Vienna
“Are you almost ready, my lady?” asked Sofia.
She will be ready when I am done, you Hessian hussy! thought Abigail, her annoyance with the Austrian interloper renewed at the sound of the girl’s heavily accented English. Abigail was personal maid to Lady Buford and by rights should have been equal in rank with the housekeeper in the hierarchy of the Buford household. However, as Frau Lippermann only spoke German, Abigail was forced to share her position with this Teutonic troublemaker. The maid did not need a translator to know that Sofia despised both Lady Buford and her.
Abigail looked at her mistress in the mirror and saw that she too was exasperated with Sofia’s superior ways. There was only one person’s opinion that counted with Abigail. “My lady, is your hair satisfactory?”
“I am delighted. Thank you, Abby. The necklace, please, and then we are away.” Caroline was nervous but steeled herself not to direct her anxiety to Abigail. Sofia, however, was another matter.
Abigail stood back to admire her mistress. The deep crimson dress, dyed to match Sir John’s sash, showed her pale complexion to good effect, and the feathers in her hair were smaller than usual. “You look lovely, my lady, if I may say so.”
Caroline smiled slightly at the maid’s compliment. “Thank you, Abby.” The two of them had developed a friendship of sorts in the last weeks, brought together by their mutual loathing of Sofia. “Come, Sofia; we must not keep Sir John waiting.”
The Austrian maid mumbled something in German; to Caroline’s ears, it sounded slightly insulting. If only she could speak German, she would put the impertinent baggage in her place!
Caroline discovered Sir John in the parlor, splendid in his full-dress, blue Dragoon uniform, sabre at his side, cape rakishly thrown over one shoulder. Caroline tried to remember to breathe as a chill went down her back. The look in Sir John’s piercing blue eyes screamed that he wanted Caroline in their bed—now. For her part, Caroline was very agreeable to the unspoken suggestion. All the irritation she had felt over her husband’s inattention to her domestic difficulties vanished for the time being. The two looked at each other with pure desire until Roberts cleared his throat.
“Uh… sir, my lady, it is time to leave.”
The Embassy Ball, hosted by Lady Beatrice, would begin within the hour, and Lady Buford was to assist the hostess. Without a word, Sir John offered his wife his arm, and they sailed out to the waiting coach with Sofia trailing behind.
Sofia babbled in the coach as the party moved through the late afternoon streets of Vienna. “It is vise for you to take me along vith you, Sir John. I know my vay around Vienna very vell as I vas raised here.”
Caroline barely heard the girl; she was too concerned over her duties that evening. Soon, the carriage drew before the Schönbrunn Palace, and the Buford party made their way inside.
“Sofia,” Lady Buford said after they entered the building, “report to Lady Beatrice’s secretary. She will assign you your duties.” She did not notice that Sofia had mumbled something under her breath.
Caroline and Sir John continued into the main ballroom, where they were greeted by the duke and his cousin as well as the other members of the British delegation.
Caroline’s tension had eased somewhat, for the other ladies of the delegation had, on the whole, proved to be pleasant and gracious. There were at least two with whom Caroline was desirous of becoming better acquainted, and they seemed to welcome the newcomer into their sphere. The ladies went off to see to the final preparations in good spirits.
Within an hour, the ballroom was filled with the height of Viennese society. Never had Caroline seen such finery and jewels, having never been presented at court. Not that it would have mattered; European fashion made the London scene look dowdy by comparison. She and Sir John were making the rounds when she heard someone calling her husband.
“Colonel Buford! What a wonderful surprise!” A beautiful young woman of medium height approached them. She wore a silver gown with a shocking décolletage, her blue sash of rank tucked beneath her ample bosom. She drew close to the colonel and, in a very familiar way, touched his red sash. “What is this?” she asked with a faint French accent. “Are you now Sir John? Have you been elevated?”
“Yes, Countess, as have you.”
“Ah, but you earned your knighthood by your labors for your king, n’est-ce pas? I have done so by the usual method afforded to women.” She finally turned to Caroline. “Will you introduce me to your companion?”
Buford ground his teeth. He knew Roxanne could see their wedding rings. “Countess, I present to you my wife, Lady Buford. Lady Buford, Countess de Pontchartrain-Villières. Her husband, the Count de Pontchartrain, is a member of the French delegation.”
“Countess.” Caroline curtsied.
“Charmed. So, you are married, Sir John? But how could you not with such a lovely creature.” She nodded at Caroline. “I had not heard; is it a recent event?”
“Our wedding was in January, Countess,” Caroline answered.
“And a honeymoon in Vienna! What could be more delightful! Sir John, you must not keep this charming lady to yourself. You simply must excuse us. Come with me, Lady Buford.” The countess gave each of them a smile, took Caroline’s arm, and walked off with her.
Sir John could only look on with a shade of concern on his face.
Caroline could not like the Countess de Pontchartrain. Her familiarity with Sir John set her teeth on edge. She wondered at her pointed attentions, but she tried to submerge her doubts. The countess was French, she reasoned, and the French have strange ways. Besides, Caroline was a veteran of the games of the London ton, so surely she could handle a French vixen. Still, she found herself striving valiantly not to feel completely underdressed next to the countess.
For the next few minutes, Caroline was introduced to several other grand ladies and was quizzed politely about herself. Finally, Countess de Pontchartrain pointed out a handsome gentleman standing a little ways from them, wearing a black suit with a red-and-white sash.
“Have you been introduced to that gentleman, Lady Buford?” When answered in the negative, the Countess called the man over. “Baron, allow me to introduce Lady Buford of Wales. Lady Buford, this is Baron Wolfgang von Odbart of Prussia.”
A roar of laughter rolled across the room, and the countess glanced away. “Oh! I must leave you now; my husband calls, I think. The baron is capable of ensuring your entertainment, Lady Buford. À bientôt.” The countess then left the two together.
The dashing baron turned to Caroline. “Are you available for a set, Lady Buford?”
“The second set is available, sir.”
“Wunderbar. Bis dann—until then, my lady.” He clicked his heels, bowed, and left her.
Soon, other august noblemen were introduced to Lady Buford, and it was not long before her dance card was filled, two sets reserved for her husband. Caroline tried her best not to appear as intimidated as she felt, but it was a relief when Sir John came to claim the opening set with her. Sir John was an excellent dancer, and Caroline was able to lose herself in the movements of the dance, watching her husband.
Soon the dance was over and Sir John surrendered his happy bride to her new friends. She was in conversation with the ladies when the baron reappeared.
“Lady Buford? It is time for our set,” he informed her as he held out his arm.
Caroline accepted the gesture and allowed herself to be glided to the dance floor. She did not see the looks of concern on the other ladies’ faces.
Buford stood by himself, taking in the crowd and enjoying the dancers, when the Countess de Pontchartrain approached him.
“I finally have you to myself, Jean,” she said in French.
His contentment evaporated, the colonel responded in the same language. “What can you mean, Comtesse?”
The lady laughed lightly. “Jean, have I not always been Roxanne to you? Surely, you have not forgotten.”
Fighting his feelings, Buford remained gallant. “Of course not. But those days have passed, milady.”
“Surely, you do not refer to our… recent acquisitions?” The countess looked upon him with dancing eyes. “Have you met my husband, chéri? Non?” She glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “Well, he is over there, across the room.”
Buford looked to the gentleman she indicated. He beheld a rather dandified older man wearing not only a wig but also what looked suspiciously like rouge on his cheeks. The look was a bit excessive, even for a French noble.
“You spy him, oui? Well, observe the man to his left. Watch!”
Buford saw a young footman, who could not be older than one-and-twenty, crossing over to the comte with a glass of wine. His clothes were very fine and fit like a glove. Count de Pontchartrain accepted the wine, taking the glass with a slight caress of the young man’s hand. It was very brief, and only one who had been observing very closely would have caught it.
The countess chuckled. “Yes, Pierre is a particular favorite. What say you?”
Despite his deep revulsion, Buford could not help himself. “A ballet dancer’s breeches should fit so well.” They were so tight as to be almost indecent.
“Ah, how did you know? My husband pays better than ballet de l’Académie impériale de musique.” She laughed. “Of course, we know he is also a spy for the government, sent to keep an eye on us—an amusing game.”
In a very low voice, Buford demanded, “Why do you tell me these things, Roxanne?”
“We have an understanding, he and I, as pertains to les affaires d’amour. We are discreet. I do not embarrass him, and he does not embarrass me. I have no reason to complain. Have you a similar agreement in your house, chéri?”
“Absolutely not,” he replied with some force.
“You may need to—observe!” She gestured to the dancers with her fan. Buford saw Caroline dancing with Baron Wolfgang von Odbart.
Buford’s throat tightened; he had learned via his research into the other members of the Congress that Baron von Odbart was a notorious seducer and womanizer. Buford saw no parallel to his own previous behavior; his past conquests had all been voluntary, but the baron’s had not.
“They look lovely, oui? I think she will thank me for the introduction,” the countess purred. “What time shall I expect you tonight, Jean?”
Deep anger flushed Buford’s face. He turned to her, and it took all of the colonel’s discipline not to slap the woman.
“Madam,” he spoke in English through clenched teeth, “I am afraid you are under a mistaken impression of our acquaintance. I shall say no more. If you would excuse me, I shall return to my wife.”
The countess’s jaw dropped slightly. “Have you made un mariage d’amour—the love match?” She laughed again. “Oh, that is too amusing; that cannot be. Not you, chéri.”
Buford pursed his lips but said nothing. He certainly would not reveal his feelings for his wife to her.
A grin touched by malice was on the countess’s face. “You had better hurry, chéri. The dance is finished.”
Buford whirled around. Sure enough, the music had ended, and most of the couples had already left the dance floor. Caroline was nowhere in sight.
After two sets of dancing, Caroline was in need of refreshment, and she noticed that others were like-minded.
“Lady Buford, these tables are so crowded,” said the baron. “Come, there is another near the library.”
Wishing to slake her thirst as soon as possible, she allowed herself to be escorted out of the ballroom. Once they reached the table, the baron gave Caroline a glass of punch. She drank as quickly as a gentlewoman could and shyly requested another.
“Ja, dancing is hot work, is it not?” remarked the baron with polite humor. He handed Caroline her replenished glass. “Here you are, my lady. I am at your command.”
“Thank you, Baron.”
“Sie sind herzlich willkommen—you are most welcome.”
Caroline thought it would be best to make some polite conversation with her companion before she was claimed for the next set. “Have you always lived in Vienna, sir?”
“I was raised in a small village outside Berlin. My estate has been in my family for eight generations.”
“It is very beautiful, I am sure.”
“Ja, es ist ein schöner Ort—a most beautiful place.” He grew very close to Caroline as he eyed the library door. “I will take you there soon, mein schönes Mädchen.”
“Baron von Odbart, what are you saying?” Caroline asked.
Buford tried not to appear anxious as he walked through the crowd looking for Caroline. Unconsciously, he looked for feathers—Caroline was one of the few ladies wearing them. He had searched the ballroom twice without success, when he noticed M. Talleyrand looking at him. While he was anxious to find his wife, Buford could not ignore the French ambassador.
“Bonsoir, Excellency,” he greeted him in French.
“Good evening, Sir John,” he returned in English. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Very much. Do you join the dance?”
“Non, such pastimes are beyond me. I take pleasure in observing the festivities.” The minister owned a pronounced limp.
“Yes, the ladies are lovely.”
“Oui, tout à fait—yes, indeed. But there is more; one can learn much from watching.” Talleyrand eyed Buford closely.
Buford knew he was trying to alert him. “Absolutely, monsieur.”
Talleyrand sighed. “There is much beauty to be found by a dashing knight. It is everywhere—the ballroom, the dining room, the library…” The sentence hung in the air.
It took Buford a moment to understand the ambassador. “I—excuse me, Excellency. I have enjoyed this enlightening conversation. Merci beaucoup. Bonne nuit.”
“You are very welcome, Sir John. Good night.” Buford headed towards the library. The ambassador watched him go with a glint in his eye.
“Baron von Odbart, what are you saying?” Caroline asked.
“Lady Buford—”
“Ah, there you are, my dear!” said Sir John as he entered the hallway before the library. “Baron, good evening!”
“Sir John!” Caroline exclaimed in surprise and relief. The Prussian glared at the interloper.
“Have you been keeping Seine Exzellenz company? Wunderbar!” Sir John turned to the baron. He let the Prussian know that he had heard their last exchange and that he spoke German. “Lady Buford takes her duties as my wife seriously—all of them,” he said with a mouth that smiled and eyes that did not.
Baron von Odbart did not reply. The two men locked eyes.
“My dear,” Sir John said, half turning to Caroline but not breaking eye contact with his adversary, “Lady Beatrice was looking for you. She is near the dining room, I believe.” His smile never left his face.
Caroline was confused. She had at last realized that she had been propositioned, but Sir John did not seem to be angry at all. The last time a man did thus, John had threatened to kill him, but now her husband just smiled at the baron.
“I… thank you, dear. Baron, excuse me,” she offered with the barest of civility, before she turned and left for the ballroom.
The two men were left alone. Finally, the baron spoke. “If you will excuse me, I shall return to the ball.”
He is an ambassador—you can do nothing, Buford reminded himself. I cannot challenge him; I cannot! But Buford could not let things lie and remain a man.
“A question first, sir. Do you hunt?”
The baron looked into his eyes. “Ja. Grouse and deer.”
“Musket?”
“Ja.”
“Perhaps we should go shooting together once the spring comes. I am proficient with the musket, rifle, pistol, and bow. I particularly enjoy hunting at dawn. Very productive, you know. I have had many successful… hunts at dawn.”
The baron replied with a grunt.
Buford lowered his voice. “Have you ever hunted with a blade? There is nothing like killing a wild boar with a sabre. The sound it makes when the blade strikes home… ah!” There was a wild look in his eye.
The baron shuddered; the message had been delivered. “I shall remember that. But, excuse me please; I do not think I shall have time to… hunt while in Vienna. The Congress…” he shrugged. “My apologies—bitte entschuldigen Sie. Gute Nacht.”
“Lady Beatrice, you were looking for me?” greeted Lady Buford.
The older lady smiled at her friend. “Why no, but I am glad to see you. Did someone say that I was?”
Caroline’s confusion returned. “Sir John did. I was just with Baron von Odbart—”
Lady Beatrice started. “Baron von Odbart!” She collected herself. “Caroline, is Sir John still with the baron?”
“Yes, I just left him—oh!” Caroline finally made sense of her husband’s odd behavior. He was trying to get me out of the room before he… She began to turn back to the library when she felt Lady Beatrice’s hand on her arm.
“Caroline,” she said in a low voice, “we shall go together… slowly.”
The two ladies had only taken a dozen steps before they saw, to their immense relief, Sir John strolling from the direction of the library. “Ladies!” he called out gaily.
Caroline was mortified, and true to her sex, exorcised her embarrassment by scolding her husband. “Sir John! What are you about, sir?”
Lady Beatrice asked, “Where is the baron?”
“The baron?” the colonel said nonchalantly. “Oh, he is about somewhere. Wretched man—turned down the opportunity to go hunting with me.”
“Hunting, sir?” cried his wife. “You wished to go sporting with that man after he—”
“Lady Buford!” hissed the hostess. To Sir John she asked, “Would this… hunting have anything to do with pistols or swords?”
“The very thing! I cannot see why he declined, but one can never tell with these foreigners.”
“Yes,” said Lady Beatrice dryly, “an ambassador is usually too busy for that sort of thing, especially with a mere advisor. I would not ask again, sir. I do not believe my brother would approve.”
Buford understood Lady Beatrice’s warning. “Yes, my lady.”
Caroline did not quite follow the conversation, but she knew that Sir John had been warned off some improper behavior. She began to defend him when another gentleman approached the group.
“Lady Beatrice, Sir John, excuse me please,” said one of the senior British diplomats. “Lady Buford, it is time for the supper dance.” He smiled as he held out his arm.
“Oh! Of course, my lord.”
Sir John smiled. “Enjoy your dinner, my dear. I shall see you for the final set.”
“Lady Buford,” said Lady Beatrice as Caroline was led away, “if you would be so kind as to call on me day after tomorrow, I would be most obliged.”
Caroline was taken aback by the formal tone. “Of… of course, my lady.”
“Wonderful. Let us say three o’clock? I shall send my card around.”
After Caroline left, Sir John asked, “Lady Beatrice, do you dance tonight?”
“Oh, no, my dear colonel. A hostess’s job is never done. However, I would not object if you would lend me your arm to the dining room.”
By the time the Bufords were riding back home in the carriage, all discord between them was once again gone. Caroline was tired and happy. In the back of her mind, she was still a bit disappointed that Sir John did not defend her more vigorously before the baron. Go sporting with him, indeed! However, the dinner was delightful, and she loved to dance with her husband. And Sofia’s gossip from the servants’ quarters was interesting.
“Ja! I vould not believe it had I not seen it vith mine own eyes! Baron von Odbart vas chased out of the back door by a Russian count! There will be some merry talk around Vienna tomorrow, I can assure you!”
Caroline was so sleepy and relaxed that she broke with propriety, placed her head on Sir John’s shoulder, and closed her eyes, a contented smile on her lips. Sir John simply held his wife’s hand as the carriage rocked through the nearly empty streets.
In the darkness of the carriage, they could not see the frown on Sofia’s face.