“Yes, well. One tries one’s best.” Her eyes slipped away from his face.
“It isn’t good enough, Miss Cranwell.”
She suddenly found the marble square plate on the floor of profound interest and traced the pattern with her left foot.
“But then,” he continued, “I suppose one can’t expect more from the daughter of Professor Basil Cranwell.”
“You know who I am.” It was quite a redundant statement, for of course Metternich knew who she was, and who her father had been. His next words confirmed that.
“Why, naturally? The daughter of one of the most controversial radical thinkers of our time.” His lips curled slightly. “Disgraced at the British court and sent into exile. Such an unfortunate reputation, your father’s. Radicalism, exile, and all that. But we mustn’t hold the sins of the parents against their children.” His eyes met hers in the ensuing pause. “Must we?”
Coldness rushed through her body, freezing her veins. What was he implying? The silence between them grew thick with unspoken threats.
But he merely chuckled. “You are not without intelligence, Fräulein Cranwell. I see you have understood the gist of my meaning.”
She licked her lips. “What in particular is it you need, sir?”
He regarded her for one moment with half-hooded eyes. “You have access to Archduke Leopold now that you have become his personal chambermaid. He hasdismissed the previous team because he suspected they worked for me, and rightly so.” He bent forward. “Little does he know that you’re no better. You must have heard the rumours regarding His Imperial Highness.”
“You mean that they call him the Blonde Lucifer?”
Metternich chuckled. “That, too. But I meant the more recent ones.”
Pippa, truly, had no idea what he meant.
“It is no secret that he is not on the best of terms with his father, the emperor. The main reason is that he is resisting the marriage that is to be arranged for him.”
Pippa felt his words like a punch in her stomach, but she schooled her expression to remain placid.
“What I want you to do,” Metternich continued, “is to discover the reason behind his resistance.” He tapped his quizzing glass against his chin. “I would wager a fortune that it is a woman.” A beat. “I want you to discover who she is, and what hold she has over him that he would put himself at odds with the Emperor.”
Pippa’s mouth dried. “Very well. You want a name, then.” Her voice came out steadier than she felt. “I shall get it for you.”
He smiled, a slow, satisfied curve of his lips. “I see we understand each other perfectly, Miss Cranwell. Or shall I say, Fräulein Braun?”
With a small nod, he turned and strolled away, leaving Pippa staring after him, her heart pounding in her chest.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Henni,during one of those rare hours when both had been granted a little rest, had led Pippa to a secluded terrace garden that scarcely anyone seemed to know about. It perched atop the southeast wing of the palace, where a broad, flattened platform took the place of a roof, offering just enough space for an elevated pleasure garden with potted plants, flowers and trees.
Pippa had visited it several times since, to catch a breath of fresh air, and to be away from people. She’d never encountered anyone there, even though, of course, she assumed gardeners must be working there, since the plants were well-tended to.
Her favourite place was the greenhouse at the back of the terrace. It was long and filled with plants. It was a simple conservatory, or more like an orangery, which held a botanical collection of exotic plants, particularly citrus, camellias, rhododendrons, palms and ferns.
Pippa loved the smell of the plants; the humid feelingon her skin; the weak winter sun that shone through the panels.
There was a little bench hidden inside between two palm trees, and she liked to sit there and think, and just do nothing at all.
With a sigh, she sat down on the bench.
There was the sound of footsteps in the greenhouse.
Pippa froze. “Who is there?”
A gardener appeared, carrying a bucket with a sharp-smelling solution. “Ah. I did not know anyone was here.” He set down the bucket and wiped his hands on his apron.
They eyed each other curiously. He had a shock of white hair and was slightly stooped, though maybe that was because he was bending down to pick up fallen leaves from the ground. He blew on one as if to dust it off and placed it carefully into the pocket of his apron. “If you press it between the leaves of a book, it may be used for artwork,” he explained. “A pastime of mine.”
