“I think you have had enough champagne,” growled her brother.
“I don’t think you can ever have enough of a good thing.” Lady Duxbury gave a provocative pout. “Don’t you agree, Lord Ghiradelli?”
“Far be it from me to contradict a lady,” said Marco.
“There, you see.” She jabbed a triumphant finger into the starched folds of Allenham’s cravat.
As the footman approached, her brother took the empty glass from her hand and ordered rattafia punch instead.
She made a moue of distaste. “I think I shall go speak with Ludlowe and Tappan. They are far more agreeable company than you are.” Her words seemed to hang in the air, a challenge—or perhaps a taunt—to Marco. “Ciao.”
Allenham expelled a sharp breath as she crossed the carpet. “Have you any siblings, Ghiradelli?”
“No.” Not since a fateful day long ago in the past.
“Count yourself a lucky fellow.” A tiny muscle twitched along the heavy line of the baron’s jaw. “Between the bacon-brained escapades of my younger brother and the overt indiscretions of my sister, it is a wonder that I have any time to deal with my own affairs.”
Seizing the opening, Marco casually asked, “I would imagine that the conference in Vienna could have great repercussions for trade through Europe, especially in the northern lands along the sea where your consortium does business.”
The baron nodded. “The maps will be redrawn—it’s simply a question of who will get what.”
“Are you not afraid of being left out in the cold?” probed Marco.
“No. I am not.”
An interesting response. He waited, but the baron did not elaborate.
Vronskov detached himself from a group of gentlemen by the hearth and drifted over to join them. “Rochambert may be a problem for us,” he muttered through his teeth. “He is saying that the French will press hard to have a say in the Polish question—”
Allenham signaled him to silence with a quick frown.
Marco pretended not to notice. Flicking his gaze to the dowager’s daughter, he made a show of flirting with smiles and winks.
The Russian hesitated a fraction and then Marco heard him continue in a low voice. “Bah, Ghiradelli isn’t the least interested in our business. I think I’ve convinced the Austrian attaché to accept our offer, but we must bring Von Seilig around in order to be sure of our position.”
“Ssshh.” Allenham let out his breath in a sharp hiss. Angling his back to Marco, he added, “Let us discuss this after supper.”
Fingering the heavy gold fobs on his watch chain, Marco uttered a soft oath. “Damn. I think these cursed things have snagged a thread on my new waistcoat.” He fussed with the silk, smoothing a hand over the expensive embroidery. “I say, does it look to you as if it is ruined?”
Vronskov shook his head. “I don’t see any damage.”
The baron didn’t bother with a glance. “It appears perfectly fine.”
“Thank God.” Marco exaggerated a sigh of relief. “The color and cut are quite special. I know the English tend to favor Weston and Stutz, but I have an excellent Italian tailor to recommend in London. In his backroom, he has an assortment of printed fabrics from India that feature some very interesting designs of naked ladies engaged in…” He gave a conspiratorial wink. “Let us just say, you won’t be wearing them in Polite Society. But they certainly enliven the conversation at any establishment where gentlemen gather to enjoy themselves.”
A wolfish grin flashed through the Russian’s luxurious mustache. “Be so good as to add that establishment to the list you are making for me.”
Marco chuckled. “With pleasure.”
Deciding it was time to move on, he excused himself and sidled over to where the Frenchman was holding court with several of the Southern Europeans. His old friend from Italy was among them—and if ever a fellow could be pumped for information, it was Vincenzi.
He drew his countryman aside and after a quarter hour had no reason to revise his assessment. Vincenzi was still a garrulous gossip, but along with the lurid details of a prominent Milanese nobleman’s sexual peccadilloes, he had also passed on some useful political tidbits. Lynsley would no doubt be interested to learn that Austrian officials in Milan were holding secret talks with an envoy from Saxony.
Satisfied with his progress so far, Marco allowed himself a moment to sip his wine. The seating chart for this evening’s supper showed that he was placed between the two Spanish attachés. So perhaps he would be able to coax a few more bits of information out of the conversation.