The Secret Life of Lady Julia (7 page)

Chapter 8

“C
an we afford such a grand place?”

Thomas smiled grimly at his manservant as they stared up at the facade of a fashionable town house by Vienna’s city walls. “Can we afford
not
to take it? We will have the second floor. The top floor will probably be rented by another threadbare gentleman, or perhaps a pair of genteel ladies—maybe a mother looking for a rich husband for her daughter.”

Donovan laughed. “Best be careful she doesn’t snag you, imagining you’ve got money. Which, hopefully, you will have before our time here is done.”

Thomas eyed the building’s yellow and white facade. “Such a woman will be canny enough to know I am not wealthy enough for her purposes, or I would be at least two streets closer to the palaces where the ambassadors are lodging. Once the scramble begins for places to stay, we may find ourselves with a junior diplomat, or even a displaced lord who couldn’t find better accommodations, living on the first floor.”

“And how do you know all this?” Donovan marveled. “I wasn’t aware you’d done the Grand Tour, or traveled widely, even before you were disowned.”

Thomas set his top hat on his head. “I’ve been to Brighton at the height of the summer. Every mama with a marriageable daughter, every lord who needs a favor, is there to be close to the Prince Regent. Bath, I hear, is much the same. There are subtle clues to one’s respectability based upon the street your lodging is in and the view your windows afford—of people, that is, not scenery. An eligible bachelor with money and a title learns to spot predatory mamas and hopeful debs early, and to identify the young ladies with rich dowries and high connections. The goal is to make a marriage and the best connections possible. It is a skill that has become inbred in the upper classes.”

Donovan scratched his head. “What about looks? Don’t they count? I wouldn’t want an ugly wife.”

“It doesn’t matter what she looks like. It’s the family she comes from, the lineage she will give to one’s heirs, her dowry and lands, and the goodwill of her titled relations. Being lucky enough to find a beauty with all those characteristics is a rare thing indeed.” David Temberlay came to mind as the exception to the rule—a man lucky enough to get dowry, connections, land, and a beautiful bride to boot.

Donovan still looked baffled. “The upper classes never fail to amaze me. No wonder there are so many ugly earls and hideous heirs to dukedoms, and it all just leads to more ugly brides, doesn’t it?”

Thomas sighed. It would never be his problem now. “See to the trunks, Donovan, and try to look like a servant for the next ten minutes, will you?”

Donovan pulled his forelock sarcastically. “Aye, milord. And what shall I call you?”

Thomas considered. “Viscount Merritton should do.”

“Until someone who knows you remembers you aren’t a viscount anymore.”

“I doubt my brother will be here to tell, and we won’t be mixing with the British ambassador and his friends,” Thomas said coldly, pulling on calfskin gloves and straightening his coat.

“You would still be a viscount, wouldn’t you, if you’d spoken up properly, or let me do it.”

Thomas tightened his lips. “We’ve had this discussion,” he said in a bored tone.

“A lady’s honor,” Donovan sneered. “As if
she
deserved your regard.” He growled. “She’s a lying bill o’ goods, that one, for all she’s a countess.”

Thomas ignored Donovan’s indignation. It was too late for regrets. He’d made his choice. Even if he hadn’t been guilty then, he was guilty of other seductions, other sins, both before and after Joanna.

“Let’s go in,” he said, dismissing the matter from his mind. From somewhere nearby, one of the grand bells in a grand Viennese church tolled the hour.

Chapter 9

T
he palace on the Minoritenplatz had been chosen especially by the British ambassador for its strategic location in proximity to the residences of the other great powers. It was an elegant, sober edifice with a gray facade that brooked no nonsense from the more impressive palaces nearby. The offices of Prince Metternich, the Austrian foreign minister, were in the nearby Hofburg Palace, where Tsar Alexander had an entire floor at his disposal, as did the kings of France and Denmark. The king of Bavaria had taken over the Reichskanzlei, and the French ambassador, the wily Prince de Talleyrand, was directing French interests from the Kaunitz Palace. Their host, the Austrian emperor, presided over everything from the magnificent Schonbrunn Palace, located on the outskirts of the city and set in hundreds of acres of parkland. In fact, the entire city seemed to be set in a park, with trees and gardens everywhere.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Julia asked Dorothea as they explored the high-ceilinged rooms they would occupy on the palace’s second floor. Plaster cherubs watched their arrival from the corners of the rooms with mischievous smiles, their chubby cheeks shining with gold leaf. Dorothea glanced up at them as she tested the mattress. “Far less intimidating than the gargoyles in Paris, at least.” She made a face anyway. “They call this the Yellow Room. It is one of my least favorite colors.”

“We can change the counterpane on the bed,” Julia replied. “What color would you like?”

“Blue,” Dorothea said. “My husband loved it.” She smoothed her hand over the blue traveling dress she wore, as far from the half-mourning colors of gray and mauve as she ever strayed. “Best have the draperies changed as well. Where are your rooms, Julia? Close by, I hope.”

“Of course. There is a sitting room between us, and a small dining room where we shall take our meals, but my bedroom is just along the hall.”

Her room was done in soft shades of green, with a connected dressing room that would serve as nursery for Jamie.

She crossed to the windows in Dorothea’s suite and opened them to let in the early fall breeze. There was a lovely view over the tiled roofs of the houses that squatted beneath the walls of the city’s great palaces and churches, and the lovely parks beyond that. There were trees everywhere, making the city fresh and green. In a few weeks, if they were still here, the fall colors would be glorious.

She closed her eyes and took a breath. Vienna had a crisp, dry scent, with a hint of old roses and sugar, an elegant fragrance that suited the lovely city.

She turned at a knock on the door and crossed to open it to a procession of liveried male servants carrying Dorothea’s luggage. “Please put the trunks in the dressing room,” she directed. A maid was already there, setting out the small things, waiting to unpack the trunks.

“Well hello, sweetheart. Have you been assigned to these dull English ladies?” one of the porters boldly asked in German as he entered the dressing room.

“Hush, Hans. You must be more discreet!” the maid warned, casting a glance at Julia, giving her a flat imitation of a smile. “What if they speak German?”

Julia’s senses warned her, and she gave no indication she understood them for the moment. In her time as a servant she had been surprised to find out just how outspoken those hired to serve were about their masters. They gossiped like the most expert
ton
cats and knew far more damaging secrets. She waited to hear what their Austrian servants had to say about the new arrivals. If the conversation grew too bold, she could reprimand them in German, but something told her this wasn’t ordinary servants’ gossip. Perhaps the quick, furtive glances they cast at the papers on the desk or the interest they took in Dorothea’s trunks suggested they were more than mere footmen and maidservants.

“Why should I be careful?” Hans asked insolently. “Are these women important?” He turned to look at the crests on Dorothea’s trunks.

“Well, they are not princesses or countesses or royalty, if that’s what you mean,” the maid sniffed. “I believe this lady is merely the sister of a mere assistant to the ambassador. This is quite a dull assignment for me. I was promised a post with a Russian princess.” She sighed and ran a dismissive hand over the first trunk. “Ah well, perhaps I will unpack some elegant clothing or jewels of note, but I doubt it. These English do not know how to dress.”

Hans chucked her under the chin. “You do not speak Russian,
liebchen
. You speak English, and you must keep your eyes and ears open. You never know what this lady might hear from her brother or his fellows and repeat while she is— What
do
English ladies do to pass the time between balls?”

“They embroider, I hear, or write long letters complaining of the food, the weather, and the local customs and saying how bored they are. Hans, I shall go mad with boredom myself!”

“Just do your job,” he said dryly. “I shall be downstairs, doing the same. If you hear anything of interest—” The maid giggled.

Julia had heard enough. With shaking fingers she opened the door fully. They spun to regard her with sharp eyes for a moment, then the porter bowed and the maid dipped a respectful curtsy.

“Can I help, madam?” she asked in accented English.

“Would you see that Lady Dorothea’s own maid is sent up?” Julia asked in English. “Then you may go.”

The Austrian girl reddened. “But she will need help with all the unpacking, and I have been assigned to assist you.”

Julia stepped aside, brooking no arguments, and indicated the door. The maid could do nothing but bob another curtsy and go. The porters followed. Julia followed them to the door as they left, and listened.

“Do you think she understood what we were saying?” the maid asked breathlessly.

“Impossible,” the first porter grunted. “English ladies do not speak German.”

“Such an odd sounding language, don’t you think?” Dorothea mused behind her, and Julia turned. “I wish I understood what they were saying. If they are to serve us, I suppose we must ask that they do their best to speak English, or there will be no communicating at all. I am glad I brought Ellie. She knows what I want without my even having to ask, and so do you, Julia. I’m so glad you’re here.”

Julia wondered if she should warn Dorothea to be careful of what she said. She glanced around the room, chilled by the idea there might be spy holes, or someone listening even now. The lovely palace suddenly felt sinister.

“Oh, Julia, my shawl!” Dorothea said, looking around her. “I must have left it downstairs in the salon when we arrived. It was a gift from Stephen, since all the ladies in Paris were wearing them. Can you go and find it?”

“Of course. Shall I order tea?” she asked.

“Yes, thank you,” Dorothea replied, drifting toward the window. “And some biscuits, if they have them. Do you think they will?”

“Of course. The pastries in Vienna are famous.” Julia smiled and slipped out the door.

The whole palace seemed alive with whispers and echoes as she reached the grand staircase. At the first click of her heel on the marble step, the sounds ceased. Icy fingers of unease climbed her back, and she felt unseen eyes watching her. She forced herself to keep her pace sedate, her expression placid, to hum a carefree tune as she descended the steps.

“Who is she?” an unseen German voice asked softly.

“No one important,” was the ghostly reply.

She gave no indication she understood, or had even heard.

Julia was breathless by the time she reached the salon, where they had been welcomed with tea upon their arrival. She didn’t knock—she grasped the brass handles and opened the elaborately painted doors that soared from floor to ceiling just wide enough to slip inside, then shut them behind her with relief, cutting off the whispers.

“I doubt the staff understand English, so we should be quite safe from eavesdroppers,” a male voice said. “But we shall have to take precautions with our correspondence.”

She watched in horror as Lord Castlereagh’s eyes swung toward the door, his brows raised at her intrusion. He lanced her with a sharp stare.

“Lady Julia—Miss Leighton. Do come in,” he said, recovering quickly, his expression becoming blank and correct, all emotion tamed and concealed. The two other men in the room rose to their feet.

To her horror, she recognized Lord Stewart. Stephen was the third gentleman. He was frowning at her unexpected appearance at what she realized was most certainly a private meeting. She colored at the appraising look Charles Stewart gave her. And surely Lord Castlereagh knew of her scandal as well, since he was an acquaintance of her father’s.

She curtsied. “Please forgive my intrusion, my lords. Lady Dorothea has misplaced her shawl and wondered, perhaps, if she had left it here in the salon when we took tea with Lady Castlereagh. I had not expected the room to be occupied.” She cast her eyes desperately around the room, saw the blue cashmere shawl on a distant chair.

The gentlemen waited silently as she crossed the room to retrieve it, following her with their eyes. Her footsteps on the soft carpet and the swish of her gown sounded like thunder in her ears. She felt her face heat.

Stephen picked up the shawl and tucked it into her hands “Settling in all right?” he asked quietly, his fingers brushing hers.

“Yes, thank you.” She tightened her grip on the soft fabric and took a deep breath. “Please, my lord, I hope you won’t think me forward, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation,” she whispered to him. “I believe the staff do indeed speak English. In fact, they understand everything we’re saying.” Stephen raised his brows in surprise, but she held his gaze. “I have overheard some of their comments to that effect since our arrival—”

“What’s that?” Lord Stewart said loudly, approaching. “Did I hear you say the Austrian servants were speaking
English
?”

Julia resisted the urge to look around the room to search out the spy holes. Was that a mouse hole in the skirting board, or was there an ear pressed to the other side?

“No, they spoke in German,” she said softly. “They assume we do not understand them, you see, and speak quite candidly about—”

Stephen’s jaw dropped. “You speak German,” he said. “As well as French?” She colored, but Lord Castlereagh came to her rescue.

“Lady Arabella Gray was your grandmother, was she not, my lady?” he asked.

She looked at Britain’s foreign secretary, the head of the English delegation. He was a handsome man, and a brilliant if stubborn politician too, if her father’s assessment of him was to be believed. He spoke little and almost never smiled. He wasn’t smiling now, but there was a keen light of interest in his eyes.

“She was, my lord,” Julia replied, squaring her shoulders.

“As in ‘Ottoman’ Gray?” Lord Stewart demanded, reddening. She had heard he was not a man who liked surprises of any kind. He was prone to tantrums if things did not go as he expected. She nodded again.

“Yes. Lord Gray set many of the diplomatic protocols we continue to use today, many, in fact, of the very ones we shall employ here in Vienna,” Castlereagh mused. “I recall meeting Lady Gray, though she had remarried by then, to your grandfather, and was Countess of Carrindale. One of the most fascinating ladies I’ve ever had the pleasure to converse with.” He was regarding her with interest, his gaze almost soft at the memory, though he remained a safe distance across the room, his hands clasped behind his back.

Julia gave him a genuine smile. “Thank you, my lord. She was an amazing storyteller.”

“Did she teach you to speak German?” Lord Stewart demanded.

“She insisted upon hiring the governess who did.”

“And do you speak other languages besides German and French?” Castlereagh asked.

“A little Italian,” she said, feeling her skin heat under the stunned scrutiny of three gentlemen. “And a few words of Arabic.” Very few indeed, and none repeatable in polite Arab company, but her grandmother thought a lady should be able to express herself with a suitable set of curses that no one else understood. It offered a discreet outlet for frustration. Julia bit her tongue and hoped she wouldn’t be asked to repeat them here.

She looked around. Stephen Ives was staring at her as if meeting her for the first time. Lord Stewart was looking at her with narrow-eyed suspicion, and Lord Castlereagh was regarding her with a penetrating stare, as if the veracity of her claims was printed on the inside of her skull and he was reading them right through her skin.

She lowered her eyes. “If you’ll excuse me, my lords, I shall return the shawl to Lady Dorothea.”

“Thank you, Lady Julia,” Lord Castlereagh said, using her title. She held her breath and waited for Stewart or Stephen to correct him, but they did not. “I look forward to speaking more about your grandmother. Perhaps over tea some afternoon?”

Julia curtsied, and the gentlemen bowed. She colored. The respectful gesture surely was habit only, a mistake. They would not bow to a servant. She slipped out the door and fled up the stairs, followed once again by the dreadful whispers.

“T
hree languages?” Stewart whistled as the door closed. “Pity. But what would a girl do with an education like that, a mere maidservant? And even if she’d become a duchess—”