Dennis Wheatley - Duke de Richleau 07 (26 page)

“Pray pardon,
Altess.
I was told to give you this on Wednesday, but they said
you’d gone away. I was to give it into your own hands, so I didn’t dare to
leave it. They said you’d be back some time though, and it’s been burning a
hole in my pocket ever since. Last night, when I inquired again, they said you
had returned; and just now the porter pointed you out to me.”

As the Duke took
the letter she bobbed him another curtsy, exclaimed
“Küss
die hand, Altess”
and hurried away.

For a moment he
stared after her, then he glanced at the envelope. The writing was unknown to
him, and he was a little surprised to see that it was addressed not to Count, K
ö
nigstein
as were nearly all the letters he received in Vienna, but to M. le Duc de
Richleau.

On tearing it
open he saw that it was in German on plain paper that bore no address or date.
It had no formal beginning, and was not signed. Its single paragraph read:

Can I possibly hope that
you are not altogether disgusted with me? I had looked forward to Monday night
so much, but my inexperience and nerves ruined everything. I was hateful to you
but I did not mean one word I said. I was so furious with myself afterwards
that I ran a temperature and developed one of my attacks of coughing. So today
they are keeping me in bed, and on Thursday they intend to send me to Ischl.
But nothing shall stop me going for a drive in the Prater on Wednesday
afternoon. If you can still think kindly of me, I beg you to be there and wear
a white gardenia in your buttonhole as a sign of your forgiveness.

De Richleau’s
slender hands trembled slightly as he re-folded the letter and put it back into
its envelope. Already, it was beginning to dawn on him what a fearful struggle
it must have meant before a granddaughter of the Emperor Franz Joseph could
have brought herself to put such thoughts on paper. For the letter could be
only from Ilona.

De
Richleau
went straight up to his room and
re-read the letter twice. Then he kissed it. For a moment he felt rather
foolish, as it was a long time since he had done that to a letter from a woman.
Nevertheless, he kissed it again and sat for some time dreamily making mental
pictures of Ilona as he had seen her: at Dorchester House; on the boat in the
storm; in her sky-blue uniform at the Horse Show; and, lastly, at the Czernins’
ball.

That had been
eight days ago. In the interim his mind had been so fully occupied with his
mission that he had very nearly, but not quite, succeeded in keeping her image
out of it. After her dismissal of him he had made a great effort to do so, and
had endeavoured to persuade himself that he was well out of trouble. But that
thought had been mainly engendered by anxiety lest a clandestine love affair
with an Archduchess should lead to his being arrested, or ordered to leave
Vienna, and so seriously jeopardize the success of his secret work.

With a slow
smile he savoured the thought that he need no longer worry himself on that
score. He was now a free man again. There was no reason whatever why he should
not give full rein to his natural instincts, and use his ingenuity to secure
secret rendezvous with the lovely Ilona if she were willing to meet him half
way. But he must still be careful— very careful—for her sake now more than his
own.

The thought of
her illness distressed him greatly, and he prayed fervently that it would not
prove of a serious nature. Yet, owing to it, things might prove easier for
them. There should be far less difficulty about managing to see her alone at
Bad Ischl than there would have been in Vienna.

His quick mind
at once began to plan. Poor sweet, she must have been very disappointed not to
see him in the Prater last Wednesday; and evidently she had left Vienna before
her sewing-woman—or whoever it was she had chosen as her messenger—had been
able to tell her that she had been unable to deliver her letter. He must see
her as soon as possible, and let her know that he had failed to keep the
appointment only because he had already left Vienna before herself. To get to
Ischl he would have to change at Linz. If he left within the next two or three
hours he could catch a train that would get him to the great railway junction
that evening. It was unlikely that there would be a night train on, but he
could stay the night in an hotel there and be in Ischl by the following
mid-day.

Quickly he took
out the half dozen invitations to which he had sent acceptances, meaning to
write notes excusing himself after all, on the plea that an unexpected turn in
his affairs made it necessary for him to leave Vienna. Then his eye fell on
that of the Duchess of Hohenberg, to luncheon on Wednesday. Tapping the card
thoughtfully on the table, he wondered if it would not be wise to remain for
that.

No opportunity
must be neglected which would help to cover his affair with Ilona, and the
Duchess, he believed, could be made to serve as a very valuable stalking horse
for that. In her anomalous position she was far from being as unapproachable as
the officially accepted wife of an Heir Apparent would have been, yet her
marriage rendered her a conspicuous figure in Viennese society. That society
took no exception to its married ladies indulging in flirtations, providing
they were not carried to a point that gave grounds for scandal. She was gay,
intelligent, and had already shown her interest in him. The odds were that she
would welcome him as a new beau; and it was unlikely that Franz Ferdinand would
object to his wife receiving the gallant but harmless attentions which De
Richleau had in mind. If he could create the right impression, Vienna would
soon be talking of him as ‘the Chotek’s’ latest catch, and curious eyes would
be much less likely to notice his interest in Ilona.

There was
another thing. It would be a bad beginning to turn up at a small place like
Ischl without due preparation. He must think of some method by which he could
establish himself there very discreetly, and so run the minimum risk of
compromising Ilona by his presence.

These reasons
for postponing his departure were both on Ilona’s account rather than on his
own; so he felt that they justified him in leaving her for an additional
forty-eight hours in the unhappy belief that she had ruined her own budding
romance. Accordingly, he wrote notes cancelling only the invitations he had
accepted which were for dates later than the 20th.

Next morning he
woke full of ideas about his projected visit to Ischl and, as soon as he was
dressed, went out shopping. First, at a big outfitters, he bought a complete
Tyrolean costume—cut-away jacket, green velveteen shorts, gay shirt, long white
stockings, heavy brogues, a felt hat with a cord round it and a brush sticking
up from its back, and an alpenstock. Then he went to a theatrical costumers and
selected a pair of bushy grey side-whiskers similar to those of the Emperor
also purchasing some fine white rice-powder for whitening his hair and
eyebrows.

Bringing his
purchases back with him in a cab to Sacher’s, he tried on the clothes and made
himself up. After studying his image carefully in the bathroom mirror, he was
quite satisfied with the effect. A false moustache or beard would have given
him constant trouble, but the spirit gum held the side-whiskers firmly in place
without causing him the least inconvenience. He had used only enough powder on
his dark hair and devil’s eyebrows to turn them grey, but the general result
altered his appearance sufficiently to make him look fifteen years older, and
unrecognizable by anyone who did not know him fairly intimately. Having washed
the powder out of his hair and changed back into his ordinary clothes, he went
out to a luncheon party at the Countess Warsberg’s and thoroughly enjoyed
himself.

At one-fifteen
on the Wednesday, he presented himself at the
Oberes Belvedere.
Compared with the other Imperial Palaces it was quite small, but its stucco
work on the grand staircase was by Bussi and made it a gem of Baroque art. The
party consisted of some twenty people, several of who were already known to
him. So, after greeting his host and hostess, he was immediately drawn into a
cheerful group of fellow guests. Then, when they went in to luncheon he found
to his great satisfaction that, as the only non-Viennese present, the Duchess
had given him the place of honour on her right.

He took an early
opportunity of excusing himself from having failed to call on her by the glib
lie that, at times, he suffered severely from migraine, which made him fit
company for nobody, and had had about the preceding week which had caused him
to take himself off to the country until the attack had passed. She then
devoted herself for a while to her other neighbour. When she turned back to him
later in the meal he was ready to launch out on his usual policy with women
whom he wished to intrigue, of making some remark that would either shock or
astound them.

It was, of
course, strictly taboo to make any reference to her equivocal status before
her, but, lowering his voice, he said with a bland smile: “You know, for your
Highness’ friends there are at least some compensations for your never having
been recognized as a member of the Imperial family.”

Her dark eves
flashed and she bristled perceptibly as she replied: “I can think of none, but
perhaps you would enlighten me.”

“Why,” he
murmured, “had you been, it would be impossible for your male guests to send
you flowers in recognition of your hospitality. Whereas, as things are, I trust
that His Imperial Highness will not object to my sending you the finest orchids
I can procure in Vienna to-morrow.”

Instantly she
relaxed and returned his smile. “Duke, I like you very much. You have the touch
of the true noblesse which does not always go with a long pedigree. You address
me as Highness, to which rank I am not strictly entitled, yet propose to pay me
a courtesy which must please any woman. Of course my husband would not object.
His greatest pleasure is to see men of distinction, such as yourself, pay me
nice compliments, as some compensation for my difficult position.”

From that point
they got on like a house on fire, finding many intellectual interests in
common, until luncheon was over and the ladies withdrew. While the men were
having their coffee and liqueurs the Archduke drew De Richleau into the
conversation, and asked him how he was enjoying his stay in Vienna. But he
seemed to have forgotten his previous wish to be informed about the state of
the Turkish army, and the Duke saw no point in reminding him of it.

They joined the
ladies in a lofty drawing-room with walls panelled in yellow silk, Louis Seize
furniture, and cabinets of Sevres porcelain. The Duchess soon disposed of the
ladies who were talking to her and beckoned De Richleau over. As he seated
himself at her side on a long settee, she said:

“Duke, I have a
favour to ask you.”

He made a slight
bow. “Your Highness has only to command me.”

“It is this,” she
went on after a slight pause. “You are doubtless aware that, although I am at
present legally debarred from sharing the Imperial throne with my husband, the
law of Hungary makes me its Queen designate. But the Hungarians are a curious
people: unfortunately they cherish a particular hatred for the Czechs, and I am
of that nation. On Friday the 29th the Minister-President of Hungary, Count Tisza,
is coming here to dine. It is the first time he has accepted an invitation to
do so, and his influence with his compatriots is immense, so I am extremely
anxious to strengthen my position by ensuring that he should carry away a good
impression of me.”

“How could he
fail to do so?” murmured the Duke courteously.

“Flatterer!” she
smiled.

“On the
contrary; if he is even remotely human your Highness will twist him round your
little finger.”

“I am reasonably
confident of my own ability to get on good terms with him,” she said seriously.
“But I need someone else—someone other than my husband—to give him cause to
believe that I should make a good Queen of Hungary. What is more, I shall; if
only the Hungarians will let me. Like my own people, they have suffered much
under Austrian rule, so my natural sympathies are with them; and since their
generous law will make me Queen, as opposed to the Austrian which prevents my
becoming Empress, I already feel myself their debtor. My friends in Vienna
would be embarrassed to speak to Count Tisza upon such a subject, and even if
any of them did he would consider them prejudiced. But you, although you have
inherited an Austrian title, are in all other respects a foreigner; yet one who
is the friend of kings and so well qualified to express an independent opinion
of some weight. Count Tisza is a very intelligent man, so you should get on
well with him. Will you oblige me by dining here on the 29th and seeking an
opportunity to say something in my favour?”

“Gladly,” replied
De Richleau, feeling that it was a request that he could not possibly refuse. “But
I trust your Highness will forgive me if I do not call on you in the meantime,
as I am committed to leave Vienna to-night to join some friends for a
mountaineering holiday in the Tyrol. However, if you wish it, I will make a
point of returning for your dinner.”