CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“No announcements?” Marta stared at Peter from behind her husband’s muscled shoulders.

They stood with the rest of the company on the stage of the fabled Burgtheater. In the midafternoon, on a day with no matinee performance, it was only an empty theater, albeit one of more than ordinary magnificence. Its white and gold boxes flanked and surrounded the wooden stage. The sound of stagehands’ voices bled through the thin backstage wall; cleaners in the auditorium swept out the public stalls with stoic indifference to the drama being enacted on the stage before them.

But then, Peter thought ruefully, this was the same stage that had showcased the best of French and German theater for the past hundred years, from Molière to Mozart, Goethe, and even the great Beethoven’s new opera, which had played here only the night before. How could his own troupe’s far-from-original melodrama hope to hold the cleaners’ attention after such rich fare?

The thought made him smile for a moment . . . which was a mistake.

“How can there be no announcements of which troupe has been invited to perform?” Marta’s voice rose to dangerous heights of power, until she could have blasted straight up to the theater’s highest tier. “Did you negotiate nothing to our benefit?”

Peter winced as the rest of the company murmured restlessly around them. “The emperor desires to present his guests with an unexpected treat. Part of the entertainment for this evening will be their opportunity to guess which troupe of players they will see, and then—”

“And then they’ll think themselves disappointed to see unfamiliar faces in a troupe straight from the provinces,” Marta said acidly. “Because they weren’t prepared for it properly, with signs and advertisements that quoted all our best reviews. How could you have been so thoughtless as to agree to such a plan?”

“Did you expect him to struggle for our benefit?” Karl snorted, crossing his arms. It was Karl, of course, who had brought the news to Marta and the rest of the troupe after scouring not only the outer walls of the Burgtheater itself but also all the streets around it for any signs advertising their coming performance. “He didn’t even have the courage to argue the Theater an der Wien into paying for our accommodations. How did you think he would stand up to the emperor’s representative?”

“Actually,” Peter began, but he was cut off by Josephine, who looked nearly ill with panic.

“They won’t even realize what our names are, if there are no signs to tell them!”

Peter sighed. “We will announce all of the players’ names, at both the beginning and the end of the performance.”

“But all they’ll hear will be the names of the leads! None of the reviewers will be able to remember—”

Marta rolled her eyes. “There’s no need to worry about that, dear, really. They wouldn’t have bothered to comment on your performance anyway.”

“You spiteful cow!”

“It’s not too late,” Karl broke in, stepping between the two women. “As our respected leader has fallen short in his duties—much as I’d expected he would, else I wouldn’t have bothered to look in the first place”—his glowering gaze swept over Peter’s face—“I’ll simply arrange the matter myself. I’ll take two stagehands with me, and between us, we’ll have the entire first district plastered with theater bills by the end of the afternoon.”

“Oh, darling, you are a genius,” Marta said. “But the bills themselves—”

“You’ll have to mention all of our names on the bills,” Josephine inserted, her face set mulishly.

Peter managed, at last, to draw a ragged breath through the horror that had nearly choked him. “You will do no such thing!”

“I beg your pardon?” Karl turned to him with exaggerated courtesy. “You wish to instruct me, perhaps, on how to negotiate a deal? Or how to look out for our company’s best interests? Or—”

“If a single sign is posted, we will forfeit our contract and all of our payment.” Peter had to clench his jaw shut to keep himself from losing all control and simply leaping for Karl’s thick neck. He forced the words out through his teeth. “The emperor made his conditions quite clear.”

“How would he even know? He’ll be occupied in public functions all day. He’ll never—”

“You damned stubborn fool,” Peter gritted.

The rest of the company fell into a shocked silence.

There. It’s out.

Peter had never spoken in that tone of voice to any member of his company before. He had danced around Karl’s simmering jealousy and resentment ever since the first week he had formed the troupe, three years ago, never speaking an angry word in return. He had never needed to. He’d had his silver tongue and self-confidence to fall back on, to keep the company balanced well under his thumb.

Dramatic heroes didn’t lower themselves to abuse or aggrievement, and Peter had always been a hero, setting off on an epic journey to success.

But no longer. Now his hands trembled with the force of his anger. He kept his voice to a hoarse whisper, because otherwise his shouts might lacerate his throat and keep him from playing his proper part tonight . . . quite possibly, the last part he would ever have a chance to play.

He had nothing to fall back on anymore except his rage.

“Do you have any idea what I went through to secure this performance?” he asked. “Do you? You’re such a keen critic of my work, aren’t you, Karl? Always writing your own reviews, saying how I should have done it all differently. Well, you weren’t there to see what happened! No, nor in Prague either, when I had to beg the theater manager to let us play out our last week, despite the drop in ticket sales.”

“Herr Riesenbeck,” Josephine began, timidly.

He ignored her, his attention on Karl’s broad, reddening face. “You think I should have talked the Theater an der Wien into paying for our accommodations, do you? And how, precisely, do you think that would have worked, when I’d already had to pay them nearly the last of my own savings only to bribe them into taking us on in the first place?”

There was a moment of horrified silence onstage as all the other actors stared at him. The only noises in the theater were the steady rustling of the cleaners sweeping out the stalls, and the creaking of sets being wrestled into place backstage.

“What madness is this?” Marta breathed.

Peter’s voice came out gravelly with rage. “Your husband told me he thought the whole company deserved a pay rise when we came to Vienna. A charming thought, when the Viennese managers laughed in my face at the mere idea of inviting a provincial company that couldn’t even manage to pay off the bills with the scanty audiences they’d managed to summon in their own city.”

Karl’s voice sounded hoarse. “You said—”

“We never had problems with the theaters in Prague,” Marta said, voice throbbing. “Never!”

“No? That would be because I paid them the difference in their funds to make up for the sales they lost by hiring us.” Peter gazed with bitter satisfaction at the blanched faces of his company members. “And you think I could have done better by you than I did? It took the persistence and the persuasiveness of a devil to find us paying work at all!”

“But—you said—” Karl began.

“I said what you all needed to hear.” Peter shook his head. “Would you have performed at your best if you’d known the truth? If you’d known what the theater managers truly said of you to me when you couldn’t hear? Would you care for me to tell you the details?” He paused, waiting. “No? I thought not.”

“But . . . but . . .” Marta swallowed, raising a hand to her throat without any graceful fluttering, for once. “We saw the reviews. The critics, they said—truly, they did say—”

“‘The best small company in Prague,’” Peter quoted, from memory. “‘Best acting and direction. A company to watch.’ Yes.” He drew a deep breath, releasing the tension from his shoulders. “They said it because it was true. And they were right. That was why it was worth throwing everything into this trip. Making it possible. Giving us all a chance.”

Karl blinked owlishly. “Your savings—”

“Gone. For good, unless we make ourselves a success.” Peter set his jaw. “Which we can. That’s why I threw everything into buying us this chance to be seen in the center of the empire. No matter what it took.”

Of course, if he’d realized at the beginning just how much it would take . . . Peter dismissed the thought before it could settle onto his shoulders and crush him. He couldn’t afford to think that, not now. Not ever.

He met Karl’s eyes evenly. “Are you going to throw away this single chance I’ve won us only to suit your sense of pride?”

Marta made a small sound of distress. She put one hand on her husband’s arm.

Karl didn’t bother to look down at her. His jaw firmed. “No,” he said. “But after all this—if it doesn’t succeed—”

“Then you’ll be free to think on what would be best for yourselves. And if that means leaving this company for a different one . . .” Peter shrugged heavily. “I won’t hold you to your contracts. Not after tonight.”

Karl nodded, his expression grim. Low whispering started up behind him in the rest of the company. In a moment, all would descend into chaos.

Peter’s head throbbed. All he wanted to do in the time he still had left was to curl up in a dark corner—or, no, better yet, a well-lit corner. Where no shadows could lurk, and no voices either, and no effort, no outsized energy would be required of him.

Instead, his voice sliced straight through the whispers. “We have one chance to impress the gathered nobility of Europe. One chance alone. If you don’t wish it to be wasted . . .” Peter stepped back, raising his chin to disguise his weariness. “It’s time for us to rehearse.”

Charles Weston pushed his way through the crowds on the Graben. A fine lady cried out in aristocratic outrage as he knocked her aside. He shrugged away from her and her inanely twittering companions.

Half a dozen different languages streamed past him as he staggered down the crowded street. He recognized them all from years of study and rigorous self-improvement.

What a goddamned bloody waste.

What was the native language of betrayal? Perhaps there was none. Could it be common to all countries?

He choked at the thought and nearly crashed into the blazing oven of a street cook. Strong arms pulled him away just in time.

“You are careless, Monsieur Weston,” a cool voice said beside him, in French.

Charles shrugged the arm off, not bothering to turn around. “Leave me alone.”

His spectacles were smeared with spattered oil from the street cook’s griddle. He pushed his way forward, half-blinded, bulling his way through the crowd.

“Now, now.” The voice had caught up with him again. A firm hand took hold of his arm and pulled him to a stop. “This is no way for a sensible man to behave.”

“No?” Charles spun around, panting, to glare at the stranger. “And what the hell would you know about it?”

The man facing him was small and nondescript. Like me, Charles thought bitterly. But even more so than a discreet secretary, this man seemed almost designed to fade into a crowd. Indeed, Charles could see the gazes of the passersby flit past his companion without a moment’s interest. The only curious looks were the ones that landed on Charles. Under the scrutiny of quizzing glasses and sidelong glances, Charles became reluctantly aware of the anomaly he presented: an aristocrat’s proper secretary, standing panting and disheveled in the middle of Vienna’s most fashionable street, with smeared glasses and an oddly shaped bulge in his disordered jacket.

The realization only intensified his glower.

“What the devil,” Charles said, in precisely articulated French, “do you mean by accosting me in this fashion?”

“There’s no need for indignation, sir.” The man smiled placatingly as he released Charles’s arm. “I’m only here on behalf of my employer, who asked me to seek you out.”

“For what?” Charles shook his head even as he finished the question. “Never mind. I’m not available for discussion at the moment.” He started forward.

“Nor for new employment?”

“New . . .” Charles took a breath, as pain pierced him, starting a throbbing headache.

He wouldn’t, he would not torture himself by remembering—

But he couldn’t force away the image: Lady Wyndham and that insinuating bastard. She couldn’t even claim he’d forced her. Charles had seen the look on her face, before she’d realized he was there.

The pure, sensuous enjoyment.

The bitch.

He was almost sobbing. In public. Damn it.

He gritted his teeth and blinked back humiliating, boyish tears. It was a good thing his glasses were already smeared. Perhaps the madman before him might even miss the telltale sheen of water in Charles’s eyes.

“I understand you are the most highly valued secretary of an Englishwoman? Lady Wyndham?”

“She has been my employer,” Charles acknowledged evenly.

But not for long. By God, he wouldn’t let himself be used and discarded like this. She’d played him for a fool. Begging for his help, telling him he was the only one she could trust . . .

Charles’s fingers clawed themselves into fists.

He would make her pay. He didn’t know how he could do it yet, but he would. No matter what it took.

And then, maybe—possibly—afterward, when she’d been forced to admit she was wrong, when she had really suffered and he’d seen her pain . . . His short fingernails pressed into his palm with stinging force. If she begged him, afterward . . .

Then, perhaps, if he was feeling generous, he would give her another chance.

But until then . . .

“Let me buy you a drink,” the man before him said. “It really will help, I promise you.”

“You don’t know anything about it,” Charles muttered.

“No? You might be surprised.” The other man leaned forward. His voice lowered to a whisper. “The uses of alchemy have never been forgotten in this city, Monsieur Weston. Nor have we forgotten how to honor those who are accomplished in its practice.”

Charles blinked. Five conflicting thoughts tried to take shape in his mind all at once, and canceled each other out to leave it blank. “Who are you?” he asked, finally.

“My name is Vaçlav Grünemann, and I’ve been watching you for some time. My employer is most anxious to make your personal acquaintance. Shall we?”

Grünemann gestured to a narrow side street. Charles found himself following the other man, trapped by bewildered fascination.

“Very good,” Grünemann said calmly. “You have made the right decision, sir. But then, my employer thinks that you show great potential.”

Emperor Francis II viewed his reflection in the mirror with dissatisfaction.

Tonight would be the greatest fête of his Congress, and everything was prepared. He would charm and flatter the tsar and his Prussian toady as he must throughout the evening, and then—at last, the culmination of all his maneuverings—as soon as the theatrical performance was over, he would finally seal his secret pact with England, for an endless supply of English gold and the power it would bring him to stand against the Russian empire as an equal.

After all his years of endless humiliation, he would have his triumph at last.

Francis’s cravat was tied with crisp elegance, in preparation for the evening’s entertainment; the Orders of Knighthood pinned to his claret-colored tailcoat gleamed in the soft candlelight. Everything was in place. And yet . . .

His face looked positively sunken. And his eyes . . .

It was a trick of the light, no more. Candlelight was known to cast odd shadows. It was only his own weakness that summoned up a tinge of supernatural dread, to see the shadows form in his own eyes.

“More light,” Francis snapped. In the mirror’s reflection, he saw his personal valet jerk to sudden attention at his words, while the uniformed footman at the door kept his own gaze directed firmly ahead in professional disinterest. Francis felt a sharp stab of annoyance. “I can barely see myself!”

He waited, tautly, as the valet lit more candles around him. With each added flame, more shadows disappeared from his cheeks, taking away the look of hollowness, and—yes—removing the shadows from his eyes as well.

Francis let out his held breath in a sigh. There. No need to fear, after all. Pergen protected him from that fate, as from so many other potential dangers in his empire.

As if he’d summoned his chief minister only by thinking of him, a knock sounded on the inner door of his apartments. Francis nodded graciously, and the footman swept the door open.

“Your Majesty.” Pergen swept a deep bow. “If I might have a word . . .”

Francis shrugged. “As you will. Leave us,” he added to the others, and the two servants filed out of the room. As the door closed behind them, he turned away from the mirror.

“Well?”

“All is prepared for tonight.”

“I knew I could count on you.” For once, Francis couldn’t summon up the interest that catching a new subversive deserved—but for such a loyal servant as Pergen, it would be ill-done indeed not to offer well-earned praise. And perhaps afterward . . . His breath shortened with sudden anticipation. “Do let me know if I can help in any way.”

“But of course. Your Majesty would be most welcome.”

“I could use some fresh distraction.” Francis directed a look back at the mirror and twitched the lapels of his coat a fraction more even. Where was the triumphant glow he should have exuded, at the anticipation of his greatest success?

“Ah,” Pergen said. “Perhaps I can help even now, in that case.”

Francis blinked and turned his attention to his minister. “Yes?”

“I have recently made a discovery which, I believe, you may find quite interesting,” Pergen said. His thin lips curved into a smile of fierce satisfaction. “Let me tell Your Majesty what I’ve only just learned of Lady Wyndham’s true identity . . .”