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

“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—

“Anyway 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.”

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.