Vienna Waltz (33 page)

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Authors: Teresa Grant

Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Historical, #Romance, #Historical Romance, #Mystery & Suspense

BOOK: Vienna Waltz
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Aline was waiting for her in her bedchamber. “Suzanne.” She sprang up from the edge of the bed. “Lady Castlereagh told me. Well, I confronted her. I overheard one of the footmen saying Malcolm had been arrested. What in God’s name is going on? And don’t fob me off with reassurances. This is my cousin.”
Suzanne drew Aline down on the edge of the bed beside her, searching for how much she could safely say. “Baron Hager received a letter Princess Tatiana wrote to Malcolm, which makes it sound as though she was blackmailing him.”
“About what?”
Suzanne swallowed, a raw taste in her mouth. “I don’t know. But I’m quite sure the letter was taken from Princess Tatiana’s rooms the night she died and that Malcolm never received it.”
Aline stared at the floorboards for a moment, then fixed Suzanne with a firm stare. “Was Princess Tatiana Malcolm’s mistress? I’m sorry, it’s a beastly question, but we’ve rather lost the time for tact.”
Suzanne felt a smile break over her face. “No. She wasn’t.”
“You seem very sure.”
“I am. Now.”
Aline’s taut expression relaxed into a smile. “Good. That’s something, at least.” She glanced at the silver gauze evening gown draped over the dressing table bench. “I suppose we won’t be dining at the French embassy after all.”
“On the contrary.” Suzanne had forgot the engagement, but now she knew it was just the thing. “It’s more imperative than ever that we put in an appearance. I count on you for moral support,
chérie
.”
“Then I’d best dress. As Mama says, it’s the trivial rituals of life that get one through the bad times.”
Alone in her room at last, Suzanne leaned against the closed door and pressed her fingers to her forehead. She was shaking so badly she felt the door panels rattle. She had confided bits and pieces of the truth to Castlereagh, Tommy, Fitz, and Aline, but she could tell none of them the whole of it.
She had seen Malcolm wounded. She had seen him with his back to the wall, using all his wits to protect them both. But never, in the over two years she had known him, had she seen him removed completely from the field of play. He had offered her his protection and then become her comrade. But except when he had been wounded, never had he been so vulnerable and dependent on her. The foreign, émigrée bride with the tarnished past was going to have to rescue her aristocratic husband.
She recalled his matter-of-fact words about taking Colin to Britain. Cold terror washed over her. He had brought her into this alien world and now she was alone in it. But it wasn’t the prospect of making her way as an outsider in the mysterious labyrinth of British society that truly terrified her. It was the thought of being without him.
She hadn’t realized how necessary he had become to her happiness. Perhaps that was the true measure of love. Not a racing pulse or dizzy rapture or a rush of physical longing. Knowing one would be in a desolate world without the other person.
Talleyrand turned round at the opening of the door to the private stairs. “What’s happened?”
“Devil take it, I don’t know how you do it,” his visitor said. “I swear I remember every trick you taught me about moving silently.”
“I would be a sad failure if I weren’t able to see past tricks I myself taught you.” Talleyrand set his glass of calvados on the gilded boulle cabinet. “I trust this is serious for you to risk coming here in daylight.”
“I wasn’t followed or seen. I learned my lessons that well.” His visitor dropped into a damask chair. “There’s been a complication. Malcolm Rannoch’s been arrested.”
Every so often, a move in the chess game that was Continental politics took Talleyrand completely by surprise. “Interesting. Why?”
“Apparently Hager got information that Rannoch arrived at the Palm Palace alone the night of the murder, contrary to his wife’s version of events. And if I have it correctly, there’s also evidence Tatiana was blackmailing Rannoch.”
“Ah.” Talleyrand picked up his glass and wiped at the condensation on the lacquered mahogany of the cabinet. “I should have thought of that.”
“Do you know why?”
“I can guess.”
“So help me, if he hurt Tatiana—”
“Spare me the theatrics. One can never be sure of another’s actions, but I very much doubt Malcolm Rannoch killed Tatiana. Not given how he felt about her.”
“So they
were
lovers?”
“Or something closer.” Talleyrand sank into his favorite chair. “The important thing now is what this does to our plans.”
“Upsets them completely. Rannoch’s no use to us in prison.”
“No, but his wife’s still free, and unless I’ve misjudged her, she won’t rest until she has him out of prison. Nor will she let his investigation flag in the meantime.”
“Madame Rannoch is a lovely woman with a keen understanding, but—”
“My dear boy, by the time you’ve got to be my age you’ve learned not to make the mistake of underestimating women.”
“So what do you suggest?”
“We count on her to do what Rannoch would have done. We may be able to make use of Czartoryski as well. We know Malcolm was working with him.” Talleyrand settled back against the chair cushions. “Suzanne Rannoch is to dine with us tonight. Fortuitous.”
“She won’t attend. Not after today.”
Talleyrand smiled. “Oh, I think she will. If I’ve judged her correctly. It will be very interesting to see how events unfold.”
“Damn you, do you have to find everything amusing? Aren’t you the least bit worried?”
“One must take one’s amusements where one can. Otherwise life would quite fail to be worth living.” Talleyrand swirled the calvados in his glass. “And for what it’s worth, the last time I was this worried my hôtel shook with cannon fire and the allies were at the gates of Paris.”
33
D
orothée’s salon in the Kaunitz Palace glittered with scented candles, a multitude of jewels, and the hum of bright, brittle talk. Talk that dimmed perceptibly when Suzanne and Aline stepped into the room.
“Chérie.”
Dorothée swept toward them in a swirl of primrose crêpe over white satin and kissed Suzanne’s cheek. “I’m so glad you came. We’ve heard the news, and of course everyone knows there’s been a shocking mistake. Aline, what a lovely gown—amber is so pretty with your hair. Come and sit by the fire.”
Count Clam-Martinitz came forward and bowed over Suzanne’s and Aline’s hands as though on cue. Talleyrand followed at a more leisurely pace, his gold-headed cane glinting in the candlelight.
“Madame Rannoch.” His shrewd gaze held genuine kindness. Or at least seemingly genuine kindness. With Talleyrand one could never tell the counterfeit from the reality. Suzanne doubted if he knew himself. “I hope you know you may count me a friend.”
He didn’t, Suzanne noted as he bowed over her hand, say Malcolm could count him a friend. But perhaps, like Castlereagh, he didn’t think it politic to offer public support for the accused murderer of the woman who had been mistress to the tsar and Metternich.
Dorothée led Suzanne to a seat beside Wilhelmine on a Grecian sofa.
“It’s your name day today, isn’t it, Duchess?” Suzanne said in a bright voice as she sank down on the sofa. “Your given name is Catherine?”
“How kind of you to remember. Yes, something else I share with Princess Bagration. As a Protestant, I’m not in the habit of celebrating my name day, but people seem to keep remembering it today. Metternich sent me a very handsome portfolio with gilt embossing. Perhaps because I remembered his name day two days ago.” She frowned, as though considering the implications of the gift. “Or perhaps he’d have sent it in any case. He’s much more thoughtful than I am. Though I can’t say he’s been very thoughtful when it comes to your husband.” The duchess turned an appraising gaze on Suzanne. “I was right. You do love him.”
Suzanne’s pearl bracelet caught on a fold of gauze as she settled her skirt. She disengaged it, forcing herself not to tug. “And here I prided myself on my abilities at deception.”
“Don’t tease her, Willie,” Dorothée said. “Of course she’s overset. He’s her husband.”
Wilhelmine let her cashmere shawl slither lower on her arms. “There were any number of times I’d have quite liked to see both my husbands locked up.” Her gaze drifted across the room to Count Clam-Martinitz, who was handing Aline into a chair. “I thought you felt the same about your own, Doro.”
Dorothée frowned. “I may not wish to share a roof with Edmond, but I wouldn’t wish him—” She shook her head, her glossy dark side curls stirring about her face. “Suzanne and Monsieur Rannoch are a different case entirely.”
“Precisely my point.” Wilhelmine touched Suzanne’s hand. “I’m sorry, Madame Rannoch. It’s quite obvious what’s going on. The powers that be are desperate to tidy the crime away, and as an attaché Monsieur Rannoch is conveniently expendable. I imagine even Castlereagh knows he dare not come too strongly to his defense. I must say, I’d have hoped Metternich would show more fortitude.”
“Anyone may be misled by the evidence.”
“Particularly when they desire to be misled.”
When Dorothée rose to indicate that it was time to go in to dinner, Suzanne caught Wilhelmine’s gloved wrist. “I haven’t found what you’re looking for. But Malcolm’s imprisonment doesn’t mean I’m giving up.”
Wilhelmine turned her head to look Suzanne directly in the eye and gave a quick, genuine smile. “Thank you. Suzanne.”
Four silver candelabra ran the length of the table in the elegant dining room, shedding soft light over the jewels and medals of the assembled guests. Chairs scraped discreetly against the carpet, gowns rustled, and Suzanne felt a crossfire of gazes shot in her direction.
She found herself seated beside Count Clam-Martinitz. Aline was partnered by Wilhelmine’s lover Alfred von Windischgrätz, who appeared to be making her laugh over a military story. Suzanne hadn’t seen her husband’s cousin so at ease with anyone but Geoffrey Blackwell. As she pulled off her gloves, Suzanne cast a glance at Wilhelmine, who gave a faint smile. Dorothée coming to their rescue was no surprise. She was more surprised about Dorothée’s eldest sister. One could find one had friends in unexpected places.
“I was with your husband at the Carrousel after Vaughn was wounded,” Count Clam-Martinitz said in a low voice, as bewigged footmen poured a fine Hungarian wine. “One can take a man’s measure quickly in a moment like that. I’m sure the Comtesse de Périgord is right that this is a terrible mistake.”
Suzanne took a sip of wine. “My husband is fortunate in his friends.”
“Besides,” Clam-Martinitz added with a smile, “I can’t imagine a man married to such a beautiful woman having any other interests.”
“If that were true, my dear Count, a number of women in this room would have very different marriages.”
“Touché.” Clam-Martinitz risked a brief glance at Dorothée, presiding with elegant insouciance at the foot of the table.
Carême, the renowned chef Talleyrand had brought with him from Paris, had outdone himself. Rich dish followed rich dish with delicately flavored sauces and the finest wines. “Monsieur Carême had the truffles sent from Paris by diplomatic courier,” Clam-Martinitz told her as they sampled a beef vol-au-vent.
“You’re very at home at the French embassy.”
“Yes.” He cast an almost imperceptible glance down the table at Talleyrand. “Everyone has been most kind.”
After dinner they returned to the salon. Talleyrand carried a cup of the coffee Dorothée was pouring out over to Suzanne, who was sitting on the bench built into the porcelain stove. “I’m sorry,” he said in a different voice from the one he’d used earlier. “I’m sure of few things in life, but I’m quite sure Malcolm didn’t kill Tatiana.”
“I’m glad you can at least admit that to me.”
“Neutrality has its uses, my dear Madame Rannoch. Besides, I have every faith Malcolm can extricate himself from this predicament without me. Though I suspect he will rely on your help.”
Suzanne took a sip of coffee. Strong and as exquisitely flavored as everything else that came from the embassy kitchens. “Malcolm told me you were friends with his grandfather.”
Talleyrand eased himself down beside her on the bench. “The Duke and Duchess of Strathdon came to Paris fairly often before the Revolution. The duchess was French by birth, a Lisle. Charming woman. The duke had his head in his books, but perhaps that’s a sensible place to be. They both offered rational conversation, which I sometimes find in short supply.”
“You stayed close to the family through the years.”
“With letters, at least. The duke and his daughter Arabella, Malcolm’s mother, were very kind to me when I was forced to take refuge in England. To a certain extent, to me Malcolm will always be the five-year-old boy I met then.”
“Prince Talleyrand.” Suzanne settled her cup in its saucer. “Malcolm told me. About his mother’s predicament thirty-some years ago and Princess Tatiana’s birth.”
The firelight seemed to leap in Talleyrand’s hooded eyes. The shadows sharpened his face. “Interesting.”
“A comment that admits nothing.”
“But of course.” He regarded her for a moment. “What I find most interesting is that he told you. Malcolm held that secret even closer than Tatiana did. He’s never trusted easily. There is evidently more to your marriage than I realized.”
“It’s never wise to think one knows what goes on inside any marriage, Prince.”
“In the case of most marriages, the inner workings are of less interest than the average laundry list. But then Malcolm has always been unconventional.”
Suzanne turned so she could look Talleyrand full in the face. “Who do you think was Princess Tatiana’s father?”
“If I knew, don’t you think I’d have told Tatiana? And Malcolm?”
“No.”
Talleyrand flung back his white head and gave a shout of laughter, letting loose a cloud of hair powder. “You’re very likely right, though it would have depended on who the father was. But Arabella was a master at keeping secrets.” His gaze shifted to the fire for a moment. “She was a formidable woman.”
Suzanne thought it was more than the glow of the firelight that softened the prince’s voice and eyes. “Malcolm believes you weren’t Tatiana’s father,” she said.
He lifted his gaze to her face without hesitation. “And you?”
“I’m not sure.”
He twitched a satin cuff smooth. “If Tatiana had been my daughter, I’d have been proud to own her. I said Arabella was a remarkable woman, and I meant it. But she was never mine. Not in that sense.”
The faint regret in his voice was faultless. But Prince Talleyrand was as skillful an actor as any who graced the stage of the Comédie Française. “Do you know any reason why Princess Tatiana would have been blackmailing Malcolm?” Suzanne asked.
Talleyrand lifted his brows.
“Over something he didn’t wish me to discover?”
She expected another light denial. Instead, Talleyrand regarded her in silence for a long moment. “I suggest you ask your husband about that, Madame Rannoch. I’ll be very interested to hear what he chooses to tell you.”
Despite the warmth from the stove, a chill coursed through her. She subdued the impulse to pull her shawl about her shoulders. “Of course she might have been blackmailing others, as well. By any chance was she blackmailing you?”
“A bold attack. My compliments. No, she wasn’t. Though if she had been, I doubt I’d have admitted it.”
“My thoughts precisely. Of course it also occurred to me that you might have been the person orchestrating her blackmail of Malcolm.”
Talleyrand’s gaze stilled for a moment, steady on her face. “My dear Madame Rannoch. To what end?”
“I don’t know.”
“Even if I could bring myself to do such a thing to Arabella’s son, do you really think I would employ Malcolm’s sister in the matter?”
“That, my dear Prince, would depend on what you expected to get out of it.”
Geoffrey Blackwell dropped into a gilded chair beside Suzanne in her box at the Burgtheater an hour later. “I was working on an experiment all afternoon. Didn’t hear the news until I arrived here. To find us all under a different sort of microscope.” He cast a glance round the theatre. One could almost feel the pressure of the opera glasses turned in their direction. “How are you holding up?”
Suzanne forced a smile to her lips. “I’m not the one in prison.”
“No, but you’re the one having to put up with the intense scrutiny of Vienna, or at least a certain segment of Viennese society. All of whom seem to be in this theatre tonight. I never thought to see Malcolm the center of a scandal.”
“Malcolm has a way of taking one by surprise.”
Geoffrey grimaced. “You’re too sensible a woman to take gossip seriously, Suzanne.”
“With Malcolm I’ve learned not to make assumptions.”
He scraped a hand through his thinning black hair. “Tell me what I can do to help.”
Suzanne shifted her chair toward him. “You knew Lady Arabella Rannoch well, didn’t you?”
Geoffrey’s gaze went straight to her own. The buzz of conversation seemed to fade away about them. “I’m glad Malcolm finally saw sense and told you about Tatiana. You’re better off without secrets.”
“How long have you known?” Suzanne asked.
“Almost from the first. I grew up with Malcolm’s mother and her sisters. When Arabella returned from her trip abroad with her father, she confided her predicament to me. I was a year her junior—just starting at Oxford at the time.”
“She trusted you a great deal.”
He glanced away for a moment, staring out over the heads in the audience below—jeweled, feather-trimmed, combed into stylish disarray or shiny with pomade. “I like to think she did. Though I confess to an unfair advantage. I found Arabella being sick into an orange tree in the conservatory at a ball. I was already interested in medicine, and I noticed other changes in her. I guessed, and she could tell I had.”
“Did she—”
“Confide the identity of the father to me? No.” Anger at the man in question shot through Geoffrey’s eyes. “She refused to do so. She said the truth would do too much damage. Arabella was—” His ironic gaze turned unaccustomedly soft, much as Prince Talleyrand’s had done. “Restless. Mercurial. But something changed in her in those months. It was as though she stopped believing in the possibility of happiness.” Geoffrey stared at the royal blue swags of curtain veiling the proscenium. “I sometimes think she married Alistair Rannoch because he was a man who could be calculated not to touch her heart.”
During the first interval in Schiller’s
Don Carlos
, Suzanne pressed a note for Adam Czartoryski into the hand of an obliging footman and went in search of Aline. Her cousin-in-law had found Schubert in the passage behind the boxes. He bowed to Suzanne. “I’ve heard, like the rest of Vienna. I’ve been telling Fraulein Dacre-Hammond that I can’t believe it of Herr Rannoch.”

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