Portrait of Seduction (3 page)

There—a flash of blue and lace.

Oliver lunged, grabbed an arm, pulled.

The failed assassin screamed as his shoulder dislocated. He tripped, dropping his insensate cargo. Greta grunted but did not rouse. Using the heel of his boot, Oliver stomped on the hand holding the knife. Another gratifying scream. Fingers splayed, twitching and useless.

But the man was not finished fighting. He was more like a frothing animal now. He grabbed Oliver’s calf and bit the flesh just above his kneecap. Wincing, Oliver kicked hard. The toe of his boot found the underside of his attacker’s chin. He dropped his knee to the man’s breastbone and landed two quick punches—to the ribs, to the nose. His opponent gurgled and choked.

For no longer than a blink, Oliver was eye-to-eye with him.

“It will happen,” the man whispered. “The duke will betray us to the French.”

He stretched for the knife. Oliver kicked it away, then grabbed the man’s head. Although a primal impulse urged him to do deadly violence, he simply banged that captured skull against the floorboards. Frantic eyes rolled closed.

Oliver used the knife to cut a length of rope from a stage pulley and secure the stranger’s limbs. That done, he dashed to Greta’s side.

He gently sat her upright. “Fräulein Zweig? Can you hear me?”

Nearly translucent lids fluttered as she revived. Then she graced him with the color of her eyes—a bright startling blue. But Oliver could not indulge, not when blood oozed from her neck. He quickly stripped his cravat and dabbed two inches of marred skin, marveling at his renewed surge of outrage. While Greta’s blue eyes studied his face, he tied the cravat into a makeshift bandage around her neck.

“Oliver! Where are you?”

“Back here.”

Christoph appeared with two of his own personal guards, not those armed gorillas from the duke’s ranks. His brows lifted as he took in the scene of Oliver’s success. Then to his guards he said, “I want this man jailed and watched at all times. He’s to be held for questioning.”

After peeling one of Greta’s gloves down to the wrist, Oliver checked her pulse. Steady and strong. He smoothed loose strands of hair back from her flushed cheeks.

Christoph knelt beside them. “How’s your damsel?”

“Still with us. Where’s Ingrid?”

“In our coach on her way home.”

Oliver only nodded. He was fast becoming incapable of doing much more, not with the threat subdued and Greta tucked trustingly in his arms. He had retaken her wrist. Her pulse tapped an echo of her heartbeat against his fingertips.

Was that more blood? He looked closer at a splotch of red on her skin. But it was more than red—also blue, brown, bright white.

Paint?

Greta’s eyes widened. Her lips parted on a quiet inhale.

Oliver surreptitiously rolled the glove back up her slender arm. Warm flesh. Woman’s flesh. And he was covering it up. What kind of torture was that? But he received a reward of sorts when relief slid over her panicked features. She relaxed against his body.

“Margaret! Thank God!” Lord Leinz pushed through the backstage obstacles. “Are you well? Margaret?”

“My lord, she’s endured quite an ordeal.” Oliver consciously tamped down on his violence—that part of himself that was no valet. “Speech can be the last faculty to recover after trauma.”

Leinz exhaled heavily. “You have done my niece and my family a wonderful service.”

“The honor is mine, my lord.” Oliver inclined his head by way of a bow.

Moments later the nobleman had spirited her away. Oliver remained sitting on the floor with his forearms draped over his knees. A shiver worked across his shoulders. She was gone.

“He invited us to dine at his estate,” Christoph said, “with you as his guest.”

“I’ve been invited to Leinz Manor? Hardly what I expected.”

Christoph offered his hand to help Oliver up. “Nor I. The man is a practiced snob. He can barely call Ingrid ‘my lady’ without choking on the words.”

But Oliver was nearly beyond hearing. A thrill shot up to his sternum, one that had nothing to do with having achieved such heroics—and everything to do with seeing Greta again.

Maybe, in the hours between now and then, he would find a means of restraining his sudden fascination. Maybe.

He would arrive in little less than an hour. That man. That
valet.

Greta rubbed a rose-scented cream onto her hands and wrists, trying to smooth skin perpetually roughened by paints and turpentine. Light from the setting sun slanted across her vanity table, refracting through the dozen tiny bottles and glass pots she rarely used. The bevel along the bottom of the mirror caught the yellow light. The ray of sun moved slowly from right to left. The color deepened to blood orange until the angle became too extreme and the glass once again reflected her bed draped in heavy navy curtains.

Soon their guests would arrive. Greta would dine with the man who had saved her life.

The cream stung the tiny cuts on her chapped hands. She concentrated on rubbing it into each finger, down to the nail, hoping to avoid the curious sense of disappointment that slunk alongside any thought of Oliver Doerger.

But it could not be avoided. She
was
disappointed. For a few endless and terrifying moments, he had been the most astonishing man in Europe. Unruffled, hypnotically assured, he was the epitome of a brave and selfless gentleman.

Yet he was no gentleman.

Waving her hands to cool the perfumed tingle, Greta wanted to dissipate her nerves as easily. A week had passed since that knife gouged her throat, yet the memories were equally thick and potent now—maybe more so. While mixing paints and priming a canvas for her latest copy, she had been harassed by the potential for bloodier outcomes. Her torture. Her death.

Marie, her maid, arrived to help Greta dress for the evening. The older woman’s fastidious fussing provided a blessedly ordinary distraction. Undergarments and curls, to start. Then a high-waist gown of royal purple, edged with cream-colored Belgian lace as fine as a spider’s web. Greta critically eyed her figure in the mirror, yanking her bodice upward—to no avail. Marie only came along and tugged the meager swath of fabric back to its proper fit.

“Marie, you know I cannot stand to be…” She glanced down at the considerable swell of her breasts. “To be exposed this way.”

“You look marvelous, Fräulein Zweig. Do not hide what God so generously provided.”

Grinning, Greta pulled gently on Marie’s earlobe. “And don’t you tell your mistress what to do.”

The freckled maid only smiled, then eyed the white linen bandage that circled Greta’s neck. “But what shall we do about this?”

Greta touched the physical reminder of her ordeal and could not suppress a shudder. Her vision blurred, as if on the verge of fainting once more. Had she ever been so scared?
Ever?

Memories of Herr Doerger’s features helped banish her grim imaginings. She remembered his icy blue eyes most clearly. He had been in complete control of the entire situation—at least, she had believed as much. That belief had been her buoy.

Valet or not, she wanted to see him again. And that meant going down to dinner, no matter the state of her injured neck.

“What about your mother’s pearl necklace?” Marie asked.

Wear Mama’s necklace?

Greta had never dared. The lustrous pearl choker had been Mama’s present from Uncle Thaddeus, her brother, on that last Christmas spent together as a family. Papa had been so terribly angry. His present of a gold charm looped on a leather cord had seemed paltry in comparison, yet Greta still wore the charm on her ankle. It was the more precious gift.

For ten years the necklace had sat wrapped in velvet in Greta’s jewelry armoire. Only when she was feeling particularly morose did she pull it out to look, touch, remember. What might have happened had Uncle Thaddeus been less critical, or Papa less proud? Would her parents still live and breathe?

Marie had been there too, gazing on the priceless pearl necklace. She must have remembered it was the only piece that would sit high enough on the neck.

“Get it, please,” Greta said softly.

To distract herself she pulled on her evening gloves, the purple of which did not exactly match her gown. No one else would notice but Greta did. Color was as important to her as the selection of the proper word was to a poet or finding just the right vibrato was to a violinist.

“Here,” Marie said. “Allow me.”

Her voice was hushed and gentle, as if she understood the necklace’s significance. It was discord and pain. It was long-ago history. And it was staggeringly beautiful.

Greta returned to the vanity table and removed the bandage. She swished a few errant curls away from her nape. With deft fingers Marie secured the gold clasp.

The pearls tingled with cold. That sensation banded Greta’s neck so uniformly that she did not feel pain from her injury. Her fingers trembled as she touched the priceless piece, but her gloves prevented her from appreciating the smooth luster. How Mama had smiled—and then cried—when she opened that square black box trimmed in crimson velvet. Had she suspected the anger to come? The heartbreak? She had not even tried it on, not that Christmas morning. Not ever.

“Thank you, Marie. That will be all.”

She bobbed a curtsy. But rather than leave, she leaned nearer and tightened a hand on Greta’s shoulder. “You look wondrous.”

And then she was gone.

Alone, her stomach unquiet, Greta walked to her adjoining studio. Normally she wanted nothing more than to stay in her studio to work. But for once she did not delay out of regret—only out of trepidation. The prospect of seeing Herr Doerger again set off volleys of cannon fire beneath her sternum.

Such a striking man. What would it be like to sketch him? To paint him?

No, she needed to approach the next few hours with a different tilt of her brain. Herr Doerger had behaved with strength, speed and confidence. But he was still a servant. His manners and untrained conversations would reveal him as such. She would fasten to those flaws, the same flaws Uncle Thaddeus had always unearthed with such precision when discussing Papa.

After taking the deepest breath she could manage, Greta went downstairs and found her uncle alone in the drawing room.

“Ah, there you are,” Thaddeus said, with the barest hint of censure. “Late, but not nearly so late as your cousins.” He finished a brandy and crossed to greet her with a peck on the cheek. His eyes lit upon the decadent necklace. “How wonderful, Margaret. So good that you could make use of it. Your mother would be delighted.”

Greta’s queer sense of disquiet resurfaced. She was betraying Papa by wearing the one piece of jewelry he had hated so fiercely. Mama would not have been delighted at all.

The pearls seemed to tighten against her windpipe—a genuine choker. “I’m glad you’re not displeased.”

“Not at all,
meine Nichte.
” He looked far younger than his forty-five years when he smiled, no matter his baldness.

The opening of doors and a flutter of voices marked the arrival of their guests. Tall and imposing, Lord Venner loomed like an austere shadow beside his fair-haired wife. Lady Venner’s smile was the midday sun, her hair flaxen and flawlessly arranged.

While her uncle made small talk with the tall nobleman, Greta said, “Welcome, Lady Venner. We’re so pleased to have you here.”

“Please, call me Ingrid.” They exchanged two kisses. “Otherwise it’ll be Lady This and Lady That all evening. I haven’t the span of attention required for such verbal acrobatics.”

Greta smiled, taking an instant liking to the petite woman. They stood nose-to-nose in height, but whereas Greta always felt ungainly, weighed down with too many curves, Ingrid had the body of a ballerina—no matter the delicate condition her gown so artfully concealed.

With a pair of exceedingly youthful giggles, Anna and Theresa descended the central staircase like princesses—for they were princesses within their father’s estate. Separated in age by a mere thirteen months, they could have been twins for how closely their fair coloring and slim figures matched. They were young, charming and well-bred. That they were also nearly destitute could not be discerned by the lavish silks and velvets that swathed lithe bodies on the cusp of womanhood.

Greta smiled and kissed their cheeks in greeting. As always she admired their beauty and poise, but their shared lives held no excess of intimacy or warmth. Greta had her painting. They had each other. But they were family, bound by a loyalty that was Greta’s only true sense of home and belonging.

“And where is the man of the hour?” Uncle Thaddeus asked. Greta tried to chastise herself for imagining a note of sarcasm in his tone, but she could not deny what she heard. He had used that exact timbre when speaking of Papa.

“I’m here, my lord,” came that beautiful baritone. Greta would have recognized it anywhere.

But she might not have recognized the man himself.

Rather than his exacting livery, Herr Doerger wore an impeccable coat of deep forest green. He had left his wig at home, revealing very short, very neat hair the color of raw umber. Buff trousers almost indecently outlined the long muscles of his thighs. High black boots had been polished to a radiant shine. A stark white cravat accentuated the golden warmth of his skin, which in turn dragged her attention to blue eyes shining nearly silver.

But more than his faultless ensemble, something about his posture demanded respect and attention. Here was a man without fears. His proud shoulders and loose, relaxed limbs declared as much.

Herr Doerger smiled and inclined his head. “Forgive my lateness,
bitte.
I usually assist Lord Venner’s driver, Heinrich. He’s getting on in years and cannot conduct the horses as he once did.”

Although Lord and Lady Venner’s expressions did not alter with that news, Greta watched her uncle’s pasted-on friendliness slide away. “How…
helpful,
” he said. “But I am glad you were able to find a tailor at such short notice. I quite forgot you might be unprepared for a formal evening. Now, shall we adjourn for dinner?”

A valet. A servant.

Nothing more.

Back teeth set together, Oliver watched Greta take her uncle’s arm and turn for the dining room. Whatever flash of sizzling appreciation he had seen in her eyes became a memory.

“That wasn’t the cleverest way to begin a conversation,” he murmured to Ingrid.

“The truth doesn’t have to be clever,” she said, ever the equal of her husband’s diplomatic skills. “And he was unbearably rude.”

“I doubt I’ll be able to escape that, this evening.”

“Have you a clean handkerchief?”

He pulled one from his breast pocket. His face flamed as Ingrid used it to wipe a few spots of mud from his lapel.

Oh, fantastic.

“Stop worrying,” she said. “You’re perfectly groomed.”

Christoph made a grunting noise. “And nervous.”

“You sound amused, my lord,” Oliver said.

“I am,” he replied without a hint of his professed humor.

Although he wanted to punch his half brother’s arm, Oliver refrained. Not even Ingrid knew the truth of their paternity. She accepted a great deal of familiarity and fondness between them, but any more would raise suspicions in even her trusting mind.

Instead he took Christoph’s words and dour expression for what they were. A warning.
Pull it together, man.

Oliver retrieved his handkerchief with a thankful smile to Ingrid, then followed the pair into the dining room.

Pull it together, indeed.

Had he played at being Christoph’s valet so long that the nuance of other roles slipped out of reach? Once, long ago, he had been able to slip unseen into so many forbidden realms, even dining at his father’s table during a lavish banquet. No one had thought to question his presence. Perfectly attired and affecting Christoph’s elegant manners, Oliver had enjoyed the thrill of being taken for an equal.

But that was before his years in the army, before attempting to put right the follies of his youth. Now, eating in the kitchen and sharing a cheroot with other servants were far more familiar acts than dining among Salzburg’s elite, especially when his hosts already seemed to regret their unusual invitation. For the briefest moment Greta Zweig had looked upon him with unrestrained interest. But that fiery interest had disappeared in a blink. Perhaps a week was enough time for gratefulness to wear thin.

Although Oliver tried to ignore the slight, it sizzled like a live coal in his chest.

He took his seat—next to Ingrid, across from Fräulein Zweig. Leinz sat at the head of the lavish table, while Christoph appeared most uncomfortable flanked by Anna, Theresa and their matched worshipful gazes. An elaborate centerpiece extended floral arms out from its place of honor. Crystal candlesticks alternated with clustered summer bouquets. White taper candles deepened the intimacy of their gathering.

Oliver needed to concentrate his attention on the outlying shadows to catch the hasty movement of servants as they brought the first course. He knew, intellectually, how little attention was paid to the men and women who served their masters in silence, but being on the genteel side of the divide proved striking. They literally faded into the background.

Conversation stayed firmly in neutral territory—the topics of weather, fashion, literature and shared acquaintances all navigated without issue—until Lord Leinz finished his second course. “I have no wish to cause my niece more distress,” he said, “but your behavior at the opera was most remarkable, Herr Doerger. Most remarkable.”

“
Danke,
my lord.”

“And how was it that you were able to act so decisively? Had you some training?”

“I was in the service of the Prussian army for a number of years.”

Leinz took a sip of red wine. “We are indebted to your skill and quick thinking, then.”

“I confess, my lord,” Oliver began, flicking his gaze to Greta’s. He hoped to judge her interest in the exchange and, more gallingly, to make a good impression on her. Ridiculous and idiotic. But his tongue continued as if it were a stranger to the concept of dignified restraint. “I confess that I gave the matter little thought. I only acted to do what I could for Fräulein Zweig.”