procession made its way around the polished parquet. “Trust me, it soon loses it allure.”
“Like eating too many sweets?” murmured Kate. “At first, it seems utterly delicious, but then your teeth begin to ache and your stomach turns a little queasy.”
“Precisely.” A humorless laugh rumbled low in his throat. “You soon begin to crave something more than spun sugar and colored marzipan.” He looked at her a little hungrily.
“It sounds as if you are bored, sir.”
“A steady diet of decadent parties turns stale rather quickly,” said Jackowski slowly. “The ladies are all alike and the pleasures are too predictable.” He fingered his neatly trimmed goatee, and as the velvet swags stirred overhead, the rippling shadows made his slanted cheekbones look as sharp as knife blades. “You seem different.”
Keeping her eyes on the dancing figures, Kate considered her next move. Perhaps it was the champagne making her a little reckless—she waved to a nearby footman for more—but she decided to encourage Jackowski’s advances. For now.
“I am,” she agreed. “This may be familiar to you, yet it is all so foreign to me. Will you escort me through the other galleries and point out the notables who are here tonight?” She lowered her lashes. “As you see, my husband is sadly neglecting his duties.”
“Tsk, tsk.” Jackowski sidled closer. “Be assured that I shall be delighted to serve as a surrogate, cherie.”
“You must know many of these people,” she said casually, as they started to meander through the galleries. The notes of a waltz drifted up from the ballroom, drawing some of the guests to the stairs, but the rooms were still crowded.
“Yes.” He made a wry face. “Having spent the good part of the last year negotiating with the Russian and the various German states over the fate of my homeland, I am more intimately acquainted with the participants of this peace conference than I care to be.”
“Who is the tall, bearded Viking?” she asked, turning just enough to dislodge his roving hand from the curve of her hip.
“The Sulky Swede.” Jackowski chuckled. “He’s constantly threatening to slit his throat over the fickleness of his latest lover. Seeing as he expresses his sorrows in terrible poetry, he would be doing the rest of us a favor by putting himself out of his misery.”
“And the red-haired gentleman to his left?” asked Kate.
“Oh, that is Hertzfeld, head of the Pomeranian contingent….” Jackowski proved to be an interesting commentator, keeping up a steady stream of amusing anecdotes.
Kate kept a close eye on the faces, watching carefully for the would-be assassin from Tappan’s estate as she tried to keep track of all the different factions and delegations that her escort mentioned. Saxons, Prussians, Poles, Latvians, Russians—with so many volatile elements crammed into a small space, it was no wonder that the Baltic was a powder keg, ready to explode at the touch of a single errant spark.
Feeling her own nerves growing a little singed, she took another sip of wine. The heat of the rooms, heavy with the scent of flowers and lush perfumes, was growing oppressive. The laughter was too loud, the jostling touch of flesh against flesh too intimate.
For an instant, she longed to escape the stifling splendor and seek a cold, cleansing breath of fresh air.
“Enjoying yourself?” Jackowski’s hot breath tickled against her ear.
“Yes, quite.” Clenching the crystal stem of her glass, Kate forced a false smile.
“Come this way,” he murmured. “The rooms off the main galleries are less crowded and afford a chance for quiet conversation.”
Kate doubted that his intention was to talk, but she followed along without protest. The glittering chandeliers gave way to flickering wall sconces and dark wood paneling as they made their way through a series of connecting rooms. Ancient tapestries decorated the walls and thick Oriental carpets cushioned their steps. The guests here were gathered in more intimate groups, and from what Kate could overhear, the discussions were not about politics.
She angled yet another quick look around. Still no sign of her quarry—or of her husband. But then, the connecting corridors offered plenty of darkened nooks for a private tryst. Already they had passed several couples in the clench of a passionate embrace. It took little imagination to picture the baroness and Marco rekindling an old flame.
“Your glass is empty, Lady Ghiradelli.” Jackowski took a bottle from a silver tray. “More champagne?”
Kate nodded, despite feeling a little flushed. “The bubbles tickle,” she murmured, raising the glass to her lips and letting the effervescence tease against her tongue.
Setting