Stolen Splendor (17 page)

Kassandra held her breath as she tiptoed down the hall
to the drawing room and closed the door quietly behind her. She dashed to the
lacquered cabinet where Isabel usually wrote her letters and sat down on the delicate
gilded chair. After pulling out several of the tiny drawers stacked one atop
the other, she found what she was looking for, a thin silver letter opener with
an ivory handle and the colored wax used for sealing envelopes.

Which one had Isabel said she wrote today? Kassandra
tried to recall, her eyes darting back and forth between the two envelopes
lying side by side in front of her. She shrugged, picking one. She slit open
the fine cream paper, removed the one-page letter, and quickly perused it. Her
expression tightened.

"A lucky guess," she whispered caustically
under her breath,
then
tucked the paper into her
bodice. This was one letter her father would never receive. Though she missed
him terribly, she had no wish to hasten his return . . . and her cursed
wedding. She would burn the letter later in her fireplace.

Kassandra replaced the letter with a blank sheet of
paper she had hurriedly folded, then heated the stick of red wax over the
candle burning brightly within a glass chimney on the top shelf of the cabinet,
and dripped it over the back of the envelope. Lastly, she pressed Isabel's gold
stamp into the warm wax, leaving the imprint of a rose.

With trembling fingers Kassandra cleared the polished
surface of the cabinet and closed the drawers, then tentatively touched the wax
on the letter. It had hardened. She swept up both letters and walked to the
door, opening it slightly so she could peek into the hall. Feigning an air of
nonchalance despite the wild beating of her heart, she stepped from the drawing
room just as Stefan's voice rang out in the entranceway.

"Isabel?" Stefan queried, looking down the
hallway leading to the drawing room. Expecting to see his sister, he was
pleasantly surprised when Kassandra walked toward him, holding out the letters.
He stared at her, appreciatively noting the form-fitting cut of her riding
habit of rich russet wool, which heightened her vivid coloring.

"Isabel asked that I give you these," she
murmured, meeting his admiring gaze with icy reserve as she handed him the
letters. She might have to live a lie to Isabel, and others, she thought
defiantly, but she would not hide her true feelings from him. "She was in
a great hurry, and could not find you in the library, so she left them with me.
Now if you will excuse me," she finished pointedly, her gaze indicating
she wished to pass by him to the staircase. "I must go and pack my
things."

Stefan stepped back, obliging her with a slight bow and
a rakish smile. Again he received only a withering glance as she rounded the
banister and turned her back to him, walking stiffly up the stairs. He watched
her until she had disappeared down the corridor, then he turned on his heel and
strode to the front door.

He might be determined to win her favor, Stefan told
himself, but she would fight him every inch of the way. Strangely enough, the
thought did not displease him.

Chapter 16

From her vantage point on the chaise longue,
Archduchess Sophia von Starenberg surveyed with a jaundiced eye the cluster of
elegantly dressed men and women. She was already bored to tears by their
predictable chatter and idle gossip, and could hardly wait to leave, although
she had arrived at her
cousin
Countess Maria von
Thurn's gala only an hour ago.

She thumped her fan irritably on the brocaded cushion
in response to a whispered conversation nearby, certain that if she heard one
more miserable tale about a lover's infidelity, she would scream. How they ran
on, she raged. The anecdote for that malady was simple. Find another lover.

Sophia sighed with annoyance and shifted on the plump
cushions, carefully rearranging the glistening folds of her mauve damask gown.
She had been longing for some harmless diversion, some trifling pastime, when
Maria's invitation to this afternoon's gala had arrived at her country villa
only yesterday. She had hoped it would be just the tonic to free her mind from
plaguing thoughts of Stefan von Furstenberg. But she realized now such an
escape was impossible. She could think of nothing, and no one, else.

Sophia chewed her lip. Damn him, where was he? What
could he possibly be doing that would keep him from her these past weeks? It
was so unlike him to ignore her, especially after returning from such a long
military campaign. She had envisioned them spending many luxurious hours in her
bed, wanton hours filled with the sensual pleasures only she could give him.
Instead they had shared just one fleeting moment of passion in the Hofburg
gardens, hardly enough to satisfy her insatiable desire for such a magnificent
man.

And why hadn't he answered her letters? She had never
before deigned to write to any man. On the contrary, it was she who received
the frantic, pleading missives from her lovers, fervent letters that did little
more than amuse her. With Stefan it was different. For him, she would do
anything.

Sophia leaned her head against the chaise and closed
her eyes, rubbing her cheek thoughtfully with the mother-of-pearl fan. She
summoned forth vivid memories of their other separations and impatiently
awaited reunions, and she shivered deliciously, recalling the feel of him, the
taste of him.

A wry smile curved her mouth, a slim eyebrow lifted
archly. Who would have ever thought it?
she
mused.
Sophia von Starenberg had finally fallen in love . . .

Certainly she had never expected it. She had been a
young girl of sixteen when she had married her husband, a stooped, time-worn
figure of three score years. But it had been an admirable match nonetheless,
masterfully arranged by her debt-ridden parents. She had wanted it just as much
as they, and had gladly traded the threadbare existence brought on by their
incessant gambling for a life of wealth and luxury.

Her only regret was that she had wasted her virginity
on such a man. Sophia grimaced with distaste, remembering. Fortunately the
archduke's sexual demands had been mercifully few and had ceased altogether
several years ago, but even now the memories of his fumbling, slack-lipped
lovemaking were enough to fill her with disgust. Not long after the marriage
she had taken a lover, the first of many, beginning eight years of casual
alliances in which she honed her erotic skills to perfection.

Casual, until she met Stefan. From the moment she
looked into his eyes, she knew she was lost. He was everything she craved in a
lover, everything she admired in a man. After they had loved for the first
time, when he lay sated and sleeping in her arms, she had sworn somehow she
would become Countess von Furstenberg. She had only to rid herself of the one
detestable thing standing in her way . . . her husband.

Sophia's eyes flew open, her grip tightening on her
fan, her skin flushing with uncomfortable warmth. If only that man would die!
She had gone herself to the poorest section of Vienna, where coin was
precious
and scruples unknown, her servant Adolph leading
the way, to seek out an apothecary. They had finally stopped at a makeshift
structure built against the city wall, and a small man with hawkish features
had shuffled forth from the shadowed interior to greet them. She had not minced
words. It was poison she wanted, but of a special nature.

"I believe what you are seeking is this," he
rasped, holding up a dusty vial containing a grayish powder. He eyed her
shrewdly. "But it is costly, my lady."

"Of that I have no doubt," Sophia replied
tersely, without blinking. "Have no fear, man. I will pay you well for
your powder . . . and your silence."

He nodded, a look of tacit understanding passing
between them. "Dissolve a small portion into your . . . friend's tea or
coffee once a day. It will bring about a creeping death that has the appearance
of natural causes, like dying in one's sleep." He laughed shortly,
revealing a jagged row of blackened teeth. "We should all be as fortunate,
eh?"

"How long will it take?" she demanded,
ignoring his remark and anxious to be gone from the place. It
rankled
her nerves, what with rats skittering about and the
putrid stench of garbage.

"Two, maybe three weeks."

Liar! Sophia seethed. It had been two months since her visit
to the apothecary, and almost that long since she had begun to poison her
husband. It was true his speech had become increasingly slurred, his gait
awkward and weaving, yet he clung to life as tenaciously as he clung to his
money. He even managed to attend court functions, such as the reception at the
Hofburg, though he fell asleep at the most inopportune moments. And she had
wanted to be done with the unsavory business by the time Stefan returned from
Hungary.

Obviously she had been deceived by that dirty little
man in the market, Sophia decided grimly. She would have to seek out another
apothecary, one better-versed in his craft. And this time, she would not fail.

Shrieks of feminine laughter broke rudely into her
thoughts, and her eyes narrowed at the group of five women seated across the
drawing room at a finely wrought gaming table. They were merrily engrossed in a
game of ombre, a three-handed card game, while attentive gentlemen leaned over
their shoulders or stood behind their chairs, offering advice.

Another common diversion of these insufferable galas.
Sophia sighed with displeasure. Perhaps it was time she left.

"A kreuzer for your thoughts, milady."

Sophia started in surprise, looking up into a pair of
ice-blue eyes that she could swear were laughing at her. She immediately
recognized the strikingly handsome man, and just as easily she dismissed him,
her brow arching as her gaze wandered over him. For if ever there was an
aristocratic fop in the Viennese court, a true dandy who seemed to be in
attendance at every social gathering, however inconsequential, it was Count
Frederick Althann.

"Save your kreuzer, Count," she said
breezily. "My thoughts belong to me alone." She smiled up at him,
though her eyes were cold. "You're looking stylish today."

He was dressed in a full-skirted coat of dark blue
brocade, a laced waistcoat, matching breeches, gartered silk stockings, and
red-heeled shoes, with a lavish muslin cravat tied jauntily about his neck and
a silver-hilted sword hanging at his left side. In one hand he held a pair of
fringed gloves and a cane, his thumb caressing the polished gold crown. On his
head he wore a powdered tiewig with a long, plaited queue down his back, tied
at each end with a black bow, just a hint of his light blond hair peeking out
at his forehead.

A pity he is only half a man, she mused wickedly,
recalling the rampant rumors about the count's unnatural affinity for
smooth-faced boys. Though it was hard to believe . . . he was really quite
attractive: tall, fair, with an undeniable air of virility. And the excellent
fit of his clothes revealed a lean, athletic body . . . yes, truly a pity.

"And you, Archduchess, take my breath away, as
always," Frederick returned her compliment, bowing gallantly. He reached
into his deep side pocket and pulled out an enameled snuffbox, flipped it open
to reveal a tiny mirror on the inside of the lid, then deftly applied a pinch
of the powdered tobacco to each nostril. Snorting delicately, he offered her
the snuffbox with a flourish.

"No, thank you," Sophia murmured, wrinkling
her nose with distaste. She turned away from him, her eyes widening as Isabel
von Furstenberg swept into the drawing room.

Her cousin Maria hadn't told her Isabel would be
attending her gala! Sophia
thought,
her mind racing.
She watched motionless as the countess made her way through the crowd,
exchanging lighthearted banter and greetings. Perhaps she might be able to tell
her what had become of Stefan . . .

Sophia rose gracefully from the chaise. "If you
will excuse me, Count Frederick," she murmured, brushing past him. She
walked regally across the room, stopping just short of where Isabel stood
talking with several young women. .

"How wonderful to see you again, Countess,"
she broke in, keeping her voice light. She
lay
her
hand on Isabel's arm.

Isabel froze at the sound of the familiar voice and the
unexpected pressure on her arm, a shiver running through her. She
turned,
a fixed smile upon her lips. "Archduchess von
Starenberg," she acknowledged coolly.

"I was wondering if perhaps we might talk, you and
I
," Sophia began somewhat lamely, noting a
strange flash of triumph in Isabel's blue eyes. It momentarily unsettled her,
though she could not imagine why. "About Stefan."

Isabel's heart seemed to stop within her breast as she
turned back to the women at her side, who were listening with rapt attention,
and quietly excused herself. They glided away, whispering behind their
fluttering fans.

"I am not one to speak for my brother,"
Isabel said firmly, her eyes meeting Sophia's once again.

Sophia's temper flared at this remark, but she held
herself tightly in check. She had always found Isabel particularly
insufferable, and this moment was no exception. "I simply want to know why
. . . that is, if Stefan . . ." She paused,
then
drew her red lips into a determined line. "What has become of
Stefan?" she asked, her voice strained. "I've written him many times
within the past weeks, yet I haven't received a single reply."

"Whatever do you mean?" Isabel asked sweetly.
Heaven help her, it wasn't her place to reveal Stefan and Kassandra's
engagement, but if this woman pushed her too far . . .