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.
Thomas 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.
He straightened his cuffs—new, and of the best linen this time, and pushed the thoughts of Julia out of his mind, concentrating on the swirling crowd, looking for a place to dive in, a friendly face, a lonely lady, but the room spun in an impenetrable wall of gaiety. He took a glass of champagne from a passing footman, then another, and stood back to watch. Faces blurred. Every woman was Julia, smiling and lovely, and every gentleman became his brother, sour and superior. He set his glass down on the nearest table and turned away. Perhaps he had made a mistake in coming here tonight.
“Not in the mood to dance?” a thick German accent asked, not unpleasantly, at his elbow, and Thomas turned. The man bowed stiffly, clicking his heels as he extended a hand. “Captain Franz von Jurgen. Bohemia.”
Thomas found his hand captured in a firm grip. “Viscount Merritton. English,” he said.
“Ah, then you are with the British delegation, perhaps?” von Jurgen asked.
“I’m just a tourist,” Thomas replied, taking another glass of champagne from a footman’s tray—how did such skinny lads manage to carry the heavy trays so gracefully through the crowds without dropping them, or spilling the golden liquid over naked shoulders and silk gowns?
“There are a great many tourists here,” von Jurgen said. “Did you know that Vienna currently holds twenty times her usual population? Everyone wants to see how the peace will play out. I myself am here to see to family interests. Petty in the grand scheme of things, perhaps, but Napoleon’s grande armée marched through my fields, burned my home, and stole nearly everything. Then the Prussians came and took the rest.”
Far from bitter, the man was smiling, tapping his foot in time to the music. Thomas frowned, and von Jurgen chuckled. “I will petition the Congress for compensation, but if that fails, maybe I will find a wealthy wife. Plenty of pretty ladies here, eh?” He pressed an elbow into Thomas’s ribs. “I should be choosing one I like and wooing her, yet I find the task daunting in such a crush. I understand there is a card room, with cigars and schnapps, which I far prefer to champagne. If you are of the same mind, shall we go and find this room and leave the delegates here to strut?”
That suited Thomas well enough. Within an hour he had won enough money to pay for a month’s lodging, a new coat and boots, and enough good meals to keep even Donovan happy. He looked at the pile of coins—an exotic mix of florins, francs, zlotys, and pfennigs, and smiled. He hadn’t stolen a thing. Between the winnings and the schnapps, he felt happier than he had in months.
“One last bet,” a wild-eyed gentleman from Venice begged. The man had lost everything, even his cuff links. Von Jurgen had those, and Thomas held his last handful of coins.
Von Jurgen leaned forward. “Have you anything left to bet with, mein herr?”
“This.” The man laid a gold watch on the table, a lady’s watch, engraved, delicate, expensive, with a single diamond set in the center of the case. Thomas picked it up and opened it. The tinny notes of a familiar English lullaby played. Behind the time piece itself there were a pair of miniature portraits, a gentleman and a child, also very English, though the owner—if he was the owner—was obviously Italian.
“A family heirloom,” the man said with a sly smile, and Thomas knew he was lying.
He laid down his cards, and the delicate little timepiece was his.
Chapter 14
Stephen stirred his tea with a flourish the next morning, wide-awake, though he hadn’t been able to sleep a wink.
She’d been magnificent. Even Charles Stewart had looked impressed, though he hadn
’t actually said so.
Julia had charmed the Prince de Ligne and a dozen other people who’d had the luck to make her acquaintance. When the time came to leave in the wee hours of the morning, she had a dozen invitations to tea and lunch, which she neither accepted nor declined. When gentlemen asked to call upon her, she merely smiled politely and changed the subject. He’d led her out of the ballroom on his arm while another aide escorted Dorothea, and felt envious glares like daggers in his back.
He’d yet to figure out how she had done it, and he’d been watching her all evening—just to make sure she didn’t get into any trouble. She listened more than she spoke, smiled charmingly, and made witty comments at precisely the right moments, always in English. Was that all there was to it, or was there something extraordinary about Julia Leighton? Her upbringing, of course, had a great deal to do with her social skills. If only she were not . . . He frowned.
He wasn’t married, mainly because he had never found a woman who interested him enough. Until now.
He sighed as he took a forkful of eggs and sausage, grinning like a fool as he chewed. The footman, a proper English chap, shifted uncomfortably as he watched.
Once they arrived home after the ball, Stephen had taken Julia in to see Lord Castlereagh. She perched on the edge of a settee and advised him that a number of delegates were feeling slighted by the accommodations provided to them by the Austrians, or at the order of precedence they’d been assigned in meetings and assemblies. She had not said it outright, since it was not her place, but she hinted with the utmost delicacy that a kind word or offer of assistance from Britain’s envoys might sway lesser delegates to side with England on contentious issues in return.
Castlereagh had put Stephen in charge of seeing what might be done, then thanked Julia and bid her good-night. “Perhaps,” he had suggested, “you might encourage Lady Dorothea to cultivate the friendship of Prince Talleyrand’s niece. She is serving as his official hostess.”
Stephen chuckled out loud over his breakfast, remembering how Julia had curtsied to his lordship and told him she would see what she could do in that regard. The footman looked sideways at him again.
“More tea, Major?”
He nodded absently.
If Julia could charm the wily old French ambassador, it would be a coup indeed. Talleyrand held the lion’s share of secrets.
Stephen dug a spoon into a frothy cheese soufflé and considered the matter again. No, he was quite certain he had never met a woman like Julia Leighton. He’d put his plans to seek a wife on hold when he joined the army, then again when Dorothea needed him, but those were simply convenient excuses. He was beginning to think he was a confirmed bachelor, the kind of man who would dandle his nieces and nephews on his knees and tell them stories of long ago wars, his glory days. No heirs, no cares. Yet now—
He put his spoon down and frowned.
“Something wrong with the soufflé, Major?” the footman asked.
“No, not at all,” Stephen said, looking at the dish. It was almost empty, but he didn’t remember tasting a single bite.
What the devil had gotten into him? He could never marry Julia Leighton. He added a spoonful of sugar to his teacup, unsure if he’d already done so or not, then grimaced at the oversweetness of the tea.
One thing was certain—Julia Leighton would have been wasted on Temberlay. He’d met David Temberlay on several occasions and found him as dull and stolid as his brother, Nicholas, was flamboyant and bold. He recalled now that Nicholas had actually proposed to Julia after his brother was killed. He’d returned from war to assume his brother’s title and discovered Julia with child, disowned by her family. Stephen had wondered why any man would do such a foolishly honorable, reckless thing, but that was before he met Julia. She had refused Nicholas, determined to make her own way in the world.
He poured thick yellow cream over a bowl of late blackberries and let the sweetness of the berries fill his mouth.
Did Julia regret her actions, miss her old life? She could have been a duchess, yet she carried the role of companion like a queen. He smiled again, and a cream-covered berry rolled off his spoon onto the pristine tablecloth. He and the footman both stared at it for a moment.
Julia looked to be enjoying herself immensely last night, her face glowing, her eyes bright. He’d been enchanted, even though he knew the truth about her.
He could see now that the truth was that she was beautiful, charming, elegant, and smart.
Of course she was passionate too. She’d proven that in her folly, but also in her devotion to Dorothea, her son, and the new tasks they’d given her.
He felt a stir of desire, and swallowed a blackberry whole. It stuck in his throat for a moment. Perhaps there was another way.
He’d never had a mistress. He never had time, or found a woman who attracted him enough, or who was equal to his intellect in the drawing room as well as good in bed. He imagined taking Julia to bed, then waking up and actually enjoying talking to her.
He shifted in his chair and added another spoonful of sugar to his tea.
A diplomat could never travel with his mistress. It would be scandalous.
He set the spoon down. Yet if Doe continued to travel with him, and brought Julia as her companion, everything would look quite proper. Dorothea had been remarkably happy last night on the ride home, her eyes bright as she chattered about fashions, food, and music. She’d hugged him when he asked her if she enjoyed the ball, and bid him good-night with a kiss on the cheek. Perhaps she might enjoy travel with him on future missions—and that meant Julia would be there.
The door of the breakfast room opened and he looked up as Julia hurried into the room. He rose to his feet with a genuine smile, his heart missing a beat as she hurried across the room.
She was wearing the same blue muslin gown she’d worn last night to the ball, wrinkled now, and stained. Her eyes were red-rimmed, shiny with tears. She looked as if she’d been through a battle. His smile faltered.
“What’s happened?” he asked, throwing down his napkin.
“My lord, Dorothea has taken an overdose of laudanum.”
Chapter 15
The curtains actually shrieked as Donovan opened them with a flourish, letting the afternoon sun stream into the room. “ ’Morning, my lord, or rather, good afternoon,” he said with jaunty sarcasm. The light pierced Thomas’s aching head like a bolt of lightning, and he shut his eyes and rolled over, cursing his valet with every colorful phrase he could think of. His stomach heaved and he swallowed bile.
Donovan whistled and nudged the chamber pot nearer to the side of the bed with his foot. “Must have been some party. You came home drunk as a lord—well, a lad who used to be a lord—and you’re as green as the damned wallpaper now.”
“Go ’way,” Thomas managed. What the hell had he been drinking last night? He hadn’t been this drunk in years. He’d learned to be careful, canny, let other men do the drinking while he stayed sober and alert.
He cracked his eyes open when Donovan picked up his coat and breeches from the floor and began going through the pockets, and chuckled as he scooped three handfuls of coin onto the table with an ungodly clatter.
“What have we here? Is this a souvenir?” Donovan said when he found the watch. “I thought you stuck to earrings to remember your conquests.” He opened the watch and the lullaby played. “I hope you didn’t go to a lot of effort to get this. It’s too personal to be of any value. Someone’s bound to recognize the portraits, and we’ll never be able to sell it. It’s the kind of thing people go looking for when they lose it.”
“It’s not for sale,” Thomas muttered thickly. “Get me something to drink, water, tea, I don’t care.” But Donovan had noticed the diamond embedded in the case. He examined it, letting the jewel catch the light and throw it into Thomas’s eyes like a handful of needles. Donovan
whistled again, the thin, high sound every bit as painful as the light.
“This stone should fetch a few quid. Maybe more.” He took a knife out of his pocket.
“Don’t—” Thomas began, but it was too late. The diamond popped out and Donovan held it up, murmuring praise.
Thomas wrapped the sheet around his waist and rose, managing to cross the room and snatch up the watch from where it lay on the table. He collapsed into a chair, shielding it in his hand against further damage. He didn’t need to look at the portraits again. He knew them by heart, having stared at them for hours last night before he passed out, trying to conjure an image of the lady who owned the watch. The dainty timepiece had been a gift from her husband, perhaps—the man in the portrait—and the child was doubtless their son. The perfect English family.
He envied them. Were they in love, happy? Did the lady hum the lullaby to her child as he slept? The gentleman’s painted face reeked of starchy nobility, but there was something else in his expression as well, a gentleness, a look of love that Thomas had almost forgotten existed.
By the time his coach had rolled to a stop outside his door at dawn, he’d decided he would try and find the owner and return it. No doubt the lady was here in Vienna. How else could such a personal treasure have ended up here, in his hands?
He sat on the edge of the bed now and stared down at the scratched case, at the gouge where the diamond had been. Would she—whoever she might be, and if he ever found her—still be glad to have the watch back again, even without the diamond?
He thought of his own family. They were not the kind to give each other portraits of loved ones. The Earls of Brecon married for position, profit, and power, but never for love. They lived grand lives and painted grand portraits of themselves to hang in the hallowed halls of Brecon Park, or they had their likenesses carved in marble, which was fitting, given the hard, proud, unfeeling nature of his kin.
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