She jabbed harder, and he grunted, then stepped back at last. “If you ever come near me again, I shall not hesitate to shoot you.”
He forced a smile. “So you prefer it rough, do you? If you like games, I’m willing to play—”
“Julia?” Stephen came around the coach, his gaze swiveling between Julia and Lord Stewart. He took in the man’s heavy breathing and her disheveled hair. “Doe is looking for you, Miss Leighton,” he said sharply, his eyes hard, his suspicions about her clear.
Julia felt her skin heat. He hadn’t seen the gun, had simply imagined that she would— Her anger flared again.
“If she is ready to go, the coach is prepared for her,” she said drawing herself up. She felt the little pistol in her hand. She should shoot both of them for the insult, first Stewart, then Stephen bloody Ives. If she were a man—like James, for example—she could draw off her glove, call them both out with a slap, and defend her honor.
But she was only a woman, and a ruined woman at that, forever to be regarded with suspicion. She’d seen it in Lady Castlereagh’s eyes, and even in the eyes of her ladyship’s servants. She put the weapon back into her pocket and turned away, moving woodenly toward the inn to find Dorothea.
“Is there a problem, my lord?” she heard Stephen ask, his tone brittle.
She heard Lord Stewart laugh again. “Not at all. I was telling Miss Leighton how nice it is to have a pretty face on the journey,” he drawled. “As I’m sure you’ve noticed yourself by now.”
Julia pressed a hand to her hot cheek at the innuendo and kept walking.
After that she’d kept the pistol loaded and made certain she was never without a maid close by when she was not with Dorothea. She did not even glance at Lord Stewart when she was in his presence, but she felt his gaze crawling over her.
But now they were here, in Vienna, and Stewart was riding far ahead with his half brother, the ambassador.
She held her bonnet against the sluggish breeze and stared at the city, still distant, but close enough that the church spires were visible, floating above the golden cloud of dust. The channels of the River Danube wove through the landscape like dark ribbons. It was early afternoon and the sky was a clear and cloudless blue against the dusty earth. It was impossible not to feel joy.
She took a deep breath, trying to catch the perfume of the city itself, the signature scent of the place, but it was still too far away, and all she could smell was dust.
Stephen rode up alongside. “Vienna at last,” he said, his eyes on the city. He had been cool and correct and distant since the incident at the inn, nearly silent during meals.
“How marvelous it looks,” Julia replied.
“But the Danube isn’t blue,” he said. The wind blew a lock of fair hair over his forehead, making him look young and wistful as well as handsome on his tall black horse.
“No, it’s more purple, perhaps, or even—” She bit her lip.
Indigo, like his eyes, as he shaded them against the sun. Like Thomas Merritt’s eyes had been by starlight, though they were gray in candlelight. She turned away to look at the river again.
“At least it isn’t the greenish brown of the Thames,” he finished for her, studying her face. Her cheeks were hot and she was sure she was blushing.
“A real bath,” he murmured.
“Pardon?” She looked up at him in surprise, and wondered if she had dust on her cheeks. She resisted the urge to wipe her hand over her skin, but he smiled, the first genuine smile he’d given her in days. The thrill of arrival was contagious, it seemed.
“I mean that’s what I’m looking forward to when this journey finally comes to an end.”
She drew a breath. “Oh, yes. Dorothea will also be pleased to arrive. She has heard that Lady Castlereagh has insisted on bringing an English cook.”
“She has indeed. What would you have him make for you?” Stephen asked.
Julia rolled her eyes. “Scones with clotted cream—though I hear that Vienna is famous for apple strudel and chocolate confections.”
“So they say,” he laughed. “Are you game to try the local delicacies, then?”
“I have heard the way to know a city best is to taste it.” Once you knew it by sight and scent, of course.
“I think you may be right. Who could understand Paris without tasting the bread, or the chicken cooked with apples and garlic?”
“Or the snails,” she teased, and wondered if she were being too forward. “And the cheese, and the butter,” she continued quickly, aware that she was babbling. “Though English strawberries are much sweeter than the French ones.”
He smiled at her as if they were meeting at tea, conversing as equals, and she was still an earl’s daughter, a lady of consequence. She lowered her eyes. It was his training as a diplomat, she thought, to give the speaker his attention, encourage them to talk, while he remained cool and charming. She ran a hand over her cheek after all, felt the grit on her skin. Yes, a bath would be very nice indeed.
“I know Dorothea is looking forward to a good English breakfast,” she said, “and a proper cup of tea made in a china pot.”
“We shall do our best to give her all the comforts of London, but we’ll have to encourage her to ‘taste the city,’ as you put it, to try new things while she’s here. I wish she’d see this as you do, as an adventure. She has not enjoyed the journey.”
“Not at all,” Julia agreed. “But we’re here at last, and no doubt she’ll find things more pleasant when she is settled. I shall do all that I can to make her comfortable.”
His smile faded and he nodded crisply, the moment of connection passed, and she was merely a servant once again, with responsibilities to see to. She drew her head in, focusing on Dorothea, who had yet to wake, and he rode on, spurring his horse to a gallop and disappearing in a cloud of dust.
Julia could not resist one more look at the distant city, which was coming closer by the minute. Her toes curled inside her half boots. Even if she must tread the careful path of a servant, she would savor every moment of her time in Vienna.
Chapter 8
“Can we afford such a grand place?”
Thomas smiled grimly at his manservant as they stared up at the facade of a fashionable town house by Vienna’s city walls. “Can we afford not to take it? We will have the second floor. The top floor will probably be rented by another threadbare gentleman, or perhaps a pair of genteel ladies—maybe a mother looking for a rich husband for her daughter.”
Donovan laughed. “Best be careful she doesn’t snag you, imagining you’ve got money. Which, hopefully, you will have before our time here is done.”
Thomas eyed the building’s yellow and white facade. “Such a woman will be canny enough to know I am not wealthy enough for her purposes, or I would be at least two streets closer to the palaces where the ambassadors are lodging. Once the scramble begins for places to stay, we may find ourselves with a junior diplomat, or even a displaced lord who couldn’t find better accommodations, living on the first floor.”
“And how do you know all this?” Donovan marveled. “I wasn’t aware you’d done the Grand Tour, or traveled widely, even before you were disowned.”
Thomas set his top hat on his head. “I’ve been to Brighton at the height of the summer. Every mama with a marriageable daughter, every lord who needs a favor, is there to be close to the Prince Regent. Bath, I hear, is much the same. There are subtle clues to one’s respectability based upon the street your lodging is in and the view your windows afford—of people, that is, not scenery. An eligible bachelor with money and a title learns to spot predatory mamas and hopeful debs early, and to identify the young ladies with rich dowries and high connections. The goal is to make a marriage and the best connections possible. It is a skill that has become inbred in the upper classes.”
Donovan scratched his
head. “What about looks? Don’t they count? I wouldn’t want an ugly wife.”
“It doesn’t matter what she looks like. It’s the family she comes from, the lineage she will give to one’s heirs, her dowry and lands, and the goodwill of her titled relations. Being lucky enough to find a beauty with all those characteristics is a rare thing indeed.” David Temberlay came to mind as the exception to the rule—a man lucky enough to get dowry, connections, land, and a beautiful bride to boot.
Donovan still looked baffled. “The upper classes never fail to amaze me. No wonder there are so many ugly earls and hideous heirs to dukedoms, and it all just leads to more ugly brides, doesn’t it?”
Thomas sighed. It would never be his problem now. “See to the trunks, Donovan, and try to look like a servant for the next ten minutes, will you?”
Donovan pulled his forelock sarcastically. “Aye, milord. And what shall I call you?”
Thomas considered. “Viscount Merritton should do.”
“Until someone who knows you remembers you aren’t a viscount anymore.”
“I doubt my brother will be here to tell, and we won’t be mixing with the British ambassador and his friends,” Thomas said coldly, pulling on calfskin gloves and straightening his coat.
“You would still be a viscount, wouldn’t you, if you’d spoken up properly, or let me do it.”
Thomas tightened his lips. “We’ve had this discussion,” he said in a bored tone.
“A lady’s honor,” Donovan sneered. “As if she deserved your regard.” He growled. “She’s a lying bill o’ goods, that one, for all she’s a countess.”
Thomas ignored Donovan’s indignation. It was too late for regrets. He’d made his choice. Even if he hadn’t been guilty then, he was guilty of other seductions, other sins, both before and after Joanna.
“Let’s go in,” he said, dismissing the matter from his mind. From somewhere nearby, one of the grand bells in a grand Viennese church tolled the hour.
Chapter 9
The palace on the Minoritenplatz had been chosen especially by the British ambassador for its strategic location in proximity to the residences of the other great powers. It was an elegant, sober edifice with a gray facade that brooked no nonsense from the more impressive palaces nearby. The offices of Prince Metternich, the Austrian foreign minister, were in the nearby Hofburg Palace, where Tsar Alexander had an entire floor at his disposal, as did the kings of France and Denmark. The king of Bavaria had taken over the Reichskanzlei, and the French ambassador, the wily Prince de Talleyrand, was directing French interests from the Kaunitz Palace. Their host, the Austrian emperor, presided over everything from the magnificent Schonbrunn Palace, located on the outskirts of the city and set in hundreds of acres of parkland. In fact, the entire city seemed to be set in a park, with trees and gardens everywhere.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Julia asked Dorothea as they explored the high-ceilinged rooms they would occupy on the palace’s second floor. Plaster cherubs watched their arrival from the corners of the rooms with mischievous smiles, their chubby cheeks shining with gold leaf. Dorothea glanced up at them as she tested the mattress. “Far less intimidating than the gargoyles in Paris, at least.” She made a face anyway. “They call this the Yellow Room. It is one of my least favorite colors.”
“We can change the counterpane on the bed,” Julia replied. “What color would you like?”
“Blue,” Dorothea said. “My husband loved it.” She smoothed her hand over the blue traveling dress she wore, as far from the half-mourning colors of gray and mauve as she ever strayed. “Best have the draperies changed as well. Where are your rooms, Julia? Close by, I hope.”
“Of course. There is a sitting room between us, and a small dining room where we shall take our meals, but my bedroom is just along the hall.”
Her room was done in soft shades of green, with a connected dressing room that would serve as nursery for Jamie.
She crossed to the windows in Dorothea’s suite and opened them to let in the early fall breeze. There was a lovely view over the tiled roofs of the houses that squatted beneath the walls of the city’s great palaces and churches, and the lovely parks beyond that. There were trees everywhere, making the city fresh and green. In a few weeks, if they were still here, the fall colors would be glorious.
She closed her eyes and took a breath. Vienna had a crisp, dry scent, with a hint of old roses and sugar, an elegant fragrance that suited the lovely city.
She turned at a knock on the door and crossed to open it to a procession of liveried male servants carrying Dorothea’s luggage. “Please put the trunks in the dressing room,” she directed. A maid was already there, setting out the small things, waiting to unpack the trunks.
“Well hello, sweetheart. Have you been assigned to these dull English ladies?” one of the porters boldly asked in German as he entered the dressing room.
“Hush, Hans. You must be more discreet!” the maid warned, casting a glance at Julia, giving her a flat imitation of a smile. “What if they speak German?”
Julia’s senses warned her, and she gave no indication she understood them for the moment. In her time as a servant she had been surprised to find out just how outspoken those hired to serve were about their masters. They gossiped like the most expert ton cats and knew far more damaging secrets. She waited to hear what their Austrian servants had to say about the new arrivals. If the conversation grew too bold, she could reprimand them in German, but something told her this wasn’t ordinary servants’ gossip. Perhaps the quick, furtive glances they cast at the papers on the desk or the interest they took in Dorothea’s trunks suggested they were more than mere footmen and maidservants.
“Why should I be careful?” Hans asked insolently. “Are these women important?” He turned to look at the crests on Dorothea’s trunks.
“Well, they are not princesses or countesses or royalty, if that’s what you mean,” the maid sniffed. “I believe this lady is merely the sister of a mere assistant to the ambassador. This is quite a dull assignment for me. I was promised a post with a Russian princess.” She sighed and ran a dismissive hand over the first trunk. “Ah well, perhaps I will unpack some elegant clothing or jewels of note, but I doubt it. These English do not know how to dress.”
Hans chucked her under the chin. “You do not speak Russian, liebchen. You speak English, and you must keep your eyes and ears open. You never know what this lady might hear from her brother or his fellows and repeat while she is— What do English ladies do to pass the time between balls?”
“They embroider, I hear, or write long letters complaining of the food, the weather, and the local customs and saying how bored they are. Hans, I shall go mad with boredom myself!”
“Just do your job,” he said dryly. “I shall be downstairs, doing the same. If you hear anything of interest—” The maid giggled.
Julia had heard enough. With shaking fingers she opened the door fully. They spun to regard her with sharp eyes for a moment, then the porter bowed and the maid dipped a respectful curtsy.
“Can I help, madam?” she asked in accented English.
“Would you see that Lady Dorothea’s own maid is sent up?” Julia asked in English. “Then you may go.”
The Austrian girl reddened. “But she will need help with all the unpacking, and I have been assigned to assist you.”
Julia stepped aside, brooking no arguments, and indicated the door. The maid could do nothing but bob another curtsy and go. The porters followed. Julia followed them to the door as they left, and listened.
“Do you think she understood what we were saying?” the maid asked breathlessly.
“Impossible,” the first porter grunted. “English ladies do not speak German.”
“Such an odd sounding language, don’t you think?” Dorothea mused behind her, and Julia turned. “I wish I understood what they were s
aying. If they are to serve us, I suppose we must ask that they do their best to speak English, or there will be no communicating at all. I am glad I brought Ellie. She knows what I want without my even having to ask, and so do you, Julia. I’m so glad you’re here.”
Julia wondered if she should warn Dorothea to be careful of what she said. She glanced around the room, chilled by the idea there might be spy holes, or someone listening even now. The lovely palace suddenly felt sinister.
“Oh, Julia, my shawl!” Dorothea said, looking around her. “I must have left it downstairs in the salon when we arrived. It was a gift from Stephen, since all the ladies in Paris were wearing them. Can you go and find it?”
“Of course. Shall I order tea?” she asked.
“Yes, thank you,” Dorothea replied, drifting toward the window. “And some biscuits, if they have them. Do you think they will?”
“Of course. The pastries in Vienna are famous.” Julia smiled and slipped out the door.
The whole palace seemed alive with whispers and echoes as she reached the grand staircase. At the first click of her heel on the marble step, the sounds ceased. Icy fingers of unease climbed her back, and she felt unseen eyes watching her. She forced herself to keep her pace sedate, her expression placid, to hum a carefree tune as she descended the steps.
“Who is she?” an unseen German voice asked softly.
“No one important,” was the ghostly reply.
She gave no indication she understood, or had even heard.
Julia was breathless by the time she reached the salon, where they had been welcomed with tea upon their arrival. She didn’t knock—she grasped the brass handles and opened the elaborately painted doors that soared from floor to ceiling just wide enough to slip inside, then shut them behind her with relief, cutting off the whispers.
“I doubt the staff understand English, so we should be quite safe from eavesdroppers,” a male voice said. “But we shall have to take precautions with our correspondence.”
The Secret Life of Lady Julia Page 7
