Vienna Waltz (The Imperial Season Book 1) (7 page)

Eventually, while the
children kept watch for passing servants, Lizzie crept out of the house in her mask and the voluminous black domino cloak that hid her small carpet bag in its folds. Henrietta had said, awed, that she looked mysterious and just a little dangerous, which pleased Lizzie excessively. From such a description, no one would ever recognize her.

The streets were thronged with carriages heading to the Hofburg, and with crowds of curious Viennese, many of whom also wore cloaks and masks as if hoping to sneak in to the festivities like Lizzie. She hurried on, mingling with the crowds until she stood in line for admittance.

As she neared the great doors with agonizing slowness, she realized what was causing a large part of the delay. As she suspected, many waiting to enter didn’t have cards at all, but money was surreptitiously changing hands as the doormen sold on the cards they’d already collected. Lizzie feared the ball was going to be a horrible crush.

It was. But at least she was admitted without fuss or interest and no one seemed to notice that she had neither escort nor female companion, even when she quietly left her bag in the ladies’ cloakroom. And then she was among thousands of people in a blaze of light and beauty. At first, she just wandered in a daze through the huge, white and gold panelled ballroom, where thousands of candles in magnificent chandeliers dazzled her, to one scarcely smaller, and then along an orange lined, covered pathway to another magnificent ballroom in the Spanish Riding School. Smooth, parquet floors seemed to glide under her outdoor shoes which she did her best to hide under the cloak. Galleries and seats full of glittering women and brilliantly braided men overwhelmed her. Most wore their cloaks casually open, revealing gorgeous attire and expensive jewels.

How the devil
, Lizzie wondered in dismay,
am I to find my aunt, never mind Johnnie, in this throng?

For some reason, she’d never imagined this sheer number of people. On the other hand, from overheard snippets of conversation, neither had anyone else. Someone claimed the ball had been oversubscribed to begin with; someone else was outraged by the number of guests who’d bribed the doormen to let them in.

And then the royal party arrived. Lizzie had only the tiniest glimpse when everyone bowed and she could finally see over their heads. A frail, white-haired man with a bony face led the procession, presumably the Emperor of Austria himself, his Empress on his arm. Towering behind them, was the tall, fair, angelically beautiful couple that could only be the Tsar and Tsarina of Russia.

A whole host of glittering dignitaries followed, too dazzling for Lizzie to separate. They made their stately way down the grand staircase, processing around the room to the raised platform draped in white silk and silver, where the two empresses took their seats at the front, the lesser queens, grand duchesses, and princesses behind.

It was luck in the end that directed her to her aunt. As she again wandered through the ballrooms, she became aware of a conversation nearby between an English voice and a German-sounding one.

“Perhaps
that
is Lady Castlereagh, with her niece,” the German voice suggested.

“No, I can guarantee it isn’t,” the Englishman disputed. “Lady Castlereagh does not break the Sabbath by attending. If I’m not much mistaken, that’s Mrs. Daniels and her daughter. Daniels is on Stewart’s staff.”

Lizzie immediately turned to see where they were looking and finally found the figures of Aunt Lucy and Minerva, masked but blessedly familiar, their amber and white domino cloaks open to reveal the finery of their attire. And the necklace around her aunt’s throat. So all Lizzie had to do now was keep them in sight—while finding the thief, Johnnie…

The orchestra struck up while she weaved anxiously among the scented and bejeweled crowd, glancing alternately over to her aunt who appeared to be introducing young men to Minerva, and around the room in search of the ball’s least respectable guest, if only to call off the theft. She had quite decided this was the best way to proceed. In fact, she couldn’t imagine how she hadn’t considered the effect of such a personal assault before.

Possibly because Madame Fischer had seemed to take it so much in her stride. But once she actually thought of it, it was Madame Fischer’s reaction which had been odd. She suspected the woman had to be positively unfeeling rather than brave, in which case, it wasn’t at all good that James should pursue her…

The emperor and the tsarina were advancing to the center of the floor to open the ball, followed by the tsar and the empress, and a stately Polonaise began, the couples in a long line parading around the ballroom. Minerva was dancing with a young man in green, much to Lizzie’s relief and approval, while Aunt Lucy watched proudly from among a gaggle of other matrons. Her uncle, she finally discovered in conversation with several other serious looking men, masks dangling from their hands rather than on their faces. And James…where was James?

“Mysterious Mademoiselle Noire,” a masculine voice said at her shoulder. “May I have the honor of dancing with you?”

“Oh no,” Lizzie said fervently. This was another unforeseen event. She spared a glance at her suitor, a young man in a dark blue domino cloak hanging over one shoulder to reveal a military uniform with much gold braid, his fair hair short and tidy beneath the mask strings. Her instant, unqualified rejection made him blink, so she added hastily, “Perhaps later. I’m searching for my aunt.”

“Let me help you find her.”

“Then you’ll miss the dance,” Lizzie said, and with quick smile, slipped into the throngs away from him.

*

Vanya, meanwhile, was
amusing himself by flirting outrageously with beautiful women, most of whom he didn’t even recognize. One he knew to be the Duchess of Sagan, not least because Metternich was giving him the evil eye from across the room. Vanya contented himself with kissing her fingers and then, daringly, the inside of her wrist, which made her laugh and shoo him away as he’d known it would.

He’d postponed judgement on how to handle the necklace affair at least until after he set eyes on the aunt, which he managed by the simple expedient of asking people where she was. Perhaps they imagined he had his eye on the cousin, for a German diplomat pointed out a much younger woman waltzing in the arms of none other than Boris.

Casually, Vanya circled the dance floor, and eventually found the person he was most eager to discover: a female almost entirely enveloped in black, quite unconscious of the stir she was causing by being just about the only woman not revealing the elegance of her gown and figure. At least the cloak hood was down to reveal dark brown chestnut hair, fetchingly piled on her head and tied with a gold ribbon. He wondered who’d done that for her and decided it was most likely to be Henrietta, the acknowledged family beauty. Her mask was rigidly in place and her intense gaze was divided between her cousin and frequent sweeps of the room. Her gaze flickered over him once without interest. His lips twitched.

The waltz ended and Boris, always the perfect gentleman, conducted Miss Minerva to her protector who was, of course, a middle-aged lady wearing a very fine gold and diamond necklace on her plump bosom. Vanya smiled and derived further entertainment by strolling directly in front of the black dominoed lady, who was peering anxiously through the doorway.

“
Excusez moi, mademoiselle
,” he murmured politely.

Her gaze flickered over his uniform braid without even rising to his face. “
De rien, monsieur
,” she returned and passed on.

Vanya’s shoulders began to shake as he hurried on, managing to reach Boris before he had left the Daniels women. Behind his mask, Boris’ eyes lit up before he remembered to be suspicious.

“Allow me to present my friend,” he said, scowling a warning at Vanya. “Colonel—”

“Vanya,” he interrupted smoothly. “Since we’re masquerading!”

“Colonel Vanya,” the aunt said graciously. “My daughter.”

“Enchanted,” Vanya said smoothly, just as an Englishman butted in to claim his promised dance with Minerva. Boris could barely contain his grin. Vanya ignored him. “Perhaps I might solicit your daughter for a later dance,” he suggested. “In the meantime, perhaps you, Madame, would do me the honor?”

The aunt blinked rapidly. “Me? My dear sir, I haven’t danced in years!”

“But this is Vienna,” Vanya said, taking her hand. “Everyone dances.”

Since it was not the waltz but a staider country dance, Mrs. Daniels finally accepted with grace. After a few moments, as she turned in the figure, he let his gaze dwell on the back of her neck and then, very quickly, he reached up as if to grasp it and deftly loosened the clasp.

“Madame,” he said at once. “The clasp of your necklace…”

Mrs. Daniels paused, her hand flying to the jewels at her bosom and giving them an experimental tug. The necklace came away in her hand. “Oh my,” she exclaimed. “Oh dear!”

“Well, at least you have not lost it. Look, put it in your reticule until you get home. You can have it repaired tomorrow.”

“Very true,” she said. Vanya couldn’t tell if she was more relieved not to have dropped and lost the necklace or disappointed not to be wearing it still. Good humoredly, he led her back into the dance.

When the dance was over, he returned her to her chair, made sure she had a glass of wine, and went off to find Sonia for the waltz.

*

Major Blonsky scowled
through his mask at the unedifying sight of Countess Gelitzina waltzing in the arms of the man he considered his greatest enemy, Napoleon Bonaparte and the entire French army notwithstanding. He appeared to be whispering outrageous blandishments in her receptive ear for her laughter was breathless and her cheeks flushed by more than the exertion of the dance.

“Major,” murmured a quiet voice at his side. He didn’t need to turn to recognize the voice as that of the man he knew only as Agent Z, but he glanced over anyway, if only to prove he was unafraid. The spy was in his element, masked and cloaked in silver-gray, hidden from the dance floor by the pillar he lounged against, and which Blonsky appeared to be sharing with him.

“I thought you were guarding His Majesty the Tsar,” Agent Z observed.

“I am,” Blonsky said shortly. “His Majesty is dancing. I don’t see the countess as a huge threat to his life.”

“I’m always glad to have my theories confirmed,” the spy said politely, although Blonsky was sure the words contained a wealth of hidden sarcasm. “And what of the Russian officer I asked you about? The one who met secretly with the English woman.”

“Colonel Ivan Petrovitch Savarin,” Blonsky said with loathing. “It’s my belief he’s trying to sabotage relations between the Russians and the Austrians by promoting a secret treaty with the British.”

The spy’s eyes burned into his averted face. Blonsky smiled.

“You have evidence?” the spy inquired.

“Isn’t that your job?” Blonsky said rudely.

“Not when I’m paying you. Why do you hate him?”

Blonsky felt no need to deny it. Unconsciously, he touched the scar on his hand, souvenir of their last unexpected and humiliating encounter. He’d never expected the boy he used to beat up regularly would have turned into such a good fighter. Graceless, perhaps, but efficient…damn it, even that wasn’t true. Vanya had still possessed the swashbuckling panache that had so annoyed Blonsky as an adolescent. It had just been honed and focused by his years of soldiering.

“You fought a duel,” Agent Z observed.

Blonsky could sneer—had sneered, and in public—at Vanya’s half-wild Cossacks, but it was they who’d not only seen but fought in all the battles from Borodino to Leipzig. It had rankled when Vanya had instantly snapped back, insulting Blonsky’s regiment as drawing room solders. It hadn’t really been about regiments, of course; it had been about a peasant girl loved by the youthful Savarin and taken by the not much older Blonsky. But still, there had been too much truth in Vanya’s insult and even Blonsky’s promise to trounce the “barbarian” commander had been undeniably turned against him when the barbarian had trounced
him
in a humiliatingly short space of time.