The Secret Life of Lady Julia (9 page)

Chapter 12

T
he lady’s light laughter floated across the park on the breeze, making heads turn. “Flatterer!” she said, swatting Thomas playfully.

The park, located in the center of Vienna, amid the grand palaces and official embassy residences, was the perfect place to watch royalty promenade, or to be noticed yourself. Today, the paths and manicured gardens were filled with people out enjoying the lovely fall weather, including Thomas and the lovely Russian princess Katerina Kostova.

The princess wore red from head to toe, from her jaunty feathered hat to her handmade and lavishly embroidered red leather boots. If her red velvet habit and the gold lace tassels on her fox fur muff were not eye-catching enough, her beauty and her lavish jewelry alone would have caused heads to turn, but she made the most of his compliment by laughing out loud, making heads swivel, garnering the admiring glances of a dozen other gentlemen besides Thomas.

He didn’t mind. People were looking at him too, wondering who he might be and what special charms he possessed to have the lovely Russian princess hugging his arm and gazing up at him with playful adoration.

“It’s not idle flattery in the least,” he insisted with a rakish grin. “Look around you. Every other woman in the park today is wrapped against the wind, wearing dull woolens and warm hoods. It is impossible to see the glory of
their
hair, or their faces.” He touched a gloved fingertip to her upturned nose. “Of course, the wind has probably reddened their noses and made their eyes water, so it’s for the best, but not you—you put the autumn leaves to shame, grace the park with your beauty and live to enjoy the weather.”

The lady cast her stunning blue gaze around the park, checking to see if his assessment of the other ladies was true. She smiled when she saw he was in earnest, and took a deep breath of the crisp fall air, expanding her lungs, and filling her red jacket to eye-popping proportions. “The weather is not cold at all! It is warm to me, but I am Russian, and we love the cold.”

“Have you a choice?” Thomas quipped, and she laughed again.

She leaned in closer, her breast resting on his forearm. “You do not know the glories of a Russian winter, my dear viscount. Have you ever made love on a winter evening on a bed of soft fur?”

He gave her a slow grin. “Not yet.” He cast his eyes over her as she laughed, from the huge brooch that adorned her hat—a pheasant with ruby eyes, a vast pearl for a breast, and feathers of rubies, diamonds, and emeralds—to the jeweled tassels on her boots.

She was the wife of a great Russian general, nobly born, and she was reputed to be one of Tsar Alexander’s many lovers. Since both general and Tsar were busy, she was looking for distraction. She wore a fortune in jewels wherever she went, and rumor said that she’d brought a bag of diamonds to Vienna simply to use for wagering at the card tables.

“You amuse me,” she purred. “Attend my salon this evening.” She made it a command.

“Of course,” he murmured. People begged for invitations to Princess Kostova’s salons. He held his smile, comparing her, as had become his habit with women, to Julia Leighton. He had to learn not to do that, since he was most unlikely to ever see Lady Julia again. He pushed the image of her just-kissed face away and concentrated on the princess. She wore the heavy fragrance of gardenia like another garment. It entered a room before she did, announced her arrival, filled any space she inhabited, and insisted people look at her. The heady scent lingered long after she was gone. There was nothing subtle about her perfume, but it suited her well, he thought.

“I shall send my carriage for you at eight o’clock.”

He pretended to be surprised. “But your salon does not begin until midnight.”

“Then we shall have to find ways to amuse ourselves,
non
?” she said with a wanton smile.

“I shall bring a pack of cards,” he suggested, and her laughter rang out again.

A dozen pairs of eyes turned to see who had amused the princess so. And a dozen people sent servants running to discover the handsome gentleman’s name.

Chapter 13

J
ulia’s stomach tied itself in knots as she entered the Hofburg’s magnificent ballroom—one of three massive rooms being used for tonight’s ball. The room was dazzling. Thousands of candles hung in crystal chandeliers high above the floor, their light reflecting off white and gilt walls. A king’s ransom in jewels filled the room with colored stars as the ladies who wore them caught the light whenever they laughed, or danced, or waved their hands. It was breathtaking.

She stood at the top of the stairs and waited while the majordomo announced the most important members of the British delegation, Lord and Lady Castlereagh, Lord and Lady Stewart, Major Lord Ives and Lady Dorothea Hallam. As a servant, her name was not announced, and the majordomo gave her little more than an impatient glance before taking the invitation of the Bavarian ambassador behind her, next in a long line of important guests waiting to enter.

As she descended the steps behind Dorothea, she scanned the room for Thomas Merritt, the way she did in every crowd, but as usual he wasn’t here. How foolish. Why would he be? Would he recognize her if he was? Probably not. She didn’t look anything like she had at her betrothal ball. Her gown tonight was simple blue muslin, borrowed from Dorothea, with a bit of lace and a ribbon sash hastily added to make it suitable for such a grand event. Unlike her betrothal ball, she wore no jewels at all aside from a simple pair of garnet earrings she’d had since her sixteenth birthday. Not as eye-catching as the Carrindale diamonds, but they were hers. Perhaps she would give them the grand title of the Julia Garnets. She tossed her head a little, wondering if they cast a sparkle, but no one looked her way. She was simply an anonymous servant, and no one bothered to look at servants. She was once considered one of the prettiest girls in the
ton
. She would have been much courted if she hadn’t been betrothed to David. Having made her curtsy to the queen at seventeen, she was allowed to attend the parties and balls that Season, but aside from general admiration and a desire to make the acquaintance of the future Duchess of Temberlay, no one had ever flirted with her.

Until Thomas Merritt.

Would he flirt with her now, a mere servant, if he were here? Of course not. She tilted her chin higher. She was not the same silly girl she’d been then. She was a grown woman, a servant, a mother.

And a spy.

She smoothed a hand over her borrowed gown and willed her stomach to drop back to the place it belonged, so she could breathe. She didn’t know where to put her eyes, who to look at among the hundreds—thousands—of people who filled the vast room. She heard snatches of German, French, English, and Italian among the banal banter that passed for conversation at any ball, but surely such ordinary talk would be of little interest to anyone. She stopped where she was, looked around. Where should she begin? How?

Stephen looked back over his shoulder and caught her arm with a smile, guiding her along with Dorothea through the crush to a row of chairs beside the dance floor.

“There is so much chatter that I can barely hear the music,” Dorothea said, almost yelling to be heard above the din.

Julia swallowed. How was she to listen to private conversations in such a place? The dancing began, and the sibilant swish of silk, the clink of dress swords, the hiss of dancing slippers on the wooden floor added to the cacophony. Dorothea grasped her arm and leaned toward Stephen. “Look, on the dais—Stephen, who are they?”

“The Empress of Austria and the Russian tsarina are seated in front, and behind them are the Queen of Bavaria and the Tsar’s sister, Grand Duchess Catherine.”

“I have never seen anything so magnificent,” Dorothea said, taking in the glitter of the state jewels and the lavish elegance of their gowns. Golden cloth shone, sliver thread sparkled, tiaras and diadems sent out beams of light as each lady sought to outdo her fellow monarchs. Julia wondered if it would be fair to single out just one as the most glorious lady among the group. This was a peace conference, after all. She wondered if the glittering orders they wore pinned to their bosoms were military, tokens of war, reminders of their nation’s prowess against Napoleon. Lady Castlereagh was wearing her husband’s diamond Order of the Garter Star in her hair, like a kind of tiara.

Stephen leaned close to Dorothea. “I met the Grand Duchess Catherine last spring, when she visited London with the Tsar, do you remember?”

Dorothea’s gaze clouded and her blue eyes turned vague, then filled with pain. “Last spring—” she began, her hand coming to her throat. “I don’t remember last spring.”

Julia squeezed her hand, glanced at Stephen and read concern tinged with impatience in his gaze.

“Look there, Doe,” he said, distracting her from her anxiety. “That’s the Princess Esterhazy. I overheard someone say her gown alone is worth six million francs, and the value of her jewels is incalculable.”

He’d
overheard
it? How, in such a noisy place? When? Julia frowned. Would she be able to do this job after all? She followed his gaze to the princess. She sparkled from head to toe. Most of the eyes in the room were fixed on her.

Julia looked around her at the other dignitaries present. The papal delegate was recognizable by his scarlet robes. The bearded gentleman in the turban, his ears, fingers, and caftan dripping with gems, must be the representative of the Ottoman sultan.

There were surely a thousand people in her line of sight, all dressed in a hundred different uniforms, or wearing elegant evening clothes studded with honors and orders. Everyone seemed to be whispering in someone else’s ear. Were these the secrets they wished her to overhear?

She imagined sneaking up behind people, leaning over their shoulders, pressing her ear into the conversation while trying to appear inconspicuous.

“Do you think Napoleon’s empress is here tonight?” Dorothea asked. “I hear that Marie Louise did not join her husband on Elba as she promised, but came home to Vienna at her father’s insistence.”

“Where did you hear that?” Stephen asked. “I thought you hadn’t been out, Doe.”

“It was in the park the other day. Julia insisted we must sample the air.” He shot a look at her, sending Julia a conspirator’s smile as Dorothea rambled on. “There were some people talking, that’s all. It is nearly as noisy there as it is here tonight, but I must say the paths are lovely in Vienna, especially at this time of year. Much nicer than Hyde Park,” she mused. “Remember how I used to love the gardens at Matthew’s estate? And it used to be said that I have an ear for the best gossip. There is no shortage of it here. One promenades in the park, looks at others, and is looked at in return. The social order is rather muddled at the moment, I think, but it will soon sort itself out into the right kind of people”—she counted the rest on her fingers—“followed by those who will serve to amuse the right kind of people, and lastly, everyone else.” Her hand fluttered like a bird and landed on her lap. “Just like London.”

Stephen smiled at his sister. “And which are we?”

“Oh, the right kind, of course, though rather invisible. We will do to speak to if no one of better pedigree arrives.”

“Just like London,” Julia repeated again, and Dorothea gave her a wan smile.

“Exactly.”

He glanced from Dorothea to Julia. “Is English society truly this complicated?”

“Yes,” they said at the same moment, and giggled.

“Then I stand corrected on thinking the English are a simple race—I thought if you gave us good beef, a few hundred acres of prime land, an heir, and an income over a thousand pounds, that we would be content. It appears not.” He sketched a mocking bow. “Since I am standing, corrected or otherwise, would you care to dance, Doe?” he asked, bowing low and presenting his hand.

Dorothea drew back and ran a hand over her lavender half-mourning gown. “No, but you might ask Julia.” She gave an exasperated sigh when he hesitated. “Come now, we both know Julia is not really a servant. She is as much a lady as I am, and I’m sure she waltzes better than any other woman here.”

“I doubt the Austrian empress—or any other Austrian lady for that matter—would agree with you,” Julia said to break the tension, but Stephen was looking at her, his eyes unreadable. Her stomach tensed again. “Since the Austrians invented the waltz, I mean,” she finished lamely.

“Shall we try to outdo them?” He extended a gloved hand to her, and she stared at it for a moment before taking it. Was it proper, a servant dancing with her employer, a fallen woman waltzing with a diplomat? She let him lead her out, aware of the heat of his arm beneath her hand, staring at the scarlet dress tunic he wore. Was there a man born who was not more handsome when dressed in a military tunic? She had been unable to see James as a boy any longer, as merely her brother, when he donned his uniform. He’d been transformed into a hero, and Stephen Ives was every bit as handsome. Any lady would be proud to be seen on his arm.

He set his hand on her waist, his touch warm through her gown, and expertly spun her across the floor as the music began. She’d almost forgotten how very much she loved to dance.

She tried not to think of the last time she’d waltzed—the only other time in her life. Stephen was not quite as tall as Thomas Merritt, and he moved with graceful, dignified restraint, where Thomas had been more flamboyant, making her breathless—

“Tell me who is important,” she said, her eyes darting over his shoulder, taking in the crowds. “Where should I begin? Did you say there are two other ballrooms filled with just as many people as this one tonight?”

He smiled down at her, his eyes creasing at the corners. “Yes. They had to open two more large reception rooms and the Spanish Riding School as well to accommodate everyone. Now let’s see who’s here.” He looked around the room as she had. “Ah, there’s Baron von Geritz, behind you. He’s a minor secretary from Bavaria. He enjoys schnapps and champagne, and he likes to flirt with women far younger than himself. He thinks he is far more important than he is,” Stephen said lightly. “If he knows anything important, he will crow it to anyone who’ll listen.”

“Then it won’t be a secret,” Julia said, discounting the baron. “Do you remember Viscount Reedsdale?” she asked, watching the Bavarian secretary strut before a young lady.

Stephen nodded. “Of course. He was a fixture at every hostess’s party, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. And he was exactly like the baron—he liked to pinch young ladies in dark corners at parties. My mother warned me about him before my debut, but he supported the same issues as my father did in Parliament, so I was advised to be charming and sweet, but to stay out of the corners at all costs.”

“Then you already know how to play this game,” Stephen said.

Did she? She had learned who to cultivate and who to avoid as a debutante, hadn’t she? She hadn’t put a foot wrong until she flirted with Thomas, let him take her into those forbidden dark corners. She stiffened at the memory, stumbled a little, and Stephen righted her, swept her onward. She forced a smile. She had learned her lesson, and would never make a mistake like Thomas Merritt again. So, she thought, relaxing a little, perhaps she knew how to proceed after all.

“There’s the Prince de Ligne,” Stephen said. “He is an aristocrat of the old world, a soldier, courtier, and bon vivant. He’s charming, witty, and he loves to gossip. Mind you, at his age some of that gossip is fifty years out of date, but still fascinating. He is most worth knowing. Shall I introduce you?”

She regarded the prince, wearing a powdered wig and a silk coat two decades out of style, but he was speaking with a lady who seemed delighted with his company. Her laugh rang out like the tinkle of crystal.

She smiled at Stephen. “Perhaps you could waltz me past him now and I could contrive to lose my slipper at his feet. As a gentleman, he would have no choice but to return it, and beg an introduction.”

Stephen tilted his head, his gaze admiring. “You play this game well, Julia.”

She felt her heart swell at the praise, and realized she was enjoying the evening.

T
homas Merritt bought a forged invitation to the grand ball—one of hundreds that were circulating in the city—and slipped in late. The room glittered, all sharp edges and brilliant lights that made his eyes hurt. Every lady present was dripping with jewels, glamorous in satin and lace, each trying to outdo the others, more for the sake of feminine pride than patriotism. The miasma of a hundred perfumes mingled with the odors of sweat, pomade, and shoe black.

He leaned on a pillar and looked around. What would these grand people say if they knew they were mingling with pirates, thieves, and con men who had slipped in with false credentials and stolen invitations?

He thought of the last ball he had attended in London. He hadn’t been invited to that affair either. Julia Leighton’s betrothal ball had been a polite, elegant party, unlike this frantic circus, but he’d attended for the same purpose he was here tonight—to steal a fortune. Instead, he had lost his heart.

Or very nearly.

He looked around the room, seeking her, but she wasn’t here, of course. She was probably tucked away at one of Temberlay’s country estates, playing the perfect wife, embroidering a sampler of the ducal crest by the hearth.