Dennis Wheatley: The Sultan's Daughter

That famous critic, Howard Spring, wrote of The Launching of Roger Brook, 'I look forward with pleasure to the spectacle of Roger Brook turning the Scarlet Pimpernel pale pink.'

Since then Roger's exploits as Prime Minister Pitt's most resourceful secret agent, and his hectic love-affairs, have gained him a permanent place among the leading characters in period fiction.

That, in part, is due to his adventures always being presented against a background of the facts of history. Dennis Wheatley never takes liberties with dates or events. These, and the portrayal of such famous people as General Bonaparte, Josephine, Nelson, Emma Hamilton, Sir Sidney Smith, Djezzar Pasha, Talleyrand and Fouché—all of whom play large parts in the present story—are in accordance with the most reliable sources. Even the accounts of the capture of the heroine's mother by Barbary pirates and of Napoleon's shocking mental collapse on the fateful 18th Brumaire are strictly authentic.

From the England of 1798 the reader accompanies Napoleon on his conquest of Egypt; then witnesses Nelson's brilliant victory at the Battle of the Nile, Sir Sidney Smith's heroic defence of Acre, the escape of King Ferdinand and Queen Caroline from Naples and, finally, is taken behind the scenes during Napoleon's desperate gamble for supreme power. Meanwhile, Roger himself is in almost constant peril and, driven crazy by his passion for the beautiful half-French, half-Turkish Zanthd, risks ruin and death in order to sleep with her.

Dennis Wheatley's books sell over a million copies a year; so it is safe to say that many more than a million people are eagerly awaiting this tour de force by The Prince of Thriller Writers. They will not be disappointed.

for DERRICK MORLEY

Ambassador Extraordinary and 'Most Secret' during the years we spent together in the Offices of the War Cabinet and for MARIE JOSE,

this tale of great days in France. With my love to you both

DENNIS

The Great Risk

It was late on a dismal February afternoon in the year 1798. For the past ten days the weather had been so bad in the Channel that no ship had dared to put out from the little harbour of Lymington with a reasonable hope of running the blockade and safely landing a passenger, or a cargo of smuggled goods, on the coast of France.

But in the lofty rooms of Grove Place, the home of Admiral Sir Christopher Brook, a small, square mansion looking out across the Solent to the Isle of Wight, it was warm and quiet. The heavy curtains were already drawn, shutting out the winter cold and the steady pattering of the rain. In the dining room the soft light of the candles glinted on the silver and crystal with which the mahogany table was laid. Opposite each other sat two people— the Admiral's son Roger and his guest Georgina, the widowed Countess of St. Ermins. They had just finished dinner.

Suddenly Roger pushed back his chair, looked directly into the lovely face of his companion and declared, 'Georgina, I must be the stupidest fellow alive in that despite all the opportunities I've had, I've lacked the sense to force you into marrying me.'

Georgina's dark curls danced as she threw back her head and gave her rich low laugh. 'What nonsense, Roger. We have oft discussed the matter and-'

'Aye,' he interrupted, * and reached the wrong conclusion. God never put breath into a couple more suited to share the trials and joys of life; and you know it.'

He was just over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and slim hips. His brown hair swept back in a high wave from a fine forehead. Below it a straight, aggressive nose stood out between a pair of bright blue eyes. From years of living dangerously as Prime Minister 'Billy* Pitt's most resourceful secret agent, his mouth had become thin and a little hard, but the slight furrows on either side of it were evidence of his tendency to frequent laughter. His strong chin and jaw showed great determination, his long-fingered hands were beautifully modelled, and his calves, when displayed in silk stockings, gave his tall figure the last touch of elegance.

She was a head shorter, and the full curves of her voluptuous figure were regarded in that Georgian age as the height of feminine beauty. Her face was heart-shaped, her eyes near-black, enormous and sparkling with vitality. Her eyebrows were arched and her full, bright-red lips disclosed at a glance her tempestuous and passionate nature.

But, apart from the physical attractions with which both of them had been blessed, Roger was right in his contention that neither had ever met another human being in whose company each had known so much happiness.

After a moment Georgina shrugged her fine shoulders, smiled and said, 'Dear Roger, that no two lovers could have had more joy of one another I'd ne'er deny; but marriage is another thing. We agreed long since that did we enter on wedlock the permanent tie would bring ruin to our love. 'Tis because I have been your mistress for only brief periods between long intervals that the flame of our desire for one another has never died.'

' Of that you cannot be certain, for we have never put it to the test. Besides, physical desire is but one ingredient of a successful marriage. Another factor is that we both have young children. That you care for my little Susan like a daughter and let her share your Charles's nursery is a debt 111 find it hard ever to repay; but it would be far better for them if we were legally united, so that we became "mother" and "father" to both.'

' In that you have an argument I find it difficult to refute, for I know none I'd as lief have to bring up my little Earl to be a proper man. Yet it does not shake my opinion that other considerations outweigh it.'

'I'll revert, then, to the point I made a moment since. It was that we have never made trial of our passion for long enough to form an idea of how durable it might prove. Look back, I pray you, on our past. There was that one unforgettable afternoon when I was but a boy and you seduced me-'

'Fie, sir! Seduced you, indeed! Tis always the man who-'

'Fiddlesticks, m'dear. You had already allowed another to rob

you of your maidenhead, whereas I-

' Pax! Pax! ' Georgina laughed. 'Let's say that both of us had just reached an age when there was naught for it but to succumb to the hot blood of our natures.'

'So be it,' he smiled back. 'But that was in the summer of '83 and it was well on in the autumn of '87 before I held you in my arms again. After a few months of bliss we had to separate once

more, and then-'

Georgina gave a sudden giggle. 'I'll ne'er forget that night in '90 when we made our pact that if I accepted my Earl you would marry Amanda. Then we slept together.'

'And, shame upon us,' Roger smiled, 'became lovers again for the six weeks before our respective marriages. But after that we played fair by our spouses. At least you did, although I deceived Amanda four years later with Athenais de Rochambeau and she me with the Baron de Batz. It was not until I got back from the West Indies in the spring of '96 that, after near six years and Amanda's death, I once more shared your bed.'

'We had that glorious spring together, though. Three whole months of bliss.'

'Could I have foreseen that our idyll was to be so abruptly terminated through that fiend Malderini, I'd not have been content to spend those months lotus-eating, but would have persuaded you then to marry me.'

'No, Roger! No! Years before that we had decided that to marry would be to court disaster.'

He shrugged. 'Anyway, I missed my chance and was forced to flee the country. While I was travelling in India and with General Bonaparte in Italy, another eighteen months sped by. This Christmas brought me the sweetest present I could ever wish for— your lips on mine the night after my return. Yet here we are a bare six weeks later and I must once more tear myself away from you.'