“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 ofBeethoven’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.
Whowasshe?
How was this possible?
