The Cruel Count (Bantam Series No. 28) by Barbara Cartland Page A

much ceremony in magnificent surroundings!”
    “And you would have enjoyed that?”
    “It would be exciting to be ... important!”
    The Count raised his eyebrows, and Vesta said:
    “I have five sisters older than I am. I have always had to wear their outgrown gowns, sit in a carriage with my back to the horses and do all the jobs no-one else wishes to do!”
    The Count laughed.
    “So you thought being Royal would be all you had dreamt of in splendour, pomp and circumstance.”
    “In ... a ... way.”
    Vesta’s head was bent over the pan she was polishing.
    “When it happens you may be disappointed,” the Count warned.
    “Why should I?” Vesta enquired.
    “You may find the anticipation more exciting than the reality!”
    He paused before he continued:
    “We have a fairy story in Katona about a Princess who fell asleep for a hundred years to be awakened by a Prince with a kiss.”
    “That is the tale of ‘The Sleeping Beauty’,” Vesta exclaimed, “and it was written by a Frenchman.”
    She was pleased to show off her knowledge.
    “I often think,” the Count continued as if she had not spoken, “that the Princess might have disliked having to face the world again and regretted the loss of her dreams.”
    “But she fell in love with the Prince,” Vesta protested.
    “Is that the French version?” the Count enquired. “Perhaps the Katonian story has a different ending.”
    Vesta was still.
    “Perhaps the Prince ... did not ... wish to ... kiss ... her,” she said without thinking.
    Then the colour rose in her cheeks again and she asked herself how she could have been so indiscreet as to speak of anything so intimate to the Count.
    She half turned away from him, angry and embarrassed by her impulsiveness in speaking without thinking.
    She rinsed the cloth again and wrung it out almost fiercely.
    As if he sensed her tension and understood it, the Count asked lightly:
    “Can you really cook?”
    “You shall answer that question after dinner,” Vesta replied with an effort. “I must admit to preferring a better equipment for the task than this.”
    The Count lifted the heavy bucket which leaked with every step he took, and carried it back to the door of the Inn.
    Just as they reached it the woman appeared with a dead hen, head down, in her hand.
    She said something which sounded defiant, and the Count translated to Vesta.
    “Our hostess says she has killed an old hen. Not even for the Prince himself would she sacrifice one of her young ones.”
    “I am sure His Royal Highness would be most disappointed at such lack of patriotism!” Vesta smiled.
    The woman passed by them into the kitchen.
    “You would be more comfortable sitting in front of the fire, Count,” Vesta suggested. “If I have any further need of your services I will ask for your help.”
    “You are very gracious,” he said sarcastically, but he walked obediently into the other room.
    Besides the dead hen, the woman had brought in a number of eggs. Some of them looked dirty and old, and Vesta was wise enough to crack them separately finding, as she had anticipated, that some were bad and extremely smelly.
    Presently the Count heard laughter coming from the kitchen, and when Vesta suddenly appeared he said before she could speak:
    “Something seems to be amusing you.”
    “Our hostess thinks it very funny when I find a bad egg and hold my nose!” she said. “We are getting on extremely well in sign language.”
    She held out her hand towards him.
    “I want to be quite sure which of these mushrooms which I have found just outside the Inn are edible. I have the feeling that the red ones, although I am not certain, are poisonous.”
    “They are indeed!” The Count said. “They are Aminita Muscaria. They grow in pine forests, and even if they did not kill us we should certainly spend a very uncomfortable night.”
    “That is what I thought,” Vesta answered. “And these?”
    She held out two other mushrooms that were yellow with