The ballroom was ablazewith lights that shimmered in the crystal prisms of the chandeliers. Pippa ran a nervous hand along the fine pink silk of her ballgown, while her gaze swept over the room, taking in the clusters of well-dressed people who stood about or danced, the orchestra, the flowers, and the candles. She fixed on those, attempting to form a reasonable estimate of the total number of candles in the room. Six massive chandeliers, she counted, easily a hundred candles on each. Not to mention the lights affixed to the side columns and the walls. How much would the total be, then? Her mind settled as she focused on the calculation.
Mimi stepped up to her and took her arm, tearing her out of her calculations. “Come,” she said. “This promises to be an exceptionally interesting evening. Everyone is here.” Her eyes swept the room. “And there is a particular gentleman I’ve had my eyes on, a military man, tall, distinguished, all the crack…”
As she and Mimi threaded their way through thethrong, a man stepped into their path. Elegant, suave, smiling.
Metternich.
He cut a dashing figure in evening wear as he bowed over the Archduchess’ hand, looking deeply into her eyes. “Your Imperial Highness,” he murmured. “Dare I say you are the most charming of ladies attending this evening tonight? There are few who could hold a candle to you, and none who would dare try."
Mimi giggled. “What nonsense. You know how to flatter, Prince. Why anyone still listens to you, I cannot imagine.”
He placed his hand on his heart. “You misjudge me cruelly, Highness. I am the very soul of sincerity.”
The man could be quite charming when he wanted to be, though likely it was all based on political calculation. What did he hope to secure from Mimi?
He looked up fleetingly over Mimi’s head and met Pippa’s gaze directly. “Fräulein Cranwell.”
This was the moment. In a bold move, Pippa extended her hand for him to take and kiss. If he was a gentleman, he would ignore the impropriety of her action and follow suit.
Thankfully, he was a gentleman. He took her hand and kissed it.
Quickly she turned it and pressed a small note into his hand. In it, she’d written in cramped handwriting what she had overheard in the servants’ hall.
Aside from a knowing gleam in his eyes, he did not react at all. The note disappeared unobtrusively into the inner pocket of his evening coat.
Then he turned back to Mimi.
Pippa breathed a sigh of relief.
She had done her part. The rest was out of her hands.
Metternich led Mimi to make a formation for the polonaise, which signalled the beginning of the ball.
The first notes of music started. Pippa stood by the wall and watched as the couples walked into the room, according to their rank. There was the Tsar, tall and blond and smiling broadly. Pippa started when she recognised the lady: it was the selfsame woman who had been in Klemens’ chambers. She was exquisitely dressed in a silver gown and laden with diamonds, beaming in all directions. Pippa was glad to see her smiling.
Then came the King of Denmark, the King of Prussia, and Metternich himself, escorting Mimi.
“The Kaiser is not attending tonight,” murmured a lady beside her, fluttering her peacock fan. “They say he is unwell.”
“I hope it is nothing serious,” her companion responded.
“ Influenza is making the rounds,” another replied airily. “Oh! Look! Our Prince Lucifer looks as divine as ever.”
Pippa’s head snapped up just as another couple entered the ballroom, the final pair in the polonaise formation.
She caught her breath. In his white uniform, with the broad sash and glittering orders across his chest, he looked almost unearthly: every inch the archduke, every inch untouchable. So familiar, yet strange. She wasunprepared for the sharp, aching pain that shot through her.
He took his position in the polonaise. His expression was that of boredom, cool and imperious.
His gloved hand was extended, and upon it rested the delicate fingers of the Grand Duchess.
“She is beautiful, but aloof,” the lady next to her said. “Alas, it appears she has not been able to touch our prince’s heart. He looks as though he were carved out of marble. They say his heart was given away to someone else long ago.”
Pippa fidgeted uncomfortably.
“Do you know who she could be?”
“I daresay it must be the Naked Angel,” she tittered. “If not her, then possibly the Duchess of Sagan.”
