A Foreign Affair (2 page)

“No
other woman at the Congress has been distinguished by such marked attention?
But, Mama, I thought you only met him last evening.”

“Met him, yes. Julie Zichy introduced us last evening, but it is certainly not the first time I have laid eyes on him; everyone knows Major Lord Brett Stanford. He is a much sought after gentleman, and indeed, he dances divinely—so graceful, and such a fine figure of a man— but then, cavalry officers always do.”

“He is a cavalry officer?” The image of one very skilled and athletic cavalry officer flashed before Helena’s eyes. If her mother’s cavalry officer were anything like the rider whose equestrian prowess she had witnessed in the Prater an hour ago, small wonder that all of Vienna, or at least its female contingent, was well aware of his presence.

“Yes, and quite a hero as well, if half of the stories one heats are true. He was with Wellington in the Peninsula and then accompanied him to Paris.”

“And what is this cavalry officer doing in Vienna besides inciting competition among its already highly competitive female population? I suppose he has something to offer beyond excellent dancing skills and flirtation.”

“Really, Helena, you need not sound so scornful. These
dancing skills
and
flirtations, as
you call them, can have far-reaching consequences—not that
I
waste my time dabbling in politics, but others do. A few approving glances or encouraging smiles directed at the right person at the right time can be just as effective, if not more so, than all those everlastingly dull political discussions you attend at the Princess von Furstenberg’s. And they are certainly far more amusing. As to what he is doing here, Julie Zichy says that Wellington made him his aide in Paris because he can write French as well as speak it, something that the rest of the British seem unable to do. And now, his skills are needed here. Can you credit it that not one other person among all those people attached to the British delegation can write in the language? Certainly, the man speaks it quite charmingly, and with all the courtesy of a Prince de Ligne or a Talleyrand. One wonders where he learned.” The dreamy look that stole into the princess’ eyes suggested that the French phrases over which the gentleman had such command were not only well spoken, but highly complimentary.

The princess paused to tilt her head back as Marie gently smoothed the miracle jelly her mistress had recently discovered on the princess’ smooth white neck and shoulders. Composed of various herbs, moss, and honey, it was reputed to rejuvenate everything it touched; however, Helena, who watched idly as the maid applied the precious concoction, was not at all sure that the results were worth the extra hour a day this regime demanded. Her mother’s skin was as flawless as it had always been, though nothing her daughter could say would ever convince the princess that even someone endowed with natural beauty should not be ever vigilant. “But, Mama, those discussions are at least interesting.”

“I said
amusing,
love, not
interesting.
I am sure all the discussions at the princess’ are very interesting, else you would not be there, but the rest of them are dull dogs indeed—von Schulenberg, Gartner, Gagern, and the others. If you do not have care, my dear, you will become as dull as they are.”

“But I already am.”

The princess waved away the maid’s hand to look at her daughter, an expression of mingled exasperation and resignation in her soft blue eyes. But it was perfectly clear from the twinkle in Helena’s own eyes that she did not consider the possibility to be the disaster that her mother did. “You need not give up so easily, love. If you just put your mind to it, you could be quite pretty.”

“Really, Mama. Surely you do not believe that I would swallow such a plumper, even from you.”

“Well, intriguing, then,” the princess temporized. She should have known her daughter would cavil, for she had never been able to get away with telling anything but the absolute truth to Helena. Even at the tender age of four, her unnervingly clear-eyed daughter had been remarkably acute, and she had only grown more so in the intervening years. “You, I am sad to say, had the misfortune to inherit the Devereux features, which are handsome enough, but...”

“But not stunningly beautiful like the Chevenels. I know. Mama.
My nose is too long and my . . .”

“Your nose is just right for your face, which is aquiline and delightfully refined. And if you did not drag your hair back in such an unbecoming knot, but allowed some curls to escape so as to soften the effect and call attention to the fineness of your eyes—but never mind, I can see that you are longing to be off to your musty old library and your boring newspapers. And I must continue with my toilette if I am to continue to hold the interest of the gallant major. I expect he will attend the reception this evening, where, if all goes well, I shall be universally acknowledged as his premier interest.”

“I wish you luck, Mama, though I have always thought you far prettier than either the Princess Bagration or the Duchess of Sagan.”

“Thank you, my dear. So do I.” The princess winked impishly as her daughter rose to leave.

Chapter Two

But the Princess von Hohenbacfaern and her daughter were not the only ones who considered the princess’ attractions superior to those of the many other beauties gracing the capital.  Charles Stewart, standing with Castlereagh and other members of the British delegation at Metternich’s customary Monday reception, surveyed the hordes of dignitaries and their wives with a dispassionate eye as they crowded into the Austrian chancellor’s impressive quarters on the Ballhausplatz. Stewart, who had not the least interest in conversing with his half brother, or any of the other members of the British delegation, only had eyes for the female members of the assembly. After carefully scrutinizing all comers of the room, he leaned toward the fellow cavalry officer standing next to him.

“Damned fine-looking women, eh, Stanford? Have you ever seen so many beauties all in one place? But as usual, you have chosen the pick of the crop. The von Hohenbachern woman outshines ‘em all; but, by God, they are something to behold. Old Capo d’Istria tells me that the tsar has even given names to them: Julie Zichy is the
Celestial Beauty,
Rosine Esterhazy the
Astonishing Beauty,
Caroline Scecheny the
Coquettish Beauty,
and of course everyone calls the Princess Bagration the
Naked Angel.
But to my way of thinking, the Princess von Hohenbachern is the choicest armful. She seems to think the same about you, lucky dog. Saw you dancing with her at the Hofburg the other evening, and she could not take her eyes off you.”

“It is the uniform. No woman can resist a cavalry officer, and no one knows that better than you, sir.”

“What? Oh, I should know, eh. Very witty, Stanford.” Stewart clapped Brett on the shoulder approvingly. “You are a clever fellow. Women like a clever fellow too. You’ll go far with ‘em all. Mark my words.”

He was not sure that he agreed entirely with Charles Stewart’s prediction that he would go far with them all, but Major Lord Brett Stanford felt reasonably certain that he had made a most favorable impression on the lovely Louisa, Princess von Hohenbachern, and if he was not entirely mistaken, she was even now sending a most encouraging smile in his direction. “Well, I certainly shall try my best to entertain, sir. And at the moment I do believe that the Princess von Hohenbachern appears in dire need of amusing. If you will excuse me, sir ...”

“Certainly. Go to her, lad.” Stewart gave him another hearty buffet on the shoulder before turning to the Earl of Clancarty, standing on his other side. “Stanford was always a great one with the ladies. No matter where we were in the Peninsula, stinking village or provincial capital, from Lisbon to Madrid and every outpost in between, be always had a bevy of beauties clustering around him—got a silver tongue, that man, and he makes as fine a figure in the ballroom as he does on a horse. They simply cannot resist him, but they never attach his interest for very long either. Wherever he goes, he leaves a trail of disappointed hearts behind.”

Meanwhile, the scourge of Peninsular ballrooms was attracting coquettish smiles and alluring glances from more than one admiring female as he made his way to the corner of the room where the Princess von Hohenbacbern was seated with Julie Zichy and watching his progress with a good deal of satisfaction. The princess would have enjoyed the major for his looks and conversation alone, but the fact that any attention he paid to her made her the envy of nearly every female at the Austrian chancellor’s reception only served to make him all the more attractive to her.

“Why, Major, how delightful to see you again. We are fortunate indeed to be honored by your company. Members of die British delegation are always in much demand, especially those who speak French as charmingly as you do.”

“You are too kind. Princess. But how do you know that I have not sought you out simply because you speak my native tongue?” Brett quirked a teasing dark eyebrow.

“Of course I do not, naughty man.” But there was no doubt in the princess’ mind as he bowed over her hand, holding it far longer than politeness required, that he was there because he found the Princess von Hohenbachern as attractive and intriguing as she found Major Lord Brett Stanford.

“What I do not understand. Princess von Hohenbachern, is why we members of the British delegation were not told that we had such a beautiful advocate amongst the confusing mass of sovereigns attending the Congress.”

“Oh,” the princess shrugged elegant white shoulders in a manner that had never failed to drive men to distraction, “I have not the least interest in political affairs, nor does the Prince van Hohenbachern. My husband is just a simple soldier who follows orders, and I”—she smiled a slow provocative smile—”am here because it is so very boring in the country, especially when he is off with his troops. And it is so very gay here in Vienna at the moment.”

“Surely you must have
some
interest in the momentous affairs being decided here at the Congress,” Brett probed. No one he had yet encountered, from the rulers who had traveled to Vienna from all over Europe to the doorkeepers at the palaces lining the Herrengasse, to innkeepers of the city’s crowded hostelries or the strolling musicians who thronged the streets, was without some opinion at least as to how the map of Europe should be redrawn after the depredations of Napoleon.

Smiling, the princess shook her bead. “Absolutely none.”

Brett heaved an inward sigh of relief. When Wellington had called him into the library at the British embassy in Paris before Brett left for Vienna, he had particularly instructed his aide to keep an eye on the ladies. “Now, Stanford, I am ostensibly sending you to help out Castlereagh because you are so proficient at French, but I am also sending you because in the Peninsula you proved yourself to be an excellent observer. You are accustomed to assessing a situation quickly and reporting it accurately. I need to know what is going on in Vienna, and I need to hear it from someone I can rely on. And a good portion of what goes on does so in the salons of some of Europe’s most influential and attractive women—the Princess Bagration, the Duchess of Sagan, the Countess Edmond de Talleyrand-Perigord. They have the ears of the most powerful men on the Continent, for it is in their company that these men discuss the issues of the moment.

“These women are very powerful in their own right, and they are more than willing to use their, ah,
charms
to sway some susceptible man to accomplish their own political ends. There are other women who, though not so obviously political, have equally powerful connections among the rulers and diplomats gathered in the city that they do not hesitate to use. All of them can be a fount of information to an attractive man who expresses an interest in such things.

“I expect you to express such an interest, Stanford. And the more attention you pay to the ladies, the less attention anyone will pay to you. I have it on the best authority that the Viennese consider Charles Stewart, who spends his entire time flirting, to be something of a joke, even if he is Castlereagh’s half brother. You and I are rough soldiers to whom this all seems like so much tiresome intrigue. We have done our parts to win peace in Europe. It is now up to the diplomatic fellows to see that it remains that way. But I do need a good observer to be my eyes and ears there.”

The duke did not miss the moment of hesitation before his aide had responded.
Very good, sir.
Wellington smiled sympathetically at Brett. “It may seem at present to lack all the excitement and the challenge we overcame in the Peninsula, but console yourself, lad, with the thought that there are some very lovely ladies attending the Congress—and the place is overrun with spies and informers of every description. I think that you will find in the long run that Vienna offers enough excitement even for a fire-eater like you.”

The duke had been entirely correct. Vienna was a hotbed of intrigue. The Austrians alone had increased their budget for informers fivefold, and spent lavishly for reports from chambermaids, scullions, toll keepers, and guards to such a degree that the members of the British delegation had all been instructed to burn the contents of their wastepaper baskets every evening without fail. In Vienna there was no such thing as an innocent question or a friendly remark, whether it came from the host who welcomed diners to Vienna’s popular restaurant the Kaiserin von Oesterreich or the Danish countess sitting next to someone at a state dinner.

With the duke’s instructions in the forefront of his mind, Brett had kept himself constantly on the alert, making note of every word that was uttered, every frown, every nod, every smile that gave a clue as to the speaker’s particular interest in the political game being played out in the Austrian capital. And while he was listening to everything everyone else said, he was also trying to exert an equal amount of effort to guard his own words and expressions so as to reveal nothing to those who watched him with the same intensity as he watched them.