The Cruel Count (Bantam Series No. 28) Read online

  “They tell me you have arrived alone!” he said and his voice seemed to echo round the room. “Where is the Prime Minister?”

  There was something imperative in the way he spoke and Vesta sat up a little more stiffly.

  For the first time since she had arrived at Katona, she felt angry: She had felt alarmed before at not being met, but the manner in which this stranger had burst upon her and was now addressing her aroused her resentment.

  “As, Sir, you are apparently aware of my identity,” she said slowly, choosing her words with care, “it would perhaps be courteous if you would introduce yourself before asking me questions.”

  The Gentleman stared at her for a moment as if he was surprised at her reply. Then he shut the door behind him and advanced further into the small room.

  He seemed very over-powering and as his almost black eyes met Vesta’s blue ones, she thought to herself:

  “He looks like an eagle!”

  “My name,” the stranger said, “is Czako—Count Miklos Czako—and I have a message of great importance for the Prime Minister.”

  His English was excellent; there was only a faint accent, little more than an intonation, to show it was not his native tongue.

  “Then I am afraid you will have to go some distance to give it to His Excellency,” Vesta answered.

  “What the Devil do you mean by that?” the Count snapped.

  Then seeing the shocked surprise on her face he added quickly:

  “Your pardon, My Lady! I should not have spoken in such a manner! But I have instructions for His Excellency from the Prince.”

  “You have come here from His Royal Highness?” Vesta inquired.

  “Yes.”

  The reply could not have been briefer.

  “I imagine that there must have been some mistake, or perhaps a muddle about the date of my arrival,” Vesta said slowly. “His Excellency, the Prime Minister was expecting Baron Milovan to be here to greet me.”

  “Where is the Prime Minister?” the Count asked again.

  She knew by the tone of his voice that he had found the fact she had not answered his first question extremely irritating.

  “His Excellency is in hospital in Naples.”

  “In hospital!”

  “We had a very rough voyage through the Bay of Biscay,” Vesta replied, “but it was nothing to the storm we encountered on entering the Mediterranean. Indeed the Captain thought at one moment the ship might founder.”

  “And the Prime Minister was hurt?”

  “He broke a leg. It was a bad break and the doctors in Naples at the hospital to which we took him declared it was quite impossible for him to travel for at least another two weeks. It was His Excellency himself who insisted that I should continue my voyage.”

  “Alone?” the Count enquired. “Where are the rest of the people who should be with you?”

  Vesta could not help two dimples appearing at either side of her mouth as she smiled. She was well aware that the Gentleman in front of her was confused and bewildered by what she had to impart, and because he had upset her it amused her to disconcert him.

  “After we left Naples,” she said, “when in fact we were looking forward to arriving at Jeno, a number of the ship’s crew were taken ill. This happened on the twelfth day after sailing, and ever since everyone on board has been coming out one by one in spots that were so profuse and so ugly that we feared at first that they had contracted smallpox.”

  “Smallpox!” the Count ejaculated.

  “Fortunately our fears were groundless,” Vesta went on. “It was in fact a very unpleasant and virulent form of chicken-pox.”

  “But surely your attendants...”

  “The lady who chaperoned me and the Aide-de-camp both succumbed yesterday,” Vesta explained, “and this morning they are both running high temperatures. The Aide-de-camp’s was in fact over 103°. It was impossible for them to come ashore.”

  “Good God!”

  There was no doubt that the gentleman in the dusty riding clothes was shocked at the information Vesta conveyed to him.

  He stood for a moment looking down at her, at her blue eyes twinkling a little because his astonishment amused her, at her very fair hair silhouetted against the darkness of the arm chair.

  Then he said harshly:

  “As the Prime Minister is not here, I must therefore explain to you what has happened. The reason you have not been Welcomed to Katona, Lady Vesta, is that a Revolution is taking place!”

  “A Revolution!”

  It was Vesta’s turn to be surprised.

  The Count nodded.

  “It began about a week ago, and the Prince has therefore decided that it would be best for you to return home. That is the message I was to convey to the Prime Minister.”

  Vesta was silent for a moment. Then in a voice she hardly recognised as her own she said:

  “Are you seriously ... suggesting that I should go ... back to England?”

  “It would be best.”

  “After I have come all ... this way? It has been a ... long and difficult... journey.”

  “I am aware of that,” the Count said, “but a Revolution can be dangerous and one is not yet certain of the outcome.”

  “You mean the Prince might be ... deposed or forced to ... abdicate?”

  “There is always that possibility.”

  “But it has not happened ... yet?”

  “No, not yet.”

  Again Vesta was silent for a moment and then she said:

  “And how do you suggest that I should return? My ship has gone. It is now sailing to Athens, from which it is anticipated that both my chaperone and the Aide-de-camp will be well enough to return to Katona either by ship or overland.”

  “There must be other ships,” the Count said quickly. He looked out of the window as he spoke, as if expecting to see one in the harbour.

  “Even if there were one,” Vesta said calmly, “I would not board it. I have no intention of returning to England.”

  “That is a ridiculous attitude!” the Count said sharply. “You know little about this country. I imagine you know little about Revolutions, you have never had one in England. You must think of yourself and leave for safety.”

  “I have chosen to come here,” Vesta replied, “and whatever happens I consider it my duty to stay.”

  “Good God, woman, it is not for you to make the decision!”

  The Count spoke so violently and Vesta rose slowly from her chair. She stood facing him and now her eyes were flashing blue fire.

  “I cannot imagine that because there is a Revolution,” she said, “the officials surrounding His Royal Highness must lose all sense of propriety. You will please apologise for speaking to me like that.”

  Their eyes met and for a moment Vesta thought the Count intended to defy her. Then he said quietly:

  “I apologise, and I hope that you will forgive me. It is only that I am deeply concerned for your safety.”

  “I prefer to decide such things for myself,” Vesta answered. “And now will you answer one question: Is His Royal Highness in danger?”

  The Count appeared to be considering before he replied:

  “I cannot answer that with any certainty. He may be.”

  “In that case,” Vesta replied, “I should be at his side.”

  “It is impossible!” the Count retorted. “I have His Royal Highness’s authority to beg you to return home. When things are more settled in Katona, an emissary can journey to England and discuss the matter of your marriage further.”

  He paused before he continued.

  “At the moment it is in your best interest to go back. I must find a ship to carry you.”

  “I have already told you, Count,” Vesta said patiently as if speaking to a backward child, “that I have no intention of leaving Katona. There is no point in any further argument. I must ask you and ... if necessary ... command you ... to take me to my ... husband.”

  For a moment t
he Count was absolutely still.

  Then he said, and there was no mistaking the stark astonishment in his voice:

  “Your—husband?”

  “The Prince and I were married by proxy before I left England,” Vesta replied. “The Prime Minister has the papers with him.”

  “Married! But—the Prince was not aware of this! It is the Prime Minister’s doing! The wily old fox!”

  “I understood,” Vesta said, “that His Excellency was carrying out the wishes of His Royal Highness in asking for my hand. But it was in fact my father who insisted on the marriage before I left. He did not wish me to travel on a basis of ‘sale or return’. ”

  Then as the Count seemed too stupefied to speak she added ironically:

  “How right he was! Although he would not have anticipated that I would have been asked to leave almost before I had arrived!”

  The Count scowling ferociously walked across the room to the window overlooking the Quayside.

  “If this is true,” he said after a moment, “it can of course be rectified. A marriage by proxy is only a legal ceremony. As the Prince is head of the law in Katona, the marriage can be declared invalid.”

  Vesta drew a deep breath.

  “That is something, I think, which should be discussed only by the Prince and myself, and not by outsiders.”

  Her voice was very cold and the Count turned from the window to say:

  “Very well, Ma’am, I am of course obliged to obey your command. I will take you to His Royal Highness. But let me say this. If at any time during our journey to Djilas you change your mind, I shall be very willing to bring you back here, or to find you a ship at some other port which will convey you in safety to England.”

  “I am most grateful for your consideration,” Vesta said with a touch of sarcasm in her voice. “Kindly tell me when you wish us to leave?”

  Her voice brought a different expression to the Count’s face.

  “Immediately!” he replied. “I should explain that the reason I posted here with such haste is that your life may be in danger. There are certain people who do not—wish you to stay in Katona.”

  Vesta stared at him uncertainly.

  “You mean they intend to assassinate me?” she asked.

  “They might have merely forced you to return on the ship on which you arrived,” the Count answered. “But as that has left I would not give much for your chance of survival.”

  “Those are the ... Revolutionaries, I ... suppose?” Vesta questioned.

  He nodded.

  “Does that make you see sense?” he asked. “Go back to England, Lady Vesta. Return to a country where there are no Revolutions, where you are known and loved. Go back to the people you understand. Go back to your family, to security, to comfort and peace.” He was almost pleading with her now.

  “You are very persuasive,” Vesta replied, “but may I remind you that as I am married to your reigning Prince I imagine I have some authority in this country. I therefore ... command you to take me with all possible speed to His Royal Highness.”

  She had spoken quietly but her eyes were still bright with anger.

  The Count looked down at her and she knew he too was incensed. He obviously had not expected that she would defy him.

  There was no doubt, she thought, he was like an eagle—cruel, a bird of prey, imperious, ruthless.

  She wondered for a moment with a little tremor of fear if in fact he was not really a messenger from the Prince, as he had claimed to be, but a member of the Revolutionary bands who were stirring up trouble.

  Then she told herself she had no choice but to trust him. Quite unexpectedly he capitulated.

  “Very well, Ma’am, I will obey you,” he said. “But do not blame me for the consequences, whatever they may be.”

  “I will not,” Vesta replied.

  “Then change quickly,” he said. “You had better tell me which trunk out of that mountain of baggage you wish taken upstairs.”

  “We shall be riding, I suppose?” Vesta asked.

  “We shall be riding,” he answered, “and you can take nothing with you, except what can go in the saddle-bag and that had better not involve much extra weight. What you had best remember is to take a warm cloak—it can be cold at night.”

  Vesta wasted no more time. She turned towards the door and when he opened it for her she went outside into the passage.

  Her baggage almost filled the small entrance to the Inn. Fortunately the Duchess had insisted that Vesta should acquaint herself with every item in each individual trunk.

  The Count was standing beside her impatiently and she had a moment of panic when she could not remember where her summer riding-habit was packed.

  Then she pointed to a round-topped leather trunk, and the Inn-Keeper and the young girl who had waited on her at luncheon carried it upstairs.

  In the small low-ceilinged bed-chamber Vesta put her hands up to her cheeks. It had been hard to battle with the Count, but she could not help thinking now that she had come much better out of the contest than she might have expected.

  There was something inflexible and over-powering about him, and she knew that he had been determined that she should return to England. She had felt him willing her to go, she had felt that he almost pushed her physically from his country, as if he disliked the very thought of her being in it.

  ‘I hate him!’ she told herself, ‘I hate him!’

  It was not often that she felt so strong an emotion about anyone, in fact she had never before been so disturbed by a man.

  Then she told herself it was because the Count was a foreigner. Foreigners were much more positive in their feelings and in their manner of speech than the English.

  Even so, he had no right to have spoken to her as he did. No right to have been so rude, to have sworn in her presence, or have attempted to force her into a decision she did not wish to make.

  “I hate him!” she whispered again, and yet she had to trust herself to him.

  There was no-one else, no-one to whom she could turn for help or guidance, and if the Count was right she had enemies who wished to destroy her.

  It was a terrifying thought, and yet Vesta told herself she was certain the Count was making the most of the situation, perhaps exaggerating the fact that there were people who did not wish her to marry the Prince.

  Nevertheless, Vesta told herself sensibly, there must be some truth in what he had to say.

  After all there was no denying the fact there had been no-one to meet her on arrival, and the Count must have ridden hard and furiously with the Prince’s message for the Prime Minister.

  When she thought of him, she realised that never before had she seen a gentleman, except her brother, without a cravat round his neck. And never before had a gentleman spoken to her in the manner the Count had done!

  The young maid having opened the top of her trunk was waiting her instructions. To Vesta’s relief her summer riding-habit was easy to find.

  ‘ She quickly divested herself of the pretty muslin gown she had put on to come ashore. But when she looked at the green silk habit she knew it was far more suitable for a trot round Rotten Row than for what was likely to be a hard ride to Djilas.

  However she had nothing else to wear, and there was some consolation in knowing that the full silk skirt and the white braided jacket with big pearl buttons became her. It also accentuated the smallness of her waist.

  There were several blouses to wear with the habit, and because it was so hot Vesta chose one of white muslin inset with lace. Then she sent the maid downstairs for a hatbox.

  “Be careful of your skin,” the Duchess had said before Vesta left. “Remember the sun will be much stronger than in England! And as undoubtedly your pink and white looks will be attractive to the darker skinned Katonians, it is important you should not get sunburnt.”

  She had looked at her daughter’s almost ethereal loveliness and added as if afraid she might grow conceited—

  “An
yway a lady should always have a white skin.”

  From the hat-box Vesta took out a wide-brimmed straw hat trimmed with green silk leaves to match her riding-habit and ribbons of the same colour to tie under her small chin.

  In 1819 the new tight waist and fuller skirts had been introduced to London from Paris. Corsets were back for those who needed them, but much more becoming were the petticoats that were once again in vogue. Underneath Vesta’s riding-habit she wore two stiff white petticoats edged with lace.

  There were white gloves to match the braid on her jacket and a small gold-handled riding-whip which had been a wedding present from one of her sisters.

  She could not help feeling pleased with her appearance. There was however the problem of what else she should take with her. She was quite aware that the Count might be disagreeable if she took too much and she was determined not to give him cause to find fault.

  So she merely wrapped a brush, comb, toothbrush and some spare handkerchiefs in one of the diaphanous nightgowns which were part of her trousseau and covered them with a piece of paper.

  The few cosmetics she needed, and they were very few, she slipped into the pocket of her jacket.

  Then picking up the heavy black cloak she had thrown down on the bed on her arrival, she went downstairs.

  The Count was in the parlour and she realised that he had taken the opportunity in her absence to tidy himself.

  His coat had been brushed, his boots rubbed with a cloth, and what Vesta thought was a decided improvement, he was wearing a cravat!

  By no means a conventional neckcloth, it was little more than a silk handkerchief wound round his neck and tied in a knot, which would have aroused the contempt of any English Dandy. But at least it covered the nakedness of his neck.

  As Vesta entered the parlour the Count had a glass of wine in his hand and there was an empty plate on the table to show he had ordered something to eat.

  He rose to his feet.

  “Surprisingly quick for a woman!” he remarked mockingly. Then as he met her eyes he added, “Ma’am.”

  “You appeared to think it important we should leave immediately, Count,” Vesta answered, “I would not wish to involve you in any danger.”