Vienna Waltz (The Imperial Season Book 1)

by Mary Lancaster

  He should rejoice for her. He should.

  Mrs. Fawcett pinched the back of his hand. “Johnnie. Has it not occurred to you that you could be the most brilliant of all? You could give her back her old home, provide security to that gaggle of children and dogs.”

  “And remind them constantly who took it from them? Ivan the Terrible!” He took a deep breath, tried to smile. “You know I’d do it if she cared for me. If I could clear my name. But she doesn’t. I’ll be glad if she marries a good man who makes her happy. And if he doesn’t, I’ll kill him.”

  Mrs. Fawcett gave a croak that sounded very much like laughter. “Why don’t you just find out? After…oh Johnnie, there’s another late arrival, you’d better conduct me off the dance floor—and then stay away from anyone who might recognize you!”

  Although it struck Vanya that Mrs. Fawcett was up to something, he thrust it to the back of his mind and scowled behind his mask as he went in search of Grassic and Blonsky.

  He needed to know the position of the latter before he approached the former. Having already reconnoitered the grounds, he knew five of Blonsky’s men were stationed there, though he doubted there were any more in the house. The tsar, like the other crowned heads who’d thronged to Vienna, had grown very relaxed about personal security and was quite used to attending parties, and even just wandering about the city streets more or less unattended.

  Blonsky was playing cards, with his mask rakishly up at one eye. He looked restless, his attention not on the game, which was a sure sign to Vanya that he was up to something. Vanya walked on past the card room door without going in.

  He had a nasty moment when he almost walked into Boris, who, through sheer surprise, could easily have given him away. Boris lifted his idle gaze, running it over Vanya, and moving on before returning in haste, much widened. But at least he said nothing.

  Vanya winked and walked on, for he’d just spotted Grassic at the refreshment table. Amusingly enough, he wore a domino of the same scarlet color as Vanya’s.

  Vanya strolled up to him and reached over him for a glass of champagne. “Mr. Grassic,” he drawled. “Saved any souls recently? Or do you hold, primarily, with predestination? Careful,” he added, reaching out in time to catch the glass which slipped from the Englishman’s fingers. “You need a seat in a quiet room.” Setting down both glasses, Vanya took Grassic’s arm with a mock solicitude and steered him across to the nearest alcove, letting the curtain fall back behind them.

  “I unsettle you,” Vanya observed. “So let us be rid of each other’s presence as soon as possible. Are we conducting business this evening?”

  “I have business to conduct,” Grassic allowed, sitting on one of the two chairs set by an occasional table in the middle of the alcove. “Let me see yours.”

  “You first,” Vanya mocked, strolling nearer.

  Grassic took something from inside his coat, where he must have had a secret pocket sewn, and held a folded paper up beside his ear, waiting. Vanya took his documents from the waist of his dark pantaloons and gravely offered them to the Englishman. They swapped.

  Vanya unfolded Grassic’s paper and discovered it to be a letter from Blonsky, speaking of the enclosed documents and the price. Although it didn’t mention Grassic by name, addressing him merely as “My dear sir”, it was certainly enough to show that Blonsky had provided documents of some kind for money. No wonder Grassic had kept it. Vanya refolded it.

  Grassic was still reading his, laboring, presumably, through the French, and comparing the hand of the military orders with that of the letter to Napoleon on Elba. At last he returned, frowning, to the letter. “Some of it’s in Russian,” he complained.

  Vanya winked. “That’s the really interesting bit. It’s as good as an unbreakable code to most prying eyes. I trust this concludes our business.”

  “So do I,” Grassic said.

  He didn’t rise when Vanya strolled away.

  As Vanya emerged from the alcove, Blonsky came out of the card room on the other side of the ballroom. Ignoring him, Vanya walked straight up to the tsar who was flirting outrageously with an Italian beauty Vanya had once danced with, but whose name he could no longer remember.

  Vanya bowed. “Forgive the intrusion, Sire.” He presented the folded paper. “I believe this will reveal your spy.”

  The tsar’s eyes widened in suspicion, if not recognition, as his fingers closed mechanically around the paper. Vanya gave him no time, merely bowed again, turned on his heel and walked purposefully towards Blonsky.

  At first, Blonsky seemed to confuse the scarlet cloaks and assume he was Grassic, for he came blithely enough to meet him. Then the major’s military boots faltered. But there was no real surprise on Blonsky’s face. He’d known Vanya was coming.

  Vanya smiled and changed direction to walk openly out onto the terrace. After all, he’d promised Mrs. Fawcett not to spill any blood in her house.

  *

  Lizzie, her heart drumming with impatience while she listened to Captain von Reinharz tell some apparently amusing campaign story, caught a flash of Grassic’s red domino on its way out onto the terrace.

  “Excuse me, Captain,” she interrupted. “I see my aunt…” To make him feel better, she even set off in her aunt’s direction. That matron, gossiping happily with Mrs Fawcett and another middle aged lady, paid her no attention. Though Mrs. Fawcett caught her eye for a moment of silent communication.

  When Lizzie was still several yards away, she swerved, and made her way, instead, to the terrace door. There, she paused and looked again toward her aunt, although it was, in fact, Mrs. Fawcett she needed.

  Mrs. Fawcett was already watching her. She inclined her head and rose, murmuring something to her companions.

  Satisfied, Lizzie slipped outside.

  The welcome breeze cooled her face, but at least the colder weather meant no amorous couples seeking solitude in the open air. The terrace was well lit, too—a further discouragement, perhaps.

  From the corner of her eye, Lizzie caught again the flash of scarlet and waited, taking a deep breath for courage. The scarlet figure remained very still, so Lizzie turned slowly toward it. Suddenly, it moved with almost frightening speed, seizing her against a hard chest with arms powerful enough to break her. Before she could even cry out, her mouth was crushed under another, hot and reckless.

  Outraged, Lizzie flung out one arm, ready to deal a sound buffet to the side of Grassic’s head.

  But Grassic could never kiss like this. So bold and passionate and tender. So knowing. So…impossible.

  “Vanya,” she whispered into his mouth, for he was right. She knew, she would always know him by his kiss. The hand she’d meant to hit him with closed in his hair. “Vanya…”

  Throwing her other arm around him, she gave herself up to his kiss, returned it with aching fervor because it was what she’d wanted for so long.

  “Lizzie,” he whispered. “I love you more than my life. You are my life, my love…”

  And then his mouth claimed hers again and again, and when he raised his head at last with a shuddering breath, she reached up and took back his lips. Everything else had flown out of her mind. There was only the joy of his arms around her, beneath her cloak, his closeness, the hot, melting pleasure of his mouth….

  From nowhere, it struck her that the hard, cold metal digging into her hip was a sword. Unexpected laughter trembled in her throat, on her lips. Only Vanya would come to a ball in civilian dress wearing his sword because, of course, he could still be captured or killed by his own people.

  “Vanya, you have to get away from here,” she said urgently against his lips.

  “Come with me,” he got out. “I know I shouldn’t even ask you—I wasn’t going to let myself speak to you tonight, never mind touch you, but I have to ask. If I can clear myself tonight, come with me.”

  Before she could even speak, his mouth took hers again, and she gave back the kiss gladly. Just as a world of noise suddenly erupted
around them.

  Mrs, Fawcett said in despair, “Oh drat! Back everyone, I was mistaken!”

  But it was too late. A voice drawled in amusement, “Who the devil is that?”

  And the unmistakable tones of the tsar himself uttered, “That, if I’m not much mistaken, is our Colonel Savarin.”

  “Stay behind me,” Vanya breathed and released her, turning to face the crowd who’d poured out of the terrace door with Mrs. Fawcett.

  She’d only been meant to bring the tsar and Boris Lebedev, though Lizzie had even forgotten about that in her astonished delight at discovering Vanya. Her Vanya. And, apparently, a shipload of embarrassment. Aunt Lucy would never forgive her for this.

  “It’s a masquerade,” Vanya said. “Allow a lady the privilege of her anonymity.”

  And then came a sneering laugh as Major Blonsky, Vanya’s old enemy, pushed through the crowd. “What, did none of you know that the Gaunt girl is his doxy?”

  Vanya wrenched his sword from its scabbard. His eyes clashed with Blonsky’s. “There are no doxies here, you foul-mouthed, traitorous weasel,” he said softly.

  And then, unexpectedly, someone got between them. James.

  James?

  Staring at Vanya, he said with dignity. “I’ll deal with his foul mouth in a moment. For the moment, sir, you’ll answer to me for manhandling my cousin, my fiancée.”

  Lizzie cast her eyes to heaven and pushed out from behind Vanya to give them all a piece of her mind—only the words died in her throat, for running across the grass to the terrace were several soldiers. Metal screeched on metal as they drew their weapons.

  “Vanya, run,” she whispered.

  “Not a chance,” Vanya said and knocking James to one side, he flew at Blonsky with an emotion that looked very like joy.

  Lizzie clutched both hands to her head. “Stop it,” she raged.

  But no one heard her, not least because the tsar had, somewhat surprisingly, commanded the soldiers to stand by. Someone was ushering the women back into the safety of the house.

  “Don’t worry,” Captain von Reinharz said in her ear. “Savarin can eat two of that dog before breakfast. But in the meantime, if you need someone to marry to get you out of this fix, I’m your man.”

  It may have been hysteria, but Lizzie wanted to laugh.

  “Take her inside,” Reinharz said quietly and someone placed her hand on a male arm, drawing her away from the fight, which was now raging across the lawn.

  With indignation, Lizzie saw that Vanya was actually enjoying himself, but even so, she couldn’t look away. With every clash of steel on steel, Vanya drove Blonsky back, every slash and cut and thrust so vicious that Lizzie was sure he meant murder.

  “He mustn’t kill him,” Lizzie said in horror. Her gaze sought and found the pitilessly observing face of the tsar. “Your Majesty, Vanya mustn’t kill him! Please!”

  The tsar glanced at her. A tiny smile flickered across his lips and then he returned to watching the fight.

  Lizzie could no longer see it. She’d been drawn too far away, beyond the terrace door, in fact, to shadows at the side of the house, where a little gate led around toward the front.

  Frowning, Lizzie tried to tug free and, for the first time, looked at her companion, Mr. Grassic.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  From surprise and sheer instinct, Lizzie jerked away from him, but found her arm held with calm, inexorable strength. Which at least made her brain start thinking again of more than male stupidity and the pointlessness of Vanya dying, either by Blonsky’s sword or the tsar’s justice. What was the point of being exonerated from treason if you then committed murder in public?

  But then, what was the point of her beautiful plan to have the tsar witness Grassic buying documents from her and forcing him to confess his accomplices, if all the tsar witnessed was her indiscretion with Vanya, and she then conducted the business without anyone at all seeing? At least Grassic would still have the document on him.

  So, she took a deep breath and forced herself to relax. “You’re right, of course. I don’t wish to see. Shall we conclude our business, Mr. Grassic?”

  He paused, his free hand on the gate latch, now that she’d stopped struggling, and gazed at her through the darkness. Although she couldn’t make out his expression in the gloom, she had the impression it was surprised, even admiring.

  “Let us just move—”

  “I’ll be more comfortable when it’s done,” Lizzie said firmly. “No one is paying us attention whatsoever.”

  “Then give me the document.”

  Lizzie drew her hand free of his arm and opened her reticule. Extracting the thickly folded paper, she held it out to him. While he pocketed it, she said, “My recompense?”

  Gravely, he handed over a small purse, which couldn’t have contained anything like the kind of money James had been promised. As she tucked it away in her reticule, she extracted the spare hairpin before closing the little bag.

  “Let’s go inside,” she said lightly, turning back toward the light.

  His fingers closed around her upper arm, sudden, intrusive, controlling. “I don’t think that would be a good idea. Come with me.”

  “Why?” she demanded.

  “I have a new plan now. This game is ending, yours and mine.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean we need to leave. Both of us. My business is coming under far too great scrutiny to last beyond the sale of what I have. Many people will be after my blood. While you need to escape social ruin. Let us do so together, go to a new city. Together, we would be unstoppable.”

  Lizzie blinked. “Social ruin?”

  “You were discovered by half of Europe’s elite rulers and their wives, in the arms of a Russian traitor. There is nothing for you left in respectable society, unless you accept the offer of the poor and ridiculous cousin. Or the libertine Austrian captain.” His free hand insolently pushed up her chin. “What, were you hoping for an offer from your other cousin, the Russian traitor? It was notable by its absence, was it not?”

  Come with me, he’d said. Not Marry me. It shouldn’t have hurt; it didn’t matter. And she wouldn’t let it.

  “Mr. Grassic. You are, without doubt, the most unprincipled and repellent creature I have encountered in my life, and I have no intention of going beyond this gate with you.”

  *

  “Stop,” the tsar commanded.

  Vanya had Blonsky on the ground, straddled him, one hand to his throat, the other raising the sabre high for the kill. In the lust of battle, Vanya had almost forgotten who he was fighting, where and why. He could have been in the icy wastes of Russia, fighting the French. It was as if his body took over from memory without troubling his brain for orders. The tsar’s command barely penetrated, until it was repeated, and a voice he knew and trusted said urgently, “Vanya!”

  The red mists began to clear; his sword arm held still. Staring down at Blonsky’s dazed yet terrified face, it was as if the last twelve years had never been. Was he really still fighting this same, childish battle? Right down to the audience of avid, blood-thirsty males, old enough now, surely, to know better. He couldn’t blame it all on Blonsky. It wasn’t even about Katia any more, if it ever had been.

  Irritated, he leapt to his feet and lowered the sword.

  “Take the traitor,” the tsar instructed. As the soldiers closed obediently on Vanya, the tsar added, “Not him! Blonsky. Arrest Major Blonsky for treason.”

  Vanya turned to face the tsar. “You read it?”

  “It was a surprise to me,” the tsar admitted. “Of course, I never truly believed in your guilt.”

  “Clearly,” Vanya said sardonically.

  “And this makes a lot more sense. Even without the proof. We old soldiers should trust each other.”

  “Proof?” Blonsky blustered, springing to life again suddenly in the hold of his guards—his own slightly baffled men. “What proof? You can’t possibly have proof of treachery I
never committed!”

  The tsar waved a document in the air. “This!” he thundered. “This agreement between you and Grassic, arch trader in information!”

  Blonsky scowled and then his eyes began to widen with recognition. “But…but where did you get that?”

  Of course, there was only one place it could have come from and the knowledge was written on Blonsky’s stained, white face.

  “I got it from Grassic,” Vanya spelled it out for him. “He swapped it.”

  Blonsky turned eagerly to the tsar. “There! You see? Savarin gave Grassic something for this! Savarin is guilty! Ask him what he gave Grassic for this supposed proof of my guilt.”

  “I’ll show you,” Vanya said, looking around him. “Where is Grassic?”

  “He took Miss Gaunt into the house,” Reinharz volunteered.

  More than unease, a spurt of positive alarm had Vanya charging into the house. A female squeal at the sight of his bloodstained sabre, reminded him to put it away. Mechanically, he cleaned it on his handkerchief first, while scouring the ballroom with his urgent gaze. But this was no time for discretion.

  He raised his voice. “Where is Miss Gaunt?” he demanded. “And the Englishman, Grassic?”

  The excited hubbub died away. People exchanged glances and shrugs but no one spoke up. Striding forward, he eventually found Mrs. Daniels and Minerva. “She isn’t with you? Did she come in?”

  A blood curdling scream suddenly rent the air. It came from outside. In a wild mixture of intense fear and fury that he’d never known before, Vanya barged back across the ballroom to the terrace door, just as Lizzie walked in leading Grassic by the hand. Blood streaked across her fingers.

  With a roar, Vanya seized the Englishman’s collar, wrenching him away from her, pulling back his fist. “What have you done to her?”

  “Nothing!” Grassic said bitterly. “The little bitch stabbed me in the hand!”

  Vanya hit him anyway for that. Over the fallen body, and the shocked gasps and cries of the guests backing away from the scene, his gaze met Lizzie’s. A smile flickered across her rather anxious eyes. “With a hairpin,” she admitted. “I didn’t expect it to cause so much bleeding. You didn’t kill Blonsky.”