by Cara Elliott
“Who is the tall, bearded Viking?” she asked, turning just enough to dislodge his roving hand from the curve of her hip.
“The Sulky Swede.” Jackowski chuckled. “He’s constantly threatening to slit his throat over the fickleness of his latest lover. Seeing as he expresses his sorrows in terrible poetry, he would be doing the rest of us a favor by putting himself out of his misery.”
“And the red-haired gentleman to his left?” asked Kate.
“Oh, that is Hertzfeld, head of the Pomeranian contingent….” Jackowski proved to be an interesting commentator, keeping up a steady stream of amusing anecdotes.
Kate kept a close eye on the faces, watching carefully for the would-be assassin from Tappan’s estate as she tried to keep track of all the different factions and delegations that her escort mentioned. Saxons, Prussians, Poles, Latvians, Russians—with so many volatile elements crammed into a small space, it was no wonder that the Baltic was a powder keg, ready to explode at the touch of a single errant spark.
Feeling her own nerves growing a little singed, she took another sip of wine. The heat of the rooms, heavy with the scent of flowers and lush perfumes, was growing oppressive. The laughter was too loud, the jostling touch of flesh against flesh too intimate.
For an instant, she longed to escape the stifling splendor and seek a cold, cleansing breath of fresh air.
“Enjoying yourself?” Jackowski’s hot breath tickled against her ear.
“Yes, quite.” Clenching the crystal stem of her glass, Kate forced a false smile.
“Come this way,” he murmured. “The rooms off the main galleries are less crowded and afford a chance for quiet conversation.”
Kate doubted that his intention was to talk, but she followed along without protest. The glittering chandeliers gave way to flickering wall sconces and dark wood paneling as they made their way through a series of connecting rooms. Ancient tapestries decorated the walls and thick Oriental carpets cushioned their steps. The guests here were gathered in more intimate groups, and from what Kate could overhear, the discussions were not about politics.
She angled yet another quick look around. Still no sign of her quarry—or of her husband. But then, the connecting corridors offered plenty of darkened nooks for a private tryst. Already they had passed several couples in the clench of a passionate embrace. It took little imagination to picture the baroness and Marco rekindling an old flame.
“Your glass is empty, Lady Ghiradelli.” Jackowski took a bottle from a silver tray. “More champagne?”
Kate nodded, despite feeling a little flushed. “The bubbles tickle,” she murmured, raising the glass to her lips and letting the effervescence tease against her tongue.
Setting a hand on the curve of her hip, Jackowski urged her into the shadowed corridor. “I can think of even more pleasant ways to bring the same sensation to your flesh.”
“Really?” she said coyly. It would serve Marco right if she let a stranger kiss her. Not that he cared what she did with other men.
Turning for the last set of rooms, Kate suddenly spotted a familiar shock of silky black hair amid the lush velvet draperies of the stairwell up ahead. The baroness was curling a lock of it around her slim fingers.
“Excuse me, but I must withdraw for a moment.” Thrusting her glass at Jackowski, Kate backed up a step.
“Allow me to come with you.”
“Thank you, sir, but a lady really does not wish to have a gentleman accompany her on such a mundane mission,” she said meaningfully. “The room is not far from here.”
He looked loath to let her go, but could hardly argue the point. “I shall wait for you in here,” he said, indicating a dimly lit side chamber paneled in mahogany. “Don’t be long, cherie.”
Gathering her skirts, Kate quickly turned down one of the many corridors, grateful that the low light hid her flaming face.
How dare Marco flaunt his infidelity so soon after their marriage?
Fury bubbled through her, fueled by the wine. A part of her was tempted to turn around and accost him. Oh, how she itched to slap the seductive smile from his wanton mouth. Her palms prickled, even as she realized how naïve her reaction would appear to the jaded aristocrats.
Sex was just a game for them. As for love…
Love was a laughable notion.
Kate slowed her steps and ducked into the shelter of the colonnaded archway leading back to the main gallery. The marble was cool and calming against her skin. Pressing her cheek to the fluted stone, she sucked in a deep breath, willing her heartbeat to come under control. How absurd that she had actually fallen in love with her husband. She must not let anyone know her pathetic secret. Discipline and detachment. Her years of vagabond adventures had taught her how to survive adversity.
After taking a moment more to collect herself, Kate was about to step away from the columns when a pair of gentlemen turned into the corridor. Heads bent together, they were talking in low, rushed tones. Something about their manner made her stay hidden in the shadows.
They paused, and one of them looked back over his shoulder.
“Relax. You’re as nervous as a virgin on her wedding night,” growled his companion.
“This is my first time engaging in…” The other man let his voice trail off.
“You’ve nothing to do, save to make sure the papers I gave you are placed on his desk.”
“Don’t worry. I shall play my part without fail.”
“I suggest you do.”
The voice was soft but menacing. And unmistakably familiar. The tiny hairs on the back of Kate’s neck stood on end as she inched forward, trying to catch a glimpse of the speaker’s face. Light from the adjoining gallery reflected off the pale marble archway, catching close-cropped brown hair and a long, thin nose in sharp silhouette.
It was him.
“Let us not dawdle,” went on the man she had seen at Lord Tappan’s estate. “Ellendorff is waiting for us in the refreshment salon.”
“Excuse me, schatze.” Kate touched Marco’s sleeve “But I must drag you away from your friend.”
He looked around, surprised. “Cara—”
“Do forgive me, Baroness.” Her grip tightened on his arm. “I’m sure you’ll understand.”
Marco slowly unwound himself from the baroness’s hand.
“I’ve seen him,” she whispered.
His senses came instantly alert. “Where?”
“He just entered the refreshment salon.” She quickened her step. “This way.”
As they slipped into the room, Marco immediately headed for the punch table and grabbed up two glasses of champagne. “Laugh,” he ordered, making a show of nuzzling her neck. “And look a little wobbly.”
No one paid them much heed as they staggered in a dizzy spin. Propping her against the wall, he asked, “Which one?”
“The brown-haired man in the group by the display of medieval swords,” she replied. “High forehead, angular nose, thin mustache. Dressed in the dark burgundy coat.”
“I see him.”
“Do you know who he is?” she asked, masking the question beneath a giggling laugh.
“No, but that should be easy enough to find out.”
Weaving his way back to the punch table, he sidled up to an officer of the Emperor’s House Guards. “The gentleman with the mustache, standing by the swords—is that Von Buehlen, the Bavarian minister?” he asked, exaggerating a squint.
“Nein,” replied the officer. “That is Count Grunwald, of the Saxon delegation.”
“Hmmph.” He let out a loud belch. “Need to find Von Buehlen. I’m told he knows the best brothels in town.”
The officer shrugged and walked off.
Marco made a show of draining a glass of punch before returning to Kate. “You are sure that is the man you saw at Lord Tappan’s estate?” They couldn’t afford to make a mistake.
“Positive,” she answered.
He slumped a shoulder to the wall and looked up at the
painted plaster ceiling, where a classical scene of cavorting nymphs and naked putti leered down on the modern-day revelry. A gilded reminder that beneath the artful smiles, the guests here were all in pursuit of their own selfish desires.
If Kate was wrong, a king would die.
Dropping his gaze, Marco stole a quick look at her profile. Fatigue smudged her features, yet it could not dim her luminous strength. She had been thrown to the wolves, but rather than swoon with fear, she had faced the snapping jaws without batting her lovely golden lashes.
Light hung for an instant on the curled fringe, a pure pale glimmer of clarity among all the excess. Kate was no innocent, but she had been true to herself. He wanted to lean over and press his lips to her cheek. Somehow, she had lived her life in a tough world without being sullied by its sordidness. It made him feel a little ashamed of his own cowardice. Perhaps one day he would find the courage to face his inner demons.
But that day would have to wait.
“Well done, cara,” he said softly.
“You believe me?” It might have been the brittle clink of the crystal, but her voice seemed to have an odd edge.
“Without a doubt.” Marco twined his fingers in the fringe of her shawl. “Let’s take our leave. I’ll explain in the carriage.”
It wasn’t until the wheels began clattering over the cobbles that he spoke again. “It’s all beginning to make perfect sense. In the wake of Napoleon’s wars, the biggest controversy facing Europe is how to divide the Baltic states. Russia, Austria, and England each has its own agenda, and the Kingdom of Saxony is key to the matter. The king is adamantly opposed to giving up any territory to Prussia. If he were eliminated…” He went on to explain the details that Lynsley had given him on the politics of the region.
“Our sources tell us that Grunwald favors the Russian claim—and he holds great influence over the heir to the throne. If the present king is assassinated, he stands to profit immensely, both in prestige, and no doubt in gold. Tsar Alexander is quite generous when it comes to buying alliances.”
“I see,” said Kate. The window draperies were drawn, leaving the interior of the carriage wreathed in darkness. The gloom seemed to add a certain coolness to her tone.
“We are very fortunate that you are so observant.”
She gave a curt laugh.
Marco drew his brows together. Her nerves seemed strung taut, but then, given all the stresses on her of late, it was a wonder that she hadn’t snapped.
“We’re also lucky that you are so resilient, Kate. I’m sorry that your life has been turned topsy-turvy by forces out of your control.”
The whisper of silk slid across the soft leather. “I’ve survived by knowing how to land on my feet.”
Marco remained silent, unsure how to respond. He had not been nearly as successful in uncovering useful information. The baroness, who usually knew of every bit of gossip between Lisbon and Moscow, had nothing to offer on Lord Tappan. She had been much more interested in turning the talk to a more personal level.
It had taken a very firm hand to keep her lithe little fingers out of his trousers.
He shot a regretful glance in Kate’s direction, wishing he could see a hint of her expression. He longed to wrap himself in her smoky laughter, to taste the heat of her mouth, her skin.
The scent of her—the fragrance of sun and sea—wafted through the blackness. Sweet, elusive.
And then it was gone as the carriage lurched to a halt and Kate flung open the door to let herself out.
Chapter Twenty-five
Woozy with wine, Kate slowly climbed the narrow stairs to their rooms, glad that she had told her maid not to wait up. Her body ached all over. The rigors of traveling and the tension of hunting an elusive quarry had taken a toll, but the pain was more than physical. Her spirit—always her stalwart strength—felt shaken. Bruised.
She should feel elated with tonight’s work. Instead, the evening had left her feeling awkward. Unsure.
Aside from a fleeting kiss on signing the marriage lines, Marco had made no effort to exercise his conjugal rights. Oh, he had been anxious enough to toss up her skirts when the act was immoral, she thought with an inward grimace. But now that it was perfectly proper to take her to bed, he seemed to have lost interest in her.
It should come as no shock. She had always heard that the chase was what attracted a rake. Illicit trysts were far more titillating than conventional arrangements.
The heavy tread of his steps in the gloom sounded like a funeral dirge. No doubt he was already mourning the death of his devil-may-care bachelorhood. She had seen the way his gaze had been riveted on the baroness’s half-bared bosom. Lust. Longing. The taut stretch of gossamer silk had left little to the imagination regarding the other half.
Kate glanced down at her own chest. Compared to the elegant, worldly women gathered here in Vienna, she didn’t measure up. They wore brilliant baubles, dazzling mere mortals with their glittering jewels, opulent gowns, and sophisticated charm. While she was as skinny as a boy and blunt to a fault in voicing her opinions. Men didn’t like that. Or so it seemed.
As they started up the last flight, Kate slanted a surreptitious look at her husband. In the guttering flame of the tallow candle, Marco’s face was drawn tight, the beautiful bones smudged by brooding shadows. He looked miserable, and who could blame him?
Her foot caught on the rough planking and she stumbled.
“Steady, cara.” Catching her around the waist, Marco drew her close, his solid, muscular body steadying her trembling legs.
It was, she knew, revoltingly romantic, but he reminded her of the knight in armor who had greeted the Emperor’s guests on his snowy white charger. A shining hero.
Only a silly schoolgirl would entertain such dreams.
“Just a few more steps and we are there,” murmured Marco.
So close. And yet the distance between them seemed to stretch like a great black chasm.
His key scraped in the lock and the iron hinges creaked open.
Hot tears welled up against her eyelids as the door fell shut behind them. How ridiculous to be pining after her own husband. She knew he didn’t care for her. This was a job. And she was an inconvenience, nothing more.
“Dio Madre.” Muttering an oath, Marco shrugged out of his coat and struck a flint to the oil lamp. A spark flared to life, casting a pool of light over his torso. Pale as Carrera marble in the soft glow, the crisp linen shirt accentuated the sculptured lines of his shoulders. “Thank God that is over. If I had to taste another morsel of foie gras, I might expire on the spot.”
He set the lamp on a side table and turned, silhouetting how the burgundy embroidered waistcoat tapered to his lean waist.
“Excellent work, Kate. Without you, this mission would be impossible,” said Marco, reaching out to take her shawl.
Kate pulled away and hurried into the bedchamber. Yanking off a satin slipper, she threw it down. It skittered across the planked floor.
He raised a brow.
Damn him. She would not let him see her snivel or beg for his affection. The other slipper hit the wall with a satisfying slap.
“Is something wrong, cara?”
“No.” Untying the tabs, she stepped out of her gown and kicked it across the woven rug.
Taking up a candle, he came to stand in the doorway. “Did I say something to upset you?”
“No.” Awkwardly yanking at the strings of her corset, Kate wriggled free of the stays. A crack of whalebone warned that she wasn’t being very ladylike about her actions, but she was too furious to care. Muttering an oath, she flung the garment at the dressing table chair.
“Do you always destroy your clothing after a fancy dress ball?” Marco carefully picked up the squashed silk gown and shook it out. “I had no idea I’d wed such an expensive wife.”
“You had no idea because you never had any intention of taking a wife.” At the sight of his bemused smile curling in the candlelight, all her simmering
fears and frustrations exploded. “Well, now you can bloody well pay for it.”
Jerking around, Kate meant to march for the washbasin, but her thin shift snagged on the armoire latch. A sharp rip rent the shadowed silence, and a flap of delicate lawn cotton fell away, baring her breast.
She felt ridiculous. Humiliated. She knew she looked absurd, standing half naked, shrieking like a fishwife.
If he laughed, she would kill him.
“Kate.” There was no amusement in his voice.
Bloody hell. A tear trickled down her cheek.
“Ah, bella.”
“Don’t. Call. Me. That,” she choked out.
“Why?” He took a step closer.
She shrank away, hating how vulnerable she felt. She had spent all her life being strong and sure of herself. This sharp, painful need, twisting like a steel blade inside her, was a new and unsettling emotion.
“I can’t help calling you that, Kate.” Through the sin-black fringe of his lashes glimmered a flicker of jewel-tone blue. “It was la Belladonna who stole my affection,” he murmured.
“I stole your purse,” she whispered. “Your heart is untouchable.”
“You wouldn’t want it. It’s far too black and shriveled to be of any appeal.” He reached out and touched her lightly on the cheek. “But as for the rest of me, cara, I am yours.”
“Oh, si. You belong to me—and any other lady who bats her lashes at you,” she blurted out.
“Are you jealous?” he asked softly.
“No,” she said through a trickle of tears. “I am furious. You… you…”
Before she could think of something suitably scathing to say, Marco swept her into his arms and in two quick strides was at the bed.
“Put me down!” she demanded, thumping her fists to his chest.
“As you wish.”
Her bum bounced against the mattress and then sank into the plump eiderdown coverlet with a feathery sigh.
“Go away,” muttered Kate, hugging a pillow to her chest.
Marco made no move to comply. Instead, he calmly unfastened his shirt and started to draw it over his head.
Whooph. The missile caught him smack in the chest.