CHAPTER SEVEN

The orchestra struck up another waltz behind them, and Michael took advantage of his companion’s shock to draw her forward onto the dance floor.

She struggled for a brief moment, then stopped, glancing covertly at the couples around them.

“Very sensible,” Michael said affably in German, as he took her into the embrace that the waltz required. “You wouldn’t wish to create a scandal, would you? Not when so many awkward questions might arise.” He couldn’t stop the bubble of delighted laughter that broke out of his throat, as he swept her around in a wide, exuberant turn. “Karolina. I can’t believe you’re truly here! If you only knew how many nights of sleep I’d lost worrying about you over the years . . . and now here you are! Could you even imagine it, the two of us here, together again?”

Her feet followed the steps of the dance, but no answering laugh came from her throat. Instead, she said in English-accented French, “I’m afraid I don’t speak German, sir. There must have been some mistake.”

“Oh, indeed, a great mistake. I’d never reckoned that I might find you at this Congress. At the very center of high society, no less!” Michael turned her in the dance, holding her close. “Karolina,” he breathed into her ear. “I never stopped wondering what had happened to you. Now see how well you’ve come about! You have to tell me everything.”

“Perhaps the mask has misled you,” she said evenly, “but—”

“That mask barely covers your eyes, as you well know, and the disguise . . .” Michael grinned as he glanced down at the low-cut rose damask gown, covered in sheer gauze. “The disguise is outstanding. To say the least. How on earth have you managed to pass yourself off as an English noblewoman here, surrounded by the true article? Even I’m impressed. If—”

“Keep your voice down!” she hissed. She’d gone pale when he’d first greeted her, but now her face flushed with anger, in attractive complement to her black ringlets and Ottoman-pink mask. “I am an English noblewoman,” she added in a fierce whisper. “I have every right to be here. What excuse do you have?”

He laughed out loud. “Why, I outrank even you now, my dear. I’ve turned pureblood royalty, myself. Prince Stefan Kalishnikoff, at your service. Half-Russian, half-French, disenfranchised heir to a godforsaken little Balkan republic in the middle of a chain of mountains.”

“You must be mad!” She stared at him. “You’ll never convince anyone of that.”

“You think not?” Michael arched one eyebrow, maneuvering them neatly around the other couples on the dance floor. “I have proof. A signet ring, a deed of signatory—and better yet . . .” He drew her in to murmur the words in her ear. She’d turned out tall, barely four inches shorter than him—who would have guessed it, all those years ago? “Now, of course,” Michael whispered, “I have you.”

Focus, Francis told himself. He strode through the crowd, smiling and nodding as he passed familiar faces. Politics must be his quarry now, not pleasure. Yet he could still smell the lingering traces of Lady Wyndham’s light perfume clinging to his hand where it had touched hers in the waltz. He had to force himself not to lift it to his face, to breathe in the scent. Later. Later, when the night’s intrigues were over, he would let himself remember the feel of her in his arms and the promise in her eyes.

“I came alone . . .” Warmth pooled pleasantly within him as he heard again her murmured words.

Tomorrow afternoon, perhaps, he would slip away from his public schedule of appointments, if only for an hour. Oh, indeed, this Congress was to be his great public monument, the moment when he led Austria, through charm, deception, and intrigue, to her proper place in the forefront of the new world order. But why should he not pursue his own pleasures in the midst of it . . . especially when they landed so neatly in his lap?

He had been forced to give up so much over these last decades, and suffer so much public humiliation. That upstart Corsican had left nothing great and noble on the Continent untouched, not even the Holy Roman Empire that should have lasted for a thousand years. Only for the sake of survival, only to be granted the right to cling onto what power he had left, Francis had been forced to formally abdicate his family’s ancient throne after Bonaparte had declared the Holy Roman Empire—and the German nation as a whole—dissolved forever.

How his uncle Joseph would have raged at that sacrilege if he’d still been alive. But then, it was just the sort of thing he had predicted for Francis, the nephew he had held in such contempt. And if Joseph had witnessed Francis, now a mere emperor of Austria, handing over his own pure, Habsburg daughter as a bride to the Corsican abomination . . .

If it weren’t for Pergen’s supernatural assistance, bearing him up throughout the worst of it, Francis could never have survived the humiliation, much less smiled, with gritted teeth, while doing so.

But the long nightmare was finally over. Pergen and Metternich had both been right: by biding his time, by smiling in public even as his gut burned with poison, Francis had triumphed over Bonaparte in the end.

This was finally his moment. And he deserved every luxuriant reward he could imagine for achieving it.

As the crowd shifted about him, Francis caught sight of the tsar of Russia with his cheeks flushed and mouth wide open, entrenched in one of his endless monologues as usual. This time, his captive audience seemed to be the Prussian king and that poor little courtesan Friedrich Wilhelm had found somewhere. Rehashing the dispute over Poland, no doubt, Francis thought, and sighed at the blatancy of it.

Alexander was so determined to be named the new spiritual overseer of Polish liberty, he was quite incapable of imagining that Austria and Prussia would not simply give in to his demands and release their two-thirds of the partitioned kingdom to him. Indeed, Friedrich Wilhelm, the Prussian king, was only too ready to be intimidated into submission. With an effort, Francis kept his lips from twisting into an open sneer as he approached them.

He was neither such a weakling as Friedrich Wilhelm nor so unsubtle as the tsar.

The English ambassadors, Castlereagh and Kelvinhaugh, stood ten feet away, speaking in low voices. Alexander shot them venomous looks as he talked—still sulking over Castlereagh’s latest attempts at rational persuasion, no doubt. The blustering fool truly couldn’t understand why England’s supposedly liberty-loving representatives wouldn’t choose to support a new Polish republic under Alexander’s guiding patronage.

No, to understand that, one required a balanced perception of the world and an intelligence capable of analyzing the raw economic basis beneath the public principles that a nation might choose to present to the outer world.

No matter what Alexander thought, success in politics did not depend on six hundred thousand soldiers in the field, nor on an ability to shout louder than anybody else and fly into public rages when one’s will was thwarted. Success in politics, as in every other aspect of life, lay in the ability to wear a mask in every situation, no matter how seemingly intimate . . . and in the determination never to let your enemies guess your aims until your trap had already closed around them.

Francis stepped up to the tsar and the Prussian king and nodded with friendly courtesy. “My friends.” He inclined his head ever-so-slightly to the courtesan, who curtsied deeply, wide-eyed behind her mask. “I trust you are all enjoying my little entertainment?”

“Oh, well . . .” Friedrich Wilhelm looked frankly miserable, trapped beside the tsar. All he wanted, poor man, was to be allowed to dally with his little plaything in peace. “Marvelous, of course, no doubt. That is . . .”

“But what do you think of this new absurdity of Castlereagh’s?” Alexander turned on Francis, his face flushed, his voice booming far too loud. “Claiming this Congress should have the power to decide whether or not I make Poland into a republic, as if I were no more than a—”

“My dear Alexander.” Francis laughed gently as he shook his head.

Past Alexander’s bulky body, he could see his own foreign minister, Metternich, approaching Castlereagh and Kelvinhaugh through the crowd. Metternich met Francis’s eyes and nodded slightly as he joined the British ambassadors. Satisfaction settled deep in Francis’s chest as he saw his plan take perfect launch.

Castlereagh’s face might show all the emotion of a weeks-dead Irish haddock, but Francis knew the man was shaking in his polished boots at the thought of Alexander becoming the next Bonaparte and disrupting the all-important flow of English trade. A twittering race of accountants, the British, but their gold cast every other country in Europe into the shade—and the guiding motto of the British diplomatic service was Maintain the balance of power at all costs.

All that the British ambassadors needed now was a hint of direction as to which Continental nation should be the proper recipient of their financial support.

Giving in to temptation, Francis finally let himself turn to the dance floor and rest his eyes on Lady Wyndham’s graceful figure as he worked.

“There’s really no point asking me about such matters,” he said to Alexander. “Metternich makes all of those decisions, you know. I take no personal interest in politics.”

He coughed slightly, lowering his voice so that Alexander and Friedrich Wilhelm both had to lean toward him to listen. “But I should perhaps tell you, for our friendship’s sake,” he murmured to Alexander, “what the French foreign minister said of your armies’ showing in the field this morning . . .”

Francis bit back a smile of deep satisfaction as the tsar’s face turned purple with rage, and the Polish scheme was forgotten for an entire evening.

Caroline fought down the urge to scream. From the corner of her vision, she could see the emperor watching them across the crowd. She schooled her features into smooth placidity and spoke in a strained whisper.

“Now you have me?” she repeated. “What, precisely, is that supposed to mean?”

“What do you think?” Michael grinned down at her. “Come now,” he said. “You were always the cleverest girl I knew. Don’t you remember how we outwitted that sweetshop owner together? We made a perfect partnership.”

As a young girl, Caroline remembered, she’d found that grin dazzlingly attractive and his overwhelming confidence addictive. But now . . .

Well, he was still attractive, unfortunately. His eyes were the same warm hazel she remembered, and even the new specks of silver in his thick brown hair were not unappealing. His soft, youthful good looks had hardened into a strong, lean handsomeness that might even have been compelling, mingled with the sharp intelligence and humor in his face—if she hadn’t felt so tempted to kick him.

Kick him?

Caroline gritted her teeth at the recognition of her own weakness. Only a few minutes with her father’s old apprentice, and she had already regressed into rowdy adolescence. It was exactly what he’d intended with his oh-so-innocent childhood references.

She didn’t only want to kick him. She wanted to kick him hard.

Caroline took a deep breath and released it without answering him. Calm, she told herself. She was five-and-thirty now, not a gape-struck eleven-year-old. She knew perfectly well how to manage a grown man, no matter how enraging or unreasonable he might be.

“Forgive me,” she murmured. “I was so surprised, I fear I forgot my manners for a moment.” She relaxed into his embrace, releasing the tension in her spine that had held her distant. “Truly, I am glad to see you again.” She smiled warmly at him. “Michael.”

He raised his eyebrows. “And I am delighted to hear it—but my name is Stefan, now. Caroline.”

“Of course.” She set her teeth but held her smile. “We must talk more, one day, about the past.”

Only in a thousand years, when her corpse was long-rotted, would Caroline ever consent to discuss her past with anyone, much less with Michael Steinhüller. Michael’s murmur of assent, though, was her reward for the small gambit.

Emboldened, she continued, “My late husband left me a great estate in Sussex. Perhaps, once this tiresome Congress is ended, you might visit me there?” She lowered her eyes demurely. “We have so much to talk about, after all.”

“And, fortunately, we have absolutely no need to wait.” Michael gathered her close as they turned, and he whispered, his breath warm on her face: “Believe me when I say I am not complaining, but you needn’t waste your charms on me, Lady Wyndham. I’m far too old a hand to be moved by them—and I am fairly certain you’re alarming the poor emperor.”

Caroline jerked away from him. For the first time in years, she felt her cheeks flame with humiliation. “Why, you—”

“No, no, don’t apologize!” He pulled her smoothly back into his arms. “I was impressed, I assure you. But you don’t want to waste all the effort you spent on your last partner, do you? You wouldn’t want the emperor to think you found any other poor fool attractive.”

Caroline gritted her teeth. “Trust me, I do not.”

“I didn’t think so,” he said cheerfully. “So let’s abandon the usual nonsense and be honest with each other, shall we? I don’t know what game you’re playing now, but—”

“I am playing no games.” She glared at him. “Unlike you, I have every right to be here! And—”

“Which is, of course, why the emperor knows all about your past and who you truly are?” He smiled down blandly as she simmered. “As I said . . . I have no desire to interfere with your schemes. In fact, I wish you the best of luck with them. Just as I’m sure you have only the warmest feelings toward mine. Yes?”

“Mm,” Caroline said noncommittally.

“Don’t you? Well, at least you are far too wise a woman to choose to injure me in mine.” His smile hardened as he swept her through another wide turn. “Especially as it would suit neither of us for me to become . . . forgetful . . . about which name to call you. And to whom.”

She sucked in a sharp breath. “Are you by any chance daring to threaten me?”

His eyes glittered dangerously in the candlelight. “Why should I? We can help each other. Whatever it is you want from the emperor, I’d be delighted to assist you in gaining it. And you—”

“I have no desire to assist you in anything,” she snarled. “Do not even consider asking me for help. Not tonight, and not ever!”

“No?” His eyebrows rose, and he blinked. “That is unkind. After all these years, aren’t you even a little bit pleased to see me again?” He shook his head. “Don’t you have any loyalty left from childhood? Any—”

“Loyalty?” Caroline stared at him. “You? Speaking of loyalty?”

“And why not?” For the first time, he looked truly shaken. “Do you feel so little for the past? The girl I knew . . . Are you so arrogant that now you’ve reached the top, you haven’t even any sympathy for those of us without your luck?”

“My luck?” Caroline spat the word. “If you had any idea what you were talking about . . .”

“Then enlighten me!” he snapped. “The last time we saw one another, we were good friends. I was genuinely glad to find you alive and well, whether you choose to believe that or not. And now . . .”

“I found out precisely what your friendship and sense of loyalty were worth twenty-four years ago,” Caroline said, enunciating every word with sharp precision. “Do not insult my intelligence by pretending any claim on that score.”

The waltz drew to a close. Michael’s face shut against her, turning hard and cold.

“I did what I had to do, that night,” he said, as they came to a halt at the edge of the dance floor. “Would you pretend you’ve never been forced to make a painful choice?”

“A painful . . .?” Caroline shut her mouth, swallowing the venom that wanted to rise out of her. The shriek.

I saw you! she wanted to scream. Through the flames! I was so relieved. I thought you would save us . . .

It had taken her years afterward to finally understand.

Michael had always treated her with the careless affection of an older brother, but Karolina, by the time she was eleven years old . . . Caroline cringed now at the memories. She had adored him completely.

She had learned a valuable lesson that night. Yet she found that the pain was still fresh at hand when confronted with her first teacher.

“Save your speeches,” Caroline said, through a tight throat, as she stepped out of his embrace. All around them, couples separated and dissolved into the shifting crowd. “I preferred it when you spoke of honest blackmail.”

“Well, then.” His voice was clipped and soft as he leaned forward. To an outsider, it might have looked as if he were whispering endearments into her ear. “I need your patronage and your social acceptance. I wish to be introduced as your old friend. And at the moment, I also urgently need a room to stay in.”

At that, she almost laughed. “You couldn’t possibly stay with me! I’m a widow.”

“And a dashing one at that.” His smile held no humor. “Where does your secretary stay? A separate apartment beneath your own, am I not correct? I’ve made some enquiries, you see.”

Caroline gritted her teeth. “My secretary is an entirely different matter.”

“Quite. Unlike him, I’ll be out of your vicinity as soon as I can, for both of our sakes. You’ll hardly even know I was there.”

“Until you’re exposed and ruin both of us.”

“Caro!” Marie’s voice rang out behind Caroline with practiced pleasure. “My goodness, I’ve come across you again in this crush. What a delightful coincidence!” She regarded them both with bright surmise as Caroline took a too-hasty step away from Michael. “May I be introduced to your friend?”

Caroline swallowed bitterness and gave an equally false smile in return. “But of course. Marie, Lady Rothmere, may I introduce Prince Kalishnikoff?” She pronounced the name with venomously dramatic rolling accents. “My very old friend,” she added.

“Very old indeed,” Michael murmured.

The satisfaction in his voice was almost too much for her to bear.