Sweet as the Devil (6 page)

As the nizam intended, his tiger shoot afforded peerless pleasure to his guests. Regardless that British rule was universally hated in India, he was obliged to offer his hospitality to them and their European compatriots for the sake of the dominions his family had ruled for a millennium.

Better artifice than prison.

And he had many sons to advance.

The return to the palace was a raucous affair as the young aristocrats shared and compared shooting experiences, the exhilaration of danger met and conquered adding a piquant satisfaction to the lively discourse. Servants riding alongside the elephants served cool wine to the guests, the drink quaffed down like water in the blazing heat.

After the party alighted at the palace and everyone had rested and bathed, a sumptuous dinner was served in the nizam’s cool, perfumed garden lit with hundreds of lanterns strung from the trees. Endless courses and wines, fruits and delicacies were served while poets recited
ghazals
—the Urdu or Persian love lyrics intrinsic to an evening’s entertainment.

In due course, musicians arrived, accompanied by beautiful, shapely dancers who launched into an enchanting performance of indigenous dances. The young men from Vienna were captivated by the sensuous, overtly erotic choreography and particularly enticed by the ladies’ diaphanous garments that left nothing to the imagination.

Wine continued to flow copiously, a servant always at the ready to refill the guests’ cups; golden hookahs were lit and passed around, affording bliss of another kind. Before long, couples began to wander off to indulge their passions.

An extremely voluptuous natch girl had attracted Rupert’s notice, her curvaceous body a potent lure to the eye, her explicit sexuality appealing to more carnal sensibilities. She was ravishing and available, and he’d never denied himself the pleasures of the flesh. What handsome young man of wealth had? Not that the scantily clad, bejeweled dancer wasn’t an extraordinary treasure; she put his former lovers to shame, her scent alone a tantalizing aphrodisiac. It was inevitable that when she said in charmingly accented English, “Show me, how do you say, your virile member,” Rupert laughed and replied in unaccented English, “It would be my pleasure.”

Once they were ensconced in his commodious bed and had gratified their carnal appetites for an enchanting period of time, Rupert decided she was quite remarkable—a tantalizing vixen with an incredible gift for sustaining sensation. He would remember this night with fondness. Then she gently nibbled on his cock, curtailing his musing, his erection quickly rose once again, and he softly groaned as every delicate nibble and piquant lick brought his blood to boiling point. But when he climaxed that time, a strange lethargy overcame him—not unpleasant . . . comforting in a way, like falling asleep in a bed of jasmine. Ah—that was her scent, he thought as he drifted off. Jasmine . . .

The instant Rupert’s breathing slowed into that of deep sleep, two men who’d been watching the couple from behind a half-closed door quietly entered the room. One remained at the door, the other moved soft footed toward the bed. With a curt nod he dismissed the woman lying beside Rupert. The dark-haired beauty sat up, pushed aside the sheer silk curtains enclosing the bed, rose to her feet, gathered up her jewelry, and nude and splendid, walked from the room without a backward glance.

Rupert didn’t stir, the slow-acting sleeping potion she’d slipped into his wine having taken effect.

Von Welden’s agent glanced over his shoulder. His accomplice dipped his head, signaling that they were alone. The trim, middle-aged man who traveled with the party as a factotum for Prince Reiger turned back to the fair-haired youth resting peacefully on his back. Pulling a coil of silk cord from his pocket, he slipped the garrote around Rupert’s neck and expertly strangled the heir to the duchy of Dalmia.

It was not a random act.

Rupert had been a marked man since he departed Vienna.

While Rupert had no personal enemies, a number of impersonal circumstances had led to his death. An ancient covenant certified that the duchy of Dalmia would revert to the Habsburg crown should the Battenberg line expire. Prince Ernst
could
remarry and sire a child, but he was in his fifties, which suggested that even should a child result, that child would likely be a minor on Ernst’s death. The obligatory regency would ensue, which was even more likely to prove unsuccessful if history in that unstable region followed convention.

However, the need to hasten the end of the duchy of Dalmia was prompted by more than ancient covenants. Quite apart from Ernst’s imprudent meddling in Austrian politics, and more pertinent, was the fact that gold had been clandestinely discovered in the Dinaric Alps that formed the eastern border of Dalmia.

As minister of police and virtual dictator of Vienna, Count Von Welden had naturally been privy to the report. Venal to the core and in need of sizeable funds to finance the Versailles-like estate he was building in Hungary, he’d calculated that the transfer of Ernst’s lands sooner rather than later would better serve his purposes.

Von Welden was prepared to make Prince Ernst an offer he couldn’t refuse, and he rather thought the prince would accept. Ernst was a selfish man, and left without an heir, he’d likely see the wisdom in the old saw about a bird in the hand. Or so the minister of police confidently surmised.

When the coded telegram from India was placed in Von Welden’s hand, he read it and subsequently allowed himself a moment of self-congratulation. Then he called in his secretary and dictated a message to be delivered to Prince Ernst.

Von Welden’s spy network was pervasive. Very little apart from the occasional whispered comment was free of censorship or the watchful eye of the secret police.

The minister knew exactly where and with whom Prince Ernst was taking his pleasure.

R
UPERT’S BODY HAD been packed in ice and shipped home on a swift steamer via the Suez Canal. When the container was opened wharfside in Dalmia and Prince Ernst saw the ligature marks around his son’s neck, he immediately began to compile a list of his enemies. He wasn’t naive enough to believe that Rupert had been killed by a native in some capricious act of violence. Especially when the cable had come from Prince Reiger, who was one of the most reactionary of the government’s advisors and no friend of his.

Directly after the funeral, Ernst took himself up to Vienna in search of answers. The conspiracy to murder Rupert would have originated in the capital.

Stepping down from his carriage in the courtyard of the palace that had been in the Battenberg family for centuries, he was overcome by a rare melancholy. He was not by nature an emotional man, but with Rupert’s grievous death, he faced a stark reality. Barring a precipitous marriage resulting in an heir, he was the last Battenberg. No brothers or uncles, sisters or aunts, no cousins survived.

Merde.
The last thing he wished to do was remarry, he thought, walking across the ancient cobbles toward the massive bronze entrance doors.

His marriage hadn’t been congenial.

Marie had chosen to live apart from him, and her death, while not a surprise, had, in truth, been a relief. The invalid role she’d adopted so as to avoid not only his company but also Rupert’s had killed her in the end—or perhaps it was the incompetence of her
cher ami
, Doctor Meynert, who prescribed opium for any or no ailment.

As the huge double doors opened before him, the suits of armor standing row upon row in the entrance hall met his gaze, as did the scores of swords and shields decorating the walls, memorials all to his long-ago ancestors. And other things never changed as well, he thought as his indestructible butler approached. “Good afternoon, Heinrich.”

The tall, regal butler bowed. “Good afternoon, Excellency. May I offer you the very deepest condolences from myself and the staff.”

“Thank you, Heinrich. These are troubled times—no question.” Ernst would never display his feelings before servants. “Someone should go through Prince Rupert’s things and distribute whatever would be appropriate to charity. I’ll leave it up to you.”

“I’ll have Renner make an accounting, sir.” The majordomo opened his mouth, then shut it.

“Speak up, Heinrich. I needn’t be coddled.”

“A small quandary, Excellency. I was uncertain whether to give this to you.” Taking an envelope from a console table, the butler held it out. “It was delivered by a vulgar little man with instructions to see that you receive it promptly. A most unsuitable person,” he noted with a sniff, “to be giving orders.”

Ernst smiled faintly; Heinrich was a stickler for rank. “Unsuitable, you say? Let’s see.” Taking the envelope, he tore it open, pulled out the heavy monogrammed card, and quickly perused an invitation from Von Welden for drinks. He looked up. “When did this arrive?”

The grey-haired butler raised his brows an infinitesimal distance. “Ten minutes ago, Excellency.”

“Will there be a reply, Excellency?”

Heinrich was clearly hoping he’d say no. But prudence required a response. “Send my acceptance tomorrow. Late tomorrow.” He could at least return Von Welden’s insolence with equal bad grace.

“Very good, Excellency. Will you be dining in tonight?”

Ernst shook his head. The principessa with whom he’d been holidaying had followed him to Vienna. “Dispose of this.” Handing over the note, he moved toward the ornate staircase. He supposed he could have been rude to Antonella and rejected her company. Not that he was entirely sure she would have complied. The principessa was charmingly willful,
a woman of parts
, the English would say. Wealthy enough to do as she pleased and what she pleased.

Which generally—almost always, he amended—managed to please him, too.

 

 

T
WO DAYS LATER when the prince set out for his visit with the minister of police, he took the precaution of arming himself with a small silver pistol. Men were known to disappear into the bowels of the prefecture building that served as headquarters for the secret police—even men of substance. He’d shoot Von Welden if it came to that, he decided with the casual disregard for the law habitual to men of wealth and power.

Karl Otho, the majordomo of the exclusive men’s club where Ernst served on the board, greeted the prince warmly and offered his sincere sympathy for his loss. “We will all miss the young prince, Your Excellency. He was a true gentleman.”

“Yes, he was. Thank you very much, Otho.” He handed his hat and gloves to a flunkey. “I have an appointment with Von Welden. Has he arrived?”

“Yes, Excellency. He’s in the Europa Room.”

Was Von Welden making some symbolic point in selecting that particular venue? Ernst wondered. Were they engaged in some mysterious battle of which he was unaware?

The majordomo chatted with the customary informality that endeared him to many of the club members while he personally escorted the prince to the private room. “If you should need anything, Excellency,” he offered as they reached the door, “I’ll have a man outside.”

Ernst smiled faintly. “Armed I hope.” Everyone knew Von Welden’s reputation for malevolence.

The plump little man met his gaze. “Of course, sir.” “In that case,” Ernst said with a flicker of his brows, “two of us will be armed.”

“Very prudent, Excellency.” He signaled forward the man who had followed them.

“I’m quite ready,” Ernst quietly said.

The majordomo opened the door and announced Prince Ernst with all his many titles—a not so subtle discourtesy to Von Welden, whose title was new and inferior.

Ernst entered the room, and the door shut softly behind him.

Von Welden had come to his feet, and with a bow and a military click of his heels he punctiliously observed the courtesies. “How good of you to come, Your Excellency,” the count said as if he hadn’t waited two days.

“How kind of you to invite me,” Ernst replied with equal mendacity, glancing at the large painting of the dramatic Battle of Vienna that dominated the room. The Ottoman advance into Europe had been stopped at the gates of Vienna in 1683.

“I apologize for imposing on you at this painful time. Please, come sit.” The minister waved Ernst to a chair, then nodded to a footman.

The men sat and waited in silence while the liveried servant poured two cognacs and placed them on a table between their chairs. After placing the decanter and a silver tray of cigars on the table, he glanced at Von Welden.

“Leave us,” Von Welden ordered.

Once they were alone, the count leaned forward and picked up the glasses. Handing one to Ernst, he glanced at the black armband circling the prince’s upper arm and softly sighed. “My dear Ernst. Such a crushing blow. How are you coping?”

“Well enough.”