Tempting Fate (28 page)

Gerwald smiled indulgently. “Operetta is froth, meine Freude. Well enough for an evening, but nothing—”

“But what is life without a little froth?” Walpurga asked with the ghost of an impish smile. “There is so much dreary and tragic all around us, what is the harm in wanting a bit of pastry instead of all that suffering?”

“You’re probably right, Frau Bohle,” Amalie said at once, before, Simeon or Gerwald Bohle could speak. “After a day dealing with children, I don’t want to listen to anything heavier than Lehar. When I was younger, it was different. Mozart was not deep enough for me.” She paid no attention to the shock of her announcement. “My brother was a violinist, and a very serious boy. There were times he thought Wagner was on the frivolous side.” The corners of her mouth turned down. “He died in Poland, four years ago.” The sudden hush in the conservatory distressed her. “Please. I didn’t intend to mention that. It’s inexcusable. I never meant to…”

To Gudrun’s relief, it was Ragoczy, who smoothed over the awkwardness. “Hardly inexcusable, Frau Schnaubel. It is evident that you cherished your brother, and find consolation in the things he loved best. All of us have done that at one time or another.” He got up from the divan and came toward his hostess. “I didn’t think I was sending you on such an expedition, Frau Ostneige. I will be fortunate indeed if you ask for nothing more than a word of apology.”

“You’re being absurd, Graf,” Gudrun objected at once. “I’ve asked Otto to bring the cloak. It may take a moment; he’s no longer young and he has other duties to attend to.” She wanted desperately to be alone with her hochgeborn guest, and the admission of this longing irritated her. It would not do! She had greater discipline than this.

“If it is an imposition, tell me where the cloak is and I’ll go get it.” He sensed Gudrun’s inner turmoil, but did not guess its cause.

“Of course not. Otto will attend to it.” She looked at the two couples with satisfaction. Yes, they were doing better, talking and enjoying themselves: their faces were attentive and their voices animated, whereas half ah hour ago they had been plodding through empty formalities. It would be safe to leave them, assured that there would be no reason to worry about them. “You will think me hopelessly flighty, but I must see to my other guests.” There was nothing unusual in this announcement, but Gudrun felt a stab of guilt when she realized that she was waiting for Ragoczy to come with her. She would not accept his escort, of course, but the offer would mean so much. Fearing to put the matter to the test, she left the conservatory quickly, going down the hall at a pace so brisk it was almost flight.

“Rudi,” Otto admonished as he watched her approach. “A woman your age should not dash about the halls this way. What would your father say, if he could see you?”

Gudrun gave him an over-bright smile. “He would doubtless say just what you have said. But if my father were here, I should not have to be both host and hostess at this terrible party.” Belatedly she noticed the long cloak of black silk Otto carried and bit her lower lip. “I must see to the guests in the dining room. The buffet will be served soon, won’t it?”

“Yes. But Rudi! Wait! Maxl said he…” Otto shrugged as he started once again toward the conservatory, shaking his head as he thought about Gudrun’s misfortunes. He was brought up short by an elegant, compact figure coming toward him. “Graf. I did not see you. May I direct you—?”

“Your mistress, where is she?” Ragoczy asked in a voice that managed to be pleasant for all its curtness.

“In the dining room, or so I think. I was trying to tell her that Maxl wants his friends to join in the buffet, but they’re getting rowdy.” Otto’s eyes grew sorrowful. He had expected better of his favorite.

“I’ll warn her,” Ragoczy told him. “Where are these stalwarts now?”

“In the library. Talking politics, the way they do at the Hirsch Furt.” He lifted his shoulders to indicate there was nothing a servant could do, then added, “Sometimes he goes up to Herr Ostneige’s room and reads to him.”

“Very kind,” Ragoczy said wryly. “I’ll have to find Frau Ostneige quickly, then.” A wave of his hand sent Otto off down the hall, while he continued toward the dining room. He was not entirely startled to find her outside the entrance to the dining room, hands clasped tightly in front of her, her jaw rigid with suppressed emotion. “Frau Ostneige,” he said quietly.

Her eyes flew open and she paled. “You!” She took a hasty step back.

Ragoczy frowned. “Frau Ostneige, I seem to have offended you. If I have done so, it was inadvertent, and I ask your pardon for whatever it was I have done.”

“Offended me? Oh, no.” Her slender hands came up to her face. “I wish you had not found me, though I wanted you to.” She smiled miserably. “It’s not fitting that I should talk to you this way. Pray put it from your mind.”

“If that would satisfy you, then naturally I will.” He did not step closer to her, though he had a moment when he would have taken her in his arms if she had moved toward him at all.

“Thank you, Graf.” Almost unwillingly, she corrected herself. “Saint-Germain.”

“For what, Frau Ostneige?” His dark eyes rested on her. “Your servant, the old man—I assume that’s Otto—wished me to tell you that your brother and his guests intend to come to the buffet. Am I correct in guessing that this will be difficult?”

“What? He must not…! Oh, Maxl!” Gudrun would like to have screamed at Maximillian. Just when she had got the party moving properly, Maxl and his friends would return and the evening would be in ruins.

Ragoczy saw the annoyance and disappointment in her face, and said, “Would you prefer this did not happen, Frau Ostneige?”

“Yes. Emphatically.” She smoothed her dress in an effort to compose herself. “They will only want to discuss the political and military situation. It is bad enough with the Frei Korps skulking about the mountains, but when these friends of his start to talk about cultural heritage and the rest of it, it’s un
bear
able. Only Natter agrees with them, and he cannot stand to listen to them too long. Earlier this evening, before they retired to the library, they had made themselves odious to everyone, particularly the Schnaubels. I never imagined that my brother would be so terribly rude to a guest in this house. He practically accused Herr Schnaubel of raping Christian women in order to pollute the race. It’s all nonsense! Polluting the race, of all things, and the Schnaubels. They’re our neighbors! Mein Gott!” She had kept her voice from rising, but the tension in her was like a current of electricity.

He looked at her, and some of his calm communicated itself to her. “Gnädige Frau, you must not do this to yourself. You’re distraught—understandably so. But your guests ought not know it. No one will notice if you are gone for ten minutes. Those in the dining room will assume you are in the conservatory, and the others will believe that you are in the dining room. Go to your bedchamber and put lavender water on your temples and fix your hair. It will help. I’ll do what I can to keep your brother and his friends from leaving the library.” He was standing partially in shadow, and his face could not be read.

She gave him a short, baffled stare. “Why would you do this? It is not your concern.”

“I live in this district. That is a factor. I’ve given a few dreadful parties myself. And you have been … kind to me.” He did not add that he was attracted by her strength, which she did not know she possessed.

“I? Kind?” She shook her head so forcefully that more strands came loose from her carefully-knotted and pinned coiffure to tumble around her face. “Oh, no, Graf. I am not kind.” Before she could reveal more of her feelings, she said, “I’ll do it. If you’re sure…”

“Yes. Go on.” He said it lightly so that she would be less uneasy, but once she had gone, he grew serious once more. As he stepped into the light, the shine from a gas bracket showed that his frown had deepened. It had not been his intention to involve himself with these people at Wolkighügel, and he came to the party this evening in the hope that his appearance here would take the place of several tedious individual visits. He had not been prepared for Frau Ostneige, and that bothered him. His eyes strayed once to the way she had gone; then he turned his mind to more practical things. Long experience had taught him that it was most imprudent to press his luck with neighbors, no matter how kind or how attractive.

No one had told him where the library was, but he had seen a fair number of these large houses before and was willing to make an educated guess. The first door he tried opened onto a small room with beautiful draperies, which Ragoczy assumed was the breakfast room. He closed the door and continued along the passage. As he walked, he heard the sound of belligerent voices coming from behind the double oaken doors at the end of the hallway.

“No one in the Thule Gesellschaft should ascribe to such views!” insisted one of the contenders in a loud, slurred tone.

“You’re not the one to make decisions for the Bruderschaft,” reprimanded another. “When you’ve advanced, you will understand.”

“This isn’t the Middle Ages, Friedrich. Theodor is right. We must search for other solutions here. A paper is the best answer, not for news, as we have now, but to promote our views. The rituals should be saved for the more advanced Initiates.” This last man was considerably less drunk than the others. His voice was powerful and clear. “It will not be done overnight, but with Dietrich here to help us, it will come to pass. In two or three months at the most we may all return to München and take up our lives again.”

There were sounds of encouragement, and hearing this, Ragoczy decided it was time to interrupt. He rapped on the door. “Your pardon, gentlemen. I must ask you a question on behalf of your hostess.”

The men in the library fell silent at once, except for what might have been a curse. There was a shuffling of chairs, the sound of a breaking glass, and then the door was opened by a tall young man with hair a lighter blond than his sister’s. Ragoczy saw the resemblance at once, though he noticed there was a slackness around the brother’s mouth that had little to do with drink. The young man glared down insolently at Ragoczy. “Who’re you?”

“A guest of your sister,” Ragoczy said affably. “She has deputized me to speak for her.” He waited to be invited into the room.

For the better part of a minute it seemed that Maximillian would shut the door in the newcomer’s face, but then he stepped back, providing just enough room for Ragoczy to enter the library.

There were nine men gathered around the fire, one or two holding open books, each with balloon snifters near at hand but for the broken glass on the floor by the feet of a thin, nervous man in his fifties. One of the men turned to Ragoczy and gave him a swift, covert scrutiny. “Who is this gentleman, Altbrunnen?” His voice identified him as the sober man who had been speaking just before Ragoczy knocked on the door.

Maximillian stared at Ragoczy. “I haven’t seen him before.”

“Allow me to introduce myself,” Ragoczy said to the assembly. “I have recently come into this area, to my Schloss. I am Franchot Ragoczy.” He prounounced the first name again, with great care. “
Fran
-zhot, not Fran-
cho.
”

“Ragoczy is a noteworthy name.” The speaker was a red-faced, rotund man sitting back in one of the chairs.

“Indeed,” Ragoczy said.

“What does my sister want now?” Maximillian demanded. His handsome face was truculent and his dark blue eyes glittered.

“Why, only to make your evening more … comfortable,” Ragoczy answered. “It is nearing the time for the buffet supper, and it occurred to her that since you have been busy for most of the evening, you might not want to interrupt your discussions for nothing more than half an hour of unprofitable conversation with the other guests. If it would suit you and your associates to have your buffet served here, she will have it done.”

The sober man gave Ragoczy an appraising look. “Very generous of her,” he said with a great deal of meaning.

“Wasn’t it,” Ragoczy agreed.

“That’s my sister,” Maximillian said, wholly unaware of the critical byplay between the two men. “Most of the time she’s well enough, and my father taught her a few things. Good for her. That’s sensible of her, for a change.”

“Then you would like the buffet brought to you here?” Ragoczy asked to assuage Maximillian’s vanity.

“Yes, yes, that’s right.” He was about to open the door when he turned to Ragoczy. “What’s your name again?”

“Ragoczy,” was the reply.

This time Maximillian essayed a friendly smile. “I recall now. The one who owns Schloss Saint-Germain. Been meaning to call on you, but haven’t got round to it yet.” He held out his hand. “Sehr angenehm, Herr Graf.”

“Schloss Saint-Germain,” the sober man said as Ragoczy shook hands with Maximillian. “You have yet another remarkable name.”

“Never mind Alfred,” Maximillian said. “He’s always looking for significance in things. I’ve heard from one of the workmen that you’re planning to install an electrical generator at Schloss Saint-Germain. That’s damned enterprising of you.” Before Ragoczy could respond or Maximillian continue, Alfred had approached them.

“Do you happen to know,” he said in a forceful way, “if your Schloss is in any way associated with the eighteenth-century mystic of the same name?”

“If you’re referring to le Comte de Saint-Germain, I believe there is some connection, yes.” Ragoczy had assumed the blandest of expressions and spoke with an urbanity he was far from feeling. “Why do you ask?”

The other men in the room were leaning forward now, and one of them had got out of his chair and moved closer.

“Oh, curiosity,” Alfred said with a wave of his hand. “This little study group of ours”—his gesture included all the men in the room—“occasionally delves into the occult, and a few of our members believe that he, that is, Saint-Germain, was one of the founders of the Bruderschaft.”

“As I understand it,” Ragoczy told him with the air of a man who has explained a minor misconception too often to enjoy it, “Saint-Germain has been credited with a great many things that he had little or nothing to do with.”