Portrait of Seduction (27 page)

He caught up with the second carriage and looked around for Greta as he remounted.

She was nowhere to be seen.

“Greta?”

Another cannon blast rocked the afternoon air. People on foot crouched low, shielding one another. A chunk of brick from a listing overhang dropped to the ground, shattering. More screams, like the braying of animals just before slaughter.

Oliver kicked his mount into motion, making an awkward circle of both carriages. The street was madness, compressed on all sides by too many buildings, bodies and nerve-shredding explosions. To lose only one person to such a scene was probably fortunate, when it had the potential to swallow up whole families.

But that one person was Greta. When he found Dieter, he shouted, “Where is she? Fräulein Zweig?”

The man’s round face turned an unhealthy gray color. “She was just here, sir!”

“When?”

“When you were moving the carriage. She was here beside me, watching too. I remember that, sir.”

“Damn,” Oliver said under his breath. “You saw nothing else?”

Dieter shook his head, then started among their party to seek information. Something cold crept up Oliver’s spine. Whatever had happened was not Greta’s doing. She was reckless, but she knew to keep herself safe. With him.

“Sir?” Dieter’s face had taken on an ashen tinge. “Jutta says Fräulein Zweig was arguing with a man.”

Oliver’s pulse jumped. “Another man?”

“Yes, sir, and the man she described—sounds like the man who was at the concert. The highborn fella with fancy clothes you had me…handle.”

Karl?
Bloody hell.

He swiveled the horse away.

With her name a chant in his mind, Oliver pushed toward the lead carriage and pounded on it. “Venner!”

Christoph poked his head out the open window. Sweat covered his flushed face—probably the only time he had ever ridden in the coach packed to bursting with people. “What?”

“I can’t find Greta.”

Even saying that was difficult, admitting the extent of his terror. But seeing that fear reflected on Christoph’s face was more than he could stand. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. I’ve been all around the carriages. I…I think Karl has her.”

“Karl?”

“Baron Hoffer.”

The choice was so clear. His brother’s family, the best friend of his youth, or the woman he loved. Oliver’s heart was being yanked into pieces over such a decision, but he could make no other.

Greta’s words came back to him.
Even when faced with losing me, you chose your duty? You chose them?

Maybe that was why she had held back. He had become obsessed with her, had taken mad chances for her, had fallen in love with her. But he had yet to prove that she was first and foremost in his life. And Karl—their showdown had been months in coming. There would be no more holding back.

If he hurt Greta…

But Oliver shoved the thought out of his mind. He faced his brother and tipped his chin toward the interior of the carriage.

“Take care of Ingrid and that little man of yours. I’ll meet you in Anhalt. Promise.”

“Where are you going?” Although Christoph asked the question, his expression said he knew the answer—and approved.

Oliver settled his hat more firmly on his head and gripped the reins. “I am going to find her.”

Greta heard the cannons crawling nearer with every booming explosion. But she could not see a thing. Karl, the so-called Baron Hoffer, had hauled a burlap sack over her face. She could no more determine where he’d taken her than she could escape. Her hands and ankles were bound and looped together behind her back.

If she could breathe, she’d scream. Terror, however, had stolen her voice, her wits, her hope.

No, she had a little hope left—that Oliver would notice her absence and come find her.

That hope, however, was harder to nurture as the explosions grew louder and her limbs went numb. Where would he look? How would he even know that his old friend had captured her, when simply getting lost in that mad crowd was the more likely conclusion? And a dark, niggling doubt said he would not leave the Venners.

He loved her, but how much?

No. She had to believe. She held tight to that fact as she waited for Karl to make a mistake.

The man returned from wherever he’d gone, his shuffling, stumbling steps indicating that he remained half-inebriated. Greta held wholly still, not daring to breathe lest he carry out whatever plan he’d hatched. Not knowing what lay in store was the most dreadful part. He could intend anything. Anything at all.

She stifled a shiver. If he freed her hands…

“There you are, pretty.” The slur of his words was stronger now. Another bomb blast shook the building. The hollow feel of the movement suggested they were on a second or third floor.

God, how was she going to get free? Maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe Napoleon’s men would storm the city and find her the victim of some unknown crime. Oliver would never locate her in time.

Rough hands hauled her upright, bending her ankles back at an odd angle. Greta cried out. Karl only laughed, which suggested that he had no fear of being discovered. Her spirits sank even deeper.

He yanked off the sack, grinning, his face mere inches away. “There you are.”

Although her ankles burned, Greta was grateful for the gulps of cooler air. Sweat made her hair stick to her cheeks and neck. Her gown felt like it had been adhered to her body with wallpaper paste. “What do you want?”

“Want? Not so much, young
Fräulein.
”

“You have no right to hold me here.” She tugged surreptitiously at the ropes but they budged not a bit.

“Probably not.” His grin widened. “But here you are nonetheless.”

“Let me go. You know my uncle is a wealthy man. You’ll be paid whatever you ask.”

Karl laughed outright. He stood away from her, dusting his hands as if touching her had been a foul experience. “I very much doubt that. He’s nearly destitute and we both know it.”

“He has other assets.”

“Paintings, perhaps?”

Something about the mischievous glint in his eyes sent a shiver down Greta’s back. “Among other things, yes.”

“But I wonder, would he want you back? Your work for him is finished now, and you’ve been…shall we say, compromised.” Karl’s gaze crawled down her body. “Was he good,
Fräulein?
Our dear Oliver?”

That shiver turned into a full-on shudder. His expression, his posture—he reeked of lunacy. Greta had never felt comfortable around him, but now he seemed stripped of any semblance of humanity.

“Oliver will know where we are,” she said, trying to keep her voice even.

“Oh, I’m counting on it! Although, forgive me if I don’t believe
you
know where we are.”

He walked across the room to a collection of items hidden by a tarp. Greta took the opportunity to assess her surroundings, but Karl was right. She did not know their location. The room was neither large nor small, neither elegant nor impoverished. It was simply a room, one with a high ceiling and four windows. The sun shone through those windows, indicating they faced west. No candles or lamps could be seen. When the sun set, they would be alone together in the dark.

She did the unthinkable then. She willed Napoleon’s troops to hurry.

Karl whipped the tarp up and away, revealing a sizeable collection of vases, trinkets, clothes, a jewelry box and a stack of canvases. Some of the canvases remained in frames but others had been rolled. He picked up one of the framed paintings and brought it to where Greta sat half-propped against the wall.

“Now, my pretty, who painted this?”

Greta recognized the piece as one from her uncle’s collection. “It’s mine. I painted it.”

“Liar.” He said the word so softly that it almost sounded like an endearment. “Try again.”

“It’s a Murillo. Bartolomé Esteban Murillo.”

“Correct! Very good.”

“You stole it from my uncle.”

“Indeed.”

“How?”

“Ever notice how little mind some masters pay their servants? Perhaps you were guilty of such neglect too, before Oliver taught you what flesh and bone lives behind the uniforms.”

“You worked for him. Last summer.”

“True. And you wouldn’t believe how easy it can be to tempt fellow servants into revealing a household’s secrets.” He rubbed his chin. “In that way, you must admire Venner’s scheme with Oliver. To have a servant in your ranks who you trust never to be corrupted? What an asset.”

Greta worked at the ropes, but they only wore away the skin of her wrists. She felt blood. “So you bribed my uncle’s staff and stole them. Did you steal the rest of that pile as well?”

He set the frame aside and crawled, slowly, very deliberately, toward Greta. His face shone with an unnatural fervor. “I did,” he whispered, brushing her cheek with his knuckles. “It’s amazing the leeway a host will give a man of quality—unfettered access to very lucrative rooms. Baron Hoffer has been busy this summer and will emerge from this war a very wealthy man.”

“
If
you escape. Napoleon’s men will be here any moment.”

“Don’t be so hysterical, my dear.” He straightened her legs, then straddled her. She had a nauseating view of his groin. “We have time. See, I didn’t have the chance with you that I wanted in Leinz Manor. That was a warning. Today, however, is all about taking action.”

Greta swallowed, refusing to look up, refusing to look where he wanted her to. But he grabbed her face and forced her head up.

“You ruined my paintings.”

“I wish I could call you a clever girl, but I left behind so many clues.”

“Did you retrieve the forgery from Maria Lucca’s as well?”

“I did. Your fool uncle nearly managed to ruin everything with that mistake. I decided to correct it. But I wouldn’t have gone to the trouble had I known Oliver actually intended to go through with becoming an art thief.”

He traced her bottom lip with his thumb. “Ah, dear Oliver. Imagine what he would’ve felt had he come up to your room, expecting to find his woman warm and waiting—only to find you dead. I suppose I regret that, in a way. Now I have a few moments with you, yes, but he may never see your body when I’m through. Or will the bombs get to us first?”

“Why?” she rasped. “You have the paintings. Why do this?”

“Because I want to. Because, after all this time, I’ll hurt him as he deserves to be hurt.”

“Oliver?”

“Brat bastard that he is, yes. Had he helped me with the Venners or another family, none of this would be happening to you, my dear. I would’ve been married to some wealthy widow, happily on my way to the life I deserve.” He slid his palm around to the base of her neck and gripped her hair, holding her head firmly in place. “But he was too good for that, even though he’s hardly more worthy than the rest of us commoners. He
owes
me, Greta. But now I have your paintings, and I’ll soon have you.”

Her mind had gone hazy with dread. She could only slump there, bound, her hair like reins leading a horse. Limbs that had once tugged against binding ropes had gone numb.

But when Karl dipped one hand toward his trouser buttons, the fear burned away in a blinding white light. She used all her might to ram the top of her head into his crotch. Karl groaned. The force of her attack propelled him off balance. His fingers, however, were still tangled in her hair. He took a chunk with him when he fell.

Despite the burning pain and the numbness in her limbs, Greta pushed away from the wall. She slammed her shoulder into the area around Karl’s right kidney, then righted herself and prepared to land her knee against his windpipe. He grabbed the ropes binding her arms. A hard yank upward held her still.

“Bitch,” he snarled.

He yanked again. Greta could either stand or suffer her arms being pulled out of socket. Her legs would not cooperate. She fell back to the ground, her knees connecting sharply with the wood floor. Something in her shoulder popped.

Karl grabbed her by the back of the neck, forcing her forward. She sprawled on her stomach. His weight pressed her hard against the wood floor. His hands were on the backs of her calves. He tugged the hem of her dress up toward her spine. Cool air shivered across her bare thighs.

“A valiant effort,
Fräulein.
” His breath was a moist blast of heat on her cheek. “One I do hope you’ll continue. This will be a delight.”

Oliver looked over the scrawled note he’d found among Greta’s slashed paintings.
At the glassmaker’s shop,
it read, in addition to the date and hour of the proposed meeting. That time had come and gone, but perhaps the location remained the same.

Whatever purpose Karl intended would soon be revealed.

With blood and breath pumping in unison, he began the short but fraught push across Residenzplatz. It was all he could do to keep his temper in check as worried families and terror-stricken nobles fought for their few inches of space.

Another cannon blast rocked above the human din. They were so close now. A reflexive worry made him think of Christoph and Ingrid. He could almost envision their harried push across the Salzach. But his brother was strong, smart and exceedingly protective. Oliver’s commitment now was to his own heart—to Greta.

His face was covered with sweat and his shirt soaked through as he reached the Dom’s high towering walls. A whole other town square separated him from his destination. He kept a feeling of calm high and center in his mind.
Steady going. Keep moving.

Compared to Kaigasse, where so many nobles and wealthy burghers made their homes, Judengasse was relatively quiet. Not everyone, it seemed, was fleeing to the east side of the river. Their lives had not changed much for better or worse since Duke Ferdinand came to power three years before. Why would it change much now, if Napoleon installed a new leader?

Oliver guided his horse past the groups of gossips. He came to the glassmaker’s shop and tied the animal to a post.

A woman in a red apron stood outside smoking a rolled piece of tobacco. Her smile was youthful and welcoming, but her teeth were tinted an ugly yellow. “Well, hello,” she said.

“I need to get into the storeroom above your shop.”

Before the woman could protest or decline, Oliver dragged a bag of florins out of his pocket. He simply handed them to her, then stalked into the shop.

“Stairs are in the back on the left,” she called as he pressed on.

His doubts were compounding now. What if she wasn’t here? What if Karl had already harmed her?

He shoved that possibility aside as he climbed upstairs. The muffled sound of a struggle urged him to action. Oliver drew his pistol from its holster and kicked the door in.

What he found…he had never seen anything more hideous. Karl, his trousers gaping open at the waist, knelt over Greta. She was bound. Her backside had been bared.

Oliver aimed the gun and fired.

The bullet pierced Karl’s right shoulder, just above the lung. The force of it spun him back and away from Greta. He rolled to face the ceiling, hands clutching his wound, blood and curses oozing out of him.

Oliver had his sword in hand as soon as Karl hit the floor, bypassing Greta in favor of checking the fallen man for weapons. A few quick seconds later, Oliver was satisfied. Karl was unarmed.

Resisting the urge to kick the man in the head, Oliver returned the pistol to its holster and his attention to Greta. Tears had made a wet mess of her hair. The bright blue eyes he adored so much were rimmed with red. A new surge of anger made his hands shake as he covered her nudity. The ropes took longer than usual, he knew, because his fingers refused to cooperate. Numbness made each knuckle clumsy. The raw red scrapes on her wrists and ankles inspired a killing rage.

Freed, she dove into his arms, saying his name over and over.

“I knew you’d come.” Karl’s breath was choppy. Perhaps that bullet had found his lung after all. Oliver could not find it in himself to be sorry. “I only hoped it would be later.”

“Why do this?” Oliver asked. “Why hurt an innocent woman?”

“Do you remember that winter, Oliver?”

Shivers and hunger, pain and hopelessness. Of course he remembered. It was one of the few things he had ever actively tried to forget. But some events became as much a part of a body as bone and skin.

“You know I do,” he said.

“Then you know why I wanted to hurt her.”

Oliver shook his head sharply. “Explain it to me and I’ll send for a doctor.”

“At this hour? With the little French butcher on his way? Unlikely.” Karl’s eyes had started to glaze over. “You really don’t know.”

Greta had dragged her head up from Oliver’s chest. She pushed the tangled hair out of her face. “What is this about? What happened?”

“He stayed behind, my lovely.” Karl coughed and sputtered as his breath became less dependable. Blood dribbled from one corner of his mouth. “On that last mission. You were still too sick. I had to go alone.”

Oliver frowned.
Could it be?

“If you’d gone with me, I wouldn’t have been captured.” Another wracking cough. “Do you know what I endured in that prisoner camp? Two years of hell.”

“You blame me for
that?
Karl, I was ill. In bed. Fighting for my life. That you and your team were captured was no fault of mine.”

“You weren’t there for me! Just like you’ve abandoned me now!”