Page 73 of The Grand Mistletoe Assembly
CAPTURED AT THE BALL BY SARA ADRIEN
Spice Level ????
CHAPTER 1
This is the story of thevillains in all their evil glory. It serves as aprequelto the 'Check Mates' series and shows how much antagonism the Check Mates heroes will have to overcome. The union of the villains in this story amplifies their menacing power, setting the stage for a monumental clash with 'Check Mates' heroes. Join their beginning as they face the first hero of the Check Mates series, Baron Gregory Stone, before you see these villains from the heroes' points of view in the Check Mates series. Rest assured, the villains will be defeated and wrongs will be righted in spectacular fashion in the forthcoming books.
LONDON, 1820
Wolfgang rolled his eyes at the carriages driving through puddles along Pall Mall as he closed his umbrella and shook off the rain. Nasty weather here in England, with unpredictable rain showers that would span days. Days! Like the heavens opened and cried every time Wolfgang wanted to set foot outside in London. Had the weather no respect? Back home in Prussia, the weather was more predictable. Everything had its place, including the rain. Specifically, in autumn, the gloomy time of year. But that was all right because it was when the vintners brought him wine to taste, the butcher delivered pickles and roasted pigs, and the harvest gave a multitude of distractions to a country gentleman. The question was how much longer he could occupy this role. All Wolfgang had was his father’s ultimatum—either produce an heir or lose the title and his inheritance.
And that’s what Wolfgang was, the lord over several hectares of agricultural land near Althof along the rivers Pregel, Inster, and Angerapp. His breweries traded in some of the most coveted beers in the empire, the dark ones with a malty aftertaste that had been boiled until they turned Maillard brown, and the acidic ones with more hops to give just the right fogginess to their color. Wolfgang always thought he’d pleased his family with the output of his lands, and they’d let him reign freely around Königsberg.
But it had all changed when the Crown Prince Frederick William of Prussia injected some funds last year and his father had renovated their baroque family seat. “The only son we can spare,” Father had said. His two brothers had moved to their own seats, founding families and raising their status, but there had been nothing left for him. Wilhelm and his wife, a princess of Modena, Italy, were in Breslau, Silesia, tucked away in the country where he could enjoy his mistresses. He must have brought five or six children to Christmas last year. Wolfgang was not interested enough to count. His other brother, Johann, was in Schleswig. He’d married one of their first cousins, Maria Luisa, a Swedish princess with quite a zest for life. Always busy at the university, Johann was a prolific scholar of literature by day and a merry host for lovers of art and wine by night. His wife seemed to play along and entertained prominent guests nearly every day. Exhausting.
Wolfgang preferred to stay home in Königsberg, East Prussia, in the most lavish castle. His parents rarely knew whether he was home or not. They’d never reserved any niceties for him. As the youngest son, his mother called him the runt of the litter. On good days, he was herNesthäkchen, the nestling.
Also not reserved for him was a princess. His brothers and older cousins had snatched away all the eligible candidates to marry. At age thirty-four, all Wolfgang was looking for in a bride—not that he’d ever find one—was a complacent wife who would never speak up against him or otherwise interfere with his affairs. “Komm mir nicht in die Quere,” don’t get in my way, was his favorite catchphrase. At least one thing the British got right waslaissez-faire, let me be, borrowed from the French.
Whom he couldn’t let be, however, were the Jews in England, a problem that had caught on like a forest fire in July. Some of the Jews in Prussia had gotten wind of the connections made in London by a certain Pearler family. They had a virtual diamond dynasty of jewelers, footholds in the countryside, and sway in Parliament. If nobody stopped this madness, the Jews would soon be naturalized. Just like the slogans he’d seen in the papers, silver etchings of peasants, arm-in-arm, marching along the Champs-Élysées in Paris and screamingliberté,égalité,fraternité. Liberty, equality, fraternity. Preposterous.
Father had been right. This had to stop before the disease spread. The people had no respect anymore. No appreciation for the noble elite and aristocratic bloodlines, almost as if society were turning into a meritocracy. And where would that lead? Surely, all one could expect from a country in which virtually anyone could ascend in society through hard work and riches was doom. “Da wird einem ja die Hölle heiss,” he’d be on hot footing indeed, he mumbled in German.
Wolfgang handed the doorman his umbrella but followed him with his eyes. He didn’t have enough money to purchase another umbrella, so he wanted to know in which metal bucket his was placed. They all looked the same in London, black with wooden sticks. Walking canes were almost superfluous in England. It rained so often that a sturdy umbrella was more useful.
“Ah, Baron von List,” said Mr. Colthurst, the club’s host.
Brooks’s. A private club at 49 Pall Mall, neighboring the infamous Almack’s. A sort of aristocratic meat marriage mart. Wolfgang needed a wife and had been to a few balls. He needed to bring a baroness home and succeed in his mission, or else he’d lose his inheritance. The runt of the litter, indeed. And he had to produce an heir for his title before he succumbed to his condition, or the Barony von List would revert to his cousin’s line, and Wolfgang couldn’t have that! The Bavarians had plenty.
Wolfgang proceeded to the back room. He’d gambled enough, but chess was his game of choice. The matches were longer, the stakes higher, the opponents smarter, and he loved strategizing for hours. His brothers enjoyed boxing and other sports of brute force, but Wolfgang could evaluate a certain chess move for hours. Even memorize games from books he’d read about the game.
“Ah, Baron von List, please join me, will you?” A stately Brit walked toward him and reached for his hand to greet him. “Everyone else is”—the young athletic man cleared his throat—“rather inebriated and not quite able to strategize as I hoped.”
“Say no more, Lord Stone. It would be my pleasure to play a round.” Wolfgang didn’t like Baron Gregory Stone, a member of Parliament. He was young and had led a privileged life, even though his family was only recently ennobled. Converted Jews. Wolfgang tasted acid. As if a mere baptism could redeem their bloodline and earn the pope’s favor. They weren’t Catholic here anyhow. But as unholy as Baron Stone was, he was a pretty fantastic chess opponent, and Wolfgang itched to outman him on the checkered board. Maybe he could manage it today.
“What are we playing for tonight?” he asked, pulling out his coins.
“I’m afraid I lost all my money for the day against an old friend. Would you be willing to take something else?”
“No, I play for money.”
Stone rifled through his inside pocket. “I have something that has become rather valuable in London these days, but it wouldn’t be right to play for it.”
That captured Wolfgang’s attention. If it wasn’t right, it was perfect for him indeed. “What is it?”
“A ticket for two to the Grand Mistletoe Assembly. I don’t suppose you were planning to attend the ball?”
Wolfgang blinked incredulously. This was the ideal opportunity to dive into the lions’ den and examine his targets, the Jewish hosts of the charity ball. He surely didn’t want to stay in England longer than necessary to accomplish his mission of resolving the Jew question, as Father had called it. But attending a Christmas ball in their house? It lacked all manners of good taste.
“When is it?”
“Next week.”
“The Christmas ball isbeforeChristmas?” Wolfgang rubbed his chin. It was absurd. Back home, the markets were bustling with excitement before the holidays, the firs were hung with ribbons and alight with candles, and there were no Jews throwing society balls before the holiday even started. Oh, he’d rather be home sipping someGlühwein—mulled wine—and tumbling the local peasant girls in the stables.
“It’s for a good cause, as you know. To support a foundling home.”
“Well then, I must attend, mustn’t I?” Wolfgang ventured as he turned to the chessboard. He always played white. Always.
