He had no wish to tell the kidnapping story to his mother, or to anybody else on the other side of the Channel.
That story was for French consumption only, and in England he intended to say that he had met Nadia in Paris en route to Africa, that he had fallen in love with her and she had waited for his return to Paris before they announced their engagement formally.
He felt this was a safe story considering that nobody except Edward knew how long they had stayed in Paris before they went to Africa and there was no reason why Nadia should not have met him at Marseilles on his homeward journey.
This would mean that he would not have read his mother’s letter, or for that matter, Magnolia’s, until he arrived in Paris.
It all seemed to fit in very well, and he knew, if he was honest with himself, that he had rather enjoyed the intrigue and working out the plot he had invented himself, although Nadia was very important in it.
After they had talked for a long time in the manager’s office, he realised she was looking tired and suggested to Madame Blanc that Nadia should go to bed.
“I am sure, madame,” he said in his most charming manner which was difficult for any woman to resist, “you will look after my cousin tonight and chaperone her very effectively. Tomorrow, I intend to take her to my mother, who will be horrified at what has occurred.”
“I am sure that is true, monsieur,” Madame Blanc replied, “and mademoiselle can sleep in the room next to mine, because my daughter who usually occupies it is staying with friends.”
“I am very grateful, madame.”
Madame Blanc bustled Nadia upstairs, gave her a hot drink to help her sleep and then helped her to undress.
She exclaimed in horror at the condition of the gown, which was all her captors had given her to wear!
She promised that tomorrow she should have the most beautiful gowns that Paris could provide, besides mantles, hats, gloves and everything else that could be bought at a moment’s notice.
“What I intend to do, Mademoiselle la Comtesse,” Madame Blanc said in her firm, practical voice, “is to set off at dawn without you to find what is available in your size. You are very slim, so it should not be difficult. Then later, when you have had petit déjeuner, one of my staff will bring you to join me and see if you approve of my taste.”
“I am sure, madame, that anything you select for me will be delightful and very chic!” Nadia replied.
She knew by the smile on Madame’s face that the older woman could not resist the chance of spending unlimited money, even if it was for another woman!
Nadia was in fact exhausted, and almost as soon as her head touched the pillow she fell asleep.
Madame Blanc then returned to her husband’s office where he and Warren were still talking.
“La pauvre petite est tres fatiguée!” she commented.
“I only hope the journey tomorrow will not be too much for her,” Warren said, “but I have to go home.”
“I thought perhaps the urgency concerned your family,” Madame Blanc said, “but I did not like to mention it before.”
“What do you mean?”
In answer the Manager handed him from his desk a copy of Le Temps and pointed to a paragraph low on the front page.
It was almost what Warren had expected as he translated,
“DEATH OF A DISTINGUISHED ENGLISH NOBLEMAN
It is with deep regret that we learn today of the death of the Marquis of Buckwood at his home in Oxfordshire.”
The newspaper went on to describe the Marquis’s importance at Court, his vast possessions, his visit to France at the opening of the Exhibition and finished,
“The Marquis’s only son died very recently after a riding accident. The heir to the title is his nephew, Mr. Warren Wood, who has been abroad for some months and is not aware of his new position.
Every effort is being made by the Solicitors to the estate to get in touch with Mr. Wood.”
Warren finished reading the account and, as he putdown the newspaper, the manager said after briefly bowing his head,
“My condolences, monsieur, and also my heart-felt congratulations!”
“Thank you,” Warren replied. “Now you understand why I must go home as quickly as possible.”
“Of course, monsieur, but as Madame has said, clothes cannot be purchased until the shops are open.”
“No, of course not” Warren replied, “and clothes even in these circumstances are very important.”
Then Madame exclaimed,
“You do not intend, monsieur, that I should buy everything in black for Mademoiselle la Comtesse?”
Warren thought quickly, remembering that Nadia was in mourning for her mother.
At the same time it would spoil his return with her if she was, as Magnolia had been, restricted by the strict protocol of mourning.
He shook his head.
“No, there is no need for mademoiselle to be in mourning,” he replied. “Our relationship is through my mother’s family and there is therefore no reason why she should be affected in that way by my uncle’s death.”
“I am glad!” Madame Blanc exclaimed. “Mourning makes us all, as I have said before to my husband, look like a gaggle of black crows!”
Warren smiled.
He knew if any country in the world could make mourning look attractive and even seductive, it was France. The little touches of white on a black gown, the transparency of chiffon or lace over skin, were the genius of the talented Parisian dressmakers – and very different to the heavy crepe, the profusion of jet, and the gloom of British black.
He merely said aloud,
“I suggest, madame, that you make my relative look as young and as beautiful as she was before she suffered so acutely at the hands of those villains.”
“I hope, monsieur, they will receive their just deserts!”
“Her father the Count will certainly see to that,” Warren replied. “But it is best for us to be out of the country before anything untoward happens. Such men, if thwarted in their desire for money, can be very dangerous!”
“That is true, monsieur,” Madame Blanc agreed. “So you must certainly catch the second express as my husband has suggested.”
“Everything will be arranged, monsieur,” the manager said. “A private compartment in the train, the best cabin on the steamer, and a Courier to travel with you who will see to everything.”
“Thank you very much!” Warren replied.
He thought now as he stood at the window that it was almost amusing.
Suddenly as if by a magic wand, his whole life had changed.
From now on there would be Couriers, valets, footmen to run at his bidding, and waiting for him in England would be secretaries, managers and agents who had helped his uncle run the estates.
They saw to it that each one of his houses functioned like a well-oiled machine with no breakdowns and no problems to cause him sleepless nights.
‘I am lucky, unbelievably lucky!’ he reflected.
He drew the curtains to shut out the moonlight and then climbed into bed.
*
Sitting beside Nadia in the reserved carriage on the Boat Train carrying them from Dover to London, Warren thought she looked, if a little tired, exceedingly lovely.
He knew she had slept in the comfortable cabin that had been engaged for them for the Channel crossing. He on the other hand, had walked the decks feeling he needed the fresh air and finding the smooth sea and the last rays of the afternoon sun delightful.
He appreciated, although he did not say so, every luxury they had enjoyed so far, not only because it was so very different from the discomforts of Africa, but also because he knew it was prophetic of his whole future.
He had waited until now to tell Nadia his new name and title, although he had noticed she was astute enough to look puzzled when the manager addressed him as, ‘my Lord’ rather than ‘monsieur’.
“When you had gone to bed last night,” Warren said to her, “th
e manager showed me a copy of Le Temps in which there was a report of my uncle’s death.”
“I am sorry if it has upset you.”
“It has, but it was expected,” Warren said, “my mother wrote to warn me. After his son was killed he had a heartattack and was in a coma. This means that I am now the sixth Marquis of Buckwood!”
Nadia did not speak for a moment.
Then she asked,
“Does that make you feel very important?”
“Yes, very!” he replied. “Especially as I never anticipated for one moment that I would ever inherit such a position! I respected my uncle deeply and intend to try and live up to his reputation.”
“Then I am glad for you, but it will make the lady who wishes to marry you very angry!”
“Very angry indeed!” Warren said with satisfaction.
Then as if he had no wish to talk about himself, he added,
“We must go over our story again to be quite certain before we arrive that you are word perfect.”
“I am so afraid of making mistakes – then you will be angry.”
“I promise you I shall not be that,” he said. “And after the splendid way in which you carried off our fantastic tale last night, I am sure there is a fortune waiting for you on the stage at Drury Lane!”
She laughed as if that was such an impossibility that it was but a figment of his imagination.
Then Warren said,
“Judging from the amount of luggage which you now possess, I imagine there is no hurry for us to visit any English shops and you can cope at any rate for a few weeks in the country.”
“I am afraid Madame Blanc has spent a great amount of money,” Nadia said.
“That is immaterial beside the fact that you have to look right for the part.”
“I should certainly do that,” Nadia said in a low voice. “I have never seen such wonderful gowns, nor did I imagine it was possible to buy so much so very quickly!”
She gave a little laugh before she said,
“I really believe Madame was up all night hammering on the doors of the dressmakers. In fact she told me that at one shop the seamstresses had been paid extra to go to work at four o’clock in the morning because they had a special wedding gown to finish.”
Warren laughed.
“They cannot have been very pleased to see another customer!”
“According to Madame they were delighted and actually that particular bride will have three of her gowns delivered late!”
Warren laughed again.
“If there is one thing the French are really adept at, it is the turning of any emergency to their own advantage! I am certain the gowns that were switched cost double in the process, but were well worth the expense!”
“I only hope that you will think so and I am very embarrassed at costing you so much.”
“I would pay a hundred times more to be sure of creating the effect I want.”
The hard bitter note was back in his voice and Nadia looked at him apprehensively.
Quickly, because she thought the violence of his emotions spoilt him, she talked of other things, asking him further about the history of Buckwood and to describe the members of the family whom she would meet.
Because she seemed to have grasped so quickly the different relationships and even the different titles she would encounter in the family tree Warren, as he talked, was quite certain that it was not new ground to her, but something she was familiar with in her own life.
The more he was with her, the more he looked at her, the more he was certain that she was blue-blooded to her fingertips.
Although she would tell him nothing more about herself, he was aware of a mystery that intrigued and fascinated him and he knew he would never rest until he had learnt her whole secret.
At the same time he knew it would be a great mistake to upset her in any way or for her to resent his prying into things that did not concern him.
All that mattered at the moment was that everybody should be convinced that he was intending to marry somebody with whom he was not only deeply in love, but who was also eminently suited to become the Marchioness of Buckwood.
“I was wondering,” he said aloud, “whether I should make you a Princess, but I think that might be dangerous because there must be Hungarians in England who would at least know those in their country who were of Royal blood.”
“That is true,” Nadia replied seriously, “and as almost everybody one meets in Hungary is a Count, that would be very much safer.”
Warren was aware that if a Count had even a dozen children they all inherited his title, each one of them becoming a Count or a Countess, unlike in England where the title went only to the eldest son.
As if she wished to please him, Nadia added,
“There is, however, no reason why my mother should not have a little Royal blood in her, if you wish to improve the story.”
“That sounds a good idea,” Warren agreed.
“There are on the Russian border,” Nadia said hesitatingly, “quite a number of families who consider themselves – Royal – although they play no part in the governing of the country.”
“I am aware of that,” Warren smiled, “and it is clever of you, Nadia, to suggest that your mother should be Royal. I imagine you can give me the name of some large family she could quite easily belong to.”
“Of course,” Nadia replied. “There are so many Radkocitz that I doubt if anybody but a Hungarian could count them all!”
“Very well, your mother was a Princess of the family, and you had better give me her Christian name.”
“Shall we say Olga?”
“Excellent!” Warren said. “Princess Olga! And as the daughter of a great landowner, Count Viktor Ferrais, you are of course, by no means overawed by or in any way subservient to the Marquis of Buckwood!”
“Of course not,” Nadia agreed her eyes twinkling. “In fact, I am only afraid that my family will not think him good enough for me!”
They both laughed and Warren told himself that he had been certainly in luck when he had seen a slim figure looking down into the dark waters of the Seine and realised what she was about to do.
It was, however, a little after midnight when finally they reached his mother’s house and Nadia was very tired.
On Warren’s instructions telegrams had been sent before he went to bed the night before to his mother and to his uncle’s secretary at Buckwood House in London and, as he expected, there were carriages to meet them at Victoria Station.
They were carried swiftly across London to where it seemed almost as if at his command the train was waiting to convey them to the nearest station to Buckwood.
More carriages, more servants, and at last they walked into his mother’s house to find her waiting for him, her arms outstretched.
“You should be in bed, Mama!” Warren said as he kissed her. “You should not have waited up for me.”
“I could not rest until you were safely home,” his mother replied. “Oh, dearest boy, I am so delighted to see you!”
She kissed him again before she looked curiously at Nadia.
“Mama,” Warren said slowly and impressively, “may I introduce the Countess Nadia Ferrais, who has come with me and who I am very proud to tell you has promised to become my wife!”
He knew what he had said was a shock to his mother, but as he expected, she took it with her usual gracious dignity, saying,
“My dearest, I hope you will be very happy!”
Taking Nadia’s hand in hers, she said,
“I am very glad I shall have a daughter-in-law who will look after my son and whom I know I shall love.”
She spoke so gently and movingly that Warren saw the tears come into Nadia’s eyes and knew she was thinking of her own mother.
Quickly, in case she should become too emotional, he started to talk to his mother of how they had met when he was on his way to Africa and how they had known they were meant for each other.
; He told her how she had been waiting for him when he arrived with Edward at Marseilles.
“Of course she had one of her elderly relatives with her,” he said, having just thought of it, “and although I begged her to come with us to England, she unfortunately had to return home to Hungary.”
“I thought from your name you must be Hungarian,” his mother said to Nadia, “and, of course, like all your countrywomen you are very beautiful, my dear!”
“Thank you,” Nadia replied.
“She is also very tired,” Warren interposed, “and I suggest, Mama, that she goes to bed immediately and we can tell you everything about ourselves tomorrow.”
“Yes, of course, dear boy.”
His mother took Nadia upstairs to hand her over to an elderly maid who helped her into bed, and only after she herself also had retired did Warren go into her room to sit down beside her.
“I am so glad you are back in time for the funeral,” his mother said. “That you are engaged to be married will be cheerful news for the family, after they have been stricken first by Raymond’s death and now by poor Arthur’s.”
“I could hardly believe it was true when I read your letter.”
“It seems unbelievable,” his mother agreed, “but dearest, first thing in the morning you must take charge of everything as they are expecting you to do.”
“Of course, Mama!”
He rose to his feet as he spoke and added,
“Now I am going to bed, for I too am tired. I seem to have been travelling for a very long time.”
“You look very well and I rather like the new colour of your skin.”
“You mean my suntan? At times in the last few months I have been as dark as any Arab could be!”
“You look very handsome, as I am sure that charming young lady you have brought with you has told you already.”
“She has been very ill and is rather shy, Mama.”
“She looks very young and very sweet!” his mother replied.
She spoke with a note in her voice that made Warren know she was entirely sincere.
After a little pause she went on,
“You may be surprised to learn that Magnolia Keane is staying at Buckwood!”
Revenge of the Heart Page 6