A Shaft of Sunlight

by Barbara Cartland

The way he spoke without appearing cynical or mocking swept the sulky, resentful look from the Viscount’s eyes.

  “I am not ungrateful, Cousin Valerian, for the way you have treated me since Papa died. You have been very generous about everything I have wanted to do except where it has concerned marriage.”

  “Then let us hope,” the Duke answered, “that this time I shall be able to give my whole-hearted approval to the lady of your choice.”

  “You will – I know you will!” the Viscount said eagerly. “Wait until you see Claribel! You will be bowled over by her!”

  He gave the Duke a somewhat bashful smile as he added,

  “What I am afraid of is that she may when she meets you prefer you to me! She has already told me she has admired you from a distance.”

  “I am gratified!” the Duke said dryly. “At the same time, Lucien, the one thing that need not trouble you in the slightest is that I shall take Claribel, or any other very young women, from you. For one thing I find them a dead bore, and secondly, I have no intention of marrying, not for many years, at any rate.”

  “You have to produce an heir to the Dukedom sooner or later,” the Viscount remarked.

  “There is plenty of time for that when I think I am growing senile,” the Duke replied. “Then doubtless there will be somebody who will be prepared to provide me with a son and support me in my dotage!”

  The Viscount laughed.

  “There is no question of that! Your reputation as a heart-breaker, Cousin Valerian, loses nothing in the telling!”

  The Duke frowned.

  It was the sort of remark that he thought was in extremely bad taste, and he was quite certain it had been made to Lucien by the women with whom he usually associated.

  As if he knew he had presumed on his Guardian’s unexpected good humour, the Viscount said hastily,

  “If you have work to do, though I cannot conceive what it could be, I will leave you. My Phaeton is outside.”

  “The new one?” the Duke exclaimed. “I saw the bill for it yesterday. You are certainly determined to cut a dash in more ways than one!”

  “Those coach-builders are all crooks,” the Viscount said, “but actually you cannot imagine what a slap-up vehicle it is, and how fast it can travel. If you will come and look at it, Cousin Valerian, you will know that what I am saying is the truth.”

  “I will keep that treat for another day,” the Duke replied, “but now Middleton is waiting for me and we have a great deal to do before I have luncheon at Carlton House.”

  “I am going,” the Viscount said. “I will see Sir Jarvis some time today and try to persuade him to arrange a date for our visit to Stamford Towers.”

  “I shall be waiting to receive his invitation,” the Duke answered. “Until then, goodbye, Lucien!”

  He did not listen for his Ward’s reply, but walked swiftly from the breakfast room down the corridor towards his library, where he knew his secretary and Comptroller would be waiting for him.

  For a few seconds the Viscount watched him go, thinking that on the whole the interview had not been as terrifying as he thought it might be, and also envying almost unconsciously the athletic and coordinated manner in which the Duke moved.

  It was almost, he thought, like watching a thoroughbred gallop past the winning post, and just for a moment he toyed with the idea of doing what his Guardian suggested, and taking more exercise.

  Then he was sure that to do so would only prove conclusively what he knew already, that it was impossible for him to excel at sports and he had better spend his time with his tailor and on the dance-floor.

  He walked across the hall to where Barrow was waiting to hand him his tall hat and his riding-gloves.

  “Everything all right, Master Lucien?” he asked in the conspiratorial tone of a servant who had known him ever since he was a small boy.

  “It might have been worse!”

  “I’m glad about that, Master Lucien.”

  “Thank you, Barrow.”

  The Viscount smiled at the old retainer and walking down the steps climbed into his Phaeton which he thought with pride was smarter than anything that could be seen in the Park or anywhere else in London.

  It had cost a lot of money, but he could afford it, the only drawback being that all his extravagances still had to be seen and approved by his Guardian before the bills were paid.

  The Viscount asked himself as he had a thousand times before why his father had tied up his considerable fortune until he was twenty-five.

  Most men, he thought hotly, handled their own money when they came of age! But no, not him! He had to be spoon-fed for another four years! And he found it extremely irksome.

  Then he remembered that Claribel would be waiting to hear the result of his visit and he forgot about everything else.

  He wished it could be possible to call on her immediately and tell her what the Duke had said, but he knew there could be no possibility of seeing her until nearly luncheon time and it would be more correct to call later in the afternoon.

  ‘I cannot wait as long as that!’ the Viscount told himself, ‘it is agony to hang about in suspense.’

  It was not surprising that he was enamoured of one of the most beautiful girls who had ever appeared in a London Season.

  It was not only, as the Viscount thought poetically, that her hair was like sunshine, her eyes as blue as a thrush’s egg, and her skin like strawberries and cream. It was also that she had none of the gaucheness of the usual debutante.

  Perhaps it was her beauty that gave her an assurance and a composure that was lacking in all the other young girls he had met.

  ‘With my money and hers,’ the Viscount was thinking as he drove his horses into Park Lane, ‘we can live in a really slap-up style. I will be able to give Claribel anything she desires besides having horses to ride that will be the envy of every man in St. James’s!’

  *

  Seated at his desk in the library piled with papers, while Mr. Middleton explained some complicated problem, which had arisen on one of the Alverstode estates, the Duke found his mind wandering to Lucien.

  He felt, as he had so often before, worried about the boy.

  He was convinced that the Viscount’s friends were an exceptionally brainless collection of young men, while recognising that perhaps he was over-critical because he was so much older than they were.

  ‘I cannot believe I was as bird-witted when I was twenty-one,’ he told himself.

  But he had been in the Army then, and not every young man now with intelligence, drive and courage had the same chance to excel as he had enjoyed.

  As Mr. Middleton finished his long discourse on the necessity for completing a new timber-yard and a road leading to it, the Duke said,,

  “I am worried about Mr. Lucien. What have you heard about him lately?”

  Mr. Middleton had been with the Duke for so long that Lucien was usually still referred to as he had been before he came into the title.

  Mr. Middleton paused before he replied,

  “I do not think his Lordship has done anything particularly outrageous in the last few months. There have been the usual stories about him and his friends being rowdy in dancehalls.”

  He paused, saw the Duke was listening and went on,

  “They were thrown out of one of the more respectable ‘Houses of Pleasure’ the other evening because they were interfering with ‘business,’ but apart from a rather dangerous duel between two young bloods at which his Lordship was a ‘second’ there is nothing that need concern Your Grace.”

  “I suppose you were already aware before I was told about it that Mr. Lucien wishes to get married.”

  “To Miss Claribel Stamford?”

  “Yes. I thought you would be the first to know! But you did not report it to me.”

  “I did not think it serious enough to worry Your Grace,” Mr. Middleton replied. “Miss Stamford has a great many admirers.”

  “She is a beauty?”

&nbs
p; “Undoubtedly, and has already been acclaimed the Debutante of the Season!”

  “An ‘Incomparable’!” the Duke remarked sarcastically.

  “Not yet,” Mr. Middleton answered, “but she may easily receive that accolade when the gentlemen in the Clubs become aware of her.”

  The Duke looked cynical and Mr. Middleton went on,

  “Your Grace must have met Sir Jarvis Stamford on the race-course?”

  “I believe he is a member of the Jockey Club,” the Duke said carelessly, “but I cannot remember actually having made his acquaintance. What do you know about him?”

  “Very little, Your Grace, but I can easily find out.”

  “Do that!” the Duke ordered. “I have a feeling, although I may be wrong, that there was some scandal about him at one time, or was it just a rumour about something that was not particularly sporting? I am guessing! I do not really know.”

  “Leave it to me, Your Grace. In the meantime, I will also discover why Miss Stamford is favouring his Lordship. When I last heard her name mentioned it was with someone more important in the running.”

  The Duke stared reflectively at his secretary.

  “What you are saying, Middleton,” he said slowly, “is that Miss Stamford, or perhaps her father, is socially ambitious.”

  Mr. Middleton smiled.

  “Of course, Your Grace. All young ladies are, and as Your Grace well knows, the-higher the title the better the catch!”

  He saw the Duke’s lips tighten and remembered as the Viscount had, that any mention of his love affairs annoyed him excessively.

  He was, however, pursued ardently not only because he was a Duke but also because he was an exceedingly attractive man, and his very lofty indifference was a challenge which most women found irresistible.

  The Duke, surprisingly in an age of loose talk and even looser morals, considered it in bad taste to discuss any woman who interested him, even with his closest friends, and this prejudice, which was well known, added to the mystery and the aura which surrounded him almost like a protecting halo.

  There was not a woman in the whole of the Beau Monde who was not aware that if she could capture the heart of the Duke of Alverstode she would achieve a success greater than that of winning the Derby.

  Although the Duke had had many affaires de coeur they were discreet, and even the gossips knew nothing about them until they were over.

  Then they could only guess at what had occurred when some well-known beauty retired unexpectedly to the country or went about looking so miserable that it was obvious she had lost something of very great value.

  The word ‘heart-breaker’ which the Viscount had injudiciously used was whispered from Boudoir to Boudoir.

  But because the Duke was so fastidious in his choice, and because the women who loved him were seldom if ever spiteful when he left them, those who were interested in the details of his love life continued to be frustrated.

  Mr. Middleton picked up his papers.

  “I will find out everything I can, Your Grace,” he said, “and furnish whatever information there is about Sir Jasper as quickly as possible.”

  “Thank you, Middleton, I knew I could rely on you.”

  The Duke rose from the desk at which he had been sitting for nearly two hours and stretched his legs.

  “I am going now to Carlton House,” he said, “but as I shall doubtless be forced to over-eat and over-drink, which I very much dislike doing in the middle of the day, send a groom to Gentleman Jackson’s and tell him I hope to be there about a half after four, and I would be obliged if I could have a few rounds with him personally.”

  Mr. Middleton smiled.

  “I am sure he will be willing to oblige Your Grace, despite the fact that I hear you knocked him down last week.”

  The Duke laughed.

  “I think perhaps I was unusually lucky, or Jackson was off his guard, but it was certainly an achievement.”

  “It was indeed, Your Grace.”

  As ‘Gentleman Jackson’ had been the greatest boxer ever known this was undoubtedly true, and there was a reminiscent smile on the Duke’s lips as he left the Library.

  *

  It was much later in the day when Sir Jarvis Stamford returned to his large and extremely impressive house in Park Lane.

  As he entered the door, where there was a butler and six footmen in attendance, his secretary, a small rather harassed man who always spoke in a somewhat hesitant manner, came hurrying towards him.

  “Miss Claribel, sir, asked if you would see her the moment you returned home.”

  Sir Jarvis gave his secretary a sharp look as if he suspected there was some special reason behind the message.

  Then as he was about to speak he realised that the six footmen, who had all to be of exactly the same height and who wore a very distinguished livery of purple and black, were listening.

  “Where is Miss Claribel?” he asked quickly.

  “In her own Sitting-Room, sir.”

  Sir Jarvis walked up the stairs, his feet sinking into the soft carpet whose pile was deeper and certainly more expensive than most other people’s.

  When he reached the top of the staircase Sir Jarvis found himself facing a picture he had recently bought in a sale room and which he had been assured was a Rubens.

  He only hoped he had not been crooked on the purchase which had been an exceedingly expensive one, and he thought if he had been, somebody would undoubtedly suffer for it.

  He walked down the passage, which was slightly overfilled with expensive furniture to the very elegant sitting room, which adjoined Claribel’s bedroom and which had been decorated to be a perfect frame for her beauty.

  The white and gold walls, the blue hangings, the painted ceiling which had been done by an Italian artist would certainly become any woman, and as Claribel sprang from the sofa to run towards her father, he thought she looked like a priceless jewel, with or without the appropriate frame.

  “Papa! I am so glad you are back!”

  “What has happened?” Sir Jarvis asked almost harshly.

  “Lucien has seen the Duke! He has really plucked up the courage at last! But as you know, I have had to bully him into making the effort.”

  “But you succeeded!”

  “Yes, I succeeded!”

  Claribel took her father by the hand and led him to the sofa where they sat down side by side.

  “Well?” he asked. “What happened?”

  Claribel drew in her breath.

  “Lucien told the Duke that he wished to marry me.”

  Sir Jarvis’s lips tightened as if he anticipated that his daughter’s next words would be to say that the request had been refused.

  “And what do you think the Duke said?” Claribel asked.

  “Tell me.”

  “He said that he wishes to see me in my home and that Lucien was to ask you to invite him to stay with us in the country!”

  For a moment Sir Jarvis did not speak. He only stared at his daughter as if he doubted what he had heard. Then he said,

  “The Duke wishes to stay with us at Stamford Towers?”

  Claribel nodded.

  “Yes, and that means I am sure, Papa, that he will give his consent. Oh, is it not wonderful? I can be married before the end of the Season, and I shall be able to attend the Opening of Parliament as a Viscountess!”

  Sir Jarvis’s thin lips were smiling.

  “And you will be the most beautiful Peeress there, my dearest.”

  “That was what I thought, Papa, and you must buy me a tiara that is bigger and better than anybody else’s.”

  “Of course, of course!” Sir Jarvis agreed. “But I can hardly credit that the Duke wishes to stay with us.”

  “Lucien was also surprised because he told me that the Duke is very fastidious about whom he stays with and accepts the invitations only of his close friends, like the Duke of Bedford, or the Duke of Northumberland, and refuses thousands of others.”

  “We
must make sure he does not regret his visit to Stamford Towers!”

  “We must make sure that he agrees to my marrying Lucien!”

  “Yes, yes, of course, but I think that is what is known as a foregone conclusion.”

  Sir Jarvis thought as he spoke that Claribel was not so confident.

  “Why should he not accept you?” he asked sharply. “You are not only beautiful, my dearest, but you are also rich, and nobody can say that your mother’s family are not blue-blooded.”

  “I wonder if Lucien remembered to tell him about Mama?”

  “If he has forgotten I will do so myself,” Sir Jarvis said, “and once the Duke is in our home he will have to listen to me.”

  “Of course, Papa, and send him the invitation right away. Lucien thought it would be a mistake to allow what he called the ‘grass to grow under our feet’.”

  “I agree with him,” Sir Jarvis said. “The sooner, the better. In fact, very definitely the sooner.”

  He spoke as if he was thinking of something other than his daughter. Then he bent forward and kissed her.

  “I am very proud of you, my dearest,” he said. “This makes it easy to forget that little set-back we had over the Earl of Dorset.”

  “I am never going to think of him again!” Claribel cried passionately. “He deceived me, and that I will never forgive!”

  “Neither will I.” Sir Jarvis agreed. “Make no mistake, I will get even with that young man sooner or later, and he will rue the day he behaved to you as he did.”

  Claribel jumped to her feet and walked to the mantelpiece to stare at her reflection in the mirror above it.

  “How could he?” she asked in a low voice, as if she spoke to herself, “how could he have preferred that pie-faced Alice Wyndham to me?”

  “Forget it! Forget it!” her father said behind her. “I know young Lucien is only a Viscount, but he is the ward of the most influential man not only in the Social World, but also on the Turf and in the country. The Alverstode estate is a model for all other great landowners, and an invitation to stay at Alverstode House is more prized than being asked to any of the Royal Palaces!”

  “Then that is where we shall undoubtedly stay not once but frequently,” Claribel said in rapturous tones.

  “And I hope you will make sure that your poor Papa is included in some of the parties,” Sir Jarvis said.