No one knew that Prince Lucifer had a secret passion for mathematics and philosophy. And why should they? When they were all so keen on casting him as the rake and womaniser.
Then there were his secret trips to England.
A shadow of a smile flitted over his face as he thought of the secret voyages he had undertaken with his cousin, Hartenberg (blast it, where was the man? He had been making himself inexcusably rare these days).
His days of adventure were over for now and instead, his time was filled with tedium: parades, gala dinners, formal ballroom dances, and more parades.
It was, as his friend Aldingbourne would have said, in that arrogant drawl of his, “So infernally boring.”
Ah. If only he were here! His presence would have eased the ennui somewhat.
His father had required him to attend the meeting of the kings, when Frederick William and Alexander arrived, and to join them on the parade through the city. As the youngest son, there was hardly any need for him to be present, he had protested. But his father had insisted.
“I want you to charm the Tsar,” he had ordered. “As well as the Grand Princess.”
Klemens had groaned. “You have no idea, Papa, what it is like to, as you say, ‘charm the Tsar’ and the Grand Duchess."
“It cannot be that difficult. Keep him busy. Fulfil his every wish. Anticipate his wants before he speaks them. That is all you need to do. As for the Grand Duchess, would suffice if you were to look at her as if she were not a toad at the bottom of the well. She really is quite beautiful.”
“Is she?” he had muttered. “I hadn’t noticed.” He supposed she had a cold sort of beauty, withher flawless skin and hair so fair it was almost white, and grey eyes that reminded him of the Siberian winter.
He shuddered.
“It is an order,” his father had said, coolly. “Do not displease me.”
Klemens had pulled himself up. “Very well, Majesty. I shall do as you command. I shall become a devoted reader of her very soul.”
And now, that infernal parade!
Under normal circumstances he might have enjoyed it, for there was a general atmosphere of festivity in the air, and he did enjoy the dancing, and the singing and the fireworks, even though, as an archduke, he was never allowed to express that enjoyment. Yet even his father, normally so stiff and starch, had smiled when a little girl had handed him a bouquet. But he had found the political conversations tedious, and the need to be charming to people he secretly despised tiresome. He might have even scowled at the boy who threw up a hat and exclaimed: “Long live Archduke Leopold!”
Ah. Poor lad. He had probably terrified him with his scowl.
He rubbed his eyebrows with a sigh.
Then, there was Alexander, of course. The Tsar of Russia. Who had taken an inexplicable liking to him. Who was taking up far too much of his time that he could have dedicated to more important matters.
Instead, he had sat on his horse, daydreaming in broad daylight, of a girl with big, trusting brown eyes and a head of unruly black corkscrew curls, and a smile as bright and cheeky as the sun.
But where, by the beard of Zeus, was she?
How could it be that she had so completely, entirely disappeared? A deep worry gnawed at him and refused to leave him.
His adjutant, Kovacz, normally so competent, seemed equally flummoxed by her disappearance and had, over all these weeks, been unable to find even the smallest of indications of where she could have gone.
They would have to start all over again.
He would send Kovacz back to the village in Tirol. And if all else failed, he would go there as well. As difficult as it would be with the congress raging in Vienna, somehow, he would have to steal away.
Tsar be damned.
He was now busily arguing with Metternich, in full view of everyone else, and drawing his father into the argument. Excellent. Everyone would be too busy to notice that he was gone.
Klemens made a small sign to Kovacz. He understood immediately and left to fetch his tricorn hat.
“I want you to restart the investigation,” Klemens told Kovacz, as they quickly descended the stairs. “I suspect some foul play or involvement either by my father, or what’s worse, Metternich. It is possible my letters were intercepted. That would be disastrous.”
“That thought has occurred to me as well, Highness, it may be the only explanation as to why we are unable to uncover any useful information. Though it also must be said that especially now, with the flood of mail and information, things really might have been lost. I am not certain how reliable the innkeeper is. He may be Metternich’s man. And speaking of which—there is something to be said for the efficiency of his network. If all else fails, we might have to resort to the resources of the secret police.”
