Taking her hand in his, he pulled her out of the pantry, into the corridor.
“It is best we part here,” Klemens said. “Return to your room, and I will make my way back to mine. And Pippa.” He squeezed her hand tightly. “Trust me. All will be well.”
That night, as Pippa lay in bed, listening to the other girls snore and mutter things in their sleep, she stared at the ceiling, reliving that moment repeatedly.
Trust me, he had said.
All will be well.
She wanted to believe that. Oh, how she wanted to! That tiny spark of hope had begun to glow deep inside her. Wasn’t it better to quench it than to allow it to grow and turn into a fire that raged out of control?
“Oh, Klemens,” she whispered into the dark. “What are we going to do?”
ChapterTwenty-One
It was easierfor any Sepp, Hans and Peter to have an audience with his father than for him, his own flesh and blood, Klemens thought with irritation as he took a seat on the crimson cushioned chair in the antechamber, which was filled with other courtiers, diplomats, ambassadors, ministers and a select number of petitioners who stood around in their formal uniforms in small groups, talking to each other in hushed voices as they waited for their turn to meet the Emperor. Some of them recognised him, and walked up to him with a short formal bow and greeting.
Klemens nodded back curtly. Others, most notably foreign dignitaries with higher status than he, threw him a swift side look and staunchly ignored him. Which was perfectly fine with him, as was pretending to ignore the Russian ambassador, a German prince and the Dutch emissary.
Certainly, Klemens had seen his father almost daily, but that had been at balls, gala suppers, concerts andreceptions, where he himself had to stand in attendance. Since he preferred to forego the family breakfasts with his father and stepmother, for they were too early for his taste, and therefore rarely had an opportunity to talk to his father privately, this seemed to be his only recourse: to approach the Emperor during a formal audience as if he himself were a petitioner.
Klemens suppressed a sigh, stretched out his long legs in front of him, crossed them at his ankles, and folded his arms across his chest.
“The Emperor’s youngest son,” he heard in a French whisper from one corner, where a French delegation stood. “They call him the Blonde Lucifer.”
Klemens grinned to himself. He was rather fond of the name and, until recently, had tried his best to do it justice. After all, one would not want to disappoint the public that thrived on the gossip that he provided.
The Viennese court, with the strict Spanish protocol that was exceptionally conservative and traditional with all its minute rules and regulations, frequently made him feel as if it was squeezing all the air out of his chest. There were only so many rules and regulations he could take. So he had made it a habit, once a year, to escape from it all. To slip into the disguise of the simple student Klemens, to retreat into the countryside, deep into the Austrian Alps, where he could follow his genuine passion that he had kept hidden from everyone. What would they say, the good Viennese, if they knew that their lascivious Prince Lucifer was not quite as degenerate as they believed? That it was merely a mask he liked to uphold. And that in reality he was rather fond of studyingmathematics, logic, philosophy and the natural sciences, and that he would like nothing more than to follow in his revered professor’s footsteps.
And live in a lonely hut on the mountains.
There would be alpenglow, the peaceful lowing of the cows, and the antics of one particular girl with big eyes and a head full of wild curls.
It was because of her that he was here today.
His hand crept to his throat, feeling the need to tug at the stiff collar of his uniform that barely allowed him to turn his head. Curse it, he could not breathe properly.
He had debated for a long time whether to put it on, but then decided that since his father was fond of pomp and uniforms, he would please the old pater and wear the thing.
Klemens sighed.
His chin dropped to his chest, and he closed his eyes. This would still take several hours, as the room was clearing only slowly.
He must have nodded off, for he only opened his eyes some time later at the sound of someone clearing his throat.
He saw a pair of boots, legs in an elaborately embroidered uniform, followed by a staff. The chamberlain.
“If your Imperial Highness would please follow me to the audience room,” he said in a dignified voice.
He opened the tall, white and gilt door that led to the audience chamber.
“Seine Kaiserliche Hoheit, Erzherzog Leopold.”
His father stood behind a lectern, looking white-haired and frail, and older than he really was.
Yet Klemens knew that impression was deceptive.
Rarely had he known a man who had willpower as strong as an iron rod, and an unyielding stubbornness that was even greater than his own.
