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  Lord Eustace obviously had few personal possessions with him.

  There was no photograph in a frame as she had half hoped, and the pigskin stud-box and the flat leather holders for his razors were not large enough to conceal even a small picture.

  Quickly her eyes took in the ivory-handled brushes in front of the mirror and there was nothing of any importance on the wash-hand-stand.

  She hastily turned over several books which lay on a bedside table, but realised they were not the special property of Lord Eustace, having the Duke’s book-plate inside them.

  The pictures in the room were another place for concealment and Tempera looked behind each one. It would have been easy to fix the Van Eyck in the back of a frame, but there was nothing there.

  She considered the carpet but found it was fitted against the skirting board – the rugs which covered it were loose and were, she suspected, moved every morning by the conscientious French maids.

  She began to feel frightened.

  Supposing after all her plans she could not find the picture, or Lord Eustace had already taken it elsewhere?

  Then she remembered her father’s story of the man who had concealed a picture from the Gallery in Rome in his hat.

  She opened the wardrobe.

  In one corner next to a long row of Lord Eustace’s highly polished shoes were two sturdy boxes in which gentlemen packed their tall hats when travelling.

  They both came from Lock’s in St. James’s Street, as she might have expected, were of brown leather with a handle on the top, and were embossed with his Lordship’s initials.

  Tempera lifted the first one from the wardrobe, placed it on a chair and undid the strap.

  Inside there was the polished top hat which Lord Eustace wore in the daytime.

  She took it out and looked inside, but saw at once that it contained nothing. She put it back and picked up the other hat box.

  This was empty as she expected it would be, knowing that Lord Eustace was wearing his evening-hat at the moment. Disappointed, she was just about to close the hat box when an idea came to her.

  The hat boxes were lined inside with a satin padding. Tempera realised it would be quite easy to conceal a picture as small as the Van Eyck behind this.

  She felt with her fingers where the padding joined the leather. It seemed firmly secure. Then because the idea seemed to impress itself upon her she opened again the hat box she had already fastened.

  She took out Lord Eustace’s top hat and again felt with her fingers around the edge of the lining.

  For a moment she was disappointed, until she realised that it was not joined with stitching as the other case had been but undoubtedly had been glued.

  She pulled it away, while her heart seemed almost to stop with excitement.

  Slipping her fingers down between the lining and the outside of the box she felt there was something there.

  It was only a question of seconds before she pulled it out with an exclamation of excitement she could not contain. Then holding, the canvas in her hand she stared at it in astonishment!

  It was not Van Eyck’s ‘Madonna in the Church’, which she had expected to see, but ‘The Portrait of a Young Girl’, painted by Petrus Christus.

  She put it down on a chair and felt further around the hat-box.

  Three minutes later she had in front of her not only the Petrus Cristus portrait, but also the ‘Madonna in the Church’ by Van Eyck and the wooden panel of St. George and the Dragon painted by Raphael which was under the lining of the flat-topped oval-shaped leather hat box.

  They were all small pictures which could be concealed without difficulty.

  Tempera drew in her breath.

  This was a haul she had not expected. At the same time she realised warily that it was going to take her much longer to change all the pictures over and to put the fakes back in the hat box so that Lord Eustace would not realise a substitution had taken place.

  She could only pray she would have the opportunity to enter the Duke’s room before the party returned from Monte Carlo.

  She was well aware that she would have to wait until the servants had all gone to bed and she would also have to evade the notice of the night-footman who was on duty until everybody had returned.

  ‘It is going to be difficult,’ Tempera thought.

  At the same time she was so elated at finding what she sought that every other difficulty seemed to shrink into insignificance.

  She put Lord Eustace’s top hat back into its box, fastened the straps and replaced both boxes in the bottom of the wardrobe.

  Then she closed the doors and picked up the pictures from the chair where she had laid them.

  As she took up the ‘Madonna in the Church’, she felt the beauty of it thrill her.

  Even in the fading twilight it seemed to sparkle and come alive with a spiritual beauty which no fake, however skilful, could ever emulate.

  “I have saved you!” Tempera whispered in her heart. “I have saved you because I am sure you called to me to do so. You told me what had happened and no fake could ever speak to me as you do.”

  She smiled down at the little picture and almost felt as if the Christ-child in the Madonna’s arms blessed her.

  Then, slipping the three pictures under her arm so that if she did meet anyone in the passages they could not see what she was carrying, she opened the door of Lord Eustace’s room.

  She stepped outside and closed the door very gently behind her. Then she hurried towards the landing, too excited to think of anything except that she had won!

  She had been as clever as any policeman might be, and at least the first step of her appointed task was completed. She had almost reached the landing when suddenly, unexpectedly and without any warning, she saw three people in front of her.

  She stopped still and although one hand went out to steady the pictures under her arm she did not remove them. Then incredibly she saw the Duke looking at her and realised that he and Lord Holcombe supported between them the sagging figure of Lady Holcombe!

  Their arms were around her and Lord Holcombe was with his free hand opening the door of Lady Holcombe’s room which was just at the bottom of the steps leading to the Tower.

  Tempera stood as if turned to stone.

  The look of astonishment and surprise on the Duke’s face as he first saw her suddenly changed to a very different expression.

  It was one of such contempt and disgust that she felt as if he had struck her.

  As she stood staring at him, unable to move, he turned away to help carry Lady Holcombe into the bedroom.

  Chapter Six

  Tempera stood in her bedroom but found it impossible to think.

  She felt as if someone had hit her on the head with a hammer and her brain had ceased to function.

  Then slowly, as if she moved in a dream, she took the three pictures from under her arm and set them on her dressing table.

  Even the colours and beauty of the ‘Madonna in the Church’ meant nothing and all she could see was the expression on the Duke’s face as he saw her standing on the stairs which led to the Tower.

  She knew only too well what he had thought and the horror of it was inescapable.

  ‘How could he think I am capable of such behaviour?’ she asked herself.

  But she knew there could be no reasonable explanation of her going to Lord Eustace’s room, whether he was there or not.

  It was unthinkable for a servant in attendance on a visiting Lady to be found entering the bedroom of a bachelor in the party, especially one with Lord Eustace’s reputation.

  The Duke, Tempera was sure, was well aware of his character and he would find no excuse for her nor would he be prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt.

  Tempera put her hands up to her face, feeling it must be burning with humiliation, but she could only feel the cold of her fingers which seemed to her almost like those of a skeleton.

  She felt as if everything beautiful, everything
she believed in, everything in which she had faith, had crashed around her. She knew that she had lost not only the Duke’s interest in her but also her own pride.

  She disliked Lord Eustace so violently that to be connected with him in any way was degrading to her self-respect. But that the Duke should think her capable of liking such a man and associating with him was, Tempera thought, to humble her into the dust so that she felt as if she would never be able to raise her head again.

  She wanted more than she had ever wanted anything in her whole life to find the Duke immediately, to show him the pictures and explain why she had been in Lord Eustace’s room.

  Then, as she knew this was the one thing she could not do, she felt as if her whole world had come to an end.

  She did not have to ask herself now why she felt so distressed or why the condemnation on the Duke’s face had been so devastating.

  She knew in her heart, in her mind, in her very soul, that she loved him.

  She had loved him, she thought, ever since the first moment she had seen him, as soon as he had spoken to her. His deep voice had somehow had the power to stir her as she had never been stirred before, and every time they met she had fallen more and more in love.

  And yet, because of her loyalty to her stepmother and because she was proud, she had not admitted it to herself. But it had been there, increasing every day until, when they sat together in the moonlight and looked out over the sea, she had felt as if her whole being was a part of his and they were indivisible.

  “I love him! I love him!” she murmured as she walked despairingly about her room, unable to keep still.

  It was a physical as well as a mental agony to know what he was thinking, to feel almost as if his disgust made her unclean.

  ‘And that is what I would be if it were the truth,’ she thought hopelessly.

  She knew now that her efforts to avoid the Duke had really been an instinct of self-preservation against a love so deep, so violent, so over-powering that it completely possessed her.

  She had always known that somewhere in the world there must be a man for whom she could feel as she felt now, and it would not matter when she found him if he were a Duke or a pauper.

  All that would concern her was that he was the second half of herself and she was complete only because he was there.

  ‘He will not only despise me, he will also hate me!’ she thought.

  She knew this was true because they had together known the ecstasy of beauty and felt it vibrate within them. Inexperienced though she was, Tempera realised that it had been an ecstasy that was vouchsafed to few men and women.

  Yet they had known it, just as they had found they were moved in the same way by the beauty of the ‘Madonna in the Church’.

  “What can I – do? How can I – explain to him? How will he ever – know he is wrong?” Tempera asked.

  But she knew there were no answers to her questions and there never would be.

  She looked at the pictures lying on her dressing table and thought that she was now in an even worse predicament than she had anticipated.

  Whatever the reason for the return of the Duke with Lord and Lady Holcombe to the Chateau, it was unlikely they would leave it again this evening.

  In which case it might be impossible for her to switch the pictures as she had intended.

  Then what should she do with them?

  She was standing at the window, staring out into the darkness, when there was a knock at the door.

  Tempera started and instinctively her hands went to her breast.

  “C – come in!”

  Her voice sounded strange even to herself.

  But when the door opened it was Miss Smith who stood there.

  “I thought you would like to know, Miss Riley, that there’s been an accident to Lady Holcombe.”

  “What has – h – happened?” Tempera managed to ask.

  “Apparently as they were driving along the Corniche Road towards Monte Carlo a dray driven by a drunken or at any rate an incompetent driver, came out of a side turning. Only by extremely good driving did the coachman prevent what might have been a very dangerous accident!”

  “But – her Ladyship – is hurt?” Tempera asked.

  “She bumped her head when the carriage stopped suddenly,” Miss Smith explained. “I believe she has a slight cut, but it is the shock that has upset her, and Miss Briggs tells me she has a splitting headache.”

  Miss Smith was obviously delighted to be the bearer of news whether good or bad.

  “I often think these roads are extremely dangerous,” she went on. “They’re far too narrow for one thing, and if the carriage had overturned there could have been a very different story to tell!”

  “Yes – there would,” Tempera agreed.

  It was a tremendous effort to force herself to concentrate on what Miss Smith was saying, and while she was listening she was suddenly conscious that the three pictures which she had brought from Lord Eustace’s room were lying on her dressing table.

  She took an anxious glance at them but realised with relief that Miss Smith was not interested in pictures.

  “This puts paid to his Lordship attending the party tonight,” she was saying, “but I’m wondering if His Grace’ll go out again. He never cares much for parties, I understand, so he may find it a good excuse to cry off.”

  “I expect then they will have their dinner here,” Tempera said, wondering how this would affect her plans.

  “I expect so,” Miss Smith agreed. “It’s lucky your Lady wasn’t in the carriage, and of course my Lady, too. They should be in Monte Carlo by this time.”

  She yawned.

  “I must say, I rather envy Miss Briggs. She’ll have an early night for once.”

  “Yes – of course,” Tempera agreed. “Is there anything I can do to help her Ladyship?”

  “I expect Miss Briggs has everything she needs,” Miss Smith replied. “She just rushed in to get a bottle of Eau de Cologne and told me what had happened. I was wondering what had occurred when one of the footmen came bounding up to say she was wanted.”

  She opened the door to leave the room and added as she did so,

  “It just shows, Miss Riley, as I’ve said so often, we’re never off duty. just when we think we’re in for a quiet evening something like this happens. I often says to myself that it’s a dog’s life, and that’s what it is!”

  She did not wait for an answer, but left Tempera alone. It was hard for her to think of anything but the Duke downstairs.

  She had an overpowering urge to go down to him, hand him the pictures and make him realise that she had not behaved as he thought, but was in fact saving some of his most treasured possessions?

  But she knew that if she did that it was inevitable that he would learn her true identity.

  He was bound to take action against Lord Eustace, and it would only be her word against his that the pictures were concealed in his hat box.

  The Count would be told about the attempted theft and a long-drawn-out investigation as to the identity of the forger might begin.

  People like her father in the Art world had always been on the look-out for the men who could forge so skilfully that at times they could even deceive the experts.

  The Count, who was of great consequence in Italy, would be only too pleased to lay one of these counterfeiters by the heels, and if the Duke decided to prosecute Lord Eustace the situation would be even worse.

  Then not only the gossips of Monte Carlo but the whole world would learn that Lady Rothley had passed her Stepdaughter off as a lady’s maid.

  “It is impossible! Quite – impossible!” Tempera exclaimed.

  But every nerve in her body cried out that she should exonerate herself in the Duke’s eyes.

  She felt as if her love must somehow communicate itself to him, and yet she knew that the sight of her outside Lord Eustace’s room had erected a barrier between them that was insurmountable.

  Never again would
he come in search of her, whether she was hiding down by the ravine or sitting in the moonlight overlooking the sea.

  Never again would he be interested in her pictures or wish to see them.

  Never again would he want to talk to her in a manner which made her remember and repeat to herself in the darkness of the night every word he had said.

  “If this is love, it is an agony beyond expression,” Tempera told herself, “because it brings me only a darkness so impenetrable that I can never escape from it.”

  She thought that all her life she would be lonely and desolate, with nothing to remember save those few moments when she had been as close to the Duke as if he had held her in his arms.

  “Why did I leave him when I could have stayed longer with him?” she asked herself now.

  She remembered how she had run back to the Chateau after they had been together in the moonlight, and realised she had run away not from him but from her own feelings.

  “Oh, God, what shall I do?” she prayed without hope and felt that even her prayers were lost in the misery of her despair.

  After a while she put the three pictures in the drawer of her dressing table and went to her stepmother’s room to await her return.

  It was impossible to think coherently but she forced herself to make a plan.

  Somewhere downstairs the Duke was sitting, perhaps alone or with Lord Holcombe, and her only chance of changing the pictures would be when everybody had gone to bed.

  ‘Once that is done,’ she thought, ‘I must keep out of sight of the Duke and if necessary stay in my bedroom until it is time for us to return to England.

  It struck her that even if she got the chance of changing over the pictures as she intended, it would now be impossible to go back to Lord Eustace’s room to replace the fakes.

  There was a chance that she might be able to do that tomorrow but, if not, it was of no particular consequence. It would be inconceivable for him to have further copies made quickly.

  He must have planned this operation for a long time. Tempera knew that the copies would have been made from other copies of the original pictures.

  All Van Eyck’s works were known and catalogued and it was possible to buy quite good reproductions in an Art Shop.