perched a hip on the stone railing and lit a cheroot. “It seems you haven’t changed much from those days either. Still the same stick-in-the-mud.”
The Prussian responded with a tight-lipped smile. “From you, I take that as a compliment.”
“You shouldn’t,” drawled Marco, though actually he rather liked the colonel. He was sober and serious, to be sure, but could converse intelligently on a number of diverse subjects. Which was more than could be said for the majority of the foreign diplomatic corps currently in England.
“Ha, ha, ha.” Vronskov gave a loud guffaw. “The conte is right, Von Seilig. You work far too hard.”
“Yes, Prussia has much to do in order to prepare for the upcoming peace conference in Vienna.” The colonel paused a fraction. “You know what they say—the King of Prussia will think for everyone, the King of Bavaria will drink for everyone, the Emperor of Russia will make love for everyone, and the Emperor of Austria will pay for everyone.”
Marco and Tappan chuckled at the witticism, while Vronskov looked somewhat miffed. “Tsar Alexander is a great and good ruler. Indeed, given that he has been blessed with divine intelligence and good looks, it is no wonder that the people of Russia call him The Angel.”
“And the ladies of Europe call him the opposite,” quipped Von Seilig. Like his grandmother, Catherine the Great, Tsar Alexander was known for his sexual appetite. “Now that he’s helped conquer Napoleon, he is moving on to new, virgin territory.”
“We Russians cannot help it if we have a way with women.” The Russian turned and waggled a leer at Marco. “Speaking of which, I have heard that your knowledge of London’s nocturnal haunts is unrivaled, Lord Ghiradelli. I’d like to get your recommendations for the best brothels in London.”
“That depends on what you are interested in,” replied Marco with a slow smile.
Vronskov wet his lips.
“I’ll write down a few suggestions, and make a note of each establishment’s specialties.”
“Splendid, splendid!” The Russian clapped him on the back. “I knew I could count on you for an intimate description of London’s pleasure spots!”
Tappan flicked a bit of ash from the tip of his cheroot. “I noticed last night that you are acquainted with Lord Vincenzi.”
“Si, we went to school together,” answered Marco. “And Rochambert and I know each other from Milano.”
“They are out riding right now. The duke has some very fine-blooded hunters in his stables and has kindly made them available to us for the duration of our stay.”
The duke was a generous host, thought Marco. Having already observed the selection of prime horseflesh in the stables, he knew that a small fortune was riding on the iron-shod hooves.
“I shall enjoy putting them through their paces,” he murmured.
“As will I,” announced Vronskov. “My equestrian skills are much admired in St. Petersburg.”
The Russian nobleman was not only a braggart but a buffoon, decided Marco. Only a sapskull would make such an announcement to other men.
“I am sure that you look quite splendid mounted on a great black bear,” he said with exaggerated innocence. “But here in England, we ride horses.”
Tappan and Von Seilig laughed.
Smoothing a hand over the drooping ends of his mustache, Vronskov tried to hide his irritation. “Ha, ha, ha. I see you have a quick wit, sir. I shall have to be careful around you.”
“Me?” Marco gave a careless shrug as he lit up a cheroot. “Don’t give it a thought if I annoy you. I annoy everyone.”
“Save for the ladies, of course,” said Tappan with a knowing wink.
With some exceptions. Marco exhaled a ring of smoke, recalling his recent encounters with Kate. She certainly showed no interest in encouraging his attentions. Not that he could blame her. His teasings had been deliberately flagrant.
“It doesn’t appear as if Ghiradelli will have much chance to exercise his prowess with the opposite sex. The females here are all respectable ladies,” said Von Seilig. “Isn’t your English code of honor very precise about that sort of thing?”
“Come, come, as a diplomat you know that rules are never black and white. There are always a nuanced range of grays in between. And there is always room for negotiation,” pointed out Tappan. “The Countess of Duxbury, who has accompanied her brother here, is a prime example. She is a widow, and so is allowed some latitude in her personal behavior, as long as she is discreet about it.”
Stroking his whiskers, Vronskov narrowed his gaze to a speculative squint. “Ah, I am liking England more and more.”