Masks and Shadows (23 page)

A new group of soldiers burst into the tavern just as Carlo began his fourth beer. It had been some time since he'd drunk beer instead of wine, he realized. It was a plain drink, for plain men, not the refined nectar of the aristocrats. He'd forgotten just how much he liked it. His head felt pleasantly dizzy as he glanced across at the incoming group, led by the Esterházy scion who'd so dramatically won the battle games on the opera stage the night before.

As the Esterházy lieutenant—
Anton
Esterházy, that was it—strode inside, his eyes swept across the room and passed over Carlo without interest.

“Anyone seen von Höllner?” he called out. “We've been searching all over the palace for him.”

“Off with his wench in Vienna,” one man called out, waving his beer stein.

“Or with his wife,” someone muttered, sniggering, close by Carlo.

Stifled laughter sounded. It was cut off hastily, though, as Anton Esterházy turned to that corner of the room, his face taking on a chill that made the resemblance to his cousin suddenly inescapable.

“I didn't hear that piece of idiocy,” Anton said. “And I trust that no one else did either.”

A dead silence greeted his words. He raised his eyebrows, waiting, then shrugged. “Good enough. I'm giving up on him for the night. Who's for a game of billiards?”

Carlo turned back to Monsieur Jean as the byplay ended. The expression he saw on his companion's face made him blink. It cleared away instantly, and Monsieur Jean smiled winningly, his face open and trustworthy. Carlo hadn't merely imagined that look of narrow-eyed calculation . . . had he? He set down his beer, keeping his own expression bland. Perhaps he'd drunk enough for one evening.

“A pretty performance, that, was it not?” Monsieur Jean said. “I always enjoy visiting the soldiers' tavern to watch the drama, particularly as the night goes on. Much like stags fighting over dominance in the wild, I think. Fascinating for any student of human nature and philosophy.”

“If you find such conflicts fascinating, perhaps you should spend more of your time in Prince Nikolaus's court.” Carlo narrowed his own eyes, searching the other man's face. “There is surely more primitive jostling for precedence and domination in a royal court than anywhere else on earth.”

“And if you do not share my fascination for the subject, signor, perhaps you should spend less of your own time in royal courts.”

“A veritable point, monsieur.” Carlo gave a half-laugh. “But not the key to a brilliant career for a musico. For that, one must play the nobles' game.”

But never be accepted as one of them
.

He bit his tongue at the memory of Baroness von Steinbeck's horrified expression.
“The Prince is a gentleman.”
And Carlo was not. He lifted the beer stein to his lips and took a long, burning draught that emptied the stein.

Monsieur Jean signaled to a barmaid, and replacement beer steins arrived at the table.

“Tell me,” Monsieur Jean said, “what brought you to accept the Prince's invitation to Eszterháza? Surely, there were other invitations. Other courts, other kingdoms . . .”

Carlo shrugged. “I'd never been to Eszterháza. And the Prince's musical establishment is famous throughout Europe. The chance to meet Herr Haydn in person was not to be brushed aside.”

“And others in the court?”

“Pardon?” Carlo met the other man's gaze. His fingers tightened around the handle of his beer stein. “I'm afraid I don't take your meaning, monsieur.” The Baroness's light brown eyes looking up at him through the darkness outside the opera house . . .

“Surely you'd met one or two of the gentlemen at this court before your arrival,” Monsieur Jean said easily. “Was this not an opportunity to renew any old friendships? Or, at any rate, acquaintances?”

“Not at all.” Carlo's shoulders relaxed. “No, I'd never met any of Prince Nikolaus's courtiers before.”

“Or his other guests?”

Carlo frowned. “You seem remarkably interested in my acquaintances, Monsieur Jean. Are you compiling a list?”

“You are too quick for me, signor.” Monsieur Jean's face broke into a grin. “Indeed, I'm certain I could sell off such a list for hundreds of ducats to connoisseurs. The private acquaintances of Europe's most celebrated musico . . . Alas, you've found me out in my dastardly plan.”

He leaned forward, his eyes sparkling. “Tell me, though, man-to-man. In strictest confidence: with whom would you wish to become more intimately acquainted, here at Eszterháza? For the palace is filled with a multitude of beauties at the moment. His Highness's own niece is a fine figure of a woman, as are a number of the singers in his opera troupe.” He lowered his voice. “With all due respect to our fiery young lieutenant across the room, I wouldn't mind spending an hour or two alone with the lovely Sophie von Höllner, myself.”

Carlo sat back in his seat, shaking his head. “You are asking the wrong person to share in your game of what-if, monsieur,” he said dryly. “Did not you hear the soldier who greeted us? An ‘it' can hardly even fantasize of such things.”

“Perhaps an ‘it' may not, indeed. But we are men of the world, you and I. And I know a fair bit more than our charming guardsmen about the astonishing reputation of the musici across the courts of Europe, and of how well a few of them have deserved it.” Monsieur Jean added, smirking, “I heard, as well, that the noblewomen of this court were fairly swarming around you after your performance a few nights ago.”

“Not all of them,” Carlo said. He looked into the murky depths of the beer, but did not see it. “Even men of the world must accept their own limits, one day, and give up on impossible dreams.” His fingers tightened around his beer stein, and he bit off his words with careful precision. “Eventually, no matter what our preferences might be, we must all learn to play the roles in life that were assigned to us.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Monsieur Jean murmured. But the tone of his voice contradicted his words. Rich satisfaction rippled through it.

Carlo glanced up quickly, searching the other man's face. Monsieur Jean smiled back sunnily and lifted his own beer stein.

“To the theater of life, signor!”

“To the theater,” Carlo echoed, warily, and drank.

Alone in her grand salon, the Princess Esterházy sat by the window. Darkness filled the room, unlit by a single candle. Her pet dog snored on her lap, and she stroked his white fur absently with her bejeweled fingers as she gazed through the arched window into the darkened gardens outside.

The still water in the fountains gleamed in the darkness, reflecting pale moonlight. No figures moved across the manicured lawns that lay between the palace and the tall hedges beyond.

But the Princess's searching gaze moved restlessly across the view for hours yet, before the night was done.

Chapter Sixteen

“My God, man, what's happened to your face?”

Friedrich woke to find Anton Esterházy bending over his bed and peering down at him.

“Wha—ow!” Friedrich cupped his hands to his stinging cheeks.

“Look at yourself!” Anton scooped up Friedrich's small shaving mirror and tilted it toward him.

Friedrich blinked into it. His cheeks, chin, and forehead were bright scarlet. Every prickle of morning's beard burned against his sore skin. And yet—

He touched his face wonderingly. It had healed. That godawful smelly cream had worked. No yellow blisters, no oozing pustules—

“Amazing,” he breathed.

“What the devil did you do to yourself last night?”

“Ah . . .” Friedrich pulled himself up into a sitting position and rubbed the back of his neck. “It's a long story.”

“Ha.” Anton set down the mirror and flung himself down onto the chair next to Friedrich's bed. “I've told your valet to bring us both food, so you have all the time you need. Start talking.”

“Well . . .”

“You've turned into a bloody mystery, you know that? Where were you last night, anyway? A whole group of us went looking for you.”

“Here and there?” Friedrich offered. He glanced past Anton, searching for escape. “What time is it, anyway?”

“Ten.”

“Oh, God, I've overslept!” Friedrich leapt up and searched for clothing. “You'll have to eat by yourself, Esterházy. I'll see you—”

“
Overslept
? At ten o'clock?” Anton stared at him. “What appointments could
you
have?”

Halfway into his uniform, Friedrich tried to look suave. “I've been attending the opera rehearsals.”

“You listen to opera now?”

“I'm learning.”

“I'll wager you are.” Anton stood up and crossed his arms.

Friedrich eyed him warily. “I really do have to go. Sorry about the trouble, but—”

“Nothing to be sorry about, my friend.” Anton smiled beatifically. “I'm coming with you.”

Half an hour later, Friedrich slumped down into a seat at the back of the opera house, while Anton looked around with bright curiosity. Twenty minutes of desperate persuasion had only made him more devilishly determined.

“Don't you have any real duties to attend to?” Friedrich muttered now.

Anton gave a muffled shout of laughter. “Is that Friedrich von Höllner speaking? Herr Honorary-Lieutenancy-sleep-till-noon—”

“Not lately.” Friedrich snorted. “I've been waking up early all
week
.”
Damn it
.

“Have you?” Anton raised his eyebrows. “Now that is interesting. I can hardly wait for you to explain it to me.”

Friedrich sank lower in his seat. Onstage, the kapellmeister was having a long debate with one of the singers, an old man. The old man stomped off, making a rude gesture at one of the younger men. The dark-haired older lady smirked, and the kapellmeister shook his head.

“Next piece,” he called out. “Dommayer! Pichler!”

Anton leaned forward in his seat, enlightenment dawning on his features. “
Now
I see why you've been going to rehearsals!”

“Sorry?” Friedrich blinked and sat up.

“She's adorable,” Anton breathed. “That hair—that figure!”

“Eh?” Friedrich scanned the stage. At least four women stood at various points.

The director sat down at the harpsichord and began to play, and the blonde girl stepped forward. She opened her mouth and began to sing; the dark-haired man behind her joined in a moment later.

“I've heard this one before.” Friedrich sat back, sighing. “Don't worry about trying to pay attention, anyway. All the songs sound the same.”

“She's an angel. And that voice—!” Anton turned and fixed Friedrich with a glittering gaze. “You have to introduce me.”

“To her? I don't know her.”

“You don't—?!”

“I know that dark-haired lady.” Friedrich pointed. “Madame Zel-something-or-other. Very charming. If we order any refreshments, you'll get to know her, too.”

“Von Höllner, you're a Philistine.”

The music broke off, and the director shook his head. He made the blonde sing again on her own, again and then again—the words sounded slightly different each time, but it had been too long since Friedrich had studied or spoken Italian for him to understand many of them.

“What's he doing?” Anton stared at the stage. “Look, she's flushed!”

“I think he's making her fix the pronunciation. He does that a lot with her. Ungodly boring.” Friedrich sighed. “Speaking of which, Esterházy, what would you say to some refreshments? I could—”

“He's a monster. Who cares how she pronounces the words?”

“We could—”

“I couldn't eat. Not until I've met her.” Anton turned back to grin fiercely. “Come on, man! I know you've got your secrets. For the moment, I won't press you on them—but you're the one who comes here every day. You have to help me meet her.”