La Comtesse

By Joan Smith

London society buzzed around the scandalous Comtesse de la Tour. Lord Dashwood was assigned to discover whether the beautiful red-head was a French spy--or perhaps something just as unsavory to his enchanted vision. At one moment Renée seemed as chaste as a nun, at another as flirtatious as a courtesan… Regency Romance by Joan Smith; originally published by Fawcett

• Language: English
• Publisher: Belgrave House
• Release date: Feb 12, 1978
• ISBN: 9781610840699

Joan Smith

Joan Alison Smith (born 27 August 1953, London) is an English novelist, journalist and human rights activist, who is a former chair of the Writers in Prison committee in the English section of International PEN. Smith was educated at a state school before reading Latin at the University of Reading in the early 1970s. After a spell as a journalist in local radio in Manchester, she joined the staff of the Sunday Times in 1979 and stayed at the newspaper until 1984. She has had a regular column in the Guardian Weekend supplement, also freelancing for the newspaper and in recent years has contributed to The Independent, the Independent on Sunday, and the New Statesman. In her non-fiction Smith displays a commitment to atheism, feminism and republicanism; she has travelled extensively and this is reflected in her articles. In 2003 she was offered the MBE for her services to PEN, but refused the award. She is a supporter of the political organisation, Republic and an Honorary Associate of the National Secular Society. In November 2011 she gave evidence to the Leveson Inquiry into press and media standards following the telephone hacking practiced by the News of the World. She testified that she considered celebrities thought they could control press content if they put themselves into the public domain when, in reality the opposite was more likely. She repeated a claim that she has persistently adhered to in her writings that the press is misogynistic.

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Smith

Chapter One

In a small oak-paneled office in the labyrinth of Whitehall, Sir Edgar Hopley sat twiddling his thumbs and thinking. He looked a jolly little gnome with a fringe of white hair around his face. It was the sharp blue eyes that indicated the man had more to consider than the gyrations of his thumbs. There was information of a delicate nature leaking out of the sieve of the Horse Guards, and Bathurst was down his neck to discover the source of the leak. The place was riddled with dipsomaniac old crones of the Prince Regent whose tongues wagged freely after their second bottle. The filing system, as they called it, had to be seen to be believed. The last missing document, an important letter from the Duke of Wellington, had been found in a waste basket after Sir Edgar had gone through every file and folder in the office. With that sort of carry-on, they expected to keep the nation’s secrets from the cleverest bunch of French spies ever assembled in one city. And the chief suspect in the case was not to be investigated, or followed, or even suspected!

He thought the world had run mad. That tasty French tart, la Comtesse de la Tour, was living with the Foreign Minister of England, if you please. Had managed to get herself accepted by Lady Castlereagh, patroness of Almack’s, wife of the Foreign Secretary and Leader of the House, and one of the greatest sticklers in the kingdom. While it was known that she was a French aristocrat, widow of an illustrious comte of academic leanings and daughter of a fermier-général, it was also known she was the ex-mistress of Napoleon Bonaparte.

This fascinating interlude in her history appeared to have been brief. During his forced retreat to Paris after his defeat at Leipzig, he had met la Comtesse and she stayed with him till his abdication in April of 1814. Some said Napoleon had broken with her because of supposed treachery and double-dealing; some said she had transferred her fickle affections to his chief aide-de-camp; and others claimed she had broken with him because of his abdication, and because he would not divorce his Austrian wife, Marie Louise, and marry her. It was known they had parted in great anger, with la Comtesse becoming an inveterate foe of the Emperor. This being the case, it was not wondered at that she hopped the first lugger which could transport her to England when he suddenly came marching back from Elba, gaining power as he advanced. And since she hated Napoleon as violently as the most patriotic Englishman, the English were ready to take her to their bosoms and make her a heroine.

While Napoleon battled it out with the Allied armies in this spring of 1815, the French tart flaunted herself in London in gowns no self-respecting female would be seen in. Dined with the Prince Regent and his mistress, was seen at the opera with the Prime Minister, Lord Liverpool and his party, drove in the park with illustrious peers, and went to the Chapel Royal on Sunday to pray amongst the mighty.

Hopley’s heart pounded in anger to think of this French chancre thriving under Castlereagh’s roof. The house was littered with red—why red, the most attention-grabbing color in the world?—dispatch boxes from the Foreign Office, for the sly little Frenchie to open up and peer into. Her ear could be put to the keyhole any time a courier went to Castlereagh with news too important to commit to paper. As well hold their secret meetings in public, and publish the minutes in the Observer. How was a body to plug a leak with this sort of shenanigans going on?

And the Frenchie had the backing of them all, from Liverpool himself down through Bathurst and the lot. They all agreed la Comtesse de la Tour was not to be considered suspect. He wondered at times if the government had turned French and forgotten to let him know.

But if they had, he had not. He knew his duty as an Englishman, and the Comtesse would be suspected, and followed, and investigated—and found guilty too, by God, or his name was not Edgar Hopley! There was a sharp tap at the door, and his thumbs became still. Come in, he called.

A tall, dark gentleman wearing a well-cut jacket of sober hue entered and said, with no ceremony whatsoever, What’s up, Ed?

Not consols, eh Dashford? he replied, and laughed at his joke, till he recalled how pitifully the stock was down, and his fortune with it.

You must have got out before the crash to be able to joke about it. But I’m not here to discuss finances, am I? Tierney is our financial expert, you recall.

No, by God, it’s not money that’s troubling me. It’s treason! Treason is what you’re here to discuss.

How interesting, Dashford said in a bored voice, and took a chair beside the battered desk of Sir Edgar, the head of Intelligence. I wondered at your calling in a Whig; because really, you know, we are not interested in throwing over the government, except by an election. Nor even in assassinating Prinney. We just want to put a lock on the national treasury, before he breaks us with his openhandedness. He’s costing us as much as the war.

Treason in high places, Hopley went on, and I can’t get a Tory to listen to reason; so in desperation I’m turning to the Whigs. We’re all Englishmen, I hope, and you’ve done the odd job for me before, Dashford. This ain’t the sort of thing I can entrust to a commoner. You lords have your uses.

I suppose this involves Bonaparte’s escape from Elba?

Aye, his escape, and his getting information funneled out of the Horse Guards.

I’m not in a position to do much about that. Prinney has his creatures cluttering up the place. I have no friends on Bathurst’s staff.

I’m glad to hear it, for I begin to think there’s not a man jack of them to be trusted.

That sounds like treason all right. What is it you want of me?

"I want you to flout the Prime Minister’s orders, and the Foreign Secretary’s orders, and the orders of the Secretary of State for War and the Colonies—Liverpool, Castlereagh, Bathurst—the lot of them. They’re all grown senile, or I am.

I’ll opt for the old boys. Go on.

Well, you know Boney beat us at Ligny—and if he didn’t have information to let him avoid Wellington and Blucher and get to Charleroi, I’m a monkey’s uncle. And where is he getting his information? Bathurst’s office, or Castlereagh’s.

Or from spies on the continent, within the rank of the army itself. But I’m aware things are in a muddle at the Horse Guards. What is it you want of me?

To do what you do best, Dashford. To make love to a pretty woman, and find out what she’s up to.

La Comtesse de la Tour?

"None other. She is considered to be above suspicion by the wise heads that rule this country. She, a Frenchie living with the Foreign Secretary, and sleeping with him for all we know. Partying and drinking with all the top dogs. God only knows what she hears, and what she does with what she hears. But she is not to be investigated. Oh, no! Madame la Comtesse is not to be known to exist, so far as I am concerned. I am to turn a blind eye like the others while she seduces our ministers and pries their secrets out of them, and runs to her Corsican lover with our plans."

"You actually have orders not to check up on her?" Dashford asked, his face a picture of astonishment.

Orders from the Prime Minister’s office. So what I’m asking you to do amounts to treason, I suppose. Will you do it?

I’ll be delighted, but I don’t see what I can accomplish. Lady Castlereagh is her chaperone, and you may imagine my chances of getting into that Tory citadel.

"La Comtesse goes everywhere. You may meet her with no trouble; I’m surprised you haven’t already. What you must do is convince her you are enamored of her beaux yeux, and weasel your way into her heart—if she has one. It’s our only chance to discover what she’s up to. See who she’s close to, watch her at parties. I’m putting some other fellows to follow her. Tonight she attends a musical soirée at Lord Eldon’s in company with the Duchesse de Noailles—a friend of the Prince Regent’s who was rescued by him at Brighton when she escaped the Terror in France. We’ll put our knowledge and suspicions together and see if we can catch la Comtesse in the act. If we catch her red-handed, Liverpool must listen, or admit outright he’s turned Republican."

What excuse do they give for not having such an obvious person investigated? I half thought Castlereagh had taken her in to keep an eye on her. Having befriended such an ardent Bourbon supporter as she has become since being jilted by Napoleon would put him in Louis’ good books after this damned war is over, too.

"No such thing! Castlereagh personally vouches for her integrity. It is enough."

It is, you know. I loathe every bone in the man’s body. He is wrong on all matters of social policy—so reactionary and repressive—but it was he who led the coalition against Bonaparte. He has made it a personal crusade to crush the Emperor. He is wrongheaded, but he’s unquestionably loyal, and he is no fool. I can’t believe his flint-like heart is touched by the Comtesse’s beauty. He is using her, very likely, for some purpose of his own. We don’t want to upset whatever he’s up to.

"It won’t upset anything for you to keep an eye on her. I’m not asking you to do anything but watch her, talk to her, and see what you can find out."

I don’t see that there can be any harm in that. I'll try to scrape an acquaintance, but I doubt I’ll be allowed to get on any intimate footing with her. She does not indulge in tête-à-têtes with young gentlemen, despite all the tattle. There is Maldon, of course, but I imagine she plans to marry him eventually. Her other escorts are elderly gentlemen, friends of Castlereagh. I have not been completely unaware of la Comtesse’s presence amongst us, as you can imagine. She goes everywhere, but she goes guarded like a vestal virgin.

Her behavior is not so vestal-like as it could be. Am I correct in thinking the idea of a flirtation with her has already occurred to you? Hopley asked with a quirk of his white brow.

"She does have those awfully beaux yeux, Ed, and I was always partial to red-heads."

That’ll be news to your latest lightskirt. A blonde, ain’t she?

No, no, that was last month. She’s a brunette, but I’m broad-minded.

See she don’t turn you into a Frenchie, like the others.

I’ll watch out for that, Dashford laughed. He rose to saunter to the door, fairly filling it with his broad shoulders. I’ll be in touch as soon as I’ve made contact.

I’ll be waiting, Hopley called after him. Oh, Dashford, before you go—this is private. Don’t run to Brougham with it.

My party leader ought to be informed of this, I think.

"We’ll inform him right enough when we find anything. Meanwhile, it’s just entre nous."

Very well, he answered. It might be best to keep him out of it, in case it becomes messy.

You’ll go far, Hopley said with a shake of the head. As cool a cucumber as there was in the city, and the very one to handle a Comtesse.

Lord Dashford’s curricle was waiting for him a block away. It was not necessary for Hopley to give him the hint his meetings were secret. He hopped up and took the reins from his tiger, and drove himself home to Belgrave Square to consider in private how to proceed with his assignment.

It was an affair much to his liking. Like all the other gentlemen, he had been watching la Comtesse, and looking for an excuse to meet her. This business of her being in Lady Castlereagh’s charge was an impediment, but Whigs and Tories mixed socially, and if she was not at Almack’s assembly tomorrow night he would be much surprised. Dashford did not attend Eldon’s musical evening, and would not have done had he been invited, despite Hopley’s information that la Comtesse would be there. He went instead to a large ball. Before he reached home he heard for a second time where she had spent the evening, and in whose company. If she had got la Duchesse de Noailles to accept her, she was indeed a clever woman. His own companion consisted of a different red-head, one not nearly so attractive. She had fashioned her titian curls in the style of la Comtesse, wore a black patch at the corner of her eye to ape la Comtesse’s natural beauty spot, and peppered her speech with many French phrases, whereas the original was reported to speak faultless English without a trace of a French accent. An oddity, when one came to consider it, but then there were so many oddities in the affair that this minor one had not attracted much attention.

It was no easy matter to arrange an introduction to la Comtesse de la Tour. The Marquess of Dashford had the entrée to all the best homes, and had for a number of years engendered unfulfilled hopes in the bosoms of noble mothers and their nubile daughters. He was known to favor high flyers for his flirts, and that this highest flyer of them all should capture his interest would cause no suspicions of anything other than another affair. His plump pockets would not be unwelcome to la Comtesse, whose own wealth was understood to have been lost in the jumble of revolution, Directory, empire and monarchy that had recently been France’s lot. But even for Lord Dashford the introduction was not easy. Besides the length of the line of black coats waiting a chance to stand up with her, there was the invincible Countess of Castlereagh, who appeared to have abrogated all her other chores at Almack’s to devote herself to this one guest. Dashford soon realized that if he was to get within speaking distance of the French beauty, it must be through that dame’s good offices. It was she who personally presented one male after another to the woman, putting her stamp of approval on him as a partner. Undaunted, he approached the countess, under the protection of a Tory friend, and made a few polite sallies as to the great success of the élite club of Almack’s of which the lady was so proud. He praised her wisdom in closing its portals to all but the chosen few, and spoke mendacious words of his pleasure in knowing that at least at one club one was sure of good company. As the cotillion in progress drew to a close, he said, as though in afterthought, I see you have brought your French guest with you this evening. I have not had the pleasure of her acquaintance.

Lady Castlereagh eyed him narrowly and tallied up his points. There was that whopping Whig label on the debit side, and of all Whigs, it was Dashford who was anathema to Lord Castlereagh, for he was the Wing critic for foreign policy. He was the honorable member who would undoubtedly be Foreign Minister himself when and if the Whigs ever came into power. He had been fighting tooth and nail with Castlereagh for years, and the feelings between them were of mutual white-hot hatred, tempered with cold respect for a worthy foe. But on the credit side there was his unexceptionable breeding, his tall and handsome