The Ravishing of Lady Mary Ware

by Dennis Wheatley

  His terror mounting afresh, Roger jerked himself round and made to run again. But it was the bone of his leg that had deflected the bullet. As he put his weight upon it, he was seized by an agonising pain. He staggered a few steps, then again fell to the ground. Rolling over, he sent a frantic glance in the direction of the approaching horsemen.

  At his second shout, they had broken into a gallop. Now they were no more than forty paces from him. One of them pulled up and fired a carbine. The bullet got Paolo squarely in the chest. With a loud grunt, he threw up his arms and collapsed. But O Diabo still came on.

  Seconds later he reached Roger. Holding his knife high, he slashed downward with it at Roger’s heart. Roger jerked himself violently away, but could not avoid the knife. Nevertheless, his movement saved him. Instead of the point piercing his chest, it struck the buckle of his belt, driving the breath, out of his body, but snapping off short. By then the nearest horseman was right above O Diabo. The soldier’s sword swished up, then down. The blade clove the giant’s head from skull to jaw. Without a sound he collapsed on Roger, gushing blood and brains all over him.

  Of what happened after that Roger had only a confused memory. Loss of blood had caused him to faint. When he came to, he realised vaguely that he was being carried on a stretcher and that his wounds had been roughly bound up. His next memory was of being put to bed and given a draught.

  When he woke the following morning, English voices told him that he was in a ward of a military hospital. Soon becoming conscious that he had an urgent task to carry out he endeavoured to sit up, but fell back groaning. Pain flamed in his thigh and bruised stomach, causing him to gasp for breath. When he had recovered a little, he called to a passing orderly. Reluctantly the man went off in search of the surgeon-in-charge.

  When the surgeon arrived, it took all the determination Roger could muster to persuade the man that his patient was not suffering from delirium, and to insist that the British Minister be fetched to receive from him a confidential message from Lord Wellington.

  Late in the afternoon Sir Charles arrived. By then Roger was in a fever, but his mind was still clear enough to ask for screens to be put round the bed, then say to his visitor:

  ‘I have no message for Your Excellency from milord Wellington; but a most urgent one for him. Before he left Lisbon he charged me with a special task. I succeeded in carrying it out, but I am anxious that my name should not be given in connection with my message. I pray you write to him as follows:

  ‘ “The man your brother recommended to you has been in Seville. He talked with Soult. Victor has made no progress with the siege of Cadiz. Mortier took Badajoz on March 10th, but will advance no further. Soult’s ambition is to make himself King of Andalusia. You may therefore be certain that he will not leave Seville.” ’

  The Minister gave a slow smile. ‘From the interest Lord Wellington displayed in you when he was here, Mr. Brook, I suspected that you must be something more than a casual traveller. I realise that this very welcome information is of the first importance, since it will enable Wellington to use all his resources in pursuit of Masséna. It shall be despatched to him under double seal, with all possible speed, and I will arrange for the courier to be escorted by a troop of horse, to ensure that he reaches our General safely.’

  Weakly, Roger returned the smile. ‘I thank you, Sir. That is a great weight off my mind. But I am in poor shape, so you will forgive me if I do not now talk further. You might, though, give my love to little Mary.’

  Had Roger’s mind been in a normal state, he would not have singled out Mary, much less used the word ‘love’, when referring to her. He would simply have sent his respects to ‘the ladies’. But Sir Charles did not appear to notice that he had made what, in those times, could be taken as a declaration. Laying his hand lightly on Roger’s shoulder, he said:

  ‘I was happy to learn from your surgeon, Mr. Brook, that apart from a bruising of your thigh bone, you have sustained only a flesh wound. So we may hope that you will be able to get about again before long. In the meantime, it will be my pleasure to ensure that every care is taken of you.’

  The strain of the interview caused Roger to have a relapse. For the greater part of the next forty-eight hours a succession of opium draughts kept him unconscious; but on his third day the fever left him and, for a short while that afternoon, he was allowed to see visitors. Enquiries had been made daily by the Legation about his progress, and now Mary and Deborah arrived with fruit, flowers and wine.

  Screens had again been put round his bed and, unabashed by Deborah’s presence, Mary kissed him lightly on the forehead. Sir Charles had, of course, kept to himself the fact that Roger had carried out a dangerous mission and penetrated the French headquarters in Seville, so the two girls assumed that he had been with Wellington until sent back for some reason to Lisbon.

  He naturally confirmed their belief, but told them, as was only too true, how he had fallen into the hands of brigands a day’s march from the city, induced them to accompany him there then, when they had come within sight of British troops, broken away from them.

  Deborah told him that her uncle had asked for him to be given a private ward, but the hospital was now so full of wounded sent back from the front that this had not been possible. To his delight, she added that, as soon as he was well enough to be moved, he was to occupy his old room at the Legation.

  Roger learned that Wellington’s pursuit of Masséna was going well. The French were in a desperate plight, as they retreated across the mountains of central Beira. Nearly all their horses were dead, so they had had to abandon most of their wagons and many of their guns, while the men, demoralised by long privations, were deserting by the hundred or dying by the roadside.

  Quite casually, as though it was of little importance, just before the girls left, Mary gave him a piece of news that had reached Lisbon two days earlier. On the 20th, Marie Louise had presented the Emperor with a son, who was to be known as the King of Rome.

  The event might be of no great significance to Napoleon’s enemies, but Roger knew how much it would mean to the Bonapartes. At last the Emperor had achieved his dearest ambition—a son fathered on the daughter of an Imperial house that claimed its descent from the Emperors of Rome and Byzantium. He could imagine the fabulous jewels that Napoleon would shower on the young mother; the spate of honours poured out to friends and high officials of the Empire; the fireworks, fêtes, parades and balls that, regardless of expense, would celebrate the arrival of this little heir to territories stretching from the Baltic to the tip of Italy. He could also imagine the rage and bitter disappointment with which several members of the Bonaparte family would be filled by this royal birth. Joseph, as Napoleon’s eldest brother, had always regarded himself as having the best claim to succeed him. While still believing himself incapable of begetting a child, Napoleon had as good as expressed his intention of nominating the son of Louis by Hortense as his heir. And Murat, spurred on by his ambitious wife, Caroline, had been led to believe that his immense popularity with the French Army and people would lead to their offering the crown to him rather than to any of the Bonaparte brothers.

  During the next few days Roger made good progress. Except at the times when his wound was dressed, he was fairly free from pain. The healthy flesh of his buttock and thigh promised to heal well; so his badly bruised thigh bone was the only matter for concern, and his surgeon said he should be able to get about on crutches by the end of the week.

  The girls came daily to see him, little Mary looking quite ravishing in a simple pink dress and a new spring bonnet. On the morning of April 5th he tried walking with crutches and found that he could do so without straining his injured leg; so, on the following day he was moved in an ambulance to the Legation and there most kindly welcomed by Lady Stuart.

  That evening the Minister came up to spend an hour with him and gave him more precise details of the progress of the war. Wellington had led five divisions in pursuit of Masséna and d
etached two under General Beresford to guard his rear against Soult, advancing into Estremadura and, if possible, relieve Badajoz. Unfortunately, Badajoz had fallen to Mortier much earlier than expected; but, now it was known that the French did not intend to move against Lisbon, a large part of Beresford’s force had become available for other operations.

  In the north, no pitched battle had been fought, but a constant series of independent actions by brigades and regiments. Marshal Ney had commanded the French rearguard with such skill that only on one occasion had he been caught napping. This had been three days earlier at Sabugal. The British light division had surprised the French 2nd Corps in a fog and killed or wounded over a thousand men. News had come in that morning that Soult’s army had been driven out of Portugal, and had retired on to the great stronghold of Ciudad Rodrigo, which was all the Marshal had left to show for an inglorious campaign.

  Next morning a footman helped Roger to dress, then get downstairs to sit in the garden. In the afternoon he went for a drive with the girls. But the unaccustomed exertion tried him so much that, on their return, he asked to be helped up to bed. By the time his dinner was brought up to him his fatigue had passed off and, after the footman had taken away his tray, he lay back on his pillows thinking how lucky he was to have made such good friends at the Legation and be able to convalesce in such comfort.

  At about eight o’clock there came a gentle knock on his door, and when he called ‘Come in,’ Mary entered the room, carrying half a dozen books. Smiling at him, she said:

  ‘As usual, there were quite a number of guests for dinner, so when we’d finished I managed to slip away. I thought you might be bored; so I’ve brought you something to read.’

  When he had thanked her, she asked, ‘What were you thinking about when I came in?’

  ‘How lucky I am to be here, and how very kind to me you all are,’ he replied truthfully.

  She made a little moue. ‘I was hoping you would say you were thinking of me. I nearly fell through the floor with embarrassment when Sir Charles returned from the hospital that first day and said you had sent me your love. But when I got up to my room I hugged myself with delight. You do love me, don’t you?’

  Roger was in a quandary. He had no intention whatever of marrying Mary, and to seduce an unmarried girl whose upbringing gave him every reason to suppose that she was a virgin was against his code. The idea had never even crossed his mind. He was loath to encourage the tender feeling she obviously had for him, but at the same time, most reluctant to hurt her. She had laid the books on the bed and was standing beside him, her green eyes solemnly fixed on his.

  Taking her hand, he said gently, ‘Mary, my dear, of course I love you; but I’m not going to allow my affection for you to get the better of my judgment. As I told you that day when we picnicked out at Cintra, I’m too restless a man to settle down to married life. Moreover, I’m much too old for you.’

  She shook her head and her ringlets danced. ‘For such an intelligent man, you are really very stupid. I’m sure I could make you happy.’

  ‘I’m sure you could,’ he smiled, ‘but the trouble is that I could make you happy only for a while. I’d again get that itch to travel. Then you’d be miserable, and try to persuade me not to. The result would be tears and quarrels.’

  For the best part of a minute she was silent, then she said, ‘Very well. I accept that. And I promise that I won’t try to prevent your leaving Lisbon when you wish to go. But while you are here, I want you to treat me as though we were secretly engaged. You see, I haven’t got a very bright future. I’m just averagely pretty, but not a beauty; and I haven’t got a penny of my own. So when I do marry, it is almost certain to be someone that I don’t really care about, and perhaps even older than you. I’d like to have just one romance in my life to look back on. Do you understand?’

  Tears were brimming in Mary’s eyes and Roger felt deeply sorry for her. Had he not been a nearly helpless invalid, he would have made some excuse to get a passage in the first ship leaving for England; as he felt that the sooner she saw no more of him, the better it would be for her. But as things were he knew that he would not be fit to travel for at least two weeks. In the circumstances, to refuse her request would have been brutal, and he swiftly made up his mind that, if he was going to pretend to be her fiancé, he must give her as much joy as possible by entering into the game wholeheartedly.

  ‘Of course I understand,’ he said, ‘and I am truly delighted that you should offer me such happiness. But you must not take such a poor view of your attractions nor be so pessimistic about the future. You are not only a very lovely girl, but your gaiety and charm make you a wonderful companion. I’m certain that before long a man nearer your own age, and of ample fortune, will come into your life and beseech you to marry him. Now, I only pray that he does not come on the scene while I am in Lisbon. Come now; give me a fiancée’s kiss.’

  Smiling, she quickly pulled her hand from his, perched herself on the edge of the bed and flung her arms round his neck. He held her tightly to him and her soft lips has melted under his.

  After they had spent a very happy half-hour, she said reluctantly, ‘Roger, my love, I really must leave you now. Lady Stuart might come up to see if you wish anything, and if she found me here that would be terrible. We still have to be awfully careful, too, as if the family find out that you are making love to me, Sir Charles might ask your intentions, and that would be most awkward.’

  ‘You’re right, sweet Mary. But, as things are, it’s going to be plaguey difficult for us to see each other alone with any frequency.’

  For a moment she remained thoughtful, then she said, ‘I think I will take Deborah into my confidence; though I’ll not tell her that our engagement is only make-believe. Then, when you decide to leave, I’ll say that, having got to know you better, it was I who decided against your formally asking for my hand. Deborah is entirely to be trusted and, with her connivance, we’ll be able to snatch meetings now and again in the summer house at the bottom of the garden.’

  They embraced again and, after several long kisses, she left him to rejoin the party downstairs in the salon.

  The ten days that followed were some of the most pleasant that, apart from those with Georgina, Roger had ever spent. His wounds had healed well. By the end of a week he was able to dress himself, and could get about with only a stick for support. Spring was in the air, but it was much warmer than it would have been in England, and nearly every day, with Deborah’s assistance, he managed to get the best part of an hour alone with Mary.

  Their meetings were usually in the summer house; but, on days when that could not be managed, she insisted on coming to his room, although he endeavoured to persuade her not to. After his fourth day at the Legation, his injuries no longer prevented him from dining downstairs and afterwards joining in conversaziones, or listening to music with the other guests; so, if Mary came to his room it had to be late at night, after everyone had gone to bed and could be presumed to be asleep.

  Greatly as he enjoyed these midnight visits, his reluctance to let her make them was not alone on account of the risk she ran of being found out. That was inconsiderable, as her room was only two doors away from his in the same corridor. His main objection was that she came to him with only a dressing gown over her night robe, and from the beginning of their affair he had been highly conscious that she was a very passionate little person. When they embraced, she always pressed her body hard against his, her eyes grew moist, her breathing rapid, and she deliberately tempted him to take the sort of liberties with her that were not unusual between respectable engaged couples. Being himself passionate, he took great joy in kissing her breasts and fondling her, but he was determined to go no further and the restraint he forced himself to exercise placed a great strain upon him.

  It was on April 16th that she asked him to accompany her and Deborah to the hospital, as a cousin of hers, a Brigadier, had been wounded and arrived there the previous day. They drov
e there with flowers, fruit and wine and were shown up to a private room on the third floor. The man in the bed was fair-haired, florid-faced and a year or two older than Roger. Having happily greeted Mary and Deborah, he looked at Roger, who was standing behind the girls, and exclaimed:

  ‘God’s boots! If it’s not old Bookworm Brook! Fancy seeing you here.’

  Roger had already recognised him and had gone quite white. It was George Gunston, a man whom he had heartily disliked all his life. Bowing, he said coldly, ‘The surprise is mutual.’

  Mary glanced curiously from one to the other and said, ‘So you two are already acquainted?’

  Gunston laughed. ‘Indeed we are. We were at school together. Most of us were keen on sports, but Brook always had his head buried in a book. That’s why we gave him his nickname.’

  Roger’s smile was icy. ‘You may recall that I spent a good part of my time learning to fence and shoot with a pistol, and in those accomplishments I became somewhat better than yourself.’

  ‘That I’ll not deny. So I find it all the more surprising that you have not volunteered for the Army.’

  ‘Really, George!’ Mary stamped her little foot. ‘It’s plain to see that you dislike each other. But I’ll not have you quarrel in my presence.’

  Both men then refrained from making any further antagonistic remarks; but the atmosphere remained uncomfortable. So, after having enquired about George’s wound, and learned that he was disabled only by water on the knee, owing to a spent shell-splinter having hit it, his visitors took their departure.

  Immediately they were back in their carriage, Mary demanded to know why Roger so disliked her cousin. After a moment he replied, ‘It’s not only because Gunston bullied me unmercifully at school. I’d not harbour a grudge against him for all these years on that account. But we have come into collision on numerous occasions. In our early twenties, we fought a duel; later, when I was for a while Governor of Martinique, he endeavoured to seduce my wife’s young cousin. Later still, in India, he was largely responsible for her death. That he happens to be a cousin of yours is regrettable, but the fact remains that he is a cad.’