Masks and Shadows (31 page)

“Ah, Baroness!” The Princess's cool voice hailed her. She stood, resplendent in ice-blue silk, her gloved hand resting lightly on her husband's arm, before two familiar, imposing figures. Her smile glittered with satisfaction. “Won't you come and be introduced to our guests, my dear?”

The Prince gave a visible start of surprise and looked askance at his wife, whose smile only deepened. The Princess stepped back to make room for Charlotte, and courtiers cleared a path between them. In the distance, Charlotte thought she caught a glimpse of a small, upright figure, the Princess's female attendant, looking as martial as any soldier as she kept a watchful gaze on the shifting crowd around her mistress . . . but Charlotte's own gaze was caught only a moment later by someone much closer.

Signor Morelli stood just behind the Prince, included in the small circle of conversation. His dark eyes met Charlotte's. Her breath caught in her throat.

She had thought of nothing but him all through the long walk from her apartments to the drawing room. His kiss, his warmth, his skin beneath her fingers, the look on his face as she'd turned away . . . and what she would do when she had to meet him again, in public.

The best tactic, of course, would be to avoid him entirely. Any voluntary encounter would be too difficult, too awkward . . . too tempting. She'd told herself she didn't even wish to risk it.

Every one of her resolutions fell away as she saw him. She stepped forward, holding her breath.

His eyes narrowed, and he turned pointedly away . . . just as she had, last night. Pain stabbed through Charlotte's chest.

Just as well
, she told herself. Yet the pain did not subside.

She walked to the Princess's side. Prince Nikolaus's smile looked forced.
And no wonder
, Charlotte thought grimly. No doubt the last thing he wanted was to be reminded of his mistress in this company.

“My dear Baroness, let me introduce you to the Empress and the Emperor,” the Princess murmured. “Your Majesties, the Baroness von Steinbeck.”

“Your Majesties.” Charlotte curtseyed deeply, quashing down her emotions. “I am honored.”

“You look familiar, Baroness.” The Empress's plump hands raised Charlotte from her curtsey. She smiled warmly as she studied Charlotte's face. “I've seen you before, haven't I? Who are your parents, child?”

Charlotte had not been called a child for over twelve years, but she bowed her head submissively. “The Count and Countess von Hinterberg, Majesty.”

“Ah, yes. I spoke to your mother at our last ball, a few weeks ago. She mentioned that you had been widowed.” The Empress sighed. Her own billowing, old-fashioned gown was the unremitting black of first mourning, though her husband had been dead these past fourteen years. “I am sorry for your loss, dear.”

“I thank you, Majesty.”

“And . . .” The Empress glanced at her son as if for support, but the Emperor was gazing off into the distance, looking bored. “You have a sister, do you not? She was presented to me at court before her marriage. I think your mother said she was here as well?” The Empress turned to the Princess. “Marie, isn't the Baroness's sister one of your ladies-in-waiting?”

The Princess smiled faintly as her husband's face tightened. “In a manner of speaking, but the title is purely honorary.”

The Prince cleared his throat. “The Baroness is a fine musician, Your Majesty. She accompanied Signor Morelli in his recital and even supplied us with an addition to our opera troupe. Our new second soprano, Fräulein Dommayer, was previously in service to the Baroness.”

“Really?” Emperor Joseph blinked and came to attention. “I look forward to hearing her. My own new opera troupe, in Vienna—”

“Ah, but what do we care about Vienna? The operas are always so much finer here at Eszterháza.” His mother turned her smile to the Prince. “I could not resist accompanying Ferdinand and Joseph to hear your fine performances, Nikolaus. I've been longing for some really good music.”

“They are fine here because Esterházy gives them proper support and attention,” the Emperor said sharply. “They will be just as fine in Vienna, soon enough, once we've found more truly outstanding singers for my own national opera troupe. And their all-German performances—”

“German is far too dull a language for opera,” said the Empress. “Italian may be well enough, but you know your father always preferred the French performances best.”

“As my father, madam, was French himself, he would hardly—!” The Emperor cut himself off with a snap and turned back to the Prince and Princess, his shoulders stiffening. “You are wise in your patronage here. There is no finer medium than opera for moral education and the development of a national character.”

“Joseph, I beg you will not seize the opportunity for one of your tedious rants!”

Charlotte sucked in a breath and looked discreetly away from the glares of the co-rulers.

“Ah! Von Born.”

The Emperor, still flushed, stepped away from his mother to hail the alchemist, who had eased close to the central group. His mother only sniffed and looked away.

Ignaz von Born stepped up, smiling, and tucked his walking stick beneath his arm to bow to the Emperor.

“Your Majesty. A delightful surprise to see you here.”

“We kept it a secret these past weeks to surprise Esterházy and to escape the heat in the capital. Ferdinand is here, too—somewhere.” The Emperor grinned. “Chatting with some fine young lady of the court, no doubt. How go your experiments? You must give me a tour of your traveling laboratory.”

The Empress coughed pointedly. “I hope your scientific experiments are taking up all of your time nowadays, Herr von Born?”

“Majesty?” He smiled questioningly, leaning on the head of his walking stick.

Her plump face hardened. “When we invited you to arrange our Imperial Museum, we did so on the basis of your scientific work, not your political theories. But we hear odd rumors about the goings-on in some of the Lodges of Freemasonry these days. False rumors, we hope. And rumors . . .” She paused, exchanging a look with her son. “Rumors that there may be a new lodge, not properly registered with the authorities.”

“I am shocked indeed.” Von Born half-bowed. “But I would be honored to look more deeply into the matter, if it would please Your Majesties. I can swear to you I know of no new order of Freemasonry.”

“Good Lord, there's Radamowsky in the corner.” The Emperor let out a crack of laughter. “The French ambassador may quiz us over Vienna being the center of alchemy, but it seems Eszterháza holds that title, now! You've gathered quite a nest of alchemists here, Esterházy.”

The Empress's voice was sour. “I hope we may have an evening Mass tonight, Nikolaus. We were forced to have a very truncated morning Mass in the course of our travels, and I feel . . .” Her pale gaze settled on Count Radamowsky's tall figure in the corner. “I am greatly in need of that comfort.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Prince Nikolaus said smoothly. “We shall all attend.”

Oh, yes
. Charlotte let out a sigh of sheer relief. She had missed services that morning, too exhausted and troubled to pull herself out of bed in time. If ever there had been a moment that she needed the comfort and reassurance of a Mass, today was surely that day.

She felt Signor Morelli watching her. She did not meet his gaze.

“I am glad.” The Empress's face softened again as she turned away from the two alchemists. “And perhaps I may soon have the pleasure of hearing the famous Signor Morelli sing?”

“I would be honored, Your Majesty.” Signor Morelli bowed.

“Signor Morelli and the Baroness perform beautifully,” the Princess murmured. “I look forward to hearing them together again.”

Charlotte swallowed and opened her mouth to speak. Signor Morelli replied first.

“Your pardon, Highness, but I should not like to trouble the Baroness again. I have already taken far too much advantage of her good will.”

Charlotte dropped her gaze. Her bare fingers looked pale against the black of her dress. She forced them not to clench into fists.

Signor Morelli's voice was smooth. “I know, however, that Herr Haydn would be pleased to oblige me as accompanist before Your Majesties.”

“Ah, now that would be a rare pleasure.” The Empress beamed. “May we hope for a new opera from him on this visit?”

“You may,” the Prince said. “Tomorrow night, in fact.” He smiled and shifted a few more inches away from his wife. “I hope that it may prove a great triumph.”

The lock on Radamowsky's study door was proving difficult. The Prussian spy cursed softly to himself as his sweat-slick fingers slipped on the tiny iron tool he used. It fell to the ground with a clatter that made him jerk, but he quickly steadied himself.

The long corridor was still. Everyone would be occupied with the imperial guests for hours yet.

Guernsey leaned over to retrieve the tool. Blood flooded into his face with the exertion. Sweat streamed down his cheeks and neck, and dizziness nearly overcame him. He swore underneath his breath.

After all the futile searches, all the false leads and time wasted, he had finally discovered the source of Eszterháza's secrets. Only forty minutes more, at most, and he'd be back in bed recovering and writing his report to the Prussian king. The physician wasn't due to check in on him until an hour after that. Plenty of time, if only his cursed injuries didn't render him completely useless.

The iron clicked softly in the lock. Guernsey took one last look down the empty corridor and slipped inside. He left the door open by a fraction of an inch, so that he could hear any approach.

The room was dark and filled with dust. Most of the light from the windows had been blocked off. Guernsey moved cautiously through the room, careful not to tread on the scattered books. In the center of the room, atop a table covered with yet more books and papers, dirty gray smoke filled up a lantern case. Guernsey took a quick step back, then forced himself onward. He leaned over the table to peer into the lantern.

Red eyes snapped open inside the smoke. Guernsey glared back at them, forcing himself to ignore the churning in his stomach.

“Not this time,” he whispered.

He searched through the books and papers on the table, committing the titles to memory. When he found one written in fresh ink, in obvious code, he took out a blank sheet of paper from the inner pocket of his frock coat and copied the symbols down, using the alchemist's own feather pen. The gray smoke roiled but could not escape its prison.

In the far distance, footsteps sounded. Guernsey stiffened and thrust the paper back into his coat. No one but Radamowsky stayed in this corridor, nor did the servants ever visit it. The alchemist must have abandoned his social duties early.

He glanced quickly around the room. No closets in which to hide.

The footsteps were still some distance away. He would have to brazen it out.

He dropped the pen back into its holder and darted out of the room, closing the door behind him. No sign of anyone in the corridor yet. He leaned over to re-lock the door from outside.

“Mister—Guernsey, was it?” Count Radamowsky paused a moment at the end of the corridor and then strode toward him. “Were you looking for me, sir?”

“I was indeed.” Guernsey straightened hastily, forcing a smile. He'd have to hope the Count hadn't seen the quick flow of motion as he'd slipped the lock-picking tool from his hand into the wide sleeve of his coat. “I was afraid I'd missed you.”

“You nearly did.” The Count smiled, but his eyes focused intently on Guernsey as he walked toward him. “I hope you didn't have to wait long?”

“Only a moment, no longer.” Guernsey didn't have to feign the sudden spell of dizziness that made him stumble. “Forgive me. I came to thank you, sir, for rescuing me the other night. I fear, though, I may have overestimated my recovery.”

“A natural error.”

The Count put his hand on the door handle and pressed it lightly. It held firm.
Locked
. Guernsey held his gaze, smiling inanely.

The Count's eyes narrowed. “You must hurry back to your sickbed, Mister Guernsey. I hope we may speak again soon.”

Guernsey felt the alchemist's gaze on his back, all the way down the long corridor.

Too close
. It was time to leave Eszterháza. He would send his apologies and compliments to the Prince this afternoon and arrange to leave the next morning for Vienna. Vienna and then Dresden . . . where King Frederick's appreciation would more than outweigh the wounds that he had suffered.

He slipped back into his bed gratefully and rested his head on his pillow with a sigh of relief. Before memory could fail, he would record the names of all the books that he had seen, all the clues that might help King Frederick's own pet alchemists follow Count Radamowsky's example.