“I must, but I shall return as soon as you will permit,” he said. “We will have a great deal to talk about. What days are best suited for your social events, what sorts of parties have already been tossed, and what you shall do to startle them all. Also the best escorts and modistes for you. Adieu.” He smiled, blew her a kiss, and with a brief nod to Harvey, left.
Chapter Five
After having spent several months in Vienna attending parties every evening, Moncrief was familiar with the regular social set. The large state parties thrown by the various delegations were attended by everyone, of all nationalities. These do’s were generally referred to as Babel parties, due to the multiplicity of languages heard there. It was his duty to act as interpreter for Castlereagh, who spoke French in a manner that was nearly unintelligible, and German not at all. At these large do’s, he had met Herr Kruger and his daughter, Maria, but he was not on close terms with them. They were habitués of Austrian Headquarters; he was more often to be found at the Princess Bagration’s Russian Headquarters, for the more intimate parties where real friendships were advanced. An early interest in the young lady had died aborning when it was learned she was most often to be found in the company of a certain Austrian colonel, Count Rechberg, one of the reigning beaux of the Congress.
Mentally reviewing what he knew of the Krugers, he was coming to the conclusion they could not be involved in selling stolen jewels. They were eminently respectable. Wealthy, connected to everyone, and with the daughter about to be allied with the even more prestigious Rechbergs—no, it was impossible they would involve themselves in anything underhanded. The French Mademoiselle had used them to worm her way into meeting people of sufficient affluence to purchase her purloined goodies. But why should Maria Kruger borrow a brooch she had no intention of wearing? She was always decked in diamonds and sapphires—why borrow paste jewelry? And why—or how—should it so conveniently fall at the feet of the richest man in the city? It did smack very much of a setup. That the Krugers were giving house space to an unknown French woman was already suspicious. And it did not give him a single idea as to an excuse for calling on the Krugers either.
Well then, why complicate matters? His cousin, a wealthy young lord who was a byword for foolishness, had purchased an expensive bauble from a woman introduced to him by the Krugers. A word regarding the woman’s background would not go amiss. Indeed Kruger would think it odd if Palgrave’s family did not check up on it. He was a gentleman of the old school—family-centered, patriarchal, or so he seemed from the little one saw of him. He went about with his daughter and her aunt, and behaved himself with propriety.
No doubt there was some good explanation for Maria’s having the brooch, and for the Krugers’ having Feydeau with them. The French delegation, perhaps, had asked Kruger’s help. Every house in the city was full, literally, to the rafters. He wished he might speak to Maria privately. A young girl was more apt to come out with the truth than an older man was. But Kruger would not approve of a call on Maria by a bachelor when she was on the verge of a good match. It was not the custom, and there would likely be a chaperone.
He carried his well-thumbed copy of the
Guide to the Society of Vienna
in his hand to find the Kruger house. It was in the inner city, but the house, when he approached it, was not large enough to be termed a palais. He had expected something more grand. It was not done in the baroque style like its neighbors, but was more modern. He had had the idea the Krugers entertained lavishly, but they certainly did not do so in this house. He was admitted to the house by a liveried butler, who informed him Herr Kruger was out.
The news was not entirely bad, as it meant he might now, with propriety, request to see Fräulein Kruger. Yes, she was in. He stepped into a very elegant hallway, where black marble floors held excellent, lavish furniture. Before him on the wall hung a small painting that looked very much like a Rembrandt. The bowl on the table beneath it was large, and it was Waterford. A collection of carved jade figurines were scattered at random over the remainder of the table’s surface. Jade was not one of Moncrief’s weaknesses, but he thought he might be looking at works of the Ching dynasty. A glance along the hallway showed him a house done up in the first style of elegance—a little jewel box of a house, every item selected and blended with taste.
While the butler went to announce him, he stepped closer to the table and lifted one of the jade pieces. It was a white tiger, fine enough to have been commissioned by the Emperor Ch’ien Lung himself. A quick examination showed no imperial seal on the bottom, but Moncrief was not sure of the importance of the seal. He only knew he had seen it on other pieces, from time to time. In any case, this was not the home of a man who needed to risk his reputation dealing in stolen jewels.
From beyond he heard a somewhat querulous female voice raised in displeasure. The words, in German, translated unmistakably into a refusal. “I cannot see him.” Pity. The short ensuing silence was of the proper length for the butler to inform the lady the first request had been for Herr Kruger. He hoped she would be curious enough to grant him an interview. He had not long to wait before the young lady herself swept from a doorway into the gracious entrance hall. She continued speaking in German. "You wished to see me, Lord Moncrief?” she asked in a voice tinged with disdain.
He looked with interest to refresh his impressions of Miss Kruger, for he had not been much in her company for several weeks. She was taller than he remembered, and thinner. The neck, as Googie mentioned, was regal—long, arched, holding a proud little head. The hair was black, a carefully tousled load of curls that was much favored this season. The eyes were large, liquid, black, the nose straight. A patrician nose—indeed the word described her whole appearance. Every line of the girl’s body spelled aristocracy, privilege, while her manner added the word “spoiled.” Her delicately arched brows were lifted in impatience, but this detail escaped Moncrief’s notice. Of more interest to him was that the haughty beauty had been crying. Lingering traces of red were at her eyes’ rims, and the orbs still glittered.
“On a matter of business, Ma’am,” he answered.
She showed him into an elegantly furnished saloon and took a seat, without putting herself to the bother of making polite chitchat. “Yes, what is it?” she asked bluntly, when he was seated.
“I have come to inquire where I might find a Mademoiselle Feydeau, whom I understand to be a friend of yours."
“Why do you wish to see her?” she asked, very much on her high ropes.
He explained his relationship to Palgrave. She examined him closely in a way he considered little short of impertinent. The exact way in which he had regarded her a moment earlier, in fact. “But surely Palgrave is not under your guardianship,” she objected.
“Not guardianship in a legal sense, but as a younger relative, he looks to me for guidance.”
“He asked you to come here?”
“No. The family expect me to keep an eye on his dealings.” He was finding the girl less easy to deal with than he had expected. Even less easy than the father would have been. A man would understand these affairs. In defense, he adopted a high tone. “You have some objection to my meeting Mademoiselle Feydeau?” he asked, with a bold stare.
“It is nothing to me. I am not a close friend of the woman. I only met her a month ago, when she rented the back apartment from us. There is an apartment at the back of the house, where my father’s sister used to live when she was alive. We rented it to Mademoiselle a while ago. With the Congress crowding the city so, we have let out a few rooms, like so many families have done.”
It was true most homes were crowded, but the better families were giving their rooms freely to friends and relatives, not renting them to unknown females of suspicious backgrounds. This he noted mentally, but when he spoke, he said, “May I know how it comes you were borrowing a piece of jewelry from a woman whom you know so slightly?”
“She offered it, milord, and I accepted at her insistence. Is there anything else?”
“You attended Clancarty’s do for the purpose of meeting the Palgraves, I understand?”
“Clancarty asked us there to meet them, and Papa was already promised to the Countess von Rossner. To avoid hurting the feelings of our English friends, he sent me in his stead. Are there any more questions?”
“Mademoiselle Feydeau knew whom you were to meet there?”
“I doubt I mentioned any names to her. She would not know them. What is it you suggest? That she used me to offer the brooch to Palgrave? It was not the case I assure you. How it came about is that the coiffeur did not come to do my hair as he was supposed to. I happened to know Mademoiselle had such a man with her, and went to borrow a moment of his time. Mademoiselle, when she saw me wearing a red velvet gown, said it required a red jewel. I told her I had none, and she offered the brooch. I refused—it is extremely ugly, but when she made an issue of it, I took it to get away without wasting more time, and without hurting her feelings. I have done her a few favors since her coming, and she wished to repay me. I put the brooch in my reticule, not taking any great care as she had assured me it was paste. That was her opinion, that it was no more than a good imitation. I’m sure she did not think the fabulously wealthy English lord would be interested in a paste stone for his wife. It was all coincidence, you see. As the stone is genuine, and the price paid for it not excessive, where is the problem?”
“The problem is that the stone is quite likely from a collection of stolen jewelry.”
“If that proves to be the case, I’m sure Mademoiselle will return your cousin the money, and take back the ruby. I understand a certain Russian nobleman is already regretting that he was not aware of the transaction sooner, as he feels the gem was worth considerably more than five thousand pounds. Its history does not concern him, you see."
“Could you tell me whether Mademoiselle has other such items in her possession?” he asked, ignoring her ill humor.
“I could not. As you will be calling on her, why do you not ask her that question?”
“I shall. Thank you very much for your time, Miss Kruger. Sorry if I came at an awkward moment,” he added, with an unintentional glance at her eyes that still betrayed her bout of tears.
He arose to make his bows. She sat regarding him angrily. “If you think I am involved in this transaction in any but an accidental fashion, you are quite mistaken. Whatever you may have heard, milord, the Krugers are not quite sunk to dealing in stolen goods.” With a frosty "
Guten tag
” she stalked from the room, leaving him to find his own way into the hall, and to discover from the butler how to reach Feydeau’s apartment.
Access was from the street behind, which suited him well, as it gave him a few moments to collect his thoughts. There was, he supposed, another access from within the Kruger’s house, but this was perhaps through some private family room. He ruminated over the girl’s last speech. “Whatever you may have heard . . .” What was there to hear about the Krugers? There seemed some implication they were short of money, but the house, while small, was elaborate, wearing many earmarks of wealth. The girl was outfitted in style and was often seen riding in the park mounted on excellent horseflesh. Her low-slung green carriage was known to him, one of the fancier equipages in the city.
Yet that house—it was decidedly small, and the apartment they had rented for money rather than give it to a friend. Kruger must have many visiting friends too, after his stint in London at the Austrian embassy. It was unusual. Then there was the matter of the girl’s bad temper, and tears. Why had she been crying? She was quite clearly worried about something, involved in some muddle. His curiosity was high as he lifted the brass knocker at the door of Mademoiselle Feydeau’s apartment.
Chapter Six
There was no butler to admit Mademoiselle’s caller, and no elegance to greet him. This small wing at the back of Kruger’s house had been allowed to run to seed. He was met at the door by a large woman of middle years who wore a plain, dark gown, and might have been a housekeeper, a dresser, or a companion. He suspected she filled all these functions—maybe a few other besides. Moncrief was shown into a rather small parlor while the servant went to see if Mademoiselle was home.
He wondered, as he sat waiting, precisely how to manage Mademoiselle. A warning for her not to sell her wares to Palgrave was unlikely to be effective. Why should she listen to him? The thing to discover was whether she had any more of the French crown jewels, or had only accidentally come across the one ruby. The truth in this regard would more readily be disclosed to a potential buyer than to a mere guardian. He would hint at an interest in procuring the Blue Tavernier himself. It was unlikely the French woman knew him by name, but if she did, it would not be totally incredible that Lord Moncrief reveal an interest in it. He had for some years been an ardent collector, whose advice was sought not only by his friends and relatives, but frequently by that greatest of all collectors, the Prince Regent.
Before many minutes, there was a light flurry of footsteps in the hall beyond, and a young woman appeared in the archway. He blinked involuntarily at the apparition, and forgot, for a full sixty seconds, to rise to his feet to greet her. He had been expecting a common, somewhat vulgar female, along the lines of an adventuress. He suspected her to be pretty and young, due perhaps to Googie’s comment that Palgrave was interested in her. He had not expected her to be quite so young, nor half so beautiful.
She was petite, with a pale heart-shaped face and large, gray eyes. Her hair was black as a crow’s wing, and worn pulled severely back in a Grecian knot. It grew in a well-defined widow’s peak on her forehead, giving a strange impression of a nun’s habit. Perhaps this association was caused by her austere black gown, with only a white fichu at the neck to lighten the ascetic plainness of her gown. Had she been older, a different sort of woman, one might have accused her of intentional drama in her choice of gown. Those clear gray eyes regarding him rather shyly held no suggestion of such wily arts.