Chapter One
contents -next
“Hell and damnation.”
The words were muttered rather than shouted but were sufficientlyshocking to cause Gerald Westall, secretary to William de Vaux, Duke ofBelcraven, to look over at his employer. The duke sat behind his massive,carved desk attending to the day’s correspondence. His spectacles, onlyever used for reading, were perched on his long straight nose as he rereadthe missive which had caused the exclamation.
Mr. Westall, a long, thin gentleman who gave the impression of beingstretched?like a figure in an el Greco painting?pretended to return to hisown work, but his mind was all on the duke. Had those words been a sign ofshock? Or anger? No, he thought. Amazement. The young man waitedimpatiently for his assistance to be sought so that he would learn thecause of it all.
He was to be disappointed. The duke put down the letter and rose towalk over to one of the long windows which overlooked Belcraven Park, seatof the family for three hundred years. Fifteen years ago, to celebrate thenew century, hundreds of acres surrounding the great house had beenbrilliantly landscaped in the picturesque style by Humphry Repton. Fouryears ago, as part of the grand celebrations which had marked the majorityof the heir to Belcraven, the Marquess of Arden, the lake had beenenlarged. At the same time it had been further improved by the addition ofan island, complete with a Grecian temple from which fireworks had beenexploded. It was all very beautiful, but it was familiar, and Mr.Westall’s employer was not in the habit of studying his estate.
There was little to be learned from the duke’s posture. He stoodstraight with little trace of his fifty-odd years in his lean body. Hisunremarkable features as usual told no secrets. The Duke of Belcraven was,in his secretary’s opinion, a cold fish.
As the duke’s thoughtful silence continued, Mr. Westall grew concerned.If disaster had overtaken the house of de Vaux, would he fall along withthe rest?
But that was ridiculous. The duke was one of the richest men inEngland, and Gerald Westall was in the best position to know his employerwas not given to chancy investments or gambling. Nor was his beautifulduchess.
His son, though?
Mr. Westall was not taken by Lucien Philippe de Vaux, Marquess ofArden, a Corinthian Buck who had been born in silk, as the saying goes,and feared nothing and nobody. On his rare visits to the Park, themarquess ignored Westall’s existence and treated his father with a formalcourtesy which was as good as an insult. The secretary pondered thestrange fact that fathers and sons of high degree seemed unable to rubalong. Look at the king and the Regent?before the king went mad, that is.Perhaps it was because the heir was forced to wait on the father’s deathfor his own real life to begin, and the father was all too aware of thatfact.
For once, Mr. Westall was pleased he had his own way to make in theworld.
But then again, he thought, looking at the duke’s cool features, itmust be hard to develop fondness for a man so lacking any kind of warmth.The marquess was warm enough with his mother, who had a very sweet nature.Very close they were. Well, Arden was known to be a devil with theladies.
The duke turned at last.
“Mr. Westall, be so good as to send a message to the duchess to requesta few moments of her time.”
The secretary could find no clue in his face or voice. In fact, thoughtMr. Westall as he passed on the instruction to the footman stationedoutside the door, a stranger would have assumed that no matter ofsignificance troubled the duke. And yet it clearly was not so. For him tovisit the duchess at this time of day was a dramatic variation of routine.The mysterious letter must be to do with their son.
The dashing marquess had probably broken his neck in one of his madcapstunts and then where would they all be? The nearest relative was a secondcousin. The house of de Vaux had passed the title from father to son fortwo hundred years without interruption. The marquess would be no loss, butthe end of such a fine tradition was worth regretting.
When the footman returned to say the duchess was available at theduke’s convenience and the duke went off to break the sad news to hiswife, Mr. Westall was already checking the amount of mourning stationeryin his desk.
The duke was admitted to his wife’s airy apartments by her dresser whothen discreetly disappeared. The duchess was sitting, needlework in hand,by the light of French doors which led to a balcony. The February air wasstill too chill for the doors to be open, but bright sunlight spilled into give the illusion of a later season, and daffodils and hyacinth bloomedin pots to scent the air.
The duke admired the fact that, unlike so many women of her age, hiswife did not avoid clear light, and he acknowledged she had no need to.Her face announced her fifty-two years and all the smiles and tears theyhad contained, but that did not detract from her beauty. Silver wassteadily muting her bright gold curls, but her eyes were the same clearblue and her lips were still softly curved. He was taken back to the firsttime he had seen her, sitting in the garden of her parents’ chateau . ..
“Good morning, Belcraven,” she said in her soft voice, which stillretained a trace of the French which had been her childhood tongue. “Youwished to speak to me?” Her expression, as always these days, was gentlycourteous.
He wondered if there was any chance this miracle might mend things, butthen he put such wistful thoughts away and walked forward to hand her theletter.
“Yes, madam. Read this, if you please.”
The duchess adjusted the delicate gold-rimmed pince-nez she too wasobliged to wear for fine work and concentrated on the letter. The dukewatched her reaction carefully but saw no shock or pain, only mildsurprise. When she finished she looked up at him with a smile.
“How very silly of her not to have applied to you before, Belcraven.What do you wish to do? I would be happy to have the girl here. She isyour daughter, and I have missed having daughters around since Joanne wasmarried.”
The duke walked away from his wife’s calm gaze and took again toperusing his estate. How foolish of him to expect his wife’s outrage atthis proof of his past infidelity, he thought. How foolish of him to wantit. Yet, he longed for something sharp to finally break the icy shell thathad encased his marriage for over twenty years.
“No,” he said at last, “I do not want to bring my bastard daughterhere, madam. I intend to arrange a marriage between her and Arden.” Heturned back to see his wife’s reaction.
She lost the delicate color in her cheeks and seemed to age before hiseyes. “Arden? But he will not do it, Belcraven. Only last week he wrote tosay he was screwing up the resolution to offer for the Swinnamergirl.”
The duke’s nostrils flared in anger. “And why did you not tell me ofthis? Am I not allowed to take interest in my heir, even if he is no sonof mine?”
The duchess’s pale hand rose in instinctive defense against hisaccusation and then fell as she lowered her head. “No matter what I say ofLucien, good or bad, you make a quarrel of it. I only sought to keep thepeace.”
