An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition

by Cartland, Barbara

  Iona gave a little sigh. She wished she dare open the small packet, which contained the miniature, and compare it with her own reflection here in the castle. Had they been mistaken in thinking there was some resemblance? Was it just imagination and the wish for an excuse to bring her over here? A thousand fears seemed to whisper themselves in her ears. The whole scheme seemed at this moment ridiculous and crazy. Perhaps this very night she would be unmasked and taken to the prison at Fort Augustus. Then she stilled her imaginings. She was afraid of prison, but even more afraid of failing the Prince and those who trusted her.

  She moved from the mirror across the room to where she had first stood. At any moment now the Duchess might be coming to her. At least she had not refused to see her! Now for the first time Iona thought of the Duchess as a person. Until now she had been so intent on thinking of the Duke because of his importance to the Cause that she had given little thought to this woman whose daughter she must pretend to be.

  Quite suddenly she was ashamed. Supposing the Duchess believed her story, supposing she welcomed her with joy as the child she had mourned. Could anything be more cruel, more bestial than to deceive a mother? Iona was in that instant horrified at what she was about to do. It was wrong, wrong, because her pretence might hurt and deceive another woman!

  Wildly Iona looked round her as if for some way of escape. It was then that two footmen, who bowed as a woman passed between them, opened the double doors at the far end of the room.

  For a second Iona could not look up. Her hands were clenched together tightly and not felt as if her heart lay heavy as a stone in the centre of her body. At last she forced herself to raise her eyes.

  She had a quick impression of a slight figure with powdered hair dressed high in the latest fashion, of a thin face with a down-turned, petulant mouth, of glittering jewels, of rustling silks and velvet bows, and of long white fingers holding a lace handkerchief, then confused she swept the ground in a deep curtsey.

  Only as she rose was she aware that she was looking into a face which bore no resemblance whatsoever to the miniature. The Duchess scrutinised her with narrowed eyes.

  “They told me you had come from France,” she said, “I was expecting someone else. Who are you?”

  There was a sharp note in her voice, which better than anything else seemed to bring Iona to her senses. Her heart-searching and fears were swept away. Here was no bereaved mother to be deceived and hoaxed. There had been a mistake somewhere, what it was she did not know, but of one thing she was certain – the sharp, metallic note of the Duchess’s voice hid no aching, anxious heart.

  Resolutely Iona spoke up.

  “I hope you will forgive my troubling you, ma’am, but I have come to Skaig Castle with – a strange story and one to which I believe in justice you will grant a hearing.”

  “They said you came from France,” the Duchess repeated. “You have a special message for me? An introduction?”

  There was something insistent about her questions. Iona shook her head.

  “No, ma’am, I have no introduction. I know no one in France who has the honour of your acquaintance.”

  The Duchess made an impatient gesture as she turned and walked across the room to sit herself in a high-backed chair.

  “It is intolerable that I should be deceived by such messages,” she said. “Strangers are not admitted to my presence without good reason.”

  “Please believe me, ma’am, when I say that I have good reason,” Iona answered. “Here is a letter which I would beg Your Grace to read. I have also two articles to show you.”

  “A letter? Then you have been sent to me?” the Duchess said eagerly. “Who is it from?”

  “A priest, ma’am. Father Quintin by name.”

  The Duchess sank back in her chair and the eagerness faded from her face.

  “I never heard of him,” she said petulantly. “Well, since you are here, you had best explain your presence and be quick about it for we dine at six o’clock.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Iona was calm now. Her mind was clear. Perhaps the Duchess had once been good-looking, but any beauty she possessed had faded and her whole face contained only a querulous expression of nervous irritation. Her eyes were sunk into her head and there were deep lines running from her pinched nose to the comers of her thin lips. Unattractive, despite the elaborate coiffure and expensive gown, it was obvious that the Duchess was a middle-aged woman.

  Iona knew now that there had been some mistake. It was impossible for this to be the mother of the child who had been drowned, and she remembered Hector’s warning that Colonel Brett was not always accurate about details.

  “Well, hurry, girl,” the Duchess commanded, “and explain your business.”

  “Seventeen years ago,” Iona said quietly, “the Duke of Arkrae’s yacht was sunk in the English Channel.”

  “That is true enough,” the Duchess interrupted. “What of it?”

  “Aboard that yacht,” Iona went on, “there was the Duke’s little daughter, Lady Elspeth MacCraggan. She was, I think, aged three at the time.”

  “That is correct,” the Duchess agreed.

  “The Duke believed that his daughter was drowned that night at sea,” Iona continued, “but in actual fact the child’s nurse – Jeannie MacLeod – and the Duke’s valet escaped in a boat to the French shore. The child went with them. I have evidence here in this letter which gives me to think that I am that child.”

  The Duchess stared at her.

  “A nonsensical suggestion,” she snapped. “The child was drowned.”

  “Was her body recovered?” Iona asked.

  The Duchess put out her hand.

  “Let me see that letter.”

  Iona handed it to her.

  The Duchess slit open the envelope and drew out the closely written sheets of paper. She read them through carefully then lifted a small gold bell from the table beside her. It made a musical tinkle as she shook it. She looked again at the sheets of paper in her hand and then up at Iowa.

  “A pretty story!” she sneered. “You have a great deal to gain if this is proved to be the truth.”

  “I suppose so,” Iona agreed gravely.

  “There is no need to look so innocent,” the Duchess said sarcastically. “You are doubtless well aware that the eldest daughter of the Duke of Arkrae on reaching twenty-one inherits special privileges and a fortune. Now that I think of it, I wonder there have not been more claimants to be the poor lost Lady Elspeth.”

  Her tone brought the blood to Iona’s cheeks. She felt incensed by it and. realised with a sudden flash of humour that she was genuinely offended at the Duchess’s attitude. A footman came to the Duchess’s side.

  “Inform His Grace I should be grateful of his presence here,” the Duchess said.

  The footman bowed and went from the room. Iona felt her heart begin to beat a little quicker. Now at last she would see the Duke, see the man who was of such vital importance to the Prince.

  They waited in silence. The Duchess did not speak again and Iona felt it would be presumptuous for her to say anything. She still stood, for she had not been invited to sit. Uncomfortable in the heat of the fire, she pulled back the hood from her head and was conscious, as she did so, of the contrast between herself, plainly dressed, her red curls rioting rebelliously over her small head, and the Duchess’s elegant gown and elaborately waved and powdered hair. There was a chain of emeralds and diamonds arranged by skilful fingers in the Duchess’s coiffure, which matched the wide necklace of emeralds and diamonds clasped around her thin neck.

  A sudden idea presented itself to Iona’s mind. Might this lady be the Duke’s wife? But surely, she answered herself, the Duchess was too old for the Duke if Colonel Brett was right in supposing him to be about thirty?

  Yet men did marry women older than themselves. If this then was the reigning Duchess, was there a Dowager Duchess who was the mother of Lady Elspeth? How many possibilities there were, how man
y problems? And again Iona remembered Hector’s warning.

  The door at the end of the room was opening. She felt her eyes drawn towards it and awaited expectantly the Duke’s entry into the room. She saw a tall, broad shouldered figure wearing a coat of blue velvet embroidered with silver and sparkling with decorations. His hair was powdered and it was perhaps this last fact that for a moment blinded Iona to the truth.

  Then, as he came nearer, crossing the room slowly with an unhurried dignity, she recognised him, recognised the handsome features, the cold aloof air, the dignity which was almost an arrogance and the irresistible authority which once before had made her obey his wordless command.

  It was difficult for her to prevent herself from giving a cry of astonishment. Incredible though it seemed, the Duke was the tall stranger who had rescued her from the odious attentions of the amorous French roué.

  For a second she thought wildly that already her plot was discovered. He had been in France – he was here. He knew why she had come, what planning and scheming was behind her visit. Then desperately she pulled herself together. It was a coincidence, a chance encounter that was all. The Duke could not have known where she was going that evening and had indeed shown little interest in her. He performed an act of mercy and that was all.

  From a long distance it seemed to Iona she could hear the Duchess’s voice.

  “I have something to show you, Ewan,” she said. “It is a letter brought by this girl from France purporting to show that she is your half-sister, Elspeth, who was drowned seventeen years ago.”

  The Duke took the letter the Duchess held out to him, but ignoring it he looked straight at Iona.

  It seemed to her there was no recognition in his eyes and she said nothing. She only met his glance, her head thrown back a little because he was so tall, her gaze steady beneath his, though something quivered within her.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  His voice was quiet and courteous.

  “I have been called Iona.”

  Her answer seemed to satisfy him and he looked away from her to the sheets of paper he held in his hand. Impatiently the Duchess broke in.

  “It is, of course, a preposterous tale,” she said. “Elspeth was drowned, there is surely no doubt about that? Who is this Jeannie MacLeod? I have never heard of her.”

  The Duke raised his eyes from the paper.

  “There is no reason why you should have,” he said. “She was my sister’s nurse – and mine.”

  The Duchess shrugged her shoulders petulantly. The Duke merely glanced at her and then turned to Iona.

  “Won’t you sit down?” he asked. “If you have indeed come from France, you must be fatigued for it is a tiring journey.”

  With a gesture of his hand he indicated a chair opposite the Duchess beside the fireplace. Iona went to it, hoping that she held herself gracefully, and sat down. The Duke stood with his back to the fire between the two women and read the letter carefully, a quizzing glass raised to his eye. When he had finished, he folded the pages together.

  “It speaks here of a miniature,” he said. “You have it with you?”

  Iona held out to him the little packet containing both the miniature and the bracelet. The Duke opened it and took out the miniature, then stared at it for some seconds.

  “Whom does it portray?” the Duchess inquired. “Let me see.”

  “It is a miniature of my grandmother,” the Duke said quietly. “I cannot remember seeing it before, but it is a good likeness. There is a portrait of her to compare it with in the State dining room.”

  The Duchess took the miniature from his hands, looked at it and then across at Iona.

  “I suppose,” she said slowly and reluctantly, “that there is a –”

  “ – distinct resemblance.” the Duke finished.

  “Then – ” the Duchess began, and stopped. “But this is nonsensical! We must have more proof of this.”

  “Of course! Who has suggested otherwise?”

  The Duke turned to Iona.

  “I think we should express our thanks to you for coming all this way from France with information which is, of course, of the greatest interest to me and my family. Please accept the hospitality of Skaig whilst investigations are made and your claim established. You will be aware that this will take time, but I can only hope that it will give us the opportunity of getting to know each other.”

  “But, Ewan – ” the Duchess protested, “aren’t you assuming that this girl, of whom we know nothing, is indeed Elspeth?”

  “I am assuming nothing,” the Duke replied. “This lady has made a claim which appears to be, on the face of it, a very reasonable one. It is for our attorneys to examine the proofs of its authenticity. In the meantime this lady will, I hope, accept our invitation.”

  Iona found her voice.

  “I thank Your Grace,” she said, “but perhaps under the circumstances it would be better for me to return to the inn until you have decided what would be the best course to pursue. I have kept the coach which conveyed me here and it can take me back.”

  She was conscious as she spoke of going against Colonel Brett’s instructions, but somehow she felt that she could not force herself upon the Duchess.

  Hospitality, unless freely given, would stifle her. It was then that the Duke smiled. To Iona’s surprise it transformed his face. The coldness vanished and he looked in that second younger and far more human.

  “I cannot recommend the inn at Fort Augustus,” he said. “You had best stay with us at least until you have time to rest after your journey.”

  “Thank you,” Iona said.

  The Duchess got to her feet.

  “I fail to understand your attitude, Ewan,” she said. “It seems to me all very peculiar. And what, may I ask, are we to call this – this – person until we learn if she is indeed your half-sister or an imposter?”

  Again the Duke smiled.

  “This lady has already told us her name, my dear, and to be sure it is a very charming and very Scottish name. To us, for the time being, she will be Miss Iona from – Paris.”

  He looked at Iona as he spoke and now she knew that he had not forgotten. He, too, remembered that strange encounter in Paris.

  4

  My Lady Wrexham was bored. She shut her eyes against the swaying of the coach, but her mind was active and she found it impossible to relax. It seemed to her that she had been jolting over bad roads, fording swollen rivers and being held up by floods for an endless length of time. She felt bruised and battered and utterly fatigued, and her red lips tightened ominously as her head rested against the blue satin upholstery of her coach – a sign, her maid thought, watching her timidly from the other side of the coach, that boded ill for somebody.

  A bad rut in the road caused the coach to bump more than usual and Beatrice Wrexham sat bolt upright.

  “A plague on it!” she exclaimed. “Will this journey never end?”

  “The coachman was certain that we should reach Aviemore by five o’clock, my Lady,” the maid ventured timidly.

  “Aviemore!” Lady Wrexham made the name sound like a swear word. “We have many miles to go beyond Aviemore and we are a day late as it is.”

  “The floods were uncommon bad in Yorkshire, my Lady.”

  “I know that, you fool. Heaven knows why I was insane enough to undertake a journey such as this!”

  Beatrice Wrexham threw herself petulantly into the corner of the carriage. She – as well as Heaven – knew the answer to her own question. The reason she had undertaken the long journey from London to Scotland was because, success or failure, what she would receive would make it worthwhile.

  Yet now she wondered if any sum of money, however vast, or any jewel, however valuable, was worth the endless exhausting monotony of being a traveller. Few people journeyed in such luxury, but then, if Beatrice Wrexham, the most beautiful and by far the most notorious woman in England, could not command comfort, who could?

  Be
atrice yawned, then taking a small gold-framed mirror from her reticule, she scrutinised her face. She might be tired, but her reflection showed no sign of it. There was no doubt that she was beautiful. The milk-white skin, the deep blue of her eyes, the almost classical perfection of her features seemed to have no flaw in them, and her hair, which was the colour of ripe corn, rippled, unpowdered for the journey, high upon her head, making a halo for the exquisite heart-shaped contour of her face.

  Yes, she was beautiful! But how cleverly and successfully had she exploited that beauty!

  Beatrice yawned again, her red lips parted to reveal her even, pearly teeth. She held out the mirror to the maid.

  “Put it away, woman,” she said sharply, “and take good care of it. I am told that Scotland is full of thieves and robbers.”

  “Oh, my Lady, are our lives likely to be in danger?” the woman quavered.

  “I swear I would welcome danger at this moment,” Lady Wrexham answered, “if it did ought to relieve my ennui.”

  The maid sniffed and quivered with fright at the thought of what lay ahead of them, but Beatrice Wrexham closed her eyes again and for a moment there was a faint smile on her lips. She had never been afraid of danger. She had supreme belief that her own plausible tongue and the enticement of her beautiful body would carry her through any difficulty, however perilous, however unpleasant.

  And she had just cause for such confidence. For ten years she had used her womanhood as a man might use his sword – a weapon to gain her whatsoever she desired.

  At twenty-five Beatrice had come to the full blossoming of her beauty. As she closed her eyes, she could see herself as a child of fifteen, innocent, unsophisticated and unpolished, yet already lovely and with a promise of still more beauty to come.

  Her mother had brought her to the Court of St. James, openly defying her father’s wishes in the matter. He was an unimportant, impoverished country squire, the owner of a dilapidated manor and a few acres of land in Kent. Beatrice had neither noble birth nor wealth to assist her, but she had an ambitious mother and a magnetic, irresistible beauty.