The Blue Diamond Page 5

  “Alas, non, milord,” she said, a little sadly. “No one was more shocked than myself to discover my bauble was a real ruby. It has made all the difference in my life, the fortune from it. Now I shall be able to live in dignity, hopefully here in Austria, or perhaps England. It has long been a dream of mine to go to your so beautiful Angleterre. My companion too, Madame Blanchard, has often ex­pressed the wish.”

  “Why would you wish to leave your home—France?” he asked, and discovered with a jolt of dismay that he was neither making small talk nor fishing for information. He was genuinely interested to hear her answer—to hear all about her.

  “France is no longer a compatible place for me. My father was a colonel under Napoleon Bonaparte. I am loyal still to the Emperor. If a Bourbon is replaced on the throne of France, as you anglais plan, I shall never return to my country. My father, brother and—other loved ones gave their life for the cause. I am only a woman—little help to the Emperor, but I will show my disgust by speaking openly against the hated Bourbon regime. That cannot be done in France. I am not alone in my feelings, milord. The Congress overestimates Louis’s popularity. If Napoleon should come marching back, the King would not last a week. No, not a day.” Her voice rose and resonated with fervor as she spoke.

  “We realize Louis’s shortcomings. He is considered as only a poor alternative. About Napoleon we shall never agree, I fear, but that is not why I am here. I am curious to learn where you got the star ruby, and whether you might have access to other pieces from the same collec­tion.”

  “It was given to me by a friend,” she answered readily. “Fiancé actually. Killed at Leipzig. He gave me the brooch before he left, telling me to keep it safe. I realize now he was trying to secure my future, in case he did not return. He did not say it was worth so much money, but I knew it to be a cherished possession—given to him by Napoleon himself,” she added, with a little boasting smile.

  “He knew I would cherish it doubly, as coming from himself and our Emperor. Napoleon was short of funds, you see. He wished to reward his most loyal men, in case of defeat. It is my belief—I have given the matter considerable thought after learning my brooch was genuine—that the Emperor disbursed the collection amongst his officers. I do not know how he came into possession of it. Still, who more likely to have it than Napoleon? Of course he was not involved in its original theft, but over the years, some ardent fol­lower obviously turned it over to him. He kept it as a sort of—emergency fund, I think you call it? I have no idea where the other pieces are. I do not think the crown jewels will ever be reassembled again.”

  He considered her story and found it plausible. For all his faults, Napoleon was generous and considerate of his loyal followers. Yes, this sounded like him. If the jewels were to do no more than provide a living for his loyal followers for a few years, there would be no great mischief in it. The trouble was, the more valuable stones might have been given out for a quite different purpose: namely, to raise funds against the Emperor’s return. “Who do you figure would have got the Blue Tavernier? Who was his most loyal follower, in other words?”

  “I expect the blue diamond is at the Schonbrunn, with his wife and son. That is only a surmise, you understand. I am afraid I cannot help you, milord. You will have to be content to have defeated the Emperor. You will not have the pleasure of flaunting the jewels of France at court in England.”

  “That was not my intention,” he said, and felt unac­countably guilty. He was not eager for Mademoiselle’s poor opinion.

  He had twice noticed the girl glance nervously towards the hallway, and followed the line of her glance. A shadow moved quickly. The light from a window cast an elongated shadow of a person on the floor. It flashed so quickly he could not be sure he had seen it, but combined with the girl’s nervous glances, it seemed likely. The housekeeper? Or was there someone else sharing the small apartment?

  “Is there anything else you wish to speak of?” she asked.

  “No, that’s all.” He thanked her for her time and left. He should be relieved, he thought. There was little like­lihood of Palgrave buying the diamond and causing an unwanted stir amidst the dovecot of the Congress. It had all been a tempest in a teapot. Still, it was odd that the Krugers had rented their apartment to an anonymous French woman. And what had Miss Kruger been crying about? A falling out with her suitor, perhaps. This pos­sibility roused no interest in him, as it might have done a few weeks ago. He returned to Minoritenplatz to relay his findings to a satisfied Castlereagh.

  Moncrief's news was the only thing that did satisfy the Foreign Minister that day. On the political front, things had taken on an embarrassing complexion. Piqued at England’s insistence that a part at least of Saxony be pre­served, the Tsar was threatening to go home, and leave his underlings to “bury the Congress,” as he bluntly put it. There were emergency meetings all around—the Aus­trian Emperor Franz dashing from tsar to king to min­ister, trying to hold the Congress together. The alternative was war. All of Europe was armed to the teeth, and each country determined to enlarge its holdings, or at least not watch them shrink. Castlereagh posted a dispatch off to England for directions, and in the evening put on his for­mal clothing to attend an extravagant ball at the Razu­mowsky palace, in honor of the Tsar’s sister Catherine, to honor her name day.

  Everyone was there, trying to cajole, bribe and black­mail everyone else to change his stand on the settlements that seemed never to be settled. Castlereagh and his wife had been taking waltzing lessons, and were both lumber­ing around the floor, the Viscountess looking hideous as usual in a red gown and an ostrich plume that hit her escort on the nose every time she turned her head.

  Further annoyance was added to the English delegation by the antics of Castlereagh’s half-brother, Sir Charles Stewart, who was even more drunk than usual, and being obnox­ious to those very parties he should have been conciliating. The Empress Maria Ludovica of Austria grew thinner and paler by the hour, as she stood at her husband’s side. Criminal for that poor, consumptive woman to have to put on a gown and jewels every night and be up till all hours, harassed by opportunists.

  There were also sufficient pretty ladies to alleviate the gloom. The Countess Flora Wrbna was batting her rogue’s eyes at the Tsar, who would not forget for a moment she was not only Metternich’s cousin, but his close friend as well. Odd how one became accustomed to being in the same room with tsars, kings and emperors, along with enough princes to populate a large city, and enough dia­monds and gemstones to sink a battleship. Several mil­lions of pounds in this one room. So far as Moncrief had heard, there had not been a single theft during the whole Congress. Ladies whined at having to hawk their tiaras to pay for the continual round of parties, but it was a voluntary sacrifice. The taxpayers had a more justified complaint.

  Moncrief’s attention turned to the doorway when the Countess von Rossner was announced. She looked every bit as ugly as he remembered her. Why would a lady wear a bile-green gown, he wondered. But she was in high spir­its, laughing up at her partner. Kruger walked at her side, a corpulent gentleman who obviously made use of an excellent tailor. Maria, on his other side, looked a very swan amongst these geese. Her long, arched neck, gracefully turning, had the hypnotic influence of a swan.

  To his infinite amazement, she let go her father and advanced towards him, smiling a dazzling smile of wel­come, both arms extended. “Lord Moncrief, what a de­lightful surprise!” she said. “You did not mention this morning when you called that you would be here.”

  “I am usually to be found at all the Tsar’s parties. It is a member from Austrian Headquarters like yourself whose presence surprises,” he answered.

  “I never miss the Babel parties! It is only at these huge do’s that we meet. Tsar Alexander will make us polonaise through the palace for an hour, but it will be worth it for dinner. They say he has had delicacies brought fifteen hundred miles from St. Petersburg by sleigh and carriage to impress everyone. Tell me, did you find
that blue dia­mond you were looking for?”

  “Not thus far,” he answered guardedly. He had not mentioned the blue diamond to her. She had been speak­ing to Feydeau then.

  “I know you called on Mademoiselle. I am checking up on you, so you had better behave yourself,” she said, wav­ing a playful admonitory finger under his nose.

  This sportive behavior was so unlike Miss Kruger that he was thrown for a loss, till he spotted Count Rechberg over her shoulder, well within earshot. He was with a pretty young lady whom Moncrief did not recognize. There had been a falling out between the lovers, and she was trying to make Rechberg jealous. That would account for her morning tears. “Mademoiselle Feydeau is the last woman in Vienna one would misbehave with, I think,” he replied.

  “Indeed! I must tell Papa that!” she said, and laughed gaily, never looking towards the Count, but obviously per­forming for his benefit. “You had better tell your cousin Palgrave as well. I notice he called on Mademoiselle with­out his wife.”

  “You keep a sharp eye on your tenant. My cousin was there, was he?”

  “Twice,” she answered. “Once not long after yourself, and again late this afternoon. She has either promised him the blue diamond, or taken him as her lover. Which do you think it is? I am bursting with curiosity, but could not get a word out of her, she is so sly. She is being very mysterious and innocent today.”

  “I cannot believe it is either one,” he answered, a little stiffly. A vision of Mademoiselle’s pale, sweet face floated before his eyes. He had had more than one thought of her during the day, always with a tender emotion. He had given no further thought to Miss Kruger. As he looked at her now, he found her undeniably pretty, but not so at­tractive as she had seemed before meeting Feydeau. She was a spoiled, pampered darling of society.

  “She did not bother to bring you round her thumb? Then certainly she has an eye on Palgrave. Pity. You may have to be satisfied with me, at least for the next waltz. Will you dance with me?”

  “I would be charmed to. And that will teach him to flirt with blondes,” he added, with a fleeting glance to Rech­berg, to show the chit he knew what she was up to.

  She looked momentarily taken aback, then smiled in embarrassment. “Was I so obvious as that? I’m afraid I am not a very talented actress. I shall have to take more lessons from my tenant.”

  Any mention of Mademoiselle Feydeau was bound to interest Moncrief. “Meaning?” he asked.

  “Why, the French are experts in affairs of the heart, you must know! I discussed the matter with her, and she told me the thing to do was to make him jealous. You should be complimented, Lord Moncrief. She told me to pick out the most handsome, richest man at the ball, and I picked you.”

  “You have excellent taste, Fräulein,” he said, patting her hand. “I am very happy to be of use to you, and ask in return only that you tell me what the lover’s squabble is all about.”

  “Oh, the usual thing. Dowries you know. Settlements.”

  “You are young and pretty. You will replace him with a more ingenious bookkeeper in no time,” he said, with a tinge of sarcasm.

  “I don’t want to replace him. I want him back,” she said firmly.

  Moncrief looked to the gentleman. He saw a tall, wide-shouldered man with a rugged jaw and a face not out­standing for beauty. There were two dozen gentlemen in the room of better appearance. Nor was the Count famed for his brilliance. But he was rich, and titled. That was sufficient attraction for Miss Kruger apparently. “If you want a disinterested opinion, I would advise you to ignore him. He will not be won by chasing. Man’s instinct, when he is pursued, is to run.”

  “I of all people should have known that,” she said, nod­ding in agreement.

  “Been legging it after him too hard, have you?”

  “Certainly not! That was not my meaning at all,” she answered sharply, with angry sparks lighting her dark eyes. “It is just that a—a certain lady has been chasing Papa for years, and he always runs like a hare, so I should have known.”

  “I had not realized it was a romantic friendship between your father and Countess von Rossner.”

  “I didn’t mention any names! Well, since you know, it is my aunt I refer to. She is my godmother. She would not refuse to be my stepmama as well.”

  They spoke of Congress doings and personages till the waltz was over. A gentleman, not the Count, claimed Miss Kruger, and Moncrief strolled off to speak to a Russian diplomat, then to stand up with dowagers and matrons, with countesses and princesses, and occasionally a pretty young lady. During the intervals, he considered Miss Kruger’s remarks. That the Countess von Rossner was after her father was of not the least interest to him, nor did he care much that Maria was having troubles with her Count. Of some interest was that Harvey had twice called on the French Mademoiselle. One call he took for granted. Harvey had admitted he meant to go after the blue diamond. But why two calls? Was Harvey pestering the girl with amatory advances? It began to look like it. She had that helpless, vulnerable air that incited men to chivalry. Even Kruger, the daughter intimated, was interested in Mademoiselle Feydeau.

  It was not to be expected the Palgraves would miss such a choice affair as the Tsar’s ball, Googie’s convalescence notwithstanding. She was there, her brain seething with items to be purchased as the polonaise snaked through the various halls of the palace. One area was hung in silk, to imitate an Arabian tent. The glass houses were bloom­ing with flowers amassed from many continents. Rare artworks from France and Italy glowed on the walls. There were marble galleries and mahogany rooms, the walls lined with manuscripts. Between the dance and the decor and the wine, it was difficult to keep an even head.

  Moncrief ran Harvey to ground midway in a hanging staircase in the library that led to a gallery of rare tomes. Palgrave found it a good vantage point from which to spot a certain lady he had in his eye. “Any luck finding that blue diamond we spoke of?” Moncrief asked him.

  “The Tavernier? No, no luck at all. The French girl knew nothing of it.”

  “A second visit was no more prosperous than a first?”

  “By Jove, Tatt, are you having me followed? How did you know I went back?”

  “Everyone knows everything in Vienna. I could tell you what you had for lunch. Not setting up a flirtation with the girl I trust?”

  “With that innocent lamb? Not a bit of it. She ain’t my type. Say, ain’t that old Talleyrand there in the blue velvet jacket? Wouldn’t mind making his acquaintance, Tatt. Can you do the honors? Googie tells me his niece is the Duchesse de Sagan’s sister. Ought to be some good com­pany at the palais.”

  The good company he had in mind was likely the niece, but it would keep him out of mischief. The introduction was made, and a bizarre sight it was, to see the craftiest man in the room make hay of the most foolish. At the back of Moncrief’s mind, a question lurked, hampering his en­joyment of the rencontre. If Harvey was not after Made­moiselle’s favors (and innocent young girls were not his usual choice), why had he returned a second time to the apartment?

  Amidst the throng, Lady Palgrave spotted Moncrief and threaded her way towards him. She was blazing with jew­els, but not, thank God, the Star of Burma. She was in diamonds and sapphires. “I see Harvey has met Prince Talleyrand, as he was determined to do. I am surprised you would arrange it for him. You were against his buying the blue diamond I thought?”

  “Oh my God! Is that what he’s up to!" Moncrief ex­claimed, aghast.

  “Not trying to buy it from the Prince!” Googie assured him. “Certainly he has not got it. He is on the side of the Bourbons this year. He would not know who Boney gave it to. It is only that Miss Feydeau told Harvey whoever has the diamond might try to sell it back to Louis through Talleyrand. He might be able to find out who has it, you see.”

  He did not think Napoleon’s wife would be likely to be dealing with Prince Talleyrand, the representative of the King of France. Whatever Mademoiselle had told Harvey, it was not what she had
told himself. “Feydeau suggested he speak to Talleyrand?”

  “Lud, I don’t know. I think he hit upon the idea of speaking to Talleyrand by himself. Why don’t you ask him, Tatt? Or better yet, ask la Feydeau? All the gentle­men seem anxious to have any excuse to be running back to her. She must be wonderfully pretty.”

  “She is.”

  “And available,” she added with a toss of her short curls,

  “Not so available as most,” he answered, in a fit of pique, and stalked off to detach his cousin from Talley­rand. There were enough people present that the trouble­some topic of blue diamonds had not yet arisen.

  Moncrief got him away and gave his ears a good scorch­ing. “I tell you quite frankly, Palgrave, if you make trouble over this diamond, Castlereagh will have you barred from the city. You’ll be shipped back to London in disgrace. Things are reaching a crisis here, with threats of war. We don’t need a breach with France on top of it all. Don’t breathe a word of this foolishness to Talleyrand, or anyone else. The stone is in all likelihood in the Empress Marie Louise’s possession, and you know what chance you stand of getting it from her.”

  “Rubbish! Napoleon would never have given it to his own wife. Couldn’t stand her. Only married her to get in with the real royalty, and to have a son.”

  “Did Miss Feydeau not tell you Marie Louise . . ."

  “Ah yes, of course! Quite right. Quite right, old chap. I shan’t say a word. Not a word. Rubbishing old diamond. Daresay it has a flaw anyway. Feydeau tells me it ain’t cut worth a damn—will have to be redone, and you’d lose more carats in the recutting. Mean to say—only sixty-­seven carats left to it as it is. Be nothing to it by the time Hamlet . . .“ He stopped self-consciously. “Well, well. Fine party, ain’t it? Goog says she means to have a skating party on the canal, if it will only get busy and freeze up right and tight.”

  He wandered off after a passing female, and left his cousin frowning in consternation. Harvey was hot on the heels of the Blue Tavernier. Every word he uttered re­vealed it. He had learned its precise size, its imperfect cut, had even hit upon Hamlet, the London diamond man, to do the refashioning. Where else had he learned about it than Feydeau? He had been back, and had received encouragement from her. How was it possible for that in­nocent face to be so conniving?