Vienna Woods (The Imperial Season Book 2)

by Mary Lancaster

  His breath stirred her hair, and again, her scalp tingled. It wasn’t unpleasant.

  “That rather depends on you,” he said unexpectedly.

  She twisted round to stare at him, blinking as the pain in her head sharpened and died back. “It does?”

  His gaze drifted briefly to the path ahead, then back to her. “Yes. Correct me if I’m wrong, but it strikes me you’re not emotionally devastated by what happened to Prince Otto.”

  “No,” she agreed. She thought about it. “I’m shocked. Appalled, even. God knows there has been enough death over the last decade. More people should not be dying at the Peace Congress!”

  “Then you will not miss your crown?” he asked with a hint of mockery.

  “No,” she said candidly. “I would never have worn one, you know, even if Otto and I had married. Kriegenstein is only a kingdom because it amused Bonaparte to promote a minor Margrave over the heads of much more powerful princelings. I presume he was teaching them all to know their place. But the Congress will never endorse it now. Kriegenstein will be swallowed by Prussia or Saxony or whoever else the truly powerful countries want to compensate. Otto would never have been king.”

  Although his expression didn’t change, she had the impression she’d surprised him. “You have a swift grasp of politics.”

  “Not particularly,” she said, facing straight ahead once more. “My father was sent to Kriegenstein as the British ambassador, to persuade the king to desert Bonaparte for the allies. I went with him. It was impossible not to grasp a few truths. I find it harder to understand how I may influence events following Otto’s death.”

  “I presume you want to know who shot him and why?”

  She considered, then nodded decisively. “Yes.”

  “I could blunder about asking questions of—”

  “Do you blunder?” she interrupted. “Somehow I can’t imagine it.”

  “I can blunder,” he said firmly. “Which would warn everyone concerned to keep quiet. Or we could pretend this never happened until we uncover the truth.”

  Again, she twisted around to stare at him. This time, her vision remained steady as the full meaning of his suggestion spread through her mind.

  “You don’t believe it was common thieves,” she said slowly.

  “It might have been,” he allowed. “The Woods are isolated up here, a good spot for an early-morning ambush, if the prince’s habits were observed. And certainly, I found no wallet, no money, jewelry or papers of any kind on him.”

  The packet of papers in her cloak pocket seemed to grow heavier against her thigh. Were they Otto’s? How had they got into her pocket? Whatever, she couldn’t tell the police agent about them until she knew what they were…

  He said, “I’m happy to—er—blunder among thieves until I discover if that’s the case. Until then, I’d rather take a subtler approach in the higher echelons of society.”

  Rubbing the crick in her neck with one hand, she hung on to the pommel with the other. “Someone murdered him for political reasons?”

  “Or personal,” he said without emphasis.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Are you accusing me?”

  “I’ve already said I find you an unlikely suspect.”

  “But you haven’t ruled me out,” she said shrewdly.

  A spark of something, amusement or perhaps simple surprise, shone momentarily in the hard, gray eyes. “I rarely rule anyone out. Comfort yourself with the knowledge that I’m asking for your help.”

  “I’m not sure that is a comfort! Or a guide to your suspicions. You’re incredibly devious, aren’t you?”

  “Utterly.” He pulled on the left rein, guiding the horse away from uneven, stony ground. “I doubt it will come as much surprise to you if I say that Prince Otto was a man with many enemies. Personally, he was arrogant, faithless, frequently abusive, and in debt to moneylenders and others even less pleasant. Politically, he was like a bull in a china shop and a danger to negotiations which have become somewhat…edgy.”

  “Saxony,” she said. “Kriegenstein kept the old alliance with Saxony, even after ditching Bonaparte for the allies. Prussia would swallow Saxony if it could, and Kriegenstein with it. Otto’s solution was to negotiate with Prussia, though I doubt it did him or Kriegenstein much good… Would someone really have killed him for such a reason?”

  Her companion shrugged. “Someone who regarded him as a traitor, or someone who knew rather more than I do at this stage. That is what I would like to find out.”

  “Because it could have harmed Austria,” she guessed.

  “I work for the Emperor, who is,” he pointed out, “a close ally of the British.”

  She thought about it. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Pretend nothing has happened to Otto. Carry on with your life. Dance. Listen. And tell me if you learn anything.”

  Her breath caught. “You’re trying to turn me into a spy, too!”

  “I’m trying to obtain your help in discovering the murderer of your betrothed,” he said mildly. “I’m not asking for British diplomatic secrets or those of Kriegenstein. Just for any information relating to Otto and his death.”

  “And what will you do?” she demanded. They were approaching the suburbs of the city.

  “What I always do.”

  She cast him a withering glance which seemed to bounce off him. She sighed. “I suppose I owe Otto this much.”

  He looked away. “Then you’ll keep silent about his death for now?”

  “For now,” she agreed, “but I can’t think it’s fair to the king or his family—”

  “It won’t be for long. And it will be worth it to find his killer.”

  Chapter Two

  The Austrian policeman known to many of his spies as Agent Z—his name, in fact, was Zelig—met his underling, Dietmar, in the suburbs as agreed. Leaving Dietmar to deal with the horse and the blanket which the lady cast off with thanks as she dismounted, Zelig hired a fiacre to convey himself and Miss Lisle to the Imperial Hotel inside the walls of the old city.

  She didn’t ask how he knew her address. One of the things he liked about her was that she didn’t waste either her own time or his with silly questions. Another was her odd mixture of independence and vulnerability, the way she’d seized his wrist when she first awoke, as though asking for his protection and warning him at the same time. He still wasn’t sure what to make of that, but it had been damnably appealing; as was her face, her slightly quirky beauty, with her wide, generous mouth, and her charmingly upturned nose.

  Zelig was used to violence and death, but when he’d come upon her lying so still on the ground it bothered him that something so delicate should have come to harm within his reach. He should have been able to prevent it. Events had moved rather faster than he’d anticipated, and though the girl had never even cried out, either before or after the pistol shot, guilt twisted through him. After all, he’d been well aware of Otto’s history with women.

  But this young English lady was nothing like he’d imagined, neither a vulgar harpy nor a cold-eyed fortune hunter. She had courage, resilience, understanding, and humor, all of which he couldn’t help liking.

  On the other hand, the carriage was barely underway before he began to wish he’d stayed with the horses and sent Dietmar with the girl. He could see her watching him, assessing him from her own side of the carriage, and for some reason, it made him uncomfortable. He was usually the one observing and judging. He was well aware he worked best when no one noticed him at all. It was a trick he’d learned from an actor long ago—how to blend in with the chorus and how to step in when necessary and take control of the stage.

  He could and should have handled this differently. He should have blended with Dietmar in the Woods, made sure it wasn’t him she remembered. But as soon as she’d opened her eyes—beautiful, turbulent brown eyes, full of fear and confusion, and a plea for help he doubted she was even aware of—she’d knocked him off-balance.

&nbs
p; He was the most feared of all Austria’s dreaded police. He wasn’t used to anyone clinging to him for comfort, least of all, a beautiful girl who could have just murdered the heir to a kingdom. Although he didn’t actually believe she had—her reaction to the news of his death, wondering aloud if she’d actually done it, had seemed too genuine. Yet, he couldn’t rule her out. For all her apparent honesty and openness, she was hiding something. Many things, no doubt, beginning with whatever was inside her cloak. Her hands strayed to it too often, and when he’d lifted her from the horse, he’d felt some bulky packet bump against his knee.

  He wished he’d thought to search under her before she woke, for she’d been lying with the cloak bundled underneath her. He veered away from that thought. This was one girl he shouldn’t put his hands anywhere near.

  As the carriage halted outside the hotel, he opened the door and alighted, reaching up to hand her down.

  She glanced at him, her expression faintly mocking. “Aren’t you afraid of us being seen together?”

  “No.” No one would remember him. On the other hand, she would be seen emerging from a hired carriage with the sole escort of a man not of her family, at what was regarded by the nobility as an unseemly hour of the morning. It wasn’t quite midday. “Are you afraid for your reputation?”

  She laughed and took his hand. “Lord, no,” she said, stepping down to the street. “That’s been a somewhat dubious commodity for years. Ask anyone.”

  Zelig blinked to cover his surprise. An unmarried, young lady with a dubious reputation would hardly be received in polite society. He’d uncovered nothing to her discredit while investigating Otto.

  “I’d like to say I don’t listen to gossip,” he said, conducting her into the hotel, “but, of course, I do.”

  Although the wide foyer was quiet, a respectable couple watched them from the reception desk. A few gentlemen lounged in the dining room, papers strewn between them. With a conscious effort, Zelig sought to “blend”, letting his body slump just a little, adjusting his expression and his posture. It probably didn’t matter. It was Esther Lisle people would remember seeing, not him.

  “You have a very strange employment. Does it never disgust or offend you?”

  Totally unexpected and straight for the jugular. But he’d never deluded himself about his work or how it was regarded by the majority of people.

  “It is frequently strange,” he agreed. “I am occasionally disgusted but never offended.”

  “Why not?” she countered. “Because that would mean personal involvement?”

  They had come to the foot of the stairs, where he halted and faced her. “Are you trying to rile me, Miss Lisle?”

  “Why would I do that?” she asked innocently.

  “Perhaps you regret your decision to help?”

  “Am I behaving badly?” she asked disarmingly. “Forgive me. I say whatever’s in my head and I find you something of a conundrum.”

  “I return the compliment. Good day, Miss Lisle.”

  He made a swift bow, but to his surprise, her hand flew out as if she’d detain him, though it fell quickly without quite touching him. He shouldn’t have been disappointed.

  “Wait!” she hissed. “How will I reach you when I don’t even know your name?”

  He inclined his head. “I know yours,” he said, and left her.

  Exiting the hotel, he strode toward the Hofburg and Baron von Hager’s offices in the Chancellery. He had a mountain of documents to decode, and besides, he needed to speak to the baron.

  In the outer office, he found the usual scene of men beavering away, reading through the mountain of information collected from spies throughout the city and sorting it into piles to be discarded or brought before superiors. Weber was boasting loudly of his arrest of some pickpockets in the city. Although Zelig didn’t like the man, he took the time to congratulate him before throwing his coat and hat into his own tiny office and going in search of the police minister, who was generally hard at work at this hour.

  “Ah, come in,” Hager said cheerfully from his huge desk which was almost completely covered in paper, pens, and books. He was an amiable, conscientious nobleman of middle years who, everyone agreed, brought respectability and grace to a difficult post. “What do you have for me?”

  Zelig both liked and admired Hager. More than that, he was aware what he owed the police minister. Had anyone else been in charge, he would never have reached the position he had, and never been allowed the leeway he almost took for granted.

  “A difficult situation,” Zelig admitted, taking the chair on the opposite side of the desk when Hager waved him to it. “I won’t bother you with the details until it’s resolved one way or another. For now, it might come to your attention that the Crown Prince of Kriegenstein has disappeared.”

  “Ah,” said the baron. “Is he plotting with the Prussians?”

  “Almost certainly. But I’m sure there’s more.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. But go carefully there, my boy. Prince Otto is downright dangerous and the king’s minister—ah, that reminds me. The King of Kriegenstein’s minister, Count von Meyer, actually visited me this morning. A few minutes ago, in fact.”

  Zelig frowned. “I knew he’d crossed into Austria, but when did he arrive in Vienna?”

  “Last night, apparently.”

  “What did he want with you? Is he looking for Otto?”

  “Actually, no. He asked for a favor, on the king’s behalf. He’s looking for the king’s illegitimate son, whom he claims is in Vienna. I said I would send Agent Z to speak to him about it, but if you’re busy, I’ll send someone we can more easily spare.”

  Zelig gazed out of the window for several moments, trying to work out if this was truly interesting or merely a distraction, before dragging himself back to the question. “No, I’ll go. It might actually help my own investigation.” He stood, surprised by his own reluctance. “Tell me, sir, why is General Lisle here? Officially, he’s the British ambassador to Kriegenstein, so why isn’t he there rather than here in Vienna? Just because his daughter is engaged to Otto?”

  Hager shrugged. “No, I think the king wanted someone to keep an eye on his son, and he entrusted the task to General Lisle, whom he seems to trust. And who, I’m sure, is happy enough to see that Otto sticks to the British path!”

  *

  As Gretel, her maid, closed the bedroom door, leaving her in peace, Esther finally pushed back the hood of her cloak and sank onto the bed with unutterable relief. She didn’t trust Gretel.

  Like Hannes, the groom, Gretel’s services were the gift of Prince Otto, and Esther had seen clearly this morning who held Hannes’s first loyalty. Against her express instructions, he’d obeyed Otto and left her alone with the crown prince. She itched to dismiss both of them, only she’d promised to do nothing that would give away the truth of Otto’s death. Why in the world had she done that?

  It wasn’t much past midday, yet it already seemed the longest day of her life.

  Her father expected her for a late breakfast in his rooms in fifteen minutes, but right now, she felt as if her head were being pounded by an artillery barrage.

  Sighing, she unfastened the cloak, took dispassionate note of the blood stains around its collar, and reached into the capacious pocket. She drew out the ruined hat and tossed it aside before delving for the mysterious packet of paper, which she unfolded and flattened across the bed.

  There were several documents, largely in German. A few letters were from the imprisoned King of Saxony to the King of Kriegenstein, no doubt indiscreet, and one from the King of Prussia to Crown Prince Otto. The next letter, written in French in Otto’s hand, was addressed to Count Nesselrode, the Russian delegate to the peace conference.

  Esther knelt on the bed among the letters, with one hand to her aching head. What in the world was she doing with such papers? Had Otto hidden them with her? After he’d hit her? Or had someone else done the hitting? Or the hiding?

 
She shivered, fighting back the resurgence of fear she’d felt on wakening in the Woods. She couldn’t bring Otto back to life. And the really lowering thing about this whole mess was that she didn’t actually want to.

  I am not a good woman. And I so wanted to be…

  Thrusting shame aside, she turned to the next document, which looked like gibberish. It was clearly in cipher. As she picked it up, frowning at it in frustration, a handwritten note fluttered into her lap. Although he hadn’t signed it, it was largely in Otto’s hand, and as she read it, she reached up to her face in shock.

  This was worse, far worse than the proof that he was indeed betraying his ally Saxony—which seemed doomed to be fed to the Prussian dogs anyway, if Austria and France couldn’t prevent it. What the devil did she do with all this? If she gave it to her Austrian police agent, he might well believe she’d killed Otto for the documents. He was already unsure of her innocence… Such an accusation would hurt both her father and her country. She couldn’t do it. And yet, she couldn’t let a man die either, certainly not this man…

  Jumping off the bed, she knelt and hauled out the empty trunk from underneath it. Hastily, she dropped in the documents as if they were burning her, then, for good measure, threw in the bloody cloak and the ruined hat before closing the trunk and shoving it back under the bed.

  Then, before summoning Gretel, she hastily changed out of her riding habit and washed and dressed in a serviceable morning gown of flowered muslin, throwing a shawl about her shoulders until Gretel could help her with the fastening. Examining herself in the glass, she saw that the swelling on her head had indeed gone down a lot, but she had to brush her hair carefully into a swirling loop at the side to hide the wound. She nodded, deciding she looked well enough, even if her head throbbed like a hammer. Only then, did she ring for Gretel.

  Leaving the room five minutes later, she walked along the red-carpeted private hall to her father’s suite. His valet, Baird, who had been with him since army days, opened the door to reveal the general already breakfasting with Lord Harry, British style, on steaming ham, and eggs and a mountain of toast.