A quarter hour before Lord Percival was due to arrive at Chandos House for tea, Irenna joined her aunt in the drawing room. Tall mullioned windows overlooked the gardens, framed with gold velvet curtains, and the gold theme was continued throughout the room in the gilt furnishings and velvet upholstery.

Coals burned in the fireplace, warming the air against the clammy March afternoon, and Irenna was suddenly homesick for Vienna. More precisely, for the Grand Duke’s library, where she had half a dozen projects left unfinished: a spine repair on an old bible, a manuscript she was recopying where the ink had faded, and the cataloging of the entire collection of seventeenth-century etchings.

“Wren, don’t you look lovely today,” Aunt Sophie said, gesturing her to the settee beside the hearth. “Dare I hope you wish to impress our guest?”

“Absolutely not.” Irenna sat down a little more forcefully than was necessary, unwilling to admit that her aunt’s comment had some truth to it.

Despite the fact she had no romantic interest in the viscount whatsoever, she had to admit she hadn’t minded his company the night before. Especially during the waltz, when he’d whirled her deftly about the ballroom without spouting ridiculous flatteries or terrible poetry. Still, he made her laugh.

Perhaps it was because he was such a foppish fellow, his admiration hadn’t felt threatening. In fact, in a small, private corner of her heart, she’d enjoyed the frivolity of it all. And so she’d spent some time arranging her hair in a coiled braid about her head, then donned her lavender silk afternoon dress, with amethyst earrings to match.

Though she would never admit as much to her aunt. It was difficult to tell if Aunt Sophie was serious about encouraging him, or preferred to imagine that he would make a match for Irenna. Either thought was absurd.

Although Irenna was aware that her aunt was easily bored. It wouldn’t be the first time Aunt Sophie had taken up with some unsuitable young fellow. Why she was considered a proper chaperone, Irenna wasn’t quite sure. Or why the count seemed to turn a blind eye to his wife’s dalliances.

“Will the ambassador be joining us today?” Irenna asked. Surely the presence of her aunt’s husband would blunt Lord Percival’s heavy-handed flirtations.

Or perhaps not. The gentleman seemed impervious to nuance.

“The ambassador is busy, but will try to pop in for a pastry and a cup of coffee,” Aunt Sophie said. “And to meet our guest, of course.”

So, Aunt Sophie wasn’t trying to hide her association with the viscount. Which was a bit worrisome.

“I hardly think Viscount Percival is a suitable—”

“My dear niece, he might not be the husband material I’d hoped for you, or that you deserve. But he is diverting—as you pointed out last night—and it would do you no harm to let him flirt with you.”

Irenna leaned forward on the velvet-upholstered cushion. “You can’t know that there’s no harm in it. Look at what happened to me last time.”

The memory set a fist of discomfort in her stomach. Oh, she’d been so blind. So willing to be gulled into believing a gentleman’s protestations of love, only to discover it had all been a sham—a pretty trap for her humiiliation.

“This is nothing like what happened to you in Austria. For one thing, I am here to watch over you. And for another, Lord Percival has the plumage of a peacock and the brains to match. I assure you, the man has no ulterior motive.”

Irenna was not entirely certain she agreed. Everyone had hidden motivations. No matter how transparent and foolish Viscount Percival appeared, surely he was more complex than that. Although he certainly seemed a frivolous, fun-loving fellow.

“This conversation has brought a sparkle to your eyes.” Her aunt gave her an approving nod. “Even on such short acquaintance, Lord Percival is doing you good.”

“It has nothing to do with him,” Irenna protested, perhaps a bit too hotly.

The sound of the knocker echoed from the front of the house, and Aunt Sophie glanced at the ormolu clock upon the mantel.

“Perfectly punctual,” she said. “A good sign. Too early shows a bit too much eagerness, while too late is rude to one’s hosts.”

“I’m certain Viscount Percival has calculated such things to a nicety.”

“Lady Dietrichstein,” the butler announced at the door of the drawing room. “May I present Viscount Percival.”

He stepped back and Lord Percival swept in. His dark hair was artfully disheveled, and once again Irenna was struck by how very handsome he was.

“I say!” The viscount paused. Pulling a quizzing glass from the pocket of his lilac-colored waistcoat, he peered through it at Irenna and her aunt. “What two angels of loveliness do I see before me? Have I been ushered into heaven, perchance, or escorted to Olympus’s highest mount, where goddesses sit sublime among the clouds?”

“Good day to you, Lord Percival,” Aunt Sophie said with a smile. “You’re looking well, yourself.”

“Indeed.” He tucked his eyepiece away. “I had to do my best to appear in such company. Good afternoon, Countess Dietrichstein.”

He strode to where they sat and bowed over Aunt Sophie’s hand, then turned to Irenna.

“Miss Brunner, a pleasure to see you again. I commend you on your lovely gown. There must be something purple in the air today. We make quite the match.”

“So we do,” she said, hoping he would not make anything more of it.

The hue of his waistcoat did, rather dismayingly, complement her dress. She did not particularly want to find herself in harmony with Lord Percival, despite the fact that his company was amusing.

“The moment you stepped in the door, I was thinking the same,” Aunt Sophie said, rising from the settee. “Do take my place beside Irenna while I ring for tea.”

Irenna glanced at her aunt, but it would be rude to protest. Instead, she scooted away from the viscount as he settled beside her, ostensibly to make him room but also to give herself space to breathe. She could not help noticing that beneath his elegant coat, his shoulders were rather broad and masculine.

“Miss Brunner,” he said, “have you considered my invitation any further?”

There was a suggestive tone to his voice that brought heat to her cheeks.

“Oh?” Aunt Sophie said, returning and taking the chair across the low table from them. “What invitation might that be?”

“I was hoping to escort you ladies to the opera this weekend,” he said. “The Two Foscari by that Italian fellow, based on a play by Byron. Would you do me the very great pleasure of attending?”

Drat—Irenna had been hoping the viscount had forgotten that portion of their conversation.

“That would be lovely,” Aunt Sophie said. “Don’t you agree, Irenna? It will be splendid to attend the opera. The ambassador has little time for such leisure, I’m sorry to say.”

There was more to it than that, of course. The Sardinians often attended the opera, and the members of the Austrian embassy did their best not to cross paths with Count Rossi and his supporters. Even from her sheltered perspective, Irenna knew that relations between their two countries were strained—and getting worse. Recently, there had even been rumors of war.

If hostilities broke out, she feared for her family, though she and her aunt were safe in England. Surely it would not come to that, however. She hoped. That was one good thing about leaving Vienna. Other than putting distance between herself and the humiliation that Baron Andris had heaped upon her.

She sighed softly, but Viscount Percival overheard.

“Sigh not, fair lady,” he said. “Luckily, attending the opera is a perfect cure for such melancholy. Steeping in tragic storylines always helps give one perspective.”

“Greater sadness as the cure for sadness?” Irenna regarded him, catching a glimpse of something complex in his eyes. “It’s an interesting thought.”

Surprisingly interesting, considering the source. Almost as intriguing as that flash of haunted emotion she thought she’d seen in his face.

“Then it’s settled,” Aunt Sophie said. “You may fetch us Saturday evening at seven o’clock.”

“It would be my utmost pleasure,” he said, all trace of sorrow—real or imagined—gone from his expression.

Privately, Irenna had to admit she was pleased at the prospect of going to the opera. Even though it would be in the company of Lord Percival who, to his credit, was less tiresome than she’d first thought.

The maid came in with the tea trolley and Aunt Sophie took charge, directing the placement of various plates of pastries upon the table. The invigorating scent of coffee drifted from the silver-plated pot, while wisps of steam emanated from the porcelain teapot.

“Will you take tea, milord, or coffee?” Aunt Sophie asked, lifting an empty china cup and saucer.

Viscount Percival shot Irenna a sidelong glance.

“Coffee,” he said. “No sugar. But I beg you not to think too poorly of me, Miss Brunner, if I ask for a bit of cream.”

“It’s brave of you to forgo the sugar,” she said. “You needn’t do it just to impress me.”

He laughed; not his usual bray but something warmer. “If I truly meant to win your admiration, I suspect I’d need to do more than vary my beverage of choice.”

It was the second sensible thing he’d said since he’d arrived, and Irenna gave him a considering look. Their gazes held for a moment, and he was the first to glance away.

“Here’s to your new regimen of coffee drinking.” Aunt Sophie handed him a cup. “Although there is tea if you change your mind.”

She passed a second cup to Irenna, who took it and inhaled the bracing aroma. For some reason she felt a trifle unsettled. She slid a glance at the viscount. Truly, she did not quite know what to make of the man, though it seemed foolish of her to wonder about him when the general view was that he was nothing more than a rakish fop.

The viscount put a dollop of cream in his coffee, then waved his hand over the array of pastries on the table. “Do tell me about these delicacies! They all look quite exotic.”

Irenna didn’t think the Austrian pastries looked much stranger than the English scones and crumpets she’d tried, but she supposed it was all in the perspective.

“The Apfelstrudel is good,” she said, “but the Sachertorte is my favorite.”

“One can hardly go wrong with chocolate,” Aunt Sophie agreed, putting a slice of torte on a plate and handing it to their guest.

The viscount took a forkful and lifted it rather dramatically to his mouth. There was something a bit too sensual about the way his lips closed around the bite, and this time Irenna was the one to look away.

“Delectable,” he said, with an overtone that made something flutter in Irenna’s chest.

Aunt Sophie winked at him. “You say that to all the ladies, I’m sure.”

“I find that no cake, even chocolate, can compare to the delights of a woman,” he replied.

A blush heated Irenna’s cheeks. Heavens, the man was unrepentant.

“I believe you’ve discomfited my niece,” Aunt Sophie said, which only made Irenna squirm a bit more in embarrassment.

Viscount Percival set down his plate. “Apologies, my dear Miss Brunner. I think the only remedy for that must be… a poem!”

Oh dear. If the sample they’d heard last night was any example, he was a terrible wordsmith indeed. Irenna glanced at her aunt, who had a devilish twinkle in her eye.

“Ahem.” He fluffed up his cravat, then laid one hand over his chest and gazed at Irenna. “Shall I compare you to a Sachertorte? You are as a layered, and as sweet. Coffee might invade the senses, cream transform it to a treat. But your beauty, lady, shines so bright, it shall not be o’ershadowed by night.”

A pause followed, and Irenna realized the poem was finished. It was so very dreadful that she could not help but smile.

“That was remarkable,” she said, hoping he’d take it as a compliment. Truly, she could say nothing else.

“Thank you.” He dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Not to be too modest about it, but I’ve been told my poems are incomparable.”

“They are indeed,” Aunt Sophie said. “It was very clever, how you worked in the torte.”

“I’m surrounded by inspiration,” he said. “And I had to put in the coffee as well. Which, if you did not catch the meaning, both coffee and chocolate could be taken as ‘night,’ you see. And neither will ever eclipse a lady’s beauty.”

“How witty you are, Lord Percival,” Aunt Sophie said. “I believe that calls for another round of coffee.”

Irenna let her aunt refill her cup, and refrained from pointing out that instead of Byron, whom he professed to read exclusively, Lord Percival had cribbed from Shakespeare again.

Voices sounded in the hall. A moment later the door opened and Count Dietrichstein strode in, accompanied by his secretary.

“Hello, darling.” Aunt Sophie rose to greet her husband. “Come, sit. The coffee is still hot. And let me introduce you to Viscount Percival.”

The viscount stood and offered his hand. “Ambassador, it’s a pleasure to meet a statesman of your stature. Thank you for your hospitality. My first taste of Austrian pastries has been most satisfactory.”

“Very good,” the count said. “I can only stay a moment, I’m afraid. Hans and I have quite a bit of work to do.”

“Is everything all right?” Aunt Sophie gave her husband a concerned glance.

The count hesitated a moment, then lowered his voice and switched to Bavarian. “Very bad news from Milan and Venice. I’ll explain more later.”

“Please do,” Aunt Sophie said, keeping her expression pleasant even as worry sparked in her eyes.

Viscount Percival leaned over to Irenna. “Are they speaking German?”

“A dialect of it,” Irenna said.

“How endearing, that he takes a moment to tell her he loves her.” The viscount gave her a guileless smile.

“Yes,” Irenna said, letting him continue to believe the ambassador was whispering words of love to his wife. The embassy’s secrets were not hers to share, after all.

Still, the news was very worrisome.

After the ambassador left, Aunt Sophie was rather distracted, and after a short time, Lord Percival declared he ought to take his leave.

“I don’t want my presence to become a burden,” he said. “And we do have the opera to look forward to. I’ll bid you ladies farewell, though parting is, as they say, such fair sorrow.”

“Sweet sorrow,” Irenna corrected him, then felt her cheeks heat. “Or perhaps fair. Depending on how you’ve heard it.”

“I do know that you are both sweet and fair, Miss Brunner.” He bowed over her hand, a lock of black hair falling over his eyes.

For a fleeting moment, Irenna wished that his mind were as well formed as his features. But that would make him a formidable gentleman, indeed, and one she would never feel comfortable with. It was just as well his head was stuffed with feathers and foolishness.

“I shall pine away the hours until Saturday,” he said, giving a theatrical sigh.

“It’s only two days.” Irenna smiled to soften her words.

“We are looking forward to it as well,” Aunt Sophie said, rallying. “Let me see you to the door, Lord Percival.”

“No need,” he said, rising. “You deserve a moment to sit with your niece. Adieu, bright flowers of the day.”

He gave them a charming smile, swept a bow fit for a king, and let himself out of the drawing room.

Aunt Sophie sighed and leaned back in her chair. “I ought to at least ring for the butler to see him out.”

“I doubt even Lord Percival could get lost on the way to the front door,” Irenna said. “Besides, on the off chance he overhears anything, he doesn’t understand Bavarian. He thought the count was whispering words of love to you.”

“What a romantic fellow the viscount is. Well then, no harm should come from it, though I’m a rather derelict hostess. Still, this news from Lombardy has me unsettled. I hope we are safe here in London.”

“I can’t imagine why not.”

“The Sardinians.” A worried line formed between Aunt Sophie’s brows. “Perhaps we oughtn’t attend the opera after all. I must discuss it with the ambassador.”

Irenna took a last sip of her cooling coffee. “The viscount will be disappointed if we don’t go.” In truth, she would be a bit sorry, too.

“He will weather the setback, I’ve no doubt. But nothing’s decided at this point. Try not to fret about this news until we know more, and I will do the same.”

Irenna nodded, but worry settled coldly in the pit of her stomach. Even as removed from politics as she considered herself, she knew that if the Sardinians were uprising, it could only mean trouble.

Anthony paused a moment outside the drawing room, waiting to see if Countess Dietrichstein would ring for the butler. Happily, for his purposes, the man did not appear, so Anthony began to amble down the hallway.

There were many fine paintings displayed on the walls, and he could always cover his behavior by saying he’d merely been admiring the art. In truth, of course, he was planning to eavesdrop at the doors and see what he could glean.

He knew the people of Northern Italy were unhappy under Austrian rule—but had they gone so far as to rise up and throw the government out? It was a worrying development.

Midway down the hall, he was rewarded with the sound of people speaking Bavarian. Silently, he drifted up to the door, then paused with his ear at the crack. It was difficult to make out every word, but the gist was enough to notch his pulse up.

The people of Milan had thrown the Austrians out and the very next day Venice had followed suit.

“Foolish Italians!” The ambassador’s voice rose. “Next thing you know, they’ll be declaring war.”

Anthony’s gut clenched. He very much feared the ambassador was right. Good thing he’d already inserted himself into Countess Dietrichstein’s circle. The situation would need close watching, and he couldn’t help but worry that the hotheads among the Sardinian contingent in London might take action against the Austrians.

He’d need to have a word with the authorities in Buckingham Palace to make sure they remained alert for any situations that might bring the opposing factions into contact.

Like the opera. Anthony frowned. Perhaps he should cancel that outing after all, though it was a perfect opportunity to collect more intelligence. He’d have to wait and see how things developed—or deteriorated—in the next few days.

The ambassador’s voice grew louder, and Anthony quickly removed himself from his listening post and continued down the hall. Within three minutes he’d collected his things from the butler, and was gone before anyone was the wiser.

It was drizzling as usual, puddles widening on the cobblestones. He turned up the collar of his coat and hailed a cab to take him back to Percival House.

As they jolted down the streets of Marleybone, he folded his arms and reviewed the events at the embassy. His mind was a bit unsettled, and not all due to the recent news. In truth, even before the ambassador had come in, he’d felt a bit on edge. During tea there’d been a handful of moments when he felt as though Miss Brunner saw through his façade, and that was worrisome.

She was a perceptive young woman, her general reserve hiding a sharp mind, and he’d do very well to remember that fact.

Luckily, his terrible poetry had seemed to throw her off the scent, but he’d need to watch himself. Something about Miss Irenna Brunner made him feel reckless, and he could not afford to jeopardize his cover, especially as the Continent teetered on the edge of war. Now, more than ever, it was essential he maintain the pretense of the foolishly foppish Lord Percival.

No matter how much he might want to see a spark of true admiration in a certain pair of sherry-colored eyes.