Congress of Secrets Page 2

  “The fact of the matter is, your old family home isn’t the only spot with secret hiding places,” Riesenbeck said. “Of course, it would be a tight squeeze for you, fitting into the compartment under the floorboards of our carriage …”

  “We’d have to pack him in with some food,” Marta said. “He could hardly go seeking his inheritance without any sustenance, after all.”

  “Apples should be enough for the trip,” her husband said judiciously, narrowing his eyes at Michael’s lean frame. “At any rate, he’ll only need to be hidden down there for an hour or two at most, for the passage through the walls. We’ll have to poke some holes into the floorboards, though, to be safe. We wouldn’t want him suffocating during the customs inspection.”

  “Well, Michael?” Riesenbeck raised his clay cup in salute. “What do you say? Are you ready to join us for an adventure?”

  “Am I ready?” Michael shook his head in true wonderment, trying to control the excitement that wanted to overwhelm him. To return back to Vienna, after four-and-twenty years of exile—to begin the greatest adventure of his life …

  He couldn’t hold it back after all. Exhilaration rushed through Michael’s chest, as irrepressible as air. He let it break out in a grin that took in all the beaming faces that surrounded him. “My friends,” he said. “You have my deepest gratitude. I would be honored to make use of your secret compartment.”

  Sabers flashed in the early morning sunlight, signaling the arrival of the emperors, princes, and archdukes of Europe at the Congress of Vienna’s opening ceremonies. Battalions of infantry, regiments of cavalry, and all the cuirassiers of the Viceroy of Poland joined ranks to honor them. As Europe’s highest rulers crossed the flower-strewn grass to the open tent in the center of the field, bright sunlight lit the golden orders of distinction on their military-styled jackets until they too seemed to blaze with triumph.

  “My, my,” murmured Caroline, Countess of Wyndham, in French to her companion. “What a distinguished company indeed. I had no notion that so many of our kings were so very martial.” She widened her eyes innocently, dropping her voice. “Do you think they defeated the great Napoleon by blinding him with their medals in the sun?”

  Her companion, the Prince de Ligne, turned stifled laughter into a cough, his shoulders shaking. His blue eyes twinkled in his weathered face, still handsome even in great old age. “Why, Lady Wyndham,” he murmured back, “I would be astonished to learn that you, of all people, haven’t heard yet of the finest entertainment in this Congress.”

  “Your Grace?” She tilted her head closer, ignoring the neighbors around them.

  They sat in the front row of seats, facing the sovereigns’ tent—a coup indeed in the battle of social grasping that already ruled the newborn Congress. The Prince de Ligne breathed his words directly into Caroline’s ear.

  “Why, the finest and most popular form of entertainment among our serene rulers, madam, is to gift each other with the highest of honors. Distinctions that men used to fight and die for are now handed out like baubles between friends. Indeed, they’ve already been reduced to awarding each other mere military ranks. Emperor Francis is now a colonel in Tsar Alexander’s Imperial Guard, I believe, and Tsar Alexander a colonel in our own Hiller regiment.”

  “But what a distressing turn of fortune for their wives,” Caroline said. “Do you think the emperor shall care much for his new life in a humble colonel’s tent camped somewhere in the Crimea? Next time the tsar decides to mount another war of invasion, I hope the emperor is not, at least, given a tent that leaks. It would detract so sadly from the glory of war for him.”

  She bit her tongue abruptly, wondering—had she gone too far? No, surely not, judging by the twinkling amusement in the prince’s eyes.

  The old prince was as wily a diplomat—in both courtly and political life—as she had ever met. Born a prince of the Holy Roman Empire, he had made his name across the Continent for his glittering epigrams, his famous—and infamous—letters to all the greatest personages of Europe, his books on military history, and his own dramatic military exploits as a field marshal of the Austrian Empire. In short, he was a very master of self-publicity, and if he did not penetrate her disguise, no one ever would.

  Of course, it would have been a joy to befriend the Prince de Ligne for nothing more than his keen wit and open-minded intelligence—both qualities more precious to Caroline than gold or jewels, after years of vapid high society—but she did not have the luxury of acting for pleasure now. The Prince de Ligne had been a great man of the Austrian court for at least the past half century. She had worked and planned to achieve her introduction to him three nights ago, and this seat beside him today.

  Now that she had it, and had his undivided attention as well … She moistened her lips and kept her tone as light as if she hadn’t been maneuvering toward this goal ever since they’d met.

  “Of course, I’ve never met the emperor himself, so perhaps I am unjust. Perhaps he would care for nothing better than a tent that leaks.”

  “Life au naturel?” The Prince de Ligne laughed. “I hardly think so, my dear. You’re thinking of the grand old days of Versailles and his aunt the Queen, who used to hold such charming picnics there. I fear our current emperor is not a follower of Rousseau’s philosophies.”

  “What a pity.”

  “Perhaps, and yet …” The prince narrowed his eyes at the tall, stooped figure across the field. “I think, on the whole, we must be grateful, Lady Wyndham. For I must confess, I shudder at the very idea of His Majesty in a simple shepherd’s outfit.”

  Following the Prince de Ligne’s gaze across the field, Caroline spotted the signs of preparation as the last of the royals settled into position. Only a few minutes left to achieve her first goal; no time left for maneuverings. She smiled up at her companion and abandoned all subtlety. “Will you indulge an unfashionable urge in me, Your Highness? I find myself oddly curious to meet the emperor.”

  The prince studied her a moment, his eyes narrowed in thinly veiled speculation. Caroline felt as if a hot light were being held to her face. She kept her smile open and held his gaze without flinching. She was the Countess of Wyndham, a wealthy British visitor. Why shouldn’t she desire to meet the Austrian emperor, to brag about the event to all her friends back home?

  She felt uncomfortably certain that she wasn’t fooling her companion in the slightest.

  The prince finally shrugged. “But of course. I would be delighted to assist you, my dear, just as soon as this ceremony is over.” He raised one eyebrow, his gaze still speculative. “I’m afraid the field may become a trifle crowded if we aren’t quick about it, though—would you mind very much if we met His Majesty before seeking out any refreshment?”

  “Not at all,” Caroline said lightly. “Why should we wait?”

  Her voice hadn’t even trembled—it was nigh-on miraculous. Caroline kept her smile fixed as she raised her fan to hide the quickness of her breaths. Her heartbeat thrummed in her ears.

  Her own long wait was almost over … and she could not, would not be too late.

  “Aha. And now, I believe, the ceremony is finally ready to begin.” The prince indicated a white-haired old man rising to his feet within the tent, by the grand altar. “The Archbishop of Vienna, my dear. I hope you can bear with us for some time. Your own Church of England believes in, ah, short services, does it not? Have you ever had the opportunity to sit through a ritual in the true faith?”

  “Not in England,” Caroline said, with scrupulous honesty. Her tone dismissed the subject, but she cursed herself for weakness. Why hadn’t she simply lied, and said, “No, never”?

  Open-minded the Prince de Ligne might be, but if he knew her true identity she would be ruined in an instant. Caroline knew better than to put her trust in any man. She’d learned that lesson four-and-twenty years ago, scarcely six miles from where she sat now.

  Gold sparkled from the ornaments on the altar, and wax candles lost their battle
with the sun as the Archbishop intoned the Latin Mass. Caroline tried to distract herself from the nervous thrum of her pulse by watching the varying expressions on the rulers’ faces as they all waited through the ceremony. Protestants, Catholics, and Orthodox Russians had all united against Napoleon Bonaparte—and indeed, here in this glittering array of thanksgiving, one would never guess that Bonaparte had ruled the Austrian empire itself in all but name, holding it as a tribute state until less than eight months ago. Emperor Francis had even given the invader his own Habsburg daughter as a second bride, to buy an illusion of autonomy.

  But then, Emperor Francis, as Caroline knew, had never been one to let his conscience interfere with his pleasures.

  Guns thundered out a salute as the archbishop blessed the bread and wine. Swords clashed in honor. Incense filled the open air. And with the glory of the noise and the dizzying scent and the holy benediction—

  No, Caroline thought. No. Not again!

  A tingling thrill shot through her body and seized her. Inescapably, it bore her to her knees. She was barely conscious, through the confusion, of the rest of the assembled thousands dropping to their knees around her. The noise of the guns and swords ceased abruptly as the soldiers themselves fell prostrate.

  Did the others take it for real religious fervor, the gratitude and grandeur of the moment, that overwhelmed them, stole all energy from their bodies, and tossed them onto the ground, half-conscious?

  Caroline knew better.

  It had been twenty years since she had felt this invasion. She could fight it—she had learned so many techniques of resistance by the time she was fifteen, though none of them had worked well enough in the end … but she was five-and-thirty now, a girl no longer, and her life had granted her a will of steel. She had sworn that no one else would ever use her so again.

  She could force herself to her feet and spit in the face of the man who did this—

  But if she did, and so revealed herself, she would lose everything she had waited and planned for so long.

  Caroline forced herself to breathe deeply, fighting down the panic that thundered in her ears as she felt the energy bleed from her body. Funneled into … where, this time? She forced her eyelids open to peer across the field.

  Even the sovereigns had prostrated themselves on the ground. All of them seemed lost in the moment, except …

  Aha. Francis II, Emperor of Austria-Hungary, looked up with a small smile, surveying the field around him. She could almost see the glow of reception around his prone body. It was he who benefited from all of them this day, receiving the glory of a thousand.

  And the man who gave it to him …

  Caroline knotted her nearly numb hands into fists on the grass. She did not need to see Count Pergen to know that he was here, somewhere, manipulating all.

  It had been four-and-twenty years since her life had been ripped into shreds around her. But she was ready, now, at last.

  She would not leave Vienna again until she had rescued her father from the men who had destroyed her childhood.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Revenge!” Peter Riesenbeck declaimed. He leaped to the top of a sturdy, wooden table, waving his wine glass threateningly at the inn patrons in the courtyard around him. “For the murder of my father, the theft of my inheritance—”

  “What madness is this?” Marta cried. Fluttering an imaginary fan, she flung her free hand to her brow. “Oh, heavens, say my dear lord’s wits are not o’ercome!”

  A third actor shouldered his way through the crowd of spectators who’d gathered around the impromptu rehearsal. “A messenger, my lord! The count, your father-in-law, approaches.”

  “Ha!” Peter bellowed. “Now I have him at my mercy.”

  Marta fell to her knees. “Husband, I beg you—”

  “And you will all learn what comes of it tomorrow night, good people!” Peter said. He jumped down from the table and swept a bow to the gathering. “Behold the Riesenbeck company at your service, summoned from Prague for the noble Congress of Peace, for which only the finest theatrical companies are desired. Marta Dujic, my leading lady”—he lifted his wine glass to her, and she swept into a graceful curtsy—“Rudolf Griesinger, playing the messenger”—a bow—“and myself, Peter Riesenbeck, director of the company. Come see us at the Theater an der Wien any night of the week for theater performed in good honest German!”

  A bevy of young men converged on Marta, and Peter stepped back, draining his wine glass. As he wiped the sweat from his brow, Marta’s husband, Karl, spoke grudgingly behind him.

  “It went well.”

  “Of course it did.” Peter pasted a smile on his face as he turned to face the older man. Even now, he saw, Karl was scowling—Good God, had the man no heart?

  “Look at them all,” Peter said. “They’re in town for the Congress but too poor for the balls and royal entertainment. They know this city’s the center of Europe right now, but it’s all going on above their heads. What better time for theater? Much less our theater, eh?” He slapped Karl’s broad shoulder. “The best small company in Prague, isn’t that what the Wiener Diarium called us? The best acting, best direction—”

  “Best acting.” Karl’s eyes, still focused on Marta as she flirtatiously accepted the accolades of the men who surrounded her, narrowed thoughtfully. “I think we should all have pay rises now that we’ve reached Vienna.”

  “Pay—?” Peter nearly choked. “My friend, perchance we might wait on a ticket sale or two for that? All my funds went into our trip and the inn roof above our heads.”

  Karl shrugged off his protest. “The Theater an der Wien should pay for that. They would, if you knew what you were about in dealing with them. They were desperate enough to get us, after all.”

  “Well, naturally, and yet …” Peter took a breath. Desperate, he’d called the theater agents, to the rest of the company. In truth, it would have been a better description for himself.

  With debts mounting up in Prague all around them, he’d fought and scrambled for the invitation to Vienna, and then only managed it by scraping his requirements so low it would be a wonder if they made any money from the theater at all. He could hardly have told the actors the truth of that, though—for the predictable effect on their performances, if nothing else. And they would never have understood. The looks of betrayal that he would see on their faces, if he ever told them the truth …

  And the look he could imagine on his old mentor’s face, if he heard that Peter’s young, hopeful theater troupe had fallen apart after less than three years in existence …

  “You’re no hero, boy, only a minor bit player.”

  No. Peter drew a deep breath, forcing back the too-often remembered words. I’ll prove you wrong yet, Master Périgord. This is my chance.

  Vienna was the center of the whole world just now, not only of the Austrian empire. If their performances went well—no, when they went well and achieved the success he’d always dreamed of—why, then they’d be offered contracts from every theater in the empire, even the Habsburgs’ Burgtheater itself, and Peter would only have to choose the top-paying offer to gift them all with infinite luxury.

  Every dramatic hero took a few risks before gaining everything in the end. This trip was an investment for their future.

  For their survival.

  Peter forced his grin to hold. “Why, Karl, I do believe you have a point,” he said. “And I promise sincerely that I’ll think on it. Only let us play our first week in Vienna first.”

  At five-and-twenty, Peter was one of the youngest theatrical directors in the empire. He’d pulled all of the actors into his company on the strength of his energy and dreams. He would not fail them now.

  Peter turned away from Karl, ignoring the mutinous expression on the older actor’s face, and started back through the crowd toward the inn’s entrance, in search of a waitress. A tug on his sleeve stopped him just before the door.

  “Herr Riesenbeck?” The man was about his own
age, with a pleasant smile and unobtrusive air. If Peter hadn’t been hailed, he might never have noticed this fellow in a crowd, so sober was his dress and so quiet his voice. “An excellent performance, sir.”

  “I thank you, sir!” Peter bowed. “Are you a keen theatergoer?”

  “Not as much as I should like.” The man smiled ruefully. “I run errands for my employer, who often makes me work at night. I do have a friend who serves as theater critic for one of the local newspapers, though.”

  “Really?” Peter brightened.

  “Indeed.” The man pointed to the empty seats at the nearby table. “Won’t you join me, Herr Riesenbeck? I’ve already ordered more wine for both of us.”

  “I’d be honored.” Peter sat down, relief flowing through him. The other patrons at the table were all engaged in a heated conversation on the new tariffs, which he was happy to ignore.

  It was his first stroke of luck, and less than an hour since they had arrived. A good omen if he’d ever seen one.

  “May I ask where you’ve performed in the past?” the man asked. “Your style is quite distinctive—I could have sworn I’d seen it before—yet I’m afraid I didn’t recognize the name of your company. As I said, I don’t spend nearly enough time in the theaters, so …”

  “Unless you’ve been to Prague, I doubt you’ve ever had the chance to see us before,” Peter said. “Thus far, we’ve only toured in the provinces. But as for the style …” He paused, debating within himself, and then gave in to practical honesty. “I apprenticed to the director Paul Périgord.”

  “Ah. Now that name I do know.” Peter recognized, with resignation, the sudden spark of real admiration in the man’s widened eyes and genuine smile. “You were fortunate indeed to have so distinguished a mentor.”

  “Indeed,” Peter said, and stifled a groan. How Périgord would laugh if he overheard this conversation. Still, he would make himself known for his own achievements, and not only for his too-famous mentor. Soon.

  “Might I have the pleasure of your name, sir?” he asked his new companion.