Tasha Alexander - A Fatal Waltz

“Mr. Harrison is absolutely indispensable to the ambassador,” Lady Paget said. “I don’t know what we would do without him.”

“You’re too kind,” he said.

I should very much have liked to reply, but forced a thin smile instead.

“Lady Ashton was just telling me how she’s longing to dance. You really ought to—”

“That’s not necessary,” I said. “I—I—”

“I’m afraid I’ve no time for you this evening, Lady Ashton, and, regardless, I’ve already promised the next dance.” He kissed Lady Paget’s hand again, and disappeared. Lady Paget raised an eyebrow and turned to me, about to speak. Thankfully, just at that moment Colin approached us. He bowed neatly to me and bestowed on Lady Paget a perfect handküss.

“How Austrian of you, Mr. Hargreaves,” she said. “Please assure me that you haven’t completely abandoned your Englishness.”

“Not at all, Lady Paget. I’m merely embracing the local culture.”

“If I see you adopting the dreadful manners that I see in the Hapsburg court, I shall insist that you be returned to London at once.”

“Then I shall limit my emulation of the Viennese to the ballroom. It is there where one finds the souls of our Austrian hosts.”

“You are quite mistaken, sir. It is the copious libation of beer and the inordinate consumption of schnitzel and Kaiserschmarren that chains the Austrian souls to this earth.” Lady Paget closed her eyes and shook her head with an air of elegant hopelessness as she spoke.

“You have spent more time here than any of us, Lady Paget, so I shall defer to your superior knowledge. But I will say that I am rather fond of Kaiserschmarren.”

“Dear Mr. Hargreaves, I worry for you. If you insist on being Austrian this evening, dance with your fiancée.”

“You have anticipated me, Lady Paget.” He took my hand.

“Do call on me soon, Lady Ashton,” she said. “I’ll make sure you’ve invitations to all the best parties while you’re here.” I thanked her without noticing the words I used. The moment Colin’s hand touched mine, my heart began to race, and the skin beneath my glove tingled at his touch.

“Kaiserschmarren?” I asked as we began to dance.

“I’ve no interest in discussing pancakes with you.” He held me close and led me around the floor with a marvelous grace; I could hardly breathe. Our eyes held each other’s gaze as the room flew by us in a blur. Guiding me firmly, he spun us around and around more quickly than I would have thought possible. The Viennese waltz moved at a much quicker pace than anything I’d danced before. I do not think my feet touched the ground; it was intoxicating. An ordinary waltz would be a disappointment after this.

As we swirled again and again, a pair of figures caught my attention, snapping out of the haze and into focus: Mr. Harrison and the Countess von Lange, standing far too close together in the corner of the room.

22 December 1891

Berkeley Square, London

Dear Emily,

I am enclosing all the most recent articles from the London papers that include references to Robert’s plight. Aside from everyone believing he’s guilty of murder, people have begun speaking openly of treason and financial ruin. The papers are careful to avoid charges of libel, but the gossips share no such worries. It’s surprising, really, when you consider the fact that everyone despised Lord Fortescue. I wouldn’t have thought people would take such an interest in his murder—at least not in a way that involves viciously attacking an innocent man. But apparently suffering a violent death has made the victim likable. All anyone remembers now are the people he helped. No one dares mention those he ruined, his propensity for blackmail, his disgusting behavior, ill manners, well…I need not go on. You know perfectly well what I mean.

And I need hardly tell you how great the toll has been on Ivy. I tried to visit Robert yesterday, but he wouldn’t see me, and he continues to refuse to see his wife. She’s disconsolate. You can see how dire are his straits. You can’t merely prove him not guilty, Emily, you’ve got to find out who committed the crime. Otherwise I fear that no one will ever believe his innocence, and there will always be a cloud of uncertainty hanging over him.

On a less serious note, my dear Mr. Michaels is overwrought that I’ve not returned to Oxford and wrote me a passionate note reprimanding me for abandoning my studies. In the course of my reply to him, I disagreed with him about certain analogies in Ovid’s Ars Amatoria. This so disgruntled him that he sent his own reply by express.

I confess to finding that unexpectedly exciting.

Finally, Davis is moping. It’s been three days since he’s had a letter from Cécile’s maid. Tell Odette to send one posthaste. Your butler is no fun when he’s morose. He’s hidden Philip’s cigars, and I can’t find them anywhere. I’m so irritated with him that I think I would return his Christmas gift if I hadn’t had it engraved. What a pity I know no one else with the same initials.

I am yr. most devoted, etc., friend,

Margaret 

I awoke the next morning full of satisfaction, pulled on my dressing gown, and flung open the curtains in my suite. Snow was falling again, huge flakes that made it impossible to see across the street. It was a lovely sight. Lovely, that is, until I looked down at the windowsill and saw a bullet sitting on it. Mr. Harrison had been in my room.

I picked it up, but my trembling hands could not hold on to its cold smoothness, and it flew to the ground, striking the parquet floor with a ping that sounded far too innocent. Had he come in while I was sleeping? Or when I wasn’t here? The distressing feeling of violation that was pressing, unwelcome, on my chest was familiar. I’d been the target of a cat burglar in London only a few months ago. In the end, however, that had turned out harmless. This time, my intruder was unquestionably an enemy. I retrieved the bullet, my head spinning as I bent over.

Meg opened the door a sliver. “Madame du Lac and the duke are already breakfasting, milady. That painter was here, too, but he’s already left.” She wrinkled her nose, disapproving of Klimt’s presence so early in the morning. I, on the other hand, welcomed the distraction and considered shoving the bullet into my night-stand drawer. I willed away my feeling of unease and wondered when Klimt had appeared at the Imperial—he hadn’t been at the ball or the café afterwards, and I thought it unlikely that he’d come for breakfast. Unfortunately, I’d have to wait until I had Cécile alone to find out any details.

“Are you ready to get dressed, ma’am?” Meg asked.

I was in no mood to rush, and took my time selecting a gown of the softest midnight blue wool. Its bodice crossed in a deep v in front, blue paisleys embroidered along the edges. Underneath was a matching high collar, trimmed with dainty Venetian lace identical to that peeking out from the bottoms of the sleeves. The color brought out the blue of my eyes, and my cheeks were flushed with the memory of dancing with Colin the night before. I was succeeding, at least for the moment, in distracting my mind from Mr. Harrison’s bullet.

I went out to the sitting room, where Cécile was pouring coffee for Jeremy.

“Em, it’s not right for you to be so alluring this early in the morning,” Jeremy said, adding no fewer than four lumps of sugar to his coffee.

“Apologies,” I said, taking a cup of tea. I put the bullet on the table and told my friends where I’d found it.

“Mon dieu,” Cécile said. “This is unacceptable.”

“We shall have to ask the hotel to provide us better security,” I said. “I cannot have this man in our rooms.”

“Let me speak to the manager for you,” Jeremy said.

“I’d appreciate that. If he could perhaps station someone at the top of the steps, watching the hallway, I’d feel much better.”

“I can’t imagine there will be any difficulties in arranging that.”

I picked up an apricot pastry. “You look exhausted.”

“Dancing until four and rising at eight is taking its toll on me,” Jeremy said.

“Perhaps you’re getting too old to stay out so late,” I said. I felt something tugging on my skirt. “Brutus! Stop!” I picked up the dog and handed him to Cécile, who glared at him and fed Caesar a biscuit.

“That’s unfair, Emily. I’m in the prime of life and intend on staying there.” He took a long drink of coffee, frowned, and started adding more sugar. “I’ve already decided to never admit to being older than thirty-two. That is, once I reach thirty-two.”

“Darling, you forget that I know exactly how old you are,” I said. “I’ll do whatever I must to keep you honest.”

“You do know, I hope, that no man under the age of forty can even approach fascinating,” Cécile said.

“I’ve no interest in being fascinating, Madame, merely young,” Jeremy said.

“Such a mistake.” Cécile shook her head. “You’ll learn eventually.”

“I wouldn’t want to set you up for disappointment. I rarely learn anything.” Satisfied that his coffee was at last sweet enough, he drained the cup and filled it again at once.

“So am I to believe that Klimt is not yet fascinating?” I asked.

“He will be in time. For now, he’s merely amusing.”

“And brilliant,” I said.

“Yes, brilliant, too,” Cécile said.

“So a chap can be brilliant without being fascinating?” Jeremy asked.