His Reluctant Mistress. Joanna Maitland

set down his half-empty glass. ‘I know my experience is not as…er…extensive as yours, Leo, but I did know a couple of opera singers. Last year, in London. Sadly, as soon as the blunt ran out, they rather lost interest. But we parted on pretty good terms. I’m sure that, if I had access to the readies again, they’d be more than willing to keep company with me. Why should this Madame Whatever-her-name-is be any different?’

      In truth, there was no reason at all why Sophie should be any different. Yet, in his gut, Leo felt, almost knew, that she was. He took a deep breath and frowned across the table at his companions. How on earth was he going to reply?

      Jack’s suddenly serious voice intervened. ‘Leo, I’m sorry I was so boorish. I’ll do better in future, I promise. But I’ve had an idea.’ He lowered his voice even more. ‘We have at least two local recruits without enough to do. I’ll set them to following the Nightingale. Find out where she goes and whom she sees. If she has an assignation with the Russian Emperor, you’ll be the first to know.’

      Leo felt his gut begin to churn.

      Jack was looking more and more sure of himself. ‘We may even be able to bribe one of her servants. That would be the best of all, don’t you think?’

      What choice did he have? The Honours were here in Vienna to provide Castlereagh with information. Jack was proposing a thoroughly practical solution. Leo managed to nod at his brother, hoping that his reluctance did not show.

      Jack sprang up from his chair. ‘No time like the present. The sooner I set them on, the sooner we’ll discover what we need to know.’ He squeezed between the back of Ben’s chair and the wall, pausing only to say, ‘Leo will show you where we’re lodged upstairs. Quarters are rather cramped, I’m afraid, so you’ll have to share my bedchamber. The best bed is the one by the window.’ He grinned wickedly at Ben. ‘Yours is the other one.’

      Sophie was revelling in being free of Verdicchio for the day. Once she reached Schönbrunn Palace, she would be able to relax a little. She would sing for the Empress Marie-Louise, of course, since that was why she had been invited, but she hoped that she would be able to enjoy the company of cultured women, too, at least for a little while. She so rarely had an opportunity to forget about the attentions of the many men in Vienna who were hoping to bed her.

      The Tsar she could happily forget, for he was a man who took his pleasures easily, using his wealth and power to buy any woman he wanted. Lord Leo? Lord Leo was different. He was a rake, of course. Any woman of sense could tell that. And yet he had qualities Sophie did not associate with rakes. For a start, he had been kind to a woman who had gone out of her way to insult him. And then there was that kiss, burning through her glove…

      Just the memory of it set her pulse racing. She glanced down at her gloved hand. The back of it felt as if it were on fire, and even hotter than it had two nights ago, when Lord Leo’s lips had touched her. Only her glove, not her skin, and yet that kiss seemed to have been burning its way through during all the hours since he had left her. She was tempted to remove her glove again, to check her heated skin. Would there be a mark now, an impression of his lips? It felt as if there should be.

      She shook her head, desperately trying to dismiss him from her unruly thoughts. She must forget him. He was only another rake. She must not allow his practised charm to beguile her. She must concentrate on her work.

      But the carriage was already bowling up the approach to the palace. It was utterly magnificent, much grander than she had imagined. In Vienna itself, the palaces and mansions were squeezed in among ancient rows of houses, but here, in the countryside, there were no such limitations. Schönbrunn was a vast, winged edifice of decorated stone, warmed by the late autumn sun, its myriad windows gleaming and sparkling like polished gemstones. In spite of its size, and the ornate rococo façade, there was something welcoming about it. Schönbrunn looked like a place designed for comfortable, family life. Probably just the home that Bonaparte’s wife needed for herself and her infant son.

      The carriage drove through the twin obelisks marking the entrance to the parade court. It was making for the central grand staircase leading up to the piano nobile, but it soon turned aside for the small ground-floor entrance used by common visitors and servants. Sophie was used to such humiliations, but it still hurt to be treated like a servant. She alighted from the carriage with her head held very high, determined to do her best to behave like the aristocratic lady she truly was. A liveried servant led her through the bare stone hallway, explaining that her Imperial Majesty was engaged at present, but would receive her shortly. Would madame like to be shown to a saloon to refresh herself?

      Sophie glanced round. The sun was shining through the rear doorway and the palace’s beautiful gardens looked most inviting. She had no desire to be made to wait in a room used by the senior servants. ‘No, thank you,’ she replied. ‘I have a mind to take a turn outside while the weather is so fine.’

      For some reason, the gardens were almost empty, in spite of the fact that the people of Vienna were allowed to wander there at will. Sophie strolled through the great parterre, admiring the geometric patterns of the late summer flowers. She was tempted by the huge Neptune fountain below the Gloriette, but she dare not go so far from the palace. She wandered instead in the tree-shaded pathways at the edges of the parterre.

      She had been outside for about a quarter of an hour when she heard a high-pitched cry. Was it her summons? Shading her eyes against the low autumn sunshine, Sophie scrutinised the alleyways carefully. Nothing.

      But then another joyous shout gave her the direction. Over by the back of the palace, partly hidden by the columns supporting the first-floor balcony, she could see two indistinct figures, one of them very small. A child. He must be the young son of Marie-Louise and Napoleon Bonaparte and the centre of all that monster’s hopes. Should she approach him? He was hardly more than an infant, perhaps a little over three years old, but he might already have been taught to be as arrogant and imperious as his sire.