Congress of Secrets

by Stephanie Burgis

  “Emmie?” Marie let out a trill of laughter. “My dear, she’s far too timid a mouse to pass on such news. Oh no, it was another guest who commented on it, and only asked Emmie for confirmation. Well, she made little noises of distress—you know how she does—but of course, in the end she couldn’t deny it, could she, when her own husband had been the one to say so in the first place?”

  “I see.” Caroline met Marie’s bright, speculative gaze and shrugged lightly. “Well, I’m not surprised. From all I’ve heard of the princess, she is more than a little inclined to charming men.”

  “Oh, from what I’ve heard …”

  Marie launched into a new story as the line moved forward, but her gaze remained intent on Caroline’s face, even as her voice twittered on in an endless stream of gossip. Caroline kept her expression serene and politely indifferent, nodding at all the right moments.

  She wanted to gag. Sickness rose up in her stomach as she stepped forward. She took a deep breath, forcing the bile down.

  Fool. Foolish beyond measure, first, to believe any of Marie’s malicious gossip—although Emmie Kelvinhaugh, her relentless brain reminded her, was not a gossip by even the most exacting of standards, and if Emmie really had confirmed …

  But no. The greater foolishness—the unforgivable mistake—was to let the possibility of truth sicken her.

  She remembered the look on Michael’s face that morning, in the gardens.

  “You can trust me with all your heart,” he’d said. “I swear it.”

  How could she have even wanted to believe him?

  She imagined him turning his charm on Princess Bagration—“the white cat,” she’d heard gentlemen call the princess and then laugh in a way Caroline knew how to understand. She’d seen the lady herself from a distance, riding in the Augarten with six white horses. Beautiful, certainly, beyond any denial, and fascinating, from all reports—and, no doubt, a valuable ally for a man in Michael’s position. Caroline could all too easily envision …

  Stop. She leashed her wayward imagination with an effort.

  Her smile had slipped. She forced it back into place.

  It didn’t matter whether Michael had flirted—or even if he had already progressed further—with the princess, or with anyone else. It didn’t—couldn’t—even matter if he had been trying to play Caroline for a fool that morning.

  He had failed.

  She knew better than to trust him again. It was a blessing in disguise to be reminded of that now, before she could make any fatal slip.

  Caroline hadn’t let herself care for the attractions of any man since she was sold at fifteen years old, except—once she was finally old enough and wise enough to rise beyond her fear and rage—to see how they could be used toward her own ends.

  How could she have let Michael slip so far past her guard?

  There were only eight couples ahead of Marie and her husband now. The emperor, tall and glittering with medals, stood beyond his small, slight wife at the head of the line, kissing the hand of a Russian duchess. Servants hurried up to the closest waiting guests to take the overcoats of the gentlemen and the pelisses of the ladies. Caroline took a deep, steadying breath as she unbuttoned her own ankle-length pelisse and handed it to a bowing footman.

  No longer hidden beneath the satin-trimmed pelisse, she wore a gown of sheer French gauze over a deep blue silk slip, low-cut and clinging close to her figure. Sapphires sparkled around her throat. She saw Lord Rothmere’s brown eyes widen in appreciation, quickly veiled before his wife could spot it, and she smiled in grim satisfaction. Well, then. Caroline raised her chin as she stepped forward in the line.

  It was time for work, not gossip, and she would waste no more of it.

  Distracted or not, Caroline knew better than to seek out the emperor’s gaze as she waited for her turn. While Marie and Lord Rothmere exchanged greetings with the imperial couple, she folded her gloved hands and cast her gaze down modestly. She only looked up when it was her turn to move forward …

  And met a gaze of unmistakable hostility from the diminutive empress.

  “Your Majesty,” she murmured, lowering her head as she dipped a deep, respectful curtsy.

  “Lady Wyndham.” The young empress’s high voice was as cold and piercing as an icicle. “A pleasure.”

  “An honor, Your Majesty.” Caroline rose, veiling intense speculation behind a submissive expression.

  She had only exchanged a few empty words with the empress at the last ball—and none, surely, that could have led to such blatant imperial anger. Unless …

  “Lady Wyndham,” the emperor said. He took her gloved hand. “Charming, as always.”

  “Your Majesty.” Rising from her second curtsy, Caroline lifted her eyes, letting a warm, assured smile curve her lips.

  It faded as she met his eyes. They sparkled with a dangerous, unsettling light. Not attraction—or not only. No, something darker, something she couldn’t quite identify …

  He raised her hand to his lips. “I hope you’ll save a quadrille for me, after the tableaux have ended.”

  “I would never dare disobey an imperial command,” Caroline said lightly.

  His lips twisted.

  He released her hand just before she could lose control and snatch it back. She stepped away more quickly than she should have, swallowing hard.

  The other ingredient in his expression, flaring briefly into full view, had been simmering rage.

  What folly had she managed unknowingly to commit, to change his mood so drastically in the past two days? The hostility of the empress, perhaps, might be accounted for by the emperor’s own warmth of two nights’ past. But the emperor’s own change of heart … that, Caroline could not fathom.

  Panic beat a quick flutter inside her chest as she stepped forward into the sparkling throng. Lights blazed from all directions, flashing off tiaras and necklaces. A wind band played a bright, piping march in one corner of the Great Hall. Caroline smiled and nodded to familiar faces across the room.

  What had she done wrong?

  She took a deep breath, stilling the voice of fear within her.

  Enough. The emperor had reserved a dance with her. Therefore, whatever mistake she had made had not been enough to give him a disgust of her. She would exert every ounce of skill she possessed to regain his favor—and she had time enough, beforehand, to think on how to do it. She had hours left before the dancing began, to sit through elegant tableaux, make small talk with only half her attention, and plan her next strategy in detail.

  There was no need to panic.

  As Caroline turned, she caught sight of the Prince de Ligne’s white hair, revealed for a moment across the great hall. Relief released Caroline’s shoulders from their tightness. She moved forward, holding her fan and reticule close to her side as she weaved her way through the thick crowd—

  —And almost walked into the man who planted himself directly in her path.

  “Lady Wyndham,” said Count Pergen. His thin lips twitched into a smile. “I have been waiting for you.”

  The first thing Michael saw when he stepped into the Great Hall of the Hofburg was Caroline. She stood at the head of the line, making her curtsy to the emperor. His breath caught in his throat at the sight.

  Light sparked off the jewels at her throat and in her hair, but the colorful gems were only a distraction from the picture she presented. For the first time since meeting her again, he saw her as if she were a stranger, without the veil of her past self and their shared history between them.

  She straightened from her curtsy, and her gown clung to her figure. Michael swallowed hard.

  Karolina, he reminded himself. She was the same girl he’d known … but from a distance, she looked very little like the girl she’d been.

  The emperor seemed impressed, certainly. Michael’s hands tightened into fists as he saw the emperor’s gaze turn blatantly to Caroline’s chest.

  Then he loosened his fingers and tried to smile.

&n
bsp; Well. It appeared that Caroline’s plan—whatever it might be—was progressing beautifully.

  Good for her, he told himself.

  Still, he chose not to watch any longer.

  Instead, Michael turned his attention to his neighbors in the line. The woman behind him was a haughty-looking dowager with a forbidding expression, but the young couple in front of him looked more promising. The girl clung to her husband’s arm. Both of them looked half excited, half terrified by the prospect ahead of them.

  Bourgeois, Michael guessed. The man would be the eldest son of a wealthy merchant family, invited with his wife to this gathering in thanks for monetary favors to the emperor, perhaps. They would spend the evening in reflected honor but also in isolation, watching the royalty of Europe from close quarters but considered too unimportant to be observed—much less spoken to—by any of their fellow guests.

  Michael smiled charmingly at them both.

  “Am I the only one to feel a bit intimidated?” he whispered.

  By the time the line had moved forward five more feet, he knew both the first names of Herr and Frau Gassmann, half their family histories … and he had managed to restrain himself from looking to see in which direction Caroline had gone.

  At the head of the line, he waited as the Gassmanns were greeted with distant condescension by the tiny empress. As they moved on to the emperor, Michael moved forward to bow reverently over the empress’s small hand.

  “Your Majesty.” He brushed his lips across her glove. “I am charmed … and overwhelmed.”

  “Prince Kalishnikoff.” She repeated the name that had been whispered to her by a waiting servant and smiled up at him as he released her hand. At least twenty years younger than her husband-and-first-cousin, Empress Maria Ludovica was lovely but painfully thin, with pale skin stretched across her fine features and shadows underneath her eyes. Still, the charm that had famously won troops and allies to the Austrian war effort was evident as she spoke. “We are pleased to welcome you to Vienna, Your Highness. Is this your first visit to our capital?”

  “Not quite,” Michael said. On this point at least, thank God, he had prepared himself. He’d asked the prince that question himself, when he’d first won the ring and deed of signatory off the drunken sot in that tavern in Warsaw, scant hours before the exiled ruler had departed on a ship bound for distant Canada. “I did have the pleasure of visiting Vienna once before, but only as a young child.”

  “I do hope you enjoy your stay.”

  “Majesty.” He bowed again, as he moved on to the emperor. “A great honor.”

  “Kalishnikoff.” The emperor bit off the name without waiting for his servant to whisper an introduction.

  All of Michael’s instincts flared into warning as he straightened from his bow and met the older man’s narrowed gaze. “Your Majesty.”

  The emperor’s eyes glimmered with a dangerous light. “I hear you’re finding great favor in Vienna. In all quarters.”

  “Majesty?” Michael raised his eyebrows, keeping his expression good-humored.

  Had he been followed to the university district that afternoon? He’d done nothing illegal while there … nothing illegal, at least, that could have been witnessed. Could anyone have overheard?

  “Apparently, you’ve become quite the favorite with many of our ladies here for the Congress,” the emperor said. “Princess Bagration …”

  “A charming woman, is she not?” Michael smiled to hide his confusion. “The Prince de Ligne was kind enough to invite me to accompany him to her salon yesterday.”

  “Indeed, the Prince de Ligne.” The emperor’s voice hardened. “And was it he who introduced you to our English visitor, Lady Wyndham?”

  Aha. Michael shook his head. “No, Majesty. Lady Wyndham is a very old friend of mine. Almost a sister, one might say.”

  The emperor blinked. “Surely the royal house of Kernova is not so closely linked to … England.”

  And what word had he nearly used there, before he’d caught himself? Michael shrugged, holding his smile. “Our fathers were old school friends, so we met as children. I’ve always looked on her as a younger sibling.”

  “Mm. How very … enlightening.” The emperor’s eyes narrowed. “Do enjoy the tableaux, Prince Kalishnikoff.”

  “I thank you, Majesty. And perhaps I might have the honor of speaking to you again, later in the evening?” Michael asked. “The matter of this Congress, as it relates to my own lost land—”

  “Pray, don’t speak to me of politics.” The emperor waved a dismissive hand. “I know nothing of affairs of state, I’m afraid. My ministers see to all such matters.”

  And that is the greatest lie spoken yet tonight by either of us, Michael thought as he bowed his farewell.

  Smiling and assured, he moved through the crowd and arrived exactly as planned, ten minutes later, at the Prince de Ligne’s side.

  “My dear Kalishnikoff.” The prince stepped aside to make room for Michael in his small circle. “You know Monsieur le Baron de Talleyrand, of course, and my young friend the Comte de La Garde-Chambonas.”

  “A pleasure to see you both again, gentlemen.” Michael tipped his head in a courteous nod.

  Caroline was nowhere to be seen.

  “How goes your stay in Vienna, Prince Kalishnikoff?” Talleyrand asked. His voice was as languid and uninflected as ever, but Michael did not fail to glimpse the meaning in the French ambassador’s heavily bagged eyes.

  “Most productively, Your Excellency, I thank you. Why, I’ve made new acquaintances even this afternoon … and acquired directions to several more.”

  “How gratifying,” Talleyrand murmured. “And how very energetic of you. I’m sure it will advance your cause admirably.”

  “We must hope, eh?” The Prince de Ligne’s lips twitched as he glanced between the two, as if following the moves in an old-fashioned duel of swords. “But enough tiresome politicking for one night, eh? Have you heard the results yet of the single most dramatic and anguished issue facing the Congress tonight?”

  Michael shrugged. “Ah …?”

  “The Affair of the Mustaches,” the Comte de La Garde-Chambonas pronounced. His plump chest swelled with importance. “No one can speak or think of anything else, even in the very highest of circles!”

  “How astonishing,” Michael said blankly. “And the Affair of the Mustaches is …?”

  “Our young friend refers to the tableaux which we are about to view,” De Ligne explained. His tone was grave, but his eyes sparkled. “They’ve run into a desperate predicament, you see. The final picture in tonight’s gallery of images is to represent Olympus itself, complete with all mythological divinities. It should conclude the entire evening in the most brilliant possible manner.”

  “But?” Michael supplied. In the distance, he caught a flash of blue silk. He forced his gaze not to follow it.

  “Nothing, as you can imagine, has been neglected to make the execution worthy of so grand a subject. And yet, for the past two days, there have been negotiations far more difficult and delicate in their nature than any others at this entire Congress; and they have been followed, my dear prince, with far more personal interest than any tiresome questions over Poland, France, or any other kingdom’s destiny.”

  “The Comte de Wurbna’s mustaches!” the Comte de La Garde-Chambonas interjected. “He is the only man thought fit to represent Apollo in the tableau; the role was offered and accepted days ago—but he refuses to shave off his glorious mustaches!”

  “They are glorious indeed,” the Prince de Ligne murmured, with wicked delight. “And yet … who can conceive the God of Day with the hirsute ornament of a captain of hussars?”

  “I perceive the dilemma,” Michael said. “And what has been the final decision?”

  “But this is the exact situation! It is as yet undecided.” The comte’s cheeks flushed with excitement. “Shall anyone know the end to the story until the curtain rises? The stage manager has entreated him with
pleas and tears to see reason. Rather than give in, Wurbna has taken an oath not to part with the mustaches while alive! But it is rumored that the empress herself has now entered into the negotiations. So perhaps …”

  Servants pulled open the heavy doors to the next room, rearranged as a theater for the night. The crowd began to move. Revealed for a single moment of clarity, Michael witnessed a vivid but unstaged tableau.

  Caroline stood less than twenty feet away from him, facing Count Pergen himself, who smiled as he spoke to her. It was not a pleasant smile. To their left, the emperor of Austria watched her with undisguised hunger. Caroline’s own face was hidden from view.

  Michael took a deep breath. He prepared to step forward.

  “What say you, Prince Kalishnikoff?” the French ambassador asked. “Will young Wurbna give in to the demands of the state, or shall the spectacle be ruined for everyone?”

  The crowd closed before them again, hiding Caroline from view. Yet, if he took just a few more steps through the crowd …

  Michael met Talleyrand’s measuring gaze and tasted bitter self-knowledge.

  “Why, he’ll shave the mustaches, of course,” he said. “Like it or not …” He turned away, toward the doors to the theater and away from the tableau that did not, could not, concern him now. “We all must learn to put aside our own desires and play the roles assigned us.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “You’ve been waiting for me?” Caroline repeated. She sought for a social smile; failed. She raised her eyebrows instead, fighting for chilly disdain rather than panic. “To what do I owe this honor, Count Pergen?”

  “Need you ask?” He bowed slightly, his smile deepening. “I’m sure you must be accustomed to inspiring admiration, Lady Wyndham. Once first met, how could I help but wish to meet you again?”

  Repulsion slammed through Caroline’s skin like a physical attack. She swallowed hard to keep from gagging.

  Then she met his gaze, cold and intent, as he straightened from his bow, and her mind wrested control back from her panicking body.

  If that was truly admiration in his shadowed gaze, then Caroline knew nothing about the desires of men. She took a deep breath and forced herself to think clearly.