The Secret Life of Lady Julia (8 page)

Lord Castlereagh put a finger to his lips.

“Perhaps it is to our advantage that she is not a duchess after all,” he said quietly. “Nor is she a mere maidservant, Charles.” He turned to Stephen. “We shall discuss this later, I think. In the meantime, please see that all the staff our hosts have kindly provided us with are replaced with our own people.”

Chapter 10

T
homas entered the dark recesses of the rough tavern and looked around him, his nerves tensed, ready to fight if he had to. He was aware of the weight of the pistol in his pocket, the chill of the knife in his belt. Some of the patrons regarded him with open suspicion, some with no expression at all. The ones with sly smiles were the most dangerous ones—the kind who’d grin at you, take everything you had, and continue to look pleasant as they stuck a knife between your ribs. He took a table where he could keep his back to the wall.

He was here at Donovan’s insistence, because his manservant had said they needed to make connections of an entirely different sort than Thomas had described. They needed to know the people who ruled the underbelly of the city, who could help them profit from their visit. “We need to know where it’s safe to sell stolen jewels,” Donovan had told him. “I’ve heard the Austrian police have spies everywhere, thief-takers too.”

“Who told you that?” Thomas asked.

“Does it matter?” Donovan had replied. “You bring me the jewels, let me worry about the rest. It’s a dangerous place, and there’s people just like you, upper class, who’ll turn you in for the reward if they can. Doesn’t matter to them where the profit comes from. This isn’t London, or even Paris, where we can deal with Englishmen. We’re foreigners here, and we’ll have to be careful till we find the right connections on this end of things.” He’d made a grisly face and drawn a finger across his throat to demonstrate his meaning, as if Thomas needed a demonstration. The warning was clear enough in the hooded gazes around him.

Now, Donovan was nursing a large stein of the local ale at the bar. Thomas ordered schnapps when the barmaid shuffled over to him, her eyes dull and disinterested.

He sipped his drink and tried to look like he was comfortable in such a place. He even forced himself to smile and nod at those staring at him. They did not return the gesture. He put his glass down. He was deuced uncomfortable and ready to leave. There must be another way.

Thomas glanced at Donovan, but his valet was staring at an elderly gentlewoman who had entered the tavern. Her clothes, once stylish and expensive, were now years out-of-date and shabby. The only finery she wore was a simple gold cross around her wrinkled neck. It was studded with three tiny pearls and a minuscule garnet, worth very little to anyone but her.

Thomas looked at his manservant again, and his stomach tensed with distaste as he read the avarice in Donovan’s eyes, saw him mentally calculating the value of the necklace the way he assessed the price of the jewels Thomas brought home. Thomas looked at the necklace again. It wasn’t worth more than a few Austrian shillings, which would buy nothing more than a loaf of bread or a bottle of passable wine.

He watched the old lady preen, stroke the necklace with her fingertip, like a talisman. To her, it was priceless. He glanced around the room, hoping she’d come to meet someone, had a protector of some kind. There were a number of people staring at her, their expressions a mirror of Donovan’s. It would be easy to take the necklace from her and everyone in the tavern knew it, except for the lady herself, apparently, or she would have worn it inside her clothing, kept it hidden.

Donovan caught his attention and jerked his head toward the woman. Did he really expect Thomas would be willing to charm her, steal from her? He wasn’t sure which of them was the most pathetic—himself, Donovan, or the old woman who trusted that the Christian symbol would protect her in this hellhole.

Thomas’s stomach turned. Had he really come to this, stealing from those who could least afford to lose? He got to his feet so suddenly that every eye in the place turned on him. He picked up his hat and strode out, aware that Donovan was staring at him, incredulous. He didn’t draw a breath until he was outside, moving swiftly down the street.

“What’s wrong? Did you see something?” Donovan asked, catching up, looking back over his shoulder nervously.

“Nothing,” Thomas growled.

“Looked to me like there were a few useful coves in there, should we have need of them,” Donovan said.

“No.”

“No?”

Thomas stopped walking, and Donovan took a few more paces before he realized it. “Would you have taken her necklace?” Thomas demanded.

Donovan grinned. “The old woman? Aye, maybe, for a bit of practice.”

“But what of
her
, Donovan? Did you look at her?”

“Too old to seduce, if that’s what you mean.” His face hardened. “She should stay out of such places if she wants to keep her jewelry.”

Thomas shut his eyes and wondered what the necklace meant to her. Perhaps it was a memento of happier times, the one thing she could not bear to pawn or sell, or the last thing she had to save her if she did have to sell it.

“There are other ways,” he said, looking at Donovan as if seeing him for the first time. Once, he’d been a respectable young man, a servant who worked his way up from footman to valet, held himself and others in high esteem. What the hell had happened? Thomas felt a pang of guilt.
He’d
happened. Donovan had wanted to stand by him, even knowing the truth, proud of the fact that even under impossible circumstances, Thomas had acted with honor. He realized he hadn’t seen admiration in his valet’s eyes for a very long time. Did either of them have any honor left?

Donovan’s puzzled expression suddenly cleared and he grinned. “Oh, I understand. You want to do it
honorably
, remain a gentleman.”

Yes, Thomas thought, hope surging.

“There are richer folks, with better jewels, right?”

Hope sank to the cobbles and died.
No.
He felt helpless. How else could they survive, make their way out of this life?
Would
it be easier to take advantage—steal—from someone who could better afford to lose their jewels? What of gems that had been in a family for generations and were irreplaceable? Why did that bother him now? He’d taken his share of his mother’s jewels when he left, sold them without a qualm, relishing the revenge, knowing Joanna would not dare to report them stolen.

The ability to steal without qualms had ended with Julia Leighton. He pictured her at the ball, glittering under the weight of her mother’s heirloom jewelry. He hadn’t been able to take them from her, not then, and not after he realized what he’d done. She was more than the jewels. She was a creature of grace. She had not blamed him for what happened between them. She had let him go with dignity, though he’d taken the most valuable jewel of all. Since that night, he hadn’t been able to steal anything without a twinge of conscience. He found himself hesitating more and more often, wondering what the jewels meant to the lady who wore them.

For some women, jewels simply marked them as their husband’s possession. They were badges of ownership, and if lost, the lady faced the wrath of the giver. Like Joanna, and like Julia’s father.

Some—the luckiest ones—wore jewels given to them with love. Those jewels were part of who the lady was, something she wore often, whether it matched her outfit or not, because it was a symbol of a deep emotion. If lost, the sentiment would forever remain, and the missing jewel thought of merely with regret.

And there were, of course, women who wore jewels they had earned. They let their gazes flick over the necklaces and diamond bracelets of other females, calculating the worth of those gems compared to their own, imagining what their rivals had done for such a prize. Those jewels served as surety for a comfortable old age.

And which of these women deserved most to be preyed upon, to lose her jewels to a man like him?

“The Emperor’s ball is next week,” Donovan was saying, rubbing his hands together. “Aye, that’s it—just a few big stones, some really fine ones, and we’ll be set. All we need are the invitations, and I’ve no doubt you can arrange those. I’ll find the buyer.”

A few big stones—perhaps a ruby or two, or an emerald, or a diamond of flawless quality. The kings and queens of Europe were all here, with their jewels. State jewels, not personal ones. It would make it easier, wouldn’t it? And he’d become good at it. His victims never knew until he was long gone. How many times had a lady accused her maid of losing a precious earring, or blamed her for not noticing that the clasp of a bracelet was loose? And all the time it was him.

Viscount Merritton had become Tom the Thief.

And yet, a few big stones, as Donovan put it, and he’d be back among the class he was born to, the gentle folk. Respectable again.

Except he wasn’t one of them anymore.

Chapter 11

S
tephen found Julia in the garden. Actually, he heard her laughing before he saw her.

She was sitting on the grass playing with her son, her face rapt and loving. It was for this very reason that he had objected, as diplomatically as he could, to Castlereagh’s suggestion. But the future of Europe, the prestige of England, hung in the balance, and under those ponderous circumstances there was little he could do.

The child’s nurse looked up, catching sight of him before Julia did. Stephen waited, cringing a little inside as she alerted Julia, loath to interrupt such a happy scene.

Julia looked up at him, her eyes wide, lips forming an
Oh
of surprise, her face flushing as she picked up the child and rose from the grass.

Stephen’s breath caught in his chest. The autumn day was mild, and Julia glowed in the warmth of the late afternoon sun. She was embarrassed at being caught playing in the garden, and her blush put the late blooming roses to shame. She rested the child on her slim hip and waited for him to traverse the cinder path to reach her.

He recalled how Doe had carried her child like that, smiled at him with the same maternal love, made a beautiful mother just like Julia did. He glanced at Julia’s boy, who had turned to watch him approach, trying again to recognize the child’s father in the round baby features, but he looked like every other infant, and most especially like the plaster cherubs that adorned every single corner, doorway, and pillar inside the palace.

Julia kissed the baby’s forehead and handed him to his nurse.

“I wish to speak to you,” Stephen said, more crisply than he’d intended, all too aware that he was interrupting. He stopped a short distance from her and folded his hands behind his back as the nurse strolled along the path with the child.

Julia folded her hands at her waist. “I am sorry for intruding on your meeting, my lord. I didn’t think the room was occupied. I assure you it will not happen again.”

She thought he’d come to reprimand her. He unclasped his hands and waited until the maid had moved out of earshot. “You didn’t tell me you spoke so many languages,” he said, and realized he sounded peevish now. He smiled, but it felt like a grimace.

She caught her lower lip in her teeth. “I didn’t think it was important.”

“Not in London, perhaps.” Or for an earl’s daughter, or a duchess. “But here, well . . .” He straightened his shoulders. “You see, a peace conference is a delicate thing. Knowledge is power and leverage. Do you understand what I mean?” He could see she did. She was clever. And beautiful—though he tried to ignore that—and she was Arabella Gray’s granddaughter. He rattled on. “Part of our diplomatic mission here in Vienna includes doing our best to gather knowledge of what the other delegates want, so we know ahead of time how they will vote on an issue we hold dear, and if they might be convinced to change their vote if it does not fit with ours.” He waited to see if she understood.

“I see,” she murmured.

“In the next few weeks there will be a great many private meetings before and after the public ones. Forming alliances in peace talks, I daresay, is nearly as important as having allies in war. More so, since we cannot simply shoot those whose opinions we do not like.” He was babbling, but how did one ask a lady to be a spy? Lord Castlereagh imagined it would be a simple matter of appealing to her sense of patriotism. Lord Stewart, who was in charge of such unsavory things as espionage, had simply wanted to order her to do it. Stephen had suggested he might speak to her more gently, convince her to offer to help them.

He met her eyes, hoping to see understanding in their hazel depths, but she was studying her fingertips.

“I do understand your concern, my lord, and as I have said, I will be certain to knock before entering a room from now on, but you may be assured of my discretion.”

His stomach fell to the cinder path. He hadn’t been clear at all.

“Our letters will be intercepted and read,” he said.

She smiled tentatively. “I have no one to write to, and I do not keep a diary.”

“Our conversations will be monitored, reported—”

She looked around the garden in alarm, but the paths were empty, except for the nurse and baby some way off. As she turned, he noticed the way the sunlight played on her dark hair, lighting strands of gold and copper, and the delicate bones of her jaw, the muscles of her neck. She was so slender, so delicate, a lady, not a hardened spy, no matter what stories her grandmother had raised her on or what deeds Charles Stewart thought her capable of. Moreover, as his own employee, she was under his protection.

“There wouldn’t be any danger.” She turned to look at him, her brows flying toward her hairline like frightened birds, and he realized he’d spoken aloud, though he hadn’t meant to. He was a diplomat, a man of words, yet Julia Leighton, this whole situation, made him feel tongue-tied.

“Danger?” she gasped.

“I—We’d—like you to help, as a kind of listener,” he said. “If others are listening to us, then we must also have eyes and ears, and since you speak so many languages—”

“Me?” she said. “But I’m not . . .” She paused, shut her eyes. “I am merely a servant. There must be better people to assist with such things, people who are trained, or better suited to—”

He held up a hand to stop her. “We need you to be more than a servant—which you are, of course. You were—are—an earl’s daughter . . .”

She shook her head, her expression closing. “What if someone recognized me,
knew
? I cannot—”

“Every diplomat in Vienna has a hostess. Tsar Alexander has Countess Sagan, for instance. She holds salons and parties, charms Austria’s foreign minister, Lord Metternich, flirts with him, and she offers an ear to anyone who might wish to confide in her. Lord Talleyrand has his niece here for the same purpose. She is young, pretty, charming—”

“And we have Lady Castlereagh.”

He made a face, and immediately smoothed his expression. “Yes, of course, but she is as taciturn as her husband, and slightly deaf. Her salons promise to be dull affairs, all whist and small glasses of sherry, with only the most superficial and banal conversation—not the kind of event likely to embolden people to make the sort of indiscreet comments we can use. You wouldn’t be a hostess, of course. Lady Castlereagh would never—”

She turned as scarlet as the autumn leaves. “She’s quite correct. My . . . notoriety . . . would not serve you well. It may work against you, if the truth was discovered,” she said carefully. “There are people here who know me, know my father.”

It was becoming increasingly difficult for him to look at Julia Leighton and see a ruined woman. “His lordship thought you might say that. Yet Countess Sagan is a married woman, and is known to have any number of lovers. Quite scandalous, but her salon is one of the most widely attended.”

She looked at him fiercely. “I am not interested in taking ‘any number of lovers,’ my lord. If I have given that impression, then I can only say you are grievously mistaken.”

He felt himself blush, and ran a finger around the collar of his tunic. “I am not explaining myself very well at all.” He caught her hands, held them in his. “We—I—would never ask you to compromise yourself in such a way. You are my sister’s companion, and as such, you are under my protection. Every maid, every coachman, every waiter, and footman in town—save our own, of course—reports to the Austrian emperor. We have you to thank for the fact that our conversations will remain private. But you must understand that no one in Vienna goes completely unobserved. We simply want you to listen to conversations in crowds, at parties, at the theater with Doe, and tell us what you hear. As Doe’s companion, you will be able to attend official functions as part of our delegation. The French, the Austrians, the Russians will also attend the same balls and parties, and in such a relaxed atmosphere, who knows what confessions might come out, in French or German or even Arabic?”

She blushed. “I haven’t a suitable gown to wear.”

“I—We—will take care of that.”

“And Dorothea—”

“Will be fine. It will do her good to get out and attend parties again. I shall insist.”

She withdrew her hands from his, stood back, staring down the path in the direction the nurse had gone with her son. “How will I know what’s important? What would you like me to report on?”

“Somehow, I think you’ll know, just the way you knew it was important to report that the servants understood our conversations. I trust your judgment. Just tell us everything.”