The Secret Life of Lady Julia

by Lecia Cornwall

  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.”

  Chapter 12

  The 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

  Julia’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 count
ed 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.