105. an Angel In Hell Read online

  It was not as large a party as there had been last night, but already the guests staying in the house were assembled and Ancella saw the Prince standing in the window talking to a very tall beautiful woman.

  As soon as the Princess appeared, he brought her across and said,

  “Mama, I am sure you remember the Duchess of Marlborough?”

  “Of course,” the Princess said holding out her hand. “How delightful to see you again.”

  “It is a great pleasure to be here,” the Duchess answered in French, but with the suspicion of an American accent.

  Ancella remembered that she had once been one of the rich Vanderbilts and her marriage to the Duke had been reported in every newspaper.

  “May I introduce Miss Ancella Winton?” the Prince asked the Duchess.

  As he spoke, Ancella thought that his voice softened, but, as she dropped a curtsey, she told herself that she hated him.

  How could he speak like that when he had betrayed everything she believed in, everything that in her stupidity and ignorance she had thought was from God and a part of Heaven itself?

  Two more people were announced and the Prince was obliged to turn away.

  Then Ancella heard the butler say to him,

  ‘The carriage of His Imperial Highness is coming down the drive, Your Highness!”

  The Prince hurried to the front door to receive the Grand Duke.

  When he entered the salon, the ladies all sank down in a deep curtsey.

  The Grand Duke kissed the Princess’s hand, then his eyes sought Ancella and she knew the reason he had invited himself for luncheon.

  She was well aware that he had a wife and a family living in Russia and that the actress who had been with him at the Casino was only one of the many notorious women his name had been associated with.

  ‘Russians are all the same!’ she told herself bitterly. ‘Prince Vladimer is no different from the rest.’

  She had the feeling that the Grand Duke was manoeuvring so that he could speak to her and deliberately she moved closer to the Princess, as if ready to help her to her feet when luncheon was announced.

  Ancella was naturally some way down the table from the Grand Duke and from Prince Vladimer and she hoped that she could sit in silence and that no one would notice her.

  It was impossible for her to eat anything and she sipped only a little of the white wine that was poured into her glass because she was afraid that once again she might feel faint.

  It was difficult to concentrate, hard to understand the conversation that was going on all around her. The guests might have been talking Hindustani.

  And she knew that it was impossible for her to look at the Marchioness.

  But even so she was aware that her voice seemed gayer than anyone else’s, her tinkling laughter ringing out continually.

  ‘She is happy!’ Ancella told herself and felt again that she was in a wilderness and utterly alone.

  The meal seemed to drag on, course succeeding course. The Grand Duke was telling anecdotes that made everyone laugh.

  Suddenly Ancella heard him say,

  “There is a new system this year which I had not heard of previously.”

  “What is that?” the Princess asked.

  “I thought you were sure to have heard of it,” the Grand Duke replied. “Perhaps you have. It is a system of staking on the meaning of one’s name rather than the name itself.”

  “Do you mean adding up the number of letters in our names?” the Marchioness asked. “We have all tried that. I believe it only works the first time you play.”

  “What a mantologist was explaining to me last night,” the Grand Duke replied, “is that the subtlety lies in knowing the meaning of the name. It is affiliated with the Zodiac and hyperphysics. Anyway, Mikhail is seven. I backed it on her insistence and I must admit it turned up an amazing number of times.”

  “But how do we know what our names mean?” the Duchess of Marlborough enquired.

  “Apparently all names have a meaning,” the Grand Duke replied. “Prince Frederich was with me. His name in old German means ‘peaceful Chieftain’. That adds up to seventeen and sure enough that number came up four times at one table.”

  “How exciting!” the Duchess exclaimed. “But I have no idea what my name, Consuelo, means.”

  “There must be a book of names somewhere in Monte Carlo,” the Grand Duke said with a smile.

  “I am quite sure it will not include Feodogrova!” the Princess exclaimed irritably.

  “I should think it unlikely,” the Grand Duke answered, “but Alexandra, which I believe is Your Highness’s second name, in the Greek means ‘defender’.”

  “Eight!” the Princess said excitedly. “I shall back it the entire evening!”

  “My name is Helen,” one of the guests said. “What does that mean?”

  “Helen is Greek and means ‘bright’,” the Grand Duke replied, “and Ancella, also Greek, means ‘angel’.”

  It seemed to Ancella that everyone turned to look at her and she felt the blood rising in her cheeks.

  Even as she did so, she saw Captain Sudley stare at her from the other side of the table with an almost incredulous expression on his face.

  Then his eyes narrowed!

  Still talking excitedly about numbers, the ladies left the dining room and, as if she had no longer any interest in her guests, the Princess excused herself, saying that she must rest.

  Grateful not to have encountered the Grand Duke again, Ancella followed her employer upstairs.

  She told herself that there was no reason why anyone should connect her with the story Captain Sudley had told about his friend, Mr. Harnsworth.

  At the same time she was frightened.

  Then with a sudden determination she told herself that it was of no consequence. She would go home to England and the sooner she left the better.

  It would be impossible to stay on, loving the Prince and knowing that he had betrayed her.

  “I must get hold of a book of names,” the Princess was saying. “A groom can ride into Monte Carlo.”

  She paused for a moment and then she said,

  “It’s a good thing the Marchioness did not ask what her name means! I assure you I should have thought of something very appropriate!”

  The venom was back in her voice.

  “Come and have your rest,” Maria suggested. “If you’re gamblin’ again tonight, Your Highness’ll be exhausted if you don’t have your proper sleep.”

  “I have things to think about,” the Princess said evasively.

  “There’s no point in worryin’ your head about His Highness,” Maria admonished. “He’s grown up. He can do what he wants. All mothers, and Your Highness is no exception, have to realise that sooner or later!”

  “I will not have it!” the Princess said angrily. “I will not have it, Maria! I don’t like her. I never have liked her! She has been trying to get him ever since she came here.”

  “It’s nothin’ serious – you can be sure of that!” Maria said soothingly. “Men will be men, as women have found since the beginnin’ of time.”

  Ancella felt that she could bear no more.

  “Men will be men!”

  And the Prince, who she had thought was different, was no better than any other man.

  Like Captain Sudley, who would accept money from the woman he loved. Like the Grand Duke, whose wife was left behind in Russia while he enjoyed himself in Monte Carlo. Like the Prince of Wales, with his constant unfaithfulness to his lovely Danish wife.

  They were all the same.

  Men were men!

  She had been a fool to expect anything different!

  And yet she felt as if her whole body was weeping bitter tears at the discovery.

  When she went to her room, she sat in a chair, put her face in her hands and wondered if it was possible to suffer such agony without dying from it.

  How long she sat there she had no idea, but she was startled by a kn
ock on the door.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Will you go down to the salon, m’mselle?” a servant asked in French.

  Ancella wanted to refuse. If it was the Prince who wanted to see her, she could not bear to speak to him – and if it was anyone else, she had nothing to say.

  Then she told herself that she was employed to obey orders. If she was sent for, it was a command, not a request.

  “In two minutes,” she replied.

  “Merci, m’mselle.”

  She rose to her feet and walked to the mirror.

  She looked at her reflection. She half expected to look old and wrinkled and that her hair would have turned white.

  Instead she saw a pale face looking out at her with eyes dark with suffering, but otherwise it was a very young and very vulnerable face.

  Automatically Ancella tidied her hair, shook the full skirts of her lilac cotton gown and turned to leave the room.

  As she did so, she told herself that, if indeed it was the Prince who wished to talk to her, she would inform him that she had received bad news from England and must return there immediately.

  There was a post that arrived at the villa at about two o’clock.

  She could say that there had been a letter that made it imperative for her to go home.

  He might argue, he might try to persuade her to stay, but Ancella knew that she would be strong enough not to listen to him and that no arguments, no pleadings would make her change her mind.

  She drew a deep breath, then holding her head high and, walking deliberately slowly, she went along the corridor and down the staircase into the hall.

  The footman opened the door into the salon and, as it closed behind her, Ancella saw that it was not the Prince, as she had expected, but the Marchioness who was waiting for her.

  For a moment Ancella felt that she could not speak with the woman who had, although she was not aware of it, been instrumental in destroying her happiness – the ‘Fool’s Paradise’ she had dwelt in for a short while.

  Then she told herself that, whatever the Marchioness might do, she must behave like a lady.

  Ancella walked towards the older woman and, when she reached her, she dropped, as would be expected, a small respectful curtsey.

  “I want to speak to you, Miss Winton,” the Marchioness said in a low voice, “but not here because, as I am sure you know, our conversation might be overheard.”

  Ancella did not reply and the Marchioness continued,

  “We will go into the garden. All the guests have gone and we shall be alone.”

  Ancella wanted to refuse, but it was impossible to do anything except follow in the wake of the Marchioness as she walked through the open French window onto the terrace and started to descend the marble steps.

  She was wearing one of her favourite blue gowns and, as she stepped out into the sunshine, she opened her sunshade, which matched her dress and was embellished with bunches of pink rosebuds.

  She appeared lovely and very Junoesque.

  On reaching the garden she paused in the shade of the nearest tree to turn towards Ancella.

  There was something autocratic and at the same time very elegant about her. And because she was so beautiful, Ancella could not prevent the thought that she was eminently suitable to grace any position the Prince might offer her.

  “I want to speak to you, Miss Winton,” the Marchioness said in a hard voice, “because Captain Sudley has remembered that he saw you the night before last with his friend, Mr. Harnsworth.”

  Ancella was still. She did not answer. She only thought unhappily that this was what she might have expected.

  “Mr. Harnsworth said that it was an angel who helped him,” the Marchioness continued. “I feel there can be no point in your denying that you were the ‘angel’ in question.”

  “I was able to – help Mr. Harnsworth,” Ancella said after a moment, “because he was in a desperate situation – and without money both he and his wife would have – died. It was something that might never happen again.”

  “Nevertheless, we will certainly try to see if it does,” the Marchioness asserted.

  “I am afraid that is impossible,” Ancella replied. “I cannot help you. In fact I can help no one else.”

  “How can you be sure?” the Marchioness asked. “I understand that you had never been in Monte Carlo until the other evening. It must have been the first time you had gambled.”

  “Which is, I imagine, the reason I won!” Ancella said quickly. “It’s an old superstition, as His Imperial Highness said at luncheon.”

  “I think personally it was something more than that,” the Marchioness said. “Perhaps you are clairvoyant, but anyway, I wish you to play for me and try to anticipate the numbers as you did the other evening.”

  “I am sorry,” Ancella said, “but I cannot do that.”

  “You will do it!” the Marchioness replied fiercely, “and you will do it now! This is your time off, Miss Winton, as I have already ascertained. We will drive to Monte Carlo and we will play Roulette until you have to return.”

  Ancella did not answer and she went on,

  “There will be no reason for anyone else to know what we are doing, except, of course, Captain Sudley who will come with us. You will find that if you are fey, or clairvoyant, or whatever it is, it will work as well for me as for anyone else.”

  “I am sorry,” Ancella said again, “but I am not going to the Casino with you, nor do I intend to play Roulette ever again!”

  “If that is your attitude,” the Marchioness said slowly, “then I shall go upstairs at once and tell the Princess what we know. You are well aware what Her Highness is like when it comes to gambling. She would make your life a misery! She would tear you in pieces rather than think that you were holding out on her with a system that she could be a winner with.”

  There was something very unpleasant in the Marchioness’s voice and Ancella stiffened. Equally she knew that the Marchioness was speaking the truth.

  The Princess’s obsession with gambling was indisputable.

  It was a good thing, Ancella thought to herself, that she was leaving.

  It would be better for her to be in England with her aunts than to suffer as she was suffering here, first from the Prince and now from being blackmailed by this woman she disliked and despised.

  She looked at the Marchioness defiantly and said quietly,

  “You must do as you think right. All I can promise you is that I have no intention of visiting the Casino this afternoon with your Ladyship or at any other time!”

  As she spoke, she turned to walk towards the steps.

  “Now listen to me, Miss Winton – ” the Marchioness said furiously.

  Then with an effort she changed the tone of her voice and added,

  “This could be to the advantage of both of us – to you as well as to me. I will provide the capital with which we will gamble and you can keep a quarter of the winnings.”

  “I am not interested,” Ancella replied.

  “Then what can I offer you?” the Marchioness enquired.

  “Nothing!”

  Ancella spoke a little louder than she intended. Now she had reached the steps but, as she was about to climb them, the Marchioness caught hold of her wrist.

  “Listen to me, you little fool!” she cried angrily. “I want your help and I cannot believe that you don’t require money. We will go to the Casino and we will try to see if the luck that was yours the other night will work again. I believe it will!”

  “I have already given you my answer,” Ancella replied.

  She tried to move forward, but the Marchioness held on to her so that she was prevented from doing so.

  “Please let me go!” Ancella said coldly. “Nothing you can say or do – nothing – will make me alter my mind!”

  She saw an expression of anger in the Marchioness’s blue eyes that seemed to contort her face.

  As if she could bear no more, Ancella
struggled to release her wrist, but the Marchioness’s fingers tightened.

  For a moment they defied each other and then suddenly there was a scream from the terrace.

  They both looked up and there, to Ancella’s astonishment, at the top of the steps stood the Princess!

  She was wearing the elaborate negligée of satin and lace that she wore in her bedroom and Ancella thought that she must have walked down the stairs, for there was no sign of her wheelchair or of a footman in attendance.

  She was holding a letter in her hand.

  She held it up and, looking at the Marchioness, she screamed,

  “How dare you say you are going to marry my son! It’s not true, I tell you. He would never marry you – never! You are nothing but a strumpet, a woman without morals and I will kill you rather than allow you to possess him!”

  The Princess’s voice, frantic, high and hysterical, rang out and now the Marchioness released her hold of Ancella’s wrist to retort,

  “What are you doing with my letter? How dare you read it! You have no right – ”

  “I have every right!” the Princess stormed. “What you have written is lies – lies, do you hear? You are a harlot and a liar and you will leave here at once!”

  As she spoke, she stepped forward as if to descend the steps and confront the Marchioness with what she held in her hand, then as she did so she swayed.

  Just for a moment she seemed to struggle against falling before she lost her balance and crashed down on the marble steps.

  She rolled forward, her body gathering impetus until, as she screamed and screamed again, the Princess rolled from the bottom step to lie at the Marchioness’s feet!

  Chapter Seven

  Ancella was awoken by Maria coming into her bedroom.

  She sat up with a start.

  “The Princess – ?” she began.

  “Her Highness died two hours ago,” Maria answered and, crossing the room, pulled back the curtains.

  “I should have been – there,” Ancella said.

  “His Highness did not wish it, m’mselle,” Maria answered. “The doctor was with her, but there was nothing we could do. She never regained consciousness.”