That, she vowed to herself, would only happen over her dead body.
During their lifelong betrothal, he had never once written to her.
Really, it was quite irregular.
All communication came through her brother. “Hartenberg sends his regards,” he’d toss at her at the breakfast table, folding up a long missive from him. Or, “Hartenberg is very much looking forward to seeing you finally in Vienna,” which made her think that her betrothed had preciselynotwritten that.
It certainly left her wondering.
Maybe this Hartenberg wanted to be shackled to her as much as she. Meaning: not at all.
Which, really, left her with one recourse: Find the man. Corner him. Collect the evidence. Dissolve their relationship. They would both be better off for it.
Except, to her eternal frustration, now that she had come all the way to Austria to meet the man, it turned out that he wasn’t in Vienna.
The man just doggedly refused to be in the same place as she, and she, Lady Evangeline Stafford-Hill, had had enough.
He was rusticating in the mountains, she was told. Healing from a war injury.
Well then, Evie reasoned.
If Mahomet refused to come to the mountain, then the mountain would go to Mahomet.
Except.
Not shortly after they had passed through the gates of Vienna, her companion Clara started to look peaky.
The carriage was stuck.
She was wet to her bones.
Her entire luggage was bathing in a quagmire.
There was thunder rolling in the distance.
And no inn in sight.
How, in the name of all that was good and holy, did she end up here?
Chapter Two
His Excellency,Georg Friedrich August, Count von Hartenberg, Baron von Wolfenstein, Imperial and Royal Privy Councillor, Field Marshal and Colonel-Proprietor of the 7th Infantry Regiment, Knight of the Order of the Golden Fleece, Grand Cross of the Military Order of Maria Theresia, cousin to the Archduke Klemens Alexander through his mother’s side, cocked an eyebrow at his aide-de-camp Fritz Schneider, who was sitting across from him in the carriage. “Did I imagine it, or did I just hear someone outside hurl a none-too-charming swearword at us?”
Schneider blinked. “You too, sir? I thought it was just me. It sounded English.”
Georg threw a glance back through the window.
They’d just passed a grimy coach whose wheel was stuck in a hole, with a muck-splattered female standing upon a rock by the wayside, shaking her fist, shouting something decidedly inelegant after them. “Some wench who appears to be talented at vulgar language.” Georg shruggedand settled back in his seat. “Truly, this congress has attracted the oddest travellers to this country.”
Schneider, too, cast a look outside, but they had long passed the unfortunate coach and its cursing passenger by now.
“Which reminds me that with the influx of strangers, we need to tighten our security measures. We need to brief our agents to be even more careful these days. Security has to be watertight. The enemy won’t sleep. Neither shall we.”
“Yes, Your Excellency. Do you have specific instructions for our agents?”
Hartenberg thought for a moment. “I don’t want them spilling everything to Metternich. While we have agreed to collaborate to a certain extent, and Metternich has been agreeably cooperative, the fact of the matter is that he benefits more. The kind of intelligence he collects is police intelligence. It is markedly different from ours.”
Schneider nodded. “Indeed. Salon gossip. He bribes chambermaids for the contents of paper baskets, mail, love letters, notes about who wears what colour breeches, whether the Tsar wears blue or red stockings, and who visits whose bedroom, and who happens to be in love with whom, and such.”
