Tasha Alexander - A Fatal Waltz

“I suppose I’m only jealous, but still, I don’t approve.” 

“When did you develop morals, Jeremy? I’m not sure I like it.” 

“Then I shall abandon them at once.” His eyes sparkled. “With your permission, of course.” 

Friedrich walked into the café, a swirl of snow following him through the door. I waved him over at once. “Who is your friend?” he asked. 

“Friedrich Henkler, meet Jeremy Sheffield, Duke of Bainbridge, Earl of Northam, Viscount Bridgewater. Am I forgetting any of your titles?” 

“Scores of them,” Jeremy said, shaking Friedrich’s outstretched hand. “A pleasure. Coffee?” He flagged down Viktor, who brought Friedrich’s usual beverage and a torte without having to be asked. 

“I’m surprised there are so many people here today,” I said. “I thought no one would want to fight the weather.” 

“No one wants to heat his apartment,” Friedrich said, devouring his pastry. 

“I understand you are soon to be the beneficiary of Lady Ashton’s machinations,” Jeremy said. 

“Lady…oh, ja, Kallista.” Jeremy raised an eyebrow as Friedrich nodded at me. “You promised not to set up a commission.”

“This has nothing to do with art.” I explained to him the plan Cécile and I had concocted. “She’s meeting with Anna and her mother right now. If all goes as planned, you should be able to see her at the Imperial in another day or two.” 

“I cannot begin to express my gratitude,” Friedrich said. 

“Please don’t try,” Jeremy said. “I haven’t the stomach for fawning this morning. Are you an artist?” 

Friedrich nodded and passed his sketchbook across the table. Jeremy started to flip through it in his usual casual manner, but stopped after the first few pages. 

“These are striking. So alive. I’m not much for art, you know. But this—this I like. Do you paint as well? Where’s your studio?” 

“I share one with four other artists. We’re not far from Klimt’s. You know his work?” 

“Of course,” Jeremy said. “Is your style similar to his?” 

“Not at all. I’m afraid mine is rooted more in realism.” 

“I’d like to see your work, Mr. Henkler,” Jeremy said. “I understand you did a magnificent sketch of Lady Ashton.” 

“It would be my pleasure to show you.” Friedrich ripped a scrap of paper from his book and scratched an address on it. “If I’m not here, I’m at the studio.” 

“Well, I won’t come until this dreadful snow has stopped. Tomorrow, perhaps? In the afternoon? Four o’clock?” 

“Very good. I’ll be waiting for you.” 

“We need to go,” I said. 

“So soon?” Jeremy asked. “I’ve only just got warm.” 

“You need better boots.” I pulled on my coat and hat. “Friedrich, if I don’t see you here tomorrow, I’ll have the duke let you know when you should come to the Imperial.” 

“A million thanks, Kallista. Anna and I will be forever indebted to you.” 

Jeremy leaned close to me as we walked towards the door. “It’s unexpectedly delightful to see you mingling with the masses.” 

“Why would you say such a thing? Do you object?” 

“Not particularly. It’s just surprising, that’s all. He seems like a capital chap. Where are we going now?” 

“To the first address on the count’s list,” I said. “It’s a short walk from here. I looked at my map while you were discussing your new passion for art with Friedrich.” 

“I’m certain I don’t agree with your definition of a short walk. Should I plan to freeze to death before we reach our destination?” We’d come to the front of the café, and he swung open the door, but I paused before exiting, distracted by the sight of someone sitting near the door, his face half hidden by a newspaper: Mr. Harrison.

“Coming?” Jeremy asked. “There’s going to be a snowdrift inside if I don’t close the door.” 

I followed him out, and we crossed the street. We’d gone less than a block when I knew that we were being followed. 

“This isn’t going to work,” I said. I looked around and saw the elaborate tiles of the Stephansdom’s roof, which was the only object in sight not covered with snow; the pitch was too steep to allow accumulation. I took Jeremy’s hand and pulled him towards the church. “I’ve always wanted to see where Mozart was married.” 

We ducked through a side door, disappointed to find that the massive Riesentor—the Giant’s Door—was closed, and walked down the nave in the direction of the high altar at the opposite end of the cathedral. I sat on an empty pew.

“What are you doing?” Jeremy whispered.

“We’re being followed.”

“By whom?”

“Mr. Harrison.”

“Is he in here?”

“I don’t know.” I looked around, but did not see him. “If he’s not, he’s waiting for us to come out.”

“So are we to spend the rest of the morning in church?”

“It will be good for your soul, Jeremy.” We sat quietly for approximately three minutes.

“I’m bored,” he said.

“Your attention span is astonishing. I’ll ask something that will amuse you. What do you think of the countess?”

“She’s gorgeous, obviously, in that devastating, self-assured, sophisticated way,” he said. “Smart too, from what I hear. An experienced woman of the world.” 

“A nightmare.” I sighed. 

“You’re not jealous of her?” 

“Maybe a bit.” 

“Does Hargreaves know?” 

“No! Telling him would make me feel even less devastatingly sophisticated, self-assured, and experienced than I already do.” 

“You’ve no need for worry.” 

“I know. It’s just—” I stopped. “We’ve known each other since we were babies, Jeremy. Can I speak freely?” 

“Of course. Shock me at will.” 

“You’re…experienced. Do you ever regret the loss of a former mistress?” 

“Em, this is a conversation you do not want to have.” 

“I can’t imagine that it’s possible to simply stop loving someone.” 

“Most mistresses are just amusing games.” 

“I don’t think Colin plays amusing games,” I said, tipping my head back and looking at the vaulted ceiling. 

“He’s quite good at chess.” 

“You’re not being helpful.” 

“No, and I can’t be on this count,” he said. “He’s the only one who can ease your mind.” 

“I don’t want him to think I doubt his fidelity.” 

“Do you doubt it?” 

“No.” 

“Then why do you feel threatened by the countess?” 

“Not because I think he would go back to her, but because I’m afraid that in comparison, he may find me a disappointment.” 

“Highly unlikely, darling.” 

“I’d very much like to believe you.” I glanced around, but saw no sign of Mr. Harrison. “Do you think it’s safe to leave?” 

“Impossible to say.” 

“Perhaps we should just return to the Imperial.” 

“Let’s stay here,” Jeremy said. “As you said, it’s good for my soul, and the morbid bit of me would like to see the relics.” 

“They have a piece of the tablecloth from the Last Supper.” 

“Right. Undoubtedly purchased from some dubious medieval merchant. Besides, I’m looking for bones.” 

“We could tour the catacombs,” I said, and took him by the hand. We walked past Saint Valentine’s chapel, which held the cathedral’s reliquary, and headed straight for the catacombs, which we found inaccessible to tourists. Inaccessible, that is, until Jeremy made it worth the while of a caretaker in possession of a useful set of keys. He admitted us for a fee, and we found them dank and gruesome and everything one would want such a place to be. 

“I hope my bones don’t wind up heaped in a stack under some church,” Jeremy said. “Or maybe I do. It’s rather romantic down here.” 

“Romantic? Hardly. And I don’t think you need fear for your bones. You couldn’t keep them out of the family vault if you tried.” 

“Unless I run through my fortune and die penniless in Vienna.” 

“You’re not profligate enough to manage that,” I said. “But if by chance you somehow do become that corrupt, I promise to see to it myself that you have a shelf of your own down here. I won’t have your skull piled in a heap.” 

“You are generosity itself. If only you’d be so kind to me while I’m still alive. Instead you’re bent on breaking my heart.” 

“I didn’t think you had a heart, Jeremy.” 

“Neither did I.” 

I caught no sign of Mr. Harrison when we left the Stephansdom. Even so, we returned to the Imperial before continuing our mission, taking extra care to be certain that he was no longer tailing us. While Cécile and I caught up on the events of the morning, Jeremy spoke to the manager of the hotel, who quickly agreed to increase security near our rooms. After a quick luncheon, we set off again. 

Before that afternoon, I had never seen neighborhoods like those found on the count’s list. As a girl, I had accompanied my mother when she visited tenants on my father’s estate, but their happy, well-tended cottages did nothing to prepare me for the dire conditions in which Vienna’s poor lived. The houses aspired to the finery of those in the city’s best neighborhoods, with corniced windows and elaborate decorative detail. But this did nothing to hide laundry hanging from windows, garbage strewn across sidewalks, the stench of decay defying the freezing temperatures, and gardens covered with soot from the factories that surrounded the area. Children dressed in little more than filthy rags ran through the streets when they should have been in cozy rooms eating something hot. 

It took several hours for Jeremy and me to find all six addresses, our task made more difficult by the heavy snow. And when we did find them, Herr Schröder’s compatriots, tucked in their dingy, cold houses, proved unwilling conversationalists.