He’d never seen Catherine like that. It suited her.
Suddenly, his head ached and he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
He had to regain some sense of rationality in this matter.
One thing at a time.
He decided to send another missive to Aldingbourne Hall, asking to send them the identical miniature that had been made from the larger portrait that hung in the gallery, as well as another trinket that might be even more important.
Having made up his mind about the next course of action, Julius resolutely penned the letter.
“You have a visitor, Your Grace.”Julius hadn’t heard his butler enter the room and jumped at the sound of his voice at his side.
He looked up wearily. “Who is it?”
“Prince Metternich. Shall I tell him you are not at home?”
Metternich. Blast the man. The last thing he wanted to do now was to have another diplomatic debate.
“Show him in.”
He ran his hand through his hair, once, twice, struggling to regain his usual aloof composure. It would not do to show the man anything other than that.
“Mon cher ami,” the Prince said, strolling into the room as if it were his own drawing room. “You appear to be out of sorts.”
Julius grimaced.
The Prince himself looked as if he had just returned from a ball: suave, charming, forever the statesman. Not a single hair was out of place. He smiled as he took in the brandy glass and decanter on the table. He pinched his nose with long, white fingers.
Try as he might, Julius could not like him. The man was handsome and perpetually smiling, but also cunning, manipulative and not to be trusted.
“A drink?” Julius waved a hand at the empty brandy bottle.
“I decline. I’ve had my fill for thenight. If I am to keep a clear head for the upcoming discussions tomorrow, I had better not consume any more alcohol.” He paused. “With our Russian friend.”
“Ah.” Julius indicated a chair, and the Prince sat down, crossing his legs with an elegant movement. “I take it Alexander is being difficult?”
Metternich grimaced. “Exorbitantly so. This remains between us, but if you ask me, the man is unhinged. His character is completely unstable. Have you ever seen him throw a tantrum when he doesn’t get what he wants?” He shook his head. “Worse than a toddler. The language he uses! I fail to understand why the public worship him so. As if he were some kind of god.”
Clearly, Metternich was jealous.
It was no secret that Tsar Alexander was the darling of the masses, and he enjoyed every moment of it, too. No doubt it piqued Metternich’s ego to see the ladies in the streets swoon whenever the Tsar made an appearance. Matters had not improved when Metternich’s mistress, that Sagan woman, inexplicably began to flirt with the Tsar. The two were bitter rivals not only in politics, but also in the bedroom.
“My understanding is that you called this Congress to promote peace in Europe, not to turn this into a popularity contest,” Julius commented. His rule was to stay out of the bedroom and stick to politics.
Metternich picked at an invisible speck on his sleeve. “Yes, that was the intention. Yet not everyone is as pragmatic as you.” He looked at him thoughtfully. “Or is it indifference? A certain coldness that is not unbecoming can certainly be useful in certain situations.”
A corner of Julius’s mouth twisted into a self-deprecating smile. If he only he knew of the emotions that simmered beneath his surface. Right now, he felt like a dormant volcano, ready to explode at any moment.
“Get to the point, Metternich.”
“The point, Your Grace, is that I need your help with the Russians. I can’t get through to Alexander. He is worse than a child. He insists on Polish autonomy under Russian control, which is entirely unacceptable. It is clear that his main intention is brute territorial expansion, and he won’t settle for anything less. A Polish state under Russian control will disrupt the balance of power we aim for. Already we have a stalemate, and the Congress has not yet officially begun.”
Julius did not disagree, for this was also the British position. “I understand that Castlereagh had a meeting with the Tsar today.”
“Yes. Castlereagh is too—what is the word I’m looking for? Stoic? Dry? He gives the impression of being perpetually bored. He comes across as utterly unsympathetic, and it infuriated the Tsar even more. What is it with you English and your penchant for understatement and aloof pragmatism?” The Prince got to his feet and paced, clearly frustrated.
“Why do you expect me to achieve what Castlereagh hasn’t? Because I, too, have a penchant for, as you say, ‘aloof pragmatism’.”
