To Tempt a Rake

by Cara Elliott

  “As would I.” With a flourish, Vronskov appeared by her side and bowed over her hand.

  “How kind,” she said to both of them. “But you gentlemen need not bother. I shall be spending most of my time in the conservatory.”

  “Did I hear that you meet regularly to discuss science, Miss Woodbridge?” Von Seilig broke away from the group of guests by the hearth and came to join the duke’s circle.

  “Yes.” Kate favored him with a smile, grateful for the opening to ignore both Marco and the Russian.

  “I, too, have an interest in the subject, as does my superior, Wilhelm von Humboldt. He will be our ambassador to the Congress in Vienna, and I shall be serving on his staff.”

  “Humboldt?” Kate didn’t have to feign interest. “The classical scholar and linguist who founded the University of Berlin?”

  “Ja, Miss Woodbridge. And perhaps you have heard of his brother Alexander, who is a noted explorer and naturalist.”

  “Indeed I have,” she replied enthusiastically. “His recent essay on ocean currents is quite fascinating!”

  Marco cleared his throat with a cough. “Perhaps we ought to seek other company, Vronskov, before we find ourselves humbled by yet another paragon of manly virtue.”

  The Russian scowled, clearly loath to leave the field to the colonel. “Bah, don’t bore Miss Woodbridge with talk of academics and books, Von Seilig. Ladies don’t comprehend such stuffy subjects. Nor do they care to.”

  As he leaned in and smiled through his carefully curled mustache, Kate was forced to recoil. The man was as heavy-handed with his musky cologne as he was with his florid compliments. Both were equally obnoxious.

  “Speaking of books…” Tappan paused in passing. “I heard you and Lady Fenimore talking about early engravings of Caribbean plant life as you came in. I have several very rare Spanish editions in my estate library that might interest you. My collection is, of course, quite paltry in comparison to Cluyne’s treasures, but these particular volumes happen to be ones that he does not have.”

  “We should very much like to see them,” replied Kate. “Are you interested in botany, sir?”

  “A little, but I hardly claim to be as knowledgeable on the subject as you or your grandfather,” he said. “I shall ride over to Hillcrest House first thing in the morning and fetch them.”

  “Thank you, sir. That’s very kind of you.”

  “Come, come, let us change the subject,” announced Vronskov impatiently as Tappan moved on. “We gentlemen all know that ladies would much rather talk about the latest fashions or what balls they have attended. They are simply too polite to say so.”

  Kate heard Marco swallow a snort. For all his faults, at least the rogue wasn’t a blathering idiot.

  “You are obviously an expert on the feminine mind, as well as a good many other things,” she replied coolly.

  The Russian thrust out his chest. “I pride myself in being a cultivated man of the world.”

  “Pray, do tell me what your favorite color is, Miss Woodbridge,” said Marco with an exaggerated flutter of his dark lashes. “And do you favor mutton sleeves for a day dress, or is your preference for the latest a la greque style from Paris?”

  She bit her cheeks to keep from smiling. “Actually, I wouldn’t know a mutton sleeve from a slab of roast beef.”

  Vronskov’s expression was suddenly not so smug.

  “Colonel Von Seilig, would you kindly offer me your arm for a stroll around the room.” Flirting was not so onerous after all, Kate decided. The Prussian was a pleasant gentleman, and she found herself looking forward to discussing science with him. “I should very much like to hear more about von Humboldt and his discoveries.”

  “Don’t stray too far,” murmured Marco. As he turned away, he contrived to smooth his evening coat over his well-shaped… posterior. “I’m sure Vronskov would assure you that ladies would never dream of overexerting themselves in vigorous physical exercise.”

  Marco had a feeling the slight hitch in her gait was due more to injured pride than any bodily ache or pain. He really ought to resist the temptation to tease her, no matter that her eyes sparked with such a beguiling blaze when she was annoyed. Not only would Alessandra be furious with him if he kept up his provocations, but Lord Lynsley expected him to perform his duty without allowing any distractions.

  Wild. Careless. Losing his edge.

  Lynsley’s assessment of his recent performances—delivered with the marquess’s usual analytical precision—had stung. Marco took a long swallow of champagne, trying to submerge the niggling little stirring of self-doubt. To hell with his saintly superior’s lecture. The accusations were unfair. He never allowed his drinking or carousing to interfere with his duties. Scotland had been an aberration. His nerves and his judgment were as sharp as a razor.

  “Lord Ghiradelli?”

  Vronskov elbowed him in the ribs and whispered, “The duke is speaking to you.”

  “Forgive me, Your Grace,” apologized Marco, forcing his gaze away from Kate’s shapely silhouette moving in and out of the flickering light. “I was… admiring the magnificent painting on the far wall. It is by Tintoretto, is it not?”

  Cluyne’s eyes narrowed, as if guessing what he had really been observing. “Yes, it is,” he replied gruffly. “I was asking whether you have a special interest in politics, sir.”

  “Not particularly,” he responded casually. “I am far more interested in artistic pursuits.”

  “Have you no concern about what will happen to the Italian peninsula at the upcoming conference in Vienna?” asked Vronskov. “Given your extensive landholdings and your title, I should think that you would have a great deal of interest in what decisions are made.”

  “I leave that to the diplomats, who are far more knowledgeable about the nuances of power than I am,” said Marco, contriving to sound bored. “I should, of course, like to see the artistic treasures that Napoleon plundered from our cities be returned.”

  “I can vouch for the fact that international diplomacy is not one of Lord Ghiradelli’s interests,” quipped Tappan, who had drifted over to join the conversation. “He has managed to provoke two challenges to a duel in the last month. Or was it three?”

  Vronskov snickered. “Napoleon is not the only man who has been helping himself to pretty things that do not rightfully belong to him.”

  Cluyne’s expression appeared carved out of granite, making Marco wonder what the duke had been told about the true purpose of his presence here.

  Not much, he decided. Lord Tappan had been the one to request that Marco’s name be added to the guest list. But despite the baron’s position in the Foreign Office, and his upcoming trip to Vienna as part of the English delegation, he was not privy to the real role that Marco played with Lord Lynsley’s secret intelligence service within English government.

  Lies and deception. By now they fit like a second skin, thought Marco as he smoothed a wrinkle from his sleeve. His cover as a rakish reprobate, interested in only the pleasures of the flesh, kept anyone from asking any serious questions about his presence in London.

  “I daresay Ghiradelli will be on his best behavior here,” said Tappan lightly. “The duke’s treasures are perfectly safe.”

  Cluyne tightened his jaw. “I should hope so.”

  “Tell me, Vronskov, is it true that your tsar is seeking Prussian support for the creation of an independent Poland?” asked Tappan, tactfully seeking to change the subject. “We hear that in return for giving up some of his coastal ports, he will agree to the annexation of Saxony.”

  “There are many rumors floating around,” countered the Russian. “Tell me, does England view the idea with favor?”

  “Ah, well, that would depend on a number of things….”

  Marco listened to the discussion for a bit, then excused himself to go talk with the French envoy who was holding court on the other side of the room.

  A cousin of Prince Talleyrand, the Foreign Minister of France, Rocham
bert was one of the lucky aristocrats whose family had managed to escape the terror of the Revolution’s early years. Aided by his powerful relative, the Frenchman had risen to an influential post in the diplomatic service and would be representing the newly restored Bourbon monarchy in Vienna. Whether France saw Russia or Austria as its main ally was a key question.

  Concentrate. Marco forced his gaze away from Kate as he made his way past several other groups of guests. It was going be hard enough keeping all the names and alliances straight in his head without adding a distraction. This gathering was a little like a chess game, with the international envoys jockeying for position on the board while using the countries of Europe as their pawns.

  The balance of power rested on the outcome of the conference, and one errant move could prove costly for England.

  He sipped his wine, feeling the tiny bubbles explode against his tongue. The prickling sensation somehow seeped through his throat and slid down his spine.

  The actual war might be over, but Marco had a feeling that the battlefield was still as treacherous as ever.

  “Miss Woodbridge, do come sit beside me.” The Countess of Duxbury patted the plump pillows of the sofa. “I have heard much about you from my younger brother and am delighted to finally make your acquaintance.”

  Kate cast an apologetic look at Charlotte. “I suppose that we must make a stab at being social,” she whispered.

  The sumptuous supper finally over, the ladies had withdrawn from the dining room, leaving the gentlemen to linger over their port and cigars.

  “The invitation did not include me,” observed Charlotte under her breath. “You go on. I shall oversee the setting up of tea.”

  Repressing a sigh, Kate joined Lady Duxbury. Given the fact that she shunned most of Society’s parties, she couldn’t imagine what the countess had heard from her brother.

  “Ah, finally a chance for a comfortable coze.” The countess flashed a dimpled smile. A statuesque brunette, she wore a stylish gown cut to show off her flawless alabaster skin and well-endowed bosom. An expensive gold necklace, highlighted by diamonds and a large teardrop topaz, accentuated the creamy expanse of cleavage.

  The widow did not appear to be mourning her marital state, thought Kate with a touch of cynicism. Though she paid little attention to tittle-tattle, it was hard to avoid seeing the frequent mention of the lady’s name in all the newspaper gossip columns.

  “As I said, I’ve been quite anxious to meet you,” added Lady Duxbury.

  “I’m flattered,” murmured Kate. “But perhaps your brother has me confused with someone else. I don’t go out much in Society.”

  “Oh, make no mistake, he definitely knows who you are.” A mischievous gleam lit the lady’s brown eyes. Lowering her voice, she added, “Apparently you threatened to cut out his spleen in front of Angelo’s fencing salon.”

  A flush rose to Kate’s cheeks. “I fear that your brother may have misinterpreted my meaning. In any case, be assured he has greatly exaggerated the incident.”

  “It may have been his liver rather than his spleen.” Lady Duxbury tapped her fan to Kate’s wrist. “Still, I found the story rather delicious. I admire boldness in a lady.” Lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, she added, “Gilbert mentioned that you sent in a note which summoned a nearly naked Lord Ghiradelli into the middle of Bond Street.” A throaty laugh. “Now that is a sight I should like to have seen.”

  “From what I understand, it is not such a difficult thing to arrange,” replied Kate dryly. “The conte is apparently willing to shed his clothing at the slightest encouragement.”

  The countess laughed. “And from what I understand, that is not such an unpleasant experience. I imagine he’s rather skilled at…” She finished with a knowing wink.

  Kate found the lady’s manner far too presumptuous for a stranger. Mimicking the duke’s imperious look of hauteur, she drew back a touch. “I am not quite sure what you mean,” she intoned, though she knew exactly what the other lady was implying.

  “Oh, have I offended you, Miss Woodbridge?” The countess assumed a contrite expression. “It was meant as a little girlish teasing, so please do not take it amiss. Do say that you forgive me.” She fluttered her lashes. “I have a feeling we could be very good friends.”

  “Really?” replied Kate coolly. The countess’s overfriendly advances struck a false note. “Yet you don’t know me at all.”

  “Oh, but we ladies have a natural camaraderie,” said Lady Duxbury. “After all, don’t we all love to gossip and share confidences?”

  That was just the sort of behavior Kate loathed—spreading rumors and savaging one’s so-called friends behind their backs. Polite Society was anything but.

  “Actually, I find such frivolous pursuits a waste of time,” she replied.

  Lady Duxbury’s eyes narrowed slightly at the obvious rebuff, but she forced a smile. “Yet you take pains to encourage the attention of Ghiradelli and Von Seilig.”

  Kate couldn’t quite believe her ears. To be accused of blatant flirtation was absurd. “You misinterpret my actions. Von Seilig and I are conversing on scientific subjects. And Lord Ghiradelli is the cousin of one of my closest friends.” She rose. “Now, if you will excuse me, I had best help Lady Fenimore prepare the tea service.”

  “Of course.” The countess fixed her with a venomous look. “Please do not let me keep you.”

  Kate rose and returned to where Charlotte was arranging the gold-rimmed cups and saucers. “There will soon be another disparaging ondit about me making the rounds of the drawing rooms,” she said under her breath. “In addition to being called a bluestocking and a recluse, I will also be called a rude and humorless harpy.”

  After hearing the gist of the exchange, Charlotte frowned. “You really should not go out of your way to make enemies.”

  “I didn’t,” she protested. “I just made it clear that we are not going to be friends.”

  Her friend arched a brow.

  “Can you blame me?” asked Kate after a fraction of a pause.

  “Not in the least. I just think it would be wise to be more subtle in your sarcasm. Especially with Lady Duxbury. I have heard that she’s someone who likes to stir up trouble.”

  Kate shrugged. “What harm can she do me? I couldn’t care less what is whispered about me by the tabbies.”

  Charlotte didn’t answer right away, and when she did, there was a note of concern in her voice. “Don’t underestimate the power of rumor and innuendo. We have seen how dangerous they can be. Look at what Ciara and Alessandra went through when a mistake from their past came back to haunt them.”

  Despite the steaming heat of the teapot, Kate felt her palms turn a touch cold. She carefully placed it down beside the cups and busied herself in arranging the silver spoons in a precise row.

  “I… I can’t imagine that happening to me. In my former life, I was a completely different person—there is no connection between Kate Woodbridge, the vagabond American adventurer, and Katharine Woodbridge, the English granddaughter of the Duke of Cluyne.”

  “You are no doubt right, my dear. But as scientists, we should always remember that one should never take anything for granted.”

  The arrival of the gentlemen forestalled any further discussion of the matter. Turning to the ritual of serving tea, Kate put the unpleasant encounter behind her. It had been yet another reminder of how the waters of Polite Society were fraught with hidden shoals.

  And speaking of stormy seas… Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Marco saunter into the room, his handsome face alight with laughter at something that Lord Tappan was telling him.

  Her insides clenched, and though she willed herself not to react, a slow spiraling heat rose up to her cheeks. She fumbled with the pot, hoping to cover her dismay in a cloud of steam. Lady Duxbury’s nasty comment couldn’t be further from the truth. She had never consciously encouraged Marco’s attentions.

  But her body seemed to have a mind of its own.<
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  Chapter Ten

  Thank you, Miss Woodbridge.” Von Seilig accepted a cup, but did not move away. “Would you care to sit down to a game of whist?”

  “Actually, I’m not overly fond of playing cards.”

  “Neither am I.” He smiled. “I much prefer conversation.”

  “As do I.”

  “Excellent. Then perhaps you would not mind if the colonel and I continue our discussion of the upcoming peace conference.” Rochambert, the French envoy, came over to join them. “But if politics bore you—”

  “Not at all,” she assured him. “From what I have read, the delegates mean to address a fascinating array of issues. I am particularly interested in Mr. Cotta and Mr. Bertuch’s ideas on intellectual property.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Von Seilig. “It’s a very important topic. Publishers from a number of countries are quite concerned about the piracy of ideas.”

  Rochambert nodded as he added a splash of cream to his cup. In contrast to the blond, heavyset Prussian, the dark-haired Frenchman was slender, with a narrow face and delicate features that bordered on the effeminate. The lace on his cuffs and cravat accentuated the impression, as did his burgundy swallowtail coat, velvet knee breeches, and gold-threaded silk waistcoat.

  But Kate sensed that beneath the show of finery, he was not nearly as soft as he appeared.

  “It promises to be a very intriguing few months, both for the politics and the parties,” said Rochambert, after a sip of his tea. “Have you been to Vienna, Miss Woodbridge?”

  “No, but I have heard it is a lovely city. I should like very much to visit it someday.”

  “Now that peace has come to the Continent, travel is no longer dangerous. So perhaps your grandfather would consider taking you for a visit,” suggested Von Seilig. “It is a very historic place, with a picturesque medieval center, many beautiful parks, magnificent churches, and baroque mansions. Legend has it that the city walls surrounding the Old Town were built with the ransom money paid by King Richard the Lionhearted, who was captured while on his way home from the Holy Land.”