In any event, for years now he had collected correspondence at Buchhandlung Dornacher. Correspondence and information. The narrow store smelled of dust and leather, of old wood. The ceiling was low and books were crammed every which way. To one side there was a wooden counter piled high with books and behind that counter sat a woman Gerard knew well enough. She and her brother, Peter, had inherited the store from their father some years ago. Though he knew her brother as well, he preferred to deal with Eva.
“Herr Amsel.” One of his many aliases. This one the servant of an unnamed man, the intermediary between the men of Berlin and of Vienna. It was easier to act as his own servant, to appear unimportant. It did not make his life less endangered, but it protected his identity in other cities. In Vienna, too, when he wore other disguises. “There have been several letters awaiting you.”
He had shared a drink more than once with this woman. Shared a bed for an hour or two. He did not visit her without a token of acknowledgment, but today it was harder to carry on the flirtation. He simply wanted information and Eva was a nexus of information in Vienna.
“Fräulein, there has been talk.”
She laughed, the dark curls by her temple bobbing with the movement. “With this many strangers in town I should be surprised if there were not.”
He acknowledged that with a smile and shrug.
“Lord Powell,” he prodded.
“The Englishman.”
“I hear a carriage accident.”
“That is what they say.”
“What do they not say? And who is careful not to say it.”
Her black eyes glittered with amusement. He offered another smile. They were two people who did not matter sharing the humor of the situation. Intrigue about things that hardly mattered either, at least to them. Someone, somewhere, would benefit financially. It would be neither of them.
“There were survivors.”
Gerard nodded. “Then they should know.”
“Exactly. The young woman is asking questions about Lord Powell.” A chill ran down his spine even as the bookseller continued to talk. “Why would she if it was simply an accident?”
“Interesting. That is the conclusion one must come to in such a case.” He shrugged as if it were inconsequential. Inside, his uneasiness was growing. It was still morning, but if Jane courted danger, being in the safety of her room would not save her. He had proven how easily the security of the apartment could be imperiled.
“If your employer is involved, he is now compromised.” The bluntness of Eva’s speech was even more chilling, a deliberate warning, foregoing all the vague words. “If your employer was involved…you are compromised.” She held out his correspondence, a thick stack of different-sized missives.
“Me?” Gerard laughed, taking the letters. “Yes, they always kill the messenger.”
He laughed, but even before he noted that one of the letters was from his client, Imre Szabo, his uneasiness had grown to full alarm, and he was already making plans, plans for how to keep Jane safe, for dealing with the Hungarian Wolf. No wonder Eva had warned him. She knew that he had some dealings with Szabo. It was likely she knew Szabo was the one to have ordered Powell’s death.
He stepped away and turned for some semblance of privacy. Tore that letter open. Bit back the curse that filled his mouth.
I have paid you in full for services rendered. I need proof that services were indeed rendered.
Proof. Damn it. What could he say that would convince Szabo Jane was not a threat? Gerard asked for paper and ink, wrote a letter that he folded and sealed. Then thanked Eva and promised to visit her soon. The letter to Szabo, as well as the rest of his correspondence, he took with him as he traversed the narrow streets of the city yet again.
Gerard could no longer visit the bookstore, no longer go about on the disguise of his own servant, for if Szabo wanted to question Gerard, a servant would be a target. He was not unduly alarmed by Szabo’s desire for answers. The man had paid his bill and expected no complications. That Lady Powell and Jane survived were not in itself problems for Szabo, but likely the nature of Jane’s appearance had alerted him that something was different. But that did not mean Jane was in any imminent danger. If she was, she would already be dead. No, Szabo wanted to ascertain the damage and the reasons for Gerard’s softness. Had it been a mistake or calculated action?
On his way, Gerard hired a boy on the street to take a letter to his client. Long beard, reddish hair, elegant clothes, the boy would likely report when he was quizzed as to who had given him the letter. A return letter would be sent to a certain inn frequented primarily by Greeks and Eastern merchants in the commercial part of the city where one of the grooms had directions to forward all of his correspondence on to the bookshop. It was not an infallible method of protecting both his communication and his privacy, but thus far, with all his other safeguards, there had been no issue. However, these were not ordinary times. He had never before given an employer reason to doubt him. And doubt him Imre Szabo did.
In an alley, the red beard and wig disappeared beneath his coat. His waistcoat was quickly turned inside out, the fanciful design of animals and vines on silk exchanged for a simple checked pattern on a coarser fabric. The dual-sided garment was a particularly useful design, and transitioned him from gentleman to merchant for any who gave him simply a cursory glance. If he focused attention where he wished it to be focused, they rarely noticed the rest. The disguise would not hold up to extended scrutiny, but today he did not need it to.
His next stop was a tavern known to cater to pugilists and Valentin Bohm was exactly where Gerard expected him to be at this hour, holding court among younger men who wished to gain knowledge of the sport.
He was somewhere in his fourth decade of life, but Gerard had first met him some twenty years ago when Badeau took him to watch one of his informal matches, held at an estate in the Austrian countryside. Several years later, Gerard learned that on the side, or perhaps his pugilism was on the side, Bohm was in a similar line of work to Badeau. At times rivals and at times allies, they were always friends.
Gerard knew the instant Bohm recognized him, although not a fraction of the man’s demeanor changed. Gerard stepped back outside and waited for Bohm around the corner. Together, they ambled along the narrow street, beneath the looming city that had been built vertically from lack of space.
“What brings you to Vienna?” the man asked.
Though Bohm knew Gerard’s name, he did not know his aliases, and in an odd reversal, it was what protected Gerard from Bohm knowing too much. He did not know Gerard’s clients or his work, but all of that was about to change.
“Do you still hate the Wolf?”
“Szabo?” Bohm spit on the ground, his face florid instantly. “Do not tell me you are the one he hired to kill the Englishman.”
“Does everyone know of this?”
“I am certain by now even Metternich. The spies he has put into place for this congress are far superior to the usual.”
“Ah,” Gerard said, rubbing his chin. He had been in Vienna not two months ago. He knew that the foreign minister had commissioned the minister of police Sedlnitzky with gathering intelligence on all the visiting diplomats, but he had not known the extent of the web. “Well, the answer, my friend, is yes.”
“My friend? You expect me to keep this secret? Though you know how and why I hate Szabo.”
Gerard did know. Bohm had once been married.
“Money is money.” But that callous answer was not why he had taken the job. “And yes, I need to hire you.”
“I am not in the business any longer. I make my money off the young nobles. I teach them to fight. They invite me to their estates, give me gifts.”
“I need you to protect a woman from Szabo.”
“The Langley girl.”
Cold dread settled in the pit of Gerard’s stomach. The unease he had felt for the last several hours crystallized into something bordering on fear. It was
one thing for Eva to know. She traded information and it was her business to know everything in Vienna. She then wrote it into novels that she sent to a publisher in London that Gerard had sold for her. It was another for Metternich to know. But that Bohm knew added another layer of danger. It meant that Szabo actively had people watching Jane’s every move, that it would not be enough for Jane to stop whatever questioning she had been doing. Some campaign of erroneous information would need to be spread to make Szabo drop the scent.
“Yes.”
“You intend to retire as well, then.”
The expression in Bohm’s knowing eyes was pity. He, more than anyone, perhaps, was able to make that leap of logic, to understand the iterations of decisions that would lead to a man wanting to protect a woman with his life. Gerard’s sigh welled up from the deepest places of his soul. Bohm was correct. He had made his choice when he had let Jane live.
“Marry, a passel of kids, a farm, perhaps.” The last was a joke, and Bohm smiled wryly in acknowledgment.
“I can protect her, but if Szabo truly believes hers is a necessary death, I will not be enough. London will not be far enough away.”
Gerard nodded. He needed to deal with Szabo before he left Vienna.
He stopped back by Leopoldstadt and the grassy expanse of the Prater, the park that bordered the Danube, because hours had passed since he’d last seen Jane and he could not stay away. He hoped only for a glimpse of her in the midst of the extravagant picnic she was scheduled to attend that day.
He had changed his clothes yet again, dressed finely but plainly as befit Gerard Badeau, the Frenchman of independent means visiting Vienna merely for the spectacle of dozens of regal heads gathered together in one place. Although he was ostensibly the most himself, the man who interweaved with society freely in Paris, he felt strangely as if he were wearing a mask.
It was a cool day, but every attempt had been made to keep the guests warm even with the wind off the river. Aside from fire pits, there were furs and lap blankets, warm bricks and other devices. He nodded to people he passed in the crowd as if he knew them. Many he did know…but not as Badeau, and thus could not acknowledge. When he saw one or two that he did indeed recognize, had met here or there as Badeau, he made a point to stop and converse, to present as innocuous a front as possible.
His gaze stopped on every colorful group of revelers, on the bright skirts spread out above large embroidered blankets, on the sea of hats perched above artfully dressed curls, searching for just one head of light brown hair, one decisive nose and set of full, pink lips. One set of light blue eyes that saw everything, saw right into him. That cut him to the quick, stripping away any disguise he had ever worn. As she did now, their gazes meeting across the expanse. He was hollowed out by a gaping sense of nakedness, of being overexposed and vulnerable, and yet, at the same time, the radiant light of Jane’s face filled him with infinite strength. He had never more wanted to live, free and as master of his own destiny.
She was dressed like a spring flower, bright yellow silk pooling about her legs where she sat in a small group of men and women. In one hand she held a glass of what he imagined must be champagne. She tilted her head slightly to the side, the movement a question. And well she’d question him; she always did. She had likely believed he had left Vienna already. He had thought to catch a glimpse of Jane, satisfy his soul—his soul. He repeated the word with disgust, yet even the disgust felt hollow. Yes, damn it. He had thought to satisfy the soul he had not believed in, had not considered in years.
The soul that craved more than observation or a speaking glance across a crowded park. Studying the field, he glanced at her companions and recognized one. A young woman who was uncomfortably familiar. Under a frothy pink confection of a hat sat the blond-haired Mrs. Abbings, the widow Lord Powell had met in London last summer with whom he had exchanged passionate letters for months. But Abbings, for all her secrets, was not connected to Imre Szabo and the shipping concerns that the Wolf shared with the late Lord Powell. Though to some she might be equally dangerous, she should not pose a danger to Gerard. Except for the fact that she was conversing with Jane.
Gerard did not believe in coincidences. Although he was beginning to believe in fate—a fate that was forcing him out of the role of observer, out of the sidelines. With a sense that the earth was shifting beneath him, Gerard stepped forward into the bright Viennese sun.
Jane’s heart beat wildly in her chest. He was still in Vienna! Excitement warred with panic as she watched Gerard progress across the park toward her. She admired the stark beauty of his face, the caged strength of his body visible in every step. He had come for her yet again, but this time they were not in the dark solitude of her bedroom or the empty corridor of the theater. This time they were in broad daylight, in public. She was sitting with the Prince of Ligne, amongst others. And Gerard was the illegitimate grandson of the Earl of Landsdowne. If that was even the persona he meant to go by here. In any event, no matter his identity, she could not acknowledge that she knew him. It was too odd an acquaintance, surely.
She blinked. Somehow he had disappeared from her view. Where had he gone?
“You are very serious, Lady Jane,” Mrs. Abbings said, and Jane looked to the other woman in alarm and stomach-tossing guilt. She had first met the Austrian widow in her quest for more information about Lord Powell, and thus some sort of window into understanding Gerard’s motivation. Would he realize that? Though she believed she had learned as much as she could from the woman already, Mrs. Abbings had apparently decided that Jane was très amusante, and had sought her out at several events.
In London, where Mrs. Abbings had been living for the last several years since her husband’s death, they did not run in the same circles. But here in Vienna, the social circles overlapped, collided, and distorted. It was quite odd on any given night to be an arm’s length from three monarchs.
“I thought I saw an acquaintance,” she said, and returned her attention to her companions.
Mrs. Abbings laughed, the sound throaty and full. “I look right and left and my gaze falls upon too many of my acquaintances.” She was a voluptuous woman, in tone and in body. She had a way of speaking that made Jane feel as if she were the most important person in that woman’s world. That sort of ability to make one feel special was an interesting talent. Jane had seen it before, amongst some of the members of the House of Commons, among some actors and the best hostesses of London. She, herself, had never mastered it and was particularly conscious this afternoon that in comparison she was quite aloof.
It was an observation she had never had before but somehow since her arrival in Vienna she had become an outsider to society. It did not matter that they welcomed her, or that she knew dozens of the attendees. It was some sort of lack of attachment in herself. Strange and disorienting.
Where was Gerard? She had seen him. He had been walking toward her. Where had he gone?
She spotted him again several minutes later, chatting with a man she didn’t recognize, laughing and acting as if he had not a care in the world other than to be festive on this startlingly sunny November afternoon. Consumed by thoughts of him, she lost the threads of the conversations around her. She extricated herself from her companions. She wanted to go to Gerard but he likely had a reason for not approaching her immediately. Instead, she glanced at him as she walked toward the Danube. He made no sign that he had seen her but she knew, she just knew, that he would be as intensely aware of each of her movements as she was of his.
A cloth pavilion had been set up not far from the bank of the Danube and the canvas flapped in the light breeze. Inside, there were refreshments and chaise longues. It was quieter here, away from the orchestra and the crowds. She accepted another glass of champagne from a servant and stood at the edge of the structure, looking out at the sparkling water.
“The breeze seems to have the same idea as me.”
Happiness and satisfaction surged within her chest, making her as buoyan
t as the boats that bobbed on the Danube. He had followed her.
“And what is that?” she asked lightly, turning to face him. Up close he was more handsome than he had been across the park. And he was tantalizingly within reach. But still, they were not alone.
“To do away with the pins confining your hair.”
The way his hands had run through her hair the night before. She could feel them even now, his fingers sparking sensation along her scalp. The space between them grew hot and she turned back to the breeze blowing off the river.
“Will you still be here tonight?” she asked. It was late in the day for him to begin any sort of travel and if he was still in Vienna…if he was still in Vienna, she wanted him in her arms.
“Yes,” he said, his voice low and tight. “I cannot leave just yet. Not until… Jane.” The very serious tone in which he uttered her name made her look at him again. There was a warning in his eyes. “You need to stop asking questions.”
She flushed, embarrassed that he knew how she had struggled to uncover his motivation. Did he know her failure as well?
“How did you know?” But this, too, was a stupid question. The fact that Gerard knew meant that her questioning had not been subtle enough, meant that people were paying attention to her actions. “Forget that. You tell me. Why did you kill Powell?”
“Let it go.” He urged her forward, behind the pavilion, onto the wooden stairs that led down to a boat dock. “Listen to me carefully. We are stealing time as it is. I cannot tell you about Powell and you cannot try to investigate the matter. At the moment, I believe you are still safe, but the wrong question, the wrong person… I cannot leave for London if there is a chance you are in danger.”
Frustration made her furious. “Why can’t you tell me? You trust me enough to love me, to say you want to be with me forever. Marry me.” She had never said the word before, neither of them had, but now it was boldly out there.
“Yes,” he hissed. “Yes, I am asking that much of you, though I do not deserve you. The why does not matter. I am a mercenary, Jane. On occasion, an assassin, as you have named me. Can you love me despite that?”
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