A Foreign Affair (23 page)

Biggs coughed delicately. “Er, would you like a bit to eat, sir, or would you be wanting . . .”

Brett whirled around, fixing the batman with an oddly penetrating stare. “Yes, Biggs, I would like something more. I would like you to bring me the truth.”

Biggs’s jaw dropped. “The truth. Major, but . . .”

Brett jumped up and began to pace furiously up and down the tiny attic room. “Yes, the truth. If I am to be spied upon, then, by God, I can spy with the best of them. Yes, Biggs, I shall get to the bottom of this if it kills me, and you are going to help.”

Chapter Twenty-three

So it was that in the gray early morning hours of the very next day, a heavily muffled itinerant conjurer juggler slipped out of one of the side doors of the Liechtenstein Palace and, hugging the shadows of the walls and doorways, edged around the square in front of the British delegation, down the street, past the Hofburg, and made his way through the narrow streets to the Braunerstrasse. There, while keeping a weather eye out for the Princess von Hohenbachern or her daughter, he strolled up and down, juggling a variety of objects—oranges, balls, or anything handed to him by interested spectators—as much to keep himself warm as to attract the attention of passersby. At last he saw what appeared to be the young lady of the establishment leaving with her maid.

Still juggling. Biggs followed them down the Braunerstrasse and then on into the Kohlmarkt, pausing as they browsed in shopwindows, and hovering for some time outside a bookseller’s while they disappeared into the shop.

All in all, he was forced to employ every piece of sleight of hand, every card trick, and every theatrical artifice he had picked up from servants, batmen, and conjurers up and down the Peninsula, but to no avail. During the entire morning he never saw a person approach the young lady or even smile at her. Nor did she appear to leave a note or message of any kind, or receive one in all of her peregrinations.

Toward the afternoon Miss Devereux headed back to the Braunerstrasse and Biggs took up his position again strolling up and down the street. Soon the princess emerged and was escorted to the carriage by Metternich himself. “And then I knew I was out of my league, sir,” the batman reported back to his master. “For what could I do? I could only retrieve the princess’ dropped handkerchief once before she became suspicious, and I certainly could do nothing more than follow them to the Austrian chancellery, but as to following them inside, I could no more do that than I could fly. Nor could I tell you who followed them in. The people entering and leaving the chancellery could have been spies, or ministers, or rulers of minor states for all I know. There is no finding out there who your spy is.”

Brett sighed. “I know, I know. Thank you for all you have done so far. There is little more I can suggest except to try again tomorrow in the hopes that someone or something will arouse your suspicions.”

In the end, it was not Biggs whose suspicions were aroused, however. Helena, leaving their apartments the next day to call on the Princess von Furstenberg, was mildly surprised to see the same juggler that she had seen the day before. If it had been one of the omnipresent strolling musicians, someone to whom she had tossed a coin on previous days, it would not have attracted her attention, but the presence of a man who, as far as she could see, had received no recompense from any of the passersby made no sense.

So if he was not earning anything from his audience or pursuing them in the hopes of doing so, then what was he doing there?  Ignoring the curious glances of those around her, she suddenly whirled around to face the man who had been keeping pace with them a few yards behind her and Hannechen the entire way, juggling all the time. Her eyes narrowed as she took in the military bearing, the sturdy shoulders and the unflinching gaze of the so-called juggler. Acting on instinct, she addressed him in English. “And why are you making it your business to follow me, sirrah?” she demanded, eyes flashing.

“I am not following you, miss, I am . . .” Too late, Biggs realized the enormity of his mistake.

“Exactly so. And how many jugglers in the streets of Vienna speak English with the accents of someone who was born in London. Now, if you know what is good for you, you will tell me who you are and who is your employer or I shall raise such an alarm that you will find yourself clapped in prison before you can say
God Save the King.
And, believe me, I know how to raise the alarm in German, so I shall be instantly understood by anyone and everyone around me.”

“So I had no choice, but admit it all to the young lady,” the batman admitted shamefacedly to his master a few hours later.

But much to Biggs’ surprise, Brett seemed to be more amused than angered by this revelation. “You did your best, but she is a most clever young lady, is she not, Biggs? A most clever young lady indeed.”

“That she is. Sir. And quick as a cat too. Why she had walked by me and then turned around before I knew what I was about.”

“Ah.” Brett scratched his chin slowly. Even if Helena were the spy, he was thinking, which he very much doubted, given the direct nature of her confrontation, she offered him a challenge such as he had not enjoyed since he had left the Peninsula. “And did she say anything else?”

“Nothing at all, sir, except that you was to call on her at their apartments in the Braunerstrasse tomorrow at ten o’clock sharp.”

“Interesting.” Brett took a turn around the room. “Most interesting. I shall certainly do so. That will be all. Thank you. Biggs.”

True to his instructions, Brett presented himself in the Braunerstrasse the next morning at the appointed hour and was ushered into the library, where he was left alone, as he had been several months before, to peruse the titles of the leather-bound volumes arranged with no particular attention to any of the variety of languages in which they were written.

The door opened and Helena entered. “Good day, Major.” She closed the door with a businesslike snap. “Thank you for coming. Ordinarily I would not send you a message in such a peremptory manner, but you must admit that I was provoked. Also, I have some rather interesting news that I wish you to convey to your colleagues at the British delegation. Last evening I attended one of the Princess von Furstenberg’s regular salons. The talk was all of the division of Saxony and the lands on the west bank of the Rhine that have been ceded to Prussia. Now, it is clear that a Prussian presence on the left bank of the Rhine makes the French extremely nervous, so what the German sovereigns propose . . .”

Much to Brett’s astonishment, Helena stopped in mid-sentence, turned quickly around, wrenched the doorknob, and threw the door open. There was a gasp, a clatter, and before Brett had a moment to react, Helena had dashed out, only to reappear clutching the wrist of a neatly dressed, pretty, dark-eyed lady’s maid.

“This is your spy. Major,” she announced grimly. “And the maid you thought you were addressing when you first encountered me here in the library. Mama has always considered fashion to be more important than politics, which is why, despite the unhappy events of the past decade, she has always employed a French maid.

“Oh, do stop being such a watering pot, Marie. No one is going to do anything to you. If we imprisoned all the spies in Vienna, there would be no one left to go free. Besides, now that we know you are listening at keyholes, we shall be even more careful about what we say. From now on you are just as likely to get deliberately false information as you are to get true.”

“But, but, mademoiselle, whatever shall I tell Madame la Princesse?”

“There is not the least need to upset Mama with this. In fact, the less said the better. Just tell me to whom did you give your information? Was it someone in Talleyrand’s pay or Hager’s?”

“I do not know, mademoiselle. I mean I only met Jean since I came to this city. He heard me speaking French one morning when I went to the Kohlmarkt to purchase something for Madame la Princesse. He was so kind and so handsome in his livery, a sort of plum . . .”

“It is Talleyrand.” Helena grimaced wryly. “That is his livery, though why he would be so obvious, I ... well, never mind. Now, go, Marie, and, if you can help it, do stop listening at keyholes.”

“Yes, mademoiselle, of course, mademoiselle.” Hardly able to believe that she was not to be immediately cast into one of Vienna’s numerous underground cellars, the maid hurried off still dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief.

Helena closed the door behind her and turned back to Brett. All traces of the ironic resignation she had exhibited with the maid were gone, and she faced him, her eyes blazing. “As for you, sir, you have no excuse. A poor girl may have her senses addled by promises of love or gold, or both, but you . . . you . . .” She was so angry she could not even frame the words.

“I know, I know, it was stupid of me ...”

“Stupid! Stupid? You befriend both my mother and me, and then you think so little of either one of us that you accuse us of being spies, and you call that
stupid?
How could you? Have you no sense of honor?”

Brett flushed uncomfortably. “I did not accuse you or your mother. I merely . . .”

“Setting your batman to watch our movements does not amount to the same thing? Oh yes, I even found out his name; it is Biggs. And I hope for your sake that he is a better batman than he is spy. A more inept. . . well that is neither here nor there. The point is that I no longer wish to have anything to do with you. If I had my way, I should ban you from the house, but I do not wish to upset my mother. She would be too horrified. Even she, who has been exposed to the duplicitous, self-serving ways of the world far longer than she should have been, exposed to the point of being inured to them, would be devastated to learn that a man who could be so charming could also prove so false. So, I shall spare her the disappointment and the betrayal. However”— Helena had been pacing back and forth, but now she turned on him fiercely—”if you do anything to hurt her, by even so much as smiling at the Princess Bagration or flirting with the Duchess of Sagan or the Countess de Talleyrand-Perigord, I shall tell Mama everything. I, however, am not so fortunate, so all I can do is pray that I forget I ever met you, and the quickest way to do that is to remove myself from your presence.”

And without another word, or a backward glance, she swept from the room, shoulders squared, head held high, and wearing a withering expression of disgust that made Brett feel like some despised and lowly subaltern guilty of a most heinous offense.

Left utterly and completely alone after this well-deserved tirade, he had no choice but to make his way slowly down the stairs and out onto the street.

Not wishing to encounter anyone he knew, he avoided returning to the British delegation, but stumbled blindly along the Braunerstrasse without any clear idea of where he was going. He could not bear the thought of speaking to anyone, but longed for solitude where he could sort out the uncomfortable thoughts and unpleasant revelations of the last half hour without interruption.

The Prater was too far away, and the weather far too cold and snowy for such an extended walk, so he settled for seeking out the relative isolation of the Bastei. The old fortifications of the city were deserted in this weather, and he was able to stroll on them completely alone with only his self-recriminating thoughts for company, his soul as barren and cheerless as the snow-covered park surrounding the walls, now empty of pedestrians, or the bare branches of the trees lining its walks that rattled in the wind.

How could he have doubted her for a moment? How could anyone, having looked into those clear, hazel eyes, think her anything but honest and true, as true and honest as anyone he had ever yet encountered. Then why? Had he been afraid to believe in her? Had she seemed too good, too perfect, too much a kindred spirit to be real?

Looking deep into his heart, Brett now acknowledged to himself that he had set Biggs to following her in order to prove to himself that Helena
was
the woman he desperately wanted her to be—passionate, idealistic, motivated by her beliefs—to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that she could not be the source of the leaks, damaging as the evidence against her appeared to be. How could he have borne it if he had been mistaken in his belief in her? And, how was he going to face it now that he had been proven right, but having been right, still managed to lose her anyway? What ever was he going to do?

Chapter Twenty-four

Long walks on the Bastei and sleepless nights brought no counsel to Brett. They only deepened the corroding sense of loss that had reduced his world to an empty gray shapeless fog, devoid of time, joy, or hope. He performed his duties like a sleepwalker, writing reports, translating documents and correspondence from French to English, or English to French, whatever the circumstances demanded.

At last he could bear it no longer. He had to see her, had to explain himself, or at least try to. She had to listen to him! He had to make her understand that he had trusted in her all along, but even his trust in her had not obscured the obvious fact that someone in the von Hohenbachern household had been passing information about him to the French as Helena herself had so efficiently proved.

But offering Helena Devereux an explanation was easier said than done. She had warned him that she would deny herself to him should he call on her in the Brattnerstrasse, and, true to her predictions, Potten always reported that
Miss Devereux is not at home
every time Brett requested an audience with her. Potten’s information, as far as it went, was completely correct, for more often than not his young mistress had been watching from one of the library windows that overlooked the Brailnerstrasse and, forewarned of the major’s impending arrival, had snatched up her cloak and bonnet, descended the back stairs through the kitchens and out into the tiny alleyway in the back. To the butler, it seemed that this was carrying honesty too far, for often her mother, without so much as stirring, would instruct her butler to tell unwelcome visitors that she was not at home. But then, Miss Helena had always been a stickler for the absolute truth.