by Joan Smith
The Tsar’s imported treats did not mitigate his anger. The sweet cherries from the secession houses of Tsarskoe Selo were ignored, the miniature fresh cucumbers and lettuce hearts left sitting on his plate. It was a relief to be able to get away early, when Castlereagh gave him the nod to remove his half-brother, Stewart, before he cast any more insults upon the guest of honor, Catherine, the Grand Duchess.
* * *
Chapter 7
The ensuing week held more than the customary number of crises. Castlereagh had been hinting to Russia that he might be willing to sacrifice Saxony, providing certain concessions were made. He received word from Liverpool he was to do nothing of the sort, but was to support Austria in preserving it. Emboldened by England’s support, Metternich firmly denied to Prussia this territory it desired. The Tsar became furious, and after being shown some secret letters, threatened to challenge Metternich to a duel.
Everyone, it seemed, was in a wretched mood. Charles Stewart fell into a row with the Grand Duke Constantine, the Tsar’s troublesome sibling. The Duchesse de Sagan had a falling out with her beau, which was mended when Metternich found a buyer for her emeralds at a good price. The Princess Bagration planned a festival in her wing of the Palais Palm, to which she condescended to invite her arch rival, Sagan, who did not condescend to accept her invitation, but gathered as many of the royal and mighty as she could to a petit souper of her own on the same evening.
In the matter of the Blue Tavernier, Moncrief made little headway but to discover Marie Louise did not have it in her possession.
“Utterly impossible!” Castlereagh told him. “The French Provisional Government sent an emissary to Orléans to snap up all the imperial treasure at the time Napoleon was beaten. They stripped the very string of pearls she wore from her neck. Napoleon would never have left so valuable an item with her. He has the lowest opinion of women—machines for making babies he calls them. He would as soon have left the diamond with his dog.”
Two visits to the Palgrave mansion in Schenkenstrasse revealed no more than that his cousin was certainly up to something, and determined to conceal it. Any mention of the jewels was brushed quickly aside. With so many other topics of interest to the new visitors in town, it was difficult to judge when they were being cunning, and when merely scatterbrained, or downright foolish.
“Have you been back to see Mademoiselle Feydeau?” he finally asked point-blank, and got an uncompromising “No” from Harvey, accompanied by a guilty flush.
His wife chose that moment to begin a series of unrelated remarks of a purely social nature, but whether this was fortuitous or considered was not known. “We have taken your advice, Tatt, and enrolled at Austrian Headquarters with Sagan. The Tsar is a pet. He does not mind in the least that we have opted for Sagan. He never fails to dance with me at the larger parties. Unfortunately he favors the dreary polonaise—such a bore. Will you have a glass of wine?” she asked, all in the same breath.
As her pet monkey had just had the decanter in his hands, Moncrief declined. He watched unperturbed as the monkey drew out the stopper and poured the liquid onto the floor. “Bad boy!” Googie said, cuffing it on the ear. “Isn’t he sweet, Moncrief? The Danish King gave him to me. I can’t imagine why.”
“Happy to be rid of him, I expect.”
“Do you go to the Princess Bagration’s festival, or the Duchesse’s little spite supper, as they are calling it? So childish of her really.”
“I will be at Bagration’s do. When will you have a party of your own, Lady Palgrave? I had thought you would be showing them all the way.”
“Oh lud, there are so many parties every night I don’t know when I can fit one in. I had a little levée the other morning—only a hundred and fifty came. Everyone beats me to everything. But Harvey has found me a charming little chateau in the Wienerwald where I might contrive to have some fête champêtre sort of do when it warms up.”
“Spring is a long way off.”
“We have wangled an invitation to dinner chez Talleyrand. His chef, Carême, is counted the best at the Congress. We hope to lure him back to London with us.”
“Your own man will have his nose out of joint. Bélanger sits idle, does he?”
“Oh no, he is planning menus, and trying dishes. First I must get busy and fix this place up a little. I swear those window hangings have been there since the Turks invaded. Centuries old. I wouldn’t be caught dead having a party in such a shambles of a place.” She glanced at the dark puddle where her monkey had added to the shambles, but she made no move to remove the decanter from the animal’s hands, nor to have it taken out of the room.
“Ordered the blue velvet drapery material yesterday,” Harvey mentioned. He sat in a corner, with a gray cat on his knee.
“Did you, my pet? The right shade of blue?” his spouse queried, then suddenly looked conscious. She rattled on with a tale of a new blue gauze gown she was having made up.
It sounded very like her normal, mindless chatter, except for the quick guilty glance the couple exchanged. “Is the drapery material to match the gown, or the blue diamond?” Moncrief asked.
“How you do keep harping on that subject!” Googie complained. “The blue diamond is not for sale.”
Moncrief did not believe a blue gown was being ordered to show off the Star of Burma. They had plans afoot to secure the Blue Tavernier certainly. Their party was being delayed to launch the jewel, or they were husbanding their resources against its acquisition. They had bought no new horses or carriages, no furs or other lavish items since their arrival. They had not redesigned the mansion, or squandered their customary fortune at cards or betting, or any form of gambling. One did not even hear that Harvey had set up a ladybird in some extravagant nest. Only the chateau was mentioned. This was so unnatural a way for them to carry on that it was as damning as an outright admission of their intentions.
His thought of calling again on Mademoiselle Feydeau seemed unlikely of achieving anything. She had lied to him once; she was not likely to change her story now, with a buyer on the hook. He hardly knew where to turn. As the hour of Bagration’s festival drew near, he had done nothing but think and worry. He was surprised to see the Krugers and the Countess von Rossner at Russian Headquarters, their more usual haunt being in the other half of the palais. But everyone liked an occasional change of scene. The daughter, he noticed, had acquired a new beau. A French fellow it was—not one of the top dogs, but attached to Talleyrand’s delegation in some manner. He might well have been chosen by the young lady for his appearance, that certainly cast the Count Rechberg in the shade. One of those debonair Frenchies the fellow was, all airs and graces.
Herr Kruger, not finding a plain Monsieur Chabon a suitable replacement for a count of excellent expectations, was looking elsewhere. “There is the English melord who called on us the other day, I believe. Lord Moncrief, a very eligible parti,” he mentioned to the Countess, who raised her lorgnette and examined him through her sharp, rheumy eyes.
“Handsome!” she allowed, as her glance swept him from head to toe. “An excellent old English family too, Peter. We would not relish losing Maria to England, but there, she spent some years in the country, and would not feel quite a stranger amongst the breed. But it was not romance he had in mind when he called on her, I think? Maria mentioned that ruby star thing your little Mademoiselle sold. Business it was, n’est-ce-pas?”
“I believe he took some pleasure from the business. He stood up with her that same evening.”
“The saucy piece went after him to make Anton jealous. I saw the whole. He is unattached so far as I know, and might be hinted into a state of admiration, if it is done carefully. I shall attend to it myself.”
The Countess’s sledgehammer tactics in pursuit of a beau were by all means to be avoided. “I shall attend to it, mon chou.” he told her, giving her rouged and sagging cheeks an amiable tug, while he suppressed a grimace at the infatuated smile she returned him. Rea
lly she was the ugliest female God had ever devised. She might have been formed to reveal the meaning of the word ugly. Hermione, he conceded grudgingly, was a marvelous companion. She was wise and witty, and seldom out of sorts. He would as soon spend an evening in her company as anyone’s. They had been friends for decades, and shared the same friends and acquaintances, likes and dislikes—up to a point the same social history. He wished she could be his sister, but wife! The very thought of being required to make love to her sent his glands into a state of shock. Why must it always be the old and ugly women who possessed the wealth? God, he thought, had a very wide streak of mischief in his makeup.
“Lord Moncrief,” he said, advancing towards the young gentleman with a genial smile in place. “A delightful evening the Princess has arranged for us, is it not? We too seldom see you. It is this foolish business of our two charming neighbors in the Palais Palm cutting society down the middle and claiming a half each that is responsible.”
Moncrief turned with interest towards the speaker. He could not recall Kruger’s having ever said more than a dozen words to him before. He was of course curious as to what was behind the present move. He bowed, and extended his hand. “I was to call on you the other day, Sir, but as you were out, your daughter was kind enough to see me. Perhaps she told you what business took me?”
Kruger had six dozen times regretted having let his apartment to the young French girl, who turned out to be not all that he expected when she first came begging, with her big bedroom eyes suggesting all sorts of things that never transpired. Or so he had interpreted her solicitations. He had to confess himself an optimist with regard to women. He frequently misread their words, gestures, and suffered the consequential embarrassment. “Yes, yes. I heard of it. That business is settled satisfactorily, I trust?”
“It seems to be,” Moncrief answered evasively, seeing no reason to broadcast his fears.
"Perhaps next time you call, it will be friendship that brings you; not business. We have things in common, you and I. I refer to a love of art,” he explained with a smile. “I recall very well your gracious Prince Regent spoke highly of your knowledge and skill in that field, when I was in England. He was kind enough to compliment me as well. I gave him my opinion on some Dutch paintings he was adding to his collection, and in return he added a carving of jade to my collection. A Chang Kuo-lao it was, or so he believed,” he added, with a meaningful laugh.
“I’m afraid a knowledge of jade is not amongst my accomplishments. I did notice some interesting pieces in your entrance hallway, however.”
“My inferior pieces I keep there. I have a wide collection, locked in a special cabinet in my study. I am always on the lookout for a new person to show them to. Humor an old man, and come and let me show them off to you one day, Moncrief. I would be delighted. If jade is not to your taste, I have some paintings too that might interest you."
“That is very kind of you, Sir. I shall avail myself of your invitation very soon.”
“Excellent. I look forward to it. Ah, there is the King of Württemberg, looking as though he would rather be home in bed. I shall cheer him up with some salacious stories. It is the only way to amuse us old men. We are too old to be active in the fray, but enjoy to reminisce. Au revoir.” He bowed and left, having achieved his aim.
Later that same evening, Lady Palgrave sought out her husband’s cousin for a waltz. “I am drunk and dizzy, Tatt,” she said, running her fingers through her Portia do. “Do England a favor, and stand up with me, or I shall disgrace the nation. I think I made an indecent suggestion to the Tsar. Or perhaps he made it first to me. In any case, Emily Castlereagh gave me a great snub, and called me a jade.”
“A jade, eh?” he said, as she floated into his arms. “I know the very gent who would be interested in you then.”
“Is it that Frenchman with Miss Kruger you are speaking of? Isn’t he a gorgeous specimen? I am dying to meet him. He keeps leering at me in the most amusing way. I know he has been trying to meet me all week, for we keep bumping into him everywhere. We have achieved a bowing and smiling basis. Chabon I believe his name is.”
“That’s not the gent I meant.”
“Do you know him though?”
“No, he’s too shy to have himself presented to me as well. We aren’t even on nodding terms.”
“What a slow top you are! I would know everyone if I had been here as long as you. There are so many interesting bits of gossip to keep up with I am busy all day long. I heard the most shocking thing, Tatt darling.” She smiled and drooped her lashes at him, warning him she was feeling amorous, and would soon be trying to seduce him. Or someone. He looked around for Harvey, or failing the lady’s husband, some harmless stand-in.
“Did you know,” she asked, snuggling her head on his shoulder, “Bagration’s daughter Clementine is named after her Papa. You’ll never guess who that is! Metternich! Can you credit the brass of her, naming the girl that. Really these foreigners are up to anything. At least we put a good face on it at home, and don’t go flaunting such things in the world’s face. And he has a legitimate daughter of the same name, and after all that, now he makes love to Bagration’s worst enemy, the Duchesse de Sagan. It is better than a novel.”
“Shocking!” he replied in a bland tone.
"You’re not shocked, naughty boy!” she said, tilting her head back and smiling at him in a bold, suggestive way. “I bet you wouldn’t be shocked at anything. Even making love to your cousin’s wife.”
“Who told you about me and Claudia?” he asked, naming another cousin’s wife. Then he laughed, to show her he was joking.
“You know I didn’t mean Claudia,” she said, and put on her baby-talk face. “Googie means herself,” she said, and pouted furiously.
“Googie is drunk,” he answered, looking desperately about for help.
“Whee! Googie’s drunk!” she laughed, rather loud. “Do you like my new hairdo, Tatt? The Prince de Ligne adored it. He said he thought I was Harvey’s brother. Only fooling of course. He’s ill, by the by. Serves him right, but I hope he makes a rapid recovery, for he is so amusing. Oh dear, I must sit down. Take me out, darling Tatt. Find us a nice dark corner where we can be alone.”
She was close to staggering, but it seemed to be the heat and crowd that caused it rather than the wine. When they got out of the dancing hall, she regained her stride, and looked about for a dark, private corner. Her attention was diverted to a flock of black coats. Following her glance, Moncrief saw Chabon to be amongst the pack. Googie let his arm drop and walked towards the Frenchman, as though in a trance. As this new personage was featuring in his life now—Googie’s beaux were bound to devolve on him in some manner at this period of international turmoil—he strolled forward to make Chabon’s acquaintance.
Lady Palgrave was at her most killing, with her seductive eyelids at half mast, her lips open to reveal her white teeth, and her bodice cut low to display her bosom, which vied for attention with a splendid diamond pendant of pear shape. It was impossible to know which feature the throng of gentlemen were admiring, but certainly their eyes were below her neck. She adopted a modified version of her baby talk, usually reserved for serious seduction. The words were adult, the lisping accent was childish, as Moncrief presented her. It was the merest chance that he knew one of the gentlemen, and could initiate introductions. When finally they got round to Chabon, Googie said, “Wicked Harvey! He had known Monsieur Chabon all along, and didn’t tell Googie.”
Chabon, though French, was uneasy at the lady’s flagrant manner. He looked to Moncrief with a question in his eyes. “I had the honor of meeting Lord Palgrave at a party shortly after his arrival in Vienna.”
“That is the likeliest place to meet Palgrave,” Moncrief replied unhelpfully.
“Googie likes parties too,” Lady Palgrave said with a winsome smile. “Googie likes waltzing. Waltz with me, Monsieur,” she ordered, and latched on to his arm, to draw him into
the ballroom, with a triumphant look over his shoulder to Moncrief, who hunched his elegant shoulders and breathed a sigh of relief. Pity the wench wouldn’t be satisfied with her French lover, and forget about blue diamonds for the duration of the Congress.
* * *
Chapter 8
The subject under discussion as Moncrief sat with his English colleagues was what section of Saxony might feasibly be preserved without completely alienating Prussia and Russia. Castlereagh had mixed emotions on the matter. A strong Prussia would prove a good ally and rival to Austria, but on the other hand, General Blücher was itching for war, and must not be given too large an army. Talleyrand was advocating a much weakened Prussia, in the interests of French national safety. The squabble reminded Moncrief forcibly of the infighting for Cabinet positions that occurred from time to time at Whitehall. When the discussion was finished and the gentlemen going off to their various duties, Castlereagh said, “Stay a minute, Moncrief. There’s a matter I must discuss with you."
“What is it?”
“Charles tells me your cousin is borrowing money. I would be happy if you would discourage your and his mutual friends from lending him any.”
"Palgrave borrowing money?” he asked, with a blank stare. It were as though India were borrowing people, or the Arctic asking for the loan of ice.
“Yes, he has hit up a couple of his friends for a short-term loan. It takes time to get funds across from England, of course. I know to my dismay the demmed length of time it takes for messages to get through—three weeks each way. It seems he has not given up on that blue diamond we spoke of. I thought it was at an end. If you can manage to get a tourniquet on funds for him, we might be saved some embarrassment. Do what you can.”
