The Cruel Count (Bantam Series No. 28) Page 3

  She saw his lips twist in a faint smile before she added:

  “I should be grateful if you would arrange for my luggage to be put in a safe place. When I reach Djilas I imagine I can send for it.”

  “But naturally,” the Count replied, “if the Revolution is over.”

  “I had of course taken that fact into consideration,” Vesta replied coldly.

  “I have ordered the horses,” the Count remarked. “They should be outside.”

  Vesta had ridden ever since she was tiny, and no horse was likely to prove too much for her to handle. But she did not expect the small rough-coated animals which stood waiting outside the Inn.

  They were quiet, sturdy and by no means the spirited horse-flesh to which she was used or what she had expected.

  The Count saw the expression on her face and laughed.

  “They are the right type of beasts for where we are going, Ma’am,” he said, “though undoubtedly not what might be expected to complement your Ladyship’s attire.”

  He was jeering at her, she thought, and she hated him with an intensity which frightened herself.

  He took her cloak from her and laying it across the horse’s back tied it firmly to the saddle. The small parcel of her clothes he put in the saddle-bag slung on his own horse.

  The Inn-Keeper was standing in the doorway. Vesta held out her hand.

  “Thank you,” she said in Katonian, “for looking after me. I am very grateful for all you have done, and please keep my baggage safely.”

  It was difficult to find the right words, but the InnKeeper understood. All smiles he promised to guard her luggage with his life. He thanked her for her condescension and wished both her and the Count ‘God speed’ on their journey.

  The man in charge of the horses helped Vesta into the saddle, the Count had already mounted. As they rode away over the cobbled roadway he said:

  “So you have taken the trouble to learn our language!”

  “I know a little, and it would be a pity for my endeavours to be wasted,” Vesta replied.

  “But naturally, Ma’am,” he answered.

  Again there was a mocking tone in his voice which made her sure he was laughing at her.

  Once they had passed the houses and the cobbles ended, the road became dusty and now Vesta could see the olive groves and the profusion of flowers which she had sighted from the Quay.

  Never had she imagined there could be so many colours bordering the road and climbing up the hillside in a panorama of beauty.

  There were red poppies, pinks, marigolds gold, purple and white and clovers which she recognised as well as cyclamen, yellow iris and wild gladioli besides the vivid dazzling blue gentians.

  There were also a great number of other flowers of which she did not know the name. But she did not feel like asking the Count what they were because she had the feeling that he might find her curiosity amusing.

  They had however only gone a very little way on the road before moving ahead of her he took a pathway rising up the hillside.

  Vesta followed him so intent on looking at the beauty all around her that she was not particularly interested in which direction they took.

  Now there were numbers of orange trees and she thought how thrilled her sisters and their children would be when she could write home and tell them she had actually seen oranges growing among their green leaves.

  There were lemons too and a fruit that she imagined was a pomegranate, but was not quite certain.

  It was after they had been riding for nearly half an hour that Vesta was aware that they were climbing all the time.

  Now when she looked back she could see the little port lying far away behind and below them, its red roofs clustered closely together, while ahead were only mountains and more mountains rising higher and higher towards the snowy peaks.

  In a little while the flowers too were left behind. Now the path they were following twisted through tree trunks and yet climbed all the time. It was far cooler and the sun coming through the green branches was very beautiful.

  There was juniper, copper, beech, myrtle and sometimes the purple glory of the Judas tree before they too were left behind and replaced by oaks, firs and pines.

  It was as they moved on steadily but surely, that Vesta understood the Count’s good sense in the choice of the horses they were riding.

  These animals were, she knew, used to the mountains, there was something in the way they moved, the manner in which they did not hurry themselves and yet covered a great deal of ground which told her that although they might not look spectacular, they had tremendous endurance and were used to mountainous regions.

  The path through the trees was narrow and the Count continued to ride ahead.

  Occasionally he looked back to see how Vesta was faring. He did not speak to her and she guessed that he was still angry with her for ignoring his advice and insisting on him leading her to the Prince.

  ‘Did he really mean, the marriage could be declared invalid?’ she wondered. ‘But why having asked her to come to Katona to be his wife should the Prince wish to be rid of her?’

  Then Vesta realised she knew the answer to that question. It was something which lay at the back of her mind like a menacing shadow.

  Something she had tried not to remember and yet she knew now she was forced to face the truth.

  Chapter Two

  Everything that had happened to Vesta had been so unexpected. Even now she still felt breathless at the manner in which it had occurred.

  She had been planning this Spring to enjoy her second Season in London. Her first season the previous year had been a success, as was to be expected when a debutante so important as the daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Salfont was introduced to the Beau Monde.

  But Vesta was, as it happened, already well accustomed to the social round.

  The Duchess of Salfont had been entertaining for her five older daughters one after the other ever since anyone could remember. And somehow it had been inevitable that Vesta should take part in the festivities even though officially she was still in the schoolroom.

  She had, therefore, since she was fifteen been invited to parties with her sisters because many of the Duchess’s friends, struck by her beauty, felt she enhanced any social occasion which she attended.

  A number of young men had even asked the Duke if they might pay their addresses to her, only to be dismissed summarily with the words—“she is much too young”.

  Then in February a month after her eighteenth birthday there had come a bombshell in the shape of the Prime Minister from Katona.

  Vesta could recall vividly her astonishment when her father had called her into the library of Salfont House in Berkeley Square and had said to her in a tone that was unusually serious:

  “Vesta, I wish to speak to you.”

  She had wondered uneasily what was coming. She knew of old that those particular words usually prefaced a complaint or a scolding. But instead the Duke said:

  “I have received today a visit from His Excellency the Prime Minister of Katona. He informed me that His Royal Highness Prince Alexander of Katona requests the honour of your hand in marriage.”

  As Vesta stared at her father too astonished to speak, the Duke added:

  “It means that, since Katona is an independent Royal Principality, you will in fact be virtually Queen of that small but important country.”

  For a moment Vesta could not believe she had heard her father correctly. Then she said almost childishly:

  “But I do not ... know the Prince.”

  Her father had taken her hand in his and drawn her down beside him on a sofa.

  “My dear, where Royalty is concerned marriages are arranged, and I cannot help thinking that the Prince’s advisers have been very wise in suggesting an English bride for their Ruler.”

  “You mean,” Vesta said slowly, “it is the suggestion of his ... Government not ... His Royal Highness ... that I should be his wife.”

&nb
sp; “As I have said,” the Duke replied, “these things are arranged for the best diplomatic and political reasons. I have in fact, Vesta, already consulted the Foreign Secretary Lord Castlereagh, who is extremely anxious that we should acquiesce in Katona’s wishes in this matter.”

  “But, Papa, I have never seen the Prince!” Vesta cried.

  “I believe he is a well behaved, charming young man,” the Duke answered, “who has as it happens, English blood in his veins; for his grandmother and his great-grandmother were both English.”

  He paused before he went on:

  “Katona has always been friendly with Great Britain and it is very important she should remain so.”

  The next day the Foreign Secretary, Viscount Castlereagh, made the same point as Vesta sat with him and the Prime Minister, the Earl of Liverpool in the Drawing-room at 10 Downing Street.

  It was rather awe-inspiring, but at the same time Vesta had liked Lord Castlereagh. Tall and dignified having inherited much of his mother’s beauty, his physical and moral courage had made him outstanding .among Foreign Secretaries.

  But because he was the idol of many women he knew better than the Prime Minister or the Duke of Salfont how to handle a sensitive girl.

  “I see that I must tell you my secrets,” he said quietly. “Katona is extremely important in our re-construction of Europe. Since the Conference of Aix-la-Chapelle last year and the readmission of France to the Concert of Europe, we are desperately trying to maintain the balance of power.”

  Vesta had always taken an interest in politics and she understood what he meant.

  He smiled at her beguilingly as he continued:

  “At the moment I am firmly resisting the plans of Alexander, the Tzar of Russia, together with Prince Metternich, the Austrian Chancellor, to institute a league of European powers and to guarantee the existing order under the sanction of military force.”

  “I am sure that would be a mistake,” Vesta exclaimed.

  “I can see you have a grasp of these matters,” Lord Castlereagh said, “and that is why you can understand that we are most anxious for you to go to Katona and use your influence with Prince Alexander.”

  He saw the expression on her face and said:

  “I know the Prince, Lady Vesta, and I promise you he is intelligent and a good sportsman.”

  ‘Will he love me?’ Vesta longed to say, but knew that was a question no-one expected her to ask.

  The Prime Minister, handsome despite the fact that the cares of office had stamped their mark on his face, was as persuasive as the Foreign Secretary.

  “I can assure you, Lady Vesta, that there is no-one we would rather see as the wife of the Ruler of Katona than your father’s daughter.”

  He smiled at her.

  “I am well aware from my long acquaintance with your family how much this country means to you all and that no-one—and I mean that in all sincerity—could be a better Ambassador for Britain.”

  ‘High-sounding words!’ Vesta had thought when she returned home.

  But they still left her with the prospect of marrying a man she had not even seen and of whom she knew nothing except that Statesmen spoke well of him.

  As if he sensed the tumult within her, Lord Castlereagh’s last words were meant to be consoling.

  “I have visited Katona, Lady Vesta,” he said. “The scenery is very beautiful and the flowers are a delight both to the eye and the mind. Sometimes nature can give us what people fail to do!”

  Now that she had come to Katona, Vesta knew what he meant.

  At the same time not even the Foreign Secretary of England had anticipated that she would arrive in the middle of a Revolution to find herself unwanted.

  Then as she thought about the Count’s insistence that she should return home, she realised with her knowledge of diplomacy that the Prince would not compel her to return even though the Revolutionaries might have done so.

  For him to take an action of that sort would undoubtedly cause a diplomatic incident between Great Britain and Katona. Their engagement had been widely publicised in the newspapers and even mentioned in Parliament.

  Although Vesta had had little time to get together a trousseau and to sail on the date that was expected of her, a large number of parties had been given in her honour.

  The wedding presents had numbered hundreds, including one from the Prince Regent—a Chinese bowl of great antiquity which had aroused the admiration of all who had seen it.

  “No,” Vesta told herself, “the Prince will not dare to force me to return however much he might wish to do so.”

  She decided too that the Count had definitely overstepped his orders in trying to bully her into leaving the country.

  Then the thought which had over-shadowed her arrival returned to her mind to jeer at her.

  Because her day-dreams and romances were so much part of her life, she had tried to tell herself a fairy story about herself and Prince Alexander.

  She had believed, with a childish faith, that when they met they would fall in love with each other.

  After all, even Mama told her that Katonians being dark admired fair women, and Vesta would have been extremely stupid had she not known that she was very pretty.

  It was not only the young men she met at parties who told her so. She had recognised the expression of admiration on the face of almost everyone she met.

  For her own taste she was too small and too slight, compared with the statuesque beauty of her sister Angelina, and too simple in comparison with the sophisticated Charlotte.

  But there was no doubt that her skin was very white, almost translucent, compared with the other girls. Her vivid blue eyes were larger and more expressive than those of the usual blonde beauties while her hair in the sunshine looked like spun gold.

  At times Vesta could be very critical about herself, but at other times she visualised herself to be a Princess in a fairy story, journeying across the world to meet Prince Charming. When they met she was sure they would live happily ever after.

  She began to imagine the things they would do together. when they were not on duty.

  She learnt from the Aide-de-camp that the Prince was an exceptionally good horse-rider, perhaps because his mother was Hungarian.

  “The Hungarians are magnificent horsemen, are they not?” Vesta asked.

  “There are no words to describe them,” the Aide-de-camp had answered enthusiastically. “They seem part of their horses and they can make their animals perform incredible feats.”

  This had become an intrinsic part of Vesta’s dreams.

  ‘We will ride together over the countryside,’ she pretended. ‘He will drive me in his Phaeton and we will watch his horses racing as I have watched Papa’s.’

  She had imaginary conversations with her future husband, telling him things that she had never told other people because being married they would be so close to each other.

  Her day-dreams grew so vivid that at times she felt that the Prince was more intimate to her than anyone else had ever been.

  She could visualise almost everything about him except his face. That remained a blank ready to be filled at the moment they met.

  Then almost like a physical blow, and far more damaging, came the awakening.

  They had entered the Mediterranean just before the storm which was to throw the ship about as if it were little more than a piece of driftwood and nearly cause it to founder.

  Because she longed for some fresh air, Vesta wrapped in her thick cloak had gone up on deck shortly before lunch.

  There was a strong wind and the sailors were taking reefs in the sails and hurrying around with a purposeful air which told her they were anticipating trouble.

  The waves were already breaking over the stern in shower after shower of spray.

  By the time Vesta had been on deck for no more than a few minutes, her cloak was wet and she had decided it would be more sensible to go below.

  She had come down the companionway into
the narrow passage which led to the large comfortable Saloon where they sat and ate.

  Just outside it there was on the wall a row of hooks for the gentlemen to hang their oilskins, so they should not make the luxuriously upholstered seats in the Saloon wet or be forced to take them into their cabins.

  Vesta undid her cloak, pushing back the hood from her fair hair and then unbuttoning the large bone buttons one by one. There were quite a number of them and as she unfastened them she overheard the Aide-de-camp say:

  “She is too young, too innocent, too unsophisticated to be able to cope with what lies ahead, you must realise that.”

  He spoke with a note of passion in his voice which was almost moving.

  “I think that Lady Vesta has a lot of good sense,” the Prime Minister replied in his deep voice.

  Vesta stiffened. She realised that the door of the Saloon was ajar. Then she heard the Captain say:

  “I agree with Your Excellency. I think her not only one of the most charming young women I have ever met, but she definitely has a great deal of character.” Vesta realised that it was because the Captain was present that they were speaking English. And she would have been inhuman if she had not wished to listen to what they were saying about her.

  “But she is imaginative,” the Aide-de-camp remarked, “she is also sensitive. How can she possibly deal with a woman like Madame Ziileyha?”

  “Has His Royal Highness not agreed to give her up?” the Captain asked. “When I was last in Katona, the manner in which the people spoke of her, the hatred they showed for her, would have made any ordinary person flee the country in terror.”

  “They will not hurt her while she has the Prince’s protection,” the Prime Minister said dryly, “but I agree with you, Captain, and you do not know half of what I know: she is bad, her influence is appalling and she has done more to damage my country than it is possible to estimate.”

  “But you persuaded His Royal Highness to take a wife,” the Captain said.

  “I persuaded him without much difficulty because he knows that he must marry sooner or later,” the Prime Minister replied.