The Enchanted Waltz Read online

  Harry was more prophetic than he knew.

  After luncheon, when Richard was planning to leave the palace and visit Wanda, he received a message that the Czar wished to see him in his private sitting room.

  Hurriedly, as he was impatient to be off, Richard obeyed the Imperial summons.

  Katharina was with the Czar and he looked at her enquiringly as he entered the room, wordlessly asking her what this was about.

  But Katharina’s eyes would not meet his.

  “Richard, I have some good news, in fact splendid news,” the Czar began.

  “Indeed, Sire? Richard answered with a question in his voice.

  “Katharina has brought me information of the greatest value,” the Czar went on, looking at her with a fond tenderness.

  Again Richard tried to catch Katharina’s eye and realised with a sudden sense of discomfort that she was deliberately avoiding him.

  “Had you any idea who the lady was with whom you spent the evening last night?”

  The question was so unexpected that for a moment Richard could only stare at him.

  “I-I understood her to be the Comtesse Wanda Schonbörn,” he said at length.

  “That is right – that is who she is,” the Czar agreed, “but did you guess that she is Metternich’s latest spy?”

  “It’s a lie! It’s not true!”

  Richard wondered if it was his own voice that spoke the words.

  “I am delighted to say it is true,” the Czar contradicted him. “Katharina, with brilliant intuition, was suspicious that this girl might not be all she seemed, so she asked Prince Volkonski to make enquiries. He discovered that the girl in question is the daughter of the Comtesse Carlotta Schonbörn, who was for a short time, many years ago, a close friend of Prince Metternich.

  “There was no scandal, no open talk of a liaison, but the Prince stayed at her husband’s schloss one spring and we have reason to believe that the Comtesse had a devotion for him till her death a few months ago. She sent her daughter to Vienna and the very first place where the daughter called on arrival was the Chancellery.”

  “This is pure invention, Sire,” Richard said hotly. “The Comtesse Wanda has never met Prince Metternich.”

  “That is what she told you, I assume,” the Emperor smiled, “and that is precisely what I expect she was told to tell, not you, my dear Richard, but me! You must remember that it was I whom she was seeking, I whom she thought she was meeting, I to whom she was speaking!”

  “What other proof have you?” Richard asked curtly.

  “Proof enough,” the Emperor answered. “Prince Metternich sent her from the Chancellery to the Baroness Waluzen. The Baroness had never seen her before and she was not expecting a visitor, but she greeted this unknown girl as an honoured guest. Why, you may ask yourself. And the answer is not difficult to find. She had received her instructions from that king of intriguers – Prince Metternich himself. There was to be a masked ball at the Hofburg last night, so the Baroness escorts her protégée. And who is it the young lady meets? Who but the Emperor Alexander of Russia, the man whom Metternich fears, the man of whose thoughts and actions he wishes to keep track and whom day by day he is finding it increasingly difficult to oppose!”

  “I have never heard a story that is more far-fetched and less likely to be based on fact, Sire,” Richard remarked coldly.

  “I am afraid I must disagree with you, my dear Richard. I think the case is admirably proven and I can assure you that Volkonski seldom makes mistakes. The Comtesse Wanda is Metternich’s latest weapon against me! But the thing that delights me is that no one except we three here in this room knows that she did not, as she thought, meet the Czar of Russia, but Mr. Richard Melton. She did not suspect you?”

  “No, Sire.”

  “That is just what I hoped, and now for action!”

  “What do you mean, Sire?”

  “I mean, my dear Richard, that you must continue to play this part. Can you understand what a godsend this will be? I can defeat Metternich at his own game and I can tell him what I wish him to know through the mouth of one of his own spies.”

  “You wish me to do this for you, Sire?”

  “Wish? I command!” the Emperor said. “No, no, Richard. I had forgotten you are not my subject. I cannot command you to do anything – you are my friend. Big things are at stake at this conference. You know how I have set my heart on obtaining Sovereignty for Poland. Metternich is my enemy and a bitter enemy to the Poles who look on me as their champion, nay more, as their salvation. For our friendship’s sake I ask your help and I know that you will not fail me.”

  The Czar’s charm was proverbial, but Richard knew with a feeling of despair that it was not charm that made it impossible for him to refuse Alexander’s request. Neither was it because his own comfort and security depended on his compliance.

  There was something deeper than that, a feeling of being in debt to someone who had extended to him the hand of friendship, a feeling that he could not, in honour, refuse to pay that debt now that payment was asked of him.

  Desperately he tried to prevaricate.

  “I shall play the part so badly, Sire. Would it not be wiser for you to see the Comtesse Wanda yourself?”

  “No, no, Richard! That would spoil everything,” the Czar replied impatiently. “Our strength lies in the fact that, as far as Metternich is concerned, I can be in two places at once. He will think that he has tied me down when all the time he is being hoodwinked. Besides, I enjoyed my brief freedom far more than I had even anticipated. When you take my place, I can be you.”

  “And does Prince Volkonski agree to this?” Richard asked.

  “The Prince does not know, my dear fellow. He thinks it was I who danced with the Comtesse last night. We will continue to let him think so. Katharina has been of great service to me in suspecting that this young woman was not the innocent she appeared.”

  “The Princess is very astute,” Richard said, his voice like ice.

  He cast around despairingly for any loophole of escape, but there seemed to be none.

  “Have you considered, Sire,” he said at last, “that it will be impossible to keep up this pretence? Last night I wore a mask and it was easy to deceive the Countess for, being new to Vienna, she had never seen your Majesty. But can you imagine her being so easily tricked in a week’s time?

  “Under the chaperonage of the Baroness she will go everywhere in Vienna, she will see the Czar of Russia at every important occasion, at every ball, every parade, every reception, in fact, whenever she goes out. She was, for instance, in the Prater this morning. Our resemblance is not as striking as all that. Without a mask no one who has seen you at fairly close quarters is going to believe that I am Your Imperial Majesty.”

  “I have thought of that,” the Czar answered triumphantly. “You will continue to wear a mask when you meet the Comtesse in secret. And you will arrange to meet her tonight at the Razumovsky Palace.”

  “The Russian Embassy, Sire? Is that possible?”

  “It will be arranged.”

  “Do you think that the Comtesse Wanda will come there un-chaperoned?”

  “I am sure of it. Her instructions from Prince Metternich will be to make contact with the Czar how and when she can. She will not refuse to meet me, however strange the circumstance.”

  The Czar paused for a moment.

  “We must send her a message – that is the most difficult part. If we appear too eager, Metternich may be suspicious. Did you make any suggestion of meeting each other again?”

  “No, Sire,” Richard replied stiffly.

  “There is a fan in your room,” Katharina said, speaking for the first time. “Was it hers?”

  The look Richard gave her was almost one of hatred.

  “Is there anything that your spies don’t ferret out?” he enquired beneath his breath.

  “A fan, that is splendid. You can return it!” the Czar suggested.

  “It is broken, Sire.”


  “Then we can send her another one. What can be simpler? And with it a message without a signature to say that a carriage will call to take her to supper with him who sends the fan.”

  “You think of everything, Sire,” Richard commented ironically.

  “I pride myself on my imagination, Richard,” the Czar smiled, “but it is you who should be congratulated. You played the part allotted to you to perfection and nothing could have been more fortunate. Nothing could have pleased me better than that Prince Metternich should walk into a trap of his own setting.”

  “You are still quite convinced that it is a trap?” Richard asked.

  Before the Czar could reply, Katharina answered his question.

  “You can rest assured, Richard, that Wanda Schonbörn is Clement Metternich’s latest and most cleverly chosen spy. And we know how fond you are of spies, wherever you may find them!”

  Chapter 6

  The Prince de Metternich threw the papers he held in his hand down on the desk and turned towards his wife with the gesture of a man who rests his shoulders from a heavy burden.

  “A small victory,” he said. “A very small one and yet I am human enough to be elated.”

  “It is wonderful that something has been decided,” she answered. “I began to think that your meetings would end in nothing but talk.”

  “The Russians seem to be determined that the Congress shall go on for a thousand years,” the Prince said grimly.

  “What we achieved today only concerns France and therefore Talleyrand I were able to reach agreement. Tomorrow we start again on the Polish question.”

  “Forget it for the moment,” the Princess said gently. “It is time you had a little relaxation. Are you going out?”

  “I have a number of calls to make,” the Prince replied, “business as well as pleasure, of course, but I find these last few weeks I have been sadly neglecting my social duties.”

  “Everyone had been longing to see you,” his wife assured him. “I have promised to call on Lady Castlereagh this evening, otherwise I would offer to accompany you.”

  “We shall meet at dinner,” the Prince said and, raising her hand to his lips, he kissed it before, with a smile, she went from the room.

  The Prince stood for a moment after she was gone, looking contemplatively at the closed door and then he walked to where a long gilt-edged mirror stood between two windows overlooking the garden.

  He regarded himself for seconds, noting his broad brow, clear blue eyes, aquiline nose and what so many people had described as his ‘exceptional dignity of bearing’.

  “You are forty-one,” he said aloud to his own reflection. “Where is your youth, your joie de vivre? Have the Affairs of State robbed you of everything?”

  He gave a little sigh and turned towards the open window.

  ‘A few hours’ leisure,’ he murmured to himself, ‘and I have no idea what to do with myself.’

  It was indeed an unusual state of affairs. Always before in his life the Prince had found himself embroiled in some passionate and exciting love affair, however strenuous the calls of diplomacy.

  He possessed to an extraordinary degree the ability to love one, two or three women simultaneously, caring for each in a different way and utterly sincere in his love and affection for each particular woman.

  It was also, although no one believed it, entirely incidental that his love affairs quite often assisted his political ambitions.

  Whatever information reached him through those who loved him, it came freely and without calculation on his part. And yet now, for the first time for more years than he could count, he was free of love.

  He stood at the window, thinking of the woman who had meant so much in his life, Constance de la Force, who had been his first adolescent passion. She had been lovely, with her hair growing in a widow’s peak on her white forehead, shell-like ears and tinkling laugh. He had adored her with a youthful wholeheartedness that he had never been able to recapture.

  He would never forget the first night they had spent together at her house is Strasbourg.

  It was dark when their chaise had paused before a wrought-iron gate, but the lamps flickered on lilac bushes in full bloom. The door of the house had opened and he bowed, ready to depart now that he had seen her home in safety.

  But instead she had taken his hand and led him into the hall and up the stairs to her boudoir.

  “Wait for me,” she had whispered before she vanished, leaving him to the confusion of his thoughts.

  When she returned, her only garment was a white batiste négligée edged with soft Valenciennes lace. Slowly she walked towards him and the robe fell away from her breasts, leaving them framed enticingly between billows of lace.

  A feeling of awe, almost of reverence, stole over him. He had felt himself tremble, and a strange exultation seemed to run through his veins like quicksilver.

  Then, with a cry, he buried his face in her bosom and felt her hands on his hair –

  Constance de la Force had borne his child and for her and Carlotta Schonbörn there would always be a special place in his heart.

  Katharina Bagration had been the next woman who had really mattered in his life. Their love affair lasted for a number of years and he knew that her combination of oriental softness, Andalusian grace and Parisian elegance, together with a quick intelligent brain, was something he might never find again all in the body of one small exquisite woman.

  After Constance and Katharina, the canvas of his life became filled with beautiful women.

  There was the Duchesse d’Abrantes, a tiny feminine creature whose husband had been one of Napoleon’s greatest generals. Poor little Laure!

  He sighed regretfully as he thought of her. Even now she could tempt him with her wide-set slanting amber eyes and her tenderly curved mouth. She had high breasts, a minute waist and lovely narrow thighs, but it was the smooth contour of her throat that gave her a dramatic distinction. Long and supple, it could strike every graceful, insolent, languid and amusing attitude.

  He could give her senses a fulfilment that they had never known with her greedy conquering husband.

  “Closer, hold me closer,” she demanded of him once. “I am so alone, I want to be part of you.”

  Tightening his arms, he had looked down at her passionate little face. Her eyes were closed in ecstasy. Then his mouth came down of hers and her shuddering sigh mingled with the soft rustle of the silk cushions beneath them.

  But the Duchesse d’Abrantes had not been the only one who had to be kept from the Congress.

  Caroline Murat, Queen of Naples and Napoleon’s sister, tall splendid to look at, with a keen intelligence, had written to him the most eloquent aid pleading letters asking that she might be present. Prince Metternich’s affaire with her had been full of excitements until her fiercely possessive nature and her almost insane jealously made him wish to be free of her.

  Caroline Murat had been kept from the Congress as had another beauty, the very determined, very charming Wilhelmina, Duchess of Sagan. She had filled a need at a most critical time in his career. Hers was a world of laughter, frivolity and delightful little conceits. She had been with him all through the campaign of 1814 when the allied Armies marched towards France.

  Each day they made a rendezvous for the next, Wilhelmina going ahead in her carriage, while he went on horseback.

  Wearing a grey frock coat, and a grey tall hat, he was as completely at home in the midst of the marching Army as he would have been in the Prater. When the day’s march was ended, he and Wilhelmina dined and spent the night together.

  But while she had seemed indispensable in war, in peace the Duchess of Sagan had been told firmly but courteously that the Congress of Vienna would require the Prince’s complete devotion for several months.

  So many women! Yet now, at this moment, he was alone and forty-one!

  He felt his age weigh upon him heavily. Even at an optimistic guess he had lived half his life. What l
ay ahead? He thought of all he had achieved in these past years when by his own personal efforts he had made himself the most talked about and the most feared man in Europe. And yet, for the moment, his life was empty of love.

  Eleanore he had never loved.

  Theirs had been an arranged marriage and it had turned out far better than he had ever dared to hope. They lived together as intimate friends and she gave him a companionship that he knew now was more lasting and in many ways more valuable than the ephemeral loves which came and went as easily and as surely as the seasons of the year succeeded one another.

  And yet he could not live without love. Women were as necessary to him as the very air he breathed.

  He turned to the window with a sudden feeling that something was about to happen. He had a premonition of it in his bones. What was it that made a man feel that adventure was waiting round the corner, that something exciting and wonderful lay just out of reach?

  The conviction was there, he would not deny it and there was a smile on the Prince’s lips as he walked down the stone steps to where his carriage was waiting.

  He decided to call first on the Count Karl Zichy. The Count was one of the most distinguished and generous hosts in the whole Capital. He had opened his town house to the Congress and the Prince had been told by innumerable people how charming were his receptions and how distinguished the gatherings that could be found under his roof.

  It was unfortunate, the Prince thought now, that he had been unable to make a formal call on the Count before this, but he had so many demands on his time and he received so many invitations that to accept even a hundredth of them would have made his work at the Chancellery impossible.

  However, he would make up for lost time and stay a little longer with the Count than was necessary. And then there were several hostesses he must honour before he returned home to change for dinner.

  It seemed to the Prince, who was deep in thought, that it was only a few minutes before the horses drew up outside Count Karl’s house.

  There were a number of carriages, several just driving away from the door, others waiting until their owners wished to leave.