by Vienna Waltz
A multitude of crystal chandeliers blazed down on them. A roar went up from the crowd. The galleries on either side of the riding school were packed. Though Suzanne had known the crowd would be huge, somehow rehearsals had not prepared her for the sight. The golden light gleamed indiscriminately off ancestral tiaras and gifts from current lovers, gold braid on dress uniforms and coats encrusted with medals and decorations.
They passed the British delegation and she caught a glimpse of Eithne’s pale face, Tommy Belmont’s appreciative gaze, Aline’s bright eyes. In the gallery reserved for ambassadors and dignitaries, she saw Castlereagh, austere and elegant in black, and Lady Castlereagh, once again wearing her husband’s Order of the Garter in her hair.
Hammered metal armor flashed on the Corinthian columns that supported the vaulted ceiling, and she glimpsed the mottoes of the knights who were to compete in the tourney (many of which she and Doro had invented while poring through books of medieval legends over glasses of Rhenish wine).
The knights escorted the belles d’amour to a brocade-draped stand at one end of the hall. The ladies sank into their seats with a unison that should make Dorothée proud, gossamer veils swirling about them. The knights bowed and withdrew.
Another trumpet fanfare signaled the entrance of the sovereigns. The spectators rose to their feet, and the belles d’amour did likewise. Dorothée lifted her hand. At her signal the ladies pulled their veils from their heads. A cheer went up from the crowd. Suzanne didn’t want to ruin the picture by glancing round, but it seemed no one’s headdress had tumbled to the ground. So far so good.
The sovereigns occupied the stand at the opposite end of the hall from that of the belles d’amour. Tsar Alexander was a notable absence, but Tsarina Elisabeth was there, lovely in white satin and diamonds, a tiara glinting on her white-blond hair. The Emperor of Austria moved to the gold velvet chair in the center of the stand, his wife and Tsarina Elisabeth on either side of him. The other sovereigns and princes regnant took their places according to their precedence.
“Thank God they didn’t get tangled up,” Dorothée murmured to Suzanne as they dropped back into their seats.
“You’d think after nearly two months in Vienna they’d be clear about precedence,” Suzanne replied, settling her full skirts. “Especially considering they agreed to go by order of age.”
“I imagine they could disagree about that if they put their minds to it,” Dorothée murmured.
A military fanfare echoed through the hall, announcing the arrival of the knights. Hooves thudded against the ground. Bridles jangled. Twenty-four page boys entered the arena first, carrying banners that rippled as they walked. The knights followed riding coal black Hungarian horses, whose glossy coats gleamed in the warm candlelight. Their squires, dressed in the Spanish fashion—Why do Hungarian, Polish, Austrian, and French knights have Spanish squires? Malcolm had asked—brought up the rear.
The pages and squires lined up on either side of the arena. The knights, two abreast, advanced to the sovereigns’ stand and lowered their lances in a salute. Tsarina Elisabeth and Empress Maria Ludovica waved, and the other ladies in the stand followed suit.
The knights wheeled round and rode to the opposite end of the arena where they bowed to the belles d’amour. The crowd rose to their feet again with a roar of approval.
Dorothée and Wilhelmine stood to greet the knights, and the other ladies followed their example. Dorothée’s cavalier, handsome young Count Karl Clam-Martinitz, lifted her hand to his lips. She blushed like a schoolgirl. Wilhelmine tugged playfully at the feather in Alfred von Windischgrätz’s hat.
Malcolm edged his horse up to the stand near Suzanne. His eyes held an ironic glint. “Of all the roles I ever thought to find us playing, this seems the least likely,” he murmured in English.
“But one must still play one’s part with conviction.” On impulse, she pulled her handkerchief from her sleeve and fastened it to his shoulder with a pin.
“You already gave me a favor,” he said.
“But this one is unique and really comes from me.”
He grinned and then, to her surprise, lifted her hand and pressed it to his lips. He held it for a moment, and the shock of the contact ran through her.
The knights turned their horses and circled the arena twice to the delight of the crowd. The heralds blew a fanfare echoed by the orchestras situated above the stands at either end of the arena. The rich sound reverberated off the high ceiling and washed over the hall. Then the thunder of horses’ hooves shook the ladies’ balcony as the first six knights to compete rode into the arena, accompanied by their pages and squires.
The tournament began with the pas de lance, the knights riding at a gallop and removing on their lance point one of the rings hung from ribbons before the sovereigns’ stand. “You can scarcely tell Monsieur Rannoch and Lord Fitzwilliam from the Austro-Hungarians,” Dorothée murmured to Suzanne. Given the value Austro-Hungarians placed on riding skills, it was praise indeed.
They proceeded to tossing javelins at models of Saracen heads. Suzanne turned her head away in cold shame. Dorothée cast an anxious glance at her and squeezed her hand. Suzanne had argued strenuously for not including this particular game in the tournament, putting diplomacy and good taste ahead of historical accuracy. Goodness knows they were bending historical accuracy in a number of other ways. Doro had listened, but the Festivals Committee had held firm. She could only wonder what some of the dignitaries present, such as the turbaned Pasha of Widdin and Prince Manug, Bey of Murza, made of the distressing spectacle. Malcolm flung his javelin wide of the mark. She doubted it was an accident.
The less troubling game of cutting at apples dangling from the ceiling followed. At last they progressed to jousting, a parody (supposedly safe, like stage combat) of a medieval joust. The rules of attack and defense had been carefully laid out, and the heralds of arms intervened the moment they saw the faintest move out-of-bounds. Suzanne had seen greater aggression in a tennis match, let alone a real battle.
Then in the midst of a charge, the Prince of Lichtenstein’s horse reared, and the prince thudded to the ground. A murmur of concern rose from the crowd as the illusion of the pageant was rent by the reality of physical hurt. Squires rushed forward and carried the fallen prince from the arena.
Dorothée rose to her feet, her hand to her mouth. Wilhelmine pulled her back into her chair. “I saw him move his hand, Doro. He’ll be fine. He’s probably suffered worse on a morning ride in the Prater.”
The crowd settled back and the tournament resumed.
Malcolm and Fitz faced each other in the next-to-last joust. For a moment Suzanne forgot Fitz’s deception, Princess Tatiana, Eithne’s pain, and the poisoned gulf between her husband and his friend, in the sheer pleasure of admiring Malcolm’s and Fitz’s skill. Dust rose as their horses thundered over the sand-strewn ground. Lances crashed against shields. They wheeled and rode at each other again, lances glinting into the candlelight. Metal met metal in another resounding crash.
And Fitz tumbled to the ground.
Malcolm caught Fitz’s horse by the reins and brought it to a standstill before it could trample its fallen rider. Then he swung down from the saddle and knelt beside his friend. Where the Prince of Lichtenstein had shown no sign of hurt, the candlelight gleamed against blood spilling from Fitz’s head, staining the sand crimson. Dorothée gave a stifled cry and gripped Suzanne’s hand.
In the gallery where the British delegation sat, a fair-haired woman in white had risen to her feet. Eithne. Suzanne cursed that she was so far away. A slender figure in yellow rose and put her arm round Eithne. Aline.
The squires hurried out with another stretcher and carefully lifted Fitz onto it. Malcolm followed them from the field, fear and self-recrimination in the taut set of his shoulders.
Dorothée’s fingers bit into Suzanne’s hand like an iron shackle. “God in heaven. What have we done?”
Count Clam-Martinitz knelt opposite Malco
lm across the stretcher where Fitz lay. “What the devil happened?”
“Someone tampered with his horse.” Malcolm picked up Fitz’s hand and drew a breath of relief when he felt the blood pulsing through Fitz’s wrist. “Find Geoffrey Blackwell. He’ll be with the British delegation.”
“I’m here.” Blackwell strode into the room, Aline and Eithne behind him.
Malcolm moved aside to give Geoffrey his place beside Fitz. Eithne hung back, gaze fastened on Fitz as though her world had shrunk down to his each indrawn breath. Malcolm went to her side and squeezed her hand. “His pulse is strong.”
Fitz’s eyes were still closed. Geoffrey examined the wound on his head with brisk, methodical care. “Nasty looking, but with luck it won’t leave him with more than a headache.”
It was, Malcolm thought, a hideous echo of his and Suzanne’s encounter with the carriage outside the Empress Rose earlier in the day. For the first time he understood what Suzanne had gone through as he lay unconscious. But he had recovered consciousness far more quickly than this.
Fitz stirred. Eithne dropped down beside him and took his hand.
Fitz stared at his wife, then looked round in confusion. “What—?”
“I’m afraid I unhorsed you.” Malcolm knelt beside Eithne. “Your horse had a shoe loosened.”
“Why—”
“Never mind about that now.” Geoffrey pressed a brandy-soaked cloth to Fitz’s wound. “You’re a fortunate man, Vaughn. Head injuries can be exceedingly dangerous. Don’t move too quickly.”
Fitz’s gaze focused on his wife. “Eithne. Shouldn’t—”
“Hush, love. It’s all right.” Eithne folded his hand between both her own.
While Blackwell wound lint round Fitz’s head, Malcolm got to his feet and addressed Count Clam-Martinitz. “Who had access to the horses?”
Clam-Martinitz frowned at the implications. “Almost anyone. The stables weren’t locked. But why—”
“For want of a nail—The nails on one of the shoes of Fitz’s horse had been loosened. It was only a matter of time until the shoe came loose, and one could predict Fitz would suffer an accident. It was clear who would ride which horse, from our last rehearsal.”
“Good God.” Clam-Martinitz stared at him. “You think someone wanted to harm Vaughn?”
Malcolm glanced at his friend. Fitz’s head was now swathed in folds of lint. Blackwell was snipping off the ends, while Eithne stroked Fitz’s hair. “It very much looks that way.”
“In God’s name, why?”
“That,” Malcolm said, his gaze still on Fitz, “would seem to be the question.”
23
“Champagne, Your Majesty?” Adam Czartoryski bowed to Elisabeth, a crystal champagne glass held steady in one hand.
“How kind of you, Prince.” Elisabeth accepted the glass and smiled at Adam, remembering him opening a bottle of champagne during a stolen interlude in an abandoned gardener’s cottage nearly two decades ago. Remembering, too, the warmth of the log fire he’d kindled, the slither of blankets on their bare skin, the pounding of rain on the roof. And the flash of lightning reflected in his eyes as he’d lowered his body to hers.
A betraying wave of heat shot through her. She felt the pressure of myriad inevitable gazes turned in their direction, but no one could take exception to Adam bringing her a glass of champagne. Harp music from wandering minstrels cascaded through the supper rooms, masking their conversation. “Have you heard how Lord Fitzwilliam does?” Elisabeth asked.
Adam shook his head. “I think he’s been taken back to the Minoritenplatz.”
Elisabeth stared at the frothy bubbles in her glass. “I saw his wife’s face when he was carried from the field. As though her whole world had been destroyed. It made me realize—”
“How you’d feel if it had been Alexander?” Adam asked.
Elisabeth looked up at him. She saw concern in his gaze and something else beneath. He masked it well, but she had long since learned to read every nuance of his expression. The embers she saw in his eyes now were jealousy. An absurd, traitorous triumph rushed through her, headier than if she had downed the entire glass of champagne.
“No.” She scanned his face, marveling at the power that lay in knowing one was loved. “How I’d feel if it had been you.”
“You think Fitz was deliberately targeted?” Suzanne regarded Malcolm over the rim of her champagne glass. All about them jewels flashed in the candlelight, satin slippers and kid shoes pattered against the floor, crystal glasses clinked. The smell of oranges and cloves and cinnamon hung in the air. Thank goodness she and Dorothée had arranged for wandering minstrels to entertain at the ball following the Carrousel. The music (much of it authentic, at least from the sixteenth century, they had spent hours looking for it) washed over the room and prevented conversations from carrying.
“I don’t see any other explanation,” her husband said.
“Because of something Princess Tatiana had told him? Or something he knew about her?”
“The implication is unmistakable, but if so it’s something he’s been keeping secret.”
“Dear God.” Dorothée joined them in a rustle of satin and velvet. Lines of strain bracketed her mouth. “It seems this evening will never end. With all the things I lay awake worrying could go wrong, it never occurred to me someone would be hurt. What a criminal fool I’ve been.”
“Doro, no.” Suzanne put her arm round her friend, heedless of crushing their gowns. “You couldn’t have foreseen this.”
“Believe me, Madame la Comtesse,” Malcolm said, “I’ve seen enough death to know that guilt is the inevitable sequel and to realize how fruitless it is. And in this case, quite misplaced. Lord Fitzwilliam’s horse was tampered with.”
Dorothée stared at him. “But who on earth—” Her eyes narrowed. “Because of his relationship with Princess Tatiana?”
“Perhaps.” Malcolm’s gaze skimmed over Dorothée’s face. “Besides Suzanne, who else had you told about Fitz’s affair with Princess Tatiana?”
“No one. That is—” Dorothée fingered the full sleeve of her gown. “I mentioned it to my uncle, but—”
“When?” Malcolm asked.
“Yesterday after the rehearsal. Monsieur Rannoch, surely you can’t think—”
She broke off, her gaze fixed unseeing on a juggler in green and red who was passing through the crowd.
Malcolm touched her arm. “Any number of people may have known of the affair. Gossip has a way of spreading in Vienna.”
“There you are. It takes half an hour just to cross a ballroom in Vienna.” Geoffrey Blackwell joined them, Aline at his side.
“Lord Fitzwilliam?” Dorothée scanned Geoffrey’s face with anxious eyes.
“Back to the Minoritenplatz with Lady Fitzwilliam. He shows reassuring clarity of mind. I’ve instructed Lady Fitzwilliam to keep him awake for at least three hours and to send for me if he shows any signs of confusion.”
“Thank God.” Dorothée gave a heartfelt sigh. “He’ll recover fully?”
“If there aren’t complications.” Geoffrey was not one to sugarcoat matters, but he smiled at Dorothée with reassurance as he said it.
“He kept telling Eithne he loved her,” Aline said. “It’s enough to make one lose one’s cynicism about marriage.”
Dorothée shook her head. “I knew Vienna was dangerous. But I never thought the dangers would be so—”
“Bloody?” Aline asked.
“Frowning, Madame la Comtesse?” Count Clam-Martinitz joined them. “You should be enjoying your night of triumph.”
“It doesn’t feel very triumphant.”
Clam-Martinitz smiled down at her. “What happened to Vaughn was terrible, but I hear he will make a full recovery. The near tragedy doesn’t lessen your achievement. Dance with me.”
“I can’t—”
Suzanne squeezed Dorothée’s shoulder. “He’s right. No help will come from dwelling on it.”
Dorothé
e hesitated, as though teetering on an unseen precipice. Then her face relaxed into a smile, and she took the count’s arm. Geoffrey offered his arm to Aline, who took it with less surprise than she had shown when he asked her to dance at the Metternich masquerade.
“Leaving us free to speculate,” Malcolm said, “though there seems little more to be said.”
Suzanne took a sip of champagne, remembering the bottle they’d shared on their wedding night. Some of it had ended up spilled on the sheets. “Do you think it could really be resolved so simply?”
“What?”
“Fitz and Eithne. Could a moment of danger wipe away all the bitterness?”
“No,” Malcolm said in a flat voice. “She’ll never again see him as the man she thought he was. But perhaps with time she’ll come to—”
“Appreciate the man he is? Darling, coming from you that sounds positively romantic.”
“There’s a great deal to be said for realism.”
“Then we’re exceedingly fortunate.” She meant the words to be light, but they held an edge like smashed crystal.
He watched her for a moment, his gaze unreadable, then held out his hand. “Shall we—”
“Still a pattern card of courtly love. You’d look right at home at the court of Louis XIII.” Count Otronsky, in the dark Russian uniform Tsar Alexander also affected, medals glittering on his chest, stopped before them and swept a bow. “You both gave superb performances this evening.”
“Thank you, Count.” Suzanne gave him her hand. His gaze seemed to slice through the velvet and satin of her gown, but unlike many gentlemen he seemed to be probing for the secrets of her mind, not her body. “But I merely sat in the stands and danced the minuet to open the ball.”
“Don’t underestimate the value of evoking a mood, madame. Rannoch, I knew you British were good at putting your horses over fences in pursuit of foxes, but I didn’t realize you were so adroit at the more elegant maneuvers.”