Stolen Splendor (31 page)

"Yes, milady!" Adolph nodded furiously,
rising quickly to his knees. He grasped the balcony doorknob and pulled himself
to his feet, bowing as he backed away. "Until this evening—"

"Go!"

Adolph did not hesitate. He sped to the door, nearly
tripping on his own boots in his haste to leave her chamber.

Sophia sighed with satisfaction as the door slammed
behind him. She leaned slightly over the balustrade and plucked a flowering bud
from a tall tree growing near the wall, her gaze moving once again to the
gardener toiling below. Holding the bud in the palm of her hand, she admired
its fragile beauty and inhaled its delicate fragrance.

"Angelo!" she called out. She gestured to him
with a wave of her hand. He smiled knowingly up at her, and she smiled in
return, her eyes dancing with lusty anticipation. Then she turned and sauntered
from the balcony, crushing the bud between her fingers and dropping it to the
floor.

***

Adolph took another draft of warm beer,
then
licked the foam from his lips. His black eyes roamed
the dingy interior of the tavern, dimmed with smoke from countless cooking
fires and cheap tobacco, resting here and there on familiar faces: the tavern
keep, a giant of a man, nearly seven feet tall and strong as a bear, whom he
had known from his days with the traveling menagerie; the whores who worked the
riverfront inn next door, with their heavily rouged cheeks and hardened
glances. Yet these women always smiled when he would visit his favorite haunt,
never cringed when he offered to pay for their affection. He felt more
comfortable in this ramshackle tavern than anywhere else on earth. Less a
dwarf, condemned by an accident of nature to a life of ridicule and hardship,
and more of a man. It was to this place he had come to think.

Adolph barely suppressed a shudder, recalling Sophia's
cold threats. He did not doubt she meant every word. Never in his life had he
known such a woman, or dreamed such a woman could exist, until he was sold into
her service late last summer. He had known ruthless cruelty, but usually at the
hands of men. The archduchess was a witch, a murderess, the devil incarnate
swathed in female flesh of the finest alabaster and the most voluptuous curves,
her face a study of extraordinary beauty that gave no hint to the evil lurking
in her heart.

If the bitch had a heart, he amended wryly. He took
another draft of beer, the pungent liquid buoying his flagging spirits, and
emptied his mug. He set it down on the rough-hewn table with a thud, the heavy
pewter clinking against the other two mugs in front of him, and waved for
another. He rested his head in his hands while he waited, his thoughts tumbling
over and over in his mind.

He had to think of a new plan, and fast, he mused
grimly, or he, not Lady Kassandra Wyndham, would become Sophia's next victim. But
what? It was by mere chance that his three previous attempts had failed. This
time he had to come up with an idea that was foolproof, one that would convince
Sophia he could carry it through to completion. Perhaps poison might do the
trick. He knew of many kinds, arsenic, hemlock, nightshade, and many ways to
conceal their use, so one's death might resemble an accident—

A chair grating across the planked floor jarred him out
of his thoughts and he looked up as two cloaked men sat down at the table next to
his own, the one nearest the corner. They were dressed as Bohemian peasants, in
rough woolen garments and low-slung caps that covered their heads, not an
uncommon sight, especially this close to the Danube. There were many Slavic
races
who
had merged into the fabric of Vienna, plying
their trades along the river.

Yet there was something about these two men that struck
him as odd. His instincts told him that these two peasants were not what they
seemed.

Adolph blinked in surprise when a sallow serving wench
placed another mug of frothy beer in front of him—he had forgotten his request
for more in his curious observation of the strangers. He paid her, shrewdly
watching the newcomers as they, too, ordered beers,
then
resumed their soft-spoken conversation. He listened carefully, his ears attuned
to even the quietest sounds, a talent he had learned to insure his own
survival. He was not disappointed at the furtive discussion that drifted over
to him. He kept his head down and slowly sipped his beer.

"You must deliver this message to Sultan
Achmet," one of the men muttered, furtively sliding a folded letter across
the table. "I have made all the arrangements for you. The boat will leave
tomorrow night, taking you to Belgrade. There you must alert Mustapha Pasha to
the Imperialist threat, but stay no longer than it takes you to recite the
message. You must press on, traveling as swiftly as you can."

"So you believe it is to be Belgrade, then?"
the other asked in faintly clipped tones.

Adolph started. He had heard that accent before, long
ago, as a youth, when his traveling troupe had performed in Constantinople. The
man was Turkish.

"Yes. It seems Prince Eugene is eager to surpass
his victories of last year by attempting to capture the great fortress. He has
maps, diagrams, everything he needs to lay siege to the city."

"But the garrison in Belgrade can hardly defend
the fortress alone. They are well armed, well trained, to be sure, and the
fortress is heavily fortified. It could withstand a long siege, but if the lines
are broken . . ." The Turk paused, shaking his head. "It would be
twenty men to one in favor of the Imperialists."

"True. Prince Eugene can be stopped only if the
grand vizier, Halil Pasha, assembles his field army and prepares to march from
Constantinople in defense of the city. That is the contents of your message,
Hasan. That is why it is urgent you deliver it to the Sultan as quickly as
possible. I should know in a few days when the Imperial forces plan to leave
Vienna. I shall carry this news first to Belgrade, and give Mustapha some
advance warning, then travel on and hopefully meet up with Halil's army on its
way north. So, you see, I will be following close on your heels."

"You have done well, Count Althann."

Adolph's eyes widened. Count Althann . . . He knew that
name. Sophia had insisted he learn all the names of the aristocratic families
in Vienna, and some of their history. But which Althann?

The two men fell silent as the serving maid brought
their beers, waiting until she had moved well away before continuing their
hushed discussion. The Turk laughed at some whispered remark,
then
Adolph heard the unmistakable chink of money, muffled
by a cloth bag. He surmised shrewdly that gold was changing hands, the opiate
of any spy.

"We had agreed on twice this amount, if I recall,
my friend," Althann muttered, his blue eyes searing into his companion's
dark gaze.

"Ah, how stupid of me," the Turk replied, his
voice echoed by another thud upon the table. "You have a good memory,
Frederick."

"That is why I am so well paid, Hasan."

Adolph shook his head in disbelief. So Count Frederick
Althann, one of the most favored young aristocrats at the Viennese court, and a
godson of the emperor, was a spy for Achmet III, Sultan of the Ottoman Empire!
Yet it made sense. He was the fourth son in his family, heir to
little
but the title of count. What quicker way to earn his
fortune than as a spy?

Adolph's face split into a sarcastic grin, though he
hid it well with his sleeve, pretending to wipe his nose.

"Let us leave this place," Hasan murmured,
his cunning eyes sweeping the darkened room, lit only by shallow oil lamps and
the cooking fire roaring beneath a greasy hearth. He could barely mask his
disgust. "Surely you know of another more comfortable establishment, where
one might sample the delicacy of a refined Viennese courtesan?"

Frederick nodded. "I know of such a house,"
he murmured with a wry smile. "But I must warn you, Hasan. The women there
could steal a man's soul. They are well versed in all manner of carnal . . .
amusement."

"
All the
better! Let us
be on our way, my friend," Hasan replied eagerly. "I have only one
night to taste the pleasures of this city."

Adolph watched as the two men rose from their chairs.
They passed by him so closely that the Turk's cloak swept against his table.
Grateful that he had changed from his rich clothes into more drab attire, he
feigned idiocy by staring with glazed eyes straight ahead and drooling into his
beer.

"In my country they kill poor wretches like him at
birth," Hasan muttered scornfully. "That creature is repulsive."

Adolph winced, Frederick's terse comment lost to him as
they moved away. He glanced over his shoulder when he heard the door swing
shut, then shoved the beer away and leaned back in his chair, an idea forming
in his mind.

A slow smile cut across his face. It was perfect, he
thought slyly. The perfect solution to his dilemma. Here was a man who would no
doubt do anything—anything—to preserve his deadly secret and his life. All that
was needed was one little word to Sophia, and this traitor, this spy against
his own people, would take the distasteful responsibility of Lady Kassandra
Wyndham from his hands forever.

Adolph threw a few coins on the table for the serving
maid,
then
stood on the low stool on which his feet
were resting and jumped to the floor. He could not wait to tell his mistress of
his ingenious plan. It was the stuff of which her wicked dreams were made.

Chapter 30

Count Frederick Althann stepped elegantly from the gleaming
carriage, ignoring the bewigged footman holding the door for him. His shrewd
gaze swept along the grand façade of the von Starenberg mansion. It
gleamed
blinding white in the bright afternoon sun, like a
great iced cake, with exuberant ornamentation flanking the tall windows and
front entranceway. He lifted his tricornered hat from his head with a practiced
flourish and settled it under his arm, then turned to the driver.

"Wait here, man. I won't be long."

"As you wish, my lord." The carriage driver
nodded, tightening his grip on the reins. The two barrel-chested bays stamped
their hooves upon the drive at this restraint, their black
manes
and tails twitching impatiently.

Frederick walked up the marble steps and through the
open doorway, his own impatience barely concealed beneath his polished veneer
of nonchalance. His final meeting with Hasan was scheduled for later that
afternoon, at the same riverfront tavern where they had met the night before.
He had little time for unexpected social calls, though this one he could hardly
have refused. Rank and position always dictated special consideration.

Frederick handed his hat, gold-topped cane, and gloves
to another footman, allowing himself just a moment to straighten his silk
cravat. He had absolutely no idea why Archduchess Sophia had summoned him, and
with such insistent urgency.

Their acquaintance stretched back several years, but it
had always been on a purely superficial level. They moved within the same
aristocratic circle, attended many of the same court functions and galas, but
that was the extent of their interaction. He had long ago sensed in her a
temperament much like his own, a dangerous combination he had done his best to
avoid. Theirs had been merely a relationship of flowered flattery, simple
jests, and the most frivolous exchanges.

"Archduchess von Starenberg awaits you in the
salon, my lord," the footman intoned.

"Lead on, then," he murmured, following the
stiff-backed servant across the hall to a set of double doors. They were
quietly opened, revealing a room of startling white and gilt, awash with
sunshine streaming from tall, arching windows. Yet there were candles burning
in a glittering chandelier, the light reflecting off furnishings upholstered in
the most opulent gold brocade. And ensconced on a wide divan, the archduchess
herself, a stunning vision in scarlet satin embroidered with gold thread.

Easy . . . Frederick cautioned himself, his pulse
racing at the sight of her seductive beauty. Do not forget your role. He
extended a silk-stockinged leg in front of him and swept her a low bow.

"Count Althann . . . Frederick, if I may,"
Sophia purred, a beguiling smile curving her lips. What an amusing game this
would be, she thought fleetingly, as he straightened once again. She had not
missed the hot flash of admiration in his ice-blue
eyes,
hardly the reaction a woman would receive from a man with a preference for boys
. . . "Please, come in." She gracefully waved her hand toward an
armchair set near the divan. "Sit down."

Frederick obliged her, affecting his most grandiose
walk as he crossed the floor to the chair. He sat down with fastidious poise,
sweeping his coattails from beneath him and crossing his legs carefully at the
knee, the better to show off his fine silk garters imported from Italy, and
red-heeled shoes. He leaned casually on one elbow, his gaze not meeting hers
until he had flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his breeches.

"Are you comfortable?" Sophia
asked,
when it seemed he was finally settled.

"Oh, quite, my lady," Frederick replied,
pulling a white lace handkerchief from his pocket. It was the fop's counterpart
to a lady's fan, used for emphasis in speech, or to coyly hide an expression in
its scented folds. He pursed his lips, sniffing delicately. "You sent for
me with some urgency, Archduchess von Starenberg," he began. "Might I
inquire—
"

"Please, call me Sophia," she interjected,
marveling at the pretty show he was affording her. If Adolph had not apprised
her of this man's true character and vocation—a spy for the Turks, no less—she
would never have guessed it in a thousand years. His foppish performance was
flawless.