The Blue Diamond

By Joan Smith

The Congress of Vienna provided international society one party after another. But Lord Moncrief had more diplomatic duties to do in restraining his cousin from purchasing the famed (and stolen) Blue Tavernier diamond. Would the mysterious but suspicious Frenchwoman, Cécile Feydeau, or the enchantingly lovely Austrian, Maria Kruger, win Moncrief’s heart in this dangerous intrigue? Regency Romance by Joan Smith; originally published by Fawcett

• Language: English
• Publisher: Belgrave House
• Release date: Feb 12, 1987
• ISBN: 9781610840415

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.

Book preview

Smith

Chapter One

It is hard for a widowed father to raise a daughter all by himself. Still, as Herr Kruger smiled dotingly at the young lady making a deep and playful curtsy before him, he congratulated himself that he had not done too badly. It did not occur to him that the deceptively simple white gown that draped her bosom and hips and lent her the undoubted aura of the elegant female had been selected (and paid for) by her maternal aunt, the Countess Hermione von Rossner.

Having a thatch of stiff, adamantly straight hair—once red, now thankfully turned a distinguished white—he could hardly take credit for his daughter’s luxurious sable curls. Her long, small bones and her ivory complexion, like her dark eyes, were a gift from her late Mama. Her schooling had been arranged by her Aunt Hermione at a select ladies’ seminary, but still she was Herr Kruger’s daughter, and she did him credit. He admired beauty above anything except perhaps money, and Maria was undeniably a beauty.

It will do, he admitted judiciously. You will be the belle of the ball. Do not let it go to your head—the competition is not formidable. Where is the party held this evening, by the by? I hope it is not one of those damnably dull English do’s.

In this year of our Lord, 1814, the party might be hosted by any country, for all the western powers were assembled in Vienna for the Congress that was to redivide among them those territories recently snatched back from the deposed Emperor, Napoleon Bonaparte, who was at the time forcibly residing at Elba. Indeed it seemed to an idle observer such as Kruger that the main purpose of the Congress was to entertain the multinational visitors. There were balls and masquerade parties, carousels and carnivals, military demonstrations, rides in the Wienerwald, there were concerts and petits soupers enough to satisfy the most hardened hedonist. Even Herr Kruger occasionally wished for a respite.

"No, it is one of our Austrian parties this evening, Papa. Metternich is a wicked flirt, but he does toss delightful parties. There will be gallons of lovely champagne, and hundreds of lovely gallants to dance the new waltz with me," Maria replied airily, as she lifted the hem of her skirt, to twirl about the saloon in the intoxicating rhythm of the waltz. Raising her empty fingers, she took an imaginary sip from an imaginary glass.

Count Rechberg will have plenty of competition, eh? he asked, with a little wary light in his impish eyes.

"Enough to bring him up to scratch, but not too much. I don’t mean to let him slip through my fingers. At twenty-one, it is time I secure myself a good parti, as the English call it. Odd they use the French word for it, no?"

"The English often use the French word when they wish to cloak a vulgarity in style. Young ladies there do not jilt their lovers; they give them their congé. Their prostitutes are called demi-reps, and their gossip they term on dits," he informed her.

That is true, she nodded. "Their pregnant ladies were always said to be enceinte, and when one is wished elsewhere, he is said to be de trop. I like them though. Their men are serious, not Kavaliers, like you, Papa, showering us with compliments, but dependable. I would as soon put my trust in an Englishman as in anyone."

Yes, fair play, justice—all that I grant them. And with it a total lack of humor. They have some wit, and indulge in childish horseplay, but they do not have what I would call a sense of humor. There are many excellent English melords about Vienna these days, with the Congress in progress. You might give Rechberg the slip and nab one, eh? he asked, mentioning it in a casual way, though he regarded her closely for a reaction.

For marriage, one is better with her own. Rechberg is about to declare himself. I shan’t say no. You approve, Papa? He is well born, wealthy, no more a libertine than any of the others.

We shall see. Let us not speak of serious matters when we are on our way to a party, he hedged. Kruger liked to be happy, and he liked those he loved to be happy. In him, this attitude went beyond any intrinsic merit to become a positive flaw in his character. He disliked to perform an unpleasant duty, and it would be extremely unpleasant indeed to have to tell his daughter that Rechberg had that same afternoon paid the ceremonial call, only to back off when he learned the minimal size of Maria’s dowry.

Something would be worked out, he assured himself. Maria was young—she would fall in love with someone else, who would love her enough to overlook her lack of funds. In his own mind, he could see no gentleman but an Englishman being so foolish as to actually follow this impractical course. An Austrian would know better. A Frenchman would no more marry a portionless girl than he would give up his wine. It began to look as though Maria must marry herself a humorless melord and go back to England.

At least she liked that foggy, frigid little island. Some glamour, nostalgia, allure hung about it in her mind, for it was there she had grown from an awkward, coltish adolescent into womanhood: Kruger had been attached to the Austrian embassy as assistant to Prince Esterhazy, and had a wide circle of English acquaintances. She had made her bows at Almack’s, that dull, prestigious social club where one gambled for pennies, drank lemonade, and dared not flirt for fear of offending the patronesses. Ah—it was so dreadfully English, that Almack’s. A father could not be entirely happy to think of his daughter being confined to it for the rest of her days, so he did not think of it.

I see you wear your Mama’s diamonds, he said, looking closely at the necklace around Maria’s ivory neck.

I do not want to be outsparkled by the other ladies. Should I wear a bracelet too, do you think?

Better to err on the side of underadornment. An excess of sparkle is vulgar. In fact, you should wear no jewelry at all. Stand out by being different.

"No jewels!" she exclaimed, and laughed, showing a flash of white teeth that turned her face, a trifle haughty in repose, into a beautiful, sunny rhapsody. The sound of her laughter too pleased his ear. It was deep, throaty, a woman’s laugh. His little Maria was no longer a girl.

Come, do as your Papa tells you, he said, with a joking severity. He walked to her, unfastened the necklace and carried it off to the vault himself, as carefully as though it were made of real diamonds. It was not likely anyone would know the difference, so well had Eynard fashioned the paste facsimiles, but there was one English nobleman who had lately been observing Maria through his quizzing glass with increasing frequency.

This gentleman, unfortunately, had the reputation of a connoisseur. If it should be arranged, for example, that Lord Moncrief stand up with Maria for a waltz, or take her to dinner, he would not fail to observe that her diamond necklace was made of strass glass. He was immensely wealthy, this Moncrief, and not so insular as most of his countrymen. One could tolerate to have him for a son-in-law, as he spoke French and German well.

The door knocker—that will be your Aunt Hermione, he said as he returned to the saloon.

The Countess entered, an aging relict of neither grace nor beauty, but of a staggeringly large fortune. She had approximately twenty-five thousand pounds worth of jewelry plastered over her gaunt anatomy. Her hair, on those rare occasions when one’s eyes were abused by a sight of it, was an ugly brindled shade, and extremely scanty. White scalp peeped out from the thin covering. For this reason, she more usually concealed it beneath a turban. Why such a large turban was required on so small a head, Kruger had never discovered.

On this evening, the turban was gold, the feather protruding from it green, held with a large emerald pin. A sagging, iridescent green gown covered her body. In lieu of bosom, she wore two clusters of diamond brooches, one on either side. An ivory slatted fan, with which she would soon be playfully beating him, hung from her wrist.

She smiled gaily up at him, revealing a full complement of yellow teeth, which were thin and sharp. Countess, charming, as usual, he said, with a ritual nod of his head, then he took her hand and raised it to his lips.

Naughty boy! she said, giving him a tap with the fan. Does she know? were her next words.

Know? Know what? he asked, with a repressive frown.

Peter, you cannot mean you were going to let the poor girl go without telling her! Oh that is shabby behavior!

What is it? What has happened? Maria asked in alarm.

Nothing, my pet. Nothing for you to worry about, Kruger answered, glaring at Hermione. Folks are saying Rechberg is not so well-to-do as we had supposed. That is all. There is talk of an heiress he has been seen about with.

That’s impossible! Maria exclaimed. He said only last night. . . Papa, has he spoken to you? Has he discussed marriage?

I don’t see why you had to bring it up at this time! Kruger charged, turning to the Countess with an angry, flushed face. He did speak to me, Maria. His financial situation is such that I cannot approve of the match at this time. That is all. If he brings himself around, then we shall see.

But his family is wealthy, Papa! We could live on my portion till he inherits, Maria said. This news of Rechberg’s financial position did not come as a total surprise. One knew that he lived high, and had not a large income at the present moment. His expectations, however, were excellent. It was not like her father not to think of the future.

We shall speak of it another time. You can do better than a gambling clothes horse, Kruger told her, terminating the subject.

Maria exchanged a questioning glance with her aunt, a glance that spoke the promise of a heart-to-heart talk in the close future. But when the talk occurred, some half hour later in the ladies’ room at the party, the Countess had nothing to add to Kruger’s statement.

Your Papa has decided you can do better, was all that could be got out of her.

It was a perfectly wretched evening. Count Rechberg was there, pretending he did not see her. He nodded at her once across the room, with a face that might have been carved from ice. He did not ask her to dance, nor even to have a glass of punch with him. His dancing attendance on his new heiress told those present which of them had done the jilting. The ignominy was as hard to bear as the pain. How dare he treat her so? And to cap her shame, her replacement was the daughter of an ale-maker, who was fast becoming wealthy with the amount of his product sold at the thirsty Congress. This was what he preferred to herself.

She danced till her head was dizzy, drank a great deal of champagne, flirted with all the officers and diplomatic aides, and went home and cried.

Chapter Two

Lady Palgrave, like any popular commodity, was recognized by a variety of appellations. Her adoring spouse generally called her Googie; her legions of admirers called her The Divine One; her female acquaintances, depending on the lady’s association with their husbands, termed her a Menace, or a Bitch. Her husband’s cousin, Lord Moncrief, roused her to fury by never calling her a thing but Lady Palgrave, as though they were no more than slight friends, when he belonged in the vast company whose hearts had been shattered when she married Harvey. Not two weeks before the wedding she had been considered a likely prospect to become Lady Moncrief, so he need not let on he was impervious to her charms.

The wedding of Miss Donaldson to Lord Palgrave was generally said to have been made in heaven. If Emily Cowper added like Satan, it only showed her spite. There was some larger-than-life affinity between herself and Harvey, akin to that of the Philosopher for truth, of alcohol for water, or the gold-digger for gold. But the attraction was not all on the one side, nor all of a mercenary character either. Harvey adored her beauty quite as much as she admired his wealth and title. Once he had set his sharp blue eyes on her, he had not rested till he owned her. He had not worked so hard on obtaining any acquisition since he sent six representatives to Italy to buy a cartoon by Leonardo da Vinci. The total sum expended on the da Vinci was five thousand pounds. Googie had cost him considerably more, but at least she was genuine. He was happy with both bargains.

In fact, both their lives were made up entirely of happiness, pleasure, balls, routs, spending money and making love, sometimes with each other. A year had elapsed since their marriage. Not even a marriage made in heaven can remain untinged with mortality for so long. But they were on the very best of terms, usually agreeing substantially on important matters. Not a word of objection had been uttered when Harvey announced that it was time they hopped across the Channel and be getting along to the bash in Vienna, by Jove, before it was over.

They would have gone months sooner but for Googie’s being in an interesting condition, which she was extremely happy to see terminate before three months of the nine had elapsed, and before she lost her figure. But there, it was Fate. Some benign angel hovered at her shoulder, guiding her steps to happiness. He (she thought of Fate as a male) had led her to Harvey, the richest man in England; he had rid her of an unwanted encumbrance at the vital moment of the Congress in Vienna, and to cap his performance, had given her the inspired notion of cropping her beautiful blond curls off short, like a baby’s. Harvey told her there were not more than two women in England who could wear such a do without looking a dashed quiz. She wondered who the other one could be.

How absolutely right you are, my dear, and to make it even better, hundreds of women will try to ape me, as they always do, and will appear ridiculous. She sat before her mirror, joyfully flicking her fingers through her vestigial curls, and admiring her pretty face. "It does look ravissant, does it not, my pet?" she asked her husband.

"Merveilleux, he agreed. They had run out of English words of praise for her six months ago, and were beginning to run thin in French as well. Wunderbar, he added, as he was doing a bit of reading in German preparatory to the trip. It makes your neck look longer. That is—reveals the full beauty of that glorious column. And the ears—do you know, Googums, I had not appreciated those little ears till this minute." He reached down over her shoulder and kissed first one, then the other, sending a delicious thrill of sensuous pleasure through her. He could still achieve that, after twelve months.

Googie’s so lucky! she chirped, smiling into the mirrors, so arranged as to allow her to see the front or either side of herself. She smiled at the reflection of connubial bliss, and released a long sigh. Really the new hairdo was a master stroke. She must exert her wits to create a name worthy of it. Perhaps she would call it the Viennese do. But no, why should those foreigners get the credit for it?

I am the luckiest man in the world, Harvey responded, also admiring himself in the mirror. They were remarkably similar. Both blond, blue-eyed, small, with of course those differences that their sex decreed. He bent down and placed a sliding kiss on the back of the glorious column, which sent a shiver of pure bliss through his wife.

She turned to him, her lips half-open, her eyelids drooping softly, as his arms tightened around her waist. He drew her up from the padded velvet bench, nuzzling her neck, which left her eyes free to see that she still had her girlish figure, thank God. Her husband’s eyes, followed hers in the mirror, then they looked at each other, and were soon locked in a hot embrace.

Diamonds! We must have diamond ear buckles for these little rosebuds, he murmured softly, nibbling at a petal.

 Don’t you think, love, sapphires? she asked, with a thought to her eyes.

Blue diamonds, he disagreed. Sapphires are common. Unworthy of you.

"Are there blue diamonds?" she asked, wrinkling her nose in a way that suited the babyish air of her new coiffure.

You’re so adorable, he said huskily, and found himself again falling deeply in love with Googie, as he so often did when she got a new hairdo. Sometimes even a new gown accomplished it.

Googie never heard of blue diamonds, she said, lisping in his ear. She looked so droll—about twelve months old, she thought, as she smiled at her reflection in the mirrors. Me so ignorant. Are they rare?

Very rare, he said, reaching to remove her peignoir. I daresay we’ll find some in Vienna.

Does Harvey love Googie? she asked, in a teasing way, and was shown very clearly that he did. Enough even to have positively promised her blue diamonds before they arose from the bed.

The great hairdo, which was eventually christened the Portia, as a sort of conjugal counterpart to Harvey’s stylish Brutus do, occurred in late October. It had to be trimmed twice before they had prepared the retinue for the trip. Their private yacht, the Hargoo, took them across the Channel, while advance runners arranged accommodation across Europe and in the city of Vienna. A mansion was hired at an undisclosed sum in the Innere Stadt, the inner city, where everyone lived or stayed in Vienna. Palgrave’s solicitors thought his lordship had purchased the mansion when they heard the sum paid for a year’s hire, and erroneously entered it in his books as a credit. But houses were nearly impossible to obtain at such a time, and naturally forty servants could not be put up in a couple of rented rooms somewhere.

The lavish couple were not long in town before their presence was causing ripples.

Chapter Three

Lord Moncrief’s establishment in Vienna was considerably less opulent than his cousin’s. He was assigned one room of the twenty-two-room floor at Minoritenplatz No. 30, where Lord Castlereagh, first plenipotentiary for England at the Congress of Vienna, was billeted. His valet and groom occupied some cubbyhole of the edifice, far enough removed from him that they were virtually inaccessible, though there was a pull cord in his room which, in theory, put him in contact with his servants. In fact, he had not seen his valet, Wragge, in the last twenty-four hours. He dressed himself; clean clothes were miraculously awaiting him, as were polished boots, but he had waited half an hour for hot water for bathing and shaving that morning, finally sending a junior clerk for it. Moving out was impossible. There was not a room in the city to be had, and if there has been, Castlereagh would resent the desertion.

Moncrief was attached to British headquarters as a liaison officer, whose job it was to conciliate the Russian and Prussian delegations to the Congress, or failing this Herculean task, to keep an ear to semiofficial pipelines laid in every hostess’s saloon and discover what nefarious schemes were hatching.

The major political issue to be resolved was what had been termed, for ease of reference, the Saxony-Poland question. There existed a tacit alliance between Russia and Prussia. Tsar Alexander would support King William’s claim to Saxony if Prussia would support the Tsar’s annexing of Poland, under the guise of granting it independence. Austria and England were in an uneasy alliance against them, as was France. They none of them wanted too strong a Prussia at their doorsteps.

There existed a host of minor questions as well. Every country had an axe to grind and a cause to push forward. Loyalties shifted from day to day, depending on the current rumors. Prince Talleyrand was there for France, trying to insinuate himself in where he was not wanted, and having very good success too. Spain, Italy and Portugal were in a pucker at being left out of important meetings. The independent German states, ignored by the major powers, united in a federal league. It was enough to make the most sober head reel.

Baron Hager had been put in charge of policing the international meeting, to look into the daily threats of kidnapping, assassination, intrigue, espionage, counterespionage, treason and revolt. And despite all this converging of the powers, there was really no Congress going on at all, but a series of secret meetings. It was said amongst the wits that the only time the national representatives were likely to get together was when Isabey, the Congress artist, had got them all individually painted, and assembled on canvas.

Moncrief glanced at the slip of paper in his hand, wondering what urgent matter Castlereagh could wish to discuss with him. He was soon tapping at a carved oaken door nine feet high and being shown into the Foreign Minister’s office. Castlereagh sat behind a mammoth desk littered with reports. He was paring his nails. He was a handsome gentleman in his early forties, his face already lined from the weight of his responsibilities, his hair turning gray.

Come in, Moncrief. Come in, he said. You have heard the latest?

Moncrief shrugged his shoulders and advanced to the desk. He was tall and slender, dark-haired and dark-eyed, but with no flavor of the Latin in his appearance. He had prominent cheek bones and a prominent nose and was seldom seen wearing any but a haughty expression. My most recent news is eight hours old. I expect I am seven hours and fifty-nine minutes behind the times.

He sat down and crossed one long leg over the other, carefully arranging his trousers to avoid wrinkling. I was at the Prussian do last night, at the Schweizerhof Wing, he mentioned. All the visiting monarchs were put up at the Hofburg, each allotted its own wing.

I refer to domestic affairs, Castlereagh informed him. It is Crowell.

Yes? Moncrief asked, searching his mind to put a face to this name.

An informer! Castlereagh went