past. That alone seemed a victory worth celebrating, but he would save all such sentiments for when they were safely across the Salzach. With only two main bridges to cross the river, their struggles with cloying crowds were far from over.

  He caught up with the second carriage and looked around for Greta as he remounted.

  She was nowhere to be seen.

  “Greta?”

  Another cannon blast rocked the afternoon air. People on foot crouched low, shielding one another. A chunk of brick from a listing overhang dropped to the ground, shattering. More screams, like the braying of animals just before slaughter.

  Oliver kicked his mount into motion, making an awkward circle of both carriages. The street was madness, compressed on all sides by too many buildings, bodies and nerve-shredding explosions. To lose only one person to such a scene was probably fortunate, when it had the potential to swallow up whole families.

  But that one person was Greta. When he found Dieter, he shouted, “Where is she? Fräulein Zweig?”

  The man’s round face turned an unhealthy gray color. “She was just here, sir!”

  “When?”

  “When you were moving the carriage. She was here beside me, watching too. I remember that, sir.”

  “Damn,” Oliver said under his breath. “You saw nothing else?”

  Dieter shook his head, then started among their party to seek information. Something cold crept up Oliver’s spine. Whatever had happened was not Greta’s doing. She was reckless, but she knew to keep herself safe. With him.

  “Sir?” Dieter’s face had taken on an ashen tinge. “Jutta says Fräulein Zweig was arguing with a man.”

  Oliver’s pulse jumped. “Another man?”

  “Yes, sir, and the man she described—sounds like the man who was at the concert. The highborn fella with fancy clothes you had me…handle.”

  Karl? Bloody hell.

  He swiveled the horse away.

  With her name a chant in his mind, Oliver pushed toward the lead carriage and pounded on it. “Venner!”

  Christoph poked his head out the open window. Sweat covered his flushed face—probably the only time he had ever ridden in the coach packed to bursting with people. “What?”

  “I can’t find Greta.”

  Even saying that was difficult, admitting the extent of his terror. But seeing that fear reflected on Christoph’s face was more than he could stand. “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure. I’ve been all around the carriages. I…I think Karl has her.”

  “Karl?”

  “Baron Hoffer.”

  The choice was so clear. His brother’s family, the best friend of his youth, or the woman he loved. Oliver’s heart was being yanked into pieces over such a decision, but he could make no other.

  Greta’s words came back to him. Even when faced with losing me, you chose your duty? You chose them?

  Maybe that was why she had held back. He had become obsessed with her, had taken mad chances for her, had fallen in love with her. But he had yet to prove that she was first and foremost in his life. And Karl—their showdown had been months in
coming. There would be no more holding back.

  If he hurt Greta…

  But Oliver shoved the thought out of his mind. He faced his brother and tipped his chin toward the interior of the carriage.

  “Take care of Ingrid and that little man of yours. I’ll meet you in Anhalt. Promise.”

  “Where are you going?” Although Christoph asked the question, his expression said he knew the answer—and approved.

  Oliver settled his hat more firmly on his head and gripped the reins. “I am going to find her.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Greta heard the cannons crawling nearer with every booming explosion. But she could not see a thing. Karl, the so-called Baron Hoffer, had hauled a burlap sack over her face. She could no more determine where he’d taken her than she could escape. Her hands and ankles were bound and looped together behind her back.

  If she could breathe, she’d scream. Terror, however, had stolen her voice, her wits, her hope.

  No, she had a little hope left—that Oliver would notice her absence and come find her.

  That hope, however, was harder to nurture as the explosions grew louder and her limbs went numb. Where would he look? How would he even know that his old friend had captured her, when simply getting lost in that mad crowd was the more likely conclusion? And a dark, niggling doubt said he would not leave the Venners.

  He loved her, but how much?

  No. She had to believe. She held tight to that fact as she waited for Karl to make a mistake.

  The man returned from wherever he’d gone, his shuffling, stumbling steps indicating that he remained half-inebriated. Greta held wholly still, not daring to breathe lest he carry out whatever plan he’d hatched. Not knowing what lay in store was the most dreadful part. He could intend anything. Anything at all.

  She stifled a shiver. If he freed her hands…

  “There you are, pretty.” The slur of his words was stronger now. Another bomb blast shook the building. The hollow feel of the movement suggested they were on a second or third floor.

  God, how was she going to get free? Maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe Napoleon’s men would storm the city and find her the victim of some unknown crime. Oliver would never locate her in time.

  Rough hands hauled her upright, bending her ankles back at an odd angle. Greta cried out. Karl only laughed, which suggested that he had no fear of being discovered. Her spirits sank even deeper.

  He yanked off the sack, grinning, his face mere inches away. “There you are.”

  Although her ankles burned, Greta was grateful for the gulps of cooler air. Sweat made her hair stick to her cheeks and neck. Her gown felt like it had been adhered to her body with wallpaper paste. “What do you want?”

  “Want? Not so much, young Fräulein.”

  “You have no right to hold me here.” She tugged surreptitiously at the ropes but they budged not a bit.

  “Probably not.” His grin widened. “But here you are nonetheless.”

  “Let me go. You know my uncle is a wealthy man. You’ll be paid whatever you ask.”

  Karl laughed outright. He stood away from her, dusting his hands as if touching her had been a foul experience. “I very much doubt that. He’s nearly destitute and we both know it.”

  “He has other assets.”

  “Paintings, perhaps?”

  Something about the mischievous glint in his eyes sent a shiver down Greta’s back. “Among other things, yes.”

  “But I wonder, would he want you back? Your work for him is finished now, and you’ve been…shall we say, compromised.” Karl’s gaze crawled down her body. “Was he good, Fräulein? Our dear Oliver?”

  That shiver turned into a full-on shudder. His expression, his posture—he reeked of lunacy. Greta had never felt comfortable around him, but now he seemed stripped of any semblance of humanity.

  “Oliver will know where we are,” she said, trying to keep her voice even.

  “Oh, I’m counting on it! Although, forgive me if I don’t believe you know where we are.”

  He walked across the room to a collection of items hidden by a tarp. Greta took the opportunity to assess her surroundings, but Karl was right. She did not know their location. The room was neither large nor small, neither elegant nor impoverished. It was simply a room, one with a high ceiling and four windows. The sun shone through those windows, indicating they faced west. No candles or lamps could be seen. When the sun set, they would be alone together in the dark.

  She did the unthinkable then. She willed Napoleon’s troops to hurry.

  Karl whipped the tarp up and away, revealing a sizeable collection of vases, trinkets, clothes, a jewelry box and a stack of canvases. Some of the canvases remained in frames but others had been rolled. He picked up one of the framed paintings and brought it to where Greta sat half-propped against the wall.

  “Now, my pretty, who painted this?”

  Greta recognized the piece as one from her uncle’s collection. “It’s mine. I painted it.”

  “Liar.” He said the word so softly that it almost sounded like an endearment. “Try again.”

  “It’s a Murillo. Bartolomé Esteban Murillo.”

  “Correct! Very good.”

  “You stole it from my uncle.”

  “Indeed.”

  “How?”

  “Ever notice how little mind some masters pay their servants? Perhaps you were guilty of such neglect too, before Oliver taught you what flesh and bone lives behind the uniforms.”

  “You worked for him. Last summer.”

  “True. And you wouldn’t believe how easy it can be to tempt fellow servants into revealing a household’s secrets.” He rubbed his chin. “In that way, you must admire Venner’s scheme with Oliver. To have a servant in your ranks who you trust never to be corrupted? What an asset.”

  Greta worked at the ropes, but they only wore away the skin of her wrists. She felt blood. “So you bribed my uncle’s staff and stole them. Did you steal the rest of that pile as well?”

  He set the frame aside and crawled, slowly, very deliberately, toward Greta. His face shone with an unnatural fervor. “I did,” he whispered, brushing her cheek with his knuckles. “It’s amazing the leeway a host will give a man of quality—unfettered access to very lucrative rooms. Baron Hoffer has been busy this summer and will emerge from this war a very wealthy man.”

  “If you escape. Napoleon’s men will be here any moment.”

  “Don’t be so hysterical, my dear.” He straightened her legs, then straddled her. She had a nauseating view of his groin. “We have time. See, I didn’t have the chance with you that I wanted in Leinz Manor. That was a warning. Today, however, is all about taking action.”

  Greta swallowed, refusing to look up, refusing to look where he wanted her to. But he grabbed her face and forced her head up.

  “You ruined my paintings.”

  “I wish I could call you a clever girl, but I left behind so many clues.”

  “Did you retrieve the forgery from Maria Lucca’s as well?”

  “I did. Your fool uncle nearly managed to ruin everything with that mistake. I decided to correct it. But I wouldn’t have gone to the trouble had I known Oliver actually intended to go through with becoming an art thief.”

  He traced her bottom lip with his thumb. “Ah, dear Oliver. Imagine what he would’ve felt had he come up to your room, expecting to find his woman warm and waiting—only to find you dead. I suppose I regret that, in a way. Now I have a few moments with you, yes, but he may never see your body when I’m through. Or will the bombs get to us first?”

  “Why?” she rasped. “You have the paintings. Why do this?”

  “Because I want to. Because, after all this time, I’ll hurt him as he deserves to be hurt.”

  “Oliver?”

  “Brat bastard that he is, yes. Had he helped me with the Venners or another family, none of this would be happening to you, my dear. I would’ve been married to some wealthy widow, happily on m
y way to the life I deserve.” He slid his palm around to the base of her neck and gripped her hair, holding her head firmly in place. “But he was too good for that, even though he’s hardly more worthy than the rest of us commoners. He owes me, Greta. But now I have your paintings, and I’ll soon have you.”

  Her mind had gone hazy with dread. She could only slump there, bound, her hair like reins leading a horse. Limbs that had once tugged against binding ropes had gone numb.

  But when Karl dipped one hand toward his trouser buttons, the fear burned away in a blinding white light. She used all her might to ram the top of her head into his crotch. Karl groaned. The force of her attack propelled him off balance. His fingers, however, were still tangled in her hair. He took a chunk with him when he fell.

  Despite the burning pain and the numbness in her limbs, Greta pushed away from the wall. She slammed her shoulder into the area around Karl’s right kidney, then righted herself and prepared to land her knee against his windpipe. He grabbed the ropes binding her arms. A hard yank upward held her still.

  “Bitch,” he snarled.

  He yanked again. Greta could either stand or suffer her arms being pulled out of socket. Her legs would not cooperate. She fell back to the ground, her knees connecting sharply with the wood floor. Something in her shoulder popped.

  Karl grabbed her by the back of the neck, forcing her forward. She sprawled on her stomach. His weight pressed her hard against the wood floor. His hands were on the backs of her calves. He tugged the hem of her dress up toward her spine. Cool air shivered across her bare thighs.

  “A valiant effort, Fräulein.” His breath was a moist blast of heat on her cheek. “One I do hope you’ll continue. This will be a delight.”

  Oliver looked over the scrawled note he’d found among Greta’s slashed paintings. At the glassmaker’s shop, it read, in addition to the date and hour of the proposed meeting. That time had come and gone, but perhaps the location remained the same.

  Whatever purpose Karl intended would soon be revealed.

  With blood and breath pumping in unison, he began the short but fraught push across Residenzplatz. It was all he could do to keep his temper in check as worried families and terror-stricken nobles fought for their few inches of space.