“Tell him that there is an old saying . . . Be careful what you wish for.” Castlereagh quirked a slight grimace after bowing over Arianna’s hand. “I fear that the talks are going to drag on far longer than anyone anticipated, and to what end, I would not hazard to guess.”
Saybrook made a noncommittal sound.
“Be grateful that you have come to enjoy the splendid cultural treasures of the city, rather than be mired in the mud of international politics. But I won’t rattle on about such boring matters—Mellon assures me that you have no interest in diplomatic wranglings.” Castlereagh gestured discreetly to a lady standing by the tea table. “My wife will be happy to introduce Lady Saybrook to her friends while I take you to meet some of my fellow diplomats. Several of them share your interests. Von Humbolt is here, and as you know, he is a serious scholar . . .”
It was nearly an hour before Arianna could gracefully withdraw from the circle of chattering ladies and join Saybrook in perusing a set of botanical prints hung by the side parlor.
“Did you know that the Countess of Sagan is called the Cleopatra of the North?” she murmured, accepting a glass of Tokay wine from one of the passing footmen. “And her rival, Princess Bagration, is known as the Beautiful Naked Angel because she wears only low-cut white dresses made of thin India muslin.”
“You see what a font of interesting information these parties provide,” he replied with a cynical smile. “Both ladies are vying to establish themselves as the reigning hostess here. They look to attract the most influential men and then parlay that power into gaining their own objectives.”
“In that they are no different than the opposite sex. The male leaders have come here to preen and prance around in their bejeweled and bemedaled finery, hoping to forge alliances and trade favors,” Arianna pointed out.
“True. The ladies simply negotiate without the formality of written treaties, but are no less skilled at getting what they want.” The earl assumed an expression of cynical detachment. “The countess and the princess both reside at the Palm Palace, so word is that people will be watching with great interest to see who turns left and who turns right when entering the courtyard.”
Arianna touched the rim of the faceted crystal to her lips. “And then there is Anna Protassoff, who allegedly served as the ‘tester’ for the guardsmen whom Catherine the Great chose for her bedmates.” She made a wry face. “Perhaps that explains why the Tsar has such an appetite for sex—he must have inherited his grandmother’s lust along with her throne.”
“Do you know how Catherine the Great is supposed to have died?” asked Saybrook. “The rumors involve a horse, a scaffolding and . . .”
He stopped abruptly as one of the English diplomats and his wife joined them in the alcove. “My dear, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Repton and his wife. They are friends of Charles and Eleanor.”
“How delightful to meet you at last, Lady Saybrook,” said Mrs. Repton. She flashed a smile, though her tone implied a faint criticism. “La, I was beginning to wonder if you were merely a will-o’-the-wisp.”
“His Lordship and I lead a very quiet life in London,” Arianna said.
“Oh, well, it is not quiet here!” Mrs. Repton assured, ignoring her husband’s warning cough. “There are parties every night—balls, musicales, soirees! It’s so hard to choose, though often we attend two or three.”
“Indeed,” replied Arianna.
The other lady took it as a cue to elaborate. “You must be sure to visit the salons of Lady Sagan and Princess Bagration.” Mrs. Repton lowered her voice a notch. “Both ladies are reputed to have slept with Prince Metternich. Of late, however, the Tsar of Russia is said to be pursuing the princess.”
“Alexander chases anyone wearing skirts,” muttered Repton, trying to stem his wife’s garrulous chatter.
His wife went on, oblivious to the hint. “Everyone is betting on how long it will take for him to slip between her sheets,” she confided. “The men are equally outrageous . . .”
Arianna listened politely. Cluck, cluck, cluck—the lady was a hen-witted goose. But as Saybrook said, gossip could be very useful, and clearly Mrs. Repton liked to gabble.
“It is hard to imagine how anything serious is supposed to be accomplished here,” she remarked, when the descriptions finally came to an end. “It seems that all people are thinking about is drinking, dining and dancing one’s latest lover into bed.”
Mrs. Repton gave a titter of laughter. “Oh, it is quite shocking all the things that go on.” She clicked open her fan and cooled her cheeks. “Now, allow me to offer a bit of guidance on where to go in order to see and be seen. Lord Castlereagh holds this soiree every Tuesday evening, so you must be sure to stop by.”
“Monday is Metternich’s night,” offered Repton. “And of course Friday belongs to the Duchess of Sagan and her rival across the courtyard. As for the other evenings, there is no lack of entertainment, but I daresay you will discover that for yourselves.”
“Oh, do be sure to visit the Apollo Saal.” Lady Repton clearly considered herself a font of knowledge on Viennese life. “You can waltz all night in the indoor gardens, which are decorated with faux stones and fairy tale grottos.”
“Thank you,” replied Saybrook. “Now if you will excuse us, we should probably be taking our leave. We are tired from traveling and wish to be rested for the Emperor’s ball tomorrow night.”
“Oh, that is definitely an evening not to be missed,” exclaimed Lady Repton. “It is said that the state dinner will include three hundred hams, two hundred partridges and two hundred pigeons, not to speak of three thousand liters of olla soup.”
The mention of food set Arianna’s stomach to growling. “I have heard that the Viennese appreciate fine food.”
“It’s tolerable, though they don’t know how to cook a proper joint of beef,” answered Mrs. Repton with a slight sniff. “For a special treat, you must try to garner an invitation to one of the French Minister’s dinners. He has brought the renowned chef, Monsieur Carême, with him from Paris to serve as his personal cook. Word is, the banquets are sumptuous—especially the pastries.”
Now that interesting tidbit was certainly food for thought.
“Sounds delicious,” said Arianna.
“Talleyrand is a connoisseur of decadent pleasures,” said Repton, his face tight with disapproval. “And if we aren’t careful, he will gobble up power and influence that rightly belong to Britain.” He made a face. “After all, we were the victors, and he served the Corsican Monster.”
“I am sure that our government will be keeping a close eye on the French,” replied Saybrook. “And that it will be vigilant in defending all that was won on the field of battle from diplomatic intrigue.”
“Well said, sir. Well said,” enthused Repton. “Your noble military record is well known. It’s a pity that your uncle could not have convinced you to follow in his diplomatic footsteps. Whitehall could use more men like you.”
“I’m afraid politics don’t interest me,” demurred the earl.
“A man of action, no doubt.” Repton signaled for a footman to refill his wine. “Ha—too bad there are no wars left to wage.”
Arianna watched his soft, fleshy hands cup the glass. Oh, how easy it was to spout such sentiments when you have never smelled the throat-choking stench of fear, of blood, of death.
“There are always battles to fight,” said Saybrook softly. “But I, for one, am not unhappy that words are the weapons of choice these days.”
Covering his discomfiture with a cough, Repton nodded. “Just so.”
Without further ado, the earl bid their new acquaintances’ adieu, and wasted no time in escorting Arianna out to the stairway.
“God save us from narrow-minded fools,” he muttered through his teeth.