Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Julius dropped into his armchair, feeling as if a regiment of Napoleon's army had blasted an entire battery of howitzers into him. The air was knocked out of him, his ears were ringing, and his head was light. For the first time, he understood how ladies felt just before they swooned. At that moment, there was nothing in the entire world he wanted more than to fall on the floor in a dead faint. It would certainly alarm his butler and the maid if they found him in that state. He was the Duke of Aldingbourne, after all. Cold and arrogant and unfeeling. Nothing and no one could disturb his composure. Dukes did not faint. What would the world come to if they did?

He poured himself a glass of brandy with a trembling hand, spilled half of it on the fine walnut table, downed it in one gulp, and poured himself another. The heat of the liquor burned through his veins, but it did not calm him in the least. It only dulled his senses and in the morning he would have a headache to boot. Cursing, he lifted the glass to smash it into the fireplace, hoping for some relief, but that would only wake his valet. He carefully placed it back on the table and rested his head in his hands.

She hadn't recognised him.

She hadn't recognised him.

She hadn't recognised him.

The thought bothered and nagged at him like rats gnawing at the wooden beams of a house, relentless and pervasive. Why did the thought that she didn't remember him shock him more than the discovery that his dead wife was alive?

There hadn't been a trace of recognition in her eyes. Neither now, nor at Metternich's soiree when he first saw her. He was a complete stranger to her. It was as if their three years of marriage had never happened. His identity as her husband was erased forever.

After the initial shock, he'd grappled with the acute sense of disbelief at what his eyes were seeing. Confusion and doubt had followed.

Now anger blazed through him, at her, at him, at God and the entire universe, and he feared he'd punch a hole in the satin-covered walls if he didn't find some sort of outlet. How could she have forgotten him so completely?

What the deuce was wrong with him?

By all the saints, it was a miracle! He should rejoice, for when had it ever happened outside of the realm of religion that the dead were resurrected?

He'd at first feared she was an impostor. Still, the woman had appeared sincere.

She had not sought him out to claim she was his lost wife. He had sought her out. She'd appeared shocked and, towards the end, terrified. Then she'd decided to throw him out of her house as if he were not a Duke, but a dirty peddler trying to foist faulty goods on a hapless housekeeper.

And the boy? What about him?

It seemed that not only had he found his wife, but he also had a son.

An heir to the Dukedom.

Everything inside him softened.

Hector. The boy—dark haired with light grey eyes—had a narrow face, a proud forehead, and a fine aquiline nose—features that were all too familiar to him.

The child was the living, walking image of a portrait of himself that was hanging in Aldingbourne Hall. Both Mortimer and Evie had reacted with the same recognition.

There was no doubt about it: the boy was legitimately his.

It was strange how certain he was about Hector. In the past, it had happened more than once that a Covent Garden doxy had approached him and claimed that her by-blow was his child, and he'd always denied it, firmly, arrogantly.

And now he'd claim the child as his own without a second thought, and it was strange. He knew, deep in his bones, that it was true.

There was no logical explanation for it.

It was the same kind of odd certainty he knew that this woman was Catherine.

Eight years had passed and she had hardly changed. She'd felt the same in his arms—soft, delicate, dainty. Her oval face, the gentle brows, the soft expression in her brown eyes were all as he remembered them. If there was a difference from the Catherine he knew, it was in her attire and hairstyle. The Catherine he remembered had worn only the most fashionable clothes and kept every strand of her hair immaculately in place.

This new Catherine seemed more dishevelled. Soft wisps of blonde hair escaped from her bun, and her dress was simple, slightly worn and stained.

All those familiar gestures and mannerisms—the way she raised her hand, the way she patted her skirt, the way her mouth quirked upwards to reveal a dimple on her left cheek, the mole on the right.

It was undeniably Catherine.

Yet she continued to deny it, and there was no glimmer of recognition in her eyes at all.

She did not remember him.

It was most disconcerting.

He had been astonished by how fluently she spoke German. Catherine was known to speak the language—her grandmother was Austrian, and she had studied it for years—but her pronunciation was almost native. Her English, on the other hand, had been slightly stilted as if she hadn't spoken it for years.

A sliver of doubt crossed his mind.

Her personality also appeared to have changed.

Catherine had been a quiet, reserved person. Almost timid, especially in his company. He'd forgotten how her nervousness used to irritate him, a constant caution lurking in the back of her eyes…as if she were afraid of him.

It had always made him feel like he was some sort of monster, though he could never quite put his finger on why.

He frowned.

This Viennese Catherine, however, was an exuberant sort of creature who showed her emotions all too openly. She laughed with an abandon that was almost enviable. When she was sad, her brown eyes filled with tears, enormous and luminous, making him want to gather her in his arms and, and…

He shook his head.

And there had been anger. Her eyes had sparkled, and her cheeks had flushed. How she'd lashed out at him at the end, when she'd presumed her son in danger.

His hand shook as he drew it again and again through his thick hair.

She saw him as a threat. That much was clear.

And here was the biggest difference between the Catherine he had known and this new Catherine: she was a mother. Fierce and loyal and protective as only a mother could be.

He'd never seen Catherine like that. It suited her.

Suddenly, his head ached and he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

He had to regain some sense of rationality in this matter.

One thing at a time.

He decided to send another missive to Aldingbourne Hall, asking to send them the identical miniature that had been made from the larger portrait that hung in the gallery, as well as another trinket that might be even more important .

Having made up his mind about the next course of action, Julius resolutely penned the letter.

"You have a visitor, Your Grace." Julius hadn't heard his butler enter the room and jumped at the sound of his voice at his side.

He looked up wearily. "Who is it?"

"Prince Metternich. Shall I tell him you are not at home?"

Metternich. Blast the man. The last thing he wanted to do now was to have another diplomatic debate.

"Show him in."

He ran his hand through his hair, once, twice, struggling to regain his usual aloof composure. It would not do to show the man anything other than that.

" Mon cher ami ," the Prince said, strolling into the room as if it were his own drawing room. "You appear to be out of sorts."

Julius grimaced.

The Prince himself looked as if he had just returned from a ball: suave, charming, forever the statesman. Not a single hair was out of place. He smiled as he took in the brandy glass and decanter on the table. He pinched his nose with long, white fingers.

Try as he might, Julius could not like him. The man was handsome and perpetually smiling, but also cunning, manipulative and not to be trusted.

"A drink?" Julius waved a hand at the empty brandy bottle.

"I decline. I've had my fill for the night. If I am to keep a clear head for the upcoming discussions tomorrow, I had better not consume any more alcohol." He paused. "With our Russian friend."

"Ah." Julius indicated a chair, and the Prince sat down, crossing his legs with an elegant movement. "I take it Alexander is being difficult?"

Metternich grimaced. "Exorbitantly so. This remains between us, but if you ask me, the man is unhinged. His character is completely unstable. Have you ever seen him throw a tantrum when he doesn't get what he wants?" He shook his head. "Worse than a toddler. The language he uses! I fail to understand why the public worship him so. As if he were some kind of god."

Clearly, Metternich was jealous.

It was no secret that Tsar Alexander was the darling of the masses, and he enjoyed every moment of it, too. No doubt it piqued Metternich's ego to see the ladies in the streets swoon whenever the Tsar made an appearance. Matters had not improved when Metternich's mistress, that Sagan woman, inexplicably began to flirt with the Tsar. The two were bitter rivals not only in politics, but also in the bedroom.

"My understanding is that you called this Congress to promote peace in Europe, not to turn this into a popularity contest," Julius commented. His rule was to stay out of the bedroom and stick to politics.

Metternich picked at an invisible speck on his sleeve. "Yes, that was the intention. Yet not everyone is as pragmatic as you." He looked at him thoughtfully. "Or is it indifference? A certain coldness that is not unbecoming can certainly be useful in certain situations. "

A corner of Julius's mouth twisted into a self-deprecating smile. If he only he knew of the emotions that simmered beneath his surface. Right now, he felt like a dormant volcano, ready to explode at any moment.

"Get to the point, Metternich."

"The point, Your Grace, is that I need your help with the Russians. I can't get through to Alexander. He is worse than a child. He insists on Polish autonomy under Russian control, which is entirely unacceptable. It is clear that his main intention is brute territorial expansion, and he won't settle for anything less. A Polish state under Russian control will disrupt the balance of power we aim for. Already we have a stalemate, and the Congress has not yet officially begun."

Julius did not disagree, for this was also the British position. "I understand that Castlereagh had a meeting with the Tsar today."

"Yes. Castlereagh is too—what is the word I'm looking for? Stoic? Dry? He gives the impression of being perpetually bored. He comes across as utterly unsympathetic, and it infuriated the Tsar even more. What is it with you English and your penchant for understatement and aloof pragmatism?" The Prince got to his feet and paced, clearly frustrated.

"Why do you expect me to achieve what Castlereagh hasn't? Because I, too, have a penchant for, as you say, ‘aloof pragmatism'."

"Yes, yes. But Castlereagh is a stubborn, ungracious fortress. He surrounds himself with an impenetrable stoniness that comes across as a lack of empathy. Whereas you, with your cold arrogance, have more style. You will provide a cool dose of realism that may not be unwelcome. Being Russian, he may find your Siberian coldness more palatable. It could be akin to a splash of cold water over the overheated, passionate head of the Tsar. A breath of cool winter air." He raised a finger as he waxed poetic. "The glacial iciness of?—"

"I understand the gist of the matter, Your Highness," Julius interrupted. "You want me to speak to Alexander."

Metternich gave him a bright smile. "That would be the general idea, yes."

Julius drummed his fingers on the table.

Metternich sat back with his fingers crossed, watching him closely. "I would, of course, be more than generous to reciprocate by helping you with other, shall we say, more personal matters."

"Personal matters?" Julius echoed. "How so?"

Metternich merely smiled, and Julius thought he looked devious.

"There is very little that escapes my attention," he said, holding Julius' gaze. "I have a very extensive network of trusted agents. The amount of intelligence we gather is unsurpassed. It is detailed and usually very reliable."

"I am surprised you're so open about it."

Metternich waved a white hand. "It's no secret. Everyone knows about it."

"Yes, it is quite an extensive machinery of espionage you have set up for yourself there. Very much like a toy, yes? No doubt it must be of some use, if only to fill your spare time, to play with when you are bored." He shook his head. "I fail to understand where you even find the time to read all that intelligence, as you call it."

Metternich ignored the sarcasm. "Oh, you'd be surprised. It is quite fascinating, you know, of the things one learns about people. Besides, you will find that I am not at all reluctant to share…my toys."

A charged pause settled over the room as the two men held each other's gaze.

"I never mix the personal with politics," Julius said slowly. "It is a firm rule of mine and it has served me well."

"How very English of you, I am sure," Metternich replied with a yawn. "So very pragmatic. Yet you would be surprised at how useful it can be to bend those rules once in a while."

Julius leaned forwards, his eyes never leaving Metternich's.

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked.

"Helena Arenheim," Julius bit out at last. "What do you know of her?"

Metternich's mouth curved into a slow smile.