by Joan Smith
He let himself out, then had to return to push the monkey, who had slipped out after him, back into the hallway. It seemed hard to him that of all the people in England, he had to have for a cousin Harvey, and that Harvey had to marry that silly Googie Donaldson. He signaled to his groom to take his carriage away, to let him walk. Walking aided his thinking. He paced briskly along the street, mentally toting up what facts he had, then proceeded to try to splice those facts together to form a pattern.
Harvey was seeing Feydeau, which indicated the woman led him on with regard to getting the blue diamond for him. Chabon was seeing Harvey (and/or Googie), which suggested to him that Chabon was also interested in the sale of the diamond, as a Frenchman on Talleyrand’s staff would naturally be. That surely was Chabon’s involvement, despite Castlereagh’s hint that he was more deeply involved. The logical deduction he made was that Kruger was helping the French people to trap Feydeau. Inasmuch as they were all after the same thing, why should they not work together?
He turned his steps towards Kruger’s house, still thinking. But on the other hand, what if Kruger really was broke, and what if Chabon was after the Blue Tavernier for himself, and what if—most worrisome thought of all—what if Mademoiselle Feydeau was perfectly innocent, sitting like a fly in a trap, with Chabon and Kruger planning to use her . . . . His steps speeded up, unnoticed by him.
And then—what about Maria Kruger? Where did she feature in the case? That romance old Kruger had tried to foster between himself and Maria—it had fizzled out to nothing lately. He was no longer urged to call, to dangle after the girl. She was often seen with Chabon, but her face showed no trace of being in love.
Another point that roused his curiosity was the absence of the Countess von Rossner from Kruger’s company lately. If Kruger had been trying to arrange profitable matches for himself and his daughter, what had happened to change his tactics? Was money no longer required? If so, there was a very recent reason for it. Rechberg had called off because of a lack of ready cash. Did the Blue Tavernier have anything to do with this new wealth?
At the beginning of February, Wellington arrived and threw the delegation into a pelter with his complaints and questions. He was but little interested in fairy tales of a blue diamond, and worked instead on arrangements to coerce Prussia into accepting the Allies’ terms for peace. When this was accomplished, there was much optimism in Vienna, and many parties, but there was not much excitement of the intriguing sort to appeal to the Iron Duke. Castlereagh returned to England, and Wellington turned his attention to Moncrief’s little problem.
"There is little enough to be done here,” he said in a fit of boredom. “By all means, get back on to your case, and see if you can get the business settled.”
It was impossible to know, but Moncrief thought there was a ray of hope in the Duke’s keen eyes, a hope that Boney would come back to enliven matters.
* * *
Chapter 16
How long had it been since he had called on the Krugers? Long enough to require explanations? Probably, but then the press of business . . . Really he had intended to call sooner, but it would sound insincere to say so. The last time he had stood up with Maria at a ball, he had taken the idea she was worried. Her old arrogance, her self-assurance, had deserted her. She looked distracted somehow. The newly emerging Miss Kruger was more appealing to him than the old. She had stepped on his toes twice during the waltz, and excused herself very prettily, with a becoming blush. She had once spoken German amongst a party of Englishmen, due to inattention. She was too well bred to have done it on purpose. Certainly something was preying on the girl’s mind.
He was admitted at the door to hear the hallway filled with the delightful, whirling music of the waltz. Méhul’s best waltz from the ballet, Danseomanie it was, taking him back to the presentation of this work at the beginning of the Congress. “Is there a waltzing party in progress?” he asked the butler. “I shall return another time.”
“No, milord. Miss Kruger plays the piano. I shall inform her you are here.”
“Don’t! I shall sneak up on her. She plays so delightfully, I do not wish to interrupt the music,” he replied. The butler indicated a doorway ahead.
Moncrief was a lover of music, and of the piano in particular. All his female acquaintances played, most of them badly. It was an instrument that was played either excellently, or execrably. One false note, one hesitation in beat ruined the whole. On top of dexterous fingering, a feeling for the music was required. A waltz must roll, it must cascade, whirl and make you dizzy, or it was not well executed. The sounds issuing from the doorway ahead made his feet want to move. He wanted to take a woman in his arms, and circle down the passageway till his head spun. He walked softly to the opening of the room, so as not to disturb her.
Maria sat bending forward over the keyboard with a faraway look on her face. A sad look it was, though the music was so gay. Her graceful, arched neck was partially concealed today by a lace fichu tucked in at the neck of her gown, lending an unaccustomed air of modesty. Her dark curls were pulled demurely back from her forehead, after Mademoiselle’s directions. She looked younger, more innocent than usual. Just at the end of a particularly beautiful rippling passage, a discordant note sounded.
“Damn!” she said angrily, and played it over again, too hard, too quickly, with too much determination, but hitting all the right notes. Then she looked up. “Oh Moncrief! Good morning. You come at the worst possible time, just as I massacre Méhul’s finest melody. Do come in, or I shall end up turning this waltz into a march. I always do when I hit a sour note, and lose my temper.”
“I am sorry to have interrupted you, you play so beautifully.”
“I play for the galleries,” she replied, with a dismissing smile.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It is an Austrian joke, designating inferior execution. When Beethoven’s Fidelio was poorly received—a resounding flop in fact, his patron mentioned the galleries were empty. Beethoven replied he did not write for the galleries. Well, I play for the galleries. I satisfy the undemanding, in other words.”
“You satisfy me, and I consider myself a very demanding listener. Though upon consideration, I must confess I took no particular delight in that part of Fidelio Beethoven resurrected to play at the Empress of Russia’s birthday party.”
“No more did I, but we lightweights may take our music seriously too. I am not listed in the Jahrbuch der Tonkunst, but I have played at the Mehlgrube Hall, and once at the Augarten, a duet with Baroness Prokech. She took the good part, and left me to beat the time. Papa once played at the Kavalierskonzerte with Beethoven himself. He plays the flute rather well, Papa.”
“Is everyone in Vienna a musician?”
“Every single one, and most of us are also actors. It is one's patriotic duty. In Austria, when we win a battle, we celebrate it with music. It is our way of life. Hayden writes us a symphony, Shakespeare writes you a play, or Byron a poem. Papa says it is because the English are turned inwards, not expansive, like us.”
“Amateur theatricals are very popular, however,” he pointed out.
“Let us have coffee. You like it with schlagobers, served the Viennese way?”
“I am an addict. If your city gave us nothing but wonderful coffee and whipped cream, it would be enough.”
They strolled into the wide hallway, where carved paneling was hung with Brussels tapestries, a huge mirror framed in silver showing a reflection of their passing. On small, low japanned tables, Chinese pots and fresh flowers reposed. It was hard to credit that Castlereagh was correct in thinking the Krugers broke. His eye fell on the little Rembrandt at the end of the hallway, and he looked at it more closely. It seemed to lack life today. He felt that if he had to look at it for long, it would pall on him, in the manner Kruger had described early in their acquaintance. He looked at his partner and smiled, while wondering how to begin quizzing her for clues.
�
�Is Mademoiselle Feydeau still with you?” he asked, though he knew perfectly well she was.
“Yes,” she said briefly, while a shadow flitted across her face—a fleeting frown, no more. She spoke of leaving, but stayed on forever.
The coffee arrived, rich, in delicate porcelain cups, with sterling silver spoons. “I see you have made a conquest of Monsieur Chabon,” he said next, to work round to what had brought him. “All cured of your infatuation with Rechberg, I take it?”
“Chabon is not my friend in particular,” she said, with a certain alacrity. “It is Papa he gets along so famously with.”
“A charming couple,” he answered lightly, in a joking way. “I think, entre nous, that his girl friend, Countess von Rossner, becomes jealous of Chabon.”
“She hates him!”
His head jerked towards her in surprise at the vehemence of this remark. “I take it you share the aversion?” he asked quietly.
“I do not much like him,” she admitted, more mildly.
“Why is that?”
She looked at him, weighing her answer. For weeks now she had struggled under the burden of her problem, talking only to her godmother, whose sole interest in the matter was whether Peter had taken a lover. About murders, schemes for making money and other intrigue, she waved a jeweled hand in disdain. Peter would not be so foolish. It was impossible too to go to one’s lifelong friends with her suspicions. They would laugh at her, say she was imagining things. She wanted advice from an older, worldly person she could trust. She looked at her caller, wondering if he were the one. There was something solid in him, some interest, some English fairness that attracted her, even while she did not quite understand it. “He seems to have hypnotized Papa,” she said, reluctantly, with a helpless little flutter of her hands.
“Why don’t you tell me what is troubling you, Maria?” he said simply.
His using her given name tilted the balance. A gentleman would not betray a lady he called by her first name. It would not be chivalrous. The English were chivalrous towards women. It was an axiom in England, where she had spent her formative years. Perhaps that was what drew her to him, those happy years in England. “It is a confidence, you understand?” He nodded slightly, concealing his rampant curiosity under a bland expression.
“I hardly know where to begin. Money, I think, is at the root of it. We are not rich, you see. Oh I know we look rich. I thought we were, till a month or so ago. We had everything, and on top of it all, there was always Tante Hermione in the background, eager to marry Papa and give us all her money. But it was only a sham—all my jewels made of paste, and the house I suppose mortgaged. I don’t know.” She shook her head, bewildered. “Papa no longer talks to me. He is involved in some business with Chabon. I don’t trust that Chabon.”
“What sort of business?”
“I don’t know. Oh I don’t know, Moncrief! That is the problem. I think they are planning some criminal act, but what can it be? Mademoiselle Feydeau thinks Chabon has the diamonds stolen from the King of France. She thinks he plans to sell them for Talleyrand—or give them back to Louis, or something.”
His heart gave a lurch at the introduction into the business of Prince Talleyrand’s name. This was a complication never foreseen, and was soon put down to misunderstanding on the girl’s part. “That is why you questioned me about him awhile ago?”
“Yes, to see if you thought him capable of such a thing.”
“I don’t. I cannot believe Talleyrand is involved.”
“It was Mademoiselle’s opinion. The worst of it is, they are gypping her.” She went on to explain the affair of the diamond earrings, while he listened closely. The only new fact learned was that von Rossner had stood bluff for half the expense.
“That may be Mademoiselle’s opinion, but it is far from being a fact. Chabon perhaps, not Talleyrand,” he said.
“Where would Chabon have got the jewels, without benefit of such a one as Talleyrand, who was alive, there on the spot at the time they were taken?”
“Why don’t we ask your father? If he’s working with Chabon, he must know.”
“No! I hardly dare speak to him these days. He is become so gruff, so sharp with me. That, as much as anything, tells me he is in trouble.”
“I’ll speak to him.”
“No, please. He’ll know I told you. He’ll learn you were here today.”
“I shall also visit Mademoiselle. With Hager’s ten thousand spies so busy as well, there are an infinite number of ways I might have learned he is engaged in something he should not be.”
“But you won’t tell anyone. Anyone official I mean. My hope is to prevent his doing something stupid, not to catch him at it.”
“Prevention is my own aim as well. We are as one in that hope. I shall do what I can. I am happy you confided in me. Naturally I shall treat your words in the strictest confidence. Don’t worry on that score.”
She breathed a trembling sigh, half of relief, half of regret she had shared her fears. Moncrief reached out and patted her fingers. “Come, it’s not so bad as that,” he said, gently.
She attempted a smile, with very little success. “Why did you tell me?” he asked, on impulse.
“I had to tell someone. I was nearly bursting with worry.
“Why me?”
“Because you asked,” was the only answer she could give him, or herself.
His next stop was Feydeau’s apartment, around the corner, where he was admitted again by the housekeeper, to find Mademoiselle sitting by the window, some sewing between her fingers. “I would like to speak to you in private,” he said, with a glance to the doorway, where the older woman lurked.
“We have nothing to discuss,” she answered.
He had taken the notion the housekeeper listened at doorways. The fleeting shadow noticed the first day led him to this conclusion. Even when he looked and saw the girl so pale and forlorn-looking, he began to wonder if she were being held in this apartment against her wishes. It was a perfectly foundless notion, but she was young and pretty, and Moncrief a little given to romance. “It is a beautiful, crisp day,” he began, glancing out the window, where a few soft snowflakes fell. “Let me take you for a drive—a jaunt into the woods and lunch at an inn.”
“I seldom go out,” she said, but there was a glow of interest in her eyes.
“Young ladies need fresh air,” he continued. “The roses in your cheeks have faded from my last visit. Come, do it as a favor to me.”
“I don’t recollect that I owe you any favors, milord,” she replied. Her eyes darted from time to time to the hallway. He too looked in this direction, but saw no shadows today.
“Are you allowed to leave?” he asked in a low voice.
“Certainly! I am not a prisoner. I shall go,” she said, then got immediately to her feet to get her cape. The ten minutes he sat waiting for her return seemed a long time to put on a cape. Was she talking the old biddy into letting her go? His curiosity was high when at last she appeared, looking very pretty in a dark blue, hooded cape, with sable lining, the fur turned back to frame her face. An expensive outfit, he noted.
Her manner changed when she was out of the apartment. She became gayer, relaxed, almost coquettish. “I know you only came to ask me about diamonds!” she chided, with a smile.
“I can think of at least one other reason for calling on you,” he returned in a gallant way, his dark eyes admiring her quite blatantly.
She threw her head back and laughed, revealing even, white teeth. “You will not con a French lady with such tardy compliments, Sir. If you had been interested in me, you would not have waited so long to return.”
“She’s missed me!” he pointed out, and laughed at her chagrined protests. “I am greatly flattered, Mam’selle. I would have been back much sooner but for the crush of business at this time.”
“Oh yes, I know all about this crush of business. The business of levées in the morning, rides in the afterno
on, state dinners and balls and routs, and perhaps occasionally a report to write for your patron. I could not hope to compete with such worthy pursuits.”
“You underestimate your charms. You could compete with the best of them, if you cared to give it a whirl.”
“No, I am in no position to compete with anyone or anything,” she answered, while that wistful light returned to her dark eyes. “This is a pleasant change, but in the end, nothing has altered. You asked me out to inquire for the diamonds. I do not have them. That’s all. Take me home, and save your horses.”
“Are you perfectly free to come and go as you please?” he asked bluntly. “Come, we are alone now. The old woman can’t listen. Are you forced to stay there, in that apartment?”
“No, I stay because I want to. Soon I shall leave, in fact. I wait only to find a place to go. Miss Kruger has been very kind in forwarding me some funds. You heard about the tragedy of my diamond earrings?”
“Maria told me. How do you suppose it happened? Who do you think responsible for the switch?”
“I cannot say. I only know she left with diamonds, and returned some hours later with poor substitutes. Chabon, her father, herself . . ."
“You suspect the Krugers?” he asked.
“They might be involved, as Chabon’s dupes. They are not clever enough to have instigated the affair. The accident of my living in their house may have led Chabon to them.”
It was natural she try to lay the blame elsewhere, but he remembered it was herself Harvey visited, and she was not his lover. Harvey would never have left her so long in a cramped apartment, with no carriage. “See much of Palgrave?” he asked suddenly, to throw her off guard.
"No."
“Anything of him at all?”
“Did your spies not tell you he calls occasionally?”
"My spies?”
“Perhaps I do you an injustice. They might very well be Chabon’s. He was calling from time to time—first for the diamonds, then with the most indecent suggestions. Mon Dieu! If you have seen my housekeeper hanging about the door, it is only to protect me from the likes of Palgrave. I asked her to do it, in fact. But I shall tell her Lord Moncrief is much better behaved, if you care to call again,” she finished, with a smile.