CHAPTER FIVE

Caroline’s hand shook as she brushed rouge across her cheeks. With a hiss of frustration, she dropped the brush and let her hovering maid dab away the misshapen pink smear.

Impossible.

Of all the outrageous ill fortune, to meet the one person she would have paid most dearly to avoid . . .

“Milady?” Caroline’s maid coughed discreetly. “Shall I finish for you?”

“No, thank you, Johnson. I can manage it myself.” Caroline took a deep breath and met her own gaze in the mirror. Her face looked unnaturally pale against her black curls, her eyes dark and wide. She looked frightened.

Don’t be a fool. Caroline set her jaw and dipped her brush into the pot of rouge to begin again. As she raised the brush under her servant’s watchful gaze, she took care to smooth out her expression.

It wasn’t safe to show fear, even here. And more importantly . . .

I have nothing to fear.

So she had been recognized. What of it? Michael Steinhüller—regardless of the clothes he’d worn—had been nobody as a child. He would be nobody of consequence still. For all that she’d once idolized him . . .

Her lips twisted, despite herself, at the bitter memory.

Of course she’d recognized him, even after all this time. The memory of his face had taunted her, as fresh as last night’s frantic dreams, ever since she’d set foot back in this cursed city.

But perhaps she should count herself lucky to have had the reminder of his presence today as she began her work. After all, he had taught her a valuable lesson twenty-four years ago . . . and she had never been foolish enough to trust anyone again. No matter how charming or how well-intentioned the people she met here might seem—the Prince de Ligne, for only one such example—she would know better than to ever reveal her true self to them, or to expect any help unless it benefited them, too.

And as for the man who had taught her that lesson . . . well, Caroline was no weak-willed miss to let such a freak coincidence turn her resolve to trembling.

Yet the look on his face as he’d recognized her . . .

She tightened her fingers around the cosmetics brush.

Tonight she would dance and flirt with the emperor of Austria. She would set her plot in motion, as she’d planned for the past two years, ever since Bonaparte’s retreat from the snows of Russia had signaled a first hint of his coming defeat. She wouldn’t let mere nerves upset her now.

And if any ghost from the past should appear in the midst of it?

Caroline sucked her cheeks into grim hollows as she ran the brush along her cheekbones. Her deep-pink half-mask sat on the dressing table before her, waiting for her to assume the night’s disguise.

She had brewed her plans for far too long to let anyone stand in the way of them.

Inside the Hofburg Palace, cold, dank air wafted against the emperor of Austria’s neck. He felt Pergen’s approach even before he turned.

“Well?”

In Francis’s lush, red-and-gold dressing room, his minister looked like a dark scarecrow, ragged and bony despite the rich black satin of his tailcoat and the many gold orders pinned to his silk waistcoat.

“Your Majesty.” Count Pergen bowed deeply. “May I say how well your outfit suits you?”

“I thank you.” Francis inclined his chin slightly, mindful of the thin gold band balanced atop his head. His valet hovered nearby, adding the finishing touches; Francis waved the man away and waited until he had left the room before speaking again. “Well?” He stepped away from the heavy, gilt-framed mirror and waved Pergen to one of the crimson settees. “What have you discovered?”

Pergen sank down onto the settee, his posture ramrod-straight, and placed his hands flat against one another, his usual pose of deliberation. “Lady Wyndham is well-known at the English embassy. She is one of the wealthiest independent ladies of London society, with large estates in Sussex. Her late husband was a man of fortune. Both of her late husbands, I should say; she was married first to an elderly and”—he coughed—“rather eccentric marquis, according to reports, who seemed fond enough of her and yet did not remember her in his will; and then to the late Earl of Wyndham, who bequeathed all of his non-entailed properties to her. Nothing disreputable is known of her.”

“But rumors say . . .?” Francis frowned down at his manicured nails. God forbid he should refuse such an unexpected gift—the Star Chamber would drive him mad with their dire plaints of bankruptcy otherwise—and yet . . . Something felt strangely off-kilter about the English lady and her so-generous offer.

“My men have had only one day to search,” Pergen murmured, “and yet . . . they could find no trace of any history for Lady Wyndham before her marriage to the marquis. No parentage, no origin . . .”

“A commoner, then.”

“No mere daughter of a tradesman, either, or secrecy would not have been so scrupulously preserved. Only a scandal could account for it. In other words . . .”

“A whore. The man married his mistress.” Francis shook his head as the puzzle pieces clicked into place. That would explain it, certainly.

He remembered the look in her eyes as she’d taken her leave of him. “I shall not disguise myself too carefully . . .” A pleasurable tingle rippled through him at the memory. He should have known she was no true English aristocrat when she’d looked at him that way. Cold fish, those highbred women, for all that one had to admire them. But this one . . .

“Such was my inference, Your Majesty.”

Francis’s lips twitched as he saw the distaste on his minister’s face. “Thank you, Pergen. Excellent work, as always.” He turned back to the mirror and straightened the collar on his costume robes. The candle-branches to each side of the mirror filled his reflection with soft light; above the glass, a winged horse soared high and triumphant. Francis smiled. “Will you be attending tonight’s festivities?” he asked.

“I think not. My own work . . .”

“I understand.” Francis reached for his half-mask and hesitated. Perhaps he ought to take some time tonight to observe Pergen in his experiments, even offer to take part . . .

But no. He still felt vastly refreshed from this morning’s ritual, with no need of excess energy. Moreover, tonight he had rulers from every country in Europe waiting for the honor of his company. He had the tsar of Russia and the king of Prussia to compliment and reassure, he had political schemes of his own to pursue whenever their backs were turned . . .

And, it seemed, he also had a meeting with a courtesan to conduct in full view of his own damnably celibate wife and her retinue. Not that he could ever allow himself to blame Ludovica for her poor health, of course, but still . . .

Francis slipped the mask over his face. Through the slits in the mask, the candlelight sparkled with odd intensity, and darkness seemed to boil around his most trusted minister’s face. He laughed aloud with rare satisfaction.

An excellent night awaited him.

Peter Riesenbeck strode through the darkened streets of Vienna, drinking the cool evening air like sparkling white wine. Deep blue twilight merged with the descending black of night to blur the tall spires of the churches and the towering buildings that lined the narrow warren of streets. His wandering had taken him deep into the first district, miles from his company’s humble inn. Though Peter had never visited Vienna before, he’d studied maps so closely that his legs led him straight toward his goal.

He emerged from the cluster of high buildings onto a busy street—and blinked, blinded by sudden light.

Before him, carriages filled the Herrengasse, preceded by runners holding out flambeaux to light their way, filling the dark air with flaring light, heat, and smoke. Beyond them, he glimpsed an open square. There. He could barely breathe as he crossed the last few meters.

The square—his lips moved silently to name it, the Michaelerplatz—was filled with fashionably dressed people, mostly crowding through the archway that led to the Hofburg palace, on Peter’s left. He ignored it and them without compunction. All he cared about was the plain, short building that stood across from the archway, beside the church.

Peter let out the breath he’d been holding as he finally saw it with his own eyes.

The Burgtheater, the court theater for all the Habsburg Empire, could have been any other nondescript building in inner-city Vienna if it hadn’t been so short and squat—a broad stepping-stool beside the tall, thin palaces of the nobility that surrounded it. Even its sculpted stone pediments were less ornate than those of the buildings behind it. And yet . . .

Peter stepped forward, drawn by irresistible force. Once past the church, he left behind the main force of the crowd of high nobility and entered the crowds that led to the Burgtheater itself. The emperor himself would often attend performances here, surrounded by his courtiers, but tonight, with the Hofburg open to imperial festivities, the Burgtheater would be left to the lower nobility and the eager middle classes.

The heat of the crowd reached out to him through the cool evening air as he approached. A sign, located discreetly apart from the drive, set out the night’s program; Peter read it slowly, savoring it.

Tonight the Burgtheater presented a musical evening: “Wellington’s Victory,” a novelty piece for orchestra by the great Beethoven; the Andante from a piano concerto by a composer Peter had never heard of; a rare return appearance made by Annamaria Dommayer, one of the past century’s most acclaimed sopranos . . .

A body shoved past him through the crowd, pushing Peter off-balance. Automatically, he reached with one hand for his pocket, and with the other he grabbed his assailant’s arm.

“If you’ve snatched my purse, my lad,” he began—then stopped, staggered.

A heart-shaped face, pale with fear and surrounded by wildly curling brown ringlets, blinked out at him from beneath an old-fashioned hooded cloak. Peter felt his purse safe and solid within his pocket. His question changed, insensibly, in his throat. as he met the girl’s dark-eyed gaze.

“What’s amiss?” he asked softly, and stepped closer. “Can I help?”

“Let me go!” she hissed. “Quickly! Or—” She glanced back, let out a moan of frustration, then set her jaw. “Oh! Blame yourself—it’s your own fault.”

She leaned closer for a dizzying second, filling his senses with warmth and an unexpectedly fresh, spicy scent. Then she kneed him between the legs, with piercing precision.

Peter yelped and doubled over. Her arm pulled free of his grasp.

Through the haze of pain, he heard her footsteps racing away across the cobblestones.

“Stupid,” Peter groaned. “Oh, stupid, stupid . . .”

He stayed bent over, cursing himself, for another minute after her slim, cloaked figure had disappeared from view.

Hard footsteps pounded to a stop beside him a moment later. Peter glimpsed high, stained boots and heard the jingle of a chain.

The police. Oh, what a memorable first evening in Vienna, after all.

Peter prepared his story as the gruff voice spoke, in such a strong Viennese accent that he could barely understand it.

“A girl—running hard—did you see which direction she went?”

Peter sighed and straightened, setting his teeth against the pain.

“No girl,” he said, to the heavyset man who confronted him. “Only a pickpocket boy who attacked me. Don’t you gentlemen bother to control thievery in this city?”

The policeman grunted and set off running . . .

In the wrong direction, Peter noted. He felt less enthusiasm than he might have at the observation a minute or two earlier.

“Don’t confuse yourself with those heroes you play onstage.” How many times had Périgord snarled that at him, when they had argued? Perhaps there was a grain of truth in his old master’s taunts, after all. Peter winced at the thought.

Even as he turned away, though, damning his own taste for melodrama, Peter’s neck prickled with a sudden and irrefutable awareness: he was being watched.

He turned back quickly. The crowd pressing toward the archway of the Hofburg was full of the highest aristocracy of Europe, chattering and preening and wearing clothing that cost more than Peter would ever earn and jewels that were only muted by the smoking light of the flambeaux. Peter could never mix in such a crowd, nor would he want to.

But for a moment, he was certain he saw familiar features, set disconcertingly above a gentleman’s luxuriant finery.

The next moment, he knew it to be impossible. Vaçlav Grünemann, a nobleman’s servant, could hardly be part of such a crowd, much less dressed in clothing that would befit his own master. And when Peter looked again, more closely, the face he’d thought he recognized had already disappeared from the crowd.

Too much melodrama for one evening, indeed. He was glad to be distracted from his own folly by the sound of a child’s rough voice, hailing him.

“Sir?” A street urchin approached him, holding a sheaf of tickets in his grubby hand. “For tonight’s performance”—his gaze swept across Peter with disconcerting frankness—“the cheapest seats in the back of the stalls, sir—”

“Not tonight,” Peter said. He smiled ruefully and tipped his hat to the boy.

He finished the thought only to himself as he turned and limped away across the cobblestones.

Not tonight . . . but soon. And he wouldn’t be buying the tickets, but standing on the Burgtheater’s wooden boards, with all eyes on him and his company. Not even Périgord himself had ever reached such dizzying heights. If—no, when—Peter achieved that glory, even his old master would have to admit that he had proven himself at last.

Now that Peter was here, at the heart of the empire, everything would fall into place. He was certain of it.

But he promised himself, as he limped, that he would save his next set of heroics for the stage.

Michael arranged his cravat with meticulous precision—no mean feat when standing in the deepest shadows of the alley behind the Eszterházy town palace, without the benefit of a looking glass. It was worth the extra effort, though. All the rooms in the finest hotels were reserved already, and Michael knew better than to settle for any but the best. To be witnessed emerging from a scruffy, middle-class inn in the suburbs would be to announce immediate defeat in the war of confidence and appearances that ruled this game.

As to where he would sleep tonight . . .?

He would know the answer to that question, for better or worse, by the end of this evening.

Michael realized, with a start, that he was actually nervous. It was, of course, ridiculous. Hadn’t he played dozens of games like this over the past two decades? Hadn’t he fooled men and women of all ranks in life, winning nearly every gamble and always exiting just in time to escape the losing hands? This should be a grand adventure—his greatest game and his most thrilling challenge.

And yet . . .

His fingers hesitated on his cravat and stilled.

This was not Prague nor Budapest nor Krakow, where he’d carried no identity but those he’d invented, as free and unburdened as a swallow in flight. This was Vienna, where he’d grown and lived his first fourteen years. It was, whether he cared to admit it or not, his history.

And the look on Karolina’s face when she’d recognized him . . .

Michael couldn’t remember, anymore, a time when he hadn’t known her. Even before he’d turned apprentice to her father at the ripe old age of eight, he’d seen her peering out the window of the print shop or rolling about with the other infants of the neighborhood with gloriously uninhibited energy. And once he’d begun to work with her father in earnest . . .

No. This wasn’t what he wished to remember.

He should think of how he’d teased her as she ran after him, gazing worshipfully up at him from her chubby five-year-old face when he was all of eight years old and a proud new apprentice. He should summon up gratifying memories of how he’d treated her to luxuriant ices at the Prater on her eleventh birthday, and how he’d let her fall asleep against his shoulder afterward, with his arm wrapped protectively around her.

Anything but the last time he saw her through the flames, only two months later, and heard her high, agonized shrieks of terror as the fire blazed around her and the policemen dragged her father away.

There was nothing he could have done for her. Nothing.

Michael set his teeth with a snap. He’d been a fugitive himself, hunted out of the city at only fourteen, hiding in a butcher’s cart. What could he have offered to a helpless eleven-year-old girl? He could only have put her in more danger. Even Vienna’s grim orphanages must have been an improvement over that.

And at any rate, she certainly hadn’t suffered for his decision. “Caroline, Countess of Wyndham,” indeed. Michael relaxed into a rueful smile as he remembered it. He could hardly wait to hear that story.

He had been haunted for years by the memory of Karolina, but he quite looked forward to becoming better acquainted with Lady Wyndham.

A footstep sounded in the darkness behind him, almost too softly to be heard.

Michael spun around, reaching for the hidden pocket in his coat.

Before the man behind him had the chance to speak, Michael’s dagger was at his throat.

“Drop—your—knife,” Michael snarled.

The thief’s eyes met Michael’s from a hard, emaciated face that showed disappointment but no real fear. His knife clattered to the cobblestones. It was a butcher’s knife, heavy and broad, designed to hack through animal flesh. Or human. It could have slit Michael’s own throat with swift and final certainty.

“Now back away,” Michael said. He kept his voice to a low growl. He had to, to hide how hard it was to breathe.

The man stepped slowly backward, his hands held high. He was dressed in an outfit Michael recognized from every city in Europe—a ragtag collection of cast-offs rescued from the rubbish of the wealthy, mended to its last breath and beyond.

It was the outfit Michael himself could have worn by now, with only too much ease. In the darkness, he felt a sudden involuntary kinship with the other man.

A few feet away, the thief lowered his hands and nodded to the butcher’s knife that lay by Michael’s feet.

“Not tonight,” Michael said, and stepped down hard on the flat of the blade.

He could see the man measuring him, guessing at the probable outcome of a fight. Michael kept his own expression harsh and unyielding and his dagger held high.

The man shrugged and turned away. But Michael kept his dagger raised long after the other man’s footsteps had faded into the distance.

There but for Fortune . . .

He sheathed the weapon in his pocket, breathing hard as the after-effects of danger rippled through him. He hadn’t lost his street instincts yet, thank God. But in another year or two . . .

As he aged and his hearing grew less sharp . . .

Michael straightened, his back creaking, as an unpalatable truth forced its way into view.

A man could survive on his wits for only so long. And when they, or simple Fortune, finally ran out . . . would he become another such desperate knave, surviving only by robbing or murdering passing strangers? Or would he be dead in another alley long beforehand?

Michael scooped up his new black domino from the pile of clothing and swept the cloak around him, twitching the shimmering black silk into a commanding swirl. He set his glittering half-mask into place and straightened his shoulders beneath the disguise.

No. He was no hapless fool trapped in poverty’s desperate, inescapable spiral, nor yet a mere rogue forced to live on sheer luck. Not anymore. He was Stefan, Prince Kalishnikoff, now. He would play that game for all it was worth.

It was the best chance he would ever have to win himself a future.