The Punishment of a Vixen Read online

  Lady Merrill put her hands up to her eyes.

  “I cannot imagine what David will be like at the end of her visit. He is making himself ill over the girl. Ronaldson tells me that he walks about half the night smoking, which he never did before, and you will notice at meals that he hardly eats anything.”

  Tyrone Strome did not speak and Lady Merrill reached out towards him.

  “Talk to him, Tyrone, perhaps he will listen to you. It is times like this when I feel so helpless and wish with all my heart that George was still alive.”

  “I wonder if David would have listened to his father,” Tyrone Strome said, “or to anyone else.”

  “Then what are we to do?”

  There was a fear in Lady Merrill’s eyes which made her brother feel very protective towards her.

  Because his sister was considerably older, he had always felt that he could rely on her, yet now she was appealing to him in a manner that he knew he could not refuse.

  He rose from the bed to walk to the window and, although he was looking at the view, he did not see it.

  He was thinking, calculating, working out a plan with a concentration which those who had served with him in one capacity or another knew made him one of the most formidable adversaries the enemies of Great Britain had ever encountered.

  To Tyrone it was an exercise in willpower and, although he never spoke of it, it was a kind of reaching out within himself for help when it was really necessary.

  He could not describe exactly what happened when there seemed to be no solution to a problem or he was in a situation in which it seemed he must be defeated.

  Then something within himself cried out for help and help came in a manner that perhaps other people would describe as miraculous.

  Almost as if he saw the details falling into place like a military operation, he knew now exactly what he must do, what action he must take.

  The power had been given to him.

  He turned round to find his sister looking at him beseechingly. He smiled at her and she knew that once again, as he had done so often before in his life, he had found a solution.

  “I want you to order a carriage for eleven-thirty,” he said, “to take you and Nevada to Cannes.”

  Lady Merrill looked at him in surprise, but she did not speak as he went on explaining to her exactly what he wanted her to do.

  *

  Driving into Cannes in an open Victoria drawn by a perfectly matched pair of horses, Lady Merrill chatted to the girl beside her about the dance they were to attend that evening.

  “We are dining at the villa,” she said, “and afterwards we go on to Lady Byng’s. I have promised to bring a party of twenty and if all our friends do the same it should be quite an amusing evening.”

  “I am sure it will be,” Nevada replied. “Does your brother, Mr. Strome, enjoy dancing?”

  “I think Tyrone dances superbly as he does everything else that is athletic,” Lady Merrill answered. “He is an expert skier, an outstanding polo-player, and was as a boy a very fine cricketer.”

  “So many talents in one person!” Nevada remarked.

  Lady Merrill was not certain if it was a compliment or a criticism.

  “I have always been very proud of Tyrone,” she said, “and, of course, because he is so attractive and so rich he has a great number of female admirers, despite the fact that he is very much a man’s man.”

  “Why has he never married?”

  “That is a question I have often asked him myself,” Lady Merrill replied, “but he is very fastidious and although I know of a great number of beautiful women who would gladly be his wife, he never makes any effort to put a ring on their finger.”

  “Perhaps he is waiting to fall in love.”

  There was no doubt that the remark was mocking.

  “Is not that what we all want?” Lady Merrill enquired.

  “It is something that will never happen to me,” Nevada said. “I find love a nauseating weakness that disgusts me.” “My dear child, you cannot really mean that!”

  “It’s true,” Nevada said defiantly, “and I expect that no one will believe it until I become an old maid, doubtless in the last years of my life devoting myself to good works.”

  “You can only be joking.”

  “No, I am not,” Nevada answered. “I cannot imagine myself in the state that men get into when they tell me they are in love with me, trembling with swimming eyes and trying to paw me with hot hands. It makes me sick!”

  “Your mother never talked like that. She wanted to fall in love and be married, and have lots of children. I am sure for her it was a tragedy that like me she could only have one.”

  “Perhaps she was bored with the whole idea after I was born.”

  “I am sure that is not true,” Lady Merrill contradicted. “I have never had the chance of discussing such things with your father, but I am quite certain if your mother could have given you a brother or a sister, she would have been thrilled to do so.”

  “I suppose my father would have liked a son,” Nevada answered in a hard voice, “but he was not particularly interested in his daughter.”

  “I am sure that is not true,” Lady Merrill said gently, “and, Nevada, let me give you a little word of advice, if you want love you have to give love.”

  “But I don’t want it!” Nevada said sharply. “It is the last thing I want! I am very content as I am, but nobody seems to realise it. I enjoy myself and, if men like to make fools of themselves over me, why should I worry about them? They are quite capable of taking care of themselves.”

  “But are they?” Lady Merrill asked. “That is really the question that a mother asks. Can a young man, who is desperately, wildly in love with someone like you, understand that you have no interest in him except as a possible dancing partner?”

  “I have already told you, Lady Merrill, men must learn to look after themselves. They are big and strong enough.”

  Nevada spoke scornfully and Lady Merrill replied,

  “I often think that the trouble is that men never really grow up. They are little boys at heart, especially to their mothers. They want to be looked after, loved, given encouragement and inspiration.”

  Nevada laughed.

  “I can inspire anyone I wish,” she said boastfully, “but I have no intention of looking after a man or allowing one to look after me. They are fools, every one of them. They are only amusing before they fall in love – not after.”

  Lady Merrill lapsed into silence.

  The horses drove along the esplanade bordered with pine trees towards the harbour at the end of the town.

  It was only a small harbour, but it was filled with yachts of all sizes and Nevada looked eagerly for The Moulay, the yacht belonging to Tyrone Strome.

  She had a feeling that it would be different from the others and she was not mistaken.

  Instead of being all white as were those belonging to rich French, English and Italian owners, The Moulay had a prow of black picked out in gold.

  She also had a deep black line above the watermark and appeared longer, thinner and more graceful than any of the other yachts moored near her.

  As the horses drew to a standstill beside the gangplank, Lady Merrill said,

  “It’s not yet twelve o’clock. What I would like to do, Nevada, is drop in at the Carlton Hotel and call on my friend the Duchess of Westbourne who has been ill. I will not be long. Will you tell my brother that I will join you both before luncheon?”

  “I will give him your message, Lady Merrill,” Nevada answered.

  The footman had climbed down from the box of the carriage to open the door and she stepped out, realising as she put her foot on the gangplank that Tyrone was waiting on deck.

  The carriage drove away as she stepped aboard, holding out her hand and saying as he took it,

  “Your sister asked me to tell you she is calling on the Duchess of Westbourne and will return before luncheon.”

  “How very tactfu
l of her!” Tyrone Strome replied in his deep voice. “That means I shall have the pleasure of showing you everything alone.”

  “That will be delightful,” Nevada smiled.

  She was well aware that she was looking exceedingly attractive in a gown of white muslin trimmed with turquoise blue ribbons slotted through broderie anglaise.

  Her wide-brimmed hat was decorated with the same ribbons and bunches of forget-me-nots. She looked the epitome of a young girl until one looked into the smouldering depth of her green eyes or noticed the enticement of her curved lips.

  She went ahead of Tyrone Strome into the Saloon, which was decorated in a manner different from anything she had expected aboard a luxury yacht.

  Everything was very severe, masculine and business-like.

  There was no superfluous decoration, no soft cushions or pictures on the walls as there had been in every other yacht she had visited.

  “I thought first we would both enjoy a cup of coffee,” Tyrone Strome said as he followed her. “Do you like the Turkish variety? I have been so long in the East that I prefer it to the French.”

  “So do I,” Nevada replied.

  A steward appeared and Tyrone Strome spoke to him in a strange language she did not recognise. Then, looking at the man, she thought he was Chinese.

  When they were alone, she asked,

  “Why do you not employ English stewards?”

  “All my crew are either Chinese or Malayan. They are excellent seamen and can adapt themselves to almost any conditions.”

  He smiled as he continued,

  “We are not usually moored anywhere so luxurious as a harbour in the South of France!”

  “Where has your yacht come from now?”

  “It has been to many different parts of the world.”

  “Am I to assume from that answer that you do not intend to tell me anything more specific?” Nevada asked.

  “Why should you be interested?” he enquired.

  She laughed.

  “You are treating me as if I was a spy from the other side, wherever that might be. Do you think I might perhaps be employed by the Russians?”

  “I think you look too obviously dangerous for anyone who met you not to be forewarned and forearmed,” Tyrone Strome replied.

  “Are you paying me a compliment?”

  “If you like to make it one.”

  They were duelling again and he knew she was enjoying it.

  “I think you are making yourself unnecessarily enigmatic, Mr. Strome,” she said. “I am rather suspicious of this cloak and dagger reputation you have acquired.”

  “Suspicious?” he questioned.

  “It obviously makes you seem very intriguing. Is that why you deliberately cultivate a Sphinx-like attitude?”

  “I don’t often have time to think about myself,” Tyrone Strome replied, “but now you make me feel as if the quality you describe is certainly an asset.”

  “That will not prevent me from trying to pin you down and making you tell me a great deal more about yourself.”

  “I should have to be very conceited to think that you were interested in me, when there are so many contenders for your attention.”

  “Shall I say there is always room for newcomers?” Nevada asked.

  He did not have to reply for at that moment the Steward came back into the Saloon carrying a tray on which there were two handleless china cups set in holders of wrought gold decorated with turquoises.

  “How pretty!” Nevada exclaimed.

  “I was given them when I was in the East,” he explained.

  The Steward poured the thick sweet coffee into the cups and Nevada instantly raised hers to inspect the turquoises and the intricate work in which they were set.

  “They are really beautiful!” she cried.

  “If I was in the East and made the polite reply I would have to answer, ‘they are yours!’” Tyrone Strome said. “But as it is I am selfish enough to wish to keep them for myself.”

  “How ungenerous of you,” she pouted.

  “If you had them, what would you do with them?” “Drink coffee out of them, of course,” Nevada said. “This is delicious!”

  “I have taught my chef how to make it in the proper Turkish fashion, black as the devil, hot as hell and sweet as love!” “Do you really believe that love is sweet?” Nevada asked. “It depends with whom one is in love.” “You are as bad as your sister! She has been talking to me about love and I told her it is an emotion which I shall never feel and which I despise and dislike.”

  “How very unusual to find such a positive opinion in someone as young as yourself!”

  “In one moment you are going to say I am too young to know my own mind,” Nevada flashed.

  “I hope I should not say anything so banal or so obviously untrue.”

  “Then you accept that I know my own mind?”

  “I am quite sure of it,” Tyrone Strome replied. “You are a very positive person. It is only the indecisive and frustrated in this world who are afraid of their own thoughts.”

  “You are being so pleasant to me, Mr. Strome, that I am wondering if you have an ulterior motive,” Nevada remarked.

  “I cannot understand why you should think that,” he replied.

  As he spoke, he re-filled her cup with coffee.

  She noticed that he had not touched his and thought that perhaps despite what he had said he did not care for anything so sweet.

  Not that it interested her. She was intent on making him talk and finding out what he thought about her.

  “How many times have you been in love?” she asked provocatively.

  “If I reply – never!” Tyrone Strome said, “you will not believe me, while I have a feeling that if I answer – many times, you will be even more inquisitive than you are already.”

  “You are very pleased with yourself!”

  “Why not?” he asked. “I think we both have an appreciation of our own characters, our own capabilities and more than anything else our own ambitions.”

  She looked at him in surprise.

  “Do you think that I am ambitious?”

  “Everyone is in one way or another.”

  Her brow wrinkled a little as she said,

  “I feel you are not talking about the usual ambitions people have, a desire for money a title or success.”

  “That is perceptive of you, Nevada. You must have a brain somewhere – although I had not suspected it until now.”

  She looked at him in surprise.

  “That is almost insulting.”

  “I thought you would accept it as a compliment.” “Not in the way you said it.”

  “Then I must apologise. I thought you were the type of woman who preferred to be praised for your brain rather than your beauty.”

  “I am – ”

  She drew in her breath and said in a different tone of voice, “Surely it is very hot in here?”

  “It’s going to be a hot day,” he replied. “I will open another porthole.”

  He rose as he spoke.

  As he did so, he noticed that Nevada put her hand up to her forehead and closed her eyes.

  With an effort she opened them again to say,

  “I have a headache. Will you fetch me a glass of water?” “Yes, of course,” Tyrone Strome answered.

  He moved towards the door, but he was watching her as he did so.

  Again her hand went up to her forehead and now, almost as if she did not realise what she was doing and felt in need of air, she pulled off her wide-brimmed hat and let it fall down on the ground beside her.

  “Mr. Str – ome!”

  She found it difficult to say his name and her voice seemed as if it came from a long distance.

  Then, as she looked at him across the cabin, her eyes widened suddenly and he knew that a thought had come to her mind, a thought that made her want to cry out, to accuse him.

  But, even as her lips tried to form the words, she fell forward, collapsing si
deways on the sofa.

  He waited for a moment. Then he picked her up in his arms and, carrying her carefully, took her out of the Saloon and along the narrow passageway.

  The door of a cabin had been left ajar and he pushed it open with his foot.

  Like the Saloon it was well but austerely furnished and he set Nevada down on the bunk.

  Her arm trailed over the edge of it and he put it tidily beside her body. Then he pulled the curtains over the porthole to keep out the sunlight and went out of the cabin locking the door behind him.

  He put the key in his pocket and going up on deck told one of his crew to call a Hackney carriage for him.

  When it came, he ordered it to drive him to the Carlton Hotel.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Nevada opened her eyes, then shut them again as if she could not believe what she saw.

  Her head felt heavy and thick, her mouth was very dry. She tried to swallow and found it difficult.

  She felt as if her brain was coming back from a very long distance where it had been dark.

  Now she was aware of herself and once again she opened her eyes.

  The first thing she saw was her own luggage piled high in what seemed to be a confined space, then she was aware of the noise of engines and thought she must be on a train.

  But why?

  And why, if she was on a train, were her trunks not in the guard’s van?

  She stared for some time, finding it difficult to focus her eyes, but conscious that her head was aching almost intolerably.

  She sat up. As she did so, she saw a porthole and realised that she was not on a train, but in a ship.

  It was then that the memory of Tyrone Strome came back to her.

  She could see his face quite clearly, the expression in his eyes, the mocking twist to his lips.

  She had been going to expostulate with him, going to accuse him of something.

  Then suddenly she remembered. The coffee!

  She had been drugged, she was sure of it.

  Nevada put her feet to the floor and with an effort rose to walk towards the porthole.

  She was unsteady and felt giddy, but somehow she managed to reach it and looked out to see nothing but sea – sea stretching away towards a blue horizon where it met the sky.