But for a moment, he was certain he saw familiar features, set disconcertingly above a gentleman’s luxuriant finery.
The next moment, he knew it to be impossible. Vaçlav Grünemann, a nobleman’s servant, could hardly be part of such a crowd, much less dressed in clothing that would befit his own master. And when Peter looked again, more closely, the face he’d thought he recognized had already disappeared from the crowd.
Too much melodrama for one evening, indeed. He was glad to be distracted from his own folly by the sound of a child’s rough voice, hailing him.
“Sir?” A street urchin approached him, holding a sheaf of tickets in his grubby hand. “For tonight’s performance”—his gaze swept across Peter with disconcerting frankness—“the cheapest seats in the back of the stalls, sir—”
“Not tonight,” Peter said. He smiled ruefully and tipped his hat to the boy.
He finished the thought only to himself as he turned and limped away across the cobblestones.
Not tonight … but soon. And he wouldn’t be buying the tickets, but standing on the Burgtheater’s wooden boards, with all eyes on him and his company. Not even Périgord himself had ever reached such dizzying heights. If—no, when—Peter achieved that glory, even his old master would have to admit that he had proven himself at last.
Now that Peter was here, at the heart of the empire, everything would fall into place. He was certain of it.
But he promised himself, as he limped, that he would save his next set of heroics for the stage.
Michael arranged his cravat with meticulous precision—no mean feat when standing in the deepest shadows of the alley behind the Eszterházy town palace, without the benefit of a looking glass. It was worth the extra effort, though. All the rooms in the finest hotels were reserved already, and Michael knew better than to settle for any but the best. To be witnessed emerging from a scruffy, middle-class inn in the suburbs would be to announce immediate defeat in the war of confidence and appearances that ruled this game.
As to where he would sleep tonight …?
He would know the answer to that question, for better or worse, by the end of this evening.
Michael realized, with a start, that he was actually nervous. It was, of course, ridiculous. Hadn’t he played dozens of games like this over the past two decades? Hadn’t he fooled men and women of all ranks in life, winning nearly every gamble and always exiting just in time to escape the losing hands? This should be a grand adventure—his greatest game and his most thrilling challenge.
And yet …
His fingers hesitated on his cravat and stilled.
This was not Prague nor Budapest nor Krakow, where he’d carried no identity but those he’d invented, as free and unburdened as a swallow in flight. This was Vienna, where he’d grown and lived his first fourteen years. It was, whether he cared to admit it or not, his history.
And the look on Karolina’s face when she’d recognized him …
Michael couldn’t remember, anymore, a time when he hadn’t known her. Even before he’d turned apprentice to her father at the ripe old age of eight, he’d seen her peering out the window of the print shop or rolling about with the other infants of the neighborhood with gloriously uninhibited energy. And once he’d begun to work with her father in earnest …
No. This wasn’t what he wished to remember.
He should think of how he’d teased her as she ran after him, gazing worshipfully up at him from her chubby five-year-old face when he was all of eight years old and a proud new apprentice. He should summon up gratifying memories of how he’d treated her to luxuriant ices at the Prater on her eleventh birthday, and how he’d let her fall asleep against his shoulder afterward, with his arm wrapped protectively around her.
Anything but the last time he saw her through the flames, only two months later, and heard her high, agonized shrieks of terror as the fire blazed around her and the policemen dragged her father away.
There was nothing he could have done for her. Nothing.
Michael set his teeth with a snap. He’d been a fugitive himself, hunted out of the city at only fourteen, hiding in a butcher’s cart. What could he have offered to a helpless eleven-year-old girl? He could only have put her in more danger. Even Vienna’s grim orphanages must have been an improvement over that.
And at any rate, she certainly hadn’t suffered for his decision. “Caroline, Countess of Wyndham,” indeed. Michael relaxed into a rueful smile as he remembered it. He could hardly wait to hear that story.
He had been haunted for years by the memory of Karolina, but he quite looked forward to becoming better acquainted with Lady Wyndham.
A footstep sounded in the darkness behind him, almost too softly to be heard.
Michael spun around, reaching for the hidden pocket in his coat.
Before the man behind him had the chance to speak, Michael’s dagger was at his throat.
“Drop—your—knife,” Michael snarled.
The thief’s eyes met Michael’s from a hard, emaciated face that showed disappointment but no real fear. His knife clattered to the cobblestones. It was a butcher’s knife, heavy and broad, designed to hack through animal flesh. Or human. It could have slit Michael’s own throat with swift and final certainty.
“Now back away,” Michael said. He kept his voice to a low growl. He had to, to hide how hard it was to breathe.
The man stepped slowly backward, his hands held high. He was dressed in an outfit Michael recognized from every city in Europe—a ragtag collection of cast-offs rescued from the rubbish of the wealthy, mended to its last breath and beyond.
It was the outfit Michael himself could have worn by now, with only too much ease. In the darkness, he felt a sudden involuntary kinship with the other man.
A few feet away, the thief lowered his hands and nodded to the butcher’s knife that lay by Michael’s feet.
“Not tonight,” Michael said, and stepped down hard on the flat of the blade.
He could see the man measuring him, guessing at the probable outcome of a fight. Michael kept his own expression harsh and unyielding and his dagger held high.
The man shrugged and turned away. But Michael kept his dagger raised long after the other man’s footsteps had faded into the distance.
There but for Fortune …
He sheathed the weapon in his pocket, breathing hard as the aftereffects of danger rippled through him. He hadn’t lost his street instincts yet, thank God. But in another year or two …
As he aged and his hearing grew less sharp …
Michael straightened, his back creaking, as an unpalatable truth forced its way into view.
A man could survive on his wits for only so long. And when they, or simple Fortune, finally ran out … would he become another such desperate knave, surviving only by robbing or murdering passing strangers? Or would he be dead in another alley long beforehand?
Michael scooped up his new black domino from the pile of clothing and swept the cloak around him, twitching the shimmering black silk into a commanding swirl. He set his glittering half-mask into place and straightened his shoulders beneath the disguise.
No. He was no hapless fool trapped in poverty’s desperate, inescapable spiral, nor yet a mere rogue forced to live on sheer luck. Not anymore. He was Stefan, Prince Kalishnikoff, now. He would play that game for all it was worth.
It was the best chance he would ever have to win himself a future.
CHAPTER SIX
The angel above the Michaelerkirche gazed down with cool marble eyes, its wings raised high in either benediction or the preparation for flight. Caroline hesitated beside the church, her stomach clenching with sudden panic as her carriage drove away from her. Across the square, the Hofburg Palace rose in massive stone grandeur, immense and sickeningly familiar.
She took a deep breath, fighting down the memories.
The night air smelled of fire from the smoke of many torches. Through their flaring, leaping light, Caroline
watched the other masked guests stream past her toward the great stone arch that led into the grounds of the palace. Laughing and flirting, they passed in glittering array through the entryway and disappeared, couple by couple, from view.
She had disappeared into this palace once before, and it had swallowed her childhood.
Caroline lifted her chin and crossed the square, following the others. As she passed underneath the double-headed Habsburg eagle that topped the stone archway, she had to tighten her hands on the satin trim of her pelisse to hide their trembling.
It had been twenty years since she had escaped her imprisonment here. She would no longer be afraid.
Inside the first stone court, servants in imperial uniforms waited to direct the crowd. Caroline followed their lead to the ladies’ cloakroom, where she dispensed of her warm pelisse and smiled greetings to faces familiar behind their masks.
“Caro, my love.” A warm arm slipped into hers, and Caroline inhaled musky perfume with resigned familiarity. “It’s been an age! But what a delicious costume you’ve chosen. Ottoman pink—really daring! But it does suit you, despite everything. There aren’t many women willing to take such risks.”
“Thank you, Marie.” Caroline smiled warily at the woman beside her, Lady Rothmere. “I hadn’t heard that you’d come to Vienna.”
“Oh, well, I could hardly miss the most fashionable event of the decade, could I? And poor George—he’s aiding Lord Kelvinhaugh now, you know—was simply driving me mad with his attempts at reporting the balls here—he’s absolutely useless at remembering any of the most interesting gossip—so here I am at last!” Marie opened her rouged mouth wide in laughter behind her glittering cat-mask as the two women stepped out into the great hall. She raised her voice to be heard above the sudden roar of noise. “And I must say, the gentlemen here are far more delectable than in London, don’t you agree?”
Caroline looked around, less to consider the question than to gain herself a moment of breathing space. Crystal chandeliers blazed light across the waltzing couples who filled the great hall. A circular gallery ran along the sides of the hall, with open doors leading into more rooms. An orchestra sat at the back of the great hall, playing waltzes for the dancers in the center, while the tunes of different minuets and polonaises streamed in from the other side rooms to create a deafening confusion.
Before Caroline could even formulate an answer, Marie pulled her forward. “Just look at Emmaline Kelvinhaugh! Oh, what a terrible outfit she’s chosen. Poor dear, she’s never had any real taste, has she? But we must be kind and visit with her anyway. After all, she hasn’t much else to fall back on, does she, with a husband as stuffy as hers? No wonder she acts like such a lack-wit …”
Resigned, Caroline followed Marie through the crowd at the edge of the room. It was just as well, she told herself, to have a moment or two to adjust to the glittering chaos—and better yet not to seek out the emperor with too-obvious eagerness. She’d set her lures already this afternoon; best to let him reel himself in with no visible help from her.
A group of women sat along the gallery on raised chairs disposed like an amphitheater, watching the dancers circle past them. Marie led Caroline to one of the closest chairs, where a plain, plump woman in a nun’s loose habit sat with two women wearing black silk dominoes, the simplicity of their own disguises offset by their glittering diamond necklaces and towering tiaras.
“Emmie, my dear, I don’t need to present Caro to you, do I?” Marie smiled brilliantly at the woman dressed as a nun before turning to the other women. “But your friends …?”
“Oh, of course.” Lady Kelvinhaugh’s naturally soft voice was nearly lost in the din. She smiled nervously at Caroline and turned to the masked women beside her. In careful French, she said, “May I present Lady Rothmere and Lady Wyndham, good friends from London, Your Majesties? And Marie, Caroline”—she turned back, lowering her voice still further—“you may give your deepest respects to the empress of Austria and the tsarina of Russia.”
“A great honor, Your Majesties.” Caroline curtsied deeply.
Poor Lady Kelvinhaugh. Caroline had seen her tongue-tied and miserable often enough in London society, where she’d lived all her life. Here in Vienna, Sir Edmund Kelvinhaugh was now one of the top diplomats working to divide up the conquered territories of Europe, and he would expect his wife to play her part in his work—thus, her enforced intimacy with the greatest ladies of the Continent.
“No need to curtsy tonight, Lady Wyndham,” the Austrian empress murmured. “There can be no crowns when all are masked, after all.” But her voice was rich with satisfaction as she tilted her chin in a condescending nod.
“Have you had any supper yet?” Lady Kelvinhaugh asked, with a visible effort at sociability. “The food here really is delicious. Especially the—” She caught herself and stumbled to a halt, giving the young empress beside her a panicked look. “That is, my husband always says that everything in Vienna is of the finest quality, without exception. Perhaps—?”
“I’m sure it is,” Caroline murmured. “But I fear I really must move on—I’ve promised to meet a friend, and I see him now.”
Leaving Marie to settle in for a solid round of poisonous gossip and ingratiating flattery, Caroline curtsied again and slipped away. The crowd around the edge of the ballroom was so packed that she had to turn to squeeze herself through, protecting her gown with her elbows pointed out, and aiming for one of the side salons. A familiar voice hailed her after only a few steps.
“Lady Wyndham!” The Prince de Ligne stopped her with a light touch on her arm. “Well met, my dear.”
“And you, Your Highness.” Caroline smiled sincerely at the old man, who stood unmasked in ordinary dark finery. “You’ve saved my manners, too—I swore I’d seen a friend in the crowd, to escape a tedious conversation. I’m glad you’ve made an honest woman of me.”
“Oh, never that, I hope!” The prince glanced behind her. “Whom—? No, let me guess. But first, let me introduce you to my young friend.” He gestured to the young man beside him, who wore a domino but no mask. “The Comte de la Garde-Chambonas, a delightful young friend from Moscow, Paris … oh, every great city in Europe, surely! And Augustin, let me present the charming Lady Wyndham, one of our favorite new English guests.”
“A pleasure,” said the comte. His plump face shone with excitement. He glanced rapidly about the room as he spoke, with apparently involuntary distraction. “I am writing a book of memoirs about the Congress, you know, Lady Wyndham.”
“What, so soon? You can hardly have collected material enough, surely—the Congress is only a few days old.”
“Oh, no! I meant to write it later, and—”
“I understand, my dear sir.” Caroline smiled at the young man’s discomfiture and set herself to placate him. “If you wish to gather stories for your future memoirs, then you’ve certainly come to the right place. Our friend De Ligne knows more people, and more clever stories about them, than anyone else I know.”
The prince arched one eyebrow. “Indeed? You set me on my mettle, Lady Wyndham. Let me see …” He pivoted slowly, peering through the crowd. “Aha!” He took the young comte’s arm. “There! You see the fellow in that extraordinary mask? There goes Tsar Alexander—without, for once, the charming Countess von Hedermann. Her poor husband must be so disappointed. Perhaps she’s at home practicing her religious fervor for the tsar’s benefit. And there …”
His lips twitched as he turned, the comte following his gaze with earnest attention. “Do you recognize that tall and noble-looking personage whom that beautiful Neapolitan girl is holding around the waist? No? Well, that is the king of Prussia.” The prince nodded, his eyes sparkling. “He seems well pleased by his captivity, does he not? And for all that the clever mask on that lady may disguise an empress, it is quite on the cards that she is merely—forgive me, Lady Wyndham—a member of the demimonde who has been smuggled in for the night.”
“Much more likely,
from stories I’ve heard of the Prussian king,” Caroline murmured dryly.
“Oh. Well.” The comte swallowed, flushing. “But surely … with such a collection of noble personages, all in one room, there must be—”
“You desire a more romantic tale? I understand.” The prince shrugged and turned back to the search. “That colossus in the black domino over there is the king of Württemberg, and the man close to him is his son, the crown prince. His love for the Duchesse d’Oldenbourg, Tsar Alexander’s sister, is the cause of his stay at the Congress, rather than any concern for the grave interests which one day will be his.” He tightened his lips into prim delicacy. “It is a romantic story, the dénouement of which we may witness before long.”
“Ahh,” sighed the comte, with satisfaction.
Caroline met the prince’s eyes for a long, poignant look. Ahh, indeed.
“Ah, youth,” the prince sighed. He brushed a speck of dust off the lace at his cuffs. His attention sharpened; he spoke again, more softly, aiming his words at Caroline.
“And here is the person you have been waiting for, have you not, my dear? Do endeavor not to look too pleased—or, perhaps, even to notice?”
Caroline smiled wryly at the advice but followed it nonetheless, turning to gaze in a different direction and waving her fan softly to relieve the heat. She didn’t have to look to know who was coming. In the emperor of Austria’s own palace, the crowds drew apart to let him through even when he wore a disguise.
Her fingers tightened on the delicate fan. The prince kept up a stream of inconsequential chatter, which the comte did his best to accompany. Caroline kept her fan moving slowly, casually, back and forth …
“Your Majesty,” said the prince. “What a delightful ball indeed.”
Caroline turned, assuming a look of startled pleasure, as she finally allowed herself to notice their new companion.
Emperor Francis stood clothed in black silk monk’s robes. A golden chain was wrapped about his narrow waist, a narrow black half-mask covered the top of his face, and a thin gold crown took the place of a tonsure around his silvering fair hair. His eyes went straight to her, she noted, but he spoke courteously to the prince.
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