The Secret Life of Lady Julia (17 page)

Julia could see how damning it looked, how easily an enemy of Wellington or Castlereagh could use the letters to discredit the British peace efforts. She felt the blood leave her limbs.

“I can see you understand politics after all,” he said softly.

She looked at the prince, her mouth dry. “What do you want?”

He looked surprised. “I? Do not mistake me, my dear. I want nothing at all for myself. What I ask is for the good of France, and Britain. I do not want Napoleon back. I’m sure Lord Castlereagh and every peer in your House of Lords would agree with me. I wish to thwart this ridiculous plot, and get on with the important business of helping Lord Castlereagh to forge the best peace we can.”

He began to gather the letters, placing them precisely into the folder in order. “I understand Castlereagh is trying to solve greater problems than his mandate allows. He hasn’t got the permission of his government to address the topic of slavery, for example, but he feels most strongly about it. There are other such issues too. If his masters in London learn of his activities too soon, he will be recalled to London.” He shrugged. “Who knows who would replace him? I would rather deal with the devil I know.”

“I don’t see how I can help with anything so grand, Your Highness,” she interrupted, drawing herself up and raising her chin. “I am a mere servant. I believe you have mistaken my importance.”

He smiled fondly. “I do not make mistakes, my dear. I am asking a favor of you, a simple thing, a trifle.”

She swallowed. “What do you want?” she asked again.

“I wish to send Castlereagh a message, a private, friendly word. I wish to meet with him, to discuss this, and how we can squash it before it becomes an issue that other delegates here in Vienna might misinterpret. Is that so much?”

Julia shut her eyes. It sounded so simple, so easy. Too easy. She wished Stephen were here, or even Charles Stewart. She looked up at the paintings, but the laughing faces offered no assistance. She was out of her depth.

“Tell me, what will you do when this conference is over, and your mistress goes home to England?” Talleyrand asked. “You cannot go back there, and you cannot remain here in Europe without the money to live and raise your son. Imagine how good it would be to have a house of your own, some land, a dowry, perhaps, in case you decide to marry.”

A bribe.
Julia let him read the disdain in her eyes. “I cannot help you, Your Highness.”

He made a soft sound of sympathy. “I hope you do not feel I am asking you to be dishonest or to betray your country! I too am a patriot. I am merely asking you to tell Lord Castlereagh what I have told you tonight, let him know that I offer my hand in friendship.”

He smiled reassuringly as he came around the desk. He patted her shoulder, a kindly, grandfatherly touch. He smelled of cloves and orange flower cologne. Julia resisted the urge to flinch, and met his eyes boldly. “There now—I have engaged the bravest, most clever lady in Vienna to ensure that peace is far more probable now,” he said, as if she’d agreed to help him.

She stared at the bare surface of the desk, the locked drawer. “What will you do with the letters if I do not . . . ?”

He smiled sadly. “I was on my way home from the park this afternoon, and I happened to see you with Castlereagh’s aide in front of the British Embassy.” He sighed. “A perfect place for a tryst, Vienna. The passion in that kiss made me wish I was in love myself, but I am far too busy, though never, ever too old.” He smiled at his own joke, but Julia felt her knees weaken, her stomach roll.

“It isn’t like that. He is my employer,” Julia said stiffly. “He was just—” Her tongue tied itself in a knot.

He sent her a knowing look. “I understand Lady Castlereagh is looking for a reason to dismiss you. I imagine your young major would also be sent home in disgrace, his career ruined.” He tilted his head, feigned avuncular concern. “Then what would become of you, my dear? Usually, ruined women find only one path open to them, and not a pleasant one, I’m afraid. How would your son grow up then?”

Julia put a hand to her throat, scarcely able to breathe. “This is blackmail,” she whispered.

“It is
diplomacy
, since we are working toward our mutual benefit. France needs friends, my dear, as do you. This is a partnership, nothing more. No one wishes to be embarrassed by little indiscretions, but sometimes . . .” He shrugged. “Well, you know that all too well, don’t you?”

She blushed scarlet.

He opened another drawer and handed her an envelope. It was addressed to Lord Castlereagh, the seal plain. “Deliver this. In exchange, I will be most generous. You could afford to raise your son to be a gentleman, with lands of his own. Who knows? Perhaps he will be a diplomat as well.”

She fervently hoped not.

She had no choice but to reach out and take the letter, and he looked pleased. He made a show of glancing at the clock. “We’ve been gone almost too long. We must rejoin the party before there is gossip. I would find it delightful, of course, but I doubt it would please you.” He took her arm, escorted her toward the door. “Now, I’m sure Lord Castlereagh will need time to consider my offer. It is a busy time for all of us. I will wait for . . . three days? That should be sufficient,
mais non
?”

Julia stared at him. Talleyrand was called Europe’s master diplomat, the man everyone feared most, after Napoleon. But the Emperor was safely locked away on Elba, and Talleyrand held the power to bring governments and ordinary lives toppling into disaster—even hers. And he did it with a smile. He held her future and the fates of those she loved in his perfumed hands. She felt sick, the way shooting the man in the park had made her feel. He smiled as if they’d had the most pleasant conversation in the world, and gallantly led her back to join the party.

Chapter 24

“W
e must guard against the influence of the French, I believe,” Prince Metternich said at dinner. “Talleyrand says he would not see Napoleon back again, but I believe he intends to see that France maintains the power Napoleon stole.” A rumble of anger passed along the length of the table, and Stephen did his best to look interested in the political discussions that whizzed back and forth across the table like musket balls.

Nothing was new.

Weeks after the formal peace discussions were supposed to have started, they remained stalled, since no one could decide on even little details, like the format the conference should take. Some believed every delegate with a grievance should have a seat at the table. Others thought the decisions should be left to the four major allies—England, Prussia, Austria, and Russia. And while the diplomats wrangled over the shape of the conference table and shuffled and reshuffled the seating charts, everyone attended endless balls, parties, hunts, soirees, salons, and interminable dinners like this one. It was like the London Season, but without any end to the exhausting whirl of merriment.

Stephen stifled a grimace as the next dish was placed in front of him, merely the fourth of twelve courses planned for the lavish meal.

Tonight he was only interested in one discussion, one decision.

He’d told Julia that he loved her. He hadn’t even realized how deeply his regard for her ran until this afternoon. He’d been terrified for her safety in the park, and decided then and there that he could not enjoy life without her. From a diplomatic point of view, his blurted confession—not to mention the kiss—probably hadn’t been the smartest plan of campaign.

He shifted uncomfortably.

“Lovely chairs, but the carving is digging into my spine too,” the wife of an Italian baron seated next to him said, noticing his movement. He smiled and nodded.

Had he shocked her, moved too quickly? Meaning Julia, of course, not the Italian baroness. Perhaps he should have wooed her more slowly, sent her flowers, written her poems.

He took a bite of veal in a red wine sauce. He’d never sent a lady flowers. He’d sent lilies to a funeral or two . . . and he’d never under any circumstances written a poem—the draft of a treaty, yes, poetry, no.

“Lord Metternich has a lovely way of putting things,” the Italian baroness mused. “Normally, I find political discussions dull, but I hear he writes poetry to the beautiful Countess Sagan.” She cupped a hand to his ear. “They say he is courting her to be his latest lover,” she whispered.

“And what is her response?” he asked hopefully.

The baroness sighed. “They say she is quite immune to him, and all his lovely words.”

Stephen felt his stomach sink to his evening shoes. The lady leaned closer. “She fears, so I understand, that he wants only one thing, and once she has given it . . .” She gave an expressive shrug. Stephen felt a frisson of horror.

What must Julia be thinking? He should have been more specific. How was she to know if he wanted marriage or some other form of relationship? He swallowed without chewing, and grabbed for his wine, coughing. The baroness helpfully thumped him on the back.

What
did
he want from Julia? He wanted to kiss her again, that much he knew. But the rest—wife, mistress, or whatever else—was as baffling as the politics of the conference.

“I don’t like it one bit!” cried the Prussian ambassador, shooting to his feet in reaction to a comment, attracting every eye in the room.

Had Julia liked it when he kissed her?

“Yes, more please,” the baroness said, and he turned to find the footman refilling her wineglass with ruby liquid.

She hadn’t objected to his kiss. Desire stirred, a hopeful erection rising, even here, in the Austrian ambassador’s dining room, miles from her. He smiled at his own foolishness, and the baroness smiled back. Desire diminished at once.

As another course arrived, this one chicken, or pheasant, perhaps, in a sauce made with blackberries, he realized that he could hardly wait to see Julia at the end of this evening. Sometimes in diplomacy one must simply present one’s case and wait for a response. A diplomat must be patient. He frowned. A diplomat must also be prepared for the worst possible news, and receive it without emotion.

“Patience is indeed the most trying virtue, wouldn’t you say, my lord?” the baroness asked, regarding the next course that arrived.

“Do you not care for haricots, baroness?’ he asked politely, identifying the vegetables under their shroud of cream sauce.

“They are quite delicious. It’s just that dessert is so very far away, and that is what I want most. It makes it hard to wade through endless plates of vegetables.”

“Four, no at least six courses yet to come,” he sympathized.

“Interminable!” she said, rolling her eyes.

Indeed it was. Stephen ate without tasting anything, made polite conversation, and waited until he could be with Julia again.

Chapter 25

T
he rest of the evening passed in a blur, and at long last Julia sat in stunned silence in the coach on the way home. It had been quite a day. She’d shot a man in the park, allowed her employer to kiss her, and now the French ambassador was blackmailing the entire British Embassy, from Lord Castlereagh and the great Duke of Wellington, the highest members, to Stephen and she herself, the lowest of all.

She was tempted to glance out the window to look for a full moon, or a passing comet, or some other portent of evil tidings and disasters.

What would Castlereagh do when she handed him the letter she carried? If he ignored it, the British stood to be tarred as villains, not heroes, when Talleyrand spread the shocking innuendos about Wellington. If the ambassador accepted Talleyrand’s friendship, the British would fall under a pall of suspicion from other delegates. All the goodwill and connections that Lord Castlereagh had spent the past months building up would come crashing down under the weight of accusation and suspicion. It was quite extraordinary what harm a few documents and letters, and a well-placed rumor, could do if brought together and presented in a particular way. There were many here in Vienna who resented Britain’s power. If this did indeed lead to war, as Talleyrand predicted, it would look entirely like the fault of the British.

And Stephen would be in the midst of it all, disgraced, as ruined as she. She’d been responsible for enough pain—David was dead because of her foolish desire for a simple kiss. Now, Stephen stood to be destroyed too.

Was the world fated to end every time she kissed someone?

She shut her eyes and pressed a hand to the icy lump of dread in her chest that refused to melt. She knew what it was like to lose everything. Stephen didn’t deserve such a fate simply because he had kissed her on the spur of the moment, simply because he thought he loved her. Did he really? He would not love her now.

There had to be a way to outsmart Talleyrand.

But she was just a humble listener, and a ruined woman.

Even so, this time she could not, would not, let it end in disaster.