Congress of Secrets

by Stephanie Burgis

  “I’m pleased that you’re enjoying it, De Ligne. And …?” He glanced briefly at the comte, before his gaze returned to Caroline.

  But not to her face. Caroline had to resist the impulse to nervous laughter. The neckline of her dress was fashionably low, to be sure, but not so low as to account for any irresistible magnetism. She began to raise her fan to cover her chest, but halted herself in mid-action. It suited no part of her plan to discourage the emperor’s attention … no matter how surprising or unpleasant that attention might feel.

  As the comte finished his enthusiastic response, the emperor moved forward. “And Lady Wyndham.” He reached for her hand and leaned over it. “Enchanting, Madam. A veryodalisque, to the life.”

  “I thank you, Your Majesty.” Caroline kept her smile cool as she restrained the question that desperately wanted to be asked: how the emperor would have ever had the chance to see a sultan’s concubine in person.

  … Or, on the other hand, perhaps not. There were some answers, after all, that she had no wish to hear.

  Charles had certainly chosen her costume well, though, judging by the emperor’s smile.

  The orchestra swept to the end of one waltz and paused.

  “May I have the honor of this dance?” the emperor asked.

  “Of course,” Caroline murmured, and snapped shut her fan.

  She slipped its loop around her wrist and nodded a smiling farewell to the prince and his companion. The prince nodded back with a small, mischievous salute.

  The emperor wrapped his long, dry fingers around hers and drew her through the crowd to the dance floor, just as the orchestra struck up a new waltz.

  One-two-three, one-two-three …

  For a moment, Caroline was swept back to disconcerting recollections of her first dancing lessons, at seventeen. Already once a widow and remarried, she’d twitched at the unexpected intimacy of the dance-tutor’s close embrace, while her forty-five-year-old new husband had watched with sharp attention from the corner of the room in his rambling country house, far from any other observers. Wyndham’s gaze had felt critical but not unkind as he’d prepared her to enter high society, to win the high-stakes wager he had set with his closest circle of friends upon her first widowhood.

  “She’s bright enough, despite that atrocious accent. What a waste it was for Morham to hide her away! With a few good tutors and all the right gowns, I’ll wager I could turn her into a true English lady.”

  It was a wager she had chosen to accept, as had the drunken, reckless men who’d surrounded the two of them in her first husband’s house after his wake. Clothed in black, vibrating with tension, and with nothing to her name, Caroline had looked into the cool, calculating gaze of her soon-to-be second husband and seen her chance, at last, to rise from the ashes of her past into something new and powerful.

  A month later, she and her tutor had danced around two-hundred-year-old furniture wrapped in dust cloths, dancing her first tentative steps toward a real future …

  It was an age and a world away from the glittering Hofburg hall tonight, filled with color and light and the overwhelming hectic gaiety of circling masks and costumes and people doing what they would never dare to do without disguise.

  I can dare anything, Caroline told herself, and closed her eyes behind the mask. Oh, Father …

  “I do hope you are enjoying yourself tonight, Lady Wyndham,” the emperor said.

  He was holding her no closer than the dance demanded, but that was close and intimate enough that he could breathe the words into her ear. Caroline kept her body supple within his grasp, holding at bay the tension that wanted to stiffen her back or push away his hands.

  She’d come planning to charm him and bribe him, in that order. And she knew enough about men, after all the long years of her marriages, to understand exactly what that might have to entail.

  “How could I not?” she murmured, glancing up at him from beneath her eyelashes.

  His eyes glittered behind his mask as he turned her in the patterns of the dance, his hand firm against her back. “I have thought upon your words from earlier.”

  “Your Majesty?”

  “Generous indeed, Lady Wyndham. Your sense of … gratitude is admirable, as you must know.”

  “We must all be grateful to you, mustn’t we?” She glanced up at the chandeliers above them, blazing ornate glory across the room. “If the Monster had conquered all Europe and moved to England …” She gave a careful shudder, without moving any closer.

  His grasp tightened. “I do admire your principles, Lady Wyndham. But perhaps … Might I not wonder, at what you might desire in return?”

  She blinked, innocently. “I?”

  “You,” the emperor murmured. “Lady Wyndham.” His smile was not altogether pleasant. “You see …” His voice lowered to a whisper. “I know your secret.”

  She stiffened involuntarily, took a breath, and released it, still following the rhythms of the dance. “Your Majesty?”

  “My men looked into your history today.”

  “And?” Her voice sounded too breathy. But he couldn’t possibly—she had worked so carefully, for so many years—

  “I know who you really are,” he murmured, “or rather, who you were. You had to transform yourself, did you not?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t—”

  “Have no fear, Lady Wyndham.” The emperor’s gaze dropped to her chest. It felt exposed beneath his hot stare. “I’m no prude,” he whispered. “If the marquis chose to marry his mistress, it can make no difference to me.”

  “No?” Caroline fought down helpless laughter as she relaxed within his grasp. Her head whirled with calculations—better? Worse? Or only different?

  “If you wish to move forward in your own society, I’m only too glad to help. Perhaps we can aid each other after all.”

  “I’m glad you think so.” Caroline drew a deep breath and watched him track its progress. “What I truly want … what I most desire …”

  “Mm?” The emperor’s gaze didn’t move, even as they circled.

  “Information,” Caroline breathed. Exhilaration made her feel giddy and light as air. Finally.

  The emperor frowned. “Pardon me?”

  “No one knows my secret but you,” Caroline whispered, “but still … they all suspect there’s something missing. Something odd. Now is my chance. Can you understand that?” Steeling herself inwardly, she moved closer in his embrace until their clothes brushed against each other with shocking intimacy, just as he’d clearly been angling for from the beginning of their dance. Her voice dropped to a scant whisper against his skin. “All my friends are here with their husbands for diplomatic work. If I could only have some hint—some hope of what might lie ahead—?”

  The emperor’s frown hadn’t faded, but he was breathing more quickly. “You wish to stay one step ahead of them?”

  “Nothing too dangerous,” she murmured. “Nothing too deep. If I could but know more than they …” She met his eyes, scant inches from her own. “Perhaps we might consider exchanging some of our secrets?”

  The strings of the orchestra hit a final cadence, and the waltz slid to a halt, along with the dancers. The emperor released Caroline’s hands slowly, still standing close to her on the floor.

  “A most intriguing conversation, Madam. I do thank you.”

  “I was honored,” Caroline said, and dipped a curtsy.

  “I will think on what you’ve said. And perhaps …” The emperor drew a breath. “Perhaps I shall see you again. Very soon.”

  Caroline smiled and lowered her head. “I do hope so.”

  “Indeed.” The emperor paused. She felt his wary, measuring gaze upon her. “Tell me,” he said abruptly. “Your friends came with their husbands, but you …” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Surely you must have companionship here as well, Lady Wyndham.”

  “I?” Caroline looked up and met his gaze with wide open eyes. “I came alone, Your Majesty. As you see me.” />
  His lips curved into a hard, satisfied smile. “I am pleased to hear it.”

  He bent to kiss her hand, and she curtsied deeply, glad for an excuse to drop her gaze. When she looked up again, he was gone. Caroline straightened, smoothing down her narrow skirts. Triumph battled with revulsion in her chest … and won.

  She had done it. She hadn’t known if she’d be able to, even after so much planning, even during the long carriage trip across the Continent to come here.

  When the moment came, though, she had managed it, for her father’s sake. For the first time in twenty-four years, she was actually one step closer to saving him. She could feel every muscle in her body relaxing with the relief of it.

  She couldn’t leave yet, of course, but at least she was finished with her work for the night. Perhaps—

  A warm hand slipped into the crook of her arm for the second time that evening. But it was a man’s hand this time, taking her arm into a firm grip and turning her inexorably around to face a tall figure cloaked in a black domino.

  Caroline’s breath froze in her throat as she recognized the eyes behind the glittering half-mask.

  “Lady Wyndham,” Michael Steinhüller said. Beneath the mask, his face broke into an all-too-familiar cocky grin. “I cannot begin to express how pleased I am to meet you.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The orchestra struck up another waltz behind them, and Michael took advantage of his companion’s shock to draw her forward onto the dance floor.

  She struggled for a brief moment, then stopped, glancing covertly at the couples around them.

  “Very sensible,” Michael said affably in German, as he took her into the embrace that the waltz required. “You wouldn’t wish to create a scandal, would you? Not when so many awkward questions might arise.” He couldn’t stop the bubble of delighted laughter that broke out of his throat, as he swept her around in a wide, exuberant turn. “Karolina. I can’t believe you’re truly here! If you only knew how many nights of sleep I’d lost worrying about you over the years … and now here you are! Could you even imagine it, the two of us here, together again?”

  Her feet followed the steps of the dance, but no answering laugh came from her throat. Instead, she said in English-accented French, “I’m afraid I don’t speak German, sir. There must have been some mistake.”

  “Oh, indeed, a great mistake. I’d never reckoned that I might find you at this Congress. At the very center of high society, no less!” Michael turned her in the dance, holding her close. “Karolina,” he breathed into her ear. “I never stopped wondering what had happened to you. Now see how well you’ve come about! You have to tell me everything.”

  “Perhaps the mask has misled you,” she said evenly, “but—”

  “That mask barely covers your eyes, as you well know, and the disguise …” Michael grinned as he glanced down at the low-cut rose damask gown, covered in sheer gauze. “The disguise is outstanding. To say the least. How on earth have you managed to pass yourself off as an English noblewoman here, surrounded by the true article? Even I’m impressed. If—”

  “Keep your voice down!” she hissed. She’d gone pale when he’d first greeted her, but now her face flushed with anger, in attractive complement to her black ringlets and Ottoman-pink mask. “I am an English noblewoman,” she added in a fierce whisper. “I have every right to be here. What excuse do you have?”

  He laughed out loud. “Why, I outrank even you now, my dear. I’ve turned pureblood royalty, myself. Prince Stefan Kalishnikoff, at your service. Half-Russian, half-French, disenfranchised heir to a godforsaken little Balkan republic in the middle of a chain of mountains.”

  “You must be mad!” She stared at him. “You’ll never convince anyone of that.”

  “You think not?” Michael arched one eyebrow, maneuvering them neatly around the other couples on the dance floor. “I have proof. A signet ring, a deed of signatory—and better yet …” He drew her in to murmur the words in her ear. She’d turned out tall, barely four inches shorter than him—who would have guessed it, all those years ago? “Now, of course,” Michael whispered, “I have you.”

  Focus, Francis told himself. He strode through the crowd, smiling and nodding as he passed familiar faces. Politics must be his quarry now, not pleasure. Yet he could still smell the lingering traces of Lady Wyndham’s light perfume clinging to his hand where it had touched hers in the waltz. He had to force himself not to lift it to his face, to breathe in the scent. Later. Later, when the night’s intrigues were over, he would let himself remember the feel of her in his arms and the promise in her eyes.

  “I came alone …” Warmth pooled pleasantly within him as he heard again her murmured words.

  Tomorrow afternoon, perhaps, he would slip away from his public schedule of appointments, if only for an hour. Oh, indeed, this Congress was to be his great public monument, the moment when he led Austria, through charm, deception, and intrigue, to her proper place in the forefront of the new world order. But why should he not pursue his own pleasures in the midst of it … especially when they landed so neatly in his lap?

  He had been forced to give up so much over these last decades, and suffer so much public humiliation. That upstart Corsican had left nothing great and noble on the Continent untouched, not even the Holy Roman Empire that should have lasted for a thousand years. Only for the sake of survival, only to be granted the right to cling onto what power he had left, Francis had been forced to formally abdicate his family’s ancient throne after Bonaparte had declared the Holy Roman Empire—and the German nation as a whole—dissolved forever.

  How his uncle Joseph would have raged at that sacrilege if he’d still been alive. But then, it was just the sort of thing he had predicted for Francis, the nephew he had held in such contempt. And if Joseph had witnessed Francis, now a mere emperor of Austria, handing over his own pure, Habsburg daughter as a bride to the Corsican abomination …

  If it weren’t for Pergen’s supernatural assistance, bearing him up throughout the worst of it, Francis could never have survived the humiliation, much less smiled, with gritted teeth, while doing so.

  But the long nightmare was finally over. Pergen and Metternich had both been right: by biding his time, by smiling in public even as his gut burned with poison, Francis had triumphed over Bonaparte in the end.

  This was finally his moment. And he deserved every luxuriant reward he could imagine for achieving it.

  As the crowd shifted about him, Francis caught sight of the tsar of Russia with his cheeks flushed and mouth wide open, entrenched in one of his endless monologues as usual. This time, his captive audience seemed to be the Prussian king and that poor little courtesan Friedrich Wilhelm had found somewhere. Rehashing the dispute over Poland, no doubt, Francis thought, and sighed at the blatancy of it.

  Alexander was so determined to be named the new spiritual overseer of Polish liberty, he was quite incapable of imagining that Austria and Prussia would not simply give in to his demands and release their two-thirds of the partitioned kingdom to him. Indeed, Friedrich Wilhelm, the Prussian king, was only too ready to be intimidated into submission. With an effort, Francis kept his lips from twisting into an open sneer as he approached them.

  He was neither such a weakling as Friedrich Wilhelm nor so unsubtle as the tsar.

  The English ambassadors, Castlereagh and Kelvinhaugh, stood ten feet away, speaking in low voices. Alexander shot them venomous looks as he talked—still sulking over Castlereagh’s latest attempts at rational persuasion, no doubt. The blustering fool truly couldn’t understand why England’s supposedly liberty-loving representatives wouldn’t choose to support a new Polish republic under Alexander’s guiding patronage.

  No, to understand that, one required a balanced perception of the world and an intelligence capable of analyzing the raw economic basis beneath the public principles that a nation might choose to present to the outer world.

  No matter what Alexander thought, success in po
litics did not depend on six hundred thousand soldiers in the field, nor on an ability to shout louder than anybody else and fly into public rages when one’s will was thwarted. Success in politics, as in every other aspect of life, lay in the ability to wear a mask in every situation, no matter how seemingly intimate … and in the determination never to let your enemies guess your aims until your trap had already closed around them.

  Francis stepped up to the tsar and the Prussian king and nodded with friendly courtesy. “My friends.” He inclined his head ever-so-slightly to the courtesan, who curtsied deeply, wide-eyed behind her mask. “I trust you are all enjoying my little entertainment?”

  “Oh, well …” Friedrich Wilhelm looked frankly miserable, trapped beside the tsar. All he wanted, poor man, was to be allowed to dally with his little plaything in peace. “Marvelous, of course, no doubt. That is …”

  “But what do you think of this new absurdity of Castlereagh’s?” Alexander turned on Francis, his face flushed, his voice booming far too loud. “Claiming this Congress should have the power to decide whether or not I make Poland into a republic, as if I were no more than a—”

  “My dear Alexander.” Francis laughed gently as he shook his head.

  Past Alexander’s bulky body, he could see his own foreign minister, Metternich, approaching Castlereagh and Kelvinhaugh through the crowd. Metternich met Francis’s eyes and nodded slightly as he joined the British ambassadors. Satisfaction settled deep in Francis’s chest as he saw his plan take perfect launch.

  Castlereagh’s face might show all the emotion of a weeks-dead Irish haddock, but Francis knew the man was shaking in his polished boots at the thought of Alexander becoming the next Bonaparte and disrupting the all-important flow of English trade. A twittering race of accountants, the British, but their gold cast every other country in Europe into the shade—and the guiding motto of the British diplomatic service was Maintain the balance of power at all costs.