ANDREA HAD BEEN IN LONDON only two days when she was made aware that some threat challenged her father's peace of mind. It had been so exciting to be summoned from her school in Switzerland, brought to England under the chaperonage of Cousin Stacia, and established in a great mansion in London, reunited once again with the father and sister who, aside from Stacia, were all the family she had in the world. Her recurring hope that this time things would be different, this time father would make an effort to be with her, that Pola would share the fun of being a girl, had soon been disappointed. Things were as they had always been. The handsome, ageing Count Vladimir Wasylyk was his urbane charming self, as always more interested in his social life and in gaming with his cronies than in a daughter he scarcely ever saw.

Pola had become more waspish than ever. She was such a flamboyant beauty with her dark-red hair and green eyes that it was no wonder she was constantly besieged by men and too busy to bother with an awkward young half sister. Cousin Stacia had confided, during the journey to England, that Pola had pulled off the coup of the season. She had captured the prize in the matrimonial stakes, Lord Dominic Justin of Kyle in Scotland, of whom all the hopeful mamas had long despaired. This was indeed a triumph, advised Stacia, since Milord had estates not only in Scotland and England, but in France and Spain as well, his forebears having consistently married heiresses whose beauty was exceeded only by their wealth.

"He is too starched up for my taste," Stacia confided, "but la, child, his family is older than the current royalty's!"

Stacia had prattled on, "I must confess to you, my love, that I have been more than a little concerned over your sister. Pola is a strikingly beautiful woman, but she is -- wayward." Stacia primmed her lips. "Of course you don't know what I'm talking about! How should you, child, having been banished to that dreary seminary in Geneva -- such a dull place, in spite of the excellence of its teachers! I daresay you can speak more than one language, and even cipher?"

In spite of her interest in Stacia's original subject, Andrea had to smile as she answered, "Oh, yes indeed, Cousin! I've been well taught: philosophy, history, mathematics, composition and grammar, as well as an unimpeachable accent in French and English--"

"Say no more, I implore you!" cried her cousin. "I beg of you, Andrea, never let this be known in London, where even the half of your scholarly accomplishments would insure your remaining a spinster all your days! What was Vladi thinking of, to send you to such a hive of bluestockings?"

"He was thinking of getting me out from underfoot," said Andrea sadly. "You know he is too busy to bother with a gangling girl-child."

Cousin Stacia was not betrayed into maudlin pity. " 'Tis your own blame! You've done your best to be a son to him whenever he has let you come home to Poland," she said roundly. "I warn you, Andrea, my love, you'll get nowhere with Vladi unless you employ feminine wiles. Force him to acknowledge you as a woman -- charm him as Pola does! No more of this hoydenish fencing and riding your horses astride over the roughest terrain!" She gave an elaborate shudder.

Andrea thought of the long-awaited vacations every year, when she could come home to the palace in Warsaw in the winter and to Castle Wasylyk in the summer vacation. She loved that dark, brooding, uncomfortable place with a deep love which only her father shared. It was one of the few bonds she had with him, and she tried to strengthen it every chance she got. In those vast, echoing stone halls beneath the painted stare of long-dead ancestors, Count Vladimir had taught her to fence. Also he had taken her hawking with him, and together they had galloped across the mountain meadows and along the craggy heights where only the wild rams kept them company. At such times Andrea felt she was truly her father's daughter.

Yet even here Pola had come between them. She could ride better than most men, and she often accompanied them on their day-long rides into the hills. When Andrea had been banished to her room before dinner, Pola, who was nine years older, was allowed to join her father and his guests at the table. There, beautifully gowned and voluptuously lovely, she kept the guests -- at least the masculine ones -- in a pleasant state of awareness of her desirability. Andrea had often watched from the upper hallway as Pola swept down the great staircase below her, jewels sparkling in the light of a thousand candles.

Her nurse had caught her there one night.

"It isn't fair, Nonna!" the child had wept. "I am never let to go down! It is always Pola who has the fun!"

Nonna had muttered darkly as she led the child back to her bedroom. "I do not know what your father can be thinking of," she was talking more to herself than to the child. "He's amused by that wicked girl. She delights in rousing men to a passion and then laughing at them! One day she'll meet a real man, not one of these mincing fops, and then Milady Pola will get her comeuppance, mark my words!" She put Andrea back to bed with rough tenderness, then sighed. "It's because she's the image of her mother that he can't deny her anything. It is too bad you--" then Nonna broke off infuriatingly, and told Andrea quite crossly to get to sleep at once, or it would be the worse for her.

Fuming, the girl wondered how anyone could get to sleep in the face of such a provocative statement, and resolved to ask her father why it was too bad she didn't look like her mother.

Two days later, after a bout of fencing in which Andrea's growing skill had pleased Count Vladimir, she asked him why she didn't resemble her mother.

"But you do, my poppet," he assured her. "Thick golden hair and those unusual amber eyes. Although I think you have something of my features -- a handsome blending, I would say. When you're grown you may even be a beauty."

"As beautiful as Pola?" ventured the girl.

Vladimir hesitated. "No one could be as beautiful as Pola," he said at length. "She is the image of her mother, my first wife." Thus Andrea learned that her father had had two wives, of whom her own was the less attractive, since Pola's mother still held all his love.

Unwisely, she sought further information from Pola.

"Of course we had different mothers," the older girl sneered. "Mine was papa's first choice, a dazzling Russian aristocrat who looked just as I do, and had so much fire and daring that she was a fitting bride for The Wasylyk. You know our family motto: Toujours l'audace! Always bold! We never refuse a challenge. That's how she came to die," said Pola. "She wanted to ride a new horse one of her admirers had given her. Papa refused to let her -- it was a fiery unbroken beast, and anyway he resented her accepting such a gift from a man he didn't particularly like. But mama would never be told what to do, any more than I will," she interpolated fiercely. "So she had the animal saddled and bridled and rode off over the mountain trails." Her expression darkened. "They found her body crushed under the horse at the foot of the cliff."

Andrea couldn't find words to express her compassion. She moved closer to her sister and laid a gentle hand over hers. Pola threw it off disdainfully.

"And that's why, four years later, to recoup the family fortunes, papa married your mother, who was, did you know? not at all noble but a mine-owner's daughter and so rich that even Count Vladi will never be able to spend the half of it!" She glanced spitefully at the child. "Your mama died in birthing you instead of the son papa had hoped for. So you see--"

But Andrea had run from the room, wounded more deeply than even she realized by Pola's malice.

At the end of that disastrous summer, Andrea was sent to a select academy in Switzerland, to be taught the graces and the conduct which would be required of her as Count Wasylyk's daughter. Incidentally she received the excellent education for which the school was renowned throughout Europe. Although she was allowed to spend her brief school holidays with her father, there was never again the feeling of family, nor was she able to convince herself that she mattered personally to anyone, except perhaps Stacia. This lady, widow of a distant cousin, had been installed as official chaperone for Pola, who ignored her when she was not defying her. Cousin Stacia was the only person who ever gave Andrea a feeling of belonging, so it was with real pleasure that the girl embarked with her upon the exciting trip to London.

But from what Stacia was saying now, things would be no different, no better than they had been. "Why did he send for me, Stacia?" she asked wistfully.

"You are to be a bridesmaid -- the only one," she added grimly. "Pola has made no friends among the other girls of good family. For one thing, she's too old for the debutante group -- she's twenty-six, and practically an ape-leader, for all her flirtatious ways. Never found anyone she could settle on. Just like your father -- but there," Stacia caught herself up, "I mustn't fret you with my silly gabble-mongering." It was hard, the older woman thought, to remember that this grave, amber-eyed girl was only seventeen and a virtual infant as far as worldly knowledge went. Her serious, interested manner invited one to run on, to confide matters which had better not be spoken of, and surely not before such a child. Smiling, she patted the slender hand on the seat beside her. "Not much further now, my dear. We'll be in your father's new home within the hour."

Andrea looked out the window, but she saw nothing of the country they were driving through. Instead she wondered about the haste with which she had been summoned to take part in this wedding ceremony -- and even more confusing, why it was taking place in London rather than in Count Vladimir's palace in Warsaw.

Two nights after her arrival in London, Andrea got the first inkling that there was some menace to her family in this very unusual wedding. She heard her father and Stacia discussing the guest list. Count Vladi firmly overruled Stacia's timid suggestion that they invite some old family friends from Poland.

"No, my dear cousin, you know we had agreed to keep the group small. Kyle himself doesn't want a splash -- the poor devil's been avoiding Parson's mousetrap for years! He's little like to want to play off his consequence for the delectation of a mob of curious gapeseeds."

Stacia had bridled. "I find your English slang grossly offensive, Vladi! Where you pick up these canting expressions--! Still, you do not put me off. Uncle Ignace can scarcely be called a gapeseed, nor can Great Aunt Tylla! - whatever is a gapeseed?" she broke off to enquire.

Count Vladimir chuckled. "The kind of rural rustic who wishes to come to a wedding of people he doesn't care a fig for," he advised her. "You know those two dodderers haven't given any of us a thought for years -- unless it was to shake their heads over our scandalous behavior."

Stacia had to admit that was true, but she held to her point. "There is something havey-cavey about this ceremony which disturbs me."

" 'Havey-cavey'? Now there's a fine English phrase for a nice Polish aristocrat to use," he teased her.

"You won't trick me into abandoning my subject," Stacia warned him. "What is behind this quiet, hurried ceremony?"

Vladimir seemed to be weary of the conversation. He rose and walked toward the door of Stacia's sitting room. Andrea, ensconced on a window seat outside the door in the hallway, drew back into a corner behind a drapery. She must hear what her father had to say in answer to Stacia's question. But all he said, in a cool, bored voice, was, "You had better ask Kyle. It's as much his pigeon as Pola's."

When he had strolled off, Andrea returned to her room. After dinner that evening she was summoned by a maid to Pola's bedroom to discuss her bridesmaid's dress. Approaching the door, she overheard her father's voice raised in anger. "I seem to be eavesdropping all the time now," the girl thought distressfully. But it was becoming increasingly important to her to discover what was behind the behavior of Count Vladi and Pola.

"--tell you she is family!" Vladi was saying angrily.

Pola's tone was icy. "Not quite. She is the mine-owner's grandchild."

"And my daughter!"

"You've got dozens of them in Poland, I dare swear--" began Pola with a sneer.

"You go too far." Count Vladimir's voice was as cold as his daughter's. "Andrea is my legal child. Her mother's fortune bought your new hunter and the emeralds, and is paying for your trousseau--"

"You evade the issue," Pola interrupted, her voice rising. "She should never have been brought here for her own sake. She was safer in that school. You read the note! Her life could be in danger in London!"

With a rare flash of venom, Count Vladi interrupted. "Or she might outshine you, my pet? She's grown into a striking girl. Not just every man's taste, perhaps--"

Pola's laughter made Andrea shrink.

"Not any man's taste while I am here, Vladi! The child is a boy-girl, graceless and without charm. Send her back to her safe, sexless halls of academe, papa! Maybe a professor will offer for her!"

Andrea crept back to her own bedroom. She would not answer when Pola's maid came to see why she had not gone to her sister's room to try on the bridesmaid's dress.