He didn’t take his leave for another half hour, by the end of which even Von Alxinger was laughing along with the rest of them. As Michael stepped back out onto the street, he heard young Hüberl’s voice raised high above all the rest.
“—And if Prince Kalishnikoff himself, who’s half-Russian, says so—!”
Michael smiled and let the door swing closed behind him. With luck, the students would continue as merry and boisterous for the whole of the next few weeks, spreading his stories and his name with them.
Nor had his time with the newspapers been wasted. His next step, clearly, was to find a concealing domino as soon as possible. As to which of the “most distinguished guests” he would approach at that night’s masked ball—well, he had all afternoon to make that decision. And in the meantime …
An English-styled chaise drew up ten feet ahead of him, in front of a light-pink building embellished with freshly painted cream curlicues. A footman leaped down nimbly from the top of the carriage to open the door and lay down steps. A dainty foot emerged, shod in a high-heeled boot, and Michael paused to admire the glimpse of ankle beneath the raised skirt.
As the footman reached inside to help his mistress out, Michael’s brain worked busily. Apartments on the Dorotheergasse had been expensive even when Michael had been young. Now, with inflation from the war combined with the sudden influx of wealthy foreign visitors, the landlords’ prices must be very near astronomical. His new young friends at the coffeehouse had told him that half the Prussian king’s own retinue had been forced to stay in inns outside town. To afford an apartment on the elegant Dorotheergasse itself, this lady visitor must be wealthy indeed.
Michael tipped his hat politely, already fashioning introductory phrases in his head.
Clinging muslin skirts swung into view, followed by a slender but strong arm, its gloved hand supported by the footman. Next, glossy black curls that peeked out from beneath a fashionable poke bonnet, the head still tipped away from Michael’s vision. Michael noted, with appreciation, the delightful curves beneath the fashionably thin dress. No slip of a girl, this, but a grown woman in all the glory of maturity and experience. The lady stepped onto the pavement, neatly avoiding the pile of horse manure only a few steps away, and released her footman’s hand.
“Thank you, Henry,” she said in English.
An Englishwoman indeed, then. Michael smiled. This should hardly even be a challenge.
He cleared his throat and stepped forward.
“Pardon me, Madam,” he began, in English, “but—”
She turned to face him, and all his carefully chosen phrases dried up in his throat.
“No,” he breathed.
It wasn’t possible …
The warm color drained from her cheeks. Her mouth fell open.
“Karolina,” Michael whispered.
Her pale face was strongly defined in clean, square lines now, where it had been round and chubby before. Her black hair, which she had always worn in a tangle around her dirty neck, was dressed high and smooth in a fashionable style, with only a few careful ringlets hanging curled around her face. She was—what? She must be at least five-and-thirty, and he could see her age in the faint lines around her eyes. But her face was the female version of her father’s. It was unmistakable. And those dark eyes …
The memory of her eyes had haunted him for years … especially in his worst nightmares. More than that: he’d been thinking of her ever since he’d set foot in Vienna, no matter how hard he’d tried to repress the memories.
He would have known her in any disguise.
She opened her mouth as if to speak, then stopped.
“It is you,” Michael said. He found himself reverting to German, the quick Viennese patter of his youth. “What are you doing here? How—?”
“Forgive me,” the woman said hastily, in French. “I’m afraid there must be some mistake.” She lifted her strong chin in a poignantly familiar gesture. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
“But—”
“Henry!” she said sharply, and the footman hurried to open the house door for her.
Without a further glance, she disappeared into the building.
Michael stared after her, reeling. He hardly noticed, at first, that a young man in plain dark clothing—a secretary, perhaps?—had followed her out of the chaise and was walking toward the same door.
“Wait!” Michael said. He started forward, trying to regain his former air of dignity. “Sir,” he said in French. “I fear that I’ve offended that lady with my foolish error. Would you do me the honor of telling me your mistress’s name?”
The man blinked behind his spectacles and gave Michael a searching look. “My mistress,” he said at last, in careful German, “is Caroline, Countess of Wyndham, widow of Lord Wyndham of Sussex.” He stepped closer. “You thought that you had recognized her, sir?”
“A misunderstanding, no more,” Michael said. “I thank you, sir. I am sorry to say I have never met Lady Wyndham before.”
He stepped back and watched the younger man walk into the house. As the yellow door swung closed, Michael fixed the house number in his memory.
Caroline, Countess of Wyndham, indeed.
The door closed with a solid thud.
“Karolina,” Michael murmured. He shook his head as emotions whirled disconcertingly within him.
She was alive.
She was here.
And she had somehow, unbelievably, transformed herself into an English noblewoman.
He didn’t know if he was more shocked, relieved … or, unexpectedly, amused.
A smile quirked at the corner of Michael’s mouth as he walked down the street, twirling his polished walking stick.
One dilemma, at any rate, had been resolved.
He knew exactly whom he would approach that night, and how.
CHAPTER FIVE
Caroline’s hand shook as she brushed rouge across her cheeks. With a hiss of frustration, she dropped the brush and let her hovering maid dab away the misshapen pink smear.
Impossible.
Of all the outrageous ill fortune, to meet the one person she would have paid most dearly to avoid …
“Milady?” Caroline’s maid coughed discreetly. “Shall I finish for you?”
“No, thank you, Johnson. I can manage it myself.” Caroline took a deep breath and met her own gaze in the mirror. Her face looked unnaturally pale against her black curls, her eyes dark and wide. She looked frightened.
Don’t be a fool. Caroline set her jaw and dipped her brush into the pot of rouge to begin again. As she raised the brush under her servant’s watchful gaze, she took care to smooth out her expression.
It wasn’t safe to show fear, even here. And more importantly …
I have nothing to fear.
So she had been recognized. What of it? Michael Steinhüller—regardless of the clothes he’d worn—had been nobody as a child. He would be nobody of consequence still. For all that she’d once idolized him …
Her lips twisted, despite herself, at the bitter memory.
Of course she’d recognized him, even after all this time. The memory of his face had taunted her, as fresh as last night’s frantic dreams, ever since she’d set foot back in this cursed city.
But perhaps she should count herself lucky to have had the reminder of his presence today as she began her work. After all, he had taught her a valuable lesson twenty-four years ago … and she had never been foolish enough to trust anyone again. No matter how charming or how well-intentioned the people she met here might seem—the Prince de Ligne, for only one such example—she would know better than to ever reveal her true self to them, or to expect any help unless it benefited them, too.
And as for the man who had taught her that lesson … well, Caroline was no weak-willed miss to let such a freak coincidence turn her resolve to trembling.
Yet the look on his face as he’d recognized her …
She tightened her fing
ers around the cosmetics brush.
Tonight she would dance and flirt with the emperor of Austria. She would set her plot in motion, as she’d planned for the past two years, ever since Bonaparte’s retreat from the snows of Russia had signaled a first hint of his coming defeat. She wouldn’t let mere nerves upset her now.
And if any ghost from the past should appear in the midst of it?
Caroline sucked her cheeks into grim hollows as she ran the brush along her cheekbones. Her deep-pink half-mask sat on the dressing table before her, waiting for her to assume the night’s disguise.
She had brewed her plans for far too long to let anyone stand in the way of them.
Inside the Hofburg Palace, cold, dank air wafted against the emperor of Austria’s neck. He felt Pergen’s approach even before he turned.
“Well?”
In Francis’s lush, red-and-gold dressing room, his minister looked like a dark scarecrow, ragged and bony despite the rich black satin of his tailcoat and the many gold orders pinned to his silk waistcoat.
“Your Majesty.” Count Pergen bowed deeply. “May I say how well your outfit suits you?”
“I thank you.” Francis inclined his chin slightly, mindful of the thin gold band balanced atop his head. His valet hovered nearby, adding the finishing touches; Francis waved the man away and waited until he had left the room before speaking again. “Well?” He stepped away from the heavy, gilt-framed mirror and waved Pergen to one of the crimson settees. “What have you discovered?”
Pergen sank down onto the settee, his posture ramrod-straight, and placed his hands flat against one another, his usual pose of deliberation. “Lady Wyndham is well-known at the English embassy. She is one of the wealthiest independent ladies of London society, with large estates in Sussex. Her late husband was a man of fortune. Both of her late husbands, I should say; she was married first to an elderly and”—he coughed—“rather eccentric marquis, according to reports, who seemed fond enough of her and yet did not remember her in his will; and then to the late Earl of Wyndham, who bequeathed all of his non-entailed properties to her. Nothing disreputable is known of her.”
“But rumors say …?” Francis frowned down at his manicured nails. God forbid he should refuse such an unexpected gift—the Star Chamber would drive him mad with their dire plaints of bankruptcy otherwise—and yet … Something felt strangely off-kilter about the English lady and her so-generous offer.
“My men have had only one day to search,” Pergen murmured, “and yet … they could find no trace of any history for Lady Wyndham before her marriage to the marquis. No parentage, no origin …”
“A commoner, then.”
“No mere daughter of a tradesman, either, or secrecy would not have been so scrupulously preserved. Only a scandal could account for it. In other words …”
“A whore. The man married his mistress.” Francis shook his head as the puzzle pieces clicked into place. That would explain it, certainly.
He remembered the look in her eyes as she’d taken her leave of him. “I shall not disguise myself too carefully …” A pleasurable tingle rippled through him at the memory. He should have known she was no true English aristocrat when she’d looked at him that way. Cold fish, those highbred women, for all that one had to admire them. But this one …
“Such was my inference, Your Majesty.”
Francis’s lips twitched as he saw the distaste on his minister’s face. “Thank you, Pergen. Excellent work, as always.” He turned back to the mirror and straightened the collar on his costume robes. The candle-branches to each side of the mirror filled his reflection with soft light; above the glass, a winged horse soared high and triumphant. Francis smiled. “Will you be attending tonight’s festivities?” he asked.
“I think not. My own work …”
“I understand.” Francis reached for his half-mask and hesitated. Perhaps he ought to take some time tonight to observe Pergen in his experiments, even offer to take part …
But no. He still felt vastly refreshed from this morning’s ritual, with no need of excess energy. Moreover, tonight he had rulers from every country in Europe waiting for the honor of his company. He had the tsar of Russia and the king of Prussia to compliment and reassure, he had political schemes of his own to pursue whenever their backs were turned …
And, it seemed, he also had a meeting with a courtesan to conduct in full view of his own damnably celibate wife and her retinue. Not that he could ever allow himself to blame Ludovica for her poor health, of course, but still …
Francis slipped the mask over his face. Through the slits in the mask, the candlelight sparkled with odd intensity, and darkness seemed to boil around his most trusted minister’s face. He laughed aloud with rare satisfaction.
An excellent night awaited him.
Peter Riesenbeck strode through the darkened streets of Vienna, drinking the cool evening air like sparkling white wine. Deep blue twilight merged with the descending black of night to blur the tall spires of the churches and the towering buildings that lined the narrow warren of streets. His wandering had taken him deep into the first district, miles from his company’s humble inn. Though Peter had never visited Vienna before, he’d studied maps so closely that his legs led him straight toward his goal.
He emerged from the cluster of high buildings onto a busy street—and blinked, blinded by sudden light.
Before him, carriages filled the Herrengasse, preceded by runners holding out flambeaux to light their way, filling the dark air with flaring light, heat, and smoke. Beyond them, he glimpsed an open square. There. He could barely breathe as he crossed the last few meters.
The square—his lips moved silently to name it, the Michaelerplatz—was filled with fashionably dressed people, mostly crowding through the archway that led to the Hofburg palace, on Peter’s left. He ignored it and them without compunction. All he cared about was the plain, short building that stood across from the archway, beside the church.
Peter let out the breath he’d been holding as he finally saw it with his own eyes.
The Burgtheater, the court theater for all the Habsburg Empire, could have been any other nondescript building in inner-city Vienna if it hadn’t been so short and squat—a broad stepping-stool beside the tall, thin palaces of the nobility that surrounded it. Even its sculpted stone pediments were less ornate than those of the buildings behind it. And yet …
Peter stepped forward, drawn by irresistible force. Once past the church, he left behind the main force of the crowd of high nobility and entered the crowds that led to the Burgtheater itself. The emperor himself would often attend performances here, surrounded by his courtiers, but tonight, with the Hofburg open to imperial festivities, the Burgtheater would be left to the lower nobility and the eager middle classes.
The heat of the crowd reached out to him through the cool evening air as he approached. A sign, located discreetly apart from the drive, set out the night’s program; Peter read it slowly, savoring it.
Tonight the Burgtheater presented a musical evening: “Wellington’s Victory,” a novelty piece for orchestra by the great Beethoven; the Andante from a piano concerto by a composer Peter had never heard of; a rare return appearance made by Annamaria Dommayer, one of the past century’s most acclaimed sopranos …
A body shoved past him through the crowd, pushing Peter off-balance. Automatically, he reached with one hand for his pocket, and with the other he grabbed his assailant’s arm.
“If you’ve snatched my purse, my lad,” he began—then stopped, staggered.
A heart-shaped face, pale with fear and surrounded by wildly curling brown ringlets, blinked out at him from beneath an old-fashioned hooded cloak. Peter felt his purse safe and solid within his pocket. His question changed, insensibly, in his throat. as he met the girl’s dark-eyed gaze.
“What’s amiss?” he asked softly, and stepped closer. “Can I help?”
“Let me go!” she hissed. “Quickly! Or—” She glanced back,
let out a moan of frustration, then set her jaw. “Oh! Blame yourself—it’s your own fault.”
She leaned closer for a dizzying second, filling his senses with warmth and an unexpectedly fresh, spicy scent. Then she kneed him between the legs, with piercing precision.
Peter yelped and doubled over. Her arm pulled free of his grasp.
Through the haze of pain, he heard her footsteps racing away across the cobblestones.
“Stupid,” Peter groaned. “Oh, stupid, stupid …”
He stayed bent over, cursing himself, for another minute after her slim, cloaked figure had disappeared from view.
Hard footsteps pounded to a stop beside him a moment later. Peter glimpsed high, stained boots and heard the jingle of a chain.
The police. Oh, what a memorable first evening in Vienna, after all.
Peter prepared his story as the gruff voice spoke, in such a strong Viennese accent that he could barely understand it.
“A girl—running hard—did you see which direction she went?”
Peter sighed and straightened, setting his teeth against the pain.
“No girl,” he said, to the heavyset man who confronted him. “Only a pickpocket boy who attacked me. Don’t you gentlemen bother to control thievery in this city?”
The policeman grunted and set off running …
In the wrong direction, Peter noted. He felt less enthusiasm than he might have at the observation a minute or two earlier.
“Don’t confuse yourself with those heroes you play onstage.” How many times had Périgord snarled that at him, when they had argued? Perhaps there was a grain of truth in his old master’s taunts, after all. Peter winced at the thought.
Even as he turned away, though, damning his own taste for melodrama, Peter’s neck prickled with a sudden and irrefutable awareness: he was being watched.
He turned back quickly. The crowd pressing toward the archway of the Hofburg was full of the highest aristocracy of Europe, chattering and preening and wearing clothing that cost more than Peter would ever earn and jewels that were only muted by the smoking light of the flambeaux. Peter could never mix in such a crowd, nor would he want to.
Congress of Secrets Page 5
