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Authors: Joan Smith
Tags: Regency Romance
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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?
The Tsar’s imported treats did not mitigate his anger. The sweet cherries from the secession houses of Tsarskoe Selo were ignored, the miniature fresh cucumbers and lettuce hearts left sitting on his plate. It was a relief to be able to get away early, when Castlereagh gave him the nod to remove his half-brother, Stewart, before he cast any more insults upon the guest of honor, Catherine, the Grand Duchess.
Chapter Seven
The ensuing week held more than the customary number of crises. Castlereagh had been hinting to Russia that he might be willing to sacrifice Saxony, providing certain concessions were made. He received word from Liverpool he was to do nothing of the sort, but was to support Austria in preserving it. Emboldened by England’s support, Metternich firmly denied to Prussia this territory it desired. The Tsar became furious, and after being shown some secret letters, threatened to challenge Metternich to a duel.
Everyone, it seemed, was in a wretched mood. Charles Stewart fell into a row with the Grand Duke Constantine, the Tsar’s troublesome sibling. The Duchesse de Sagan had a falling out with her beau, which was mended when Metternich found a buyer for her emeralds at a good price. The Princess Bagration planned a festival in her wing of the Palais Palm, to which she condescended to invite her arch rival, Sagan, who did not condescend to accept her invitation, but gathered as many of the royal and mighty as she could to a petit souper of her own on the same evening.
In the matter of the Blue Tavernier, Moncrief made little headway but to discover Marie Louise did not have it in her possession.
“Utterly impossible!” Castlereagh told him. “The French Provisional Government sent an emissary to Orléans to snap up all the imperial treasure at the time Napoleon was beaten. They stripped the very string of pearls she wore from her neck. Napoleon would never have left so valuable an item with her. He has the lowest opinion of women—machines for making babies he calls them. He would as soon have left the diamond with his dog.”
Two visits to the Palgrave mansion in Schenkenstrasse revealed no more than that his cousin was certainly up to something, and determined to conceal it. Any mention of the jewels was brushed quickly aside. With so many other topics of interest
“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?
The Tsar’s imported treats did not mitigate his anger. The sweet cherries from the secession houses of Tsarskoe Selo were ignored, the miniature fresh cucumbers and lettuce hearts left sitting on his plate. It was a relief to be able to get away early, when Castlereagh gave him the nod to remove his half-brother, Stewart, before he cast any more insults upon the guest of honor, Catherine, the Grand Duchess.
Chapter Seven
The ensuing week held more than the customary number of crises. Castlereagh had been hinting to Russia that he might be willing to sacrifice Saxony, providing certain concessions were made. He received word from Liverpool he was to do nothing of the sort, but was to support Austria in preserving it. Emboldened by England’s support, Metternich firmly denied to Prussia this territory it desired. The Tsar became furious, and after being shown some secret letters, threatened to challenge Metternich to a duel.
Everyone, it seemed, was in a wretched mood. Charles Stewart fell into a row with the Grand Duke Constantine, the Tsar’s troublesome sibling. The Duchesse de Sagan had a falling out with her beau, which was mended when Metternich found a buyer for her emeralds at a good price. The Princess Bagration planned a festival in her wing of the Palais Palm, to which she condescended to invite her arch rival, Sagan, who did not condescend to accept her invitation, but gathered as many of the royal and mighty as she could to a petit souper of her own on the same evening.
In the matter of the Blue Tavernier, Moncrief made little headway but to discover Marie Louise did not have it in her possession.
“Utterly impossible!” Castlereagh told him. “The French Provisional Government sent an emissary to Orléans to snap up all the imperial treasure at the time Napoleon was beaten. They stripped the very string of pearls she wore from her neck. Napoleon would never have left so valuable an item with her. He has the lowest opinion of women—machines for making babies he calls them. He would as soon have left the diamond with his dog.”
Two visits to the Palgrave mansion in Schenkenstrasse revealed no more than that his cousin was certainly up to something, and determined to conceal it. Any mention of the jewels was brushed quickly aside. With so many other topics of interest
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