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Authors: Barbara Cartland
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hotel.
In the privacy of the cab he kissed her repeatedly, like a man on the edge of despair. Naïve though she was, she sensed something in his kiss that was more than simply love – a kind of dread, almost anguish.
But she could not think about it. Everything in her was subsumed in pure emotion.
At the hotel he assisted her out and took her inside as far as the stairs.
"I'll be here for you at ten o'clock tomorrow morning," he said.
"Are we going riding?"
"No, not this time. We'll go somewhere where we can have a long talk. Goodnight, my darling."
"Goodnight," she said. "Until tomorrow – my beloved."
She floated upstairs on a cloud of joy. Tomorrow they would have their talk and all would be settled between them. No more deceptions or misunderstandings. Love and happiness lay ahead.
*
The Duke waited until Ola was out of sight. Then the smile faded from his face, and a look of gravity overtook it. A heavy weight seemed to descend on his shoulders, and for a moment there was an expression in his eyes that was almost wretchedness.
Then he straightened his shoulders, turned and went out to the waiting cab.
"Whitehall!" he said curtly.
In twenty minutes he was in the street where so many Government offices were located, and which culminated in the House of Parliament. At his instructions the driver halted half way down Whitehall, and the Duke walked into an unobtrusive building with plain doors and windows.
It was a place that would be easy to overlook. There was no plate on the door to announce its function, nothing to indicate that this was the headquarters of one of the most powerful, yet least known departments of the state.
The Duke went straight up to the third floor and was admitted without question to the office of a plump, pleasant looking man. This was Sir Bernard Danson, the head of the British Secret Service.
He looked up sharply as the Duke entered, and uttered one word.
"Well?"
The Duke shook his head ruefully.
"She's not who she says she is."
"Then who is she?"
"I have no idea. But whatever her true identity, she is not Princess Relola of Oltenitza."
"When did you start to suspect?" Sir Bernard asked.
"From the very first moment, but I've been hoping all the time that she would prove me wrong – maybe turn out to be a real Princess of Oltenitza that we've simply never heard of before, perhaps a cousin of the reigning family,?"
Sir Bernard shook his head.
"I've had that matter exhaustively researched, my dear fellow. The Oltenitzan royal family is exactly what we've always known about, King Mathias and Queen Freya, their five daughters, Ludmilla, Sibylla, Myrlene, Flaviola, Helola, and three sons, none of whom is married to a woman called Relola, or has any children of that name.
"Our agents in the field are adamant that the whole family are trapped in Hollentot Castle by a band of Russian soldiers who are keeping them captive, determined not to let any of them reach London."
"But Flaviola – Helola - the similarity of name – "
"Helola is sixteen years old, and I've met Flaviola, one of the ugliest women I've ever seen."
"Then it can't be either of them," the Duke agreed. "But couldn't one of the others have escaped and fled here to ask our help?"
"Then why hasn't she done so? She's been to the Palace, she's met you, a man in the royal service. Has she asked you to introduce her to anyone in Government?"
"No."
"And she's made no attempt to contact her Embassy. I know. Her every movement has been watched, including the long hours she has spent in your company."
"I was doing my duty to my country," the Duke said stiffly, "keeping a suspicious person under observation."
"Very close observation, apparently. All right, my dear fellow. I'm not going to ask awkward questions about how far you felt obliged to go in the Queen's service. It's an occupational hazard, of no importance, as long as you don't lose your head."
Under Sir Bernard's keen eyes, the Duke reddened slightly
In the privacy of the cab he kissed her repeatedly, like a man on the edge of despair. Naïve though she was, she sensed something in his kiss that was more than simply love – a kind of dread, almost anguish.
But she could not think about it. Everything in her was subsumed in pure emotion.
At the hotel he assisted her out and took her inside as far as the stairs.
"I'll be here for you at ten o'clock tomorrow morning," he said.
"Are we going riding?"
"No, not this time. We'll go somewhere where we can have a long talk. Goodnight, my darling."
"Goodnight," she said. "Until tomorrow – my beloved."
She floated upstairs on a cloud of joy. Tomorrow they would have their talk and all would be settled between them. No more deceptions or misunderstandings. Love and happiness lay ahead.
*
The Duke waited until Ola was out of sight. Then the smile faded from his face, and a look of gravity overtook it. A heavy weight seemed to descend on his shoulders, and for a moment there was an expression in his eyes that was almost wretchedness.
Then he straightened his shoulders, turned and went out to the waiting cab.
"Whitehall!" he said curtly.
In twenty minutes he was in the street where so many Government offices were located, and which culminated in the House of Parliament. At his instructions the driver halted half way down Whitehall, and the Duke walked into an unobtrusive building with plain doors and windows.
It was a place that would be easy to overlook. There was no plate on the door to announce its function, nothing to indicate that this was the headquarters of one of the most powerful, yet least known departments of the state.
The Duke went straight up to the third floor and was admitted without question to the office of a plump, pleasant looking man. This was Sir Bernard Danson, the head of the British Secret Service.
He looked up sharply as the Duke entered, and uttered one word.
"Well?"
The Duke shook his head ruefully.
"She's not who she says she is."
"Then who is she?"
"I have no idea. But whatever her true identity, she is not Princess Relola of Oltenitza."
"When did you start to suspect?" Sir Bernard asked.
"From the very first moment, but I've been hoping all the time that she would prove me wrong – maybe turn out to be a real Princess of Oltenitza that we've simply never heard of before, perhaps a cousin of the reigning family,?"
Sir Bernard shook his head.
"I've had that matter exhaustively researched, my dear fellow. The Oltenitzan royal family is exactly what we've always known about, King Mathias and Queen Freya, their five daughters, Ludmilla, Sibylla, Myrlene, Flaviola, Helola, and three sons, none of whom is married to a woman called Relola, or has any children of that name.
"Our agents in the field are adamant that the whole family are trapped in Hollentot Castle by a band of Russian soldiers who are keeping them captive, determined not to let any of them reach London."
"But Flaviola – Helola - the similarity of name – "
"Helola is sixteen years old, and I've met Flaviola, one of the ugliest women I've ever seen."
"Then it can't be either of them," the Duke agreed. "But couldn't one of the others have escaped and fled here to ask our help?"
"Then why hasn't she done so? She's been to the Palace, she's met you, a man in the royal service. Has she asked you to introduce her to anyone in Government?"
"No."
"And she's made no attempt to contact her Embassy. I know. Her every movement has been watched, including the long hours she has spent in your company."
"I was doing my duty to my country," the Duke said stiffly, "keeping a suspicious person under observation."
"Very close observation, apparently. All right, my dear fellow. I'm not going to ask awkward questions about how far you felt obliged to go in the Queen's service. It's an occupational hazard, of no importance, as long as you don't lose your head."
Under Sir Bernard's keen eyes, the Duke reddened slightly
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