by Vienna Waltz
“Damnation.” Wilhelmine dropped down on the edge of the bed, face flushed, hair slipping from its pins. “I was so sure you were right.”
“So was I.” Suzanne rubbed her hands, still not quite clean of soot. “I was so proud of my own cleverness. Princess Tatiana even told Schubert that sometimes enemies could be more useful than allies.”
Dorothée flopped down on the chaise longue. “Of course, it isn’t as though Willie is the only person the princess might have thought of as an enemy. Though it does seem so convenient. This way her box would have been in the Palm Palace within easy reach.”
Wilhelmine sat up straight. “Oh, good God. Could the wretched woman—I’m not the only resident of the Palm Palace Princess Tatiana might have considered an enemy.”
“Princess Bagration,” Suzanne said.
Wilhelmine stirred the fringed bed curtains with her kid-slippered toe. “The question is how the devil we’re going to manage to search her rooms.”
Suzanne frowned at her black-tinged nails. “Clearly a diversion is called for. Do you think—?”
“That I could outwit Catherine Bagration?” A smile curved Wilhelmine’s mouth. “Can you doubt it?”
“Willie.” Dorothée went to her sister’s side. “If Princess Bagration realizes what you’re after—if she finds the papers herself—you’ll have to be careful.”
“I always am, chérie.”
“You always say that. But I don’t know that the stakes have ever been this high.”
Half an hour later, hair pinned and combed, gowns smoothed, scent plashed on, faces rouged and powdered, the three ladies crossed the Palm Palace to Princess Bagration’s rooms.
The princess’s footman had mastered the mask of impassivity required by his profession, but even he could not entirely conceal his surprise at seeing his mistress’s rival at the door, accompanied by her sister and the wife of the man whose arrest was the talk of Vienna. In a world of diplomatic intrigue, the Duchess of Sagan calling on Princess Bagration was as daring a move as any made by Metternich or Talleyrand.
The footman left them in an elegant entry hall and went to speak to his mistress. Suzanne was already considering what to do if Princess Bagration was not at home to visitors. (While they’d been repairing the damage to their hair and gowns, Wilhelmine had said she gave even odds on it.) To her surprise and relief, the footman returned after less than five minutes to say that the princess would be pleased to receive them.
The Naked Angel, as she was called in Vienna on account of her low-cut gowns, greeted them in a salon filled with jewel-toned Turkey carpets and gleaming mahogany furniture, rich with the smells of lemon oil and spicy potpourri. She came forward in a soft stir of signature white India muslin, trimmed with Valenciennes lace. Shaking the princess’s well-groomed hand, Suzanne was keenly aware of the hastily pinned tear in the cuff of her spencer and the soot marks concealed by a zephyr scarf Wilhelmine had lent her.
Wilhelmine shook the hand of the woman who was her rival for the affections of two of the most powerful men in Vienna. “I know. I’m the last person in Vienna you expected to have call on you. Very likely I’m the last person in Vienna you wanted to have call on you. No sense pretending this isn’t awkward. But I find myself in the hellishly uncomfortable position of being in need of your help.”
Princess Bagration gave a rich laugh. “Hardly the last person, Duchess. Think of how crowded Vienna is just now. You must know your words could not but intrigue me. Please do sit down.”
The ladies disposed themselves about the room, Suzanne and Dorothée on the sofa, Wilhelmine and the princess in matched green and gold damask armchairs, like a pair of rival queens met to negotiate a treaty.
“Whatever our differences, we know each other too well to prevaricate,” Wilhelmine said. “You must have heard that Madame Rannoch’s husband was arrested yesterday.”
“Duchess—” Suzanne protested on cue, flushed with embarrassment.
Wilhelmine waved her hand. “My dear Madame Rannoch, you must permit me to handle this. I am far wiser than you in the ways of the world.”
“I was never more shocked than by the news of Monsieur Rannoch’s arrest.” Princess Bagration turned her gaze to Suzanne. This, Suzanne realized, was the reason the princess had received them. Like the rest of Vienna, she was agog at the news of Malcolm’s arrest. “My deepest sympathies, Madame Rannoch.”
“Thank you,” Suzanne said. “I can only hope the misunderstanding is cleared up quickly.”
“People are being dreadful,” Wilhelmine said in her blunt way. “You could cut the tension with a knife at Doro’s dinner last night, and at the Burgtheater the gossips were doing their worst. Whatever you think of Monsieur Rannoch’s possible guilt—and I for one am convinced he’s innocent—poor Madame Rannoch deserves none of this. It is already difficult enough for her to have her husband facing these accusations.” Wilhelmine fixed Princess Bagration with the gaze that could command salons and drawing rooms across the Continent. “I have come to enlist your aid.”
Princess Bagration adjusted a fold of her gold-embroidered shawl. “You find me most sympathetic. But I’m afraid I don’t see what I can do.”
“Oh, come, Princess. Let us dispense with any pretense that either of us wields less power than we do. If we are both seen to publicly support Madame Rannoch and to dismiss rumors and idle speculations, the buzz of comment will dim to a whisper. Do you doubt we can do it?”
A gleam of challenge entered the princess’s light blue eyes. “I must say, you intrigue me.”
“But of course. What could be more a triumph than diverting all Vienna from the topic of the day? Especially from such a particularly intriguing scandal. And who would have guessed that we would do it in concert? Of course, if you don’t wish to assist me, I shall have to do it on my own. I can understand that you might fear to risk your reputation.”
“On the contrary.” The princess straightened her spine, her aquamarine earrings flashing. “I never shrink from a challenge.”
Wilhelmine smiled. “I thought not. I have always admired that in you. Now we must put our heads together about how best to handle this. If you will grant me a moment in private, Princess, I have some thoughts to put to you, and I know Madame Rannoch will be embarrassed if we speak in her presence.”
“Duchess—” Suzanne protested.
“No, no.” Wilhelmine waved an imperious hand. “You must allow more experienced heads to consult over this matter. I know you survived a war, but Vienna is its own battlefield, and Princess Bagration and I are veterans. I’m sure you and Doro can amuse yourselves while the princess and I talk.”
Two of the greatest rivals in Vienna left the salon arm in arm. Dorothée stared fixedly at the pink satin ribbons on her slippers. The moment the door clicked closed, she burst into laughter. “Dear God.” She pressed her fingers over her mouth. “I forget quite how masterful Willie can be.”
“No time to be wasted.” Suzanne was already on her feet. “I’ll do the stove. Check beneath the sofa cushions.”
She managed to get less soot on her hands this time, but the stove yielded nothing. Nor did the sofa or the striped satin chaise longue by the windows.
“This is the room Princess Bagration entertains in,” Dorothée said, “but perhaps Princess Tatiana slipped out during the reception and hid the box in a different room.”
“Perhaps.” Suzanne stood in the center of the room, recalling Princess Bagration’s reception three days before the murder—what a lifetime ago that now seemed. She could see Tatiana Kirsanova in blood red sarcenet trimmed with jet beads that flashed in the candlelight. Tatiana and Malcolm had sat in the chairs by the window, their heads close together, the fringed edge of her skirt trailing over the gleaming black leather of his shoe, her leg just brushing his own. Odd to remember the dagger stab she had felt at the sight, in light of what she now knew about their relationship.
The princess had had a richly worked shawl of black
and red draped over her arm. Its generous folds could easily have concealed the box. The chairs Tatiana and Malcolm had been sitting in had oval backs and spindle legs—no possible hiding places. But then Count Nesselrode had joined them and fallen into conversation with Malcolm. Tatiana had got to her feet and strolled across to the window. She had paused by the pianoforte, unoccupied for the moment. She’d leaned across to look at the sheet music—
Suzanne ran to the pianoforte and reached into the compartment beneath the folded-back lid. Nothing on the right.
“Suzanne,” Dorothée said. “I think I hear footsteps.”
Suzanne could hear them, too, and a buzz of conversation. Wilhelmine had her voice raised to warn them. Suzanne darted round the side of the pianoforte and reached into the compartment on the left. Her fingers touched cool wood that did not belong to the piano. She pulled out a rectangular box and dropped it in the capacious reticule Wilhelmine had lent her, seconds before the door opened to admit the duchess and the princess.
“Splendid,” Wilhelmine said, sweeping into the room as though it were her own. “I think we have hit upon a plan that will work admirably. I hope you two have managed to amuse yourselves.”
“To own the truth,” Suzanne said, “after yesterday, a quarter hour of peace and quiet was bliss.”
They were obliged to stay a half hour longer, sipping tea that Princess Bagration served from a samovar and making conversation about tomorrow’s Beethoven concert. The concert had been postponed several times—once, Princess Bagration pointed out, because the English objected to holding it on a Sunday. At last, they were able to take their leave without arousing suspicions and return across the Palm Palace to the duchess’s apartments.
Wilhelmine slammed the door of her salon shut behind them. “You found it, didn’t you? Suzanne is a masterful actress, but I could read it in Doro’s face.”
Suzanne unclasped the reticule and drew out the box. Despite her words, Wilhelmine’s gaze widened with wonder, fear, anticipation. They clustered round a game table, the box on the green baize top. It was of polished rosewood, warm with a patina of age, inlaid with cedar.
“Is it a box or a piece of wood?” Dorothée said. “There doesn’t seem to be a way to open it.”
“Not an obvious one. Could you bring a lamp over, Wilhelmine?” Suzanne pulled a pin from her hair. In the glow of the Argand lamp Wilhelmine lit, she probed the inlaid wood. She could hear the tense breathing of the Courland sisters as she worked. There were four cedar flowers with onyx centers on the top of the box. She pressed each, then all four in succession, then tried a different sequence. With the third sequence she pressed, the top of the box sprang open.
Dorothée gasped. Wilhelmine remained absolutely still, as though she didn’t dare breathe.
Two sheets of paper tied with white ribbon lay on top. Below was another, larger bundle tied with buff-colored ribbon. Suzanne held them both out. “Do you recognize one?”
Wilhelmine reached for the two sheets with the white ribbon but did not take them. Suzanne pressed the letter into the duchess’s hand without looking at it further.
The papers crackled as Wilhelmine’s fingers closed round them. “Thank you.” Her voice was raw.
“Whom do the papers with the buff ribbon belong to?” Dorothée asked.
“Tsarina Elisabeth, I think.” Suzanne set the papers to the side. Beneath them in the box was a single sheet of paper, water stained and seemingly torn from a notebook, filled with a string of block capitals. The jagged red wax remnants of a broken seal clung to both ends of the paper.
“Is that a coded letter Princess Tatiana wrote?” Dorothée asked. “Or something she took from someone else?”
“I’m not sure,” Suzanne said, ignoring for a moment the implications of the handwriting and what she could discern of the crest on the seal.
Beneath all the papers was a square shape, wrapped in a soft cloth. Suzanne lifted it carefully and set it on the green baize tabletop. She felt the pressure of Wilhelmine’s and Dorothée’s gazes locked on the object in her fingers. With the care one keeps for fragile memories that are not one’s own, she unwrapped the cloth.
Dorothée and Wilhelmine both drew in their breath. The light sparked and danced. The sides of the miniature casket were inlaid with mirrored glass etched with roses. Bands of silver leaves divided the glass on the lid into triangles with an exquisitely wrought silver rose at the center. The lamplight played off the silver, bounced off the mirrored glass, and turned the whole into a sparkling confection out of a fairy tale.
Wilhelmine touched the casket with a reverence Suzanne suspected she rarely showed. “I thought we might never see it again.”
Dorothée brushed her fingers over the letters scratched into the metal in one corner: PBC. “Papa carved his initials there. I remember tracing them with my fingers after he died, trying to remember his face.”
“It stood on the desk in his study,” Wilhelmine said. “I was fascinated by it.” She looked up at Suzanne, an unvoiced question in her eyes.
“Princess Tatiana obviously valued it,” Suzanne said. “We think it was a gift to her from Napoleon Bonaparte.”
Dorothée’s eyes widened, but Wilhelmine nodded. “It disappeared when Napoleon went into Poland the first time. We’ve never been sure who took it, but I’m not surprised it found its way into Bonaparte’s hands. I didn’t realize Princess Tatiana’s reach extended into the bedchamber of the conqueror of Europe.”
“Nor did we, until recently.” Suzanne lifted the lid of the casket with the same care she had taken when unwrapping it. At first glance it appeared empty. Then she saw that there was actually a slim pocket to one side into which something had been tucked. She tugged at it with the hairpin she had used to open the box. A folded piece of paper. She spread it out carefully, for it was yellowed with age, to see that it was a page of handwritten music. “Does either of you recognize this?”
Both Courland sisters shook their heads.
“I don’t think I ever actually saw inside the casket,” Dorothée said.
“Nor did I,” Wilhelmine said. “We were always told to be careful because it was so fragile. Though one could have looked inside and quite missed that.” She stared down at the casket. “You think Princess Tatiana may have kept the casket for reasons beyond that it was a memento of one of her most illustrious lovers?”
“She hid it along with her most valuable information. It may be important to the investigation.”
“So you want to keep it.” Wilhelmine’s voice was devoid of inflection.
“Only until the investigation is completed.”
“Of course—” Dorothée cast a quick glance at her sister. “Willie, we can trust them.”
A faint smile curved Wilhelmine’s mouth. “Not a word much in my vocabulary. My sister can be a bit naïve, Suzanne, but in this case I believe she is right.” She cupped her hands round the casket and put it in Suzanne’s hands. “I owe you this, and more, for returning my letter to me.”
Suzanne returned to the Minoritenplatz to the delicate, haunting sound of the glass harmonium. Schubert had called and was sitting with Aline in the drawing room on the ground floor, playing one of his songs for her. He broke off as Suzanne entered the room. He and Aline both scanned her face.
“You found something,” Aline said, springing to her feet. “I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t ask questions—”
“On the contrary.” Suzanne closed the door. At this hour it was unlikely anyone else would come into the drawing room. “As it happens, I have something I’d like you to look at. Both of you.”
Suzanne set Princess Tatiana’s box on a porcelain-inlaid table. She pressed the sequence to open it and took out not the Courland casket, but the sheet of music that had been tucked inside it. She smoothed the yellowed paper and held it out to Schubert. “Do you recognize this? Could it have had special significance to Princess Tatiana?”
He took the sheet music in his hands. “I
don’t think I’ve ever seen it. It doesn’t look like the princess’s hand. I saw some songs she’d written. Is this something she composed?”
“I don’t know. It was tucked inside something important. I thought perhaps it was important as well.”
“There are an awfully lot of notes crowded together.” Aline ran her fingers over a bar of quarter notes. “It looks familiar somehow, but I can’t think from where.”
“May I?” Schubert said to Suzanne. At her nod, he carried the sheet music over to the harmonium and picked out the tune on the tinkling keys. A fast-paced march with a lot of flourishes and trills. Suzanne had never heard it before, but Aline’s eyes lit up.
“I knew I recognized it, and I think it is important. Suzanne, could this be a code?”
“Why?”
“My Aunt Arabella was brilliant with numbers. She used to devise codes for Malcolm and sometimes for me. Once she did one concealed within a piece of music. It looked and sounded quite like this. A lot of notes and all those trills and flourishes. Suzanne, did Princess Tatiana take this from Malcolm?”
“I don’t know. Let’s work on the code.”
Suzanne took a sheet of paper from a drawer in the escritoire, mended a pen, and dipped it in ink. “Don’t turn the notes into letters right away,” Aline said. “If it’s like the other one, you have to transpose everything up a key first. Be careful to note the sharps and flats—they’ll correspond to different letters. Schubert?”
He was already rewriting the music. They turned the transposed notes into letters and then sketched a table according to Aline’s instructions.