CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Peter walked through the crowd, all his senses alert.

It had been an hour since he had arrived at the gala celebrations. In another hour and a half, he would need to leave for his final performance of the evening.

Seconds ticked away in accompaniment to his rapid heartbeat.

Through the crowd, he glimpsed a familiar face: Vaçlav Grünemann, the spy, here to help Peter in his mission . . . or to take him prisoner once again, if he failed. Peter looked away, wincing, but not soon enough. In the corner of his vision, he glimpsed Grünemann’s cool smile and nod of recognition.

A liveried footman approached, offering Peter a new glass of champagne in exchange for his empty one. Peter paused a moment, his hand hovering above the silver tray, then shook his head as common sense asserted itself. He moved on, still clutching his empty glass and listening intently for any echo of a familiar, lying voice.

French conversations blurred in his ears, blending with scattered German, English, Russian, and other languages he couldn’t recognize. Whenever the closely packed crowd allowed, Peter tried to scan the line of new arrivals streaming in from outside. All he managed to see were glimpses of military medals, fans, and outrageous hairstyles. Twice, he thought he recognized Michael’s lean build. He pushed his way through the crowd—and found only unfamiliar faces before him.

An hour and a quarter left. Peter elbowed past the people in his way, ignoring the laws of courtesy and logic. If he shoved past the wrong man, he’d find himself challenged to one of the lethal duels that the nobility so loved.

He didn’t care. A far worse fate awaited him if he failed.

Just over an hour left. Sweat streamed down Peter’s face. He was nearly running now.

He broke through a gap in the crowd—and tripped.

The Prince de Ligne stood out even in this packed room. Caroline glimpsed his gleaming white hair and felt herself relax for the first time in nearly twenty-four hours. She disentangled herself from the group of Englishmen who had gathered her up after her arrival and slipped through the crowd toward the prince’s erect figure.

It was only a rest, not a rescue from what lay ahead. But still she found herself smiling with genuine pleasure as she swept toward his circle of admirers.

“Lady Wyndham.” The prince bowed with an elegance left over from the last century and stepped aside to welcome her into the circle. “Tell us, have you made up your mind yet on the most burning issue of the day?”

“Your Highness?” Caroline raised her eyebrows as she stepped into place beside him. The Comte de La Garde-Chambonas stood on De Ligne’s right; beyond the comte stood Michael. She nodded to both men and tried not to let her gaze linger too long on Michael’s face. Still, his half-smile warmed her even as she turned back to De Ligne’s look of wicked delight.

“Why, how shall you describe this evening in your letters home—and indeed in your own book of memoirs?” De Ligne used his champagne glass to gesture at the press of people around them. “Is it to be named an insufferable crush? The most tedious gathering of the entire Congress? Or an awe-inspiring event to remember for the ages, an unprecedented gathering of all the greatest and most glittering personages from across the Continent? You must make up your mind soon, you know—descriptions are already flying about the room, and you wouldn’t wish to be last in registering to the world how terribly, terribly sophisticated your appreciation was.”

“Mine?” Caroline shook her head. “I’m afraid I am no author, Your Highness. I’ll leave all memoir-writing to the comte and yourself.”

“Surely you underestimate yourself.” De Ligne regarded her quizzically. “I suspect you possess hidden depths, my lady, which you don’t choose to reveal to the world at large. If you were ever to sit down and write your own perspective on this Congress—”

“Then we should all be astonished and scandalized, no doubt,” said a familiar voice behind them.

Caroline’s fingers tightened around her fan. She forced herself to relax as the emperor stepped up between them.

“De Ligne.” The emperor nodded affably. “Preparing for another of your own publications? You’ll show this one to me ahead of time, I hope?”

“I? Why, I am only a harmless old man,” said the prince, with wide-eyed innocence. “What danger could my poor words possibly possess?”

“Oh, it’s never too late to surprise everyone,” said the emperor. “Lady Wyndham . . .”

Caroline felt Michael’s gaze upon her. The smile had faded from his face. She turned to the emperor, raising the fan high against her own face. It was a flirtatious gesture; better yet, it gifted her with a mask.

“Might I have a word?” the emperor asked.

“Of course,” Caroline murmured. “I would be honored.”

She took his proffered arm and gave a nod and smile of farewell to the circle of watching men. Together, Caroline and the emperor walked away, leaving the prince, the comte, and Michael behind them.

Michael’s left hand throbbed with pain. He recognized the sensation a moment before he realized its cause: his hand had fisted so tightly that his fingers had cramped and his short nails had dug reddened semicircles into his palm. He shook his fingers out discreetly and forced his gaze away from Caroline’s retreating back.

He found the Prince de Ligne watching him with keen blue eyes. “A fascinating woman,” De Ligne murmured.

“Mm.” Michael nodded and took a sip of champagne. A moment later, he couldn’t even recall the taste.

“Twenty-four years . . . isn’t it worth anything I can do?”

He couldn’t have stopped her. But he wanted to kill the emperor of Austria with his bare hands, and not only for the hell the bastard had already put Caroline through.

Calm. De Ligne was speaking again.

“. . . feels she has an intriguing story behind her, don’t you agree?”

“Intriguing indeed,” Michael agreed, and drank again.

“I shall certainly be describing her at length in my memoirs!” the Comte de La Garde-Chambonas announced. His plump face was flushed, whether from the heat or from the champagne, Michael could not tell. “She is the most elegant woman in Vienna, beyond compare. Perhaps . . .”

He rambled on, but Michael didn’t follow. He had lost sight of Caroline in the crowd. He turned slightly, scanning the sea of heads. Perhaps . . .

“But perhaps Prince Kalishnikoff could tell us more of that,” De Ligne said gently. “As such an old friend of Lady Wyndham.”

Michael blinked and turned back to the other men. “I beg your pardon?”

De Ligne’s brows drew together, but his voice remained courteously pitched. “We were only wondering how long Lady Wyndham plans to stay in the city.”

“Well . . .” Michael shrugged. “I cannot answer for her, of course, but I’d expect several months at the very least. After all, who would choose to leave Vienna at such a historic moment?” He attempted a charming smile. It felt stretched and false. Where had all his training gone? “But what of tonight’s entertainment?” he asked, too quickly. “Has anyone heard a hint of which theater troupe it is to be? And which play—or opera—we’re to enjoy?”

“The matter of ‘enjoyment,’ of course, is rather dependent on the answers to both your questions,” De Ligne said dryly. “But from what I’ve heard . . .”

The prince broke off as a commotion disrupted the crowd ahead. A clumsy figure—intoxicated already?—stumbled into two different men, knocking them apart. Cries of irritation sounded around him. The figure half-tripped and caught himself on a noblewoman’s arm. His face was hidden as he leaned over her, but Michael saw blond hair above a solid, compact figure that was dressed far more modestly than any of the other guests.

Sudden suspicion stole Michael’s breath. He stepped backward, fighting for rationality. There was no logical way it could possibly be—

The noblewoman shoved her assailant’s hand aside with a gasp of outrage. Straightening, the man turned toward Michael’s group.

Michael met Peter Riesenbeck’s gaze for the second time that day.

Even as he met Michael’s gaze, Peter realized that his challenge had only just begun. Grünemann stood half a room away, separated from the drama by hundreds of nobles of different nationalities. For all Peter knew, there might not be a single secret policeman closer than forty feet away—and in such a crowd, forty feet might as well be three miles.

If he didn’t convince his audience immediately, he could lose his only chance.

Peter’s eyes widened in horror. He raised one trembling finger. He pointed it straight at Michael.

“Traitor,” Peter breathed. And then, in the actor’s voice that he’d spent his life developing, he projected his words throbbingly through the aristocratic crowd: “Traitor and revolutionary!”

A shocked and avidly listening silence spread in widening circles around them, punctuated by gasps and whispers. Michael looked at Riesenbeck’s theatrically wavering finger, felt the horrified eyes of the crowd upon him . . . and smiled dazzlingly in response.

“A fine performance indeed,” Michael said. He lifted his glass to toast the other man. “And far better than the earlier version I saw last week in Prague.” He turned to share his amusement with the onlookers. “Ladies and gentlemen, I believe tonight’s mystery has at last been solved! May I present Peter Riesenbeck, head of the excellent Riesenbeck theatrical troupe, which is currently touring to Vienna from Prague . . . and, I presume, playing for us tonight in the Burgtheater.” He gestured with his glass. “I think he merits our applause, don’t you?”

Approximately a third of the company began to clap, with varying degrees of enthusiasm; the other two thirds settled back into their conversational groups, a few with looks of active disgust at the nature of the interruption. Riesenbeck had to raise his voice again to be heard.

“Don’t listen to him! He—”

“Am I wrong?” Michael asked. “Do enlighten me—are you not performing tonight, after all?”

“Did you meet in Prague, then?” the Prince de Ligne asked. He nodded with courteous condescension to the actor as he waited for Michael’s response.

“You don’t understand,” Riesenbeck said. He turned to look around, his eyes wild. “He—I know him! He’s—”

“I am honored to be remembered, indeed, after meeting so briefly when I congratulated you after that performance in Prague.” Michael met Riesenbeck’s eyes with cool amusement. “I know I promised you future patronage, months ago, but I’m afraid you can’t call in my debt quite yet—my own fate is yet to be decided at this Congress.” Was it worth trying—? Oh hell, why not? He added, casually, “That offer still holds true, by the way. I would be happy to take on your company’s interests in the future, when I have the capability to do so.”

Riesenbeck stared at him. He opened his mouth to speak, and then stopped. Michael felt the tension in his shoulders begin to ease.

“A fine promise indeed,” the Prince de Ligne said. He raised his own glass to the actor. “I look forward to watching the Riesenbeck company perform tonight, after such a recommendation.”

“I beg your pardon,” the actor muttered.

He turned around and struck out through the closely pressed crowd, pushing his way across the room.

Damnation. Michael’s heart sank as he watched Riesenbeck’s blond head move through the crowd. Unaccustomed panic made his fingers tremble around the stem of his glass.

He felt the Prince de Ligne’s watchful eyes upon him, waiting for a reaction or explanation, but for once Michael’s brain refused to conjure up an appropriately light remark. All he could think of was the unpalatable truth that faced him.

He had to escape now, without delay, or else prepare to give himself up to the emperor’s secret police.

Caroline focused on keeping her fingers relaxed and still on the emperor’s arm as they crossed the Great Hall. When she slid a sidelong look up at his face, she saw his blue eyes hooded and his face unapproachable. She made no attempt at small talk, and neither did he.

If she turned, now—if she begged a sudden sick headache, a nervous indisposition—she could still escape and signal Michael. Within half an hour, at most, they would be together in her carriage. An hour later, and they’d be safe outside Vienna’s city walls, and then—

Caroline took a firm grip on her rebellious nerves. She had been preparing for this moment for years. She would not shame herself or her father now by failure.

They reached a closed door flanked by expressionless footmen. At the emperor’s nod, the door swung open.

“Your Ladyship?” The emperor gestured her forward.

Caroline lifted her chin and swept through the door.

She found herself in a narrow corridor, wide enough only for one person and lit by a single wall bracket of candles. Six feet ahead of them, the corridor curved sharply, hiding the end from view.

“Your Majesty?” Caroline kept her voice light and questioning.

“My apologies for the inconvenience,” the emperor murmured. “This is a passageway particularly designed to give access to a private meeting chamber, separate from my public gatherings.” His lips twitched. “You might be surprised by some of the meetings I’ve held here, while dances and banquets took place in the hall outside.”

“I’m sure I would.” Still, Caroline hesitated. If only she could see the end of the corridor . . .

“Well?” The emperor shrugged. “It was my understanding that you desired a private conference. I do have a fair number of duties to attend to, though, if you’ve changed your mind.”

“No,” Caroline said. “I haven’t changed my mind.”

She walked forward at a steady pace. Five steps, six, seven . . .

She turned the corner.

Five more feet of narrow corridor ran ahead of her, ending in a closed door.

“Do step through,” said the emperor, behind her. “I’m afraid there are no servants to open doors for us here. I prefer to keep my private meetings as secure as possible.”

“I understand.” The door handle felt cool and smooth in Caroline’s hands. She took a deep breath and opened it.

The small, octagonal room was empty. Caroline let out her held breath and stepped inside, onto a floor tiled in black and white. Ornately detailed Japanese panels lined the walls. A single settee of black velvet sat against one wall, supported by rosewood carved into muscular lion’s legs; across from it, a lacquered table held a decanter of red wine, two glasses, and a long bracket of candles. Only one of the candles was lit; the emperor crossed the room to light the rest, working quickly.

Caroline looked past him to the two empty glasses. “You were expecting me.”

“I had hoped to have your company tonight, I must confess. Of course, I really ought to be doing my duties as a host outside, rather than attending to my own private pleasures. But after such a flattering request . . .” The emperor turned, smiling, and lifted the decanter. “How could I refuse?”

“I’m glad.” Caroline waited while he poured out two glasses.

A cool breeze stirred the back of her neck. She jerked around.

She saw only lacquered black panels on the wall before her. No fireplace warmed this room or let in air from the outside.

So where had the breeze come from?

“Lady Wyndham?”

She turned back to the emperor. Deep red wine swirled in the crystal glass he offered her. Caroline accepted it with a forced smile.

“Excuse me, your Majesty. I was only admiring your panels.”

“Mm.” His lips twitched. “I am fond of them myself.” He raised his own glass. “To your health.”

“And yours,” Caroline murmured. She lifted her glass to her mouth.

Peter charged through the crowd.

He’d made a mistake, challenging Michael on aristocratic ground while surrounded by the man’s powerful friends. But it still wasn’t too late.

He shoved past diademed ladies, ignoring gasps and sharp words. He had to get to the other side of the room, where—

There. Through the crowd, he caught a glimpse of the man he was seeking.

Vaçlav Grünemann stood in a corner, sipping champagne and listening to an elderly dowager’s complaints with every appearance of bland attention. A moment later, the movements of the shifting crowd had hidden him again. That momentary glimpse was all that Peter had needed. He redoubled his efforts with grim determination.

One man, at least, was fated to torture and imprisonment as a result of tonight’s actions. Peter was determined that, this time, it would not be him.

“That was an odd fellow,” the Prince de Ligne said, as Peter Riesenbeck shoved away from them. “Is he smoother-spoken on stage than in company?”

“One can only hope,” Michael said absently. Riesenbeck’s head had disappeared from view. Damn. Now he couldn’t even track the man to gauge how much time he had left.

“‘Hope’?” the prince asked. “But did not you say you’d attended—”

“Pardon me,” Michael said. “I’m afraid—that is, I think I see, across the room—” Who? What, to explain such rudeness? He couldn’t even formulate a proper excuse. Panic was running too thickly through his blood.

“Prince Kalishnikoff—” De Ligne began.

“Forgive me, I must go.” Michael stepped away, moving quickly. He was breaking every law of courtesy, but he hadn’t time to worry about that now.

The wisest option was to leave. No—the only option was to leave.

He had to find Caroline first.

Michael moved in the direction the emperor had led her, slipping discreetly between groups of people. Caroline was a tall woman, he told himself, as he scanned the crowd. He ought to spot her dark head, even at a distance.

If she was still there. If she was still in the crowd, talking to the emperor in a private corner, Michael could simply tap her on the shoulder and draw her away. And if they walked briskly out of the palace and then ran the rest of the way to her waiting carriage . . .

There was still a chance. He told himself that, repeating the phrase the way he’d repeated the titles of the pamphlets and the newspapers he’d hawked as a child, over and over again as he’d waved them through crowded streets and Kaffeehäuser. Still a chance, still a chance, still a chance . . .

There were too many people crowding in his way. Light from the chandeliers flashed off women’s diamonds and sapphires and off the gold Orders pinned to men’s coats. Michael walked faster and faster, searching . . .

Until a familiar head of blond hair appeared in the corner of his vision.

Michael spun around. Peter Riesenbeck was striding toward him through the crowd, followed by another man in courtly dress. The expression of grim determination on Riesenbeck’s face spoke for itself. Michael didn’t recognize the other man, but he didn’t need to.

He turned and ran for the door.

Caroline nearly gagged on her wine as another chill brushed against the back of her neck. She forced herself not to turn around in search of the source. All she had left to fight with now was the impression of self-confidence.

Caroline lowered the glass and met the emperor’s eyes.

“Your Majesty, there is something I must tell you.”

“Really? I must confess, I am intrigued.” The emperor stepped closer, his fierce gaze intent on her face. “Would it be about this marvelous gift you’re offering to our chancellery? The financial salvation you are so eager to grant us?”

“Yes,” Caroline said steadily. “But first . . .” She lowered her voice to a soft, seductive murmur, shifting her wineglass into her left hand. “I believe we spoke, the night we met, of sharing secrets.”

“Ah. I remember.” The emperor’s eyes narrowed. He stepped closer yet, until his breath whispered against her face with his words. “And are you finally ready to share your secrets with me, madam?”

Caroline hardened herself to smile without flinching. “I am,” she whispered, and reached out to him with her free hand.

“Excellent,” murmured the emperor. He stepped back, leaving her outstretched fingers touching only air. “Pergen? You may come out now. I believe your moment has arrived.”