CHAPTER FOUR

Café Rothmann took up two levels of a narrow, stone townhouse on the Dorotheergasse, one and a half blocks away from the Graben. Bright, merciless sunlight revealed the peeling of its sky-blue paint and the crumbling of the elaborate plastered curlicues that decorated the façade of the old building, but none of those ravages of time affected the crowd flowing in and out through its hallowed doors. Carriages rattled past on the Dorotheergasse, both local and foreign; from the dark opening to the coffeehouse, Michael heard fragments of French, Russian, and English mixed in with the local Wienerisch German. Dogs nosed around the street outside, searching for any remnants of food left on the cobblestones with the muck from the carriage horses and the refuse from the apartments overhead.

Michael tucked his walking stick underneath his arm and stepped through the coffeehouse door into smoky darkness.

“Sir!” An eager voice hailed him in German before his eyes even adjusted to the gloom. A hand grasped his elbow. “Tell me: was Tsar Alexander wearing fur at the ceremonies this morning or was he not?”

Michael blinked and found a crowd of eager young men confronting him, their black university robes carelessly split open above more fashionable dress. Their cheeks were flushed with more than wine, and their eyes were fixed upon him. A wager, evidently, hung upon the question.

“Alas, I cannot help you,” Michael said, and allowed a regal hauteur to reveal itself in his disapprovingly raised eyebrows, as well as in his faintly accented drawl. No prince, after all, took well to being imposed upon by strangers. “I have only just arrived in Vienna this day.”

With an impatient sigh, his interrogator released his arm and turned away. “I’m telling you fellows, he always wears fur! It’s in the Russian blood. They can’t be warmed.”

“Nonsense!” Across from him, another young man let out a derisive snort. “If you’d ever been further east than Pressburg, you would know . . .”

Michael slipped past them, nodding, and scooped up one of the newspapers that hung from a rack by the door. In his day, the students had kept to their own cafés in the ninth district, but perhaps the arrival of so many foreign visitors had skewed the normal social balance. If Tsar Alexander himself walked into the café—or any of his aristocratic entourage—their wager would certainly be decided soon enough.

He slid into an empty table and spread the newspaper before him. The Wiener Diarium sat well under the imperial thumb, like every other newspaper in Vienna these past seventeen years, but it should be reliable enough for his purposes. In his day, at least, it had offered scintillating social gossip to offset its bland political reportage. Now he scanned the social pages for names and events. The English Lords Castlereagh and Kelvinhaugh had attended Princess Bagration’s salon two nights before . . . the king of Prussia had been observed there as well . . . another masked ball was planned for the royal entertainment at the Hofburg tonight, with only the most distinguished foreign visitors in attendance . . .

Michael flipped through the pages with lessening interest. Discretion, it seemed, was the order of the journalistic day.

Not so, however, for the group of students at the front of the Kaffeehaus. As Michael ordered a strong Melange from a stiff-backed waiter, he caught more and more fragments of the students’ wrangling conversation, which grew louder with every shouted boast. The other patrons, older, wealthier, and far better bred, shot glances of veiled dislike across the room.

Discretion might well rule Vienna’s newspapers, but seated just a few feet away from him . . .

Perhaps this prince could unbend himself, after all.

Michael rose and crossed the distance, leaving his newspaper behind him.

“Pardon me.” He tapped the closest student on the shoulder. “I couldn’t help overhearing . . .” As they all turned to stare at him, Michael smiled with gracious condescension. “Perhaps we ought to make our introductions.”

As the waiter glided up with Michael’s drink balanced perfectly on a tiny porcelain saucer, Michael bowed politely to the group. “I am Prince Stefan Kalishnikoff and am myself half-Russian by blood,” he said, in the broadest, richest Eastern accent he could summon. “I would, of course, be more than happy to answer any questions about my countrymen. And perhaps in exchange . . .”

Michael accepted his Melange from the waiter and paused just long enough to take a deep, appreciative sip of dark espresso and whipped cream. “. . . I can see that you are gentlemen of wit and experience,” he finished. “Might I have the honor of ordering more drinks for all of you? And then perhaps you can tell me a bit about your own city, as well, and what you know of my fellow visitors.”

Caroline breathed a sigh of relief as her chaise finally reached Vienna’s inner city, after an hour of tooth-grindingly slow travel. The narrow streets were clogged to the brim with phaetons, chaises, and more exotic styles of carriages, all returning from the ceremony of thanksgiving, and her head was throbbing as much from the long, tedious trip as from reaction to the ritual itself.

In the middle of the ninth district, she directed her coachman to stop and wait in front of a nondescript bookshop. A young man, bespectacled and dressed in plain, dark clothing, left the shop a moment later and swung himself into the chaise and onto the padded seat across from her.

“I hope I didn’t try your patience by too long, Charles,” said Caroline, as he closed the door behind him. “The traffic was abominable.”

Her secretary, now doubling as her man of affairs during their time in Vienna, shrugged her apology aside. “I was well-occupied, my lady.”

“I see.” Caroline eyed his bulging satchel. “And did you find any books of interest today? Or is it foolish of me to even inquire?”

“I did make one discovery,” he said. “But what of your ladyship’s own quest?” He drew a writing tablet and pencil from the inner pocket of his coat. “Did it succeed?”

Caroline smiled wryly. “I am honored beyond measure. The emperor wishes to meet me tonight at the masked ball.”

“You’ll need a disguise, then.” He made a note in the commonplace book.

“Another one?”

“Your ladyship?”

“Never mind.” Caroline glanced through the glass windows, feeling the pressure in her aching head increase. The weather outside was only pleasantly warm, but inside the carriage, the mixture of bright sunlight and still, stale air had stultified over the past hour into unbearable stuffiness. “What I would give for a bit of fresh air . . .”

She caught the infinitesimal blink of the man across from her and relaxed into a more natural smile. “Dear Charles. You are a gem among secretaries. Yes, I know I sat outside for two hours and more this morning, but the air was full of incense, perfume . . .” She paused. “And alchemy.”

“Alchemy!” He sat forward, his gaze sharpening. “I had no inkling of that.”

“How should you? None spread beyond the field itself.”

“I should have attended the ceremony, or at least waited in the carriage.”

“You would have been insufferably bored until then.”

“Still . . .” He compressed his lips. “Of what sort was it?”

“A transfer of energies.” She kept her face smooth as she said it, watching him. She’d never been certain how much he knew, or guessed . . .

His expression gave away nothing but his frustration. “I would have given a great deal to see it. Theoretical knowledge is all very well, but . . . oh, next to a practical demonstration, my new book is nothing.”

She raised her eyebrows as he showed her the book he’d bought. “Isaac Newton? Had you not read it before, back in England?”

“One can still learn from an old book,” Charles said stiffly.

“I’m certain of it. While we’re in Vienna, though, you may want to take advantage of the local knowledge. This city was a veritable hub for alchemists in the last century. Ignaz von Born, Count von Thun, Count Radamowsky, an entire nest of Rosicrucians . . .”

And Count Pergen, Caroline added silently to herself. But she did not say the words out loud.

She might have grown easy enough with her secretary, over the course of their long journey across the Continent, to address him with more familiarity than she had offered any other man in years. But she did not share all of her secrets with anyone, no matter how trusted an employee.

“Of course,” Charles murmured. “I have much still to learn.”

His voice was submissive, but Caroline saw the glint in his eyes, behind the round spectacles. She’d found him young, only at the beginning of his career. But was he still young enough?

Caroline quelled her nerves with an effort. Better an alchemist in her employ than one working against her. Particularly in Vienna.

“Do let me know if you need more funds for books while we’re here,” she said. “I should hate to let you lose any chances for advancement.”

“Thank you, Lady Wyndham.” Charles’s pen hovered above his commonplace book. “Shall I procure a costume for you this afternoon, for tonight’s ball?”

“If you would.”

“And perhaps you might be so good as to give me more details, later, of the ritual you observed?” His tone was bland.

Caroline’s breath caught in her throat. Her vision blurred. For a moment, she couldn’t see her secretary’s face in front of her. She was caught again, trapped in that tiny stone room that had held her for years, tied down by ropes and hemmed in by candles, and all she could see . . .

Caroline blinked back into the present with an effort that left her breathing quickly. She met her secretary’s speculative gaze with an even stare.

“Perhaps,” she murmured, as lightly as she could. “I shall do my best to remember it for you.”

As if she could ever forget. The words were burned into her mind. They still haunted her dreams, even after all these years—the nightmares she could never escape, no matter how many miles she traveled away from Vienna.

But if she truly needed to . . .

Caroline took a deep breath as the chaise turned into the first district, rattling toward her apartment on the Dorotheergasse. If necessary, she would tell Charles exactly what she had seen. In detail, and with instructions.

Her hands clenched with the repulsion that swept through her at the thought, but her resolve still held.

She would do anything to save her father.

“. . . And everyone knows that the Countess von Hedermann is already Tsar Alexander’s mistress,” the youngest student told Michael. As he leaned across the table to share the gossip, Herr Hüberl’s face glistened with a heady combination of excitement and wine. “Oh, he brought a few ladies with him, of course—besides the tsarina—but he’s been seen with the countess everywhere. I saw them myself, riding together in the Prater just the other day, and he had six different Russian soldiers in full uniform in his entourage!”

“Well, the countess is very religious, just like him,” added a second student. “Everyone knows how devout the tsar is, and ever since they met, she’s been acting terribly mystical and holy, too, so it only makes sense that he would want her.”

“And Countess von Hedermann’s husband is looking for advancement in the Russian court,” another student piped in, “so . . .”

“If I were the tsar of all the Russias, I wouldn’t content myself with acquiring mistresses and attending Mass.” A fourth student, Herr Stultz, gave a sniff of disapproval. “When you consider that his grandmother was Catherine the Great . . .”

“The Prince de Ligne is the greatest of the diplomats and soldiers here,” young Hüberl said worshipfully. “Do you know he refers to Bonaparte himself as ‘our Robinson Crusoe’? Every day he has thirty or forty guests at least, all gathered only to listen to his sayings and—”

“And how many battles has he won recently?” Stultz demanded. “The Duke of Wellington—”

“—Isn’t here for comparison,” Herr Hüberl said impatiently. “And as for the tsar of all the Russias—”

“But you must know more about all that than we do,” said the oldest of the students. Herr von Alxinger raised his wine glass to Michael. “Do you know the tsar well, Prince Kalishnikoff?”

“Not intimately,” Michael said, “but I may say that we are distantly related.”

And why not? Surely every member of the human race was related in some fashion.

The look in Von Alxinger’s eye, though, was distinctly wary. Michael leaned back in his chair and exerted himself to smile charmingly. “I may tell you, though,” he said, “of one particular incident . . .”

He didn’t take his leave for another half hour, by the end of which even Von Alxinger was laughing along with the rest of them. As Michael stepped back out onto the street, he heard young Hüberl’s voice raised high above all the rest.

“—And if Prince Kalishnikoff himself, who’s half-Russian, says so—!”

Michael smiled and let the door swing closed behind him. With luck, the students would continue as merry and boisterous for the whole of the next few weeks, spreading his stories and his name with them.

Nor had his time with the newspapers been wasted. His next step, clearly, was to find a concealing domino as soon as possible. As to which of the “most distinguished guests” he would approach at that night’s masked ball—well, he had all afternoon to make that decision. And in the meantime . . .

An English-styled chaise drew up ten feet ahead of him, in front of a light-pink building embellished with freshly painted cream curlicues. A footman leaped down nimbly from the top of the carriage to open the door and lay down steps. A dainty foot emerged, shod in a high-heeled boot, and Michael paused to admire the glimpse of ankle beneath the raised skirt.

As the footman reached inside to help his mistress out, Michael’s brain worked busily. Apartments on the Dorotheergasse had been expensive even when Michael had been young. Now, with inflation from the war combined with the sudden influx of wealthy foreign visitors, the landlords’ prices must be very near astronomical. His new young friends at the coffeehouse had told him that half the Prussian king’s own retinue had been forced to stay in inns outside town. To afford an apartment on the elegant Dorotheergasse itself, this lady visitor must be wealthy indeed.

Michael tipped his hat politely, already fashioning introductory phrases in his head.

Clinging muslin skirts swung into view, followed by a slender but strong arm, its gloved hand supported by the footman. Next, glossy black curls that peeked out from beneath a fashionable poke bonnet, the head still tipped away from Michael’s vision. Michael noted, with appreciation, the delightful curves beneath the fashionably thin dress. No slip of a girl, this, but a grown woman in all the glory of maturity and experience. The lady stepped onto the pavement, neatly avoiding the pile of horse manure only a few steps away, and released her footman’s hand.

“Thank you, Henry,” she said in English.

An Englishwoman indeed, then. Michael smiled. This should hardly even be a challenge.

He cleared his throat and stepped forward.

“Pardon me, Madam,” he began, in English, “but—”

She turned to face him, and all his carefully chosen phrases dried up in his throat.

“No,” he breathed.

It wasn’t possible . . .

The warm color drained from her cheeks. Her mouth fell open.

“Karolina,” Michael whispered.

Her pale face was strongly defined in clean, square lines now, where it had been round and chubby before. Her black hair, which she had always worn in a tangle around her dirty neck, was dressed high and smooth in a fashionable style, with only a few careful ringlets hanging curled around her face. She was—what? She must be at least five-and-thirty, and he could see her age in the faint lines around her eyes. But her face was the female version of her father’s. It was unmistakable. And those dark eyes . . .

The memory of her eyes had haunted him for years . . . especially in his worst nightmares. More than that: he’d been thinking of her ever since he’d set foot in Vienna, no matter how hard he’d tried to repress the memories.

He would have known her in any disguise.

She opened her mouth as if to speak, then stopped.

“It is you,” Michael said. He found himself reverting to German, the quick Viennese patter of his youth. “What are you doing here? How—?”

“Forgive me,” the woman said hastily, in French. “I’m afraid there must be some mistake.” She lifted her strong chin in a poignantly familiar gesture. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

“But—”

“Henry!” she said sharply, and the footman hurried to open the house door for her.

Without a further glance, she disappeared into the building.

Michael stared after her, reeling. He hardly noticed, at first, that a young man in plain dark clothing—a secretary, perhaps?—had followed her out of the chaise and was walking toward the same door.

“Wait!” Michael said. He started forward, trying to regain his former air of dignity. “Sir,” he said in French. “I fear that I’ve offended that lady with my foolish error. Would you do me the honor of telling me your mistress’s name?”

The man blinked behind his spectacles and gave Michael a searching look. “My mistress,” he said at last, in careful German, “is Caroline, Countess of Wyndham, widow of Lord Wyndham of Sussex.” He stepped closer. “You thought that you had recognized her, sir?”

“A misunderstanding, no more,” Michael said. “I thank you, sir. I am sorry to say I have never met Lady Wyndham before.”

He stepped back and watched the younger man walk into the house. As the yellow door swung closed, Michael fixed the house number in his memory.

Caroline, Countess of Wyndham, indeed.

The door closed with a solid thud.

“Karolina,” Michael murmured. He shook his head as emotions whirled disconcertingly within him.

She was alive.

She was here.

And she had somehow, unbelievably, transformed herself into an English noblewoman.

He didn’t know if he was more shocked, relieved . . . or, unexpectedly, amused.

A smile quirked at the corner of Michael’s mouth as he walked down the street, twirling his polished walking stick.

One dilemma, at any rate, had been resolved.

He knew exactly whom he would approach that night, and how.