Flight to Verechenko (4 page)

‘I can't stay, Lady Catherine. Lady Davencourt gave me strict instructions simply to leave the tray in the room.'

Catherine's eyes sparked with an expression that would have made her step-mother instantly wary. ‘Have you still got your passport and sailing ticket, Eleanor?'

‘Yes …'

‘And the Vishnetskis can't have heard yet that you're not going?'

‘I wouldn't know, your ladyship.'

Catherine's eyes gleamed. ‘ The next time you bring my tray, bring your passport, ticket and letter of introduction to Countess Vishnetskaya, and take this money and buy me a brown hair dye.'

‘Hair dye, Lady Catherine?' Eleanor asked horrified.

‘Yes. I helped you, Eleanor. Now I want you to help me. I'm going to the Vishnetskis' in your place.'

‘But you can't, Lady Catherine,' Eleanor said, aghast. ‘Not as a governess.'

‘Caroline told me your main duties would be to teach the children French and English. My French is far better than yours. Of course I can go.'

‘But Lady Catherine!' Eleanor's eyes were agonised.

‘There's nothing to be afraid of. You leave here next week. No one will ever know.'

Wretchedly Eleanor left the room and Catherine sat back on the bed, filled with determination. She would go as governess to the Vishnetskis and save her salary. When she had enough she would leave and join her grandmother in Paris. While she waited for Eleanor's return she carefully wrote a letter to the Countess. In it she explained that Mrs Oversley had been taken ill and could not write herself. That would take care of the discrepancies in handwriting. Then she wrote that any previous letter was to be ignored. Eleanor Cartwright would arrive as arranged.

That evening Eleanor brought Catherine all she had asked for and Catherine gave her the letter to post. Next day when Lady Davencourt swept into the bedroom, ready to do battle, she was pleasantly surprised at the effect two days of isolation and a diet of bread and water had had on her step-daughter. Submissively Catherine listened to her once more explain the necessity of marrying Dominic. Unwillingly, and with a tear or two, she acquiesced. Lady Davencourt breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief.

‘I'm glad you have come to your senses, Catherine. The Duchess has arranged a private dinner party for us on Saturday evening. You will meet Dominic then. Everything will have to be very quiet, of course. A private ceremony. Perhaps a pearl-grey dress in the circumstances.'

The boat sailed on Friday night. Briefly Catherine agreed that the pearl-grey would suit her very well. Lady Davencourt, unable to believe her good fortune, agreed.

Late on Thursday night Catherine dyed her hair, changing it from fiery red to a drab, dark brown. She drew it back, plaiting it in a bun, the way Eleanor did. The likeness was not startling, but they were both young and had the same coloured eyes, and perhaps, thought Catherine optimistically, the customs officer would have defective eyesight. She spent some time composing a goodbye note to her parents. Finally she wrote that she was leaving home rather than marry a man she didn't love, or suffer her step-mother's rage if she didn't. Then she packed her things into Eleanor's carpet-bag, tucked her ticket down her bodice, and waited for dawn. When it came, she crept stealthily from her home. This time for good.

That day was the longest in Catherine's life. Every foot-fall, every acccidental touch of her shoulder had her jumping like a frightened rabbit. Not till the first smoky light of dusk did she begin to relax. The docks were crowded with would-be passengers and stacks of cargo. Through the noise and confusion Catherine threaded her way to the
Gretel
, the small German cargo boat that was to take Miss Eleanor Cartwright to St Petersburg. All around her fond farewells were being said, tears shed. Dryeyed and exultant, Catherine stepped alone onto the gangplank and presented her ticket.

Her cabin was small but the porthole faced the docks. For the next couple of hours Catherine curled up on her bunk, watching the last of the cargo being loaded and last-minute passengers hurrying up the gangplank. A haze of fog was sweeping in from the sea when the horns finally blared and the sailors prepared to cast off. There was some confusion as a carriage sped to a halt, sending a pile of crates flying. A dark figure ran lightly to the dock side, taking the widening gap between quay and gangplank with an easy spring. Catherine's heart began to beat wildly. For a brief minute she had thought it was the dark-eyed stranger and then common sense asserted itself. The
Gretel
was a cargo boat; hardly the type of vessel her immaculately dressed rescuer would choose to travel in. For the hundredth time she remembered the abrasively masculine lines of his face and his kiss and wondered who he was. The fog horns blared and the cargo boat began to make its way down the Thames and into the North Sea. Whoever he was, she would never see him again.

The next morning she awoke to a violent pitching and tossing. She spent a few minutes adjusting to the motion of the boat and then dressed quickly, struggling along the swaying corridor and up on to the deck. A strong wind was blowing and above the boat gulls wheeled and screamed, diving down to scavenge whatever they could. The cold air had driven all but the hardiest passengers below. The movement of the boat had no adverse effect on Catherine. She found the vast expanse of plunging grey waves exhilarating. As she walked into the wind a fine rain blew against her face, whipping her cheeks with colour.

She ignored the admiring glances of a seaman coiling rope and continued along the deck, wondering what time breakfast would be served and if it would be palatable. As she approached the stern she stopped short. Not ten yards away from her, as impervious to the motion of the boat as herself, stood her rescuer.

Although he had his back towards her, there was no mistaking his air of easy assurance. The young man with him did not look to be enjoying his journey. His skin was pallid, his expression wretched. Her first instinct was to turn, her second to get a closer look at him. As he moved into profile and in the clear light of day, she saw that his complexion was honey-toned, almost gypsy like, and she wondered if perhaps he had Russian blood in his veins. His black hair was springy as heather, curling tightly in the nape of his neck and in the early morning sunshine he looked handsomer than ever. Her eyes were drawn to his mouth and as she remembered his kiss her face burned. He raised his head and before she could turn his eyes met hers, and his dark brows flew upwards in surprised recognition.

She turned in confusion, walking quickly away from him, but even as she did so she heard the quick tread of his feet following her, and then a hand was laid lightly on her arm, restraining her.

‘We seem to meet in the most unusual circumstances.' His voice held a note of laughter that brought the colour to her cheeks.

‘I would prefer to forget our first meeting, sir,' she said, struggling for composure. ‘ The circumstances were most unfortunate.'

This time there was no mistaking the amusement in the near black eyes.

‘
Most
unfortunate,' he agreed, falling into step beside her.

The warmth of his breath stirred on her neck and a tremor ran through her body. A gentleman would apologise for his previous behaviour and put her at her ease. Her companion seemed to have no such intention.

She avoided his gaze, knowing that if she held it any longer the colour would rise beneath her skin.

‘Where are you bound for?' he asked with easy familiarity.

It was obvious that no apology was to be forthcoming. Anger surged through her. His behaviour was disrespectful, insulting.

‘To St Petersburg—as a governess,' she replied tartly. Being a governess was the height of respectability and her admission would certainly put him in his place. But how much better to have been able to give him a real set-down and admit to being Lady Catherine Davencourt. She raged inwardly. Her subterfuge was already having drawbacks, and of the kind she had not envisaged.

She had caught his interest. ‘St Petersburg?' Winged eyebrows rose fractionally.

‘Yes. I am going as governess to the children of Countess Vishnetskaya.'

He stopped short, his eyes darkening in disbelief.

‘I hope you did not think I would be joining a more humble household,' Catherine said, glad that she had shaken his insufferable complacency.

‘Of course not.'

There was something in his voice that made her look at him. Was he laughing at her?

‘It just so happens that I am acquainted with the Vishnetski family.'

‘Oh!' Catherine was nonplussed.

There was unexpected kindness in his voice as he said, ‘Perhaps I could tell you a little about them?'

Catherine forgot his previous insolence and said with naive eagerness, ‘ Oh yes. I would like that.'

He smiled down at her and the breath caught in her throat. It was hard to remain angry with him when he looked at her with such frank appraisal. ‘The Countess is English, but then you will know that already?'

Catherine nodded, trying to remember frantically the sparse bits of information that Eleanor had passed on to her.

‘She is a very beautiful woman and a very sweet one.'

Catherine felt a surge of relief. Of her employer's beauty she was uncaring, but a kindly disposition would be of paramount importance.

‘I am sure you will enjoy the parties and balls in St Petersburg.'

Catherine looked at him quickly, sure that he was mocking her. The high-cheekboned face with the square-cut chin and well-shaped mouth betrayed nothing.

‘I am going as a governess, sir. Not as a visitor,' she said frostily.

‘Oh, but governesses are treated as family in Russia. It is not at all like England. It is quite common practice for governesses to attend the parties and balls given by their mistresses.'

Catherine stared at him aghast. The only dresses she had brought with her were those she had thought suitable for a governess. To have to endure parties and balls in serviceable high-necked dresses … The thought was appalling.

‘And it wouldn't suprise me if Princess Dagmar requested your services too. Mrs Oversley told me that on her last visit she requisitioned anyone of intelligence to accompany her.'

Catherine gasped, thrown into total confusion. It had never occurred to her that she would be mixing with ladies of such high rank as princesses, and as for the stranger at her side being acquainted with Mrs Oversley … She grasped the deck rail for support.

‘You look rather pale?' His deep-timbred voice was concerned.

Catherine looked away from him hastily, studying the heaving waves with undue concentration.

‘It is nothing; the motion of the boat. Do you know Mrs Oversley well?'

‘I said goodbye to her only yesterday. But if you're wanting anecdotes about the aristocracy, you are wasting your time.'

Catherine had to bite her lip to stop herself from telling him that the daughter of Lord Davencourt needed no anecdotes. And who was he anyway? Rude and condescending though he was, his face and figure were devastating. Yet Caroline had never mentioned any visitor that had made her heart beat faster. And Catherine was sure that if Caroline had met him she would have talked of nothing else for days. Before she could ask, he said drily, ‘And in St Petersburg, it won't be only lords and ladies you will be mixing with. It will be princes and princesses. The Princess Dagmar lives permanently at Verechenko.'

Despite herself, Catherine's interest was caught.

‘Is the Princess young?'

A slight smile tinged his mouth. ‘Princess Dagmar is eighty if she's a day.'

‘Oh.' Catherine was disappointed. An elderly princess was not very glamorous.

Reading her mind he said, ‘But her grandson, Kiril, is young and pretty enough for the two of them.'

This time there was no mistaking the underlying amusement in his voice. Catherine, because she did not understand what was amusing him, ignored the remark, refusing to show any interest in Prince Kiril. They had reached the companionway leading down to the dining saloon and she held her hand out stiffly to say goodbye. He took it lightly and to her complete consternation lifted it to his lips.

‘Perhaps we will meet again, Miss …'

‘Cartwright,' Catherine stammered as the heat of his lips seared the back of her hand.

‘I would be obliged if you would give my compliments to the Countess.'

‘But I don't know your name,' Catherine protested, her hand still held prisoner.

‘True.' His eyes held hers and she could see flecks of gold in the dark pupils. Time wavered and halted. He released her hand.

‘Dominic Harland, Marquis of Clare,' he said.

Catherine felt as if she had been physically struck. There was a thundering in her ears, and the face in front of her and the deck and the sea swam in a juggling kaleidoscope of colour and light. Tightly she held on to the rail. The pain in her chest crushed the breath out of her.

If he was aware of her consternation he showed no sign of it and his next words were like a knife wound. ‘I am gratified that you took my advice, Miss Cartwright, and changed your profession. Your present one does you credit. You can trust that I shall not breathe a word of your previous occupation to anybody in St Petersburg.'

Blindly Catherine turned away from him, pushing past the other passengers and hurrying into the dining saloon. How dare he speak to her in such a manner? How could fate be so cruel? Why, in a flight to escape a marriage of convenience to him, was she to be thrown into his company? And what, she thought suddenly, was he doing aboard the
Gretel
on his way to Russia, when he should have been waiting to meet her in London? The room steadied around her. She found some of the other passengers gazing at her curiously and with immense effort strove to breathe normally and appear calm. Not even her step-mother would be aware yet that she had fled. Was Dominic jilting her? It was typical of what she knew of him that he had offered to marry her and then reneged on it for the sheer amusement such an exercise would afford him. She clenched her teeth and fought back bitter tears. How could Robert, so sweet and kind, have possibly had a brother so utterly … utterly …