The Secret Life of Lady Julia

by Lecia Cornwall

  Several hours later Julia was dressed in a pale gold silk gown, her hair elegantly styled by Dorothea’s maid. She hurried down the grand staircase to the front door, where the arranged coach awaited her.

  “Well, well, what have we here?” Lord Stewart’s voice rang through the foyer, stopping Julia where she stood on the steps. Her stomach clenched as he crossed the hall to stand at the bottom of the stairs, blocking her way to the door. He gave her an insolent look of appraisal. “The plain workaday pigeon is a peacock by night, I see. Where are you sneaking off to?”

  She raised her chin. She wished she had the daring to sweep past him without a word, to let him watch her get into the coach and wonder, but she did not. As a mere servant, he would never let her pass. “I have Lady Dorothea’s permission, my lord.”

  “An errand, at this hour, in that grand dress? No one alerted me that you would be out of the palace—­” He made a show of looking behind her. “—­and quite unescorted. I am responsible for the safety of this delegation, and that includes knowing where everyone is, servants and underlings included. Especially you, given your reputation for—­”

  “I am attending a birthday celebration,” she interrupted.

  “Ah, but whose birthday is it?” he asked, setting one booted foot on the bottom step, leaning against the balustrade, his eyes roaming over her.

  “I am going to visit—­” Julia swallowed the rest. Would he approve or disapprove if he knew she was going to spend the evening at the French Embassy? If he forbade her to go, she would be forced to return upstairs, Dorothea’s permission or not.

  “You know, my dear, despite Castlereagh’s satisfaction with the scraps of information you’ve brought him, Lady Castlereagh is pressing to have you dismissed,” he said. “She doesn’t believe it is wholesome to have a woman of your reputation here among the honorables and worthies of our delegation. Seeing you here, dressed so fetchingly, and about to slip out into the night, I must say I’m inclined to agree. A word from me to Lord Castlereagh and you would be gone.” He took another step up toward her, then another. Julia resisted the urge to back up. “I’m sure you realize just how easily I could ensure that will happen . . . or not.” Julia held her ground. She didn’t have her pistol now. All she had was a fan. A debutante might get stellar results by rapping an impertinent swain on the wrist with her fan, but a servant would not.

  His slick leer made her stomach turn. He was five steps away from her, then four . . . “If you might be so inclined to show your appreciation for my silence, then perhaps—­”

  “Julia?” Stephen stood at the bottom of the steps, glaring up at Lord Stewart. He was also dressed for the evening, elegant in his dress tunic, glittering with braid and gold frogs. He came up the steps, past Stewart, and took her arm. “The coach is outside. I will see you safely to the Kaunitz on my way to Prince Metternich’s,” he said.

  Stewart looked at her again, and this time his eyes were sharp with suspicion. “The Kaunitz?”

  “Oh, she’s not going to sell secrets, if that’s your concern, my lord,” Stephen replied. “She is a dear friend of Talleyrand’s niece, and has received an invitation to dine. Even you cannot object to that, having failed to win such an entrée into Talleyrand’s company yourself.”

  Charles Stewart looked stunned for an instant, then suspicious. “Does the prince know about her?”

  Stephen’s brows rose into his hairline. “Know about her?”

  Stewart’s smirk was back. “Yes, know, that she’s ruined, disowned by her own mother for her wanton ways.”

  Stephen tilted his head. “Oh, that. I thought you meant her heroic actions in the park today. I gave a full report to Lord Castlereagh just an hour ago. Have you not heard the story?”

  Stewart looked confused. “In the park? I have been otherwise occupied this afternoon. I haven’t seen his lordship yet.”

  Stephen took Julia’s hand and placed it on his sleeve. “I’m sure you’ll hear the story before long, and then I’d really start to worry about Lady Julia’s skill with a pistol if I were you. And as for Talleyrand, you can be sure he knows everything about every member of this household, down to the lowest scullery maid. He was in the park this afternoon, by the way, watching.”

  Charles Stewart was staring at her now with quite a different expression—­awe.

  “You can be sure I will speak to my brother,” he said, “and I will expect a full report on everything you see and hear tonight, Miss Leighton.”

  Julia inclined her head obediently. The danger had passed, the lion’s teeth had been pulled. She was grateful to Stephen. “Of course my lord. I shall describe every plate of food, every bubble in the champagne. I will be sure to count the hairs in every gentleman’s moustache, and recount every birthday toast right down to a detailed report on who does not like strawberry gâteau. Will that do?”

  He flushed deeply but didn’t reply. Julia felt his eyes burning into her back as Stephen escorted her to the coach.

  In the darkness of the vehicle, she waited for her heartbeat to slow, and tried to calm her indignation and anger. How dare Charles Stewart assume she would ever agree to a casual tumble? His reputation was far worse than hers, and he had done nothing but cause trouble since his arrival in Vienna. It was well known that the British ambassador’s half brother had a taste for whores, fighting, and drink. And yet Lady Castlereagh despised her, when she had done nothing even the slightest bit shocking—­at least in the past hour or two. Julia bit her lip. What would her ladyship say when she heard about the incident in the park?

  “You look beautiful tonight, Julia,” Stephen said, after they had ridden in silence awhile. “I daresay that’s what prompted Stewart to behave the way he did. You should be careful. You cannot afford to offend him.”

  Her indignation roared back, multiplied. “Are you suggesting that I should encourage him?” she demanded.

  “Of course not!” he said. “He’s dangerous, that’s all, a boor, but a boor with power. He’s used to getting what he wants with threats, or even force if necessary. He thinks you are easy prey because—­” He stopped.

  “Because of what?” Julia demanded. “Because I allow my passions to rule my head? Is that why you kissed me? Because you think I might—­” She didn’t go on, felt a lump of shame and misery rise in her throat. Despite the chill of the evening, her face burned.

  “Julia, I kissed you despite all that!” he said. “I’ve discovered that I don’t care about any of it. I see you, Julia, your gentleness, your beauty, your wit, and how very brave you are. I think . . .” He paused, and leaned forward across the slight width of the coach, found her gloved hand, held it in his. “I think I may be falling in love with you, and try as I might, I cannot find a single reason why I should not do so.”

  Julia’s mouth dried, making speech impossible, and her thundering heart stopped dead in her chest. The only sound was that of the horse’s hoofbeats on the cobbles.

  He was falling in love with her?

  “Believe me, I wanted to punch Charles Stewart in the mouth for speaking to you that way, or challenge him to a duel, but this isn’t the place. The rules are different here because of the conference.” He gave a harsh laugh. “I have been through wars, fought in battles, faced terrible danger, and lived through it all, but nothing has ever scared me more than this. My feelings for you have caught me by surprise. I am not the kind of man who falls in love. I never have before, and I always considered myself more sensible than that. That’s why I became a diplomat, because I believed I had the intellect and the sense to remain cool, unaffected by passions of any kind, like Castlereagh. But you’ve proven me wrong. I—­I thought I was fully capable of controlling my emotions. Until I kissed you. No, until I met you, I think.”

  When the coach drew up at the grand entrance of the Kaunitz Palace, a footman stepped forward.

  Julia watched him a
pproach, knowing there were only seconds before he opened the door, and she had no idea what to say. No one had ever loved her. Well, her brother had, and Nicholas and David—­also like brothers. Thomas Merritt’s attentions had been borne of exactly the kind of unruly emotions—­passions—­that Stephen spoke of.

  “My lord, I—­” she began, but he put her gloved hand to his lips and kissed it gently.

  “Come, you’ve a party to attend, and I am off to a state dinner. We can talk later.”

  He really was very kind, and handsome, and charming. She felt a wistful yearning to be in love with him too.

  “Go on, go and dazzle Talleyrand and his guests.”

  She got out of the coach, and he waited until she reached the door and it had opened for her before he ordered the coachman to drive on.

  Chapter 23

  Julia was ushered into an elegant drawing room filled with music, light, and ­people. A bust of the French King Louis XVIII looked down on the party with bland benevolence from a prominent pedestal. In fact, all the art in the room was French, right down to the Aubusson tapestries that adorned one entire wall, portraying the Goddess Diana hunting with Apollo.

  Diana de Talleyrand looked up with pleasure as Julia entered and hurried across to greet her with a kiss on both cheeks.

  “Dearest Julia, my uncle was just telling our guests about your adventure in the park this afternoon. How brave you are!” Julia felt her skin heat, especially when light applause broke out and she looked up to find everyone staring at her.

  “But this is your night to celebrate, Diana. I wish you a very happy birthday,” Julia murmured.

  “Thank you,” Diana twinkled. “It is all the happier for your presence. My uncle enjoys heroic tales, and you have brightened his day.”

  Julia was introduced to army officers, counts, baronesses, a charming Russian general, and a number of other ­people who were utterly delighted to make her acquaintance. She felt the way she had when she made her debut and ­people rushed across the ballroom to make her acquaintance as the future Duchess Temberlay, a lady worth knowing. It was seductive, this feeling. How easy it would be to have that life back again, here on the Continent. There were admiring gazes from several gentlemen, and one asked to whom he might apply for permission to call upon her formally.

  She merely laughed. She had no idea.

  She strolled in the prince’s picture gallery, enjoying some of the marvelous paintings he had brought from France. Many were being brought home, a gesture of goodwill, since they had been taken from their rightful owners by Napoleon’s troops.

  “A lover of art as well as a heroine, I see,” Prince de Talleyrand said, appearing at her elbow. “Come and see the very finest ones.” He didn’t wait for her to agree. He tucked her hand under his arm and set off, leaning on his cane. The ivory tip was silent in the halls of the Kaunitz Palace, which had been fitted with priceless carpets and tapestries to eliminate any noise. Julia felt a prickle of unease creep up her spine. She had grown used to listening to the sound of footsteps in the corridors of the Minoritenplatz. She could read them—­fast steps meant news, slow, muffled ones eavesdroppers. There were the various sounds of soldiers’ boots, ladies’ slippers, and the servants’ shoes. But here, in the deep silence, how would anyone know if there was someone approaching? They passed another tapestry, this one showing Joan of Arc crowning the Dauphin, and she realized that anyone might be hiding behind it, watching.

  Talleyrand paused and swept the edge of the tapestry back, revealing a door. She wondered if there were other hidden doorways behind the draperies. Her heartbeat quickened as the door opened to reveal a small private chamber, brilliantly lit with candles, lighting the paintings that adorned every wall. A vast inlaid desk stood in the center of the room, with a single chair, but there was no other furniture.

  She glanced at the pictures. Marie Antoinette smiled down at her from one wall, and Julia drew a breath. “Oh, my.”

  “Beautiful, aren’t they? These are French paintings, meaning they were not looted by Napoleon. They are to be presented to His Majesty, the Emperor of Austria, when the time is right,” Prince Talleyrand said. He pointed to a placid pink-­cheeked lady with a plump baby in her arms. She gazed out at Julia with vague blue eyes. “That is a portrait of Napoleon’s second empress, the former Austrian princess Marie Louise. Do you think her father will like it?”

  Julia thought of the portrait Carrindale had ordered of her, painted just after her debut. Where was it now? Had he burned it, or did it merely lie in the attics of Carrindale House, moldering and forgotten?

  “What father would not love such a portrait?” she asked. Talleyrand regarded her with pleasure. His eyes were so sharp she could almost feel them, probing her skull, reading her thoughts. And yet, he gave nothing away of his own thoughts, like Castlereagh.

  “She is not the first Austrian queen we’ve had in France,” he said, his eyes returning to the wall. “Though after what we did to the last one, poor Marie Antoinette, I’m surprised the Austrians allowed us to have another.” He turned to look at her. “But I suppose when one has been conquered, everything goes to the victor. Napoleon wanted a princess of impeccable royal blood to give him an heir, and so this poor lady became a prize of war.” He tilted his head. “Yet she came to love him. Tell me, do you think her a victim or a conqueror? Napoleon certainly loved her, once she had given him a son.”

  “And now she is kept away from her husband,” Julia said softly. Did she miss him, dream of him, or had she forgotten him in the arms of her lover?

  “Oh, it is better that way, I assure you. Do you not think Napoleon deserves to suffer?”

  “Is that not what this Congress will determine?” Julia said carefully.

  He smiled, pleased by her answer. “In part. They can make him suffer all they wish, but I am here for France, and France must not become the scapegoat for Napoleon’s sins.” He pinned her with another razor-­sharp look. “And yet, as much as Napoleon suffers, I fear that poor little boy is the one who will suffer most. He will be a prisoner for the rest of his life, and there is little I or anyone else can do about that. He is most dangerous, like a small dog that might bite, or stir up trouble, and must therefore be kept locked up, just in case.” He paused only a moment before asking, “I understand you also have a son, my lady. Is he enjoying Vienna?”

  Julia hid her surprise at the question by moving forward to look at another painting, this one of a young boy sitting in a prison cell, hollow-­eyed and haunted, the roses gone from his cheeks. He was Marie Antoinette’s son, once the heir to the throne of France, and now dead. Her maternal heart went out to the poor child.

  “He is too young to know, Your Highness,” she answered Talleyrand’s question.

  “So innocent. Keep him so for as long as you can, my dear,” Talleyrand said, looking briefly at the portrait of the little prince before moving on to a painting of a garden in Paris.

  “I brought this one with me so I would not forget my beautiful city, and France, and why I came, while we diplomats plot and try to seduce each other at the peace table.”

  “It is a wonderful city,” Julia murmured. What did he want from her? He was watching her reaction to every picture, hanging on her polite comments, waiting for something. She clasped her hands in front of her and studied the painting more carefully, as if it were the most fascinating landscape on earth.

  “I think, if I could, I would have your portrait painted, my dear Lady Julia, to remind me of what beauty looks like, and bravery.”

  “Not at all. I am not usually so bold,” she said, feeling a blush sweep from her toes her hairline.

  He gave her an enigmatic smile. “There’s no need to be modest—­I admire bold women, especially when they are sensible as well, which I believe you are.” He sighed. “I have a problem, my lady, and I thought you may be able to assist me with it.”

/>   Julia turned to regard him. “I? I am only a companion, a servant, Your Highness.”

  He laughed softly. “We both know you are more than that. Isn’t everyone in Vienna more than they seem? I have been looking for a way to give Lord Castlereagh an important message, but it is so difficult to arrange a private word without being hamstrung by protocol and involving a dozen ­people in a sensitive matter that I would prefer was not misinterpreted as anything but a kindness.”

  Julia glanced at the door. The sound of voices and laughter was entirely absent, the party far away. She was entirely alone with the French ambassador. A knot formed in her throat, and she swallowed, but he merely pointed at another portrait, this one of a lovely woman with a winsome smile on her face. She wore a low-­cut gown embroidered with gold, a frame for a magnificent collar of emeralds. A sparkling tiara sat on her dark curls.

  “Have you heard of Princess Pauline de Borghese?” he asked, studying her painted face as if he were enchanted. “She’s Napoleon’s youngest sister. She adores her brother, and she adored being the most scandalous lady in France while he was on the throne, knowing even the Emperor himself could not control her wild behavior. She took lovers, gambled away fortunes, and did exactly as she pleased. She is quite magnificent, I think. A lady who refuses to play by the rules—­a different kind of heroine, if you like.”

  Julia recalled the rumors she had heard in Paris, that the Duke of Wellington had fallen in love with Pauline, and she was leading him about on a leash, so to speak. Dorothea had been scandalized by the tale. Julia looked up at Pauline de Borghese’s knowing smile.

  “She is quite lovely,” Julia said, unsure of what else to say about her.