The Incredible Honeymoon (Bantam Series No. 46)

by Barbara Cartland

  “But I do not know you!”

  “That is something that can easily be rectified,” he replied. “When may I see you again? Where are you staying in Paris?”

  She laughed at him because they were questions that had been asked by all her partners.

  The dance came to an end and another Frenchman drew her onto the dance-floor.

  Although Antonia glanced frequently towards the windows there was no sign of the Duke returning, nor could she see the fascinating Comtesse.

  She lost count of her partners. Then she found herself dancing with a man to whom she did not remember being introduced. She was quite certain he had not written his name on her dance-card.

  It did not seem to matter if she exchanged one man for another. They all seemed to say much the same thing, and she was really hoping the Duke would appear so that they could go home.

  “You are the Duchess of Doncaster?” her new partner asked as he swung her round to the music of the ‘Blue Danube’.

  He spoke in a heavy voice almost as if it was an indictment.

  “Yes, I am,” Antonia replied. “But I have a feeling we have not been introduced.”

  “Your husband is with you?”

  “Yes, of course,” Antonia answered. “We are on our honeymoon.”

  Her partner glanced round the room.

  “I do not see him anywhere.”

  “He is in the garden,” Antonia replied, “with a very fascinating and alluring lady whom I suspect of being an old friend and who was certainly very pleased to see him.”

  “What was her name?”

  The question was so sharp, so abrupt that Antonia looked at the man in surprise and almost missed a step.

  “The Comtesse de Rezonville.”

  “So! It is what I suspected!” the Frenchman muttered in a furious tone.

  He stopped dancing and taking Antonia by the arm drew her across the room towards the open window.

  “We will find them,” he said grimly, “doubtless, as you say, in the garden.”

  There was something so ferocious in the way he spoke that Antonia said quickly:

  “I ... I may have been ... mistaken. Who ... who are you? And why are you so interested in my husband?”

  “I happen to be married to the fascinating, alluring lady you have just described so vividly!” he replied.

  Antonia’s heart gave a frightened leap.

  She realised by the way he spoke and the manner in which he was pulling her along that the Comte was in a rage and she knew she had precipitated it by what she had told him.

  “How could I have known?” she asked herself frantically, “that the man dancing with me was the Comtesse’s husband?”

  They walked down the steps which led from the terrace into the garden.

  The Comte stood looking around as if he was adjusting his eyes from the brilliant lights of the Ball-Room to the darkness which was only relieved by the golden glow of the Chinese lanterns.

  “I am sure they are not here,” Antonia said hastily. “Let us look in the Supper-Room.”

  The Comte did not answer her but kept his hand firmly on her arm, pulling her forward and moving her towards the right.

  Bordering the lawn there was the first of the arbours screened by ferns or potted-plants where they were not naturally enveloped with climbing roses or flowering creepers.

  Still dragging Antonia with him he went up to the first arbour, disturbing a couple who were kissing each other passionately, and looked round with a startled expression on their faces.

  “Pardon, Monsieur, Pardon, Madame,” the Comte muttered and moved towards the next arbour.

  Antonia stood still.

  “Stop!” she said. “You cannot do this! I do not know what you suspect but whatever it is, it is quite unfounded. My husband and I are here on our honeymoon. We have only just arrived. I think he will be looking for me in the Ball-Room.”

  “You will find your husband, Madame, when we find my wife!” the Comte replied.

  He drew Antonia on again and she knew that unless she made a scene she could do nothing but go with him.

  He was very strong and his fingers seemed to dig into the softness of her arm.

  There was a grim determination about him which she found terrifying and which made her feel at the same time weak and helpless.

  They visited no less than four arbours and interrupted the couples in them in an embarrassing manner which made Antonia hope that while she could see their faces in the light from the lanterns hanging on the trees, they could not see hers.

  Then just as they approached the fifth arbour she heard the Duke’s voice.

  She could not hear what he said but there was no mistaking his deep resonant tone.

  Because she was afraid that he might be embracing the Comtesse or indulging in any of the small intimacies they had seen when interrupting the other couples, she called out:

  “Athol! Athol! Where are you?”

  She knew her cry annoyed the Comte and he looked at her angrily.

  Then he moved her forward quickly, still clasping her arm. In the arbour the Duke and the Comtesse were sitting beside each other on the cushioned seat.

  There was nothing to show they had been doing anything intimate but even if they had, Antonia thought with satisfaction, they would have had time to move apart when she had called out to the Duke.

  When they saw the Comte it seemed to Antonia as if, for a moment, both the Duke and the Comtesse were carved in stone.

  Then the Comtesse gave a little cry.

  “Jacques, what an enchanting surprise!” she exclaimed. “I was not expecting you to join me.”

  “That is obvious!” the Comte replied and his eyes were on the Duke.

  “Good evening, Rezonville,” the Duke said calmly. “I have only just learnt that you have returned to Paris.”

  “I warned you when you were here last to keep away from my wife!” the Comte said aggressively.

  “My dear fellow,” the Duke said, “your wife was just congratulating me, as I hope you will, on my marriage.”

  “My congratulations are best expressed like this!’ the Comte replied.

  He was wearing only one glove and he held the other in his right hand.

  Now he raised it and slapped the Duke across the face.

  The Comtesse gave a shrill cry while Antonia felt as if the breath had been squeezed out of her body.

  “I consider that an insult!” the Duke said quietly.

  “That is what it is meant to be!” the Comte retorted.

  “My seconds will wait on you!”

  “I have no intention of waiting,” the Comte replied. “We will fight at dawn.”

  “Certainly!” the Duke replied.

  He moved past the Comte and offered his arm to Antonia.

  “I think it is time we said farewell to our hostess,” he said in a quiet, level voice that was quite expressionless.

  Antonia was glad to put her hand on his arm. She had the feeling that otherwise she might have fallen to the ground.

  They moved back through the garden towards the house, and as they did so they could hear the Comtesse screaming at her husband, and the anger in his voice as he answered her.

  It was impossible to speak—impossible to say anything until the Duke led Antonia into the lighted Ball-Room where the Marquise was standing at the door saying farewell to others of her guests.

  “It has been a delightful evening,” the Duke said graciously.

  “I am so glad you could both come,” the Marquise answered. “If you are to be in Paris for some time we must meet again.”

  “My wife and I will be delighted!” the Duke replied.

  He kissed the Marquise’s hand, Antonia curtsied gracefully and soon they were driving away towards the Champs Elysees in the carriage that had been waiting for them.

  “What does it ... mean? You cannot ... fight him!” Antonia said frantically as the Duke did not speak.

  “I hav
e no alternative,” he replied. “I must apologise, Antonia, for what must have been a very upsetting experience for you, but the Comte has wanted an excuse to call me out for some time.”

  Remembering the way the Comtesse had greeted the Duke, Antonia thought that perhaps he had every reason for jealousy, but all she could say in a frightened voice was:

  “He may ... kill you!”

  “That is unlikely,” the Duke replied. “Most duels are fairly civilised. A small show of blood and honour is satisfied!”

  “Can you be ... sure of that?” Antonia asked.

  She was thinking of the Comte’s anger and the aggressive manner in which he had deliberately insulted the Duke.

  “I assure you, Antonia,” the Duke said, “there is nothing to trouble you. By the time you wake to-morrow morning it will all be over!”

  “M ... may I ... go with you?” Antonia asked.

  “No, of course you may not!” the Duke replied. “Spectators are not permitted on such occasions! I assure you the whole thing is just a formality—a salve to the Comte’s pride.”

  “The Comtesse is very attractive,” Antonia said.

  “Very!” the Duke answered, “and I assure you I am not the first man to have found her so!”

  “Then why are you fighting over her?”

  “It is a question of honour,” the Duke replied. “I am quite prepared to admit, since we are frank with each other, Antonia, that the Comte might have reason to be incensed with me.”

  “But you ... cannot fight... every man who is ... jealous of you!” Antonia said hesitatingly.

  “I hope not!” the Duke smiled. “But Rezonville has always been a fiery, over-dramatic fellow. At one time he talked of challenging the Emperor to a duel, but fortunately he was persuaded not to make a fool of himself.”

  “Could not ... someone persuade him ... now?” Antonia asked in a very small voice.

  “I am not an Emperor!” the Duke answered. “And I assure you I am not afraid of Rezonville or any other man!” It seemed there was nothing more to be said. When they reached the house the Duke, having escorted Antonia into the Hall, raised her hand to his lips.

  “You will understand that I have arrangements to make,” he said. “Sleep well, Antonia, I hope when we have breakfast to-morrow morning all this unpleasantness will be forgotten.”

  She wanted to hold on to him.

  She had a feeling she ought not to let him go, but he turned and went out of the house and she heard the carriage drive away.

  She stood indecisively in the Hall and the night-footman who had let them in waited as if he expected her to give him an order.

  Antonia made up her mind.

  “Fetch Tour to me immediately!” she said.

  “Tres bien, Madame.”

  The footman hurried up the stairs to fetch the Duke’s valet and Antonia went into the Salon.

  It was still very dark under the trees although there was a faint glow in the East while the stars were fading overhead.

  Tour led the way through the bushes and shrubs and Antonia followed closely behind him frightened of losing him in the shadows.

  After the Duke had left the house, it had taken a great deal of persuasion to make Tour promise he would take her to the Bois. It was only when she threatened to go alone that he finally consented.

  “I don’t know what His Grace will say to me,” he kept murmuring unhappily.

  “I will take the blame, Tour. You know as well as I do that you cannot disobey my orders. I command you to take me to the Bois where we can watch the duel just in case His Grace is hurt and needs assistance.”

  The valet still looked unhappy and Antonia said:

  “If His Grace is unharmed, then we will slip away and be back at the house long before he returns.”

  She had known that it would be difficult to do what she wished and she had actually heaved a sigh of relief when Tour had finally consented.

  He had been with the Duke for years and always travelled with him when he went abroad.

  In England the Duke had two younger valets also in attendance, but Tour spoke several foreign languages.

  Because she wanted to find out more about the Comte, Antonia insisted on Tour sitting inside the carriage as they drove to the Bois.

  She knew he was embarrassed that she should request anything so unusual and he sat opposite her on the small seat, his back straight, his hat held firmly in both his hands.

  “Tell me about the Comte de Rezonville,” Antonia asked. “Is he a good shot?”

  “He has a reputation, Your Grace, for having fought a number of duels.”

  “All over the Comtesse?” Antonia asked and felt it was a foolish question with only one answer. “Has he ever threatened the Duke before?”

  “There was a little trouble two years ago, Your Grace.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  Tour looked uncomfortable.

  “I can guess,” Antonia said hastily, “but the Comte did not challenge the Duke on that occasion?”

  “He threatened to, but as His Grace was staying in the British Embassy with the Ambassador, I think Monsieur le Comte thought it might cause an international incident.”

  “I see!” Antonia answered.

  The Duke now was without the protection of the British Flag and therefore the Comte could take the vengeance which must have been festering in him for two years.

  She was suddenly desperately afraid.

  As if he knew what she was feeling Tour said:

  “Don’t you take on, Your Grace. It’ll be all right. There’s no-one handles a pistol better than His Grace, and he’s a sportsman if ever there was one!”

  “I am sure he is going to be all right!” Antonia said speaking more to herself than to Tour.

  At the same time there was a fear within her which seemed almost like a presentiment of evil.

  She could see the clearing in the wood as she peeped through the bushes into which Tour had taken her.

  She realised it was the traditional place where the famous Parisian duels were fought and wondered how many men had died in just this spot simply because they had aroused jealousy and anger over some tiresome woman.

  There was however little time for introspection.

  The duellists were already lined up. She could see the Duke conferring with his seconds and the Comte conferring with his.

  There was a man who she imagined was the Referee and another holding a black bag, who she guessed with a sinking of her heart was a doctor.

  Dawn had broken and now it was easy to see every detail, the diamond tie-pin glittering in the Comte’s cravat, the Duke’s signet ring on his little finger.

  ‘I cannot bear it!’ Antonia thought.

  She wondered if she should run forward and beg them not to fight each other, but she knew she would only embarrass the Duke and that she would be sent away.

  If the duel did not take place this morning, it would take place to-morrow.

  She fastened her teeth onto her lower lip so that she would not cry out.

  Now the Referee was ready and he called the two contestants to him and they stood back to back.

  “Ten paces,” Antonia heard him say and began to count.

  “Un, deux, trois...”

  The Duke was taller than the Comte and he moved slowly and with a dignity which made Antonia feel very proud.

  There was something magnificent about him, she thought. Something which seemed to raise him above everything that was squalid and vulgar and made him a man of honour and a sportsman in every fibre of his being.

  “Huit, neuf, dix!”

  Antonia held her breath.

  The Duke and the Comte stood sideways to each other and brought their pistols, French fashion, down upon their left arms, which were raised shoulder high, and took aim.

  “Fire!”

  The Referee gave the word and the Duke with superb marksmanship just grazed the outside of the Comte’s arm. A crimson patch appear
ed on his coat.

  The Duke’s seconds moved forward.

  “Honour is satisfied!” they declared.

  The Duke dropped his arms.

  “Not as far as I am concerned!” the Comte replied savagely.

  Then he fired!

  There was the reverberation of his pistol, and Antonia realised that when the Duke had lowered both his arms, he had been off guard and at his ease. He had also turned his body fully towards the Comte.

  Just for a moment she thought the bullet had missed, then as the Duke fell she gave a cry that was strangled in her throat and ran towards him.

  She was certain as she reached him that he was dead!

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Someone ... a man ... was screaming ... crying out ... making a noise...

  The Duke wondered how anyone could be so tiresome when he felt so ill. He had heard this man before and resented the commotion which he made.

  He could still hear him but he was further away ... in the distance ... gradually fading ... until there was silence...

  He felt a relief that the noise was no longer there and then a soft voice which he also seemed to have heard many times said:

  “Go to sleep. You are safe ... quite safe. No-one shall hurt you.”

  He wanted to say that he was not afraid, but it was too much effort to try to speak or to open his eyes.

  “Go to sleep, my darling,” the voice said tenderly. “But perhaps you are thirsty?”

  There was an arm lifting his head very carefully so that he could drink from a glass which contained something cool and rather sweet.

  He was not certain what it was—it was too much of an effort to try and think.

  It was strangely comforting to be held closely and his cheek was against something very soft.

  There was a sweet fragrance of flowers and now there was a cool hand on his forehead, soothing him, mesmerising him and he knew he was slipping away into oblivion...

  The Duke came back to consciousness to hear two voices speaking.

  “How is he, Tour?”

  It was the voice of a woman and vaguely he wondered who she was. Tour he recognised as his valet.

  “Much quieter, Your Grace. I have washed His Grace, shaved him and he hardly moved.”

  “Did the doctor come while I was asleep?”