Dennis Wheatley - Duke de Richleau 07 (3 page)

After a second’s
hesitation, De Richleau said: “Since you believe that you could judge my true
character better if you saw my face, I will willingly unmask for you. But I
cannot do so here. Let’s find a quiet spot among Sir George’s lovely orchids.”

As he expected,
curiosity got the better of her prudence. “Very well, then,” she murmured with
a smile. “But you must not seek to detain me further, if I decide to return to
the ballroom immediately afterwards.”

Taking his arm
again, she allowed him to lead her down one of the colourful alleys until they
came to an unoccupied settee, concealed from its neighbours by great masses of
ferns and cymbidiums. Then, turning to face her, he took off his mask.

The light was
pleasantly subdued, but sufficient for her to see his lean, aristocratic
features. After she had regarded him in silence for a long moment, the corners
of his mouth twitched mockingly and he inquired:

“Well, what do
you think now, Mademoiselle? Am I a brutal beater of women, here to commit a
jewel theft in order to support my immoralities, or an honourable gentleman
whom your parents might consider a suitable
parti
for you if I
asked your hand in marriage?”

To his surprise
her blue eyes suddenly lit up, her mouth opened, showing two rows of strong
white teeth, and she burst out laughing. He could not even make a guess at the
cause of her mirth, but when it had subsided a little she stammered:

“My—my parents
are both dead, so that question will never arise; but I would take a bet that
with such features you are of noble blood. Perhaps, though, it is also true
about your being a rogue. You may be illegitimate.”

A swift flush
rose to De Richleau’s cheeks, his chin tilted, and his eyes sparkled
dangerously: but, not the least dismayed, she cried, “There! I have caught you
out. Since you show such resentment at the implication, it cannot be true. You
are neither an ogre nor a jewel thief. You have simply been seeing how far you
could lead me on for your own amusement.”

“Touch
é
!
” he smiled, his sense of humour at once getting the better of his
indignation. “I asked for that, and confess myself outwitted. The truth is that
I was invited here tonight, and there are plenty of people in London who would
vouch for my respectability.”

She pouted. “What
a horrid word. It is so often synonymous with dull.”

“You are
disappointed, then?”

“Just a little.
I never quite believed all that nonsense; but it intrigued me to think that you
might be of another world, and quite different from the polished, insincere men
of good birth whom I am always meeting.”

“Would it console
you somewhat if I tell you that I really can claim to be an adventurer? I am a
political exile, a big-game hunter, and a ‘soldier of fortune’.”

Her eyes
brightened, and sitting down she motioned him to sit beside her. “That sounds
far from respectable and very exciting. But surely you cannot be one of those
horrible nihilists who meet in cellars and plot to blow people up with bombs?”

“Dear me, no!”
he laughed. “I am only half Russian. My father was French, and it was from
France that I was exiled. As a young officer at the military college of St. Cyr
I took a leading part in an abortive conspiracy to place the Duc de Vend
ô
me
on the throne.”

“So you are a
royalist. That pleases me much better. The Duc de Vend
ô
me
is the last representative of the old line, is he not; and a descendant of the
great
Henri Quatre
by his beautiful mistress, Gabrielle d’Estr
é
es?”

De Richleau
nodded. It struck him as rather surprising that she should know anything of a
matter so far outside the skeleton of history ordinarily taught by governesses
and in schools, and he wondered if it was a true sample of a wider knowledge,
or just an isolated fact that she had picked up by chance. After a moment, he
added: “Unfortunately the affair miscarried badly. We were betrayed, and during
a mêlée caused by our resistance of arrest a number of people were killed. I
hated having to go into exile, but I suppose I should consider myself lucky to
have escaped with my life.”

“I should like
to hear the whole story,” she said. “But I doubt if there’s time for it now.
Another dance has just started, and I ought not to stay here much longer.”

“Why not? At a
masked ball like this all dance engagements are only tentative. Be kind, I beg,
my beautiful unknown. Forget the poor fellow to whom you promised this one, and
sit it out with me.”

“I may be
missed. Perhaps someone will be sent to find me.”

“Why should they
be? In any case, they would have to search for quite a time before they found
you here.”

“All right,
then. I will if you’ll tell me more about this exciting conspiracy in which you
nearly lost your life.”

“Willingly! But
first I would beg a favour. While you remain masked and I am not, you have me
at a disadvantage. It is like talking to a person wearing dark glasses. Will
you not reveal to me the lovely features that command the best partners at
every dance you grace with your presence?”

She shook her
head. “No. I mean to remain incognito till midnight.”

“Come!” he
rallied her. “If you persist in your refusal it will lead me to believe that
your face does not match your figure, and that good partners seek you out only
because they know you to be an excellent dancer.”

“Then you must
believe that, if you will.”

“It would
explain, too, why, as you said when we first met, that although you wish to be
married you fear that you may soon be left on the shelf.”

“I am not plain!”
she exclaimed with a flash of anger. “I am accounted the most beautiful—I mean,
very good looking. The papers are always publishing photographs of me. That is
my reason for not unmasking. You would be sure to recognize me if I did.”

He was amused by
her youthful conceit, that her features were so widely publicized that he would
be bound to know her at the sight of them: and, having deliberately nettled her
into asserting that she was a beauty, he did not hold it against her. With a
good-humoured shrug, he said:

“Very well,
then. If you will not unmask, at least tell me something of yourself. Although
you speak French very fluently, I am sure you are not French by birth. What is
your nationality?”

“I probably have
as much Bavarian blood as you have Russian,” she replied a little cryptically. “But
my mother was a Belgian.”

“And where do
you live?”

“In various
places on the Continent. I have relatives in Munich, with whom I spend a good
part of my time: but during the past two years I have been allowed to travel
quite a lot in order to complete my education. Tell me more about the Vend
ô
me
conspiracy.”

“We have ample
time for that. Tell me first what you have made of your life so far?”

She gave him a
puzzled look. “What a strange question! How can a girl like myself make
anything of her life? What she does, or may not do, is dictated for her by her
elders.”

“That does not
prevent her having her own ambitions.”

“True! Mine is
to make a suitable marriage, in which I may also find love—so that through my
own happiness I may be the better able to bring happiness to others.”

His shrewd eyes
regarded her with curiosity for a moment: then he remarked, “You said that
almost as though you were repeating a well-learned lesson.”

“Perhaps,
unconsciously, I was.” She gave a cynical little laugh. “My life so far has
consisted of little else than lessons. But the part about hoping for love was
my own idea.”

It occurred to
him that she was probably a great heiress, who might later be called on to
watch over the welfare of many thousands of workpeople in the industries that
her money controlled. Or, in view of her mixed parentage, she might be the
daughter of an American millionaire and, perhaps, had been brought up in Europe
with the idea of her marrying into the higher aristocracy, where she would have
to spend much of her time supervising charities and performing minor public
functions.

“You speak as
though you have been educated to take life very seriously,” he smiled, “and
were already suffering from the burden of great wealth. Am I right in guessing
that you inherited a fortune from your parents?”

“Yes. I am an
only child, and on my mother’s death I became very rich. But I have only the
vaguest ideas about the size of my fortune and how it is administered. In fact,
I really know very little about money at all.”

“Perhaps you
make up for that by knowing a lot about love?”

The yellow
diamonds in her diadem of stars sparkled as she shook her head. “Only at
second-hand, through books that I have read. I have been brought up very
strictly. Meeting a stranger like you to-night is quite an adventure for me.”

He leaned
forward. “I do not mean this impertinently; but, how old are you?”

“Nearly
twenty-five.”

“And do you
really mean to say that you have never yet had a serious love affair?”

“I was engaged
when I was twenty-one, but I had met my fiancé only about half a dozen times
before he fell overboard from a yacht and was drowned. He was younger than
myself and proved very shy on the few occasions we were left alone together.
So, although I rather liked the poor boy, I was only just getting to know him;
and one certainly could not call it a love affair.”

“And then?”

“A few months
later I had a serious hunting accident myself, so naturally no further plans to
marry me off could be considered for quite a time. I was twenty-three when my
next engagement was mooted. The man proposed for me was considerably older than
I was and, although I respected him, I found him rather a bore, so I was by no
means keen about the match. Fortunately for me there were religious difficulties
which could not be surmounted, and after months of fruitless attempts to get a
dispensation from the Holy See the project had to be abandoned. Then, last
year, I lost my mother, so I was sent on my travels again to occupy the period
of mourning. Can you wonder that I feel it high time now to find a husband?”

“Not in the
least. Yet, with your fine figure and lovely colouring, plus the beautiful face
you persist in hiding from me, I marvel that both at home and on your travels a
score of eligible young men have not sought to make love to you.”

She hesitated. “My—my
family have rather grand ideas about the term ‘eligible’, in connection with
myself.”

“Naturally! As
you are an heiress, they would do their utmost to protect you from fortune
hunters. But what of your own feelings? Surely, during the past few years you
must have met someone who attracted you?”

Opening her fan,
she began to flutter it gently, and replied with a reminiscent smile: “When I
was fourteen I used to weave the most marvellous romances round a handsome
gardener’s boy, who tended the flower beds underneath my windows. But, of
course, he never knew it. Then, for the best part of a year, I was desperately
in love with my music master. He knew, I’m sure, and returned my love; but he
never had the courage to declare himself. Since then, there have been several
young men that I rather fancied, but immediately they showed their interest in
me they were warned off. One sent me flowers secretly for a few weeks, and
another poems. But I suppose both of them were found out, as the flowers and
poems stopped arriving without any apparent reason. I often wish that I could
change places with some little shop girl. As it is, I am the prisoner of my
circumstances. If it were not for the prospect of marriage I might just as well
be a nun in a convent.”

De Richleau saw
nothing beyond the bounds of reasonable possibility in this pathetic story. In
England, at that date, unmarried girls of good family were rarely allowed to go
out shopping without their mothers, and when they did were always accompanied
by a maid; while on the Continent young women of position were still more
carefully guarded from the possible attentions of undesirable males. Even
engaged couples were allowed to be alone together only within earshot of their
elders, and to conduct a clandestine affair bristled with danger and
difficulties. Yet it did strike him as strange that his obviously lovely
partner should have reached the age of twenty-four without having acquired a
single swain with the audacity to secure a succession of rendezvous with her,
however innocent and fleeting.

After a moment’s
consideration, he decided that he did not believe it. Her full mouth, fresh
complexion, and limpid eyes all suggested
th. it
she
was far from cold by temperament. On her own confession, it was ten years since
she had first become conscious of the opposite sex. In all that time it seemed
incredible that she had not had a single active love affair. Suddenly, it
occurred to him that she, in her turn, was amusing herself at his expense. Just
as he had pretended to be cruel and dissipated, so she was now acting the role
of the maiden in the ivory tower.