The Three Colonels

pure desire until Roberts cleared his throat.

“Uh… sir, my lady, it is time to leave.”

The Embassy Ball, hosted by Lady Beatrice, would begin within the hour, and Lady Buford was to assist the hostess. Without a word, Sir John offered his wife his arm, and they sailed out to the waiting coach with Sofia trailing behind.

Sofia babbled in the coach as the party moved through the late afternoon streets of Vienna. “It is vise for you to take me along vith you, Sir John. I know my vay around Vienna very vell as I vas raised here.”

Caroline barely heard the girl; she was too concerned over her duties that evening. Soon, the carriage drew before the Schonbrunn Palace, and the Buford party made their way inside.

“Sofia,” Lady Buford said after they entered the building, “report to Lady Beatrice’s secretary. She will assign you your duties.” She did not notice that Sofia had mumbled something under her breath.

Caroline and Sir John continued into the main ballroom, where they were greeted by the duke and his cousin as well as the other members of the British delegation.

Caroline’s tension had eased somewhat, for the other ladies of the delegation had, on the whole, proved to be pleasant and gracious. There were at least two with whom Caroline was desirous of becoming better acquainted, and they seemed to welcome the newcomer into their sphere. The ladies went off to see to the final preparations in good spirits.

Within an hour, the ballroom was filled with the height of Viennese society. Never had Caroline seen such finery and jewels, having never been presented at court. Not that it would have mattered; European fashion made the London scene look dowdy by comparison. She and Sir John were making the rounds when she heard someone calling her husband.

“Colonel Buford! What a wonderful surprise!” A beautiful young woman of medium height approached them. She wore a silver gown with a shocking decolletage, her blue sash of rank tucked beneath her ample bosom. She drew close to the colonel and, in a very familiar way, touched his red sash. “What is this?” she asked with a faint French accent. “Are you now Sir John? Have you been elevated?”

“Yes, Countess, as have you.”

“Ah, but you earned your knighthood by your labors for your king, n’est-ce pas? I have done so by the usual method afforded to women.” She finally turned to Caroline. “Will you introduce me to your companion?”

Buford ground his teeth. He knew Roxanne could see their wedding rings. “Countess, I present to you my wife, Lady Buford. Lady Buford, Countess de Pontchartrain-Villieres. Her husband, the Count de Pontchartrain, is a member of the French delegation.”

“Countess.” Caroline curtsied.

“Charmed. So, you are married, Sir John? But how could you not with such a lovely creature.” She nodded at Caroline. “I had not heard; is it a recent event?”

“Our wedding was in January, Countess,” Caroline answered.

“And a honeymoon in Vienna! What could be more delightful! Sir John, you must not keep this charming lady to yourself. You simply must excuse us. Come with me, Lady Buford.” The countess gave each of them a smile, took Caroline’s arm, and walked off with her.

Sir John could only look on with a shade of concern on his face.

Caroline could not like the Countess de Pontchartrain. Her familiarity with Sir John set her teeth on edge. She wondered at her pointed attentions, but she tried to submerge her doubts. The countess was French, she reasoned, and the French have strange ways. Besides, Caroline was a veteran of the games of the London ton, so surely she could handle a French vixen. Still, she found herself striving valiantly not to feel completely underdressed next to the countess.

For the next few minutes, Caroline was introduced to several other grand ladies and was quizzed politely about herself. Finally, Countess de Pontchartrain pointed out a handsome gentleman standing a little ways from them, wearing a black suit with a red-and-white sash.

“Have you been introduced to that gentleman, Lady Buford?” When answered in the negative, the Countess called the man over. “Baron, allow me to introduce Lady Buford of Wales. Lady Buford, this is Baron Wolfgang von Odbart of Prussia.”

A roar of laughter rolled across the room, and the countess glanced away. “Oh! I must leave you now; my husband calls, I think. The baron is capable of ensuring your entertainment, Lady Buford. A bientot.” The countess then left the two together.

The dashing baron turned to Caroline. “Are you available for a set, Lady Buford?”

“The second set is available, sir.”

“Wunderbar. Bis dann—until then, my lady.” He clicked his heels, bowed, and left her.

Soon, other august noblemen were introduced to Lady Buford, and it was not long before her dance card was filled, two sets reserved for her husband. Caroline tried her best not to appear as intimidated as she felt, but it was a relief when Sir John came to claim the opening set with her. Sir John was an excellent dancer, and Caroline was able to lose herself in the movements of the dance, watching her husband.

Soon the dance was over and Sir John surrendered his happy bride to her new friends. She was in conversation with the ladies when the baron reappeared.

“Lady Buford? It is time for our set,” he informed her as he held out his arm.

Caroline accepted the gesture and allowed herself to be glided to the dance floor. She did not see the looks of concern on the other ladies’ faces.

*   *   *

Buford stood by himself, taking in the crowd and enjoying the dancers, when the Countess de Pontchartrain approached him.

“I finally have you to myself, Jean,” she said in French.

His contentment evaporated, the colonel responded in the same language. “What can you mean, Comtesse?”

The lady laughed lightly. “Jean, have I not always been Roxanne to you? Surely, you have not forgotten.”

Fighting his feelings, Buford remained gallant. “Of course not. But those days have passed, milady.”

“Surely, you do not refer to our… recent acquisitions?” The countess looked upon him with dancing eyes. “Have you met my husband, cheri? Non?” She glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “Well, he is over there, across the room.”

Buford looked to the gentleman she indicated. He beheld a rather dandified older man wearing not only a wig but also what looked suspiciously like rouge on his cheeks. The look was a bit excessive, even for a French noble.

“You spy him, oui? Well, observe the man to his left. Watch!”

Buford saw a young footman, who could not be older than one-and-twenty, crossing over to the comte with a glass of wine. His clothes were very fine and fit like a glove. Count de Pontchartrain accepted the wine, taking the glass with a slight caress of the young man’s hand. It was very brief, and only one who had been observing very closely would have caught it.

The countess chuckled. “Yes, Pierre is a particular favorite. What say you?”

Despite his deep revulsion, Buford could not help himself. “A ballet dancer’s breeches should fit so well.” They were so tight as to be almost indecent.

“Ah, how did you know? My husband pays better than ballet de l’Academie imperiale de musique.” She laughed. “Of course, we know he is also a spy for the government, sent to keep an eye on us—an amusing game.”

In a very low voice, Buford demanded, “Why do you tell me these things, Roxanne?”

“We have an understanding, he and I, as pertains to les affaires d’amour. We are discreet. I do not embarrass him, and he does not embarrass me. I have no reason to complain. Have you a similar