“On the journey to Vienna.” Dunya replied, happy at least to discuss this matter.
Jane’s eyebrows flew up. “Then your engagement is not of long standing?”
“No,” Dunya allowed. “But we connected instantly. Richard found me in some difficulty and did me a great service.”
“Ah.” Jane nodded, as though reaching an understanding at last. “And so you are grateful.”
Dunya looked at her. “You imagine I engaged myself to him through gratitude?”
“I meant no disrespect,” Jane said hastily.
“But you feel it nonetheless,” Dunya retorted. “And the funny thing is, Etienne said much the same to me.”
“Etienne?” Jane repeated blankly. “The Comte de la Tour?”
“He is an old family friend of ours,” Dunya said, just as the man himself walked through the door with Anastasia and her escort, clearly talking to both with the ease of intimacy. “Excuse me.”
And Dunya, leaving the English girl standing alone, walked determinedly up to her sister and Etienne. “Etienne, you promised to dance with me, and you haven’t!” she said, keeping her voice light and teasing although she smiled up into his face.
She’d really given him no choice. “Then let me remedy that instantly,” he said. “Providing I step on no one else’s toes?”
Dunya neither remembered nor cared who her next partner was supposed to be. Her only thought was to be rid of the dishonest game she’d begun, to be sure that she and Etienne would be together in the end. She only smiled again and took his arm. She wasn’t really sure what she said, just that as she chattered and stepped into his arms for the waltz, a truly wonderful thing began to happen. The warm look she remembered reading in his eyes during those long-ago days in Russia, began to return. His voice, when he spoke, grew softer, more teasing. This surely, at last, was the Etienne she remembered.
“I missed you,” she confessed.
“I can’t help being glad of it. I thought of you every day since I left you. Especially during the awful events that followed.”
Her heart beat wildly. She waited for him to mention the promises they’d made. He didn’t. But perhaps he read the disappointment in her eyes, for he said, “You were the only light of my exile.”
Her breath caught. “And now?”
He smiled into her eyes. “The beautiful girl has grown into an enchanting woman. Now you light up the whole world.”
She laughed. “Now I know you are teasing me!”
“I wish I was,” he said ruefully.
“Then…then you do remember the promises we made?”
“Oh Dunya, of course I remember. We were young and carefree and I never imagined I’d be able to go home. Now that I have, now that my estates are returned—in part, at least—I find them in ruin and myself without the means to restore them. Until I do, I have no income to speak of, which is why you find me on the staff of M.de Talleyrand.”
She frowned, not quite comprehending. “There is no shame in that.”
“No,” he agreed. “I would call it an inconvenience. In short, my dear, our time in Russia was like a dream. I will always love you, but the sordid truth is, I must marry money.”
She felt the blood drain from her face, rushing to her toes so fast that if he hadn’t been holding her, she would have fallen.
“Dunya,” he murmured. “Dunya, don’t look like that. We can’t live on air alone. We are in the real, harsh world now, where naivety doesn’t work. People of our class have always married for material or political gain. What you and I share has always been something quite different.”
She swallowed, hanging onto pride by a thread. “You are saying that although you love me, you will marry someone else for her wealth.”
“Exactly. As must you. I’m not blind to your little ploy with Captain Trelawny. There was never any need. You had best put the poor man out of his misery and find yourself a rich husband instead.”
She stared at him. “And then what?”
“Then you and I can be together in the only way that truly matters.”
Chapter Ten
In the supper room doorway, Trelawny came face-to-face with a man he knew. Although his brain refused to come up with the man’s name or anything else remotely useful about him, they had definitely met before. Of medium height and some thirty or so summers, thin-faced, with dark hair and impeccable evening dress, he had a tiny scar on his chin. It was probably the scar that sparked the elusive memory. However, before Trelawny could greet him, the man merely stood aside with the faintest smile of the kind reserved for fellow guests one does not know. His disinterested eyes betrayed no recognition whatsoever.
Trelawny shrugged and passed on with his companion.
“Do you know that chap?” he asked Fawcett.
“No, don’t believe so.”
Thomas Fawcett appeared to be a worthy if somewhat self-important individual. Although he wasn’t someone Trelawny would normally choose to spend time with, he did speak of Jane with respectful affection. If it wasn’t a love match—and it could be for all Trelawny knew—then at least it was a contented and honorable one.
Trelawny parted from him in the ballroom, and again went in search of Sebastian Niven. On previous occasions, he’d found him dancing or so deep in a card game that it would have drawn unwanted attention to have dragged him out of it for a private word. This time, he was in conversation with an extremely beautiful woman, to whom he bowed, as Trelawny approached. The woman, smiling, walked away from him.
“Ah, Trelawny,” Niven greeted him. “Come to call me out again?”
“I didn’t call you out the last time.”
“Probably should have,” Niven allowed. “I was bang out of line. Never entered my head she wasn’t some ladybird on the loose.”
“You should probably start with the premise that they aren’t,” Trelawny said wryly, “at least until you discover otherwise.”
Niven eyed him with amusement. “Thanks for your words of wisdom. Not that you aren’t right, of course. I’m only surprised the fierce brother hasn’t paid me a visit.”
“She hasn’t told him she knows your name,” Trelawny said, without mentioning he himself had done so. “They’re all terrified he’ll murder you.”
“He has a reputation,” Niven acknowledged. “But to be frank, I’m more afraid that you will.”
“I’d rather punch you in the face,” Trelawny said frankly. “But since no harm was truly done—”
“And since the incident has led to your present happiness,” Niven interpolated.
“That is clearly all attributable to you,” Trelawny said sarcastically, and Niven bowed in the same vein. “I merely want to be sure of your discretion.”
“My dear Trelawny, I am the soul of it. Especially since the story reflects so badly on me. I don’t mind being the villain of any piece, but being a thwarted villain—thwarted moreover by a one-armed man and a naive girl—is just…sadly comedic.” Niven bowed ironically and was about to pass on, when, looking toward the dance floor, he added, “She is a lively girl, your betrothed. You’ll have your work cut out with her.”
Trelawny followed his gaze to see Dunya laughing up at Etienne. His fists clenched before he forced them slowly to unfurl. It wasn’t jealousy so much as the knowledge that Etienne was hurting her.
“As far as she’s concerned,” Niven said deliberately, “I was an accidental villain. He is not.”
“What do you know of him?” Trelawny asked.
Niven shrugged. “A man of ambition. A fortune hunter. Far be it from me to cast doubt on another man’s principles, but he keeps ill company. Including him.”
Again Trelawny followed Niven’s gaze to where Major von Wahrschein was kissing Anastasia’s hand as he relinquished her to another partner.
“There is rumor,” Niven murmured, “of a wager between those two. Vulgar enough, but as I say, de la Tour is a fortune hunter and he won’t be pushed into marriage with any w
oman who isn’t wealthy.”
“I never imagined he sought to marry her,” Trelawny said. After all, he could have done so in Russia.
“No. Rumor says he’s pursuing yet another man’s betrothed for that. An heiress, of course.”
Trelawny curled his lip.
“I believe you know her. Miss Reid. Engaged to Tom Fawcett.”
Trelawny’s lips fell apart as he whipped his gaze back to Niven, who was already walking away. Just as well. He’d nearly blurted out that Jane was even less of an heiress than Dunya.
*
For Jane, the evening was turning into a nightmare. She had arrived in Vienna as the young lady with everything. She had birth and beauty, dressed like a queen, and was betrothed to a wealthy and respected gentleman, who was the darling of his family. She stayed with a lady well known in London as one of the great ton hostesses, and who, in Vienna, numbered several crowned heads as frequent guests. She was flattered by the additional attentions of two elegant and sophisticated men, which made her fashionable and envied. And in the background of her brilliant present and future was the warm, soothing knowledge that she’d been loved by a man like Richard Trelawny.
She’d never expected to come across this damaged first love ever again, let alone tonight, holding another woman in his one strong arm, kissing her with an intimacy Jane herself had never known. Worse, this woman was beautiful, fascinating in an exotic, foreign kind of a way, and was engaged to marry him. And somehow, it seemed even worse that his injury didn’t hold him back at all. He had nothing, neither full health nor wealth, no land, no career, surely, and yet he was going to marry the Russian countess. Who, it seemed, also had nothing. It was stupid, ridiculous, and irresponsible.
So why did she feel suddenly jealous? The wretched girl had even told her off for imagining her engagement was made from gratitude, just as though…as though she truly loved Richard as he was.
Admittedly, there was a lot to love. He was kind and handsome, and his eyes sparkled when he laughed. He’d laughed a lot and made Jane laugh, too, just enough to make her wonder, with fast-beating heart, what he was like when he was serious.
In short, Richard was…charming. Though even whole, he’d never have been able to give her what Mr. Fawcett could. Comfort, wealth, position, certainty. Richard would always have been away adventuring or hankering after the next adventure. His spirit was too restless for hers. And yet…
And yet the other girl with nothing was happy to ally herself to him. There was something between them Jane couldn’t quite understand. She just knew she didn’t like Dunya Savarina.
She liked her even less when, as she sat beside both Mrs. Fawcetts, she watched Etienne de la Tour waltz with Dunya, smiling at least as warmly as he’d ever smiled at Jane. Worse, there was a raptness, an intensity about him with Dunya that had surely never been there when he looked at her.
No, Jane didn’t like Dunya. Or her sister, who appeared to be monopolizing Jane’s other admirer, Major von Wahrschein. Ill-naturedly, it seeped into her head that the Russian girls were taking away all the admirers that made Jane…important. Only then she remembered the most important admirer of all, Mr. Fawcett, her betrothed, and she realized she was still winning.
At least until the lawyers discovered her true fortune.
The idea came to her like a lantern glow in the night. Richard Trelawny would never refuse to help her. And he was peculiarly ingenious at solving problems. She even stood up before she remembered that unless she wanted to cause gossip, she couldn’t just walk up to him and invite him for a quiet talk. Already the Mrs. Fawcetts were looking at her in surprise.
“I can feel a hair pin coming loose,” she blurted. “I’ll just go and fix it. It will only take a moment.”
“Send for my maid,” her betrothed’s mother suggested.
“I will if I need her,” Jane replied. “Thank you…”
She was then obliged, of course, to walk directly out the ballroom door and turn right toward the cloakroom where she’d left her pelisse and her outdoor shoes when she first arrived. On the way, she kept darting glances, in the hope of seeing Richard and catching his eye. Perhaps they could snatch a quick few words in the hallway.
But he never entered her line of vision. Her one hope now was that he would see her leave and wait for her in the hall. Surely there were things he would wish to say to her in private after their years apart, after her breaking of the engagement. Surely, he would not bear a grudge over that…
She walked down the hall and into the small cloakroom which was crowded with pelisses and cloaks hanging on racks and hooks in the wall. Beneath them were shelves and cabinets for shoes. It would be quite a mad scramble, Jane thought with distaste, to discover one’s own belongings in this chaos. Countess Savarina’s apartment could not accommodate so many guests. She should have invited fewer.
Jane eased her way through to the one, full-length mirror, hemmed in by garments on either side. Her alabaster face was unusually flushed. She fanned it gently, while gazing into the mirror. No pins were escaping. Her hair was as perfect as when she’d set out this evening. Her gown, her complexion, her posture, all perfect. So why did Richard not give her a second glance after his first stunned stare? And even then, she’d been sure he was going to laugh. Why did the Comte de la Tour now gaze at Dunya Savarina with the same warm intensity as he’d looked at her for the past two weeks and more?
It was as if both Richard and the comte were suddenly besotted with the Russian woman, who was too lively, spoke and acted without care, traipsed around the ballroom unattended as if she were already a married woman. Surely she lacked refinement and taste. So what did either of those gentlemen see in her?
The door to the cloakroom opened suddenly, and as if Jane had conjured her from her thoughts. Dunya Savarina rushed in like a small whirlwind. Catching sight of Jane, she pulled up. Her dark violet eyes were stormy, perhaps even wet, and she was breathing more rapidly than was seemly. With an obvious effort, she smiled at Jane.
“It’s so warm in the drawing room,” she said lightly. “I just wanted some cold water on my face.”
She moved further into the room and began to push hanging garments aside until she revealed a washing bowl and jug Jane hadn’t even guessed was there. Without a lot of delicacy, Dunya bent over the bowl and splashed water up over her rosy cheeks before reaching for the towel and pressing it over her whole face.
“I saw you dancing with the Comte de la Tour,” Jane blurted, with an unusual urge to hurt. She walked closer to Dunya, speaking low and confidingly. “I know he was your family’s friend in Russia, but here, now, things are different and you should know, since you’ve just arrived in Vienna, that the comte is a well-known flirt. I want to warn you not to encourage him. Not just for your own sake, but for Richard’s. You see, beneath his easy going exterior, Richard is a proud man who will not stand for…disloyalty.”
Dunya’s eyes widened. Something flashed in them that looked remarkably like temper.
“Disloyalty like yours?” Dunya retorted.
The flush Jane had just worked to remove from her cheeks, rushed back with a vengeance. “I was never disloyal to Richard. I broke off our engagement before I even met Mr. Fawcett, because I realized it would not do for either of us. I’m aware I have hurt him. And in the name of our life-long friendship, I am trying to keep him from being hurt again.”
“Are you?” Dunya said with blatant disbelief. “Are you sure you are not instead trying to warn me away from Etienne so that he’ll still dance attendance on you, too?”
This was uncomfortably close to the truth. Jane curled her lip and gazed down at the Russian girl from her advantageous height. “You are a rude and silly girl,” she said disdainfully, “and when the comte ruins you, you will end up with neither gentlemen. With no one, in fact.”
And on that triumphant victory of words, Jane sailed past her and left the cloakroom.
*
Dunya stared after her
, fury burning into her cheeks. Not just fury, but panic, because in one sense Jane had been right. She would end up with neither Richard nor Etienne. She no longer wanted the latter with his abhorrent cynicism, and the understanding between herself and Richard had nothing to do with marrying each other. The rush of disorientation she’d felt earlier now returned with a vengeance, uniting with the misery of Etienne’s betrayal and Jane’s utter insolence in speaking to her that way.
Dunya had been silly. But in her heart, she knew she was right about Jane wanting, perhaps even needing, the attentions of several men, as if it made her who she was. Well, Richard had loved her forever and she was welcome to Etienne, but how dare she?
“How dare you?” she whispered aloud as she left the cloakroom. She wasn’t even sure what she meant to do until she reentered the drawing room and quite unexpectedly met the gaze of Mr. Fawcett.
Normally, she would have acknowledged him civilly and passed on. But ill-natured mischief was pushing her on. She smiled, as though delighted to have seen him, and tripped across the room to him.
“We meet again, sir,” she said gaily. “How nice. Perhaps you’d escort me to find some lemonade?”
“Of course,” Fawcett almost stammered. “That is, I’m delighted.”
Dunya had never set out to charm anyone in her life before. But Fawcett’s reaction both gave her the idea and showed her the way. She gazed at him as if he were the only man in the room, laughed at his ponderous jokes, and allowed him to dance with her. Within fifteen minutes, the man looked not only baffled but utterly besotted. Sacrificing her last waltz with Trelawny, she promised it instead to Fawcett, just because he asked. And when she caught Jane’s stricken eyes across the room, she raised her glass of lemonade to her and turned away.
Victory now was undoubtedly Dunya’s. And yet, she’d never been so miserable in her life.
*
Rumors of his engagement to Dunya, had clearly done Trelawny no harm with the ladies. It was a fact he’d noticed somewhat cynically in other less exalted company, that a man became rather more sought after once females realized he was attractive to another woman. He encountered no looks of pity at Countess Savarina’s ball, but several of interest and speculation. The beautiful widow of the Russian hero-general, Prince Bagration, flirted with him when Vanya carelessly introduced them, as did other less famous ladies. He didn’t let it go to his head. He was more concerned with Dunya’s blatant pursuit of Thomas Fawcett.
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