Nathaniel glared in the candlelight. "This is a damn stupid way to dine," he stated. "Who the hell decided to set the table like this? I can barely see you, let alone converse."
Gabrielle pushed back her chair. "If you're prepared to share the port, I'll join you down at that end."
"I wish you would." He rose as she came the length of the table and took the chair next to him. "I suppose you're going to accuse me of being ill-tempered and surly again."
"Deny it," she challenged him.
He made a rueful grimace and cracked a walnut between finger and thumb. "I can't, damn you." He peeled the nut and placed it on her plate.
"Well, I don't suppose my conversation was all that stimulating," she said cheerfully, popping the nut into her mouth. "Shall we try again? What topic would be most suitable? Children and childhoods are clearly forbidden." She cast him a sideways glance to gauge his reaction to this frank statement.
His expression was dark, then he shrugged. "It's not a subject that inspires me, I grant you. And I don't care to talk about Jake, so if you don't mind, from now on we'll leave him out of our conversations."
"If you say so."
She took a sip of port, her eyes, bright with sensual suggestion, smiling at him over the lip of the glass.
Chapter 8
Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Perigord leaned over the railed gallery overlooking the ballroom of the elegant eighteenth-century palace on Miodowa Street in Warsaw, surveying his guests below. It was a sight to satisfy the most ambitious statesman. The flower of Poland's nobility and the Emperor Napoleon's triumphant court were gathered together for the opening of the carnival season as guests of the emperor's Minister for Foreign Affairs, recently given the title of Prince of Benevento by his grateful emperor. The ball, as Talleyrand had intended, was turning out to be the most brilliant function Warsaw had seen since the glorious days of Poland's monarchy-before Russia, Austria, and Prussia had partitioned the country, each taking her share.
In this frozen winter of 1807, the Poles had welcomed Napoleon, his army, and his court with fervent adulation, hoping as always for the emperor's protection and support in their bid for the restoration of Polish independence. Napoleon received their adulation as readily as he received their soldiers and the contents of their coffers, but he promised nothing in return.
The Prince of Benevento watched the swirling be-jeweled throng below and wondered how many of them understood that their savior was no savior. They had welcomed his entrance into snow-covered Warsaw with two triumphal arches, brilliantly lit and inscribed with the legend: long live napoleon, the savior of Poland. he was sent to us straight from heaven.There had been torch parades through the city and bonfires lit around the old royal palace high on a cliff over the Vistula, where the emperor was to reside, and every house and shop sported a gold Napoleonic eagle.
But their liberator would bleed them white and then abandon them as a sop to his own defeated enemies, the Austrians, the Prussians, and the Russians. The Partition of Poland would not be ending any time soon.
There were some areas in which his master was very shortsighted, Talleyrand reflected, tapping his long fingers on the gilded railing. A strong Poland was essential to the stability of the Continent. A northern barrier, it would act as a vital buffer state between Russia and the West. But left partitioned, it was as helpless as a wounded bird facing the cat.
"There is at least some compensation for this dismal country's terrible climate."
Talleyrand turned at the voice of his son. Charles de Flahaut leaned over the railing at his father's side, inspecting the scene. Although the Comte de Flahaut had officially recognized the child as his own, Talleyrand's paternity had always been privately acknowledged both by his son and the world, and his natural father's influence ran through every aspect of the young man's career.
"The women, you mean." Talleyrand smiled. "They're unusually attractive, I agree."
"And one in particular," Charles mused. "The emperor seems much struck by Madame Walewska." He glanced sideways at the older man, his eyes shrewd.
"Indeed," Talleyrand agreed with another bland smile. "But are you surprised? She's a charming combination of beauty and intelligence, with such a sweetly shy manner. The emperor finds her most refreshing after Josephine… and the others. You know how cynical he's become about women these days."
"And the lovely Marie might well exert a beneficial influence…?" suggested Charles with the same shrewd gleam in his eye.
"Perhaps so, monfils, perhaps so."
The old fox wasn't giving anything away, as usual, Charles reflected with an inner chuckle. But he'd been watching his father's skillful maneuvers with the entrancing young wife of the elderly Chamberlain Anastase Walewski. If Marie Walewska became Napoleon's mistress, she might well influence him in Poland's favor where all the blandishments and pleas of the country's nobility and politicians had failed.
He moved away, leaving his father to continue his observation. The exquisite Madame Walewska, in a delicate gown of white satin over a pale gold and pink underskirt, a simple laurel wreath on her fair curls, was partnering the emperor in a quadrille. The contrast between the lady's exquisite grace and her partner's clumsiness was laughable, but Napoleon wouldn't give a fig for his awkward performance, as Talleyrand knew well. In the emperor's opinion, a man at home on a battlefield had no right to be at home on the dance floor.
The emperor, however, was making no secret of the fact that he found Madame Walewska enchanting. However, could the lady be persuaded to sacrifice her honor for her country? Talleyrand had discovered that Marie was passionately devoted to the cause of Polish liberation. He knew she would give everything she had, maybe even her life, in the cause, as. indeed, so many of her countrymen were doing. But she was young, innocent, delicately bred. Would she give Napoleon the one thing he wanted?
His eyes flickered to a deep window embrasure, where Anastase Walewski stood preening himself as he watched his wife. There would be no trouble from the old man, Talleyrand thought with cynical knowledge. He'd give his wife to Napoleon without a qualm for the sake of the reflected glory.
However, to be on the safe side, Napoleon's Minister for Foreign Affairs would devote some flattering attention to the self-important chancellor.
The prince moved away from the railing and limped to the sweeping curve of staircase leading down to the ballroom. Pimping for his emperor was a new experience, but Talleyrand used what tools were at hand in his diplomacy. If the way to the liberation of Poland lay through the emperor's bed, then so be it.
It might be useful to inform Gabrielle of Napoleon's new love interest. He would send a letter by express messenger to the contact in London, who would send it on to the Vanbrughs' house in Kent-the seemingly chatty, innocuous letter of a godfather to his dearly loved godchild. Gabrielle would pass the nugget on to her spymaster as a token of good faith and further proof of her access to the private ears of the emperor's inner circle. Disseminating the information would do France and Talleyrand's own plans no harm. The English were only observers in the fate of Poland.
Smiling benignly, he crossed the room toward Chancellor Anastase Walewski, preparing to congratulate him on his wife's success and the possibility of his imminent cuckledom.
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The faces crowded closer. Sweating, red, eyes bloodshot, the mob pressed forward. Their mouths were open, gaping holes in the grotesque faces as they yelled their obscenities at the man and woman standing at bay behind a long table against the salon wall.
A cudgel smashed against the polished tabletop, gouging a great wound in the rosewood. The woman shrank back against the silk-covered wall and her husband tried to speak above the tumult. His tones were measured, reasonable, and they were drowned under screeching, mocking laughter and more obscenities.