Kisses Like a Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  Franz Schnabel, the workers’ party’s central committee’s longest-serving member and Eisengau’s archbishop’s nephew, lifted his coffee cup to her. Meredith nodded to him, allowing a trace of her private grin to show.

  “Gentlemen, slide over and make room for another lady. Shoo, shoo, shoo.” Their hostess waved her hands at them. They obediently began to sort themselves into more understandable clumps, always avoiding the worst broken springs in the upholstery, of course.

  Where could she sit?

  Erich and Rosa were together in the corner, of course, while Franz and Gerhardt had the window seat.

  Liesel was fluttering about, unlikely to settle down given her duties as hostess.

  “Ernst, please leave some bratwurst for the others!” she ordered and everyone laughed at the familiar plea.

  Meredith spotted a spot next to the silent Gerhardt and squeezed onto the ancient, straight-back chair, Morro tucking himself against her feet. There were too many people here.

  “Why am I rattling on so much? All these thunderstorms must have shaken my nerves.” Her best friend delivered sausages and bread to Meredith, then stood up, dramatically laying the back of her hand against her forehead. “My head aches so.”

  Meredith paused, her sandwich halfway to her mouth. What was happening?

  Liesel tottered backward, heading directly toward the previous silent blond man. His very handsome face promptly shifted into a concerned—calculated?—smile. He reached upward, drawing her down onto the wing chair’s arm. She snuggled happily against his shoulder and beamed up at him. “My darling count, how good you are to me.”

  She trusted the Russian?

  “Would you like some aspirin, Liesel?” Meredith asked desperately. “I’m sure I can find you one.” She’d do anything to get her friend out of his arms. Heaven only knew what she might have told him.

  “Oh no, my dearest Sazonov knows exactly how to make me feel better. Don’t you, sweetheart?”

  “Always, my darling.” He kissed her forehead, his dark eyes sliding over Meredith.

  She shivered and bit into her sandwich. Sazonov might be their biggest backer—in fact, their only source of funds beside their own threadbare pockets—which gave him some claim to being their advisor. But it didn’t mean he had to know everything.

  She could wait until later when he was gone before telling the others. They still had time to decide how to use the cannon’s plans to help the workers.

  “When are you going to steal the cannon’s plans, Meredith?” Liesel asked.

  She choked. By the time Gerhardt had thumped her hard on the back several times and Rosa had poured water down her throat, her face was red and her brain was fighting for a foothold in reality. At least nobody seemed to have touched her below the shoulder blades.

  Liesel’s mutt grabbed Meredith’s sandwich and it vanished without a trace.

  “I’m not stealing anything,” she denied, tears streaming down her face and Morro pressed against her heart. It might be a lost cause but she wouldn’t admit to anything with the Russian’s far-too-interested eyes watching her every move.

  “You don’t have to be shy in front of Sazonov,” Liesel tried to reassure her. “I already told him everything.”

  Meredith shot her friend a startled glance and took another sip of water. She let it linger on her tongue, trying to buy time until she had to say something.

  If she invited Liesel on a shopping expedition—for corsets, maybe? Blech—they could have a more private conversation. Then she could explain the hazards of trusting somebody owing allegiance to a foreign government. Surely his duty to his country would trump his private feelings. (And Meredith would be careful not to mention her own opinions about the genuineness of said feelings.)

  “I confirmed it, since he’d already guessed most of the details,” Franz added. “Admit it, Meredith: we need his help.”

  Franz? If she couldn’t trust Franz, the longest serving member, who was left to help the workers?

  But she’d have to save her tears for later, when she was alone. There was work to be done now. First, she needed to find her own place to hide the plans. She’d have to talk to her friends later in private and try to convince them not to share everything with the Russian.

  She shrugged ostentatiously. “Please don’t blame me for trying to keep it a secret as long as possible.”

  An almost audible sigh went up and everyone settled into their seats, clearly ready for a conference.

  Meredith’s mouth twisted. What could she say and what couldn’t she? Oh, to be in a simple predicament with a dime novel hero and his clan beside her.

  She set Morro back onto the floor, warning him with a little pat not to relax.

  “Are you certain this will work?” Sazonov asked in that deep, guttural voice of his. Liesel batted her eyes at him.

  The sound always made Meredith grit her teeth but this time she managed a thin smile. “Grand Duke Rudolph paid one thousand marks for a model stolen by some Italians five years ago.”

  “A more important set of blueprints—such as the ones for the latest cannon—should make him do anything we want politically.” Franz’s eyes were shining.

  He truly had told the Russian everything. Meredith was glad she’d only had a couple of bites of bratwurst, given how they were jostling each other in her stomach.

  “You will need someplace very safe to hide it, while you negotiate with the old bear,” Sazonov remarked. “Please allow me to offer the sanctity of my embassy. He’d never be able to seize them there.”

  “You’d guard them for us, no matter what Grand Duke Rudolph did?”

  “It would be an honor. No matter how long it takes.” Sazonov managed to bow, despite fondling Liesel. Meredith’s skin crawled, even though his actions were the same as Erich and Rosa’s.

  And the more time in his hands the better for copying them, too.

  “We accept, of course!” Franz cried. Liesel kissed Sazonov and the others jumped to their feet, cheering.

  I don’t.

  Meredith stood up and applauded, glad he’d confirmed her estimate of his goals.

  But where on earth would she hide the plans now?

  The enormous reception hall was full of crystal and gilt, satin and velvet, from the ceilings to the walls to the people. Crystal chandeliers glittered like the women’s diamonds below and satin-draped walls formed the backdrop for peacock gowns from Paris. No honest day had ever been so bright, with so few shadows to offer privacy.

  Gilded frames marked dead heroes and echoed the sweep of gold lacing over old men’s fat paunches. Every European army’s most gaudy uniform was flaunted among the living attendees, topped by polite diplomatic ribbons. The men would be living together day and night for the next month, although not in the same glamorous garb.

  Brian Donovan was wryly glad to be wearing his Rough Rider uniform. He’d earned every one of his medals on a battlefield, by God. How many of his fellow guests could say the same for theirs?

  At least he had one friend here, somebody he could trust socially, even if not in a bidding war for Eisengau’s latest weapons.

  Captain Gareth Blackwell shifted his cane from his right hand to his left, his brand-new Victoria Cross briefly glinting in the light.

  “How’s your leg?” Brian asked.

  “Does well enough.” He accepted another glass of champagne from a waiter, eyeing two Russian ladies with particularly low-cut décolletages. “The ladies love seeing the scars.”

  Displaying them in a bedroom was probably the biggest benefit he’d gained from helping to save the guns at Colenso, a few months ago. A damn mismanaged battle but very gallant rescue. His invalid status was his ticket to Eisengau’s summer maneuvers.

  “What about that abscess in your shoulder?” Gareth continued their medical banter. “Bullet started it, not a knife?”

  “Spanish bullet at San Juan Hill, and it’s finally healed. My father threatened it with the best doctor
s until it ran away.” Brian smiled faintly and finished his cognac. After he’d been carried off that troopship, delirious from that infected wound, his parents had nursed him night and day. Only his father had had the strength and the patience to keep him in his bed until the fever broke, crooning old Irish lullabies to soothe him. Someday Brian would sing the same ones to his own son.

  “You’re lucky.” Gareth slanted an eyebrow at him.

  “No, all infections are terrified of alpine climates like this one.”

  They touched their glasses together, laughing. They’d first met during a battle on India’s Northwest Frontier, then sailed back together to Egypt. How many doctors had they heard crisply order their patients off to Europe to escape tropical diseases?

  “Those ladies don’t seem to be worried about the climate,” Gareth commented, nodding at the Russians.

  “Very healthy women, those northerners,” Brian agreed.

  “And nothing like Miss FitzAllen.”

  “Nobody is, thank God.” Brian shrugged and took another snifter of cognac off a servant’s salver.

  “Sorry, old man, I shouldn’t have—”

  “Why? It was years ago and she’s gone to another. I don’t even think about her anymore.” Because I’m damn lucky to have escaped her.

  Gareth stared at him for a long moment. “You said the same thing back then but I didn’t believe you.”

  Brian shrugged, disinclined to revisit an old folly. “Did you intend to do your bit for God and Country by calling on those ladies?” He made the last word sound overly polite.

  “Of course I will.” Gareth tossed him a rude salute, screened by his champagne flute. “It’s how the Great Game is played, old man. You colonials really should grow up and start learning how to play with the grownups.”

  “We tossed a four-century-old empire out on its ear from a hemisphere,” Brian observed mildly. “Broke the line against well-trained, well-entrenched troops, under withering fire—”

  And took far too many casualties.

  “Thus earning yourself a seat at the Eisengau dinner table for the first time,” Gareth agreed. “The old grand duke is rather a snob. But we’re glad you’re here.”

  The subtle emphasis made Brian go quite still, his eyes searching his friend’s.

  “Not that it’s likely to change things much.” The Welshman smiled wryly. “Now I’m off to tell a few stories to the ladies and see how far they get me.”

  “Good luck.” Brian tossed him a two-finger salute. He sipped his drink, considering his own options.

  He smiled politely to the countess of Something-Unpronounceable, wondering if she’d provide the seventh invitation for bed sport he’d received that night.

  God knows he enjoyed screwing but even the indomitable Teddy Roosevelt hadn’t suggested Brian do it for his country’s sake. On the other hand, he hadn’t realized all the fringe benefits of his agreement with Teddy, either.

  He’d received his first offer in Eisengau from the housemaid who’d laid out his clothes in his bedroom. He’d refused her, a little startled to be propositioned so early in his stay.

  Even more surprising, every servant he’d met afterward had been a man. No flirtatious maids here whisking away trays of drinks with a flash of lace-trimmed petticoats—no, not in Eisengau’s Citadel! The halls and dining parlors were populated instead by immaculate footmen, either blank-faced and grim or prettier than any Parisian streetwalker. He’d wager a month’s income from his Alaska gold mine that any of those footmen, or the maid, could repeat every word uttered by a guest, if requested by the local secret police.

  No, not his style at all.

  But there was something to be said for an atmosphere which encouraged licentious behavior. After all, he had received five other offers, all from female guests. Gareth, who’d been here once before, had two ladies clinging to him while he played tunes on wineglasses.

  Still, the Countess didn’t look nearly as interesting as that blond he’d seen crossing the square by the railway station earlier that day. The beautiful young lady with all the ribbons braided into a wreath atop her head and swathed in an academic gown. A college student, by God, and feminine as hell with the soft colors fluttering around her head and a dog at her knee.

  There had to be some magnificent fires lurking under all that black velvet. If she’d been in his arms, he’d have made damn sure she was purring—or howling for more.

  He grinned and knocked back the rest of his very expensive cognac.

  But she wasn’t here, damn his luck. So he’d have to make do with the prettiest girl available, or the one who could help America—or Neil—the most.

  After all, the next few weeks could change the balance of military power in Europe—and America, if Teddy’s sources were correct. Discreet liaisons were always perfectly acceptable in diplomatic circles and they were probably strongly encouraged here.

  “That’s quite a collection of war heroes hanging on the walls, Countess,” he remarked. “Napoleon, of course. But isn’t that Wellington?”

  “Oh yes!” She immediately turned her back on the man beside her. “And Nelson’s over there, with the Duke of Marlborough, a little farther down toward the musicians. Plus, Frederick the Great and Garibaldi, Italy’s great liberator. Each portrait says ‘thank you’ for a successful arms purchase.”

  Brian turned to follow the line of portraits, bringing the countess almost under his arm. For an instant, the two of them were closer than a breath. She boldly fondled his ass, her long fingers lingering over his thigh before falling away, hidden by the crowd.

  Invitation number seven.

  He slanted an eyebrow at her, ready to flirt more with such a promising source of information, but a harsh voice cut in.

  “Countess, I believe your husband needs you.”

  Sazonov, the Russian attaché, arrived beside him, medals jangling. “Now.”

  Her eyes flashed at the unnecessary rudeness before she ostentatiously glanced around, looking and not finding her absent spouse. Brian flickered a significant glance upstairs toward their common bedroom wing and she smiled, cat-with-canary-feathers smug.

  He bowed, bidding her an ostentatiously polite adieu. His opinion of their interruption was far less printable.

  Sazonov was one of the few here under fifty years old. Even rarer, Brian would wager he was one of the two or three guests—beside Brian—who was armed. He was just as gaudily uniformed as any other man there, in a dark blue tunic, a brilliant scarlet sash, and white pants tucked into his high black boots.

  “A game of poker is about to start in the library,” Sazonov said softly. “Would you care to join us?”

  “Us?” Brian queried, equally quietly.

  “Simply put—the British, French, German, Dane, Swiss, Serb, myself, and yourself.” Representatives of the eight countries most likely to bid high for Eisengau’s best weapons this year.

  Aunt Rosalind had made sure Brian, like all of his siblings and cousins, knew his way around a poker game from a very young age. He wasn’t the best in the family but he was damn sure he could give a good account of himself.

  “My pleasure,” Brian agreed sincerely. He’d enjoy finding out how the competition like to play their hands.

  Firelight washed the room in rich shades of ochre and gold, caressing the century-old tapestried chairs and footstools.

  Meredith paced, trying to stay calm and not let her nerves infect the men below. They should have been done an hour ago.

  Her notebook lay open on the table, pages of neatly labeled notes describing every step of a complicated process. A cup of tea—genuine, honest-to-goodness lapsang souchong—steamed gently beside it. It had been her father’s favorite variety after a visit to the pub. But she never had the heart to refuse it, not after her friends had worked so hard to obtain it.

  The only memento of her father she comfortably tolerated was her cairngorm brooch, whose stones had been mined in Scotland. She wore it as often as po
ssible, lest it vanish into Mother’s jewel chest the way so much else had.

  She could have been anywhere in the world. Edinburgh would have been heaven, a university town offering the soft accents of her birthplace. Her bedroom a few miles away, with its narrow view of Eisengau’s university, would have been expected. But not here, not where the heat swarmed over the iron balcony like an army battering at the city gates.

  The fire wasn’t from a few cozy logs on a hearth. No, it was the great open-hearth forge of Grand Duke Rudolph’s personal steelworks. Here Zorndorf’s latest handiwork came to life like hell-born beasts. Their sire had assigned her to record this birth like so many others, since females lacked the native wit to understand the weapons’ true importance.

  She should have been at Franz and Gerhardt’s apartment, planning for the rally tomorrow night with everyone else. Sazonov might not have been there, giving her the chance to talk her friends into some discretion.

  But she couldn’t leave, not when Mayer and Brecht were half-staggering to cast the new gun. Better she roast like a goose in an open stewpot with them than run away, leaving them alone with the secret police observing from the other side.

  She’d always done what she could for the children—seen them assigned to carrying messages, rather than heavy steel, and coaxed scholarships for the best in the grand duke’s schools. But there was little she could do for the adults except try to talk Zorndorf out of his more appalling calls for long hours—and stand here in solidarity with the workers when that failed.

  Sweat trickled down her throat and pooled under her breasts, following every seam in her liberty bodice. A regular corset, such as her mother always wanted her to wear, would have been hell on earth at times like this, with whalebone to force the fiery saltwater into her flesh whenever she sat frozen in place like this. Her linen skirts rubbed against her legs; even the light summer wear an almost intolerable weight now.

  Had any torment in a dime novel been worse? Perhaps that American adventurer could tell her about their deserts one day. They might be cooler than this.