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.So bound to tradition and appreciative of routine, his brother would take afternoon coffee in the middle of a volcano.And he would be honor-bound to accept the request of another nobleman, especially if that request was as easy to grant as providing a few weeks’ shelter.Karl—whatever he had planned—would take that inch of kindness and stretch it into something unclean, perhaps even illegal.Standing there in the sweltering foyer, Oliver felt guilty for putting such faith in his assumption.But suspicions about his friend remained firm and unchanged.As Christoph turned to climb the stairs to the library, Oliver took his arm.“A word, my lord?”“Coffee, Hans,” Christoph said, dismissing the butler.When they were alone, he nodded once.“Go on.”“This will go better for us all if I tell you what I know, and then you see him alone.”Sharp eyebrows lifted.“Tell me.”“He’ll ask you for lodging.”“And you are certain of that?”“I am.”“You know him.From before that night at the opera.”“He and I served together.”Moments dripped between them, as pronounced as the tick of a clock.The itchy, hot wig seemed to melt and fuse to Oliver’s skull.“Consider everything you know about him and about the people living here,” Christoph said at last, his words smooth but firm.“How shall I frame my reply?”“I…” Oliver shifted to stand as if at attention.“Deny his request, my lord.Trust nothing he says.But…as a personal favor to me, please offer him a place at tonight’s recital as a show of goodwill.”“Will you tell me what this is about?”“Not yet, my lord.Let me do what I can.In the meantime, mention nothing of my advice nor my suspicions.” He paused.“Please, Christoph.”In an unaccustomed display of agitation, Christoph drummed his fingers against the wooden balustrade.“Very well.I’ve already squandered too much time on the subject.Go find Ingrid and lock her in her bedchamber if she’s in any way exerting herself.”“Yes, my lord.”Christoph strode up the stairs, his profile carved of marble.Oliver remained on the bottom riser, his heart beating madly.In trying to navigate a path between two allegiances, he had done neither justice.Karl would blame him.Christoph would lose faith in him.But he could do no less by either man.He chafed his palms over the back of his neck and exhaled heavily.A few days.He had a few days to figure out what Karl planned.A few days to keep his growing obsession for Greta under tight control.A few days…but then what?Chapter TenCaught up in the air of excitement building in the Venners’ residence, Greta did what she could to assist in the preparations.That Ingrid kept telling her to relax while waddling through each chore on her extensive list seemed entirely in keeping with the woman’s temperament.But Greta helped anyway, much as she did whenever Anna and Theresa handled arrangements.There was a certain sort of peace in being able to help someone else realize an artistic vision.Canvas, sonata, social engagement—they all started as ideas in an eager mind.In the kitchen, maids in matching starched white aprons assembled floral bouquets from a mass of bulk flowers that had been delivered early that morning.Ingrid said she’d selected these three young women in particular because of their talents for arrangement.Greta had to agree, admiring their work.Each bouquet was a study in contrasts, without ever veering toward garish.Untutored though they probably were, the maids created masterpieces of balance, color and texture.Greta would have enjoyed painting any one of them.She took another batch of flowers into the great hall where massive stone vases waited to be filled.Only a dozen more to go.Male servants, not yet formally dressed for the evening, still wore the standard household uniform, all sumptuous gold and oxblood.They arranged chairs into rows of twenty each, separated by a central walkway.Others climbed high ladders to replace candles in the chandeliers and to polish the brass.None of them was Oliver.But Greta checked anyway [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]