7
Neuschwanstein Castle, Bavaria
After two days of sporadic train schedules that seemed to be suffering a hangover from the war era, Esme finally made it to
Munich, only to be informed by her black-market gossip line that the traveling opera relic exhibit had been invited to Neuschwanstein
Castle, home of the once fairy-tale king.
King Ludwig II had departed his mortal coils some thirty years prior, but his eccentricity had left an indelible mark in this
southwest corner of Bavaria where he had dreamed of his romantic castle perched high on a rugged hill above the picturesque
village of Hohenschwangau that would allow him to live out his fantasy of grand knights and maidens depicted in Wagner's operas.
At least that was the story Leggy Joe told her when she was a girl. Leggy Joe was the gaffer at Wilton's Music Hall and he knew how to light a stage better than anyone in the business. With one tweak of his lantern, the girls would turn into unearthly beauties, the scenery would spring to life, and villains would lurk in shadow. He'd been a teacher of history once but found the schoolroom too stifling and traded his chalk for grease paint, though every once in a while he would recite one of his old lectures for Esme's amusement. It was as close as she got to a formal education.
Esme moved around the throne room with its arched doorways, red marble columns, exquisitely tiled floor, and colossal chandelier.
The place resembled a cathedral more than the seat of reigning royalty. She tilted her head this way and that, nearly blinded
by the amount of gold and colorful depictions of Christ's apostles. This room alone was enough to prepare a person for atonement,
but the guests that evening had no time for confession, taken in as they were by the spectacle in the center of the floor.
A tableau of Rome and a half-finished painting of Mary Magdalene propped on a church altar. A placard on a gold easel read
Puccini's Tosca .
The people around her stared and murmured appreciation as if the painting had been done by Michelangelo himself and was not
merely a play prop. Esme stifled a yawn behind her black lace fan. Rather mundane compared to a tiara.
The Cultural Edification of the Arts of Bavaria was bankrolling this shindig and they had spared no expense. The courtyard
had been converted into a biergarten with thousands of lights strung from the castle walls to glitter against the hundreds
of tankards. A full orchestra played in the Singers' Hall. Waiters and maids with loaded serving trays ducked between political
officials, war heroes, and titled nobility who wandered from chamber to chamber like gloriously decked-out swans from the
nearby Alpsee.
For her own transformation, Esme had chosen a black satin drop waist gown with a handkerchief skirt of soft pink panels peeking out from beneath the top row of black. A strip of black velvet wrapped around her forehead in the fashionable bandeau style with a pink feather attached to float just above her right eyebrow and curve around to her ear.
Plucking a chilled glass of champagne from a passing server, Esme strolled through an anteroom into the dining hall, which
was drowning in red silk and gold trimmings. The art here showed a courtyard in sunny Spain with colorful scarfs draped every
which way. Nestled among the scarfs was a gleaming set of barber tools. The plaque read Rossini's Barber of Seville . Next came the king's bedroom in heavily carved woods and blue silks with the legend of Tristan and Isolde gazing down upon
the royal occupants. A sword from Wagner's Tristan and Isolde lay majestically in the bow of a ship with waves painted on thin cuts of wood sawing back and forth to resemble moving water.
Up next, the grotto. Her pulse quickened as she stepped down three rough-cut steps and into a darkened cave. A dripstone cave
to be exact. Stalactites dripped from the ceiling into a seemingly crystal green river. A waterfall rushed down the far wall
while colorful lights splashed around the rock surfaces like craggy rainbows. In the center of the river drifted a boat unlike
any other kind of boat. This boat was made of dreams and carved into the shape of an opened shell with a cupid perched on
the bow, readying to strike all who dared step aboard with his arrows of passion.
A flash of sparkle caught her eye. Scooting around the other finely dressed gawkers, she moved closer to where the rock ledge ended and peered across the water to the boat. There it sat. The Valkyrie. Like a warrior queen upon her pillow and surrounded by festoons of rose garland. Her fingers itched to reach for it. Patience. Always patience in this game.
"I don't know who had the fool idea of roses. That jewel of fabled heroics should be lifted upon the mounds of the fallen
brave. Shields and swords. Not a floral display."
For the second time in a matter of minutes her pulse tattooed a fast beat as Jasper's arm grazed her elbow. "Ah, here you
are. I was wondering when you'd turn up."
"I'm afraid I had to crawl out the bathroom window after you jammed the lock on my room door, traverse the ledge—three stories
up, mind you—and jump onto the balcony. A bit late, but I'm here nonetheless."
Hands tucked casually into his trouser pockets, he was the picture of bored refinement. He wore the tuxedo jacket and black
tie that had recently become all the rage, the crisp white shirt setting off his mild tan to perfection, an unheard-of condition
on pasty British skin. His golden-brown curls had been combed and slicked to the side, though one obstinate coil draped dangerously
over his brow. The same curl she had brushed from his forehead while he slept.
She detested interruptions while working, but part of her thrilled at their game. Thieves and opportunity seekers abounded,
especially after the war when noble titles and wealth were left unclaimed after young heirs had given their lives for king
and country, but no one else had been on equal footing. They all snatched at the lower rungs filled with grandmother's pearls
and corner store robberies, almost all being caught and thrown behind bars. Esme would laugh and tut over their incompetency.
Then this man showed up, the infamous Phantom. Respected by all thieves—an honor not easily gained—and trusted by the black market. A man who could finally keep up with her. And not only keep up but keep her on her toes. A situation she had never expected, just as she never thought to see him again. Heaven help her; he was exhilarating.
"Have you decided how you'll do it?" he inquired politely.
Pay off one of the waitstaff to tip his drink tray into the orchestra as a distraction. Use the conveniently long cord attached
to her fan as a lasso and swing the fan around the cupid. Draw the boat near. Snatch the tiara. Hide it beneath her skirt's
handkerchief pieces. Walk straight out the front gate.
"A lady never reveals her secrets."
"Must be something grand considering its held captive under the adoring eyes of every person here." He shifted closer as a
new throng descended into the tight space, clamoring for a view of the show-stopping tiara. "Then again, you're one for decidedly
simple yet bold moves."
"How well you think you know me."
"We may have spent a limited amount of time together, but I've spent a lifetime observing people. What they want, what makes
them tick, and what those traits foretell concerning how they'll go about achieving their desires."
"If you're so knowledgeable, pray tell, what is my greatest desire?"
"Your greatest desire I'm still piecing together, but I know you're a woman who refuses to be pushed into the margins. Such
makes for a bold woman. A warrioress." He leaned close. "A Valkyrie."
For once her wit failed to rise in response. It was held hostage by the warmth of his chest brushing against her arm. The scent of cedarwood toppling over champagne. The brush of his breath on her ear. She tried to turn away but was pinned in place by the wall of people. The euphoria was quickly turning against her.
No entanglements. No dependency on anyone but herself. No getting thrown off course by a handsome face. No turning into her
mother.
"Excuse me a moment," she murmured and pushed her way through the crowd.
Ignoring the orchestral strains, the exclaimed comments over artwork, ladies in their glittering jewels, and old men bantering
about one another's medals, she hurried through the chambers but could not find what she sought. A moment of fresh air.
A man brushed by and grabbed her arm.
Esme jerked her head to see his face. "Unhand me—"
Pirazzo.
"You're following me?"
His fingers squeezed into the tender flesh on the back of her arm. With his other hand, he reached up and tugged on the velvet
choker wrapping around her neck. "What I could do with this." With a final yank, he let go and slipped into the crowd like
a snake slithering through the grass.
Esme jerked the choker from her neck with trembling fingers. Jasper's warning flashed through her head. "He won't think twice about snapping your pretty neck if his master doesn't get her way."
The room closed in around her. Laughter rang in her ears. She turned in a circle, seeking escape. Air was difficult to draw.
"Allow me." Jasper appeared once again at her side and took her elbow, guiding her through the maze of carved furnishings and upper elite to a heavyset door at the back of the throne room. Swinging it open, he ushered her outside to a long, covered balcony with towering arched windows.
Esme grasped the railing and dragged in a grateful breath, willing her heart to calm. She would succeed tonight and Pirazzo
would crawl back into his hole. Never again would she have to look over her shoulder in fear of him.
"Better?" Jasper asked.
Esme moved to stand by one of the stone pillars framing the arched window and tossed the choker over the rail. "Between the
champagne and the boat on the water I do believe I was reliving our days on the ship to Italy." After taking another deep
breath, she flashed a smile to cover her moment of weakness.
"Right as rain now." She spread her hands over the stone ledge. "And how could I not be with this view?"
The view beyond was, in a word, spectacular .
Towering mountains enrobed in mists of purple as the sun sank slowly behind their peaks while green hills bedded down at their
feet, readying for a coming night's slumber. A lake glistened like a bowl of water cupped between the rolling hills as the
sun's last rays mingled with the thin veil of rain across the blue surface. A tiny village nestled along the shore, lights
flickering on in the windows as its occupants eked out one more hour of their day before retiring. Did they know they lived
in a fairy tale?
Jasper joined her. "I've traveled a great many places in this world, and I believe none so transportive as Bavaria. Though
the Scottish Highlands might have something to say about that." Leaning forward, he rested his forearms on the ledge. "That's
Alpsee in front of us. The one over to its right is Schwansee. Swan Lake. I wonder if that's where Tchaikovsky found his inspiration
for the ballet."
"It's rumored he took it from the folktale of ‘The Stolen Veil' by Johann Mus?us and then modeled the dreamer Prince Siegfried after King Ludwig himself. All hearsay, of course."
He lifted a surprised eyebrow. "Where did you hear such sayings?"
She shrugged, toying with the fan's silken cord. "Theater talk. My mother was a performer on the East End stages, and I grew
up behind the velvet curtains. I learned everything from King Lear's death rattle to making false lashes stick with nothing
more than Vaseline to impersonating the posh set."
How valuable those lessons had been for her chosen career. She could float like a duchess, speak with a crystal-cut accent,
and knew which fork to eat from, but it never seemed to diminish her sense of fraud. She could act like an aristocrat all
she wanted, but she would always be that East End theater scamp playing pretend. An actress for her role in life. Someday
she hoped to put away the makeup and lights and simply be Esme. Whatever that looked like.
"I never knew you grew up with the theater."
"Before you start getting grand ideas of me perched in an opera box, you should know they weren't those kinds of stages. Swan Lake was performed with little more than strategically placed feathers."
He threw his head back and laughed. Curls broke free of the oily Brilliantine trap and sprang about. He raked them out of
his face with careless ease. "And who would you perform as? Odette or Odile?"
"Odile. She has more fun. Poor Odette just swam around mourning her situation instead of doing something about it." Mourning, moaning, and complaining was for the weak, and Esme had never been allowed to be weak. Weakness got you killed on the streets, and she had no intention of ever going back to shivering in doorways and stealing food while her mother begged at any stage door looking to hire.
"I didn't grow up with grandness either," Jasper said.
"Says the man who was able to afford an army officer's commission." She brushed away the mist collecting on the fine hairs
of her arm. "You don't get that number of pretty coins by delivering milk."
He took off his jacket and draped it around her shoulders. A habit of his she found very much to her taste. "My father was
a womanizer and shot dead by a jealous husband. My mother was a lady's maid who was charmed by my father. She died in the
first wave of the Spanish influenza. I am the bastard product of their brief union."
Not alone in that.
"It wasn't until I turned thirteen that my grandfather made himself known and sought to bring me up in the world."
"Why did he wait so long?"
"He could never formally recognize an heir born on the wrong side of the blanket, and had only daughters by his wife, Clarice.
They in turn had the audacity to produce only daughters. He's getting older, and I suppose an illegitimate grandson is better
than no grandson at all. He took me under his wing, gave me a formal education, and tutored me in the ways of the world. When
the war came, I was eager to do my bit and he was eager to support me. Not in a grandfatherly way but in a way that benefitted
him. Always an angle for himself, the old blighter."
"So he's using you for his own gain."
A flicker of a frown edged around his mouth as he glanced down at his hands then out to the falling night vista. Under the finely woven shirt, his straight shoulders bunched and stiffened. She knew the stance well, having adopted it herself whenever the ugly truth dangled before her nose.
"You could call it a mutually beneficial relationship," he said. "I had schooling and now live a rather comfortable life.
Delivering milk or hauling crates at the dockyard was all the future I could look forward to without him."
"But you're indebted to him. Don't you long to break free?"
"I did during the war. I'm a man who knows how to obtain things, and during a crisis that's a profitable commodity. Over time
I built up enough contacts, and now buyers seek me out." The stiffness left his shoulders, but they remained straight and
proud. "The old man may have pulled me from the mire, but I stood on my own two feet."
The sun sank behind the mountains, withdrawing its final glow of warmth. The mist creeped around, filling in the pale oranges
and greens with silver grays and watered blues.
Esme tugged closer the collar of Jasper's jacket as mist tickled her neck. "Will you stay a thief forever?"
"Haven't you heard the saying ‘once a thief always a thief'?" he smoothly replied. "You?"
"As long as it's amusing."
Brushing the gathering wetness from his hands, he straightened and leaned against the stone pillar. "Tell me, what was the
first thing you ever stole?"
"Apple."
"The last?"
"A woman's sapphire bracelet in the powder room. She had three others and won't miss it." She hadn't intended to take it, but honestly it was the smallest of the bunch and the woman had eyed Esme's vulgar use of lipstick with old biddy disdain.
Jasper grinned and crossed his arms over his chest. She did her best not to notice how the movement caused the material to
strain appealingly across his muscles, but then, she'd never been one for denying herself the simple pleasures in life.
"The most selfless?" he asked.
"A gramophone from the officer's ward to give to the enlisted. The rich shouldn't have all the nice things. Especially not
in hospital after what those boys went through." She'd never learned to make proper hospital corners on the bedsheets, and
her rolled bandages left something to be desired, but she'd done her best without complaint. What was there to complain about
when soldiers lay there covered in bandages and missing arms and legs? "Only time I nicked anything during the war."
"I see patriotism flows in your veins."
"Working in that hospital was the only honest job I've ever had, and I wasn't about to spoil it with light fingers. You men
deserved better than that."
"A lot of those men deserved better than what they got. A bullet to the stomach. Drowned in a mud crater. Gassed and blinded
with their lungs shredded. I felt ashamed for returning home with little more than a scratch. They all kept saying we were
the lucky ones. Well, I never felt lucky. Not until I saw you coming through the crowd. I knew then what I'd been fighting
for." He hadn't moved a muscle, but the space between them shrank. Their own tableau of restrained attraction.
Heat swept her cheeks. She gave a playful laugh to defuse the sensation. "I was one of the first cleanly dressed girls you'd seen in a long time. It wasn't difficult to impress you."
"No, it wasn't just because you were a woman, or devoid of mud, not even because you were standing there like an angel. It
was simply you."
The heat surged again. "Perhaps it would have been better if I had turned around and disappeared back into that crowd."
"Perhaps." His voice turned husky, drawing her further in. "But could you have?"
She remembered that day in a series of vignettes. The announcement of the armistice. The throng of cheering crowds in the
Tuileries. The deafening clapping and shouting. Flags waving. Her hat being knocked off and not caring enough to retrieve
it beneath the crush of feet. And then it seemed like the crowd knew, as if sensing a lightning strike. They parted and there
he stood. Blindingly handsome in his rumpled uniform that he managed to make look debonair, and a smile that rocked her off
her feet. A smile aimed right at her that soundly dissolved her willpower of detachment. He gave her no choice and drew her
as decidedly as he did now.
"I—"
Explosions burst over the top of the castle. Sparks of green, red, and gold twinkled like gems as they collided with the mist.
Jasper glanced up with a wry twist of the mouth. "Always fireworks."
Esme stepped back. Cool air chilled her cheeks and scrubbed away the warmth that had come too close to making her lose her head. The one thing she'd vowed to herself never to do—lose her head over a man—and there she was about to fall into a deluded moment's embrace.
Fool!
"Here." She pulled off his jacket and thrust it back at him, then hurried inside before she had the chance to... to...
She wasn't certain, but it was bound to be utterly idiotic and regrettable.
The castle hummed like a kicked-over beehive. Voices clashed against the gilded ceilings as bodies pressed together. Esme
was quickly folded into the flow and carried along like a twig on a rushing river toward the main entrance. Out the front
door she was rushed down a set of stairs—built oddly to the side against a flanking wing instead of in the center of the main
castle—where she spilled onto the upper courtyard.
Fireworks dazzled overhead, their booms muted among the wet droplets and cheering crowd. Pushed from behind, she kept her
feet moving lest she be knocked down and trampled until she bumped into a stone rail that separated the upper courtyard from
the lower courtyard some seven meters below where a crowd was clapping and shouting.
A gleaming white carriage pulled by four matching bays with gold plumes attached to their harnesses was parked on the cobblestones
in the lower courtyard. A driver dressed in powder-blue breeches and frock coat, white stockings, powdered and curled wig,
and tricorn hat perched atop a cushioned bench patiently holding the reins.
Next to Esme stood a man quietly observing the riotous scene. Pudgy about the jowls and on the shorter side with spindly legs
that gave the impression of propping up an egg, his lips pursed in amusement.
"What's happening?" she asked.
"You did not hear the announcement?" His English was heavily accented. French.
Esme's French was spotty at best, and the few phrases she had picked up over the years weren't meant for polite company. "I
was on the balcony and saw the fireworks. Then before I knew what had happened, I was swept along with the crowd."
"You see this gentleman there, oui ?" He pointed to a towering man with a rotund belly and red face who was sauntering down the steps that curved to the courtyard
where the carriage awaited.
"The comte de Laval. The sixth wealthiest man in France. And there is his newest wife." He pointed to a petite woman with
bleached-blonde hair who swayed along next to her husband, her mouth opened wide with laughter.
"His previous two wives had aged too much for his liking. Barbette Nicole de Mortemart is not only a younger model but a champagne
heiress. Her family has owned one of the most successful champagne companies for generations. Together, they make quite the
influential couple."
The name clicked in Esme's head. "Mortemart, as in Mortemart Champagne."
"Ah, I see you have heard of it."
"Heard of it? We practically bathed in it after the war. The Fontaine des Mers was filled with the bubbling brew, and we girls
kicked off our shoes to—" At his far too interested look, Esme stopped her explanation. "Ahem. It's devilishly delicious."
"That it is"—he glanced down at her bare left hand—"mademoiselle."
She snapped open her fan and batted it to clear the air of his impertinence, then turned her attention back to the glamorous couple basking in their limelight. The castle was choked to the gills with important starched collars. Not even Prince Rupprecht, the last heir apparent to the Bavarian throne before his family was removed from power, had received more than a smattering of applause at his earlier arrival.
Then the answer to all the hullabaloo came into view.
Sparkling like a crescent of stars, the Valkyrie glided through the crowd on a red velvet pillow held by a servant dressed
in the same ridiculous powder-blue getup and wig—straight toward the waiting carriage and French champagne fops.
Dropping her fan, Esme curled her fingers over the stone rail.
No, no, no.
"Seems the comtesse cast her eye upon the most glittering item she could find and wanted it," the little man next to her chirped.
Fingering an unusual spray of golden feathers pinned to his lapel, he appeared to be having entirely too good a time observing
the spectacle. "Never able to resist her pouting charms, the good comte acquiesced to her desire, and now the magnificent
tiara that once graced the grandest of opera halls shall perch atop a spoiled head."
Esme watched as the couple stopped next to the awaiting carriage. The comte lifted the tiara from its pillow and held it high
for all to see as his little wife clapped and jumped up and down behind him like a kitten springing for a feather on a string.
Gathering all the pomp he could muster, the comte turned and held the tiara above her head.
The crowd breathed in. After tossing a wink back at his audience, the comte solemnly lowered the Valkyrie and settled it atop
that silly little head. The crowd exhaled with a cry of excitement. The crowning of royalty.
Esme's nails dug into the stone as the twit climbed into the carriage and waved her diamond-ringed hand, no doubt imagining all before her as adoring subjects.
"Bloody hell."
"Pardon?" The man bounced next to her, eyes crinkling in delight.
"Nothing, I was—" Esme flicked a dangling feather from her cheek and composed herself. "I hate to see a work of art intended
for the arts sold away to private collectors and buried deep in their family vaults." A lie. She would be out of business
if not for those twittering snobs always grasping for more to stuff in their golden hordes.
" Oui ." He sighed with dramatic flair as his feet finally flattened. "That magnificent piece is now off to the de Mortemart estate
near Reims where she'll flaunt it before her party guests for a few days, grow bored, then move on to the next bauble."
Settled in the carriage, the couple waved as the driver flicked the reins, and off the horses trotted. The comtesse spun around
on her knees to wave over the back, knocking the tiara askew with her wiggling fingertips. She giggled and tapped the tiara
back into place before the carriage passed through the gatehouse and out into the fireworks-filled night.
There was nothing more exhilarating to the blood than a challenge, but this was becoming positively bloody ridiculous.
Well, we'll just see who's great enough to truly wear the crown.
Smoothing the damp hair curling at the back of her neck, she turned to the Frenchman. "In Reims did you say—"
But her bouncing egg companion was gone.
She looked all around, but he was nowhere to be found. The crowd deflated after the departing fanfare and meandered back inside where the orchestra kicked into a lively polka and the champagne poured freely. There was nothing rich people loved more than free entertainment. Esme wasn't titled, but she certainly enjoyed champagne as much as the next heiress.
Tonight, however, the grapes would without doubt sour on her tongue. The Valkyrie had been within her grasp. It had dazzled
before her eyes. And it was gone. Again. Whisked away. Again. All because she'd allowed herself to be distracted by cologne
and a husky voice.
Damn that man. Damn all men.
She'd trained herself to be better than all those witless women who fell for the first pretty face or whispered promises.
Too many made that mistake and paid the price of heartbreak or dishonor and a belly swollen with child or forced from one
man to the next. Like Mimsy. Mimsy claimed it was her choice, but she'd always been weak when it came to men. Needing their
affection, their attention, almost as much as she craved the spotlight. Esme had thought herself above such trappings.
Until tonight.
Jasper Truitt may have smuggled his way into her heart during a moment of celebratory weakness four years ago, but she wasn't
about to let that thorn fester. To Reims she would go and not give him another thought until she could finally sign her name
to that divorce paper.
As she turned away from the castle, a rough hand grabbed her and shoved her back against the stone rail.
"The countess will not be pleased." Pirazzo's stale breath reeked across her face. His dark eyes were nothing more than black
beads as his fists pushed hard into her chest.
"I will get it." Fear strangled the air in her lungs.
He ground his knuckles into her sternum until she bent backward. "You know what happens if you do not."
Esme flung her hands out to grab the rail to keep from tipping over.
"This is a temporary setback. Nothing I haven't dealt with before." Her feet scrambled to grip the ground.
He leaned forward until his nose smashed against hers. "The next time, I will deal with you ."
Then he was gone.