Dennis Wheatley - The Shadow of Tyburn Tree

"Madame; to be with you is to lose all regret that I ever left it," he replied gallantly; thinking once more what a lucky evening it was for mm; since the friendship of the charming woman at his side might prove not only delightful in itself but of considerable value in his mission.

As they were moving back towards the end of the room where the Queen sat surrounded by a little court, Roger suddenly caught sight of the green-eyed girl. She was, as he had supposed, very slim, and definitely good-looking in a queer, unusual way.

"Can you tell me, Madame?" he asked quickly. "Who the tall fair lady is, over there? The one wearing the splendid emeralds and in a primrose dress covered with little silver stars."

The Marquise shot him a sideways glance from her china-blue eyes and asked in a slightly piqued voice: "Are you attracted by her?"

"Nay, Madame," he lied. "I could not be attracted by anyone while in your company. 'Tis only that on the way here her coach broke down, and I carried her and her elderly cavalier here in mine."

"You are forgiven," smiled the Marquise. "But even had you been, I would have been charitable enough to warn you to beware of her. She is a young widow with a curiously malicious turn of humour. 'Tis said that her favours can be won, but when she tires of her beaux she has a most unpleasant trick of making fools of them afterwards. Her name is Natalia Andreovna Stroganof and she is the daughter of the Russian Ambassador, Count Razumofsky."

Roger saw that the green-eyed lady had also recognised him, and was now regarding him with a seductive little smile. As he smiled back he could hardly believe his good fortune in having so swiftly and effort­lessly acquired an entree into the heart of both the French and Russian camps. It seemed indeed a lucky evening; but had he been able to fore­see the future he would have fled the ballroom there and then.

CHAPTER IX

THE: UNCROWNED QUEEN

WHENthey reached the outer fringe of the Queen's circle, Madame de Pons told Roger to remain where he was, and went forward herself to speak to her Royal guest. After a moment she returned to say that she had obtained permission to present him, then led him forward to make his bow.

The Queen smiled wistfully at him and beckoned to him with her fan. As he advanced, bowing again with each step, he wondered why she looked so sad and had been referred to by the Marquise as "this poor, unhappy Queen." He knew nothing about her except that she was the sister of Christian VII, the mad King of Denmark, and had been married to Gustavus of Sweden for some twenty years.

On learning that he had just arrived from Copenhagen she inquired after her brother and her nephew the Prince Regent, then, after a few minutes of not very inspiring conversation she said she hoped that Roger would enjoy his stay in Sweden, and gave him her hand to kiss as a sign that the audience was over.

As soon as he was free Roger went in search of the green-eyed lady, now more determined than ever to pursue his acquaintance with her, not only from pleasure but as the best possible line for gaining information which would be useful to him in his task.

He found that she was dancing with a tall fair man of about thirty, and after a moment, noticed that his left hand was encased in a black kid glove; so he was evidently the masked gallant who had claimed her earlier in the evening. Roger waited patiently for the dance to end, then followed the couple as they left the ballroom with the intention of learning where they meant to sit out, and giving them ten minutes or so together before making another attempt to persuade the young widow to give him a dance.

Green-eyes and her escort went down the grand staircase and entered a salon on its right, where a handful of people were partaking of refresh­ments from a long buffet. As Roger followed he saw a fat elderly man, who was standing by himself, set down his glass of wine, bow to the girl and say something to her cavalier; upon which both men bowed to her, evidently asking her permission to have a word apart; she nodded to them and went on alone through a doorway into a further room.

Seeing his opportunity Roger hastened his pace, passed the two men, who were now conversing earnestly together, and followed his quarry into the next room. In one glance he saw that it was a small library and empty except for the girl, who had advanced to the window and was standing with her back towards him. With a wicked little smile he softly closed the door behind him and shot the bolt.

On hearing his footfall she turned and gave an exclamation of surprise at seeing Roger instead of her cavalier.

As he stood there smiling at her he had his first opportunity of really taking in her features. Natalia Andreovna was twenty-five years of age. Her bust was small, almost flat for that period when abundant curves were the fashion, and this gave the impression that she was even thinner than was in fact the case. Above her green eyes, narrow, darkish eyebrows slanted upwards towards her temples in strange contrast to her ash-blonde hair. Her cheekbones were high; her face a long oval. Her nose was short and her mouth thin, but her head was beautifully set on a long swan-like neck. Her physical charms were unusual but strongly compelling.

Raising the tapering eyebrows she said with feigned hauteur: "What means this, Monsieur?"

Roger retained his impudent grin and bowed. "Merely the claim­ing of the promise you made me, Madame."

"I made you no promise."

"By inference you did. 'Twas at your suggestion that we retained our incognito until midnight. And the reason you gave for that was that it would be more romantic to do so. No romance could flourish in a crowd, so I assumed that I had your permission to seek you out alone."

Her eyes held no anger but a faint amusement as they ran over his tall, muscular figure, his healthily-bronzed face, strong white teeth and long, well-made hands.

"Permit me to make myself known to you," he went on. "I am the Chevalier de Breuc, of Strasbourg, and your most humble servant. Nay, more. If you would have it so, I am already your adoring slave."

She smiled. "And I am the Baroness Stroganof, but. . . ." The door handle rattled sharply; then there came a swift knock on the door.

" 'Tis my partner, Count Yagerhorn!" she exclaimed.

Roger put his finger to his lips to enjoin silence, tiptoed quickly forward, took her by the hand and turning her about pulled her gently towards the window.

"Monsieur!" she whispered. "What—what are you about to do?"

"Why, carry you off," he whispered back with a low laugh. "Is not climbing in and out of windows the very essence of romance?"

The knocking came again, louder and more imperative.

"But Count Yagerhorn!" she protested quickly. "I cannot leave him thus. And your having locked the door compromises me sadly. Unless you let him in at once and make him an apology he may challenge you to fight."

Roger had thrust up the lower half of the window. It was only a four foot drop to the broad stone terrace that overlooked the bay.

" 'Tis against my religion to apologise to any man," he declared gaily. "But if the Count wishes to fight let me at least rob him of more than two minutes' converse with you as a cause for shedding his blood. Come, I will go first, and catch you as you jump."

Suiting the action to the word he scrambled out on to the terrace and, turning, held up his arms to her.

She leaned forward, her green eyes narrowed in a speculative look. "You seem mightily cocksure of a victory, Monsieur. I wonder are you truly as bold as your words imply?"

"Try me, and see," he laughed, stretching up to take her hand. "I'd fight half-a-dozen men for a kiss from you."