“Your servant, sir.” Talleyrand! Buford thought as he bowed.

“Colonel, I understand you are lately married,” said the foreign minister in perfect English. “Please accept my congratulations. I hope your wife did not find the journey tiresome.”

Buford replied in French, “Not at all—merci, Excellency. She is even now calling upon Lady Beatrice.” Buford tried to keep hidden his discomfort. How much do you know, you devil? Apparently, the French Secret Service changed its allegiance as quickly as you did.

The ambassador was notorious for changing sides: first, Louis XVI, then the Revolution, then against Robespierre, then for Napoleon, and later against the same man. Now he served as minister for Louis XVIII.

M. Talleyrand smiled. Buford’s point had been made. “My lord,” he said to Wellington, “duties call me away. May we continue this conversation another time?”

“Of course, of course.”

“Merci. Colonel, welcome to Vienna.”

Buford bowed again, and the ambassador, with his habitual limp, left the two Englishmen. “Well, you have met the old fox, Buford,” said the Iron Duke when the Frenchman was out of earshot. “What do you think?”

Buford knew the duke wanted total candor. “He is a charming man, to be sure, but he bears watching. Lovely guest to have to dinner—just make sure that the silver is counted before he leaves.”

The duke broke into a loud laugh. “Capital, sir! You shall do well here. Come into my offices. We have much to discuss.”

*   *   *

Caroline rode in her rented coach through the streets of Vienna towards the townhouse that served as the temporary home for the Duke of Wellington and his sister, Lady Beatrice Wellesley. The anxiety she felt was not helped by the presence of her companion, Sofia.

“Lady Buford, is not Vienna ze most beautiful city? There is no more vonderful city in ze vorld. I am honored that I may assist you in your duties,” the maid rattled on and on. “Do not vorry; I shall guide you.”

The cheek of the girl! She presumes to advise me?

Caroline’s displeasure started that morning as she discussed—or tried to discuss—the meals for the week. Caroline had particularly wanted to give her husband his first English-style dinner in some time. There was a fine joint of beef that just begged to be roasted to a turn with mashed potatoes, leaks, and dried peas; fresh peas were out of the question in winter. As usual, Sofia was needed to translate for Helga, the cook.

“What do you mean the joint is not available?” demanded the mistress.

“Helga has… how do you say… set ze meat aside… marinate, ja, marinate. She makes sauerbraten—a very good dish. Helga makes a vonderful sauerbraten,” explained the blonde maid, as if to a child.

“I had hoped to serve an honest roast beef to Sir John, but never mind. Let us turn to Tuesday—”

Sofia interjected, “Lady Buford, ve must still decide today’s meal.”

“Why? I thought we were having… sour-bratten.”

“Oh, nein. Ze marinate takes several days. Sauerbraten is not until Thursday.”

“Well, what do you suggest? I would like to do something in the English style,” Caroline asked the cook. She and Sofia jabbered in German for a minute and made several glances towards their mistress.

“Helga says she has some very nice Würste… sausages.”

“Bangers and mash is a bit rustic, but it will have to do. I would like some mashed potatoes with that, peas—”

“No peas—is vinter.”

Caroline raised her eyebrows. “I understand it is winter, but surely you have some dried peas.”

More gibbering. “Helga has no dried peas. She vill make some nice beets… rote Rüben… along vith Erdäpfelsalat.”

Caroline had no idea what Erdäpfelsalat was. “You do have bread in this”—godforsaken—“country, do you not?”

“Ja! No finer bread in ze vorld! As special treat, she vill make Leberknödelsuppe—vonderful Austrian soup—and Meranertorte for dessert.”

Caroline surrendered with a sigh. “Very well. As for Tuesday—”

“Special treat!” cried Sofia. “Wiener Backhendl!”

And so the morning went on. Caroline had the distinct impression that she was an object of amusement for the staff, but she had no evidence to prove it. What was obvious was that Sofia did not think much of her mistress, or anyone else who was not Austrian. Caroline intended to speak to Sir John about it that evening.

Finally, the carriage pulled up before the Wellington townhouse. “Thank you, Sofia,” said Caroline before the girl could move from her seat, “but I believe I can manage on my own. After all,” she added, “we all speak English here.”

“But, vhat shall I do?”

“I am sure there are some errands. Have the carriage back here in an hour.”

Caroline took her leave of the troublesome maid and announced herself at the front door. Directly she was shown to a small antechamber near the door where she was divested of her hat, coat, and gloves.

As Caroline reentered the hall, she saw a tall, slim, elegantly dressed woman approach her. “Lady Buford? Welcome to our home. I am Lady Beatrice Wellesley.” She held out her hands to the young woman.

Caroline fell into a deep curtsy, earnest to make a good impression. “I am deeply honored to make your acquaintance, my lady. I hope I am not behind my time.”

A low, rich laugh escaped the older woman. “Oh, my dear, please do not stand on ceremony. There is enough of that outside this house.” The two clasped hands. “May I call you Caroline? Allow me to wish you joy—this time in person—on the occasion of your marriage.” Lady Beatrice’s face broke into a sweet smile, and Caroline began to believe that, amazingly, Lady Beatrice was trying to befriend her. “How is dear Sir John? You both found the journey pleasant, I hope.”

To her mortification, Caroline blushed. “Sir John is well. The journey was… very pleasant.”

“Oh, I see.” Caroline blushed deeper, which caused Lady Beatrice to laugh softly again. “Forgive me, my dear; I shall tease you no more. Come, the other ladies of the delegation are waiting to make your acquaintance. I understand you play the pianoforte; perhaps you will honor us?”

And so it begins, thought Caroline.

*   *   *

“…And that is the progress we have made to date.” Wellington leaned back in his chair and looked at the assembled delegation about him. “Not enough—slow business this—but there it is.”

“Sir, the agreement on the slavery issue is a notable achievement,” said Buford.

“Thankee, Sir John. Yes, we did good work there.” No politician was immune to flattery, and the duke liked it as much as the next man. “Only it is the Royal Navy that will enforce it. We cannot convince any of the other beggars to lift a finger.” Wellington looked at his pocket watch. “Well, enough for now. ’Tis time to dine.” The group of men rose and left the room. Buford lagged behind.

“Your lordship, I have some questions about the Polish situation.”

Wellington dismissed Buford with a wave of his hand. “Enough of that, man! Get yourself home to that bride o’ yours.”

*   *   *

“How is your soup, dear?’

“Interesting.” An English translation for Leberknödelsuppe would be liver dumpling soup. “I cannot say I have ever fancied liver, but this is good.” Sir John told a small lie.

The main course was more successful. The sausages were excellent, the beets better than Caroline expected, and the dark rye bread was tasty. As for the Erdäpfelsalat—room temperature potatoes with onions and vinegar—it was not the mistress’s idea of bangers and mash.

But Helga won over her employers with her Meranertorte—a piece of chocolate heaven that left the knight and his lady speechless, save for an occasional groan of pleasure. The two sat back in satisfaction as the plates were taken away.

“Mein Fräulein, diene ich den Kaffee jetzt?” asked Frau Lippermann.

Caroline winced. The only tea to be had in Vienna was the few boxes they had brought from England. Sofia assured them more could be acquired, but Caroline had her doubts; Sofia had recommended the Leberknödelsuppe, after all.

“Shall we adjourn to the library, dear?” she asked her husband. “Kaffee—library,” she pantomimed to the housekeeper.

After they were served, the mistress waited until Sofia, finally becoming aware of her ladyship’s glare in her direction, excused herself.

“Sir John, I wish to speak to you about the staff.”

“What? Is something the matter?”

Now that she had begun, Caroline found it hard to continue. She did not want to lose Sir John’s confidence in her abilities. “I am sorry about dinner. It was not what I was expecting—”

“Nonsense, m’dear! We are in a foreign country, you know. I will grant you the soup was a bit strange, but it does not signify. You must admit the dessert was excellent!”

“Yes, that is true, but—”

“If there is anything you do not like, just let Helga know. Sofia will translate.”

Caroline put her coffee cup down. “It is about Sofia that I wish to speak to you.” Sir John looked at his wife expectantly. “I have found her to be disrespectful.”

“Indeed? In what way?”

“Well, nothing specific. It is her general attitude.” She stopped as she heard her husband’s gentle chuckle. “What do you find so amusing, sir?”