Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Julius, Duke of Aldingbourne, cast a weary glance around the room. Everyone of rank and name was gathered here tonight. All the statesmen, monarchs, ministers, and nobles who had anything at all to say politically on any subject.

Metternich had pulled out his pipe and they'd all followed his tune when he finally decided to play it. Tonight, he had decided that they would all gather here, in his magnificent palace. So here they were.

Politically, of course, it was another matter entirely.

Julius had expected this, so he did not see this as an occasion for entertainment, but for work. He would use it as an opportunity to talk to the representatives of the other delegations. He already knew that Metternich expected a tête-à-tête with him in one of his secluded cabinet rooms. Then there was Talleyrand, who, judging by his expression, seemed to be in a state of perpetual ennui, and the Tsar, who was expected to appear later in the evening .

Talleyrand, however, was not to be underestimated. It was not without reason he was considered one of the most successful diplomats the world had ever seen. Tsar Alexander was another matter entirely. Vain, explosive, and volatile like a grenade, he was not to be trifled with. Then there were the Prussians and their demands. He'd seen Castlereagh in a heated debate with the King of Prussia.

Julius furrowed his brow. It was going to be a difficult evening.

He'd arrived with Evie at a fashionably late hour, clad in a black tailcoat, a silver waistcoat, and breeches, all complemented with a crisp white cravat.

"You look sinfully handsome," his sister had told him admiringly. "If you weren't my brother, I'd set my cap at you. You must be careful, for many a Viennese lady will want to put you in her pocket."

"Let them try," he'd retorted.

Evie had laughed.

"You look very decent yourself, imp," he'd said, pulling one of her curls. That was an understatement. His sister was no beauty, but she had a charm and a vivacity about her that enchanted men more than physical beauty ever would.

He would have to keep a close eye on her.

And dash it all, he thought with increasing irritation, it eluded him why he should do so, when that was really the role of her betrothed, Hartenberg.

After circling the cramped salons, he'd managed to lose Evie in the crowd. Metternich had immediately cornered him and they'd had a lengthy discussion about the Polish affair. After an hour, Metternich slapped his shoulder. "Do not let me monopolise you, cher ami ," he said. "Be sure to partake of the exquisite buffet that is available in the green salon." He lifted a finger and a footman approached with a salver of champagne coupes. He offered one to Julius. "To an indissoluble friendship between our countries," he said pompously.

Julius lifted his glass and drank. He took a second glass and drained it, too. The room was really too hot.

A lady crossed his path. She drifted towards him, soft baby ringlets framing her face. Her rosy lips pouted.

The Duchess Wilhelmine von Sagan.

"Your Grace? You look so…morose." She tinkled a laugh that sounded like silver bells. "I trust you are enjoying yourself?" She touched his arm gently.

"It is tolerable."

"Oh, you English. Always so…cold." She ran a manicured finger up and down his sleeve. Bending close to him, she whispered, "One cannot help but wonder what it would take to melt all that coldness."

One of his eyebrows rose.

The Duchess was a beauty. The entire world knew that she was Metternich's mistress. The poor fool was head over heels in love with her, and she was playing her merry game with him. What was she up to now? He'd wager a fortune that it was merely to make Metternich jealous. If she thought Aldingbourne was easy prey, she knew him very little, indeed.

He picked her hand off his sleeve. "Careful, then, madam, lest you get a frostbite." He left her gaping after him .

"I saw that," another female voice whispered into his ears. "A hit. A cut direct." She chuckled and a cloying cloud of perfume enveloped him.

Not again. Would these women not leave him alone? Had the ladies in London been as openly aggressive in their pursuit as the ones here? It was becoming quite a nuisance.

Irritated, he turned to the Princess Bagration. She was the Duchess of Sagan's most bitter enemy. They lived in the same palace—the Palais Palm—and were in fierce competition over who was the most beautiful, most celebrated society hostess in Vienna. Both were beautiful. Both were accomplished. Both were Metternich's lovers. Were they now setting their sights on him? Him and Tsar Alexander, if the rumours were true.

An irritated furrow appeared between his brows.

"If you'll excuse me, madam," he snapped. "I believe Castlereagh is expecting me."

He wasn't, of course, but it was a convenient lie.

The sound of strings and a piano drifted in from the adjoining drawing room. This orchestra played well, he noticed. Then he paused as the musicians came into view. A tall, lanky boy played the cello. A petite girl played the viola. A man played the violin. There were two young page boys with wigs turning the pages earnestly. He glossed over them.

Then the pianoforte took over. Julius appreciated good music. That was one of the advantages of being in Vienna, for the music here was exquisite. There was no doubt about it, this was fine music, played professionally. The other night he'd attended a performance of Beethoven's Fidelio, and every fibre of his being had identified with the dark, heavy music.

His eyes wandered to the woman behind the pianoforte?—

—He did not hear the sound of glass crashing on the marble floor as the champagne coupe slipped from his fingers, and every drop of blood in his entire body drained from him.

The pianist flinched for an infinitesimal second, but quickly gathered herself and continued to play.

At the end of the piece, they stood and bowed.

Aldingbourne was incapable of forming a coherent thought. Time had stood still. The woman was nothing special. Petite, slim with strawberry blonde hair. Big, brown eyes like a doe. A fine, wide mouth that curved upwards at the corners. A delicate nose, a charming dusting of freckles over it. His eyes moved to her right cheek.

A small, heart-shaped birthmark.

He inhaled sharply as the world around him began to tilt. He grabbed the windowsill behind him to steady himself.

Catherine.

His first inclination was to go after her, but an inner voice, the voice of reason and logic, stopped him.

No. It was impossible. It couldn't be. It was a coincidence.

He stayed by the window and watched her close the pianoforte, talk to the other musicians, and approach the fireplace, where she paused.

From that angle, he saw her sharp profile. The way she moved her head, the way she walked. The gesture of her hand.

Anguish and confusion shot through him. He broke out in a sweat even though he was shivering with cold.

No.

This was impossible.

He closed his eyes, bottled up the feelings.

Impossible.

The woman who looked like Catherine ambled into the adjoining room. She paused at the door. She was wearing a gown from the previous century, which gave her a strange ethereal, out-of-time look, an aura of the supernatural.

Julius decided to follow her from a safe distance, determined to stay hidden from her. He wanted to watch her. To ascertain from a distance who she really was. To verify that she was not a figment of his imagination, but a being of flesh and blood.

He followed her around the room, unobserved. She glided among the people like a ghost, indeed, seeing everyone and everything, but no one else seemed to notice her.

Eight years ago, Catherine had died in a terrible accident. His world had been shattered that day.

Unless, of course, she hadn't.

As unbelievable as that was.

Eight years after her death, she appeared as a musician in Metternich's salon, playing the pianoforte.

Who was she?

How was this possible ?

He remained by the palm tree, a steep frown creasing his forehead. Was this truly his Catherine?

She raised her eyes—and met his.

The look in her brown eyes was familiar and clear.

He forgot to breathe.

An eternity passed in a second, a second became an eternity.

Then, a man stepped up to her, grabbed her by the arm, and in the blink of an eye, her lithe figure disappeared into the crowd.

He breathed heavily.

Perhaps it had all been a mirage, a trick of an overly imaginative mind. After all the talk of Evie's, and his lack of sleep, this was the result. He was seeing things.

"Julius, did you see?" Evie sidled up to him, bubbling with excitement. "Did you see her? She is here! The same woman I was talking about the other day. Let us go and greet?—"

"No."

"But Julius!" A moment more and she would be jumping up and down with both feet in frustration like she used to do as a child when she didn't get what she wanted.

"Do not, under any circumstances, approach her and speak to her. Do not let her know you're here. Do you understand?"

"But Julius!" This time it sounded like a whine.

He gripped her arm so tightly it would probably leave a mark. "I want to observe her first without her noticing me. I need to see what she is like. I need proof, first. Please cooperate, Evie. Don't let her see you."

"Fine," Evie grumbled. "I'll do as you say. But it is so very dull. It doesn't make any sense at all. If you want proof that she is indeed Catherine, you will have to talk to her. That is the only way."

He gave her a cutting stare that visibly wilted her. "Very well," she muttered. "I shan't say another word."

He wanted to look for her, but once again a Prussian diplomat approached him and tried to draw him into a debate. He replied in monosyllables, his gaze searching the room for her. He dimly noted that there was a hubbub in the green salon where the buffet was. By the time he could extricate himself from the conversation, strains of violin music had resumed in the other room.

Another gentleman approached to introduce himself. "If you will excuse me," Julius interrupted the man mid-sentence and went into the music room.

As she played each piece, Julius was convinced that she was a mirage, a figment of his imagination. Catherine had always been an excellent pianist. It had been her sole passion. Could this possibly be the same person?

After their performance, they bowed. He tried to follow them, but now he was detained by Talleyrand, who attempted to draw him into a debate on the Saxon question. As soon as he was able to extricate himself from the Frenchman, he searched every salon, but she'd already left.

Evie and Julius were silent on the ride back to their residence, each lost in their own thoughts .

The normally talkative Evie excused herself as soon as they arrived at the mansion.

Julius gently caught her arm. "I feel I have rather shamefully neglected you this evening. I was so very busy." He avoided mentioning the apparition of Catherine.

Evie played with the fringes of her scarf. "Yes. I confess it's rather dull when everyone endlessly talks about politics."

"I forgot to tell you I have arranged for you to have a companion," the Duke said. "So you're no longer isolated."

Evie nodded and gave him a small smile. "That is very considerate of you, Julius. Thank you."

Julius walked briskly to the study, sat down at the table, and stared at the blank sheet of paper. Then he penned a missive, sealed the envelope, and rang the bell.

When the footman appeared, he handed it to him. "With expediency to England. It is urgent."

"Yes, Your Grace."

Julius sat back and steepled his fingers. Exhaustion of a kind he had never known before overwhelmed him.

If this woman was indeed Catherine, the implications were beyond anything he'd ever dared to think, to dream. The logical part of his brain rebelled most violently against the idea that the woman he had seen was indeed her.

What was needed were facts.

There had to be proof.

Indisputable proof that she was Catherine.