CHAPTER TWOThe crying of the seagulls circling over the port of Dover sounded as bewildered as Rosilda felt!
The last few hours had passed in a distinct blur of bewilderment.
It seemed to her only ten minutes ago that she had been standing in the Art Room of the Five Oaks Boarding School for Young Ladies, trying to finish her version of a still life drawing of two apples and an orange.
Now she was just about to embark on the ferry that would carry her across the Channel to France and then on by night express to Paris and later even deeper into Europe towards Vienna.
The final leg of the journey would, she had been told, be by carriage. It would lead them up into the great towering mountain range where lay the little Principality of Montdeaves.
The hours since Sir Andrew Dexter had ask
