Lena whirled around.
Hector beamed. “Yes we are, mon-monsieur. Did you likesh our music?” And then he turned pale, hiccupped, made a face, and vomited on Monsieur de Talleyrand’s buckled diamond shoes.
Chapter Five
Julius,Duke of Aldingbourne, cast a weary glance around the room. Everyone of rank and name was gathered here tonight. All the statesmen, monarchs, ministers, and nobles who had anything at all to say politically on any subject.
Metternich had pulled out his pipe and they’d all followed his tune when he finally decided to play it. Tonight, he had decided that they would all gather here, in his magnificent palace. So here they were.
Politically, of course, it was another matter entirely.
Julius had expected this, so he did not see this as an occasion for entertainment, but for work. He would use it as an opportunity to talk to the representatives of the other delegations. He already knew that Metternich expected a tête-à-tête with him in one of his secluded cabinet rooms. Then there was Talleyrand, who, judging by his expression, seemed to be in a state of perpetual ennui, and the Tsar, who was expected to appear later in the evening.
Talleyrand, however, was not to be underestimated. It was not without reason he was considered one of the most successful diplomats the world had ever seen. Tsar Alexander was another matter entirely. Vain, explosive, and volatile like a grenade, he was not to be trifled with. Then there were the Prussians and their demands. He’d seen Castlereagh in a heated debate with the King of Prussia.
Julius furrowed his brow. It was going to be a difficult evening.
He’d arrived with Evie at a fashionably late hour, clad in a black tailcoat, a silver waistcoat, and breeches, all complemented with a crisp white cravat.
“You look sinfully handsome,” his sister had told him admiringly. “If you weren’t my brother, I’d set my cap at you. You must be careful, for many a Viennese lady will want to put you in her pocket.”
“Let them try,” he’d retorted.
Evie had laughed.
“You look very decent yourself, imp,” he’d said, pulling one of her curls. That was an understatement. His sister was no beauty, but she had a charm and a vivacity about her that enchanted men more than physical beauty ever would.
He would have to keep a close eye on her.
And dash it all, he thought with increasing irritation, it eluded him why he should do so, when that was really the role of her betrothed, Hartenberg.
After circling the cramped salons, he’d managed to lose Evie in the crowd. Metternich had immediately cornered him and they’d had a lengthy discussion aboutthe Polish affair. After an hour, Metternich slapped his shoulder. “Do not let me monopolise you,cher ami,” he said. “Be sure to partake of the exquisite buffet that is available in the green salon.” He lifted a finger and a footman approached with a salver of champagne coupes. He offered one to Julius. “To an indissoluble friendship between our countries,” he said pompously.
Julius lifted his glass and drank. He took a second glass and drained it, too. The room was really too hot.
A lady crossed his path. She drifted towards him, soft baby ringlets framing her face. Her rosy lips pouted.
The Duchess Wilhelmine von Sagan.
“Your Grace? You look so…morose.” She tinkled a laugh that sounded like silver bells. “I trust you are enjoying yourself?” She touched his arm gently.
“It is tolerable.”
“Oh, you English. Always so…cold.” She ran a manicured finger up and down his sleeve. Bending close to him, she whispered, “One cannot help but wonder what it would take to melt all that coldness.”
One of his eyebrows rose.
The Duchess was a beauty. The entire world knew that she was Metternich’s mistress. The poor fool was head over heels in love with her, and she was playing her merry game with him. What was she up to now? He’d wager a fortune that it was merely to make Metternich jealous. If she thought Aldingbourne was easy prey, she knew him very little, indeed.
He picked her hand off his sleeve. “Careful, then, madam, lest you get a frostbite.” He left her gaping after him.
“I saw that,” another female voice whispered into his ears. “A hit. A cut direct.” She chuckled and a cloying cloud of perfume enveloped him.
Not again. Would these women not leave him alone? Had the ladies in London been as openly aggressive in their pursuit as the ones here? It was becoming quite a nuisance.
Irritated, he turned to the Princess Bagration. She was the Duchess of Sagan’s most bitter enemy. They lived in the same palace—the Palais Palm—and were in fierce competition over who was the most beautiful, most celebrated society hostess in Vienna. Both were beautiful. Both were accomplished. Both were Metternich’s lovers. Were they now setting their sights on him? Him and Tsar Alexander, if the rumours were true.
An irritated furrow appeared between his brows.
