A Foreign Affair (11 page)

By this time they had reached the landau, where the princess, after one glance at their faces, sighed gently. “Oh, dear. I do hope Helena has not been too impatient with you. Major. She simply does not understand that not everyone possesses such a thorough knowledge and understanding of diplomatic affairs as she does, and she is inclined to express her opinions somewhat forcefully.” The princess shook her head apologetically, as though her daughter’s intense political debates and their subsequent disagreements were all too common an occurrence. “Well, never mind. Let us talk of something that is more amusing.”

She glanced around her at the flags, the patriotic decorations, and the throngs of people. “In general, I would say that Vienna is inferior to London; however, the Prater is very pretty and compares quite favorably with Hyde Park. Do you not think so, Major? I admit that I infinitely prefer ballrooms to parks myself, a carriage ride now and then is all the nature I can take, but to Helena, the Prater is a godsend. She is quite a dedicated horsewoman, and people who know about these things tell me that she is most accomplished. And you too, Major, are someone accustomed to spending a great deal of time in the saddle. You must appreciate it for the same reasons she does.”

The princess chattered gaily on, now smiling at Brett, now nodding to her daughter until she succeeded in drawing the two of them back into some semblance of friendly conversation. It was slow going at first, for the two of them truly had appeared to be at daggers drawn when they returned from their stroll, but the princess’ charm was such that eventually they quite forgot their differences and found themselves chuckling at her wealth of amusing
on dits.

And it was not until he was climbing the interminable flights of stairs to his room many hours later that Brett finally recalled the original point that had turned their discussion from amicable to acrimonious. Did Helena Devereau really think it possible that Napoleon Bonaparte could rally enough support to be a serious threat to the fragile peace now being painstakingly hammered out in Vienna’s drawing rooms?

He racked his brain trying to remember von Stieglitz’s every word and every gesture, if von Stieglitz was even the real name of the man who had accosted him in the Prater. But Brett could recall nothing that seemed to support Miss Devereux’s suspicions that the man was a spy except for her claims about his Saxon accent and the Saxons’ loyalties to Napoleon. Surely she was overreacting? Surely von Stieglitz was just a congenial young man making pleasant conversation with one of the city’s many foreign visitors. Undoubtedly if Brett had been Italian, he would have made some equally appropriate comment. It was Miss Devereux’s total immersion in politics that made her so unusually sensitive to the possible implications of everything, even when there were none.

It would do her good to clear her head by taking more of that fresh air and exercise her mother had alluded to. It was bound to give her a better perspective on things.

Her mother!
Brett chuckled to himself as he recalled the secret smile on the princess’ face when she had introduced Helena as her daughter. She had known what Brett’s reaction would be and had taken great pleasure in his astonishment when he had learned that the youthful, vivacious, beautiful, not to mention flirtatious, Princess von Hohenbachern was die mother of a young woman. And she was the mother of not just any young woman, but the serious, the studious, the passionately political Miss Devereux.

It was hard to believe that the intellectual Miss Devereux was related in any way to the pleasure-loving princess. How could two such very different women be mother and daughter? Intrigued by the paradox of it all, Brett paused on the top step of the landing in front of his chambers. Were they so different, or was there, under the daughter’s reserved intellectual exterior, a creature as alive and vibrant as the mother? Certainly, during the conversations he had had with Miss Devereux, she had done her best to convince him that she despised the things that amused her mother as so much foolishness and considered them to be so frivolous as to be beneath her, but he wondered. Clearly Helena Devereux was a passionate creature, though in her case the passion was an intellectual one fired by political idealism. What if that passion were to be redirected to something less intellectual, something more sensual perhaps? It was an intriguing notion and Brett found himself, much against his better judgment, tempted to put it to the test.

Chapter Ten

It was only a few days later that Brett was presented with just such an opportunity as, taking advantage of the continued and unusual warm spell, he decided to extend his morning routine after the completion of their exercises in the Prater with a leisurely exploration of its many paths. It was a glorious day, and Rex, who had been accustomed to a much more demanding existence on the Peninsula, seemed as loathe to return to the British delegation as his master. The two of them trotted sedately along the alley under the chestnut trees, enjoying the fineness of the day and their escape from the narrow confines of the city.

Suddenly there was a pounding of hooves behind them, and an enormous bay shot past at tremendous speed. Rex, who had been as absorbed as his master in the soporific atmosphere of the beautiful autumn day, pricked up his ears and tugged at the reins. Brett’s attention, captured first by the magnificent animal, quickly focused on the trim figure of the rider—a woman, and a very impressive woman indeed—who sat her horse with the grace and ease of one born to the saddle.

Thoroughly intrigued, he urged his own horse forward and they were off, thundering down the length of the alley. When Rex at last caught up with the horse and rider at the far end of the Prater, all the somnolence of the day had worn off. The horse and its mistress raced on as though the hounds of hell were after them; indeed, it almost seemed as though they would continue their headlong rush until they plunged into the Danube itself, but at the last possible minute they wheeled to gallop back toward the city. It was only then that horse and rider became aware of their pursuers.

The rider reined in her horse with a strength that was surprising for such a slender frame and waited for Brett and Rex to catch up with them.

As he approached, Brett could not help thinking that somehow the rider knew him. Perhaps it was the fact that she had halted instead of tearing back past him, or perhaps it was the tilt of the head under the high-crowned hat Whatever it was, there was definitely a suggestion that, whoever she might be, she was very well aware of who he was.

“Good morning. Major.” In spite of her furious pace and abrupt halt. Miss Devereux did not appear to be the least out of breath. She addressed him as coolly and calmly as if he had just been ushered into her library. Did nothing unsettle the woman?

Prompted by a devilish impulse he could not explain, Brett determined to try—anything to shake that air of composure. “I hope I am not disturbing you.”

“Disturbing me? No. But why would you be disturbing me?”

At least he had succeeded in making her look faintly surprised. “Well, usually young ladies in this city do not come alone to the Prater at this hour unless they are indulging in a romantic assignation.”

“A romantic assignation!” The delicate eyebrows rose in astonishment and then quickly lowered into a scornful scowl. “How dare you! I would no more indulge in such . . .” Thoroughly annoyed, she gathered the reins in her hands and prepared to urge her horse forward.

Brett chuckled. “No, please. Miss Devereux, do not go. Forgive me for teasing you. I could not help myself. Of course you are not here for an assignation.”

Paradoxically enough, his swift apology did not appear to mollify her.

In fact, Helena herself could not explain this new spurt of indignation in response to his swift apology.
Of course you are not here for an assignation.
Naturally she did not wish to be thought of in the same terms as the Princess Bagration, the Duchess of Sagan, or even her own mother, as just another flirtatious woman taking advantage of the scores of powerful and attractive men gathered in the city. Still, she did not relish being written off
so
quickly, as though she were an antidote or an ape-leader, especially by the dashing Major Lord Brett Stanford. No, she did not want that at all. “And, pray tell, what makes you so sure that I am not here for a ... for ... an assignation.”

He brought Rex close enough to her so that he could cup her chin with one gloved hand. A playful smile hovered around his lips as he turned her face toward him. “Because, my dear, you do not have the look of it.”

“The look?”

“Believe me. Miss Devereux, I have, er
attended
many such meetings myself, and there is usually a look of eagerness about the eyes, a delicate flush on the cheeks”— he removed his glove to trace her lips with a gentle finger—”and a redness about the lips of young ladies about to meet someone. You, my dear young lady, exhibit none of these signs. Or, if you had already been with some handsome young diplomat, your eyes would be soft and dreamy instead of dear and bright. Your lips would be swollen from a lover’s kiss, your breathing would be erratic. No, Miss Devereux, you show no signs of such weakness. You are alert, aware, and fully in command of yourself and the situation as always.”

Helena was not at all sure she agreed with the accuracy of his statement. The warmth of his finger on her lips was in fact producing all the signs he identified as being absent. Her cheeks were hot, her lips tingled, her heart, usually a most reliable organ, was pounding in her chest, and even the simple act of breathing was impossibly difficult at the moment. She gulped and strove to regain her composure. “Of ... of course I do not show signs of such weakness. One person in a family who indulges in such things is quite enough; there is no need for another.”

Where had the bitterness come from? Ordinarily she was able to keep a healthy perspective on her mother’s affairs. Could it be that she was at this moment just the tiniest bit jealous of someone who had not only enjoyed, but doubtless inspired many such romantic assignations?

“Oh, so it is like that, is it?” His tone was teasing, but there was a wealth of sympathy in the blue eyes, and the hand that had cupped her chin now closed over her own hand in a reassuring clasp. “Someone in the family had to have her wits about her while others were being, ah,
carried away.”

The statement was so accurate that Helena could only stare at him and nod dumbly. At last she found her voice. “Well, yes. I mean, in a way, that is quite true. Mama has always been a far better judge of style than character. And since she always places her entire happiness on the man of the moment, this has led to a rather precarious existence. My real father was only the first of many. I never knew him, but according to Mama he was extremely dashing and romantic, but wild to a fault, and they moved with a very fast set. He would gamble on anything and everything. She would too.” Helena stopped, appalled. What was she doing sharing such things with a near stranger, things she had not fully acknowledged even to herself?

“Come, let us walk and you shall tell me about it.” Brett dismounted and came around to offer his hand to Helena, but, not to his surprise, she had already slid off her horse before he could help her down.

For reasons she could not fathom, Helena found herself pouring out the sordid details of her early existence. “They went through my father’s inheritance at a great rate, so much so that when he died, she was left deep in debt. But she refused help from his family and hers because it would have meant being forced to live quietly and respectably in the country with the family. Instead, she looked to other admirers to help her out of her desperate financial straits, but all they did was make her try to forget her worries by seeking further amusement. Or, worse yet, they encouraged her to recoup her losses by gambling further. With each new admirer came the new hope that this one would solve her problems, but the men she was drawn to were not the men with enough substance to do such a thing. She fell deeper and deeper into debt, and the more desperate her circumstances, the more her admirers—all bent on their own amusement— drifted away until Papa appeared and offered her marriage. By this time her reputation was in ruins, as well as her finances, so to avoid it all, she married him and fled to the Continent. But he was forced to be away from home so much that she soon became restless and unhappy. She needs constant attention and admiration to keep her happy.”

“And you, having witnessed all this, have resolved not to follow in her footsteps.”

“Never! It is the height of absurdity to place one’s entire dependence for happiness on another person. What does one do if that person is not there? Fall into a decline? No.” She shook her head vigorously. “We are all responsible for our own happiness, to make of our own lives what we will.”

Lost in memories of the past, of watching the string of admirers who came and went, raising her mother’s hopes and dashing them as they appeared and disappeared, Helena paused by a small ornamental pool and sat down on the rock next to it. Unable to resist the lure of the water, sparkling in the warm autumn sunshine, she pulled off her glove and dipped her fingers in it. Trailing them slowly back and forth, she recalled all the men her mother had said were going to rescue them from their dubious existence, men who had no sooner appeared in their lives than they had disappeared.

Eventually one of them had rescued them. He had given them a home and a family, but he had been unable to rescue the princess from the crushing boredom that came along with the security he offered. For Helena, the peaceful bucolic existence had been a dream come true. For her mother, it had been closer to a nightmare of rustic isolation, the very thing she had been avoiding when she refused to live with her family or the family of her dead husband.

Brett watched in fascination as the slim white fingers drew twinkling ripples in the water as though they were caressing it. The simple sensuality of it quite took his breath away, and be suddenly had a vision of her cavorting naked in the water like Diana at her bath. Something in her dreamy expression—the half-closed eyes, the gently parted lips—suggested to him that she was thinking the same thing he was, that she longed to pull off her clothes and plunge into the crystal-clear water.