Masks and Shadows (35 page)

“So do I,” she whispered. Her eyes were wide and lost. “So do I.”

“Well, then.” Carlo offered her his arm. “May I escort you in to dinner, at least, Baroness?”

“Yes, please.”

She took his arm. The top of her powdered hair brushed against his cheek. He fought down the urge to pull her away in some different direction. To his bedroom, to a carriage, to somewhere, anywhere, far away . . .

They stepped out into the corridor. Attentive footmen closed the doors behind them, faces carefully expressionless. Carlo cleared his throat.

“What were you apologizing for?” he asked.

“Oh.” Her fingers tightened around his arm. “I've just found out from Sophie that Mr. Guernsey—the Englishman—died this afternoon.”

“Died?” Carlo blinked, jolted out of his reverie.
Not an Englishman
, he added silently. Aloud, he asked, “How did it happen?”

“He was found by the Prince's physician. I think—I believe they assume he must have died from his wounds.”

“But he had been recovering.”

“Yes.” She looked up at him, her face drawn. “And I wanted to apologize for doubting you, before. The night of Mr. Guernsey's attack. You were right—the coincidences are too great to ignore. And the Princess warned me, when I first visited her . . .” Her voice dropped to the merest thread of a whisper. “She told me there were more guests at Eszterháza than I knew of.”

“Aha,” said Carlo. “So the Count was here already, after all.”

“Perhaps.” She hesitated. “The Princess also warned me there was trouble brewing in the palace. She told me that Eszterháza would soon become a place of danger.”

“How very intriguing.” They turned the corner. At the end of the corridor, wide doors stood open, exposing the Chinese Drawing Room, crowded with people mingling before dinner. Carlo slowed his steps. “She warned you . . . but you chose not to leave?”

“And abandon Sophie? I couldn't.” She looked up at him. “But . . . you could. Still.”

“No,” he said softly. “I couldn't.”

“But—”

“Something holds me here just as strongly as your love for your sister binds you, Baroness.”

She blinked. “And that is—?”

“Call it curiosity,” Carlo said, and drew her into the salon.

But in his head he named it for what it was.

Call it love
.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Franz changed back into his own clothes and slipped out of the opera house while applause still sounded in the audience. Delacroix would rant at him later for missing half of the requisite bows, but he couldn't—wouldn't—take the chance of letting Fräulein Dommayer follow him again. He'd made a stupid, deadly mistake in letting the Brotherhood trick and use him. The least he could do was to keep anyone else from paying for it.

Franz set out across the darkened lawn, though tension spiraled through his gut. Whether they gave him the promised reward or not, whether he was a fool or not, he was well and truly committed to their service. All he could do now was follow their wishes to the letter and pray that he'd survive them.

He stepped into the shadows of the hedge-lined paths, holding his breath.

“Ouch!” Friedrich hissed. “Your damned sword just caught my shin!”

“Sorry.” Anton leaned over his shoulder, peering into the darkness. He adjusted the sword that hung at his waist. “Which way did he go?”

“I don't know. There are too many paths. Aren't you in charge of this expedition, anyway?”

“Don't be a grouch, von Höllner.”

“Thanks.” Friedrich gritted his teeth. He couldn't stop the panic crawling through his stomach. It was only because they were walking in the direction of the Bagatelle. It was ridiculous. Unmanly. But every inch of his body was screaming for him to turn and run. He cleared his throat. “I think he's gone. Can we go back to the tavern now?”

“Don't be so fainthearted!” Something moved in the distance, and Anton whispered, “There! Let's go.”

Friedrich followed, sighing. His own sword—insisted upon by Anton—slapped against his legs as he walked. He must've fastened it improperly, after so long without wearing it.

As they moved farther and farther into the maze of gardens, reluctant curiosity began to mingle with his nerves. What was the actor doing this far from the palace, anyway? Meeting some wench from the village? No need to walk this far only to meet with Anton's little actress.

The actor stopped in a flower-lined clearing. He tilted his head to one side—waiting? Anton led Friedrich into the hedges ten feet away. They crouched down to watch. Sharp branches tickled Friedrich's nose and ears. He twitched, and Anton put one hand on his shoulder to still him. Friedrich didn't need to see his friend's face to know that Anton would be grinning, filled with delight at the whole escapade.

And why not? Friedrich sighed and gave up, peering through the hedges as if he cared, too. Half an hour was already past, after all, and only half an hour left until the agreed-upon hour was up and he could drag Anton back to the tavern. As long as his legs didn't go entirely numb in the meantime, he might as well enjoy it.

Then a deep, familiar voice spoke in the clearing ahead, and Friedrich realized just how great a mistake he had made.

“Herr Pichler. I'm pleased to see you.” This time, the leader's face was obscured by a wide, drooping hat. He carried a walking stick, but he swung it freely in the air as he walked toward Franz. “I trust your performance tonight went well?”

Franz had to clear his throat before he could speak. “Tolerably well, sir. Thank you.”

“Excellent. A fine preparation for tomorrow's duties.” He stopped next to Franz and rested his walking stick on the ground. “Listen carefully, now. This is what we need you to do . . .”

Friedrich couldn't move. He had to run, had to get way—but as the hideously familiar voice rolled through the air, it seemed to turn his bones to glass. If he moved, they might shatter entirely.

It took him a moment to see through his haze of terror and realize that Anton was inching forward, toward the voice.

“What are you doing?” Friedrich whispered. “Get back, man! It's not—”

“Aren't you listening to him?” Anton whispered back. “It's a plot! They're scheming against my cousin and the Empress and Emperor themselves!” He inched further forward, reaching into the brambles of the hedge to clear a spyhole. “If I can just get a good look at his face . . .”

“You'll be waiting for one of our Brotherhood at the back door during the chorus at the end of the first act. He will reveal himself to you with our mark. When he comes, take him—”

A crack sounded in the hedges, and the leader's voice cut off. His head snapped around.

Franz swallowed. “I don't—I still don't quite understand why—”

“Shh!”

In three quick steps, the leader crossed the garden and pulled the branches aside.

Moonlight broke through the hedges and was blocked by the leader's dark silhouette. Friedrich squeezed his eyes shut.

“Oh, God . . .”

“Why, Brother Friedrich. How good of you to join us.” The leader's gaze followed Anton as he stood up. “And you've brought company. What a delightful surprise.”

“It's not my fault!” Friedrich said. “I didn't realize—how was I supposed to know that—”

“Do shut up, von Höllner.” Anton didn't spare him a glance. “Sir—whomever you may be—I am Lieutenant Anton Esterházy, my friend is a lieutenant in the Esterházy Grenadier Guards, and you have been well and truly caught out.” His hand rested on the hilt of his sword. “Will you do me the honor of showing me your face before I arrest you?”

There was a moment of taut silence. Then the leader chuckled.

“Yes, why not?”

He took off his hat and dropped it to the ground, then wrapped both hands around the head of his walking stick. Dark, compelling eyes stood out in a pale, thin face made entirely of hard angles.

“Well?” he said. “Are you satisfied, lieutenant?”

From the corner of his eye, Friedrich saw the man's hands fiddling with the narrow head of his walking stick.

Anton leaned forward, frowning. “I know you,” he said. “I met you in my cousin's company, in the opera house. You're Herr von . . . von Born?”

“Very good,” said the man, and gave one sharp jerk to the head of his walking stick. A long, thin blade shot out in his hand, and the bottom of the stick, a hollow case, fell to the ground.

“You wish to fight?” Anton pulled out his own sword, grinning fiercely. “All right, then!” He glanced back. “Come on, von Höllner!”

“I . . .” Friedrich hesitated, still half-crouching, looking back and forth between them.

“Yes, Brother Friedrich. Do join in, by all means.” Von Born's teeth flashed in a thin smile. “What an interesting dilemma for you. Whose side are you on?”

Anton shook his head irritably. “What are you talking about?”