Arianna felt the tension suddenly melt from her bones. Over the years, she had learned to be tough and to trust only herself in the fight for survival. That she now had—as Saybrook once jokingly quipped—someone watching her arse was a source of surprising comfort.
Am I growing soft? Strangely enough, Arianna found she really didn’t care about the answer.
“Yes, so I have noticed,” she murmured, her breath barely stirring the air.
They both stiffened and went very still at the sound of approaching footsteps.
Click, click, click. The martial strides stopped by the door.
Arianna blinked as a sliver of light struck her eyes.
“We must move fast.” All slurring was gone. Her husband’s voice carried a sharp note of command. “I spotted Rochemont entering through the main gates. It’s imperative that he see . . .” His hand drew her out from the closet. “I’ll explain as we go along.” To Henning, he said, “Baz, your part is done. Leave by the same way we came and return to our quarters. We’ll meet you there shortly.”
Henning snapped a silent salute.
Saybrook had already started down the dimly lit corridor, his grip keeping her close to his big body.
“Shouldn’t we be trying to make our way outside, and slip away under the cover of darkness?” whispered Arianna.
“Not the best strategy, under the circumstances,” he replied. “I’ve got a better idea.”
His words were a welcome relief. Her body ached, her brain was muzzy, her resolve had gone a little weak at the knees. She was happy to let him take charge.
At the turn, Saybrook marched her through a doorway hidden discreetly in the decorative paneling, and up a flight of steep stairs. Then they were in another corridor, the glass-globed wall sconces illuminating a parfait of painted pastel colors highlighted with touches of gleaming gold.
“Good God,” she whispered.
“This section of the Amalienburg was designed for the old Emperor’s sister,” said Saybrook. “Which explains the extravagantly feminine decor. The Tsar has quartered some of his female relatives here.”
Arianna was still not sure what he intended.
“One . . . two . . . three . . .” he counted under his breath. “In here.”
He hurried her through a sitting room and into a large bedchamber swathed in a confection of frilly silks and satins. “Strip off your clothes.”
“Sandro, I’m not sure this is the moment for amorous activities.”
“It’s said that anger adds an edge to it.”
Was he angry? It wasn’t as if she had deliberately disobeyed his admonition to avoid danger.
“But you’re right.” He threw open the armoire and sorted through the selection of fancy gowns. “Here—try this. I’m assuming a corset can be found in one of the drawers. Don’t bother with stockings, or other fripperies. We just need to create a façade, if you will.”
Arianna kicked off her boots and shed her smock. “You aren’t worried that the rightful owner will suddenly appear ?”
“The Baroness of Saxe-Gothe is currently taking the waters at the spa town of Baden, so we should be safe enough,” said Saybrook. More rummaging produced a set of slippers to match the gown. “If disturbed, we can always claim we were simply playing prurient games.”
“You seem to have thought of everything.” Save, perhaps, for the choice of female from whom to purloin clothing. Apparently the baroness was molded along the lines of a petite porcelain doll for it took a fair amount of wiggling for Arianna to squeeze herself into the lady’s corset.
“Is there anything you can do to adjust the lacing? I think I’m in danger of popping out of these cursed whalebone stays.”
Saybrook did some fiddling with the strings, which seemed only to pinch tighter around her bosom. “I can’t breathe,” she complained.
“Breathing is not necessary. All you are required to do is smile and simper.” He helped slide the gown over her head and stepped back to assess the effect. “Not bad. A few inches short, but it can’t be helped.” Gesturing at the dressing table, he added, “Fix your hair as best you can. Nothing fancy. I don’t intend to linger long.”
Peeling off the false mustache and wig, Arianna unbound her tresses and shook them out with a sigh of relief. “Perhaps you had better tell me what you have in mind.”
“Rochemont and his cohorts have chased Monsieur Richard here,” answered the earl.
“How did you know that?” she interrupted.
“Baz and I met one of his men in the street. I put two and two together and decided I had better come and check if my addition was correct.”
“Mmmph.” With her mouth full of hairpins, she could do no more than grunt.
“If Rochemont is Renard, or merely working for him, he may be aware that I was involved in investigating the Prince Regent’s poisoning. That incident involved a chef, so if I were him, I’d be thinking long and hard about the coincidence of having kitchen trouble here in Vienna.”
Her mouth went a little dry.
“So I think it imperative that people see the Countess of Saybrook here tonight, in all her feminine glory. The timing should quell any suspicions that Rochemont might have. Like most people, he will assume that it would take an act of God—or black magic—to effect such a transformation.”
“Rochemont . . .” Arianna quickly jabbed a few fasteners into the hastily formed topknot and threaded a ribbon through it. “So you already know that Rochemont is the enemy.”
He nodded. “Baz discovered some key information in Edinburgh. He refused to explain it all until you are present. But yes, he said enough to indicate that Adonis’s outward beauty masks an inner rot.”
“Damnation, we do have much to talk about,” she murmured, taking up a comb to put the finishing touches on her hair.
“An understatement, if ever there was one.” Saybrook began to gather up her discarded clothing.
“Wait!” she exclaimed, catching his reflection in the looking glass. “There is a paper in the right pocket of the breeches. I went through a great deal of trouble to ensure that you see it.”
“Ah.”
She saw him tuck it away.
“I thought you weren’t going to do anything risky,” he said softly.
“Please don’t ring a peal over my head. I didn’t intend to, but when the unexpected arises, one is sometimes forced to improvise.”
“Improvise,” he repeated. Opening one of the bureau drawers, he buried the chef’s clothing beneath a pile of petticoats. “Well, we are not quite done for the night. Are you ready for one more adventure?”
Arianna drew on a pair of elbow-length kidskin gloves to hide her scraped hands. “But of course.”
“At last! I finally meet the lovely countess in the flesh.”
Arianna silently cursed her bad luck. Of all the rakes and roués dancing through the Austrian capital, His Imperial Highness, Tsar Alexander of Russia was perhaps the most blatant.
“And what lovely flesh it is,” he added in silky murmur as he lifted her gloved hand to his lips.
“Your Majesty is too kind.”
The Tsar gave a lascivious wink. “I hear that the earl is writing a book on the history of chocolate. But really, why would he spend his hours in the Austrian Imperial Library studying moldering old documents when he has a wife that looks good enough to eat?”
“Ha, ha, ha.” His entourage laughed at the witticism.
“You would have to ask him,” answered Arianna with a provocative pout. She knew that she looked as though she had just tumbled out of bed. So I might as well play the role to the hilt. A saucy sway of her hips set her skirts in a slow swirl, the froth of lace and ruffles kissing up against the Tsar’s polished evening pumps. “When we are together, we don’t discuss his work.”
Alexander ran the tip of his tongue over his plump lower lip. In his youth he had been called “the Angel” for his blonde good looks, but his dissolute lifestyle was turning his body to fat. “Boring stuff, work,” he announced, drawing another round of titters from his friends. “Come have tea with me, madam. I promise there will be no talk of books or manuscripts.” An exaggerated wink of his bright blue eye. “Ha! I will keep you entertained in other ways.”