Since his father was still spluttering with fury, Klemens made a short, curt bow and walked back to the door, which swung open as he approached. It closed behind him, and he found himself once more in the antechamber. He drew out a handkerchief and wiped his brow, then froze. Every head had turned; eyes were wide with wary shock.
Plainly, they had heard every word.
The French delegate standing nearest, poised to enter, regarded him with a worried look. “I gather the Emperor is not in the best of moods.”
Klemens lifted a weary hand. “There is nothing you can tell him that could possibly be worse than what he has just heard. In fact, after this, he will be positively relieved to discuss political decrees and regulations. Just make sure to never mention love. He can’t abide it.” With that, he made a sweeping gesture toward the door.
“How did it go?” Kovacz asked when he returned to his rooms, stealing a quick look at Klemens’ face. “On second thought, you need not answer,” he added hastily.
Klemens tugged off his gloves and flung them onto the sofa, then crossed to the side table and poured himself a drink. “A disaster,” he said, draining the glass in one swallow. “Though hardly unexpected.”
“What are you going to do, Highness?”
Klemens stared darkly into his empty glass. “I have not the devil of an idea.”
“You must ready yourself for tonight’s entertainment. You are expected to escort the Grand Duchess.”
Klemens groaned.
That night, in theRedoutensaal, Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony thundered to the acclaim of the assembled court. Though Klemens had professed a dislike for Beethoven, he found the grim majesty of the music suited his temper admirably. He sat beside the Grand Duchess in a black humour, scowling straight ahead for the entire performance.
“You do not like the music?” she murmured, castinghim an assessing look from beneath her white-blonde lashes.
Her face was serene and smooth, betraying not an inkling of emotion. It was like conversing with a Venetian carnival mask: smooth, cold, and beautiful. What Klemens disliked most was precisely this: that he could not gauge what she was thinking or feeling. One might as well attempt to read the thoughts of a porcelain doll.
He merely shrugged in response, staring ahead with an equally stony expression, unaware that half of the assembly watched him rather than the orchestra.
For a new scandalous rumour was making the rounds: that the youngest archduke was willing to set aside his birthright, even his succession to the throne, for the love of a woman no one knew.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“You areto be on duty tonight,” Drimmel informed Pippa the following night. “His Imperial Highness is to receive visitors.”
“Again?” Pippa groaned.
Drimmel didn’t scold her. “Let us hope it’s not as bad as the previous night,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. Then he gave her a critical look. “You are to stay alert, for you may be summoned at any time.”
“Surely he won’t ask me to go into the room when it’s full of visitors?” Pippa exclaimed. “I’m not a footman.”
“No. He dismissed his old footmen.” Drimmel shrugged. “Dismissed the entire lot, maids too. Espionage,” he added curtly. “And took you on instead. I don’t know what he sees in you, but he specifically asked for you. You’re to assist the female guests and clean up any spills or accidents.”
Pippa swallowed. “But that would require me to enter the salon in the presence of the guests.”
Drimmel nodded. “You must go about your work swiftly and invisibly.”
She nearly laughed. “Invisibly. Very well. I shall try my best.”
He ordered Pippa to sit on a footstool in the corner near the tiled chimney until she was needed.
For a change, Pippa was only too glad to obey, for she was exhausted. The stove’s warmth enveloped her like a blanket. She was content to remain half hidden behind a tall potted plant, where she could observe the guests without herself being seen. She was called only twice to assist the ladies with torn hems and wine-stained shawls or to sew on a stray button. The work was light and, despite her dislike of sewing, pleasant. The ladies chatted freely while she was with them, as if they did not fully register her as a person, yet accepted her presence.
From their conversation, she learned the Tsar was not to appear that evening.
“They say the Princess Bagration made a scene that shook the walls,” one woman said as she adjusted her shawl in front of the mirror. “Out of jealousy. So he didn’t come tonight; he is placating her in his own apartments.”
Pippa smiled faintly, remembering the scene the princess had made when she first encountered her. She understood now that the princess had not meant to seduce Klemens, but intended to use him to make the Tsar jealous. But Klemens had refused to take part. He had insisted upon this several times since.
Wasn’t this evidence enough that he hadn’t changed?
