Cold Stone & Ivy Book 2: The Crown Prince (The Empire of Steam)

by H. Leighton Dickson

  ***

  The Hotel Sacher was very different from Lasingstoke Hall – veined marble instead of aged wood, statues instead of bookcases, the heavy odor of fresh flowers instead of horse or wet dog. It was elegant and posh and far too sophisticated for his tastes, but it was well located and served a fine cup of tea. Coffee was all the rage in Austria. He couldn’t fathom it but there was nothing new in that.

  He felt like a statue and he was grateful for the black spectacles that hid his eyes from curious staff and guests alike. However, Ivy had to lead him all the way from the arena to the steamcab, from the concierge desk up the stairs. He felt much like the night back in Milnethorpe when he’d shot Frederick Easterton Crumb and been shot himself in return.

  The Concierge manager, a trim little man with a bald head and thin moustache, escorted them to the very best room in the entire hotel. Sisi had been notified of their arrival and, after the incident in the Stallburg, her staff had arranged accommodations within the hour. A minor diplomat had been displaced to a smaller room several floors above and he wondered if the diplomat was going to the party. It would be an interesting turn of events if that were the case.

  The manager pushed open the doors into an elaborate suite that smelled like clean cotton and hot-water heat. Ivy led him to the sofa where she removed the dark lenses and pushed him to sit. He could see her clearly now, a little furrow between her brows. He cursed his frailty although he welcomed her hands.

  “I shall have a light lunch brought up for you in twenty minutes, mein Herr,” said the manager. “And an Imperial coach will be waiting just before eight, at the doors.”

  “For what exactly?” asked Ivy.

  “For the dinner party,” he said. “The Empress insisted that we take care of these things for you, as our guests. One of our other guests is going as well. Imagine that, two English Lords on the same floor, both with the last name de Lacey. That’s is French, is it not?”

  “Christien de Lacey?”

  “Ja, Fräulein. In the room across the hall. Perhaps you would like to share the coach?”

  “I don’t think we’ll be going, sir, but thank you.”

  “One does not say no to the Gilded Empress. You will be going.” He smiled wanly. “Is there anything else you need, mein Herr?”

  He felt her squeeze his hands. Everything was sluggish. Slow.

  “Sebastien, did you bring a dinner jacket?”

  The manager cleared his throat. It sounded like the boom of a cannon.

  “White tie, Fräulein. It is an Imperial dinner party.”

  “Sebastien?”

  “No,” he moaned. “I wasn’t expecting to go.”

  “I shall see to it,” said the manager. “The Sacher is renown for taking excellent care of our guests. We are Vienna’s preferred hotelier.”

  He gave a little bow and slipped from the room.

  Ivy bent down in front of him now, cupping his cheeks and lifting his face to examine him. Her hands were warm and the green of her eyes reminded him of forests.

  “Can you see?”

  “Same as ever,” he said.

  “Hm. How do you feel?”

  “Cold.”

  “What happened?”

  “A horse ran me clean through.”

  “A dead horse?”

  “Must have been. A living one would have left bruises.”

  She grinned and he thought he could die a happy man.

  “What am I to do with you, Laury-boy?”

  “A cup of tea and a blanket?” Although a kiss would not be turned away.

  “Done.” She pushed him down on the sofa and he did not fight as she dragged a blanket over his legs. “Sleep now. I’ll have tea waiting when you wake up.”

  He rolled over, hugged a pillow to his chest. Could see snow when he closed his eyes.

  “I wonder,” he heard her say, “What Christien will think when he sees us at the party?”

  But he hadn’t time to answer as sleep claimed him almost immediately. With it came dreams of dead horses and clockwork lockets and the Seventh House of Lasingstoke at the centre of a dying world.

  Chapter 4

  Of White Ties, Black Swans and Red Dresses at the Hofburg

  Penny smiled and spun from the mirror.

  “What do you think, Julian darling?”

  The barrister nodded as he slipped out of the shadows, a black cigarette holder in his clockwork fingers.

  “I think you look splendid, Penny,” he said, between puffs. “But then again, you always do.”

  “Oh Julian! You are too kind!” She slid an opera glove over her hand. “But I have a small pistol tucked away in case that ruffian Alexander Dunn tries to steal the second locket. You remember surely how valuable the first one was.”

  “Surely.”

  “And dangerous.” Her eyes flashed at him. “Are you ready for a little danger, Julian?”

  “Always.”

  Penny clapped her hands and snatched her sable wrap from the chair, sashayed out of the hotel room towards the hall. Behind her, Julian slid his cigarette free of the holder to reveal the gleam of a thin dagger. He smiled as the blade shone in the gaslight.

  “We’ll both be ready for Dunn tonight.”

  He slipped the cigarette back and followed her out the doors.

  ***

  Christien would not look at them.

  Even sitting across an Imperial coach, he found places for his eyes other than his brother and one-time fiancée. In fact, the entire coach ride from the Sacher to the Hofburg was spent in silence and Ivy thought it the most uncomfortable ride in all her life. Both brothers looked very fine in their white ties and tails, but Sebastien insisted on wearing his black spectacles and a blanket draped across his shoulders for warmth. His eyes were still the colour of the snow and Ivy wondered if they would ever go back to brown. Brown was for him, she realized, the colour of humanity. Everything else was a roll of the dice.

  The coach slowed at yet another wing of the labyrinthine palace known as the Hofburg and the Imperial coachman sprang from the dickey to the cab door. Christien stepped out first and did not wait, crossing the snowy walk with swift strides. Sebastien next, but he turned and held out a hand and she was grateful for his help. The dress she was wearing was long, very full and a little too big. She prayed it would stay pinned the rest of the night.

  “Möchten Sie mir, das zu nehmen, mein Herr?” asked the coachman, looking at the blanket on the Mad Lord’s shoulders.

  “Nein danke,” said Sebastien. “It will serve a dual purpose tonight.”

  The night was black and gaslight poured from lampposts, lighting their way to the palace entrance. Hussars, both human and silver, were everywhere and Ivy leaned on Sebastien’s arm as they approached.

  “Do we have an invitation?” she whispered. “We only have the word of the concierge manager that the Empress invited us. What if he’s mistaken?”

  He smiled at her, looking odd with dark spectacles on such a black night.

  “Oh, he might very well be. Still, the evening has been worth it, hasn’t it? If only to see you looking so beautiful.”

  She felt the heat rush to her cheeks.

  “Besides, it is Carnival in Vienna. Surely, we will find another ball somewhere.”

  An automaton looked up at them at the door. He was fashioned as a Hussar as well, complete with gold-plated uniform and shako helmet. But this one was different from the others she had seen. He had a face, and she had to admit that the metalwork was amazingly detailed, right down to the tooling on his large copper moustache.

  “Namen, bitte?” he asked, voice sounding like the growl of a steam engine.

  “Sebastien Laurent St. John Lord de Lacey of Lasingstoke and Miss Ivy Savage of London, Empire of Steam, Great Britain.”

  Lights flashed across the faceplate.

  “Honoured guests of Empress Elizabeth,” it announced in perfect English. “Welcome to the party. Long live Kaiser Wilhelm.”
r />   As they entered the palace, Ivy wondered if she would ever grow accustomed to splendid places. The ceilings were as ornate as the walls, the portraits were huge and of important figures, the floral arrangements lush and larger than life. In fact, everything seemed that way, larger, bolder, monumental, giving the impression of power and authority. She wondered if she would find Buckingham the same had she ever the chance to call.

  They followed the stream of well-clad guests to a ballroom, where they were halted before entering. The music of Strauss was lively and from the door she could see couples sweeping around the room in dance. She remembered waltzing around her sitting room when she was very young, pretending to be a princess in a ballroom just like this. Her father had been her make-believe prince but now, as she looked up at the man on her arm, great black lenses on his face, blanket still across his shoulders, she realized she could never have made up anyone as fantastical as the Mad Lord of Lasingstoke.

  The couple before them was announced and entered the ballroom. Ivy and Sebastien stepped forward.

  Against a far wall, she could see Christien with an exquisite young woman. She was wearing a ball gown the colour of pearl that shimmered like champagne in the light and suddenly, Ivy realized that in this room, all of the dresses were light. Ivory, blush, white and cream, undoubtedly the height of fashion here in Vienna.

  She swallowed, stepping forward now in her borrowed dress of deepest red.

  “Sebastien Laurent St. John Lord de Lacey of Lasingstoke!” announced the man at the door. “And Miss Ivy Savage of London, Empire of Steam, Great Britain.”

  It was unnoticeable at first, a mere glance from a few nearest the door, but quickly all eyes in the room turned to look as a hush fell across the crowd. Even the musicians stopped playing and for a long terrible moment, there was silence in the ballroom of the Hofburg.

  Ivy swallowed, glanced down at her dress. Yes it was red, but it was still in place. She could see Christien slap a hand over his eyes and turn his back. Bewildered, she glanced up at Sebastien.

  “Blast,” she said.

  The Mad Lord of Lasingstoke had just been announced to Viennese high society with a blanket over his head.

  “Sebastien,” she hissed. “Could you take that off, please?”

  “There are more dead in here than living,” he answered in a muffled voice. “I think I’ll leave it on for now.”

  “But the lenses—”

  “Cut out most, yes, but there are simply so many dead. That has been the problem since Ghostlight. I wish I knew what it meant.”

  She swallowed again and cast her eyes about the crowd before slipping an arm through his.

  “Oh, what am I to do with you, Laury-boy,” she muttered under her breath and she raised her chin. “Hello, Vienna…”

  “Sebastien?” called a musical voice from the crowd. “Dear Sebastien de Lacey, is that you?”

  The crowd parted, bowing low to the floor as a very beautiful woman swept toward them. She had bright eyes, ivory skin and dark hair that fell in a massive double braid down her back. She was wearing a diamond coronet in her hair and was, Ivy noted with some measure of relief, also wearing red.

  She paused in the centre of the room, turned to look back at the musicians.

  “Is there a break, gentlemen?” Her accent was continental and sophisticated. “I thought this was a party?”

  The music resumed and the crowds began to dance once more. The woman continued over, raising her gloved hands to catch his.

  “Sebastien de Lacey. How long has it been?”

  “Sixteen years or thereabouts, Sisi.”

  “You were just a little boy.”

  And he pulled her to the blanket, giving her a kiss from underneath its woolen drape. She smiled at Ivy, her eyes mischievous, and she lifted the edges of the blanket to peer under.

  “Ah yes. Just like your mother. Jane never liked to follow rules.” She turned to Ivy. “My name is Elizabeth. You may call me Sisi.”

  Ivy didn’t know what to say. She curtsied low to the ground, heart louder than the waltz.

  “This is Miss Ivy Savage,” said Sebastien. “Writer and Girl Criminologist.”

  “Girl Criminologist. How exciting.”

  Ivy straightened. “Your Most Royal Highness.”

  “Sisi.”

  “Sisi.”

  “What a lovely dress,” Sisi went on. “Jane used to wear one like that on occasion. She had wonderful taste.”

  She slipped her arm through Sebastien’s and together the three of them strolled through the crowd.

  “So, Sebastien,” purred the Empress. “Are there too many spirits in this room for you or simply too many Germans?”

  And she smiled slyly, eyes flicking to a loud corner where a party of mustachioed men were drinking and laughing in highly un-Austrian fashion.

  “Representatives of Blood and Iron?” asked Sebastien.

  “Willie’s drinking partners,” she went on. “I’m not overly fond of Wilhelm but diplomacy is a fragile thing. We must all do our part to keep Europe whole, yes? Even open up our countryside to German hunting parties. I shall now press for parity for my Hungarians.”

  “Many a national issue could be resolved behind a brandy, a pheasant and a fine hunting dog,” said the Mad Lord.

  “Although there might be too many bullets on the field for peace.” And she smiled wickedly. “So, Sebastien? Germans or spirits?”

  “Spirits,” he said. “Aristocrats invariably bring the dead.”

  “That is to be expected, I suppose. The human soul is a capricious thing. I heard about what happened this afternoon in the Winter School. Was it a spirit that attacked you?”

  “I don’t know what it was, Sisi. But it was a horse.”

  “How wonderful,” she smiled again and Ivy thought it was the most radiant smile she’d ever seen. “I knew horses had spirits, but such a powerful one? Of course it would be a Lipizzaner. I do prefer the Spanish breeds. Mystical creatures. Very hot blood, you know. Do you ride, Miss Savage?”

  “A little, Your Most Royal Highness—”

  “Sisi.”

  “Sisi.”

  Trumpets blasted over the sounds of Straus and Sisi looked up.

  “My son’s coach is arriving. Sebastien, you must say hello to Rudolf once you are able. I will introduce you to his wife Stephanie and to Mary, his special friend. If you will excuse me…”

  Ivy curtsied again and Sebastien bowed, careful not to dislodge the blanket, and Sisi left them, disappearing into the parting crowd like a drop of red ink in a well of champagne.

  A waiter passed by and Ivy snatched a glass, downing it in one go before setting it back on the tray.

  “Is it beautiful, Miss Savage?” Sebastien asked. “Is it everything you had imagined?”

  “Everything and more, Sebastien. Thank you for bringing me.”

  “I’m not certain I would have come without you. I would never have found the courage.”

  She grinned. The Mad Lord was many things, but not a coward. She doubted very much there was anything he feared – living, dead or in-between.

  As her eyes swept across the ballroom, she couldn’t help but sigh. Such beauty, such pageantry as couples swirled and dipped to the music. It was a fairy story, she realized. She, the scullery maid in a borrowed dress on the arm of a prince. It didn’t matter that the dress didn’t fit or that it was red or even that the prince was currently sporting a blanket on his head. It was a magical story, a fantastical mystery, one she could never have written herself.

  Or perhaps, with the choices she was making along the way, she had.

  There was a ripple through the ballroom and the crowds parted like the Red Sea at the flash of a ghostly white face.

  “Sebastien,” she whispered, breath catching in her throat. “I think its Sophie von Habsburg…”

  “She’s still alive, then?” asked the Mad Lord. “Gads, that’s a miracle. Is Gisela with her?”

  “A t
errifying blonde military person?”

  “That would be Gisela, yes.”

  Ivy swallowed as two women moved toward them like arrows to a target. Sophie and Gisela, the eldest children of Franz Joseph and Elizabeth. Gisela was an imposing figure in a military uniform of black and gold, breeches instead of skirts and twin sabres at her hip. Her blonde hair was pulled back severely from her face and her sharp gaze did not waiver.

  But Sophie.

  It was Sophie who drew the stares, Sophie who turned the heads, Sophie who stopped the presses. There were as many rumours about Sophie as there were about Sebastien – even still the tabloids thrived on her story. She had succumbed as an infant to Typhus and was revived days later with a miracle of modern science – a set of clockwork lungs. Her torso seemed a separate part of her body, covered by an intricate corset of hammered steel and it could be heard drumming as bellows controlled her breathing. Her throat, tiny midsection and shoulders were a mass of cables, much like Christien’s arm. Her baby blonde curls were piled in ringlets on top of her head.

  It was her face however, that was as enigmatic as it was disturbing. It was completely covered by a mask of white porcelain, with slits for eyes, nose and mouth; her brows, cheeks and lips painted like a china doll. No one had ever seen what lay behind and it was rumoured that she was either the most beautiful woman in the Gilded Empire, or a machine.

  Ivy curtsied low and long.

  “Guten Abend,” said Gisela. “Willkommen in der vergoldeten Reich.”

  “Gisela,” said Sebastien through the blanket. “I’d like to introduce you to my companion, Miss Ivy Savage.”

  “English yes?”

  “Miss Savage does not speak German so English would be preferred.”

  “My sister insisted we come pay our respects. She heard you were dead.”

  “Tabloids,” said Sebastien. “They would be out of business if not for our misfortunes.”

  Sophie stepped closer, her porcelain face expressionless, inhuman.

  “You remember me?”

  Her voice was like a baby bird.

  “No,” he said.

  “But I remember you.”

  “I broke my skull in several places. Very little stayed put.”