Portrait of Seduction (6 page)

Four hours into the endless rounds of talk, Oliver’s feet were numb from standing along the wall with the other aides. He could concentrate on little else, not even the enigmas of Greta Zweig and Karl Schulz. His eagerness to once again see his friend had of yet come to naught. Karl, or Baron Hoffer, kept no known address in the city, which niggled Oliver with another bout of suspicion. He was going to have to dig a little deeper.

But later.

Catching Christoph’s eye across the huge oval table, he almost grinned. His stalwart brother was the soul of patience, but even he was in the midst of stifling a yawn.

Forty-five minutes later they emerged from the stately splendor of the Residenz, the duke’s palatial home. Like boys ready to make mischief at the end of an interminable school day, they strode south through the
Dombogen—
the towering two-story marble arches that led to Domplatz.

Oliver nearly hopped as he walked, so keen on seeing the sun again. Mountain air touched his face, a sweet reminder of life outside agendas and haggling. He felt alive, free—unaccountably so. That feeling of freedom was welcome, but it also reminded him of his youth, of near scrapes and misdeeds. The more respectable choice was to keep his impulses close.

At that moment, however, still haunted by moonlight and wide blue eyes, he could not muster the strength to care.

“
Guter Gott,
Herr Kleinmayrn is a nuisance,” Christoph said. “I never thought he would stop talking.”

“If he only tried varying the pitch of each syllable—not by much, mind you—he would increase the effectiveness of his arguments by half.”

“I find myself wanting to agree with him just to shut him up.”

Oliver grinned. “A subtle tactic on his part, if that brings him success.”

“What? He saps opponents of their will to breathe? Quite a keen political adaptation.”

“I’m simply glad to feel my feet.”

Christoph looked his way, his hawkish features softening slightly. He shook his head. “I don’t know how you do it.”

The uncharacteristic acknowledgment was as welcome as it was gratifying. “Thank you.”

And then he was Christoph again, the stern-faced Lord Venner who all but a few believed to be the full measure of his personality. “Now what did you find out?”

“Unfortunately very little.” Oliver ticked off a list on his fingers. “Kleinmayrn’s granddaughter may or may not be in a delicate condition by a second cousin who visited last month. And expect an invitation to Baron Reitzweller’s second wedding.”

“To Lady Georges?”

“Yes, still running from Napoleon’s blacklist and willing to bed a man three times her age to do so.”

“I don’t like it,” Christoph said. “We spend hours dancing around what no one dares speak. If the French head eastward, they will retake Salzburg. There is no escaping that fact. We’re a mere bump in the road to Vienna.”

Oliver frowned at his brother’s slight edge of temper. “What are you thinking, my lord?”

“We must have other preparations in place. Contingencies.”

“Yes. And soon.”

They turned the corner into Kapitelplatz, where vendors had set up stalls along the perimeter. Flowers, fruit, vegetables and fresh pastries created a wildly sweet atmosphere. Oliver’s stomach moaned, his hunger a renewed ache.

“Me too,” Christoph said, his gaze fastened on a nearby array of roasted meats.

But only a few hundred feet from home, they pushed on. Their strides consumed long lengths of Kapitelgasse. Oliver liked the feel of his muscles after hours of inactivity, as if his body had been reanimated. Maybe he and Christoph would find time later that afternoon to take up their foils and spar. Such activity was most welcome after tedious days.

“Oh,” Oliver said. “And on a lighter topic, Arie and Mathilda De Voss would like permission to debut their new sonata at your residence.”

“Why didn’t they just ask Ingrid?”

“They did, and she heartily approved. But it will involve several hundred people in the ballroom. They insisted on garnering your approval too.”

Christoph smiled tightly. “I do so admire a sensible couple. Very well.”

They arrived at the townhouse, a sleek marble structure that towered four stories above the street. Each row of windows was smaller than the one below, creating the illusion of even greater height. Christoph had come to own the building upon marrying Ingrid. Their union, when discussed by the strictest social matrons in Salzburg, was still a scandal, but Oliver viewed it as the oldest sort of match—influence meets money. Few seemed to realize advantages gained by each. Christoph’s good sense tempered his wife’s tendency toward caprice, while her verve ensured that he would never dry up and float away out of pure loneliness. Oliver had known him before Ingrid, back when he was miserable company.

Oliver’s habit of late had been to scrutinize successful marriages, picking apart their matched components to understand the whole. It was either that or sink into his own little well of loneliness, one that had deepened on the evening he met Greta Zweig. It was probably nothing more than contemplating what he did not have, coupled with the fact that it had been months since last taking a lover. Three hours in the arms of a widow from Burgundy had been a delightful diversion, but Oliver was beginning to crave more.

He could not decide whether to credit or blame Greta for that, if at all.

As Ingrid greeted her husband in the townhouse’s foyer, Oliver had to look away. A surge of envy shook him from hair to heel.

He took Christoph’s coat.

“You two look as if you watched puppies drown all afternoon.” Ingrid’s hand cupped the back of Christoph’s neck.

“Nothing so diverting,
meine Liebe.
”

“Oh, you’re terrible. Come in. Eat.”

Christoph let himself be led down the corridor. “My office in one hour, Oliver. We’ll look at all the possibilities.”

Ingrid cleared her throat. She clasped his hand in hers, her expression soft and inviting.

“Make that two hours,” Christoph said.

Oliver tightened his grip on his half brother’s discarded coat. “Yes, my lord.”

He looked down to find that he’d crumpled the wool lapels. Another chore to attend—and how fantastic to be one of his own making.

But no number of chores, especially not attending to Christoph’s garments, seemed likely to banish his unusual melancholy. He begrudged his brother no happiness, but that did little to produce an equal measure of happiness for himself. To simply disappear with Greta for two hours and indulge…what would that be like? To be able to do so without fear or censure?

He laughed softly to himself, wondering if he would find her nearly so attractive if she weren’t forbidden fruit. At least he was sensible enough to speculate. Maybe there was hope for him yet. And maybe he needed to head down to the Stadttrinkstube, the city drinking rooms, to indulge in a dose of female company.

But he knew he would not, at least not that evening. The books he had requested from the university—ostensibly on Christoph’s behalf—had arrived early in the morning. Greta had thought him an uneducated servant. On the subject of art, at least, she had been frustratingly accurate. Her forgeries could be the worst in the history of larceny and Oliver would never know. Through the years he had taken to remedying such deficiencies once he recognized them. This task took on the added imperative of being about Greta.

He would not be so ignorant if they ever met again.

Oliver was just about to find his way to the kitchen, his stomach still a knot of hunger, when the butler ushered two workmen into the foyer.

“What’s this?” Oliver asked.

Hans, the sixty-year-old butler, was a grave character. His demeanor was dour enough to trump even Christoph’s. “A delivery for Lady Venner.”

The workmen placed the thin, flat crate on the floor. Oliver asked for the delivery papers. A quick glance over the docket proved his suspicions, that the crate contained a painting.

A painting delivered from Leinz Manor.

“Well, well,” he said under his breath. Ingrid must have done a little shopping, perhaps while Oliver was so intriguingly engaged on the garden terrace.

But thoughts of Greta roused his suspicions.

“Where shall we direct it to be delivered?” Hans asked. He always spoke in the third person, which never failed to strike Oliver as comical.

Only, his laughter was nowhere to be found just then. “To Lord Venner’s office. Don’t tell Lady Venner of its arrival just yet. He’ll want to surprise her.”

“Yes, Herr Doerger.”

If it proved to be a forgery, Oliver would need to inform Christoph. He had made a promise to Greta, one he planned to keep if at all possible, but first and foremost his loyalty remained with his family.

For the second time in nearly a month, Oliver was in a carriage bound for Leinz Manor. Only this time he traveled with Karl. He also did so without an explicit invitation.

Karl—or rather, Baron Hoffer—had been invited. And, when Oliver had finally located his friend in a temporary lodging across the Salzach, the so-called baron had been in need of a valet.

“This must be your brother’s doing.” Karl sat on the velvet bench across from Oliver. Again his clothing and bearing bespoke a man who should be welcomed into any respectable household. And again Oliver could see flashes of a wild blacksmith’s son in Karl’s every movement, in his restlessness and an ambition that practically seethed from his pores. “I cannot imagine him lending us a carriage for anything other than official business.”

“He has his reasons,” Oliver said. “But please do not ask me to discuss them. Suffice it to say that this arrangement benefits all parties. Does it not?”

An animalistic grin split Karl’s face. “I get to arrive in fine style and treat you like my personal servant all evening? Yes, it does indeed suit.”

“You take too much pleasure in that prospect,
mein Freund.
”

“Too much?” Karl straightened his cravat. “No, I like to think of it as just enough.”

A game. A game.
The phrase kept repeating in Oliver’s mind. Karl was up to something, his dark eyes on some objective that remained just out of sight.

But Oliver had more pressing concerns to investigate. His secret study of art books had been more than just a boon to his pride. He strongly suspected that the painting Ingrid had purchased was another of Greta’s copies. Accepting commissions for copies was one consideration—a fair occupation with a long history. As long as there were wealthy people, there would be a market for ways of protecting that wealth. But peddling fakes was unacceptable.

Christoph had not been pleased with the news. “Find out,” he’d said. “By whatever means you deem necessary.”

So after a few tactful inquiries, traded for favors and goods, Oliver had located Karl’s whereabouts. Securing him an invitation had been easy enough to acquire—apparently Leinz’s daughters had already been trying to determine his whereabouts. That revelation bedeviled Oliver too. Just how was his old friend managing to ensconce himself so quickly into polite society?

One carriage and one valet later, the mysterious Baron Hoffer had been ready for the ball.

The horses’ harnesses jangled as the carriage came to a stop.

“We’re here,” Karl said, his grin almost manic now. “You and me, Oliver, at Leinz Manor. It’s what we’re due.”

“Hardly. We’re both here under false pretenses.”

A dark scowl flashed over Karl’s features. “Most men come to power under false pretenses.” And with that his darkness dispersed. He slid a preening hand down the back of his hair and nodded to the door. “Lead on, my dear valet.”

Oliver studied the man for a moment longer, but none of that acid returned to his demeanor. Karl was a puzzle for another time. Until proved otherwise, he would simply assume his old friend was as capricious as always, with nothing more sinister than his ruse underway.

No, on that evening Oliver needed to concentrate on uncovering a different fraud. Greta.

Her name blinked to life in his brain like flint struck in the pitch black. He would see Greta again. He would confront her. Again. This time, however, he had no designs on claiming a kiss. If his suspicions were correct and the painting proved a fake, he would read it on her face and demand a refund.

For his sanity’s sake, then, he would be done with Greta Zweig.

Oliver opened the coach door, hopped down and pulled the steps into place. Karl descended like the baron he was supposed to be, all fine manners and disdainful glances.

But there was little to merit his disdain. The manor was beautiful. Cauldrons of light emblazoned Leinz Manor in warm hues, banishing the early evening dusk. Freshly cut flowers in bouquets as large as the span of a man’s arms filled waist-high stone vases. Everywhere there was movement and laughter. Servants slipped in and out of view in the precise ballet of expectations. Drivers moved their empty carriages along, ladies’ maids made for the rear entrance, and valets exchanged snuff and liquor, milling in the driveway as soon as their masters disappeared indoors.

Karl made for the front door and Oliver followed, his head swimming with dissonance. On his last visit he had been an invited guest, a man of sudden esteem after saving Greta’s life. Now, in his powdered wig and livery, as unobtrusive as he could manage, he was just another servant. Normally that suited him well. He and Christoph depended on his being taken for granted.

On this night, unaccountably, his pride stung. Why was he denied the opulence of such an occasion? His father had done the misdeed that resulted in Oliver’s bastardy. And yet Oliver was the one shut out of that privilege, that whole other life. No wonder Karl had been tempted to skirt every measure of propriety and claim it for his own. He would probably fare better by breaking the rules than Oliver ever had in obeying them.

No. He was through with trying to get ahead that way.

“
Bitte,
” said one of the two matched doormen. “You know the way of it. Around back with you.”

Oliver jerked to a stop. He had been ready to follow Karl inside. An unforgivable slip. He took one last look toward the glittering cavern of riches on the other side of the threshold. There would be dancing, flirting, laughing. Oliver wanted to be a part of it.

Karl threw him a grin over his shoulder. Two women draped in pearls had already affixed themselves to his arms. He offered a little nod and turned away.

Disgusted with himself, Oliver apologized to the doormen and spun on his heel. He was going to use the back door. And he was going to get his head in order.

Remember your duty.

Distressing how often he was having to prod himself with that reminder.

Ever since seeing the Venners’ coach arrive, Greta had been looking for Oliver. Only she had not been prepared for how difficult it was to pick him out among the clutch of liveried servants. She had been hoping against hope that he would attend, although many obstacles stood in the way of such an outcome—Lady Venner’s delicate condition first among them.

But arrive he had. Now the question was what Greta would do about it.

She stood on the middle steps of the central staircase, overlooking the guests as they began to pair up for the evening’s first minuet. Her fingers tapped without pattern against the balustrade. An unnamed discontent had been building under her skin for weeks. First it was her uncle and the ordeal with selling her forgeries. Their disagreements only served to underscore the aggravation of hiding behind other artists’ works. She wanted to create from scratch, not just copy. Obligation meant she was bound to continue, but for how long?

Until they had amassed security enough to survive the oncoming conflict. Even women of the highest breeding managed to find oblique ways to discuss their fears. The scarcity of goods and the bland nature of this year’s fashion novelties stood in place of their real concerns, that Napoleon planned once again to lay waste to Europe. Greta’s place was to help make sure that the Leinz family would endure.

And then there was Oliver’s kiss. She touched her gloved thumb to her lower lip, then rubbed harder to push past her numb frustration. He had woven a twitching restlessness into her body, one that time had only intensified. She wanted more—more of him, certainly. But more greedily, she wanted more of how he made her feel. His embrace had turned her to fire and steam. She had become a goddess.

To say she was tempted to renew such feelings was a vast understatement. The dark currents running inside her would not be slowed. She felt powerless to resist the pull of curiosity. Was this how her mother had felt? Was this why she had chanced such an unequal marriage?

Greta snapped away from those thoughts. She wiggled her toes in her satin slippers and took a deep breath. She could hardly be found guilty of mimicking her parents’ foibles. All she wanted was another few kisses. Her uncle did not control every aspect of her life. In this she felt the pull of quiet rebellion—claiming something for herself.

Marriage would come soon enough, to someone Thaddeus deemed suitable. All the more reason to find Oliver. Now.

Under the pretense of checking on the staff, she slipped away from the ballroom. Tension squeezed at the base of her neck and down her spine. By the time she reached the kitchen, her steps were stiff and her limbs as rigid as metal left out in the rain. But among the servants, at least, she had status enough to wield a little authority.

The kitchen was crammed with maids, footmen, coach drivers, valets and servers. Some were there to work, obviously struggling to get on with their responsibilities in the face of so many interlopers, but they laughed along, smiling at newcomers who idled and exchanged food and gossip. For some of them, this would be the closest they came to the evening’s entertainment.

Greta slipped inside and stood to the left of the main pantry entrance, simply watching the interactions she had never thought to consider. One maid tickled the back of a groom’s neck with a lace handkerchief. The head cook, Frau Grieg, argued with a younger woman about the soup stock. Three footmen stomped in with a rush of fresh summer evening breezes. They grabbed a loaf of bread and hurried back outdoors. Humid, fragrant steam over the cooking pots swirled in their wake.

Moments passed, hypnotizing Greta. She began to see past the uniforms to the people beneath, oddly aware of handsome men and very pretty girls. She had simply never thought to look. For how long had she been missing out on such drama? On whole lives? The realization left her oddly distressed by her lack of awareness. The flush of her cheeks was surely shame, because if it wasn’t shame, she would have to admit to a much dismal emotion—envy.

But none of the men was Oliver.

“Can I help you, Fräulein Zweig?” asked one of the cook’s many assistants.

Greta shook her head. Any artificial authority she imagined had dissipated. Her throat clenched tightly at the thought of how out-of-place she must appear. She was an intruder.

“Nein, dankt. Guten Abend.”

Back in the ballroom she found only the sorts of faces and finery one could expect at a nobleman’s fête. Plainness was bolstered and beauty amplified by jewels and silks. Another grating minuet began. Men and women paired together, some with more enthusiasm then others. Anna had found a tall gentleman with graying hair, while Theresa was dancing with an Austrian Hussar in full uniform.

Greta should be dancing too. She should be spending time nearer to her uncle so as to receive fortuitous introductions. How could he match her with anyone if she did not stick near his side as a reminder? But she turned away from the music and candlelight and swirling couples, intent now, desperate now, in her search for one particular valet.

An idea occurred to her as to where he might be. She wove through the partygoers and young men holding trays of food and wine. Descending from the ballroom and leaving the west wing, her breath accelerated. Sweat gathered along the creases of her palms, beneath the gloves that still did not match—this time a deep rose gown paired with satin a shade too pale.

Her anticipation became a weight caged in her chest, as if her heart had been replaced by a cannonball. Only, her heart was beating much too loudly, too heavily, to be made of iron. Straining, pulsing, its rhythm was completely out of keeping with the light exertion of merely walking. She turned the corner and stopped short.

Oliver stood at the exact center of the manor’s central corridor, leaning against the wall. He presented such an incongruous picture, his arms crossed, his posture lax, while clad in the staunch formalwear of his station. Images of the first moment she had seen his powdered wig and oxblood livery flashed behind her eyes. Back then, on the verge of saving her from an armed attacker, he had been such a contradiction too—calm voice, deceptively relaxed posture and deadly skill.

She made a strangled noise and reflexively touched the healed cut along her throat.

He turned. An expression she could not interpret warped his features, turning him into even more of a stranger. He pushed away from the wall with negligent ease, as if this hallway belonged to him and he could take all the time in the world. A hundred guests were packed into the ballroom one floor above them, but they were alone.

Greta touched her neck once more before proceeding. Her body moved as would a toddler struggling with the demands of balance and gravity. She could claim no grace, no certainty, only a breathlessness that was so out of keeping with any feeling she had ever known.

Closer now, with only the four-foot width of an Old Testament scene between them, Greta inclined her head.

Oliver bowed. “Good evening, Fräulein Zweig. No dancing for you?”

“Not tonight, no.”

“I would, if you wanted to.”

She tipped her head. “Would do what?”

“Dance with you.”

“Oh!” She glanced up and down the corridor as if his bold words would suddenly conjure an audience. “Don’t be absurd. You know that’s impossible.”

“Few things are.”

His penetrating stare was back in force. Pale, pale eyes shone silver beneath the nearby wall sconce, while that flickering flame cast warm colors over his skin. The contrast was delicious. But then, he was unequaled at bringing contrasts together into an exhilarating whole. He was a servant, yes, but Greta’s heart beat so stridently that he might as well be the master.

“I am not dancing with you, Herr Doerger.”

“Oliver, remember?”

“I do. But liberties were taken when we last saw one another.”

“Liberties you do or do not intend to repeat?”

The satin of her gloves made the slightest noise as she tightened her fingers. His eyes shifted, absorbing even that tiny movement. Did the man miss anything? She had never been so thoroughly observed. So…absorbed. She was accustomed to taking that liberty as an artist. What purpose did his constant vigilance serve?