Seemingly oblivious to his brooding, Kate continued to share what she had heard from the London contingent. “Both ladies are reputed to have slept with Prince Metternich. Of late, however, the Tsar of Russia is said to be pursuing the princess.”
“Isn’t that rather like the pot calling the kettle black?” she remarked dryly.
He quelled the urge to crush the glass in his fist.
“Everyone is betting on how long it will take for him to slip between her sheets,” she went on. “The men are equally outrageous. Lord Stewart of the English delegation has been dubbed ‘Lord Pumpernickel’ for his bright yellow boots and his penchant for instigating drunken brawls. The King of Denmark is smitten with a flower girl…” Kate shook her head. “How is anything serious supposed to be accomplished here when it seems that all people are thinking about is drinking, dining, and swiving?”
“That is not our problem,” snapped Marco. He tugged at the knot of his cravat, impatient to escape the overheated rooms. “I trust that you haven’t forgotten that our reason for being here is to spot a certain face.”
“I’m well aware of our duty,” she answered coolly. “When I see him, you will be the first to know.”
Any further exchange of sarcasm was silenced by the approach of the English diplomat and his wife.
“Congratulations on your recent nuptials, Lord Ghiradelli,” said Repton politely. “Miss Woodbridge—that is, Lady Ghiradelli—was just telling us how romantic it was that you suggested Vienna for a wedding trip.”
“Romantic, indeed,” echoed his wife. “I can’t imagine a more perfect place to celebrate. The city is known for its dancing and dining. And the opulence of the parties puts London to blush.”
“Opulence is not the only reason for blushes,” commented Repton. “The Continentals are gluttons for pleasure in any form—” He cut off his words with a grimace. “No offense meant, Ghiradelli.”
“None taken,” replied Marco.
“You must be sure to come around to Lord Castlereagh’s quarters on the Minoritenplatz,” piped up his wife. “Lady Emily holds a weekly soiree every Tuesday evening.”
“We shall,” said Marco.
“Monday is Metternich’s night,” said Repton. “And of course Friday belongs to our hostess and her rival across the courtyard. As for the other evenings, there is no lack of entertainment, but I daresay you will discover that for yourselves.”
“Yes. Do be sure to visit the Apollo Saal. You can waltz all night in the indoor gardens, which are decorated with faux stones and fairy-tale grottos.” Lady Repton clearly considered herself a fount of knowledge on Viennese life. “And don’t miss the ballet Flore et Zephire.”
“Thank you,” replied Marco. “Now if you will excuse us, we shall be taking our leave. We are tired from traveling and wish to be rested for the Emperor’s ball tomorrow night.”
“Oh, that is definitely an evening not to be missed,” exclaimed Lady Repton. “It is said that the state dinner will include three hundred hams, two hundred partridges, and two hundred pigeons, not to speak of three hundred liters of olla soup.”
His head aching from a surfeit of wine, Marco cut off any further details with a curt nod. “Until tomorrow, then.”
Kate said nothing until they reached the courtyard of the Palm Palace. “I’m surprised you are in such a hurry to leave. I thought rakehell rogues partied until dawn.”
He didn’t answer.
She paused to tuck the ends of her silk shawl around her bare arms. A breath of breeze stirred the loose tendrils of her upswept hair. They looked like silvery moonbeams dancing around her shadowed profile.
It was a mild night, with the stars glittering in the heavens like candlelit diamonds stitched onto black velvet. The high arched windows of the opposite wing were open, and the sound of gaiety drifted down from the brightly lit rooms. The lilting notes of a violin, the sinuous melody of a lady’s laugh, the soft pop of champagne corks.
“It seems that Princess Bagration and her admirers are not to be outdone by the Countess of Sagan.” Kate glanced up, watching the silhouette of two people wrapped in a passionate kiss. “Perhaps we ought to have a look for our elusive quarry up there.”
She started to cross the cobblestones, but Marco caught her arm. “You’ve seen enough for your first night. I’m taking you back to our rooms.”
Her arm stiffened beneath his grip. “And you?”
“As you so aptly observed, cara, rakes party until dawn,” he drawled. “Once I have