“Wellington, here? How divine! I simply adore the man.” The princess sighed ecstatically.
Brett frowned. “I cannot say that for certain, Princess. And certainly such speculations should not leave this room.”
“Oooh. Secrets. How very intriguing.” The princess’ blue eyes widened with excitement. “I feel like
La Bagration.
But speaking of her, I saw you dancing with her last night. Surely even gentlemen, their tastes being what they are, could not approve of the décolletage she was wearing last night.”
And for the rest of his visit, Brett was forced to confine his conversation to the latest scandals and
on dits
making the rounds of the Austrian capital. But at least, every once in awhile, he was able to exchange sympathetic glances with Helena, who made it plain to him that her interest in such titillating topics was just like his, which was to say, nonexistent.
Chapter Fifteen
The chiming of an elegant ormolu clock reminded Brett of the task awaiting him and, taking a reluctant leave of the ladies, he headed off to deliver his message to the tsar, hoping against hope that the entire mission could be accomplished quickly and easily, and with a minimum of interaction with the Princess Bagration. The entire undertaking filled him with distaste, for it smacked of duplicity and deception, which were anathema to a soldier accustomed to dealing with things openly and straightforwardly. But Castlereagh was right, at least he was doing something more exciting than transcribing and translating.
As the door closed behind Brett, the princess rose to go to her appointment with Madame Albert, leaving her daughter alone in the salon. Too distracted by the major’s visit to go back to her reading, Helena strolled over to the window and gazed idly into the street, watching the passersby and smiling to herself as she caught sight of a tall, broad-shouldered figure striding purposefully along. The major was different from the other men around him. Not only was he taller and more powerfully built, but the very way he carried himself told even the most casual observer that he was someone who lived his life with energy and purpose, someone who scorned the pettiness that dominated so many people’s existences.
Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, Helena caught sight of two dark shapes detaching themselves from the shadow of a doorway and gliding swiftly along down opposite sides of the street from one another. Leaning forward so that her nose was almost pressing against the glass, she squinted hard in a vain attempt to make out their features or any other distinguishing characteristics.
Something about the way the men moved, looking straight ahead, never swerving from their line of sight, reminded her of hunting dogs closing in on their prey. A shiver ran down Helena’s spine. She was as sure as if they had told her themselves that the prey these two were after was Major Lord Brett Stanford.
Without a second thought, she ran to her bedchamber, snatched up her wool cloak, and, throwing it over her shoulders, hurried down the stairs and along the Braunerstrasse in the direction they had been heading.
At first there was no sign of the men, and certainly none of the major, but Helena hurried on, half running, half walking. Oblivious of the curious stares of passersby, she pulled the cloak more tightly around her and increased her pace until at last she caught sight of a figure hugging the walls of the building not fifty yards ahead of her. Quickly she glanced to the other side of the street and, sure enough, a few yards behind his accomplice, the other man was skulking along from doorway to doorway.
They continued moving rapidly, but furtively, until Helena, finally catching up to them, was able to make out the major just ahead of them. His head and shoulders rose above the crowd, making him easily distinguishable as he strode along ahead of them.
In this fashion the two men made their way past the Hofburg, hugging the sides of the square in front of the British delegation, and then plunging down a narrow side street until they suddenly came to a halt as if frozen in their tracks. Pausing to take refuge herself in a convenient doorway, Helena observed Brett standing under the stone balcony that jutted out over the doorway of the Palm Palace. He appeared to hesitate for the briefest of moments before ringing the bell and then disappearing inside.
Now what was she to do? Helena glanced up the street as one of Brett’s trackers crossed over to join his companion. She had been so intent on following the men who were trailing Brett that she had not really stopped to consider what she would do if she were to catch up with them. Nor did she wish to examine the implications of Brett’s presence at the Palm Palace. Obviously he was calling on either the Duchess of Sagan or the Princess Bagration, the implications of which, in either case, she did not wish to entertain now or later.
However, there was no turning back. Now that she had flung herself into the middle of it all, the least she could do was to try to discover more about the men who were following Brett.
Hugging the wall, Helena moved as unobtrusively as she could from doorway to doorway until she was able to get a good look at both of the men. Not to her surprise, she was just able to make out the long, angular face, dark hair, beard, and soldierly bearing of the man who had accompanied Augustus Von Stieglitz to the celebrations in the Prater.
What did these men want with Brett? And was Brett himself something more than the simple cavalry officer and translator that he claimed to be?
Helena crept close enough to distinguish voices conversing with the same Saxon accent she had heard that day in the Prater. Cautiously, ever so cautiously, she inched along, her cloak catching on the rough stucco as she tried to flatten herself against the building. Then at last she was close enough to distinguish phrases here and there,
fought under Wellington, regiments in America...
She held her breath, so intent on focusing on every word that was said and guessing what it meant that she was not even aware they had paused in their conversation to look at her. But suddenly they were on either side of her, peering into her face and grinning lasciviously.
“Guten Tag, Fraulein.”
The first man reached forward to push Helena’s hood back. “You are right, Franz.” He turned to his companion. “We’re in the devil’s own luck. She is a cozy armful indeed. Just the thing to while away our time while we wait here. What do you say to a kiss, sweetheart?”
And before Helena could even think what he was about, the man had grabbed her with one hand in a clumsy embrace while he struggled to undo the ties of her cloak with the other. “Come along, now, show us what you have got for us, sweetheart.” He tugged harder. “Modest little thing, aren’t you? Well, Hans will soon take care of that. I like a modest young lady I do.” And just as Helena was recovering her breath to protest, he gave her a smacking wet kiss.
Revulsion washed over her, bringing her back to her senses, and she struggled to free herself from the crude assault. But both her captor’s arms went around her now, pulling her into a crushing embrace so that she could neither scream nor fight very effectively.
Think, Helena, think!
She repeated desperately to herself. All her life she had prided herself on her intellect, on being able to solve any problem, deal with any situation. Where was that intellect now when she needed it?
Gathering all her strength, Helena forced herself to be calm, to review all the possibilities, to think herself out of her difficulties. Her arms were pinned beyond all hope of extricating them, but her feet were free. Putting all her energy behind it, she aimed as powerful a kick as she could muster at her attacker’s shins.
“Verdammt!”
He yelped in pain and loosened his grip just enough for her to twist her face away.
“Hilfe.l”
Helena yelled with every ounce of strength she had.
“Hilfe!”
She hoped desperately to catch the attention of passersby.
Suddenly she heard pounding footsteps and then a furious voice exclaiming, “What the devil?” as she felt her attacker being pulled roughly off her. “Miss Dev . . .”
“Danke, mein Herr, Danke.”
Reacting quickly, Helena yanked herself free from her assailant’s grasp and flung herself into Brett’s arms.
“Danke. Sie haben mich gerettet.”
She continued to cling to him, repeating the words over and over as she listened to the sound of her attackers’ retreating footsteps fade into the distance. Then, cautiously, she lifted her head to watch them disappear around a corner.
“Are you all right?” Utterly nonplussed by the entire episode, Brett struggled to gather his wits about him as he gazed down at her with some concern. “Miss Devereux, it is I, Stanford.” The poor girl was so undone by the entire experience that she appeared completely unaware of her rescuer’s identity.
Helena drew a steadying breath, but try as she would, she could not seem to stop the trembling that threatened to overwhelm her. Gratefully she clung to the strong arms protecting her, supporting her. “I know,” she gasped. “I know it is you. Thank you.”
“But, but . . .” Puzzled, he shook his head. “If you knew who I was, why did you speak to me in German?”
“Because I did not want them to know who I was, or that I knew who you were.”
Thoroughly mystified, Brett stared down at her, but she seemed perfectly sane, shaken perhaps, but clearly in possession of all her faculties. “Come.” Still keeping a steadying arm around her shoulders, he led her gently back in the direction of home. “I think you had better explain. Either I am excessively dull-witted or I am missing something.”
Drawing another steadying breath, Helena told him about observing the men from the salon window as they set off following him. At that he shook his head in mingled frustration and admiration as he listened to the tale of her pursuit of Franz and his cohort through the streets to the Palm Palace. “What ever were you thinking, risking yourself in such a way? You could have been hurt or . . .”
“But I had to find out. I had to know if one of the men was the other man we saw at the Prater.”
Brett stared at her blankly.
“The man with whom Augustus von Stieglitz was speaking before he spoke to you.”
Again, Brett shook his head uncomprehendingly.
“But don’t you see? They were spying on you then, and they were spying on you now. Following them as they followed you was the best way for me to discover why they were spying on you. I thought that if I could get close enough to them to hear, I might just be able to discover what they hoped to find out from you, but before I could really learn anything, they accosted me. They thought I was a ...” She broke off shuddering at the memory of it, of the hot breath on her face, the look in the man’s eyes. “It was awful!”
Brett’s arms closed around her. “My poor girl. Hush now. Put it out of your mind. It is over.”
She was silent for a moment, marveling at the wonderful sense of refuge and security a pair of comforting strong arms could give after brutal ones had made her feel so helpless, so hopeless, so threatened. She wanted to stay in Brett’s arms forever, reveling in that circle of protection, in the feeling of being cared for, in knowing that there was someone who could save her even if she could not save herself. But no, that was madness. She did not want to be saved. She had been fighting against that all her life, struggling not to depend on anyone else to look after her. No, her independence and self-sufficiency had been too hard won to sacrifice it all now simply because one small incident had caused her to question herself. And she certainly did not want to be saved by a man who called on her mother one minute and was off to visit the Duchess of Sagan or the Princess Bagration the next!
Drawing in another deep breath, Helena straightened in his arms and carefully retied the fastenings of her cloak. “Thank you. Major, for coming to my rescue. It was stupid of me to let them catch sight of me that way. I appreciate your concern, but I am thoroughly recovered now.”
And pulling her cloak more tightly around herself, she stepped out of his arms and marched off briskly down the street.
Chapter Sixteen
Once again, Brett was too caught off guard for a moment to react. One minute she had been clinging to him, grateful for his protection and support, and the next she was flinging off down the street as though she were trying to put as much distance between the two of them as she possibly could.
“Damn and blast!” He cursed himself for a fool, though he had not the slightest idea what had brought about the change in her. “Helena!” He hurried after her. “Miss Devereux, wait. . .” At last he caught up to her. “Please.” Gently, he tucked her hand back under his arm. “It is I who should be thanking you. After all, it was your looking after my welfare that got you into tr . . . er caused the situation in which I just found you.”
But she continued along, not slowing her pace in the least. What was wrong with the woman? He had apologized handsomely enough, acknowledged his debt to her even though it galled him to do so. He was a soldier, after all, a soldier, furthermore, who had been warned against the spies that permeated the city, and yet it had been a gently bred young woman, who just happened to glance out of a drawing room window and managed to follow his adversaries through the streets of Vienna. Did she not think it cost him something to admit that to her? Apparently not.
“Believe me, Miss Devereux, I am very much indebted to you, but it is rather difficult to take, you know.”
That caught her attention. She stopped and looked up at him.
“Difficult to take?”
“After all,
I
am supposed to be the veteran campaigner here. I have spent years successfully combating or avoiding dangers of all sorts in the Peninsula, in a far more hazardous environment than one of Europe’s most cosmopolitan cities, yet here, not a few streets away from my own headquarters, I am rescued by a young woman who has spent the last several years enjoying the simple pleasures of the German countryside while I have spent them fighting the French all through Portugal and Spain. You must admit that such a thing could have a rather lowering effect on one’s self-esteem. Small wonder that I am slow to acknowledge my indebtedness to that young woman.”