Vienna Waltz (The Imperial Season Book 1) (32 page)

“I know nothing about that,” Grassic said anxiously.

“About stolen documents?” Savarin said in stark disbelief. “My dear sir, they are your whole raison d’être! And the amount of money you were prepared to pay James Daniels, you must sell the same information over and over to everyone.”

“I keep it circulating,” Grassic admitted. “Although I confess I exaggerated the pay to Daniels so he’d make the first theft. After that, with the hold, I could force him to many more for no more money.”

“You really are a nasty little worm, aren’t you?” Savarin observed.

For some reason, Grassic felt his whole body flush at the other man’s contempt. That was rare and he didn’t like it. “If you say so. You have the gun.”

Savarin spared it a glance. “So I do. On the other hand, unless I kill you here in cold blood, which I am, of course, prepared to do—might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb—I won’t always be the man with the gun. And if I shoot you, there is still Blonsky, who, by the way, is preparing to sell you down the river. So…I have a proposition for you, Mr. Grassic. As a man of business.”

Grassic shifted position, frowning. “Sell me down the river? How? What do you mean?”

Savarin shrugged. “Once you’ve got rid of me, he won’t need you. He’ll tell the tsar I sold the documents to you. The tsar will tell the Austrians and the British and the Prussians, even the French, and your lucrative little business will be over. Worse, someone, probably the British, will throw you in prison and lose the key.”

Grassic narrowed his eyes. “You can’t know that.”

“Actually, I can. I’ve been watching and listening to both of you very closely over the last few days. As if my life depended on it.”

Grassic moved closer to his enemy and sat down in the other chair. Savarin didn’t object. “So what do you propose?”

“An alliance,” Savarin said. “You and I against Blonsky.”

Grassic eyed him with something like fascination. “And how, exactly, would that work?”

Savarin shrugged. “I’ve got documents that everyone will want. Direct orders from the tsar to me in the last months of the war that prove his future ambitions. Plus…a letter from the tsar, supposedly to the Prince de Talleyrand but quite clearly to Bonaparte himself. Trust me, the Allies will bite your hand off for that one.”

Grassic felt his blood stir with excitement. This was exactly what he needed. Too good to be true? Probably. “And you would give me these,” he said slowly, “in return for how much gold?”

“I don’t need gold. I need Blonsky behind bars. I want proof of his treachery to the tsar. In return for that, I’ll give you the documents I have. And when my position is restored, we can come to a fresh arrangement.”

Grassic raised his eyebrows. “Colonel, you’re unexpectedly naive. I don’t keep documents that could incriminate me or my associates.”

“Of course you do,” Savarin said wryly. “If you didn’t, how could you control them? But,” he added, getting to his feet, “if it turns out you’re not quite so clever as I’d imagined, I’ll have to find some other way to reverse my position.”

“Don’t rush off,” Grassic said hastily, then laughed because it was quite bizarre to be suddenly trying to keep the dangerous man with the gun here. “Supposing…just supposing I had such a document incriminating Major Blonsky. You would accept that as sole payment for the documents you mentioned?”

“I would. Providing it incriminates Blonsky.”

The blood flowed faster through Grassic’s veins. He could clean up with such documents, acquired with no outlay whatsoever. He might even be able to retire before the end of the Congress. “There’s a coffee house by the Theatre an der Wien—” he began.

“No,” Savarin interrupted.

“Very well. The corner of the Graben, where you found young Daniels—”

“No,” Savarin said again. “At the risk of hurting your feelings, Mr. Grassic, the exchange will not happen in one of your haunts or some dark back alley where I can be murdered quietly by, say, Blonsky’s thugs. Or anyone else’s that you might have a loan of. It will happen at Mrs. Fawcett’s masquerade ball, where even you would dare do nothing outrageous.”

Although Grassic rather liked being considered so dangerous, even by proxy, Savarin’s idea seemed even more risky.

“Mrs. Fawcett’s?” Grassic frowned. “Won’t the tsar himself be there? Even if he isn’t, several of his minions will be. You’ll be arrested before you set foot in the place.”

“I’ll wear the same mask I wore to Metternich’s ball tonight.”

Grassic forced his eyebrows back up. “You do like to live dangerously, don’t you, Colonel Savarin?”

“No, I’m fed up with it, which is why I need you on my side and Blonsky out of the way.”

“And poor Cedric?” Grassic inquired.

Savarin shrugged. “Tell him I’m dead or in prison and about to die, that he’ll be Baron Launceton any day. I don’t care. With what I’m about to give you, you won’t need Cedric’s blood money anyhow, though I’m sure you’ll still find a way to get it.”

Savarin brought up the pistol, gazing at it as if in surprise. In spite of his returned confidence, Grassic held his breath. Then Savarin pocketed the weapon and inclined his head. “Until Mrs. Fawcett’s,” he drawled and sauntered out of the room. He didn’t even trouble to walk quietly down the stairs. Everyone in the house would know Grassic had had a late night visitor.

*

Grassic was glad
he didn’t need to go looking for Blonsky. They met quite by accident at the morning hunt in the Vienna Woods.

“He’ll be at Mrs. Fawcett’s ball,” Grassic murmured as they both waited for the animals to be released.

“Who will?” Blonsky demanded, his none-too-great mind clearly on the prospect of more immediate slaughter.

“Who do you think?” Grassic said beneath his breath. “Just make sure your soldiers are there.”

After all, his little game here was nearly over. Savarin’s future services were of no real interest to him, not after he’d acquired the explosive Bonaparte letter which would be Grassic’s swan song, as it were. Once that was in his hands, Blonsky could do what he liked with the bastard. What Savarin had failed to take into account was that Grassic simply couldn’t have people breaking into his home, wherever that might be. It was bad for business.

*

“Don’t be so
sad,” Henrietta said anxiously. “You look beautiful.”

Realizing her sisters had come in, Lizzie pulled herself together and gave a bright smile. “Oh, I’m not sad, just thinking,” she assured them. “I don’t want to get too used to this life!”

“What, three parties in one week?” Georgiana said disparagingly. “Minerva has been to dozens.”

“But people will look for Lizzie more because she’s seen less,” Henrietta said.

Lizzie didn’t know if it was shrewd or not. Her new socializing, largely at Mrs. Fawcett’s expense, had one motive: to exonerate Vanya. After that, her life was a flat, blank canvas, bleak and dull, so she concentrated quite hard on her immediate aims. Which should come to fruition tonight, all being well.

Lizzie wore a new white silk gown draped in gold gauze. Its high waist fitted perfectly and the skirts fell around her with particular elegance. The bodice was cut a little lower than she liked, but she was pleased with that, too, since she needed to use all her wiles on Grassic.

Minerva had dressed her hair in a vaguely Grecian style that her sisters were admiring with silent awe. But she wore no jewelry, despite the efforts of Minerva, Aunt Lucy, and Mrs. Fawcett to lend her some. She wished to continue the image of a penniless young woman, driven to desperate measures. It wasn’t so far from the truth, although she cringed when she remembered what those desperate measures had been, in reality, only a couple of weeks before.

“Aunt Lucy’s calling for you,” Henrietta said. “You’d better go. Michael has Dog shut up, so he won’t get to you!”

Lizzie walked over to the bed and picked up her reticule, which was a little fatter than normal because it contained a well-folded document headed with Lord Castlereagh’s name and position.

“Wish me luck.” Lizzie flung the words over her shoulder as she hurried downstairs to join the others.

As they entered Mrs. Fawcett’s rather charming house in the old, inner city, Aunt Lucy murmured, “Don’t you see a big change in Minerva? She seemed, finally, to be enjoying herself. It must be your company that gives her confidence, my dear.”

“I shouldn’t think so,” answered Lizzie, who was fairly sure it had more to do with her cousin’s happiness in her understanding with Mr. Corner.

Mrs. Fawcett, unmistakable since she was welcoming her guests, stood resplendent in black and silver and glittering diamonds, her mask and domino cloak matching her gown.

“A bold choice,” Lizzie approved. “You make the rest of us seem bland and underdressed.”

Mrs. Fawcett leaned closer. “Between you and me, some
are
underdressed. Wait until you see Princess Bagration. But you, my dear, are tasteful and delightful and anything but bland! He’s here, already,” she added under her breath. “Scarlet domino.”

Lizzie saw him almost as soon as she entered the ballroom—a tall, rather elegant figure of a man. She marveled yet again at his skill in appearing the perfect gentleman, the academic and yet ambitious churchman. Of course, he might really have been all of those things as well as a treacherous weasel.

“Let me have two dances.” James’s voice interrupted her.

She was about to nod with vague, uninterested agreement, when the meaning of his words penetrated her distraction. “None,” she laughed. “Go and dance with girls your own age!”

The relaxing of her aunt’s shoulders just in front of her, showed James’ mother was listening in with some relief.

“But I’ve learned that I don’t really like girls my own age,” James confided. His eyes developed an alarming burning. “I prefer older women.”

Lizzie didn’t know whether to laugh or slap him. Instead, she raised one eyebrow. “Then it’s as well for both of us that I’m developing a strong dislike of very young, very gauche men.”

“Go and fetch us lemonade, James,” Aunt Lucy commanded and James, very red-faced, bolted to do her bidding. “I’d ask you to nip this very odd affection in the bud, Lizzie, but James seems to be doing an excellent job of it himself.”

“I imagine it’s a passing phase,” Lizzie said ruefully and turned to answer the greeting of Captain von Reinharz, easily recognized beneath the mask by his blond whiskers, who’d come to ask her to dance.

She spent the next hour flitting around the ballroom, avoiding Grassic until after the tsar arrived. If Alexander didn’t make an appearance, the whole play would be lost and all to do again, but eventually Lizzie saw his familiar, tall, blond figure being welcomed by Mrs. Fawcett with a low curtsey.

Deserting Minerva, she made her gradual way around the ballroom, hoping Grassic would notice her. The orchestra struck up a waltz and without warning, an arm snaked around her, whirling her around.

For an instant, a tiny instant, her heart leapt with furious excitement, for the height of her masterful partner, his dark hair and mask and his bright red domino, all combined to make her think it was Vanya.

But, of course, it wasn’t. She knew as soon as she looked at his mouth, before he even opened it to say, “Forgive my urgency. Our waltz, I think.”

“I don’t have you on my card,” Lizzie said lightly, fighting her unreasonable disappointment. After all, Vanya couldn’t possibly come here. He was in hiding. She didn’t even know if he was still in Austria, let alone within the city. “But I believe I will allow it this time, since I have no other partner.”

“I thought all your dances would be taken by now.”

“No, I’ve been doing my best to keep them free, at least until our business is conducted.”

“You’ve brought such business here?”

“I have.”

“Then I have the recompense. Where would you like to conduct such business? There are two alcoves on the other side.”

“Anyone might come in. We’ll meet on the terrace, after the next dance.” She named the terrace more from some instinct to avoid any place chosen by him rather than from some innate preference. Grassic looked pleased.