Bewitched (Bantam Series No. 16) Read online

  “I expect you would like a drink, if you have ridden here from London,” the Marquis interposed. “How long did it take you?”

  “An hour and thirty-five minutes,” Charles Collington replied. “It is not a record, but I did not hurry myself. My horses are not as good as yours, Fabius.”

  “It usually takes me an hour and fifteen minutes,” the Marquis said. “That is, across country. It takes longer by road.”

  “I do not mind how long it has taken. I am delighted to be here,” Charles Collington said, his eyes on Saviya.

  The Marquis noticed that she drew a little away from him, as if she felt he was encroaching upon her.

  When they went downstairs for Charles Collington to have a glass of wine after his ride, it was to find tea had been laid in the Salon.

  They sampled a few of the vast selection of sandwiches, cakes and small delicacies for which the Chef at Ruckley House was famous.

  As they ate and Charles Collington described in graphic detail a Ball he had attended the night before, he said to the Marquis:

  “By the way, Sir Algernon was there and sneering because none of us had yet attempted to win his wager of the thousand guineas.”

  “A thousand guineas for a wager?” Saviya exclaimed. “What a huge sum!”

  “It is nothing compared to what some fools lose gaming,” Charles Collington replied. “Over twenty thousand pounds changed hands last night at White’s alone. Needless to say, none of it came my way!”

  “You are poor?” Saviya asked sympathetically.

  “Absolutely starving!” Charles Collington replied.

  The Marquis laughed.

  “Do not believe him, Saviya. He is quite warm in the pocket, but he is extravagant, like all the gay young men who frequent the gambling Clubs of St. James’s.”

  “Gypsies like to gamble,” Saviya said, “but it is usually on cockfights or sport of some sort.”

  “And very much more sensible,” Charles Collington approved. “When you come to think of it, it is exceedingly silly to throw away money on the turn of a card. No-one ever ends up a winner.”

  “That is true,” the Marquis agreed.

  “All the same,” Charles Collington said, “I should like to confound Sir Algernon with his own words. He is so certain that he is infallible that it irritates me.”

  He paused before he said slowly:

  “Do you suppose that Gibbon would ever think that Miss Saviya was a Gypsy?”

  “It is something I am sure I would never have thought of myself,” the Marquis said, “except for the fact that she was dressed like one.”

  “If she were gowned like a Lady of Quality,” Charles Collington cried, “I am convinced that Gibbon would never suspect for a moment that she was anything else.”

  “It is certainly an idea,” the Marquis replied.

  “What are you talking about?” Saviya enquired in a bewildered voice.

  They told her the details of Sir Algernon’s bet and she laughed. “He must be very sure that you have no chance of winning, for him to wager so much money!”

  “He is too sure!” Captain Collington said. “That is why we have to show him up for the pompous snob he is! The whole contention is baloney, if you ask me! Everyone’s blood is red if you prick them!”

  “Or knock them down with a Phaeton,” the Marquis said, looking at the mark on Saviya’s forehead.

  “Now do take this seriously, Fabius,” Charles Collington said. “We have found the ideal person to confound Gibbon and make him eat his words.”

  “It might succeed,” the Marquis said, “but one of the difficulties would be how to persuade Gibbon to come down here and meet Saviya. I have a feeling she would not be allowed to come to London with us.”

  “I am quite certain my father would say no,” Saviya agreed.

  “Then somehow we have to inveigle Sir Algernon to Ruckley without his becoming suspicious,” the Marquis said.

  “That is a real problem,” Charles Collington said reflectively. “What are his interests?”

  “Shooting, for one thing,” the Marquis said. “He has shot here in the past, but it is not the time of year for pheasant or partridge.”

  “No, of course not,” Charles agreed. “What else?”

  “I have it!” the Marquis exclaimed.

  His friend waited expectantly and he went on:

  “The one thing Sir Algernon really cares about, besides his Family Tree, is his collection of ancient coins.”

  “Something I have always found extremely boring,” Charles Collington said. “So where does that get us?”

  “Quite a long way,” the Marquis replied.

  As he spoke he looked at the necklace of coins around Saviya’s neck.

  “Tell me,” he said, “has your tribe any loose coins that we could borrow for a day? I see that some of those you wear round your neck are Roman. Have you any more?”

  “A large number,” Saviya replied.

  “If we could tell Sir Algernon that we have found half a dozen coins in one of the fields,” the Marquis went on, “and we want advice as to whether we should dig for more, I am certain he would be extremely intrigued.”

  “That is brilliant!” Charles Collington exclaimed. “Sit down and write a letter now and I will carry it back to London with me.”

  “I will send a groom,” the Marquis said. “He might be suspicious if you were my messenger. He might guess we were collaborating.”

  “Which we undoubtedly are!” Charles Collington said. “But do not forget we have to find a suitable gown for Saviya, decide who she is to be, and where she comes from.”

  “The whole thing will be quite a Drury Lane production by the time we have finished,” the Marquis laughed.

  “Why not?” Charles Collington answered. “A thousand guineas is a thousand guineas.”

  “May I remind you,” the Marquis remarked, “that we have not yet obtained Saviya’s agreement to assist us in the masquerade?”

  “I feel that I might let you down,” Saviya said in a soft voice. “I am a Gypsy, and it is very unlikely that anyone would take me for an English Lady of Quality.”

  “Who said anything about your being English?” the Marquis asked. “That would be ridiculous.”

  “You mean ... I do not sound like an English woman?”

  “I hope you will not be disappointed,” the Marquis replied, “but you have an unmistakable foreign accent. It is very attractive—in fact it is enchanting—but it is definitely foreign!”

  “It is because I have been in England for only a short time,” Saviya said. “When we have lived in a country for six months or a year, everyone tells me I speak their language perfectly.”

  “The phenomenal memory of which The Reverend spoke,” the Marquis smiled.

  “Then she must be a foreigner,” Charles Collington said. “It does not matter—and we can give her a high-sounding name and title. In fact it will make it even more difficult for Sir Algernon to suspect that she is not who she pretends to be.”

  “Which country do you fancy, Saviya?” the Marquis asked. She thought for a moment.

  “My mother was Russian and I have lived in St. Petersburg and Moscow for nearly ten years of my life. It is obvious that I should be Russian.”

  “You are right!” Charles Collington cried. “And you look mysterious and excitingly Russian with that black hair and that ivory skin!”

  There was a flirtatious note in Charles Collington’s voice which the Marquis did not miss.

  “I think perhaps you should go now, Saviya,” he said. “I would not wish your father to be incensed because you are late, and it is important that you should not be forbidden to return to the house. Will you enquire if we may borrow the coins?”

  “I will bring them tomorrow,” Saviya replied.

  She made a deep curtsy to the Marquis and a very brief one to Charles Collington. Then she moved away from them down the Long Gallery, and they both of them watched her graceful fi
gure until she disappeared through the doorway at the far end.

  Charles Collington gave an exclamation.

  “My God, Fabius,” he said, “you are a dark horse! Where did you find anything so entrancing, so fascinating, so incredibly beautiful?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Marquis, dressing for dinner, thought with satisfaction that so far everything had gone well.

  Sir Algernon Gibbon had arrived early in the afternoon, and the Marquis and Charles Collington had taken him out to a newly-ploughed field to show him where they said they had found seven Roman coins.

  He had become extremely excited, saying that they were not only of great antiquity but in his opinion very valuable, and he strongly advised the Marquis to dig deeper in the immediate neighbourhood of the find in case there were other treasures as yet undiscovered.

  He went into a long dissertation on the way the Romans built their Amphitheatres and the construction of their villas, and pointed out with reason that there were many Roman remains at the neighbouring town of St. Albans.

  The Marquis had listened with flattering attention, being more punctilious in this particular than he would have been otherwise, because he knew that Charles Collington was restless.

  What occupied his friend’s mind were the plans they had made for the evening. The Marquis thought with a smile that no-one could have taken more trouble to ensure that their campaign to deceive Sir Algernon was mapped out down to the last detail.

  He also told himself that never had he spent a more amusing time than he had the last few days, when they had been teaching Saviya her part.

  She had been, as the Marquis expected, a quick-brained and tremendously receptive pupil.

  They only had to tell her something once: never did she forget or fail to carry out their instructions to perfection.

  What had pleased the Marquis was that, while Charles Collington had taken upon himself the role of producer, it was to himself that Saviya regularly looked not only for confirmation of what was said but for approval when she did what was asked of her.

  He found himself waiting for that half-shy and yet trusting little glance she gave him.

  It was as if she realised that he was a greater authority than Charles Collington and, what was more, she valued his opinion more than anyone else’s.

  Charles Collington could not praise her enough!

  “She is fantastic!” he kept saying over and over again. “No-one would believe she was a Gypsy or that she had not been born into one of the highest families in the land! She is a living example of our contention that it is not blue blood which makes a lady, but education.”

  “And sensitivity,” the Marquis added.

  “Of course,” his friend replied, “Saviya is unusually sensitive and receptive to everything one says or does.”

  “You are a born actress,” the Marquis said to her once and she replied:

  “I think that good acting depends on experiencing one’s role emotionally as well as mentally. A dancer has to feel deeply everything she portrays, so perhaps it is not as difficult for me as for other people”

  It was this remark which had given the Marquis an idea for another way in which they could confound Sir Algernon Gibbon, and this was something which concerned Saviya and him more than Charles Collington.

  What made everything so much easier—Saviya told them with a note of surprise in her voice—was that her father had withdrawn his objection to her coming to the house even though he knew the Marquis was in residence.

  What was more he approved of their plan that Saviya should act the part of a Russian Noblewoman.

  “Why has your father changed his mind about me?” the Marquis enquired.

  “I do not know,” Saviya answered. “I expected he would be angry and forbid me to take part in your Masquerade, but he was amused by it and only admonished me to act so well that you would win your wager.”

  She paused and then she added:

  “I think perhaps he feels it is the same as performing in the private theatres in Moscow and St. Petersburg.”

  “You have done that?” the Marquis asked.

  “Only in a very small way,” Saviya answered. “Amongst the Gypsies who live in both those cities there are many very famous dancers and prima donnas, and because I was my mother’s daughter, I was occasionally allowed to take part, not particularly through my own merits.”

  “I want you to tell me about it,” the Marquis said.

  But they had been so busy preparing for Sir Algernon Gibbons arrival that there had been no time to continue the conversation.

  Now Hobley finished tying the Marquis’s white cravat and, stepping back to look at his handiwork, he said:

  “I think I ought to tell you, M’Lord, that Mr. Jethro has been in the village.”

  “When?” the Marquis asked sharply.

  “He was there yesterday, M’Lord,” Hobley replied. “I understand from one of the footmen who went to the post office this morning before luncheon that his curricle was outside The Green Man.”

  “What is he doing in the village, Hobley?” the Marquis enquired.

  “I can’t understand it, M’Lord. I should have thought that if Mr. Jethro was in the vicinity he would have called upon Your Lordship, but I understand he was making enquiries.”

  “About what?” the Marquis asked.

  “Your Lordships prolonged stay in the country, and also about Miss Saviya.”

  “Why should that interest him?” the Marquis asked almost to himself.

  Then as Hobley did not reply he asked:

  “How did you learn this?”

  “Henry—he’s the third footman, M’Lord—was in The Green Man yesterday when Mr. Jethro came in. He had two men with him, rather rough types, Henry thought.”

  “And he listened to their conversation?”

  “It was not hard for him to do so, M’Lord. I understand Mr. Jethro was talking to the Landlord about Your Lordship, and then this morning he was in conversation with Bob.”

  “And who is Bob?” the Marquis asked.

  “The new Pantry-Boy,” Hobley replied. “Mr. Bush had difficulty in finding one and he took on this boy who said he came from St. Albans. I’ve discussed it with Mr. Bush, M’Lord, and we thought, in the circumstances, it would be best if we dispensed with Bob’s services.”

  “You think,” the Marquis said slowly, “that he is relaying information about the household to Mr. Jethro?”

  “I should not be surprised, M’Lord. There was talk of money changing hands.”

  “Then dismiss him at once!” the Marquis said sharply. “I will not, as you well know, have any of my staff accepting bribes.”

  “We can’t be sure, M’Lord,” Hobley said, “that Bob knew Mr. Jethro before they got into conversation in The Green Man, but Mr. Bush did mention that the reference Bob brought with him was from Lord Portgate, who Your Lordship well knows is a close friend of Mr. Jethro.”

  The Marquis recalled a dissolute, drunken young peer who was frequently in his cousin’s company.

  “Dismiss the boy!” the Marquis said briefly and, having been helped into his perfectly fitting evening coat, he went downstairs to the Salon.

  There were only three for dinner—Sir Algernon Gibbon, Charles Collington and the Marquis.

  The Chef had excelled himself, and the wine served with every course was superlative. The Gentlemen lingered over their Port in the Dining-Room for a while and then repaired to the Salon.

  They had not been there long before Bush came across the room to say in a low voice to the Marquis:

  “There has been a slight accident to a lady’s coach, M’Lord. Apparently the leading horse broke its rein. The grooms say they can have it repaired within half of an hour. I thought Your Lordship should know that the lady is outside.”

  “Then of course she must not wait there,” the Marquis said. “Invite her in, Bush.”

  “Very good, M’Lord.”

  As the Butler le
ft the room the Marquis turned to his friends and remarked:

  “It appears we have company. I wonder if it is anyone we know.”

  “It is extremely annoying when a leading horse breaks its rein and one cannot control it,” Charles Collington said. “It happened once to me on the way back from Brighton. I damned nearly had an accident.”

  Before anyone could reply, the door opened and Bush said in an impressive tone:

  “Her Highness, Princess Kotovski, M’Lord.”

  The three gentlemen looked round to see a very elegant figure enter the room.

  The lady had obviously discarded her wraps and was attired in a dazzling evening gown of emerald green silk ornamented with tulle, caught with satin bows.

  The new tight waist had just been re-introduced into London and there was no doubt that as she advanced towards them down the Salon she had the most exquisite figure.

  Her face was even more arresting. She had black hair, with blue lights in it in the very latest fashion on top of her head, and her lovely eyes seemed very large in her oval face.

  There was a necklace of emeralds from the Ruckley collection round her neck, and the same stones glittered in her small ears and in a bracelet which was clasped over her long kid-gloves.

  The Marquis advanced to greet her.

  “May I welcome you, Highness, to my house? I am the Marquis of Ruckley and deeply regret that you should have had an accident on the high road.”

  “I was fortunate in that I was just passing your gates,” the newcomer replied in a musical voice, with a fascinating foreign accent. “Your grooms have been most obliging, My Lord, and I am extremely grateful.”

  “I am delighted we can be of service,” the Marquis replied. “You are in fact, Ma’am, relieving the monotony of a bachelor party. Allow me to introduce my friends—Sir Algernon Gibbon and Captain Charles Collington.”

  The lady dropped two extremely graceful curtsies and, having been seated on the damask sofa in front of the fire, accepted a glass of wine.

  The Marquis offered her dinner, but she declared that she had already dined before she left Brochet Hall where she had been staying.