“You’ll have to wait until they emerge.” Just as he uttered those words, the door opened, and a group of scantily clad women appeared. Pippa watched them, her jaw dropping. They were in a state of déshabillé, their hair was hanging dishevelled around their shoulders, their face paint was smeared. These were, clearly, women of questionable virtue: courtesans, actresses and demi-mondaines. Giggling, they pushed past them and wouldhave gone down the hallway, but the footman stopped them.
“Ladies. You must take the servants’ staircase and make sure no one sees you. No, not down the corridor, but the staircase on the left.” They ignored him. The footman set after them.
Not wasting a second, Pippa slipped inside.
A stench of rancid perfume and alcohol greeted her. Pippa wrinkled her nose and took a step inside the room and promptly stumbled over the arm of a man who lay on the floor, insensible.
Pippa’s gaze wandered about the room and took in the aftermath of the debauchery of the famous and powerful. She swallowed. There was overturned furniture, countless bottles and glasses, spilled wine staining the carpets, broken shards of glass, random items of clothing scattered about on the floor, gaming cards strewn across the table, molten wax from candles that had burned down to stubs, and tobacco ash.
There were at least two more men lying insensibly on the floor, near the fireplace. Another man had collapsed over a card table. He was still clutching the decanter with one hand, and his brandy glass in the other. His dark blue uniform was hanging off his shoulder and his dark brown hair was ruffled. Pippa blinked. Hadn’t she just seen him in the parade, all clean and proper and stiff—Frederick William, the King of Prussia?
Another fellow was sitting in the chair across from him, still awake, still drinking, and bellowing from the top of his voice, “Rule Britannia, Britannia rule the entire blasted world, Britain never, e-e-ever shall be slaaaves.”He lifted a wine bottle, saw Pippa, and blinked. “Lo and behold, an angel has entered.” He bent forward, blinked. “But this one is dressed. Why the blazes are you dressed?”
Pippa gave a curtsy. “Because it is day and I am working.”
He blinked. Then he swayed. “Excellent answer. There’s another angel in there but she’s naked. That’s why they call her ‘the Naked Angel’.” He laughed uproariously. He pulled himself up. “If I may introduce myself. Stewart is the name. Also known as Lord Pumpernickel, as the Viennese call me. Dash it, but I love that name. ’Tis brilliant.” He made an exaggerated bow and in the process, poured some of the contents of the bottle, that he was still holding, on the floor.
Pippa had heard of him. Sir Charles Stewart, the brother of Viscount Castlereagh, who, within only a few days, had built the reputation of being the most dissolute drunkard the British delegation had brought with them. He was almost daily in the scandal sheets. His face was swollen with drink, and his hair stood on end. He kept on rambling, but Pippa ignored him. She stepped over a pile of shards, pulled back the curtains and opened the windows.
The sound of glass breaking came from the Archduke’s bedroom. Drawing in a big breath, she turned towards it. Her heart was pounding ferociously.
“Kovacz!” a furious voice bellowed from within.
Then, there was the unmistakable sound of a woman’s voice, followed again by the sound of glass breaking.
“Kovacz! Where the devil is that man?” The door tore open, and a figure stormed out. “Get that blasted woman out of my bedr—” His eyes fell on her. He stopped short.
Tall, half undressed, wearing only trousers clinging low on his hips and a banyan hanging open over his bare chest, she found herself face to face with Prince Lucifer.
All breath left Pippa’s body; a chill swept through her veins.
His gaze locked on her, as if a thunderbolt had struck him. His sky-blue eyes widened, his jaw slackened. Confusion flickered across his face. He blinked once, twice, then shook his head and drew a hand over his face. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, a woman stumbled out of the room and flung herself at him from the back so that he stumbled forward.
Pippa jumped aside just in time to prevent a collision.
“He doesn’t love me,” the woman wailed. “I know it! I know it perfectly well! Pray tell me, what am I to do?” She clutched at his banyan, pulling at the silk with each word until it slipped, revealing his naked shoulder.
The Archduke swore as he wrestled with the woman, attempting to untangle himself from her, but she seemed determined to cling to him.
Pippa took an involuntary step backward, her gaze darting away in horror.
For the woman was completely, utterly, stark naked.
Chapter Thirteen
There weremoments in life that were so appalling, they entered the realm of the absurd. For Pippa, this was one such moment.
If only she could faint, was her first thought. Surely, that would solve all her immediate problems. To just fall into a state of blessed oblivion and forget everything she had seen and heard in the last ten minutes.
Instead, she remained stoically standing, watching as the debauched Archduke wrestled with a perfectly naked woman, who, evidently drunk, seemed determined to cling to him like an octopus, all the while wailing for her lover, who seemed to have deserted her.
Pippa’s mind set to work. One, two steps, and she reached the sideboard. She picked up the champagne bucket with the melted ice water—and poured the entire contents over the pair.
Splash.
The prince spluttered.
The woman’s wailing came to an abrupt halt.
