Congress of Secrets

by Stephanie Burgis

  “Well, well, well,” Marie murmured, as they stepped inside the packed room. “I would never have thought it of you, Caro. After what everybody’s been saying, too …”

  “Have they?” Caroline murmured vaguely.

  She raised her chin to allow a hovering maid to begin to unbutton the column of tiny buttons that led from the collar to the waist of her ankle-length pelisse. The smells of the multitude of other women around her, mixing lavender water, powders, creams, and sweat together, was nearly overpowering. She clung to the memory of Michael’s words.

  That won’t be necessary, he had said.

  With all the willpower she’d developed in her thirty-five years, she prayed that he was right.

  Michael would have given away any of the imaginary fortunes he’d invented for himself over the past twenty years to understand the gleam in the emperor’s eye as they met in the receiving line.

  “Prince Kalishnikoff.” Rather than glaring at Michael as he had the night before, the emperor graced him with a glittering smile of amusement. “How fortunate that we have you here tonight.”

  “Fortunate for me, certainly,” Michael said, as he bowed. “A magnificent event, Your Majesty. As always.”

  “Ah, well, my wife handles all such matters. Of course.” The emperor’s smile deepened. Rather than nodding for the next guest to approach, he leaned closer to Michael. “Don’t you find that women are generally the best at arranging social niceties? And social stratagems, as well?”

  “Ah …” Michael paused. “Alas, I’ve never been a married man, Your Majesty.”

  “And yet, I would be surprised if you had not … but never mind.” The emperor shook his head, as if restraining himself from sharing a private joke. “Do enjoy the evening’s entertainment, Your Highness.”

  “I thank you, Majesty.” Michael moved on, keeping his smile fixed even as his mind whirled with suspicion.

  The emperor’s amusement could forebode nothing good. Of that, at least, Michael was coldly certain. Thank God the carriage was ready and waiting for them. Even if it weren’t for Caroline’s mad plan, he would have insisted on leaving Vienna directly after tonight’s gala.

  Michael moved away from the receiving line, directing his gaze in a casual sweep of the crowd. With luck, it would appear that he was merely looking for the closest drink rather than searching for potential escape routes.

  “Prince Kalishnikoff.” A familiar voice spoke behind him. Michael turned to find the French foreign minister regarding him with cool appraisal.

  “Baron de Talleyrand.” Michael swept a bow. “I’m delighted to see you again. I trust you are well?”

  “Perfectly. And you?” Talleyrand raised his eyebrows within his sagging face. “I was surprised not to hear from you today.”

  “I’ve been much occupied, I’m afraid.” Was that—? Michael stiffened as he heard a disconcertingly familiar trill of female laughter nearby. Familiar, and yet not readily identifiable. Where had he heard it before?

  “Profitably, I hope,” Talleyrand drawled.

  “I beg your pardon—that is, yes. Very profitably indeed. I hope you’ll agree with me when you see the results.” Michael fought to gather his scattered thoughts under the French ambassador’s heavy-lidded gaze. This was no time to let his nerves run away with his tongue.

  “I hope so too,” Talleyrand said softly. As the crowd shifted around them, the two men were pressed closer together, and Talleyrand’s voice dropped to a whisper. “And do you have any notion just when I might be impressed with those results?”

  When you find I’ve disappeared, tomorrow morning? Michael thought.

  The too-familiar female laugh sounded again, closer this time. Tension tightened into a warning knot between Michael’s shoulders. He smiled. “Very soon, Monsieur. Perhaps within five days.”

  “I am pleased to hear it.” Talleyrand’s face retained a look of indifferent courtesy, but his low voice was cutting. “If it took much longer, I’m afraid my interest, and any small influence I possess, might be strained to their very limits.”

  “I’m certain that won’t be a problem,” Michael said smoothly. He bowed, already backing away. “If you’ll excuse me …”

  He turned as soon as courtesy would allow to search for the source of that disturbingly familiar laugh.

  But the crowd had shifted into new formations, and Michael did not hear it again.

  Caroline’s chest tightened with every step she took in the receiving line. Each step took her closer to the promised confrontation … and to her ultimate goal.

  Tonight, she would save her father. She told herself that with every breath.

  As one person after another stepped to the front of the receiving line, Caroline became more and more conscious of the emperor himself, as if he possessed a tangible magnetism that reached out toward her. He was in an expansive good humor tonight; his sharp laughter reached her ears, and she caught glimpses of fierce, flashing smiles.

  Perhaps Pergen had already fed him on some poor creature’s spirit tonight. That had always …

  Caroline wrenched her thoughts away from that direction. She would not be able to go through with the evening ahead if she let herself remember that.

  Her feet moved forward of their own volition. She found herself facing him, only inches away.

  She took a breath and dipped a low curtsy. “Your Majesty.”

  “Lady Wyndham.” A smile played at the corners of his mouth as he raised her hand to his lips. “I am honored. Of course.”

  His lips brushed against her fingers. Caroline fought down the impulse to pull her hand away.

  The rage she’d seen in his eyes the night before had unnerved her. But the glee she saw in his patrician face tonight … That made her almost numb with fear.

  “I wonder …” Caroline slipped a sideways glance at the empress, who was absorbed in conversation with a Russian noblewoman. She forced herself to play out her lines as she’d prepared them, her eyelashes demurely lowered. “Might it be possible for me to speak to you more privately, Your Majesty? Tonight?”

  His fingers tightened around her hand. When he spoke, his voice sounded as smooth and rich as cream. “My dear Lady Wyndham, you’ve taken the very words from my mouth. I was about to make the same suggestion.”

  “You were?” Caroline looked up involuntarily and met his triumphant gaze.

  “Soon,” the emperor murmured. “As soon as I can escape this duty. I’ll seek you out, never fear.”

  Caroline forced herself to smile. “I can hardly wait.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Peter walked through the crowd, all his senses alert.

  It had been an hour since he had arrived at the gala celebrations. In another hour and a half, he would need to leave for his final performance of the evening.

  Seconds ticked away in accompaniment to his rapid heartbeat.

  Through the crowd, he glimpsed a familiar face: Vaçlav Grünemann, the spy, here to help Peter in his mission … or to take him prisoner once again, if he failed. Peter looked away, wincing, but not soon enough. In the corner of his vision, he glimpsed Grünemann’s cool smile and nod of recognition.

  A liveried footman approached, offering Peter a new glass of champagne in exchange for his empty one. Peter paused a moment, his hand hovering above the silver tray, then shook his head as common sense asserted itself. He moved on, still clutching his empty glass and listening intently for any echo of a familiar, lying voice.

  French conversations blurred in his ears, blending with scattered German, English, Russian, and other languages he couldn’t recognize. Whenever the closely packed crowd allowed, Peter tried to scan the line of new arrivals streaming in from outside. All he managed to see were glimpses of military medals, fans, and outrageous hairstyles. Twice, he thought he recognized Michael’s lean build. He pushed his way through the crowd—and found only unfamiliar faces before him.

  An hour and a quarter left. Peter elbowed past
the people in his way, ignoring the laws of courtesy and logic. If he shoved past the wrong man, he’d find himself challenged to one of the lethal duels that the nobility so loved.

  He didn’t care. A far worse fate awaited him if he failed.

  Just over an hour left. Sweat streamed down Peter’s face. He was nearly running now.

  He broke through a gap in the crowd—and tripped.

  The Prince de Ligne stood out even in this packed room. Caroline glimpsed his gleaming white hair and felt herself relax for the first time in nearly twenty-four hours. She disentangled herself from the group of Englishmen who had gathered her up after her arrival and slipped through the crowd toward the prince’s erect figure.

  It was only a rest, not a rescue from what lay ahead. But still she found herself smiling with genuine pleasure as she swept toward his circle of admirers.

  “Lady Wyndham.” The prince bowed with an elegance left over from the last century and stepped aside to welcome her into the circle. “Tell us, have you made up your mind yet on the most burning issue of the day?”

  “Your Highness?” Caroline raised her eyebrows as she stepped into place beside him. The Comte de La Garde-Chambonas stood on De Ligne’s right; beyond the comte stood Michael. She nodded to both men and tried not to let her gaze linger too long on Michael’s face. Still, his half-smile warmed her even as she turned back to De Ligne’s look of wicked delight.

  “Why, how shall you describe this evening in your letters home—and indeed in your own book of memoirs?” De Ligne used his champagne glass to gesture at the press of people around them. “Is it to be named an insufferable crush? The most tedious gathering of the entire Congress? Or an awe-inspiring event to remember for the ages, an unprecedented gathering of all the greatest and most glittering personages from across the Continent? You must make up your mind soon, you know—descriptions are already flying about the room, and you wouldn’t wish to be last in registering to the world how terribly, terribly sophisticated your appreciation was.”

  “Mine?” Caroline shook her head. “I’m afraid I am no author, Your Highness. I’ll leave all memoir-writing to the comte and yourself.”

  “Surely you underestimate yourself.” De Ligne regarded her quizzically. “I suspect you possess hidden depths, my lady, which you don’t choose to reveal to the world at large. If you were ever to sit down and write your own perspective on this Congress—”

  “Then we should all be astonished and scandalized, no doubt,” said a familiar voice behind them.

  Caroline’s fingers tightened around her fan. She forced herself to relax as the emperor stepped up between them.

  “De Ligne.” The emperor nodded affably. “Preparing for another of your own publications? You’ll show this one to me ahead of time, I hope?”

  “I? Why, I am only a harmless old man,” said the prince, with wide-eyed innocence. “What danger could my poor words possibly possess?”

  “Oh, it’s never too late to surprise everyone,” said the emperor. “Lady Wyndham …”

  Caroline felt Michael’s gaze upon her. The smile had faded from his face. She turned to the emperor, raising the fan high against her own face. It was a flirtatious gesture; better yet, it gifted her with a mask.

  “Might I have a word?” the emperor asked.

  “Of course,” Caroline murmured. “I would be honored.”

  She took his proffered arm and gave a nod and smile of farewell to the circle of watching men. Together, Caroline and the emperor walked away, leaving the prince, the comte, and Michael behind them.

  Michael’s left hand throbbed with pain. He recognized the sensation a moment before he realized its cause: his hand had fisted so tightly that his fingers had cramped and his short nails had dug reddened semicircles into his palm. He shook his fingers out discreetly and forced his gaze away from Caroline’s retreating back.

  He found the Prince de Ligne watching him with keen blue eyes. “A fascinating woman,” De Ligne murmured.

  “Mm.” Michael nodded and took a sip of champagne. A moment later, he couldn’t even recall the taste.

  “Twenty-four years … isn’t it worth anything I can do?”

  He couldn’t have stopped her. But he wanted to kill the emperor of Austria with his bare hands, and not only for the hell the bastard had already put Caroline through.

  Calm. De Ligne was speaking again.

  “… feels she has an intriguing story behind her, don’t you agree?”

  “Intriguing indeed,” Michael agreed, and drank again.

  “I shall certainly be describing her at length in my memoirs!” the Comte de La Garde-Chambonas announced. His plump face was flushed, whether from the heat or from the champagne, Michael could not tell. “She is the most elegant woman in Vienna, beyond compare. Perhaps …”

  He rambled on, but Michael didn’t follow. He had lost sight of Caroline in the crowd. He turned slightly, scanning the sea of heads. Perhaps …

  “But perhaps Prince Kalishnikoff could tell us more of that,” De Ligne said gently. “As such an old friend of Lady Wyndham.”

  Michael blinked and turned back to the other men. “I beg your pardon?”

  De Ligne’s brows drew together, but his voice remained courteously pitched. “We were only wondering how long Lady Wyndham plans to stay in the city.”

  “Well …” Michael shrugged. “I cannot answer for her, of course, but I’d expect several months at the very least. After all, who would choose to leave Vienna at such a historic moment?” He attempted a charming smile. It felt stretched and false. Where had all his training gone? “But what of tonight’s entertainment?” he asked, too quickly. “Has anyone heard a hint of which theater troupe it is to be? And which play—or opera—we’re to enjoy?”

  “The matter of ‘enjoyment,’ of course, is rather dependent on the answers to both your questions,” De Ligne said dryly. “But from what I’ve heard …”

  The prince broke off as a commotion disrupted the crowd ahead. A clumsy figure—intoxicated already?—stumbled into two different men, knocking them apart. Cries of irritation sounded around him. The figure half-tripped and caught himself on a noblewoman’s arm. His face was hidden as he leaned over her, but Michael saw blond hair above a solid, compact figure that was dressed far more modestly than any of the other guests.

  Sudden suspicion stole Michael’s breath. He stepped backward, fighting for rationality. There was no logical way it could possibly be—

  The noblewoman shoved her assailant’s hand aside with a gasp of outrage. Straightening, the man turned toward Michael’s group.

  Michael met Peter Riesenbeck’s gaze for the second time that day.

  Even as he met Michael’s gaze, Peter realized that his challenge had only just begun. Grünemann stood half a room away, separated from the drama by hundreds of nobles of different nationalities. For all Peter knew, there might not be a single secret policeman closer than forty feet away—and in such a crowd, forty feet might as well be three miles.

  If he didn’t convince his audience immediately, he could lose his only chance.

  Peter’s eyes widened in horror. He raised one trembling finger. He pointed it straight at Michael.

  “Traitor,” Peter breathed. And then, in the actor’s voice that he’d spent his life developing, he projected his words throbbingly through the aristocratic crowd: “Traitor and revolutionary!”

  A shocked and avidly listening silence spread in widening circles around them, punctuated by gasps and whispers. Michael looked at Riesenbeck’s theatrically wavering finger, felt the horrified eyes of the crowd upon him … and smiled dazzlingly in response.

  “A fine performance indeed,” Michael said. He lifted his glass to toast the other man. “And far better than the earlier version I saw last week in Prague.” He turned to share his amusement with the onlookers. “Ladies and gentlemen, I believe tonight’s mystery has at last been solved! May I present Peter Riesenbeck, head of the excellent Riesenbeck
theatrical troupe, which is currently touring to Vienna from Prague … and, I presume, playing for us tonight in the Burgtheater.” He gestured with his glass. “I think he merits our applause, don’t you?”

  Approximately a third of the company began to clap, with varying degrees of enthusiasm; the other two thirds settled back into their conversational groups, a few with looks of active disgust at the nature of the interruption. Riesenbeck had to raise his voice again to be heard.

  “Don’t listen to him! He—”

  “Am I wrong?” Michael asked. “Do enlighten me—are you not performing tonight, after all?”

  “Did you meet in Prague, then?” the Prince de Ligne asked. He nodded with courteous condescension to the actor as he waited for Michael’s response.

  “You don’t understand,” Riesenbeck said. He turned to look around, his eyes wild. “He—I know him! He’s—”

  “I am honored to be remembered, indeed, after meeting so briefly when I congratulated you after that performance in Prague.” Michael met Riesenbeck’s eyes with cool amusement. “I know I promised you future patronage, months ago, but I’m afraid you can’t call in my debt quite yet—my own fate is yet to be decided at this Congress.” Was it worth trying—? Oh hell, why not? He added, casually, “That offer still holds true, by the way. I would be happy to take on your company’s interests in the future, when I have the capability to do so.”

  Riesenbeck stared at him. He opened his mouth to speak, and then stopped. Michael felt the tension in his shoulders begin to ease.

  “A fine promise indeed,” the Prince de Ligne said. He raised his own glass to the actor. “I look forward to watching the Riesenbeck company perform tonight, after such a recommendation.”

  “I beg your pardon,” the actor muttered.

  He turned around and struck out through the closely pressed crowd, pushing his way across the room.

  Damnation. Michael’s heart sank as he watched Riesenbeck’s blond head move through the crowd. Unaccustomed panic made his fingers tremble around the stem of his glass.