Helena struggled to conceal, even from herself, her chief reaction to his proposal, which was the gratifying conclusion that he appeared to have no interest in the Princess Bagration, much less her reception. She swallowed hard as she admonished herself for even paying attention to such things when so much else was at stake. “It strikes me as a most excellent plan.” Lord, how awkward and stilted she sounded. Why, for once, could she not be more like her mother, who remained charmingly articulate no matter what the circumstance or how attractive the gentleman.
“Good.” It was not until he let out an enormous sigh of relief that Brett realized how much her opinion meant to him.
Hearing that sigh, Helena felt some of her own tension slipping away. He was as awkward and ill at ease as she was. That was some consolation, at least, and it offered her some hope. Surely a man as worldly as Major Lord Brett Stanford would not be awkward with someone he considered to be just another one of his flirts, or simply a woman whose company he valued because she was well versed in European politics. Clearly, his behavior showed that she meant something more to him than that? “I do think that you are very clever to do it. Such a gesture of respect is sure to be appreciated by the Prussians. Much as you profess to dislike what you might call intrigue. Major, you appear to have become sensitive to the importance of it all.”
Brett grinned. Funny how such a simple acknowledgment could bring him such pleasure. “But I do not have to like it or even approve of it, for that matter.”
She smiled in return. “No, you do not, but at least you do not dismiss it as useless like so many of you British do.”
They sat smiling at one another for several minutes, happy that the easy intimacy so precious to both of them had been restored. In fact, there was no telling how long they would have remained that way had not the sound of a carriage turning into the street below and halting at the entrance to the von Hohenbachern apartments recalled Brett to his duties.
He rose, already feeling guilty at the amount of time he had spent away from the paperwork piled high on his desk. “Thank you so much. You cannot know what it means to me to have your approval. But I must go now. What with Wellington here and Castlereagh departing, there is a great deal to do.”
“I am sure there is.” Helena rose as well. Her day was brighter already, and so was her frame of mind. He had not kissed her again or made even the slightest reference to that night, but she was reassured to see that the special look was still at the back of his eyes when he smiled at her.
And, if the truth were told, she was not at all sure that she did want him to kiss her again. It had been wonderful, but it had been frightening as well, and she was more than a little afraid of the powerful feelings he inspired in her.
To Brett too, striding back toward the British delegation, the atmosphere had lifted. The pile of work facing him on his desk seemed far less overwhelming than it had when he had first set out for the von Hohenbachern residence. Just seeing Helena again had reassured him that the closeness and the feelings of the night of the fire had not been the madness of a moment or an over-reaction to the drama of the evening. It was still there, not so obvious perhaps, but still it was the same strong undercurrent that always drew him to her no matter where they were or what they were doing and ... Damn and Blast! He had forgotten to discover whether or not she had been planning to attend the reception for Wellington at the Palm Palace. Frankly he was rather relieved not to be attending the reception, but he would regret not seeing Helena if she had been planning to attend the princess’ reception.
Chapter Twenty-two
The Countess Bernstorff welcomed Brett enthusiastically. “I cannot tell you how delighted we are to see you. Major. So many of the events at the Congress are such crushes that one only has time to nod to one’s acquaintances across the room. As far as establishing any sort of rapport with anyone new, why it is virtually impossible among all the noise and the crowd. Do come sit beside me and tell me about yourself.” She patted the place next to her on the rich brocade sofa in a most friendly fashion.
In fact, the countess turned out to be far more lively and pleasant than he had expected. She created an air of informality that even made the rigidly ceremonious Prussians seem less stiff and more approachable than he ever remembered.
However, once the countess left him to pay attention to her other guests, Brett soon found himself becoming bored. The Prussians were amiable enough, and absurdly pleased at having lured one Englishman at least away from the Princess Bagration’s reception, but their endless self-congratulation on the wisdom of their king and their ministers, and the orderliness of their government, their calm assumption of superiority in all civil, political, and financial affairs were as repetitious as they were infuriating. Therefore, it was not long before Brett felt that mask of flattering attentiveness he had assumed beginning to slip, and for the hundredth time he wondered how Castlereagh and the other diplomats stood it, and why.
So desperate was he after only an hour or so of stultifying conversation, mostly one-sided, that he was barely able to stifle a sigh of relief when he happened to look up and catch sight of the elegant figure of Prince Louis de Rohan. Normally Brett, who only knew the prince by sight and had no use for the opportunistic Frenchman, would not have paid the least attention to the man, but now he welcomed him as cordially as if he were a long-lost friend. At least they could share reminiscences of Paris and news of some of the people Brett had met during his brief sojourn at the British embassy in the French capital.
In fact, Brett was so delighted to be able to talk with someone who understood the art of conversation that it did not occur to him to wonder at the Frenchman’s presence among such a purely Teutonic crowd.
It was not until hours later, when Brett was at last able to free himself from the increasingly raucous company and make his way to the Palm Palace, where the reception for Wellington was still underway, that it occurred to him to wonder what the prince had been doing at the countess’ reception, where except for Brett, he had been the only non-Prussian there. In addition to that, it was even more odd to find the Frenchman among such a dully respectable crowd, for it was well-known that his tastes ran to far more exotic amusements. By the time Brett arrived at the Palm Palace, the crowd had thinned enough for him to scan the princess’ brilliantly lit ballroom and assure himself within a matter of minutes that Helena was not there.
Exhausted by the previous hours of enforced joviality and having no particular reason to remain now that he knew Helena was not present, Brett was turning to go when a gentle band touched his arm and a low, musical voice interrupted him. “What, are you leaving so soon, Major? You have been working too hard lately not to enjoy yourself now.”
Stifling a sigh of annoyance, he looked down into the large dark eyes of the Countess Edmond de Talleyrand Perigord. The countess’ lips parted in her characteristically mysterious smile. “Surely Wellington will let you stay a little while. One always hears that he encourages his aides-de-camp to enjoy themselves, and you no longer will have Castlereagh to keep you laboring over the drafts of his treaties all hours of the day and night.”
An uneasy pricking feeling spread along the back of Brett’s neck. This was not the first time that the countess had been strangely privy to his affairs and movements. Where had she come by this information on an insignificant member of the British delegation, and why was she so interested?
The nagging feeling bothered him enough that he broached the subject the very next day to John King as they were both leaving the delegation.
The British agent laughed. “No, Stanford, you are not being singled out for special attention. It is just that everyone is watching everyone else all the time. Their agents are keeping an eye on everyone in our entourage as we are observing everyone in all the others. Their agents are spying on our agents, who are spying on their agents spying on our agents. There is no one who does not have someone watching him. But”—King’s expression grew serious—”I will admit that for the first time there does seem to be a leak somewhere in our delegation, or at least they are more informed about some aspects of our operation than they were. They do not seem to have learned anything terribly important yet, so I do not think they have succeeded in establishing someone on the inside so far. But someone somewhere is watching us very closely, very closely indeed.”
The image of the Prince de Rohan at the Countess Bernstorff’s reception the previous evening flashed into Brett’s mind. The man had known he would be there! There had been something about the way he had paused in the doorway and then approached Brett directly that now, on closer examination, seemed suspicious in the extreme. The man’s expression had not registered the slightest hint of surprise, yet it had been as odd and unexpected for Brett to appear at the predominantly Prussian gathering as it had been for the Frenchman to be there, especially when a far more important reception honoring Brett’s former commanding officer was being held somewhere else.
The nagging prickle of unease became the cold chill of doubt and then the icy certainty of suspicion. There was only one place the French could have discovered Brett’s plan to attend the Countess Bernstorff’s reception because he had only mentioned it once, just the way he had only once mentioned the work on Castlereagh’s treaty and the possibility of Wellington’s going to America, which the Countess Edmond de Talleyrand-Perigord had referred to—all of those topics had been discussed only in the von Hohenbachern apartments.
But who was the spy? Was it the princess or her daughter? Or was it both of them? In an agony of guilt over his own stupidity and guilelessness, Brett examined and reexamined every conversation he had had with either Helena or her mother in excruciating detail. Had he been a complete dupe from the very beginning or had he simply been careless in front of one or both women, who had been quick to take advantage of the situation?
And why had they done it? Whoever had done it. Had it been done for political reasons or for personal ones? Had it been to gain political influence, for financial gain, or to capture the attention of someone more important than Major Lord Brett Stanford? Was it for all of these reasons or for reasons so complex and so bizarre that a simple, honorable soldier had no hope of understanding?
“Stanford? Major? I say, Stanford, calm down man.” John King’s voice sounded faintly through the red mist of rage and despair that threatened to consume Brett.
“That is better.” The British agent gripped his shoulder. “You had me worried there for a moment As I said before, there has been no serious breach of our privacy. Nothing critical has been learned. I have managed to, er,
obtain,
the contents of several well-known agents’ own hauls, and none of the papers I have managed to
obtain
has been in the least way connected with our affairs. In fact, nothing I have been able to
retrieve
has even been written in English, so we are safe thus far. It merely behooves us to be on our guard, as always.”
Calling up every ounce of the iron self-control he had established during the grueling years in the Peninsula, Brett managed to summon up a smile as he returned King’s reassuring grasp on the shoulder. “And I thank you again for the warning. King. I shall watch my back even more carefully now.” And nodding his thanks, Brett sauntered off down the Herrengasse looking as though he had nothing more serious on his mind than taking a glass of wine and some
wienerschnitzel
among the congenial company at Sperl’s.
But he had gone no more than a few steps along the main thoroughfare before he quickly turned into the welcoming dimness of the Schottenkirche. There were few worshipers in the church at this hour, but from force of habit, he glanced over his shoulder to see if he had been followed and then chuckled bitterly. Oh yes, he had taken the warnings of Castlereagh and others seriously enough to make sure that he was not being followed. He had successfully evaded the seductive traps laid for him by the Princess Bagration and even avoided being caught in the enticing flirtations of the Duchess of Sagan only to be betrayed either by a woman who professed to have no interest in politics or by a woman who professed to have no interest in men. He cursed himself as he recalled how Helena bad referred to him as
you British.
Could he have been a bigger fool? Brett kicked furiously at the base of an enormous stone pillar. He doubted it.
Had he been done in by his own foolish arrogance or by their fiendish cleverness? He slumped down onto the unforgiving seat of a wooden pew. And what did it matter, really? He was betrayed in either case, and at this moment, he hardly cared whether he had betrayed himself or if one or both of them had betrayed him.
He sat for hours in silent misery only vaguely aware of the low chanting of priests, the flicker of candles, and the faint smell of incense until the creeping chill of the stone numbed him through. Then at last, cramped and miserable, he rose slowly and made his way back to his desk high under the eaves.
Forcing himself to look at the stack of papers piled high on his desk, he fought to concentrate on the words in front of him until slowly, laboriously, he was able to put all thoughts of the Princess von Hohenbachern and her daughter from his mind—for the time being at least.
Several hours later, as the gloom of winter twilight threatened to envelope him. Biggs, his batman, came to light the candles and offer him a bottle of port. “And will you be wanting anything else, sir?” The batman glanced at Brett anxiously. This latest assignment was clearly wearing his master down something fierce. The major was a man of action, born to lead men into the thick of battle. He was blessed with a spirit that thrived on a life of adventure, and it was a crying shame to see him there tied to a desk day after day, night after night. No wonder he was looking so peaked. No. Biggs took a second, harder look, the master was looking downright miserable. There was more to this than a simple uncongenial tour of duty, especially since by all rights things should have looked up the moment the Iron Duke had arrived.