The Cruel Count (Bantam Series No. 28) (2 page)

“You are too imaginative, Vesta,” she used to say. “You have got to learn to be more practical, more down-to-earth! It is no use living in a fairy-tale world!”

It was, Vesta had told herself severely, her most regrettable fault, and yet she found it hard to cure herself of what at times could be a magical experience.

She remembered two or three years ago hearing her father and mother discussing her when they did not realise she could overhear what they were saying.

“I am worried about Vesta,” the Duchess had said.

“Why?” the Duke enquired.

“She is so introspective. She is not the least like the other girls. She lives in some fanciful world of her own and half the time is unaware of what is going on around her.”

“Perhaps that is a good thing,” the Duke smiled.

“It is nothing of the sort!” the Duchess snapped. “Vesta expects too much of people. She always thinks they will live up to her own ideals.”

“Then she will be disappointed,” the Duke predicted.

“She will be hurt and unhappy,” the Duchess said, “because when one expects so much there are always deep disappointments.”

She sighed.

“Vesta is too sensitive, too introspective, too imaginative.”

“She will grow out of it,” the Duke said firmly.

But Vesta knew she had not grown out of it. If anything, her imagination had increased as she grew older.

But she had promised herself before she left England that she would be very circumspect, very sensible, and not surprised by anything however different, however unaccountable it might seem.

“I must not expect too much of anyone,” she had said and knew that what she really meant was of one person in particular.

She walked across the room feeling restless and again a little afraid. Should she go for a walk by the Quay or should she just wait hoping someone would arrive?

Because she felt so restless she forced herself to sit down in an arm-chair.

There was no fire in the big grate which in the winter could hold a huge log of wood. There was something rather empty and comfortless about it now, and Vesta felt her spirits sinking lower and lower.

It was then she heard voices outside in the passage. There was a loud voice speaking authoritatively and beyond doubt in a cultured manner.

She could not understand what was being said but she thought that here at last the welcoming party had arrived. Instinctively she stiffened a little, sitting more upright in her chair.

The Duchess had said to her as she left:

“Remember to be dignified, Vesta. You have every reason to be proud of your breeding and your father’s importance. And you are English. Hold your head high, and remember, whatever happens, not to show emotion.”

“I will try, Mama,” Vesta said meekly.

Now she hoped her face was expressionless as the door was flung open and a man strode into the room.

Despite her resolution Vesta could not help feeling surprised at his appearance.

He had thick black hair, broad shoulders but a narrow-hipped, thin and wiry figure. She thought she had never seen a man with such an arresting face!

His features were sharp cut with a high-bridged nose between two hard penetrating dark eyes which stared at her so searchingly that she felt embarrassed.

‘His manner is impertinent!’ she thought.

She noted with astonishment that his clothes were covered in dust, the polish of his boots almost obscured by it, and instead of a cravat round his neck, his shirt was open showing the sunburnt skin of his neck and chest.

“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 the 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.”