Pimpernel and Rosemary - Baroness Orczy (e reader TXT) 📗

distinctly mocking glance on her face, Rosemary felt at a disadvantage. She was obviously not in a position to demand explanations from a man who belonged to the governing classes in his own country. With every belief in the power of the press, Rosemary had far too much common sense not to realise that a man in Naniescu’s position would not put up with being dictated to, or cross-examined, by a stranger, however influential he or she might be. So once again she swallowed her resentment, determined that whatever chance she had of helping the Imreys should not be wrecked through want of tact on her part. Diplomacy, good temper, and, if necessary, seeming complaisance, would be more likely to win the day than any attempt at threatening.

“Monsieur le Général,” she resumed, after a while, “I know that you will forgive me for my seeming ill-humour. I have witnessed so much sorrow these last few hours that I suppose my nerves are rather jarred. I know, of course, that it is not my place to criticise the measure which your Government chooses to impose on a subject race. As a suzerain state Romania has a perfect right to defend what she believes to be her own interests, and in a manner that she thinks best. Will you forgive me the sharp words I allowed to slip just now?”

And with a return of that charm of manner which even more than beauty held most men in thrall, Rosemary put out her hand. The gallant Romanian, without a trace of mockery now in his large, dark eyes, took it in both his own; then he stooped and kissed the dainty fingertips.

“And now,” Rosemary went on resolutely, “that I have made amende honorable, will you allow me to plead the Imrey’s cause in all earnestness⁠—in the name of humanity, Monsieur le Général? The boy is only nineteen.”

The general leaned back in his chair, his well-manicured fingers gently stroking his silky moustache, his eyes no longer attempting to conceal the satisfaction which he felt at seeing this exquisitely beautiful woman in the role of a suppliant before him. Now when she paused he gave an indifferent shrug.

“Dear lady,” he said, “my experience of this part of the world is that boys and girls of nineteen who give up jazzing and have not started making love, but who choose to meddle in politics, are veritable pests.”

“But Philip Imrey does not meddle in politics,” Rosemary protested.

“Are you quite sure of that?” he retorted.

As he said this his eyes became quite small, and piercing like two little flaming darts; but though his sudden challenge had sent a stab of apprehension through Rosemary’s heart, her glance never faltered, and she lied straight out, lied boldly without hesitation, without a blush.

“I am quite sure,” she replied.

And the only compunction she felt over that lie was when she realised⁠—as she did at once⁠—that the Romanian did not believe her.

“Little Anna Heves did not confide in you?” he asked, with perfect suavity.

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I said, dear lady. Anna Heves and Philip Imrey are two young hotheads who have given us an infinity of trouble. For a long time we could not find out how certain pernicious articles, injurious to the good reputation of Romanian, found their way into the English and American press. Now we know.”

“Your spy system seems more efficient than your censorship,” Rosemary retorted bitterly.

“That is beside the point.”

“Yes; the point is that those two are mere children.”

“I dare say the judges will take that into account and deal leniently with them.”

“With them?” Rosemary exclaimed, and suddenly a new terror gripped her heart. “With them? You don’t mean⁠—?”

“What, dear lady?” he queried suavely.

“That Anna⁠—?”

“Anna Heves, yes; the late Baron Heves’ daughter, now a saleswoman in the shop of Balog the grocer. I often wondered how she came to demean herself in that way. Now I understand.”

“But surely, surely,” Rosemary protested, striving in vain to steady her voice, which was quaking with this new, this terrible anxiety, “you have not arrested Anna Heves? The child has done nothing⁠—”

Naniescu put up his hand with a gesture of protest.

“Dear lady,” he said, with quiet irony and in a tone one would use to an obstinate child, “let me assure you once and for all that the accusations against Philip Imrey and his cousin do not rest upon assumptions, but upon facts. Anna Heves was arrested and she will be brought to trial because she was found⁠—actually found, mind you⁠—smuggling newspaper articles, defamatory to the Government of this country, for insertion in foreign journals. English sense of justice is reputed to be very keen; your own must tell you that it is hardly fair to bring the battery of your charms as a weapon to break down my sense of duty. I lay, as always, my homage at your feet, but I should be a traitor if, whilst gazing into your adorable eyes, I were to forget what I owe to my country.”

Gradually he dropped the irony out of his tone, and his voice became once more mellifluous and tender while he leaned forward, almost touching Rosemary’s knees with his, and striving to hold her glance with the challenge of his own. Rosemary shrank back. Suddenly something of the truth had dawned upon her. Not all of it just yet. It was only presently⁠—in a few more days⁠—that she was destined to realise the extent to which this man⁠—half Oriental in his capacity for lying⁠—had hoodwinked and cajoled her. It was his mien, the thinly veiled insult that lurked behind his suave speech and expressive eyes, that suddenly tore the veil from before her own. And yet reason fought for a moment against this wave of aversion. The man was right, unquestionably right. Philip and Anna had been very foolish. And, what is more, they were technically guilty of treason: there was no getting away from that; and Rosemary could not shut her eyes to the fact that the very