Sweet as the Devil by Susan Johnson Read Free Book Online Page B

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.”
    “A tragedy,” the minister murmured, leaning back in his chair. “If there’s anything I can do to help.”
    Choke on your drink. “No, nothing, thank you.”
    “India’s a barbaric country. Rabble everywhere, no law to speak of, the British army notwithstanding. But they can’t police every native enclave. Were you given any