Vienna Waltz (The Imperial Season Book 1) by Mary Lancaster Page B

dwell on the back of her neck and then, very quickly, he reached up as if to grasp it and deftly loosened the clasp.
    “Madame,” he said at once. “The clasp of your necklace…”
    Mrs. Daniels paused, her hand flying to the jewels at her bosom and giving them an experimental tug. The necklace came away in her hand. “Oh my,” she exclaimed. “Oh dear!”
    “Well, at least you have not lost it. Look, put it in your reticule until you get home. You can have it repaired tomorrow.”
    “Very true,” she said. Vanya couldn’t tell if she was more relieved not to have dropped and lost the necklace or disappointed not to be wearing it still. Good humoredly, he led her back into the dance.
    When the dance was over, he returned her to her chair, made sure she had a glass of wine, and went off to find Sonia for the waltz.
    *
    Major Blonsky scowled through his mask at the unedifying sight of Countess Gelitzina waltzing in the arms of the man he considered his greatest enemy, Napoleon Bonaparte and the entire French army notwithstanding. He appeared to be whispering outrageous blandishments in her receptive ear for her laughter was breathless and her cheeks flushed by more than the exertion of the dance.
    “Major,” murmured a quiet voice at his side. He didn’t need to turn to recognize the voice as that of the man he knew only as Agent Z, but he glanced over anyway, if only to prove he was unafraid. The spy was in his element, masked and cloaked in silver-gray, hidden from the dance floor by the pillar he lounged against, and which Blonsky appeared to be sharing with him.
    “I thought you were guarding His Majesty the Tsar,” Agent Z observed.
    “I am,” Blonsky said shortly. “His Majesty is dancing. I don’t see the countess as a huge threat to his life.”
    “I’m always glad to have my theories confirmed,” the spy said politely, although Blonsky was sure the words contained a wealth of hidden sarcasm. “And what of the Russian officer I asked you about? The one who met secretly with the English woman.”
    “Colonel Ivan Petrovitch Savarin,” Blonsky said with loathing. “It’s my belief he’s trying to sabotage relations between the Russians and the Austrians by promoting a secret treaty with the British.”
    The spy’s eyes burned into his averted face. Blonsky smiled.
    “You have evidence?” the spy inquired.
    “Isn’t that your job?” Blonsky said rudely.
    “Not when I’m paying you. Why do you hate him?”
    Blonsky felt no need to deny it. Unconsciously, he touched the scar on his hand, souvenir of their last unexpected and humiliating encounter. He’d never expected the boy he used to beat up regularly would have turned into such a good fighter. Graceless, perhaps, but efficient…damn it, even that wasn’t true. Vanya had still possessed the swashbuckling panache that had so annoyed Blonsky as an adolescent. It had just been honed and focused by his years of soldiering.
    “You fought a duel,” Agent Z observed.
    Blonsky could sneer—had sneered, and in public—at Vanya’s half-wild Cossacks, but it was they who’d not only seen but fought in all the battles from Borodino to Leipzig. It had rankled when Vanya had instantly snapped back, insulting Blonsky’s regiment as drawing room solders. It hadn’t really been about regiments, of course; it had been about a peasant girl loved by the youthful Savarin and taken by the not much older Blonsky. But still, there had been too much truth in Vanya’s insult and even Blonsky’s promise to trounce the “barbarian” commander had been undeniably turned against him when the barbarian had trounced him in a humiliatingly short space of time.
    “A stupid drunken brawl,” Blonsky snapped. “We each imagined we were defending rather than disgracing our respective regiments.” He pushed himself off the pillar. “You’ll get your evidence,” he snarled and walked away. It would have felt better if he hadn’t suspected the spy had