The Secret Life of Lady Julia (21 page)

Chapter 33

S
tephen looked up in surprise as Julia entered his study. “My lord, there’s something I need to speak to you about.”

He was writing a report about Thomas Merritt. He’d started over twice, not sure how to describe the unusual situation. Nothing had been stolen, nothing broken, though the warming pan was badly dented, and no one had been hurt but Merritt himself. And there was the inexplicable fact that he’d returned Dorothea’s watch. Doe was filled with happiness at having her watch back, asked him to find out where she could send a note of thanks, and babbled nonsense for half an hour about fate, kindness, and unlikely heroes.

Merritt was not a hero. He was a thief, albeit an unusual one, but nothing more. Some criminals had unusual quirks. Obviously Thomas Merritt was one of those. When he discovered where to find Merritt, he wouldn’t tell Dorothea. He’d hang him. He didn’t doubt for a moment Merritt had dark sins on his conscience. He’d put that into the report, and taken it out again. His suspicions smacked of jealous twaddle rather than clear, professional judgment of the situation.

She knew him. Julia knew Merritt. Would he wonder every time she even looked at another man?

She came forward to put a letter on his desk. It was addressed to Lord Castlereagh. “What’s this? Tell me Merritt didn’t leave it.”

She clasped her hands and stood stiffly before his desk. “Prince de Talleyrand gave it to me, last night.” Ah, so her visit was official, not an apology or an explanation.

He studied her face. She looked grave, almost afraid. He felt a frisson of warning. “Do you know the contents?”

“Yes.”

She explained the details, and Stephen felt his stomach sour at the wily Frenchman’s plot. “I thought you could explain it to his lordship, but I have an idea. Mr. Merritt—”

“Oh?” He still stung with jealousy at the sound of Merritt’s name on her lips. “What’s he got to do with this? Was he there?” He watched her color. She pursed her lips and didn’t continue.

He ran a hand through his hair. “This couldn’t have come at a worse time,” he said, glaring at Talleyrand’s letter. “I think you’d better explain this to his lordship yourself, and explain what exactly the prince said to you.”

Her eyes flew to his, panic in their hazel depths. “Surely I cannot be of any use in something like this!”

“Talleyrand obviously wants you involved.” He rose to his feet. “Come on. Lord Castlereagh must see this at once.”

T
he clock ticked as Lord Castlereagh read and reread the letter in silence. Julia perched on the edge of the leather chair in front of his desk, her stomach twisted into a tight coil while Stephen stood by the window, looking grave. At last the ambassador set the letter down and regarded Julia carefully.

“One does not receive notes of this kind every day. Would you like to tell me just how your involvement came about? I have, of course, had a note from the Bavarian ambassador describing the events in the park yesterday and offering his official thanks for your service to his wife, but to hear your praises from the French ambassador as well, and especially in such a letter as this, requires explanation.” He glanced at Stephen. “I had no idea Miss Leighton’s connections were so—auspicious, shall we say?”

Julia felt her skin heat. “He asked me to deliver the note to you, my lord. I had no idea of the exact contents.”

“But he says you have seen the documents, can verify their existence, that you—how did he put it?” He picked up the letter again. “Ah yes, here it is. That you understand how dangerous scandal can be, and how helpful it is to have good friends.” He laid the letter aside again. “Can you tell me what that means in this instance, Miss Leighton?”

“Blackmail,” she murmured.

“An ugly word, but accurate enough. I’ve been Foreign Secretary for many years, served as a diplomat, and now I am His Majesty’s representative here in Vienna. I have never found myself at a loss for words prior to this moment. I was surprised to hear of your actions in the park yesterday. You are a heroine to the Bavarians, and they wish to offer you a post in the royal household. Now, the French ambassador is offering similar rewards for your assistance. Joan of Arc, he calls you, and Boudicca.”

Julia swallowed, studied her fingertips.

“While your glorious ascent is quite refreshing, this matter could not have come at a worse moment. I have been recalled to London. The Duke of Wellington is to replace me as ambassador. Imagine the scandal. He—We, England—would have no credibility left if this was made public.”

Julia looked up. “I have an idea, my lord. What if Prince Talleyrand did not have the documents? What if they were lost or . . .” She took a deep breath around the lump rising in her throat. “ . . . stolen?”

She heard Stephen gasp, and turned her eyes to him. He shook his head, coloring. “I forbid you to go any further with this, Miss Leighton.”

“But if there
were
a way to remove the prince’s threat, would that not be best?”

Stephen strode toward her. “If you say one more word, I will dismiss you!” he threatened. She half rose to her feet, the lump in her throat huge now.

“And have her go to the employ of the Bavarians, or the French? Let Talleyrand ruin our credibility?” Castlereagh said. “I believe we must listen to all options, whether we agree or not. Now, what were you about to suggest, Miss Leighton?”

“If there was a thief, perhaps, someone who could slip into the prince’s palace and take the documents . . .” she babbled breathlessly. Castlereagh’s brows flew into his hairline at her suggestion. Had she gone too far? “If there was such a man, would it solve the problem?”

Castlereagh turned to Stephen. “Does she mean you by any chance, Major Lord Ives?”

“I mean a man named Thomas Merritt, an Englishman, here in Vienna, who just happens to be a—”

“Thief.” Stephen finished for her.

“Can he do the job?” Castlereagh asked, his eyebrows rising, a hint of hope in his tone.

“I think so,” Julia said. “He broke in here last night, despite all the security measures, and the guards.”

Castlereagh looked at Stephen, who confirmed it with a nod. “Where is he now?” the ambassador asked.

“I let him go,” Stephen said stubbornly. “He took nothing.”

“But you had him followed. You know where to find him.”

“He’s an adventurer, a vagabond. I should have turned him over to the Austrian police, let them hang him for his crimes.”

“What crimes?” Castlereagh asked.

Stephen raised his chin. “I don’t know, but I don’t doubt he’s guilty of something.”

Castlereagh folded the letter, put it back in the envelope. “Then use that. Get him back. Tell him if he assists us, he will be excused for his crimes. If not, we’ll hang him. Surely that, if not patriotism, will motivate him. Tell him he can keep whatever valuables he finds, but only if he retrieves the letters.” He turned to her, his eyes cool. “Miss Leighton, you will tell him where to find them, keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn’t betray us.” He rose and tossed the letter into the fire, and watched it blacken, flare, and curl into ash. “Talleyrand means to make this peace conference a statement of power—not French power, but
his
power. We are the victors, we won the war, but Talleyrand means to win the peace. I cannot allow that. I want this matter settled before I leave for London.” He looked at Stephen, read his expression. “Do you feel this is dishonorable, Major?”

“I do, my lord. Theft is a crime.”

“And sometimes it is, perhaps, the only way.”

“What if we are caught?” Stephen asked. “Would that not be more embarrassing?”

“Mr. Merritt has no official connection with this embassy. We will disavow any knowledge of him,” Castlereagh replied.

“And if he is successful?” Julia could not help but ask.

“I will arrange a pardon. One more question, Miss Leighton, and you will forgive me for being indelicate, but what did Prince de Talleyrand promise you for your help?”

“Land. A home for my son, money,” she said softly.

“The old fox,” Castlereagh murmured. “He knows exactly what each person wants. I wish I knew how he did it. He is the ultimate politician. Did he ask for further—services—from you to earn your reward?”

Julia raised her chin at the suggestion. “I was simply to impress upon you that he wished to be your friend. I have no intention of accepting—”

“You should, you know,” he said. “He’s a very rich man. Get the deeds in writing, though. It is more than our government will ever do for you.” He turned to Stephen. “I want to hear nothing more about this, is that clear? I will leave the matter in your hands, Major. Officially, this conversation never occurred.”

Stephen bowed and opened the door for her. For a moment, as they walked along the marble hallway, she listened to the echo of their footsteps.

“Why didn’t you speak to me first?” he demanded in a whisper as they passed a footman standing at his post.

She shot him a glance. Would he have listened? She was tired already of the suspicion in his eyes every time Merritt’s name was mentioned. “There really wasn’t an opportunity. I just thought Thomas Merritt might . . .” She paused. Do what, rescue her again, and the whole of England with her?

He stopped in his tracks, and when she stopped too, turned to her. “Julia, who the devil is he to you? Is he the one who—”

She met his eyes, read the question there, the agony, and felt her heart contract. He had confessed he loved her, had kissed her, made himself a target for disgrace and ruin. And now, if they failed—if Mr. Merritt failed—what would become of his career? Surely he deserved at least to know the truth. She had never told anyone.

“Yes.”

Chapter 34

H
e pawned his shaving kit to buy Donovan a reprieve. While it was not nearly as valuable as Lord Castlereagh’s jeweled Order of the Garter, it proved to be enough for the moment.

Erich took the money. “Got caught, did you?” he asked, looking at the bruise on Thomas’s forehead. The tavern was dark and shuttered, lit by a candle that did nothing to dispel the gloom. Outside, the city lay pristine under the glistening blanket of new snow. Inside, Erich’s den stank of stale beer and sweat. “And yet you got away.”

“I fell in the dark, hit the edge of a bureau,” he lied. “The good lady woke up and screamed before I could reach the safe.”

Erich had a smile like a lizard, cold-blooded and mirthless. Thomas half expected his tongue to flick out to test the truth of his statement, but the thief continued to shave pieces off an apple with a long thin knife without looking at it, popping the flesh into his mouth. “Then we will have to go back. It should be easier now that you know where to go, and where the bureau is placed in the room. You can step around it and get to the safe much faster. I nearly froze my balls off waiting for you to come out. Donovan was awaiting my return, and I didn’t want to disappoint him.” He chewed a slice of apple, his eyes hard on Thomas.

Thomas felt his skin prickle. He should have known it wouldn’t be so easy to gull a man like Erich. He’d been living in the demimonde long enough to recognize danger. He wondered how many of the wretches littering the room, drunk and asleep on tables and the floor, were beholden to Erich, so deep in debt to the thief lord that they could never escape him. He felt a moment’s panic. Where the hell would he find the kind of loot that would satisfy his own debt?

“We’ll go back tonight,” Erich said. “I’ll send someone in with you.”

“Fine. I’ll take Donovan. In fact, if he’s well enough, I’ll take him now. No one ties a cravat like he does,” Thomas joked, though his gut was tight with fear that Donovan was already dead. “Where is he, anyway?”

Erich smiled his reptilian smile again. “Not here in the tavern, but he’s quite safe. We’re enjoying his company too much to allow him to go just yet, especially since you have not fulfilled your end of our bargain. You will have to find a sailor to tie fancy knots for you. If you need an accomplice, I will provide you with a good man.”

Thomas’s skin prickled. “No, I work better alone.”

Erich stuck the knife into the table, where it quivered. He rose. “Very well. I shall expect you to visit again once you have what I want. Send a note, and I will come and meet you here, alone, of course.”

Thomas got to his feet, felt the bruise on his forehead throb, and picked up his hat. It would be some days before he could wear it. The lovely Julia Leighton had a powerful arm for so delicate a lady.

“Viscount?” Erich called out as Thomas reached the door. He shut his eyes. He should have known it wouldn’t be so easy. He turned to regard the thief king.

“I forgot to mention that the price has gone up. The price of Donovan’s accommodations, fees for the doctor, and so on. You understand.”

Thomas tightened his hand on the door latch. “What do you want?”

“The old Russian whore. She wears a ruby pendant nearly as big as this apple. I want that. In addition to Lady Castlereagh’s tiara, of course.”

Madam Anna’s favorite, General Semyon.
Even Katerina wouldn’t be able to replace it.

Thomas kept his face carefully blank. For a moment he was tempted to correct the thief, tell him it wasn’t a tiara at all, but a star, a symbol of honor he didn’t deserve, but he refrained. “It will take a few days,” he said.

Erich looked coldly sympathetic. “But no longer, I hope. Patrick’s expenses are mounting.”

Thomas forced his hat onto his head as he opened the door, wincing at the pain, hoping it would help him think, spark a brilliant idea, but it just stung with every step.

He was a thief. Why should he be surprised to be treated as one? He could still walk away, of course, but he imagined his valet locked in a dank, dark cellar with a pair of burly guards at the door, well armed and ruthless.

Knowing Donovan, the valet was cursing his name as loudly as he could manage, his Irish baritone growing weaker with every curse, fading as fever overtook him and the bullet wound became corrupted.

If he didn’t stay, do his best to save him, he would live with Patrick Donovan on his conscience for the rest of his days.

Along with all his other sins.

“Mr. Merritt?”

Thomas looked up. He was steps from his lodgings, but there were five red-coated soldiers between himself and the door. Behind them stood Stephen Ives.

“What now?” he asked. He was too tired to fight. His head hurt and he needed food, a bath, and sleep.

Stephen Ives came forward. “You bastard—you’re under arrest.”

One more sin, it appeared, had been added to the list, and he could only wait and see what it might turn out to be.