by Joan Smith
“What will happen to them?”
“I expect he will swing, or die in whatever manner Austria employs to rid itself of undesirables. It was he who shot Eynard. The lady, if I know anything, will hire a sharp lawyer and get off with a couple of years. It is known as Justice, this severity to males, and cosseting of pretty women."
“Did Blanchard think Mademoiselle was really a patriot?”
“For a certainty, misguided soul. She thought they were all bilking Palgrave to fill Boney’s pockets. That is why she had to cosh you, to prevent your telling me or someone they were set to fly the coop. She stayed with the Castonguys till it was learned that Boney had not escaped, as first announced, then she darted back to Vienna, just in time to learn he had really got out.”
“What will you be doing, now that he is free again?” she asked.
“Catching him, and licking him again. He’ll be off to Paris, we in hot pursuit.”
“Moncrief! Surely you will not have to go, with that arm.”
“I can hardly go without it. It isn’t going to stop me from doing anything I really want to do. See, I can slide it out of this sling, if I do it very carefully. And with a big assist from my good wing, I can even hold you in my arms,” he pointed out, in an instructional tone, suiting the deed to the words.
“I make no doubt that will come in handy in Paris.”
“Ah good, you are coming with me.”
“I am not. Don’t be so absurd.”
“No? We had best test how far this arm can go now, then,” he answered, and pulled her against him for a long and passionate embrace that left her breathless.
“Oh—that’s—that’s far enough for me,” she said.
“Mmmm, for the time being,” he murmured, his lips soft against her ear. “But when I get back, Fräulein . . ."
“Moncrief—please!” she cautioned, alarmed at some glitter in his eyes.
“You won’t have to ask.”
“I’m not! I—I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“Do you not? Let me put it this way, my dear. In the spring, the little animals feel the call of Mother Nature in the air . . ."
“You have been taking lessons from Papa!” She laughed.
“So I have, but we didn’t get far. I have no notion what comes next. I daresay between the two of us we shall discover it. And if we don’t, who knows what original and delightful byways we will wander into. I am convinced any detour with you will be charming.”
“I doubt you’re so untraveled as you suggest.”
“A tyro,” he assured her, then kissed her again, very expertly for a beginner.
* * *
Chapter 29
Just when the thorny problem of Saxony-Poland was finally settled, the Congress of Vienna was in a shambles with Napoleon’s escape. Soldiers about to be demobilized were again back on duty—the English troops in the Low Countries, the Russians in Poland, the Prussians along the Rhine, and the Austrians hastening forward to Italy, to try to intercept the Emperor’s advance.
He fooled them, and proceeded to France through the Maritime Alps, to Grenoble, picking up support as he went along. The Invader it was who arrived at Grenoble, but it was The General who entered Lyons. Napoleon slept at Fontainebleau, and The Emperor proceeded to the Tuileries. Soon His Imperial Majesty was addressing his loyal subjects. The Iron Duke was heard to declare that if they didn’t stop him soon, The Lord God would be leading his army against the Allies.
Messengers darted back and forth from the various official headquarters. Old enmities were patched up to present a united front against the ogre. Easter arrived under sunny skies, and with Lent over, the parties seemed about to resume. On Tuesday, word came by the new semaphore telegraph of Napoleon’s arrival in Paris. On Wednesday, Wellington left to take command of the army in the Low Countries. All of this was of little interest to Maria, except that the Duke took Moncrief and his wounded arm with him. Nor could she promise to meet him in Paris, as so many of the ton were preparing to do, as soon, of course, as Boney had been beaten again. She must remain home to tend to Tante Hermione.
“For it would look too shabby to leave her and Papa here unchaperoned,” she told him, making a joke of it, to hide her chagrin. “I don’t see why you must go, when your arm is still in a sling.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my legs. I am an errand boy. No more. And I have a second reason for wishing to go too.”
“To get away from me, you mean?” she asked, piqued.
“That makes three. The second is that the Palgraves threaten to go, and I would not want them to buy up Notre Dame Cathedral while they are there. Bound to cause an international incident. With all his cash burning a hole in der Verschwender’s suitcase, he is bound to do something foolish if I don’t ride herd on him. I know he has inquired for the rent of the Tuileries. Googie likes gardens. And if that fails, she has a bid on the Petit Trianon, where she will dress à la bergère and play at being a shepherdess, like Marie Antoinette.”
“You’ll miss the prettiest season in Vienna. The linden trees along the Ringstrasse, smelling so beautiful in June, and the lilac and jasmine and acacias . . . the rose gardens in Volkgarten . . ." she went on, looking to see if he were tempted.
“I have already seen the early blooms, and with luck, I may be back by June.”
Napoleon was not defeated at Waterloo till June 18. It was July before Moncrief returned, but the roses were still in bloom. So was Countess von Rossner, who had just become, to her infinite joy, Frau Kruger. The family was in the midst of transferring their household from Kruger’s small establishment to the much larger and gaudier one of the bride. It was in the music room of this latter house that Moncrief finally ran his fiancée to ground. He heard the strains of a reeling waltz as soon as the butler let him in. He walked quietly down the corridor, his heart lifting with pleasure and anticipation. It was really lovely to be back in Vienna. Kruger and his aging bride were just coming out of the room, the latter leaning heavily on her groom’s arm. Moncrief put his finger to his lips, indicating he wished to surprise Maria.
Kruger nodded, then said playfully to Hermione, “Time for your nap, my girl. You’re not going to go getting yourself tuckered out.”
“Such a bore,” she complained gently. “How will you amuse yourself while I rest, Peter?”
“I’ll think of something,” he promised nobly, with a little telltale jiggle of the head and a wink towards Moncrief, his eyes full of lechery.
Moncrief smiled and passed by them into the music room, wearing much the same expression.
About the Author
Joan Smith is a graduate of Queen's University in Kingston, Ontario, and the Ontario College of Education. She has taught French and English in high school and English in college. When she began writing, her interest in Jane Austen and Lord Byron led to her first choice of genre, the Regency, which she especially liked for its wit and humor.
She is the author of over a hundred books, including Regencies, many with a background of mystery, for Fawcett and Walker, contemporary mysteries for Berkley, historical mysteries for Fawcett and St. Martin's, romances for Silhouette, along with a few historicals and gothics. She has had books in the Doubleday Book Club and the Literary Guild, had one book condensed in a magazine, and has been on Walden's Bestseller list.
Her favorite travel destination is England, where she researches her books. Her hobbies are gardening, painting, sculpture and reading. She is married and has three children. A prolific writer, she is currently working on Regencies and various mysteries at her home in Georgetown, Ontario.
Publishing Information
Copyright © 1981 by Joan Smith
Originally published by Fawcett Coventry in October, 1981
Electronically published in 2004 by Belgrave House
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copy
ing electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
http://www.belgravehouse.com
Electronic sales: [email protected]
This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
