To Tempt a Rake

by Cara Elliott

  “We shall,” said Marco.

  “Monday is Metternich’s night,” said Repton. “And of course Friday belongs to our hostess and her rival across the courtyard. As for the other evenings, there is no lack of entertainment, but I daresay you will discover that for yourselves.”

  “Yes. Do be sure to visit the Apollo Saal. You can waltz all night in the indoor gardens, which are decorated with faux stones and fairy-tale grottos.” Lady Repton clearly considered herself a fount of knowledge on Viennese life. “And don’t miss the ballet Flore et Zephire.”

  “Thank you,” replied Marco. “Now if you will excuse us, we shall be taking our leave. We are tired from traveling and wish to be rested for the Emperor’s ball tomorrow night.”

  “Oh, that is definitely an evening not to be missed,” exclaimed Lady Repton. “It is said that the state dinner will include three hundred hams, two hundred partridges, and two hundred pigeons, not to speak of three hundred liters of olla soup.”

  His head aching from a surfeit of wine, Marco cut off any further details with a curt nod. “Until tomorrow, then.”

  Kate said nothing until they reached the courtyard of the Palm Palace. “I’m surprised you are in such a hurry to leave. I thought rakehell rogues partied until dawn.”

  He didn’t answer.

  She paused to tuck the ends of her silk shawl around her bare arms. A breath of breeze stirred the loose tendrils of her upswept hair. They looked like silvery moonbeams dancing around her shadowed profile.

  It was a mild night, with the stars glittering in the heavens like candlelit diamonds stitched onto black velvet. The high arched windows of the opposite wing were open, and the sound of gaiety drifted down from the brightly lit rooms. The lilting notes of a violin, the sinuous melody of a lady’s laugh, the soft pop of champagne corks.

  “It seems that Princess Bagration and her admirers are not to be outdone by the Countess of Sagan.” Kate glanced up, watching the silhouette of two people wrapped in a passionate kiss. “Perhaps we ought to have a look for our elusive quarry up there.”

  She started to cross the cobblestones, but Marco caught her arm. “You’ve seen enough for your first night. I’m taking you back to our rooms.”

  Her arm stiffened beneath his grip. “And you?”

  “As you so aptly observed, cara, rakes party until dawn,” he drawled. “Once I have dropped you off, I have a few other places to visit.”

  Kate began to quiver—with suppressed fury. “I am not a soiled evening coat or a broken watch chain to be tossed aside at your whim. We are partners, in case you had forgotten.”

  He schooled all hint of emotion from his face. “Trust me, that fact has not slipped my mind.”

  She recoiled as if the whispered words had been a slap.

  “Look, I need to visit several taverns where the presence of a woman will draw unwanted notice,” he explained tersely. “There are contacts to be established with Lynsley’s local agents, in order to set up a channel of communication. Tomorrow will be soon enough to start stalking our quarry in earnest.”

  “I see,” replied Kate.

  “For the mission to succeed, you need to be alert and well-rested,” he added.

  “Put that way, it is a perfectly practical suggestion.” The blaze of the torchieres did not quite reach her face. “Let us find a hackney to take us back to our rooms.”

  Marco merely nodded, feeling too exhausted to risk starting another argument.

  “Si, andiamo.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Trumpets blared, the brassy fanfare echoing the rattle of sabers and stomp of boots on the polished marble tiles. Resplendent in their fancy uniforms, the soldiers flanking the entrance portico of the Amalienburg wing of the palace snapped a welcoming salute.

  “The King of Bavaria,” murmured Marco, identifying the rotund figure who waddled up the red-carpeted stairs.

  “Is there a Queen of Bavaria?” asked Kate, craning her neck to observe the procession of gilded carriages lined up to enter the cobbled courtyard.

  “Yes, of course. She attended the opening masked ball last week. But for the most part, the monarchs attend the parties without their wives,” he replied. “They prefer being free to flirt with all the beautiful women who come to such regal gatherings as these.”

  Among other things, thought Kate rather acidly. No doubt Marco was regretting the encumbrance of her presence. A bride was simply extra baggage. An added weight, a dragging ball and chain to slow his footloose romping through the crowds of willing women.

  Was it any wonder that English men referred to marriage as “getting legshackled”?

  “Ready?” He slanted a questioning look.

  Kate forced aside her brooding thoughts and lifted her chin. The Hofburg, with all its labyrinthine corridors and interconnected palaces, was an imposing sight in the twilight. But she had learned not to be intimidated.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Passing through the ornate portals, they made their way to the main ballroom, which was already crowded with guests. Her eyes flared wide and she sucked in a sharp breath, trying not to be overwhelmed by the sheer scale of grandeur. High overhead, immense chandeliers cast a brilliant light over the shining white and gilt paneling. Kate stared up at the sea of fire—she had been skeptical on hearing that it took over eight thousand candles to fill the tiered crystal, but now she could well believe it.

  Gold, glitter, and glamour. Everything in Vienna was done to sumptuous excess.

  Lowering her gaze did nothing to dispel the impression. The flutter of all the fancy plumage made her feel a little like a drab English sparrow flitting among a flock of regal birds of paradise. Her gowns were considered quite à la mode in London, but Continental fashions cast her in the shade.

  She slanted a look at a trio of ladies to her left. Lud, if the décolletage of their dresses dropped any deeper, they would be in China, she thought. But despite the flagrant flaunting of flesh, there was no denying that the styles were elegant in the extreme. The colorful crepe outer dresses were complemented by a whisper of pastel satin underneath. Sleeves were long and edged with lace, or short poufs of silk paired with long white gloves.

  Kate fingered her simple strand of pearls. All around, precious stones shone in the candlelight, their predatory gleam a mocking reminder of how much of an outsider she was.

  “The Count de Ligne has described the ladies as looking like brilliant meteors when the dancing begins,” murmured Marco, eyeing the feminine fashions with obvious approval.

  Seeing that jewels and ribbons threaded from the topknots of curling hair to the flounced hemlines, Kate could well imagine it to be true. “Yes, they must spin by in a blinding blur of light.”

  “You need not worry about focusing on them,” he said dryly. “You need to be keeping your gaze on the men.”

  “They are little better,” she pointed out. “Look at all the gold braid and gaudy medals. Lud, if they all were such magnificent warriors, why wasn’t Napoleon exiled to Elba years ago?”

  Marco chuckled. “A good question.”

  As the orchestra began to tune their instruments, he took her hand and headed for the large central staircase that led to the upper galleries. “The opening dance is a polonaise. We’ll have a better vantage point from the balconies,” he said.

  Recalling their moonlit waltz on her grandfather’s terrace, she looked down a little wistfully at the ballroom’s parquet floor. “Will we not be joining in the dancing?”

  “The polonaise is a slow, stately procession,” he explained. “Protocol demands that only those of royal blood take part.” He twitched a sardonic smile as he accepted two glasses of champagne from a liveried waiter. “While the rest of us observe them in awestruck admiration.”

  “It’s hard not be slightly impressed,” admitted Kate, feeling even more like an impostor. The wine prickled against her tongue. Champagne, silks, and jewels. Surely everyone around her could see through the thin disgu
ise and tell she was naught but an uncivilized savage.

  A trumpet blast announced the arrival of yet another sovereign. “Is that the Tsar of Russia?” she asked, watching a tall, blond gentleman dressed in dark-green military splendor enter the ballroom.

  “Yes, behold Alexander the Angel.”

  “He does look rather divine in his uniform,” she said.

  Marco waggled a brow. “It’s said he gained so much weight partying on the way to the conference that he had to send to St. Petersburg for a whole new wardrobe.”

  “Is everyone here as vain as a peacock?”

  “Vanity is the least of the sins here in Vienna,” said Marco. “Come along.” He lowered his voice. “And remember to keep your eyes on the crowd rather than on the monarchs.”

  Despite the admonition, Kate found it hard to focus on the faces. The opulent surroundings were a powerful distraction. Feeling as if she had been transported to a fanciful fairy-tale castle, she followed Marco up a magnificent carved staircase festooned with exotic flowers, trying not to gawk at the sumptuous red and gold velvet draperies hanging from the balconies.

  Marco nudged an elbow to her side. “The men,” he murmured in a not so gentle reminder.

  “Right,” she replied under her breath. Blinking back her schoolgirl wonder, Kate sharpened her stare.

  Like the ladies, the gentlemen were dressed in a shimmering show of peacock finery. Swallowtailed coats, lacey cravats, and snug-cut trousers vied for attention with the martial display of medals and gold-braided dress uniforms. Already her eyes were beginning to ache from the glare of brass buttons and jeweled stickpins.

  Concentrate, she chided, feeling a little light-headed from the cloying swirl of masculine scents. Macassar oil, musky colognes, perfumed hair pomades and waxes—females weren’t the only ones who spent hours preening before a looking glass. She had never seen such an elaborate display of facial hair. From pointed beards and muttonchop side whiskers to glossy mustaches whose curled tips defied the laws of gravity…

  “Astounding, isn’t it?” said Marco dryly, following her gaze to a Russian nobleman. “To what lengths we will go to attract the attention of the opposite sex.”

  Kate nodded, noting that he had no need to resort to such wiles. The simple elegance of his stark black and white evening attire only accentuated his handsome face and lean physique. He was a sleek panther prowling through a gilded jungle of colorful creatures.

  But there was another predator on the loose, she reminded herself.

  “La, Maaarcooo!” A trilling call came from one of the side galleries, the feminine voice mouthing his name as if it were melted toffee. “You naughty man! I heard you had arrived in town.” A tall, slender lady squeezed through the crowd and took hold of his lapel. Her raven-dark hair tumbled in artful curls from a topknot circled with a set of large rubies. The rich red color was mirrored in a stunning gown of crimson satin, which set off her ivory skin to perfection.

  Pursing her rosebud lips in a provocative pout, the lady pulled him close and kissed his cheek. “Why have you not come to see me?”

  Marco coughed. “Ursula, allow me to introduce my new bride. Katharine and I were married recently in England and have come to Vienna on our wedding trip.”

  “Married!”

  “Kate, this is Baroness Ursula Von Augsberg. An old friend.”

  “Married,” repeated the baroness. There was a perceptible pause. “My poor darling!” Waggling a bejeweled finger, she added, “How many times have I warned you of the dangers of dallying with an innocent.” She gave Kate a cursory glance and then lifted her elegant brows in a dismissive arch. “I did tell you that the English take that sort of thing so very seriously.”

  Kate knew that she should respond to the barb with a cool smile. However, she couldn’t help but shoot back with a sharp retort. “I am American.”

  Another pause. “How quaint.” After subjecting her to a more lengthy scrutiny, the baroness heaved an audible sigh. “Tell me, what does your father do, seeing as Americans are all so tedious as to insist on working for a living?”

  “Actually, he was a pirate.”

  For an instant, the baroness’s mask of sardonic superiority slipped. But she quickly recovered. “Then you won’t mind if I steal your husband away for a short while.” The baroness tapped her ivory-handled fan to Marco’s sleeve. “Come, schatze. There are some other old friends who wish to see you.”

  Schatze? Kate tried not to scowl as she silently repeated the endearment. Marco was no kitten—but the lady was certainly wearing a cat-in-the-creampot smile.

  He offered his arm. “But of course. Kate is quite capable of amusing herself while I am gone.”

  “Of course,” she muttered, watching them move away through the crowd. Spearing another glass of champagne, she took a long swallow, hoping to drown the tiny tongue of fire licking up in her belly.

  Don’t. Don’t be a fool. Their marriage vows were a mere formality—Marco had never promised to be faithful.

  “How very churlish of your escort to abandon such a beautiful lady, even for a moment.”

  Kate whirled around as a touch of soft leather brushed along her bare arm. “Allow me to keep you company, Madame…” The gentleman’s voice trailed off in question.

  “Wood—” she began, then quickly corrected herself. “I am Contessa della Ghiradelli,” she replied, finding that saying the fancy name helped steady her self-esteem. Determined to appear as smooth and sophisticated as the swishing silks around her, Kate flashed what she hoped was a brilliant smile.

  “Enchanté, contessa. C’est vraiment un plaisir de faire votre connaissance.” The gentleman lifted her hand to his lips. He spoke flawless French, yet Kate’s keen ear detected a slight Slavic accent. “Andrei Jackowski at your service.” At the last moment, he turned her wrist and feathered a kiss just above the hem of her glove.

  “You are Polish, sir?” she asked.

  He shrugged a well-tailored shoulder and switched to English. “That is difficult to say these days. What with so many countries intent on carving up the country of my birth into tiny slices, I feel more like a morsel of pigeon, baked in a tasty pie.”

  Kate immediately warmed to his tart sense of humor. “Do not the English support an independent Duchy of Warsaw?”

  “Good Heavens!” exclaimed Jackowski with mock amazement. “A lady who actually has an interest in the politics of this conference, not just the gossip and dalliances?”

  “I do have a brain as well as a bosom,” murmured Kate.

  “And it appears to be just as well-developed,” he replied, letting his gaze drop to her décolletage.

  She felt herself growing a little warm. Her gown was not nearly as revealing as that of the baroness, nor were her charms as prominent. But nonetheless, it was nice to be admired.

  “I am not sure that is quite a proper comment for a gentleman to make.”

  “Neither am I,” he replied, gold-flecked sparks of amusement lighting his chocolate-brown eyes. He signaled for a waiter to refill her champagne glass, along with his own. “However, I hope that you won’t hold my words against me. I should very much like to entice you to take a stroll with me while your friend is otherwise occupied.”

  Despite all the distractions, Kate had not lost sight of her mission. A walk through the galleries was exactly what she had in mind, and Jackowski might prove useful in identifying the different delegations.

  “I should like that very much,” she said slowly, setting her hand on his sleeve.

  “Excellent.” He pressed a little closer, his thigh kissing hers as they crossed through an arched alcove. “Pardon,” he murmured. “It is, as you English say, quite a crush.”

  Kate didn’t bother to point out that they had the narrow space all to themselves. If flirtation was part of the game, she would play it to the hilt. “Might we take a peek at the ballroom?” she asked, edging toward one of the balconies. “I have never seen such pomp and pageantry.”
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br />   “Is this your first time in Vienna?” asked Jackowski politely.

  “Yes,” she said, staring intently at the dancers on the floor below.

  “Ah, no wonder you appear fascinated by it all.” He fell silent as the stately procession made its way around the polished parquet. “Trust me, it soon loses it allure.”

  “Like eating too many sweets?” murmured Kate. “At first, it seems utterly delicious, but then your teeth begin to ache and your stomach turns a little queasy.”

  “Precisely.” A humorless laugh rumbled low in his throat. “You soon begin to crave something more than spun sugar and colored marzipan.” He looked at her a little hungrily.

  “It sounds as if you are bored, sir.”

  “A steady diet of decadent parties turns stale rather quickly,” said Jackowski slowly. “The ladies are all alike and the pleasures are too predictable.” He fingered his neatly trimmed goatee, and as the velvet swags stirred overhead, the rippling shadows made his slanted cheekbones look as sharp as knife blades. “You seem different.”

  Keeping her eyes on the dancing figures, Kate considered her next move. Perhaps it was the champagne making her a little reckless—she waved to a nearby footman for more—but she decided to encourage Jackowski’s advances. For now.

  “I am,” she agreed. “This may be familiar to you, yet it is all so foreign to me. Will you escort me through the other galleries and point out the notables who are here tonight?” She lowered her lashes. “As you see, my husband is sadly neglecting his duties.”

  “Tsk, tsk.” Jackowski sidled closer. “Be assured that I shall be delighted to serve as a surrogate, cherie.”

  “You must know many of these people,” she said casually, as they started to meander through the galleries. The notes of a waltz drifted up from the ballroom, drawing some of the guests to the stairs, but the rooms were still crowded.

  “Yes.” He made a wry face. “Having spent the good part of the last year negotiating with the Russian and the various German states over the fate of my homeland, I am more intimately acquainted with the participants of this peace conference than I care to be.”