The Ravishing of Lady Mary Ware

by Dennis Wheatley

  Roger smiled again. That is indeed good news, my lord. The Russians are most redoubtable fighters. Their armies alone, among the Continental nations, have successfully stood up to Napoleon. At Eylau they brought his advance to a halt, and although he defeated them at Friedland, they made him pay most dearly for his victory. ’Tis a mighty long march from the Niemen to Moscow, and only by taking that city can he hope to crush them. Such a campaign could, at long last, prove his ruin.’

  ‘That, Mr. Brook, is also my view, and we must spare no effort to bring it about. I therefore have it in mind to follow in the footsteps of our great master, Billy Pitt, and endeavour to form a new Coalition. Sweden could play a most valuable part if she could be persuaded to become Russia’s ally and ours. Do you not agree?’

  ‘I do, my lord. But ’twould be no easy matter to bring that about. Sweden is still smarting from defeat in her recent war, as a result of which she was compelled to cede the Grand Duchy of Finland to the Czar; so I do not see the Swedes taking kindly to the thought of entering into an alliance with him.’

  ‘True; but he will require all the aid he can secure if he is to defeat Bonaparte. So, for Sweden’s help he might be willing to return Finland or, at least, make the Swedes valuable concessions. As I am dubious about the wisdom of approaching the Czar direct, I propose to send an envoy to the Swedes with the object of persuading them to become the link between ourselves and Russia. And I very much hope, Mr. Brook, that you will agree to become that envoy.’

  For some while, Roger had been expecting this, so he replied at once, ‘I must beg your Lordship to excuse me. I have spent half my life on the Continent, and am resolved not to return there on further missions.’

  The Marquess looked down his high-bridged nose for a moment, then raised his eyes and held Roger’s intently. ‘Mr. Brook, you said that to me before you left for Portugal. My brother, Wellington, informed me later that you said much the same to him; yet you changed your mind and, on two occasions, rendered him most important services. I pray you change your mind again.’

  Roger put up a protesting hand. ‘My lord, the circumstances were different. On the first occasion a private matter made it necessary for me to leave Lisbon overnight. And on the second, it near as could be cost me my life. I am determined not to risk it again.’

  ‘In this case you would not have to. You would present yourself to the Prince Royal as an old comrade-in-arms who, like himself, has decided to leave Bonaparte’s service and only later, at a propitious moment, reveal yourself to be an emissary of Britain.’

  ‘To harbour under my French identity for long might not prove possible. I have been in Stockholm before. Admittedly that was many years ago, in the time of Gustavus III; but there must still be people there who might recognise me, and I went there as an Englishman.’

  ‘Come, Mr. Brook. Having lived as two persons for the whole of your adult life, there must have been many previous occasions when such contretemps occurred; yet those quick wits of yours enabled you to bluff your way out of them. It must be that, having been home for eight months or so, you have developed new interests here and are set against giving them up. Or, perhaps, you are contemplating matrimony?’

  ‘No,’ Roger admitted. ‘Neither is the case.’

  ‘All the more reason then that you should go on this mission. This invasion of Russia that Bonaparte is preparing to launch may well be his last throw. Having watched his rise, and seen him turn Europe into a bloodbath, surely you would like to be in at the death and take a hand in bringing about his fall?’

  ‘You have something there, my lord,’ Roger smiled, ‘but I’d be fully content to read about his downfall in The Times.’

  The Marquess sighed. ‘You are plaguey difficult to persuade, Mr. Brook; but I’ll not give up. I pray you to consider one fact which cannot be contested. In London—nay, in all Britain—there is not a single man other than yourself who is qualified to carry out this mission by presenting himself at the Swedish Court as a distinguished French officer who is no longer willing to serve Bonaparte. You are unique in that respect. Did I send even the most accomplished diplomat at my disposal, he could hope only for one, or at the most two, interviews with the Prince Royal; whereas you would be made welcome by him and have ample time to inform yourself of the lie of the land and his present attitude toward France, Britain and Russia, before making your proposal.

  ‘And, think you upon the mighty issue that is at stake. This brigand Corsican has convulsed all Europe, brought death, starvation and misery to a million homes, and is now intent on bringing about yet further wholesale slaughter. ’Tis you who have a better chance than any other man of making this coming war the last for many years to come. God may have put it into your hands to restore peace to an unhappy world.’

  To this moving plea Roger could find no answer. He simply said, ‘I shall require a lettre de marque, my lord, to prove to the Prince Royal that I am an accredited envoy of the British Government, and it should be in such terms that, if taken from me, will give no clue to the purpose of my mission. May I suggest it should be like one with which Mr. Pitt furnished me long ago, which read, “The bearer knows my views upon this matter and speaks with my authority.” ’

  ‘It shall be as you wish,’ the Marquess nodded. ‘And I can find no words to thank you adequately. When would you be ready to start?’

  ‘I shall need a few days to make my preparations. Shall we say one day next week?’

  ‘By all means. I will arrange a passage for you. I will also order my cashier to furnish you with ample funds. Ask him for any sum in reason and do not stint yourself. You may need money for bribes.’

  On reaching the street, Roger turned into St. James’s Park, and walked there for a while, considering the possible hazards that he might encounter on his new mission. Reluctant as he had at first been to accept it, now that he was committed he felt a pleasurable excitement. At least it would terminate his present frustrating existence, and again enable him to employ his active brain.

  As it was still early in the afternoon, on leaving the Park he hailed a sedan chair and had himself carried to his jeweller’s in Jermyn Street. There he had an assistant produce for him a book illustrating all the European Orders of Chivalry, pointed out the Swedish Order of Crossed Swords and ordered the decoration to be made for him, stipulating that it must be ready within four days. Strolling round the corner, he went into White’s and wrote a note to Georgina, telling her that he was shortly going abroad again and urging her to come up to London as soon as she possibly could. He then took it to the coach office in Piccadilly and despatched it so that she should receive it the following morning.

  That evening he broke to Susan the news that he would soon be leaving her for a while, and said that business connected with the de Pombal estate again required his presence in Lisbon. Next day he again rode up to London and completed the purchase of his Christmas presents. That evening, as he had hoped, Georgina returned to Kew House. Later, out at her studio, he told her about his new commitment.

  She had had to say good-bye to him so many times in the past that she showed no special distress, particularly as on this mission it did not appear as though he was going into any great danger and he would not be away for more than a few weeks.

  Looking back on the past eight months, they agreed that they had been disappointing. Things would have been very different had they been able to marry. But that had been out of the question and there seemed no prospect of their being able to do so for a long time to come. When he gave her an account of Mary’s accident and his subsequent talk with her, Georgina said:

  ‘She seems a much more pleasant young woman than the first impression I formed of her. What a pity she married this man Wicklow. Poor girl; she is, I fear, condemned to lead a most dreary life and she would have made just the wife for you.’

  Roger shrugged. ‘Yes, I think she would; and with your dear self to bear me company at every suitable opportunity, in this our parad
ise, I’d have been as happy as a sand boy. But fate has decreed otherwise and, although little Mary is gone out of my life for good, still having you to cherish me I’ve no grounds for complaint.’

  Of the next five nights he spent only one—the last—out at Richmond, completing his packing and handing out presents labelled ‘not to be opened until Christmas Day.’ Early on the morning of December 22nd he left for Tilbury. With a new money belt round his waist, containing gold pieces in several currencies, a few small diamonds and the lettre de marque, he went aboard an American freighter. The ship sailed on the evening tide.

  During the short December day it had rained on and off but, as the barque dropped down the Thames, a wind got up and the sky cleared except for scudding clouds that, every few minutes, blacked out the moon. In the estuary the sea was choppy and, by the time they cleared the Nore, the ship was pitching unpleasantly as she fought her way forward. When she altered course to nor’ eastward, Roger was awakened by a heavy wave slopping against the side of his cabin and thought unhappily that, as it was mid-winter, they were probably in for a bad voyage.

  His fears proved only too well founded. During the days that followed, the North Sea was at its most horrible. The ship was tossed about like the plaything of a giant. She rolled and wallowed in the troughs of the great waves, then was carried sky-high to hover on their summits before cascading down another slope. The timbers creaked, clothes hanging from pegs in the cabins swung slowly to and fro like pendulums, alternately flapping against the bulkheads and standing away from them at an acute angle. Occasionally there came a loud crash as some object fell to the deck, then slithered across it.

  For three days the ship ran bare-masted before the storm. Roger had always been a bad sailor, and throughout this time was as sick as a dog. He vomited until he was as empty as a drum, yet continued to retch in agony. His eyes watered, saliva ran hot in his mouth, a child could have pushed him over. He became incapable of coherent thought and would not have minded had the ship gone down.

  On the fourth day the fury of the storm lessened sufficiently for her topsails and jib to be set, and Roger staggered up on deck. His clothes uncared for, his hair awry, his cheeks and chin dark with a three-day growth of bristles, he stood clutching a stanchion as he stared out across the grey-green waste. For as far as he could see, an endless succession of white-caps broke the surface, tossing up little jets of spray. No other vessel was in sight, no smudge of land was to be seen on the horizon, no indication of whether the ship was on her course or had been driven off it.

  It was bitterly cold and began to rain. Soon it was coming down in torrents. Soaked to the skin, Roger staggered down to the saloon. The Captain of the barque happened to be there. He was a hardbitten Yankee from Nantucket, who disliked the British; but when, white-faced and ill, Roger had staggered to a settee and collapsed upon it, the lean American brought over a tot of rum, lifted Roger’s head and forced him to swallow the liquid.

  The fiery spirit burned its way into his vitals and made him cough until he feared he was going to choke; but after a while he began to feel a little bit better, and managed to get down two ships’ biscuits. As the early darkness closed in, it began to blow great guns again. By then, Roger had crawled back to his cabin. As he lay down on the still rolling bunk, he was overcome by another fit of nausea and spewed up the little he had eaten.

  Next day the weather improved sufficiently for more sail to be set, but a blustering wind continued, accompanied by gusts of driving rain. Roger’s bouts of actual vomiting had ceased, but he still felt queasy and his stomach was sore from the strain that had been put on its muscles. It was not until the barque had turned east, passed the Skaw of Denmark and was buffeting her way through the Skagerrak that he managed to pull himself together enough to make the effort required to shave and dress himself properly.

  Christmas Day had passed unnoticed and it was New Year’s Eve when the barque dropped anchor in Gothen burg harbour. Although it was already dark, Roger had himself rowed ashore. The town lay under a pall of snow, and enough light was reflected from it by a waning moon to see the old, timbered houses almost as clearly as in daytime. The glow of their lighted windows spoke of warmth and comfort within, but outside the temperature was far below zero and Roger was thankful when the coach he had hired at the dock pulled up in the yard of a big inn.

  On going inside he saw that the Christmas decorations were still up and the place was crowded with people drinking beer and schnapps. They were starting to celebrate the New Year, but he felt too weak and ill to mingle later with them and join in the revelry. He ordered hot punch, bread and honey to be sent up to his room, ate while he undressed; then, with a sigh of thankfulness, climbed into a bed that had on it a feather eiderdown a foot thick. As he lay there, he still felt the motion of the ship and seemed to be rocking gently from side to side, but the hot posset and the honey had soothed his raw stomach and he fell into a deep sleep. Even the bells of Gothenburg, clamorously ringing in the year 1812, failed to wake him.

  He spent the whole of the next day in bed, slowly recovering from his ghastly voyage, and took the opportunity to have his suit well brushed and pressed. On purpose he had brought only the one with him, and very few things, for to have done otherwise could have given away the story he meant to tell of how he had happened to arrive in Gothenburg. He had lost over a stone in weight, and when he looked in the mirror, decided that the patches of grey hair above his ears had perceptibly increased during the past year; but that had been partly due to what he had been through while in the hands of O Diabo. However, there were as yet no wrinkles on his face, except for the laughter lines at the corners of his mouth, and his bright blue eyes were as keen as ever.

  The following day he felt much more like his old self. Going out into the town he bought himself a pair of roomy, wool-lined boots, a bearskin coat, a sea-otter papenka, a sheepskin rug, warm stockings and underclothes, returned to the inn to pack, then took the seat he had booked in the diligence leaving for Stockholm.

  He had dreaded the two-hundred-and-fifty-mile journey, but need not have done so. Unlike Britain, in which occasional periods of very cold weather cause the people much suffering and inconvenience, the Swedes had long since learned how to protect themselves during their long, bitter winters. For the whole way the roadsides were piled high with packed snow, so that the diligence seemed to be travelling through a long, winding gully, but there were no hold-ups, because the centre of the road was kept clear by relays of men from the towns and villages. Every ten miles or so fresh, flat, metal hot water containers were put in to warm the passengers’ feet, and the meals at the inns on the way were passably good. Roger’s only complaint would have been that, not long after each halt, the interior of the vehicle became abominably stuffy, because the windows were kept hermetically sealed.

  On the evening of January 5th, he arrived in Stockholm and put up at the Reindeer’s Head. Next morning he had himself driven out to the Castle. The scenery on the way there was enchanting. Snowflakes sparkled in the winter sunshine on the feathery branches of the pines and larches. Between the clusters of trees there were frozen lakes with colourfully-dressed people skating or being pushed in sleighs on them, while groups of laughing children attacked or defended snow forts and pelted one another with snowballs. But the Castle proved a grim, grey pile and Roger wondered, a shade apprehensively, how Bernadotte would receive him.

  Having been passed from the sergeant of the guard to an adjutant, he sent up his name as Colonel Count de Breuc. He was kept waiting only ten minutes, then taken up a broad flight of stone stairs and along a gloomy corridor to which the light scarcely penetrated. There was no sentry on the door of the Prince Royal’s cabinet and Roger was shown straight into it. The room was quite small, and filled with maps and books, some of which were even piled on the floor. The tall, handsome ex-Marshal of the Empire was now wearing the much less decorative plain blue uniform of a Swedish Field Marshal. On his broad chest there w
as not a single decoration.

  As Roger entered, Bernadotte rose from his littered desk, smiled, held out his hand and said, ‘Mon cher Colonel. What a pleasant surprise. How do you come to be here?’

  Roger returned the smile and replied, ‘I come from England, Your Royal Highness. I was taken prisoner in the Peninsula while with the Marshal Duke of Dalmatia’s army. From Lisbon I was sent to the Isle of Wight; but, as I speak English fluently, I managed to escape and stowed away in an American freighter that was lying in Southampton Roads. At the time I had no idea whither she was bound, and she landed me at Gothenburg six days since. Finding myself in Sweden, I felt it only proper to pay my respects to Your Royal Highness.’

  There was only one other chair in the room, and it was occupied by a young Military Secretary. Bernadotte signed to him to leave the room and said to Roger, ‘Sit down and tell me all you can of how things are going both with Soult and in England.’

  Spreading his coat-tails, Roger took the chair. ‘Of the Marshal I can tell Your Royal Highness little, as it is some ten months since I was captured. Then he had repelled Wellington from Badajoz and was again lording it in Seville as the uncrowned King of Andalusia.’