A Very Special Love

by Barbara Cartland

  He was, as it happened, exceedingly proud of the house, which had been redecorated by his mother who he always considered had excellent taste.

  There was none of the clutter of aspidistras, antimacassars and the knick-knacks that had become fashionable since Queen Victoria had come to the Throne.

  The Dowager Marchioness had been brought up in a Regency House and she admired that period more than any other, thinking it more suitable for her husband than the fashions that had recently come into vogue.

  Zia was not aware that she was seeing what the Victorians thought was old-fashioned and out of date.

  She only knew that it was stunningly beautiful and appealed to her in a way that was difficult to express.

  The Dowager Marchioness had been informed of her grandson’s imminent arrival and was waiting for them in the drawing room that extended over the whole of the first floor.

  It was a classically delightful room hung with pictures that were mostly French and lit by huge chandeliers with a hundred tapers in each one.

  It looked to Zia just like a Fairy Palace.

  The Marquis noted and was surprised that Zia was not in the least shy at meeting his grandmother, who overawed most people she came into contact with.

  She curtseyed to the Dowager gracefully and then said eagerly,

  “I have been longing to meet you, ma’am, after all his Lordship has told me about your parties that were the most original ever given in London.”

  The Dowager Marchioness laughed.

  “Is that what you expect me to give for you?”

  “Oh, no!” Zia answered. “But I was thinking ‒ as I came into the room how lovely you must have looked against a background that is almost a scene from a Shakespearean play.”

  The Dowager Marchioness laughed again.

  “I think, Rayburn,” she said to her grandson, “Zia is thinking of us as idealised figures from Ancient Greece instead of real and often tiresome people.”

  “I am certain that does not apply to you, Grandmama!” he said. “At the moment I am delighted to be taken as an idealistic figure rather than a disillusioned human!”

  He saw his grandmother give him an enquiring glance and he was aware that he had spoken bitterly without thinking.

  He therefore quickly told her of how he had rescued Zia from Father Proteus and added when she had listened to him in astonishment,

  “It is a story that you must keep to yourself for, as you well know, Grandmama, it could very easily be the talk of every drawing room and every Club in London.”

  “I have never heard of anything so disgraceful,” the Dowager Marchioness said. “You poor child! You must have gone through agonies before my grandson so brilliantly rescued you.”

  “It was very – very frightening,” Zia related, “but his Lordship has told me to forget it – and that is what I am – trying to do.”

  “You will forget it as soon as we have bought you the prettiest gowns we can find and my grandson has sent out invitations for your ball.”

  She looked at the Marquis with a questioning look in her eyes and he responded,

  “I intend to give a ball here, Grandmama, and also one at The Castle. It is what I know Zia’s father and mother would want me to do.”

  “Of course they would,” the Dowager Marchioness approved. “And, because you want Zia to be asked to everybody else’s balls, you must send out the invitations as quickly as possible.”

  “I am dreaming that this is happening!” Zia said. “It’s so exciting that I want to dance and sing and make quite sure that I don’t wake up!”

  The Marquis and his grandmother laughed.

  Then when they went down to luncheon, the Marquis could feel her enthusiasm infecting him and he thought perhaps that it might be quite amusing to give a ball at Oke House, which he had never done before.

  After luncheon the Dowager Marchioness ordered a carriage and announced that she was taking Zia shopping.

  “We will choose from gowns that are immediately obtainable,” she said, “and have them sent here for you to try on. We will also order a great number to be made as fast as possible and then buy the accessories to go with them.”

  “It sounds a phenomenal task,” the Marquis observed. “I am glad you don’t want me to accompany you.”

  “I can imagine nothing we want less!” his grandmother replied. “Like all Englishmen you would sit looking bored and thinking that to be inside on such a sunny day was a crime against nature.”

  Zia laughed.

  “Of course he would. Papa always said that he enjoyed seeing Mama looking beautiful in a new gown, but he had no wish to hear about it before she was actually inside it!”

  The Marquis accompanied them to the front door to see them off in the carriage.

  Then he went into his study where he guessed that Mr. Barrett would have a huge pile of letters waiting for him.

  He was not mistaken and, as Mr. Barrett joined him, he said,

  “There are two letters, my Lord, which I thought you would wish to see first. One from the Bank giving you a detailed account of Miss Langley’s fortune and the other from the Lord Lieutenant of Cornwall.”

  “I was hoping that I would hear from him,” the Marquis exclaimed.

  Mr. Barrett handed him the letter and, as the Marquis read it, his expression changed.

  “You have read this, Barrett?” he asked.

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “How could that damned man have got away so quickly? How could he have been aware that the Chief Constable intended to arrest him?”

  “Bad news travels on the wind, my Lord,” Mr. Barrett remarked.

  “I can only suppose what happened was that he had somehow learned that The Unicorn had docked at Plymouth Harbour and drew the conclusion that I was communicating with the Lord Lieutenant and the Chief Constable.”

  “I am sure it must have been something like that,” Mr. Barrett agreed, “and, as you see, the Lord Lieutenant reports that there is no one left in the Convent except for the nuns and the old Priest who is too ill to know what is going on.”

  The Marquis glanced down at the letter again.

  “He writes that he has arranged for Sister Martha to leave for London today so we shall know more when she arrives this evening.”

  “As it will be very late, my Lord,” Mr. Barrett suggested, “would it not be best for the young woman to go straight to bed and let you have a talk with her in the morning?”

  “I will do so,” the Marquis said. “At the same time it does worry me, Barrett, that that criminal gang are still at large.”

  “Does your Lordship think,” Mr. Barrett asked hesitatingly, “that Miss Langley is in any danger from them now?”

  “One never knows. Naturally they will be extremely resentful that she escaped and that we are fully aware of their appalling plan to seize her fortune.”

  Mr. Barrett looked concerned.

  Then the Marquis said, as if he was reassuring himself,

  “It would be a great mistake to upset Miss Zia by alarming her and actually I cannot believe that this man, Proteus, which I suspect is not his real name, would be so stupid as to attract attention to himself when he knows that the Police are already looking for him.”

  “I am sure you are right, my Lord,” Mr. Barrett agreed, “and anyway now that Miss Zia is under the chaperonage of her Ladyship, she will not be going anywhere alone.”

  “No, of course not,” the Marquis nodded.

  Equally he thought that he would make it clear to his grandmother that Zia was not to go to any place where Proteus might be lurking.

  He would certainly see when they went to the country that the footman on the box of the carriage always had a loaded pistol in a pocket specially designed for one.

  It was something that had been very necessary in the days when highwaymen were to be found in many parts of the country especially in the South.

  It was some years now since the Marquis had heard of an
incident of that sort and he was sure that most people left their pistols at home or, if they were in the carriage, they were not loaded.

  But he now assured himself that he was being needlessly apprehensive in thinking that Proteus would risk his freedom, if not his life, in doing anything so outrageous.

  Aloud he said,

  “I will have a word with Miss Zia and we certainly do not want the servants talking about it or the coachmen looking out for trouble.”

  “No, of course not, my Lord.”

  Mr. Barrett then handed the Marquis the letter from the Bank.

  It consisted of several pages of figures detailing deposits and shares.

  When the Marquis looked at the last page where the total had been calculated, he was astounded.

  He had gathered from what Mr. Barrett had said that Lady Langley had left Zia a large fortune, but it was very much bigger than he had anticipated.

  Mr. Barrett was aware of his surprise and, before the Marquis could say anything more, he explained,

  “When her Ladyship married the Colonel’s brother, she was not, I gather, very rich, but over the years a number of her relatives died and bequeathed to her a great deal of what they owned. Apart from that her money has been so well invested that it was in some instances her investments have increased one hundred fold.”

  “I understand,” the Marquis said. “At the same time it is not always a good thing for a young girl to own so much.”

  “I am sure that your Lordship is thinking of the fortune-hunters,” Mr. Barrett remarked.

  “I am and I look to you, Barrett, to keep a strict watch on the young men who knock on the door, send flowers and billets-doux to Miss Zia, so that we can nip them in the bud.”

  “I think you will find,” Mr. Barrett said, “there is hardly a man in London who would not be eager to get his hands on such an enormous fortune apart from the fact that Miss Langley is one of the loveliest young ladies I have ever seen.”

  “I cannot think why I always get myself into this sort of mess,” the Marquis remarked irritably. “You know as well as I do, Barrett, that if she marries the wrong type of man, I shall have it on my conscience for the rest of my life.”

  Mr. Barrett was obviously thinking of an appropriate reply when the door opened and Harry Blessington came into the study.

  “Hello, Rayburn,” he called out to the Marquis. “Thank goodness you are back. I have missed you.”

  “I am back,” the Marquis replied, “and I have a job for you.”

  “A job?” Harry queried.

  The Marquis handed him the letter that he had received from the Bank.

  As he did so, Mr. Barrett slipped away, knowing that the two close friends would have a great deal to say to each other.

  Harry read the letter that the Marquis handed to him and then gave a long low whistle.

  “I thought you would be surprised!” the Marquis stated.

  “Surprised? I am astounded!” Harry answered him. “Who could have guessed that the Colonel’s daughter would turn out to be ‘Miss Croesus’?”

  “It’s a pity that the Colonel himself could not have enjoyed some of it himself,” the Marquis commented. “He would have had even better horses than he owned already!”

  “Tell me what she is like?” Harry asked. “If she is not a good rider, I will never believe in heredity again.”

  “I have a great deal to tell you,” the Marquis said.

  As he spoke, he sat down in a comfortable chair and, when Harry sat beside him, he told him exactly what had happened when he had arrived in Cornwall.

  Harry listened intently without speaking until he had finished and then he said,

  “Good God, Rayburn! If I did not know you so well, I would think that you had been drinking! It’s all the theatricals I have ever watched at the Playhouse rolled into one!”

  “That is what I thought myself,” the Marquis replied. “The question is what are we going to do about it?”

  “You mean the story is not finished?”

  “Not while that fake Priest and his cohorts are still at large. And that is where you have to help me.”

  Harry glanced at the Marquis.

  And then he said,

  “Of course I will. This will give you something new to think about, which I feel is rather important at the moment.”

  “What do you mean by that?” the Marquis enquired.

  “I have some bad news for you.”

  The Marquis stiffened.

  He knew perceptively before Harry said anything more what the news would be.

  “I have just heard,” Harry began, “that Lord Caton died last night!”

  It was what the Marquis had feared, but had expected to hear.

  But he knew at once from the tone of Harry’s voice that there was more to it.

  He waited and Harry went on,

  “You will not like this, but my friend, Irene, who is coming to The Castle this weekend, received a letter from Yasmin Caton only yesterday.”

  The Marquis waited, knowing before Harry spoke what was in the letter.

  “Yasmin told Irene, of course in complete confidence, that you had asked her to marry you as soon as she was free and that she was carrying your child!”

  It was what the Marquis knew he would be told and yet to hear it spoken out loud hit him like a blow.

  He rose to his feet to stand with his back to Harry looking down at the fireplace, which, because it was summer, was filled with flowers.

  “It’s a lie!” he thundered after some minutes of silence.

  “I know that,” Harry replied. “But what are you going to do about it?”

  The Marquis turned round.

  “What the devil can I do?” he asked.

  *

  Coming back from Bond Street, Zia thought that it had been thrilling to see the latest and most elaborate fashions available in London.

  The Marchioness had chosen a large number of gowns to be delivered to Oke House for her to try on.

  After being forced to wear the hideous black gown that she had thrown into the sea and beneath it the coarse cotton underclothes that were correct for a nun, she had revelled in the silk nightgowns and négligées in the shop that specialised in such intimacies.

  “It is all so delightful!” she cried as they drove back to Park Lane. “And how can I thank you, ma’am, for being so kind to me?”

  “I am enjoying myself just as much as you are,” the Dowager Marchioness replied. “I suppose that every woman dreams of the moment when she can buy the most expensive and the most beautiful clothes of the day and having a large Bank Account to pay for them!”

  Zia was still for a moment and then she said slowly,

  “You must help me, ma’am, to spend a great deal of my money on other people who are in need of it.”

  The Marchioness looked at her tenderly before she answered,

  “Of course I will help you, my dear.”

  “I am sure that his Lordship will be able to advise me as well,” Zia went on, “because I have no wish to find that anything I give for those who are starving or ill-treated has been put into the pocket of somebody like Father Proteus.”

  The Dowager smiled.

  “You are very sensible, child, and that is exactly what you need to be. Money is always a responsibility and I am glad that you want to help others not as fortunate as yourself.”

  “Of course I do,” Zia replied, “and I would like, if his Lordship will allow me, to send somebody who is competent and kindly to look after the old nuns left behind at the Convent.”

  She sighed before she continued,

  “They often went short of food while I am sure that Father Proteus was stuffing himself with the best fare in another part of the house.”

  “We will talk to my grandson about it,” the Dowager Marchioness suggested.

  “I am only hoping,” Zia said reflectively, “that Father Proteus and those horrible men who were with him are now behind bars
.”

  It was a question that she asked the Marquis after dinner when his grandmother had gone upstairs to bed and Harry, who had dined with them, was out of the room.

  They had talked about everything else of interest at dinner except for Zia’s experiences in Cornwall.

  Yet she was intelligent enough to realise that the Marquis was keeping something from her.

  Now, when he came back into the drawing room, having seen his grandmother up the stairs, she said,

  “I know that you must have heard from the Lord Lieutenant and the Chief Constable by now. What have they done with Father Proteus?”

  The Marquis wanted to lie to her, but then thought that it would be a mistake.

  As he hesitated, Zia came in quickly,

  “He has got away, has he not?”

  “Yes,” the Marquis admitted reluctantly. “When the Police reached the Convent, there was no sign of him or his men.”

  Zia clasped her hands together and he saw that fear was back in her eyes.

  “H-he will – never forgive me – and perhaps whether he has my money or not – he will want to – kill me.”

  “Nonsense!” the Marquis stressed to her sharply. “You are not to think such things. He ran away because he was frightened and somebody must have warned him that the Police were coming to arrest him.”

  He spoke very positively as he went on,

  “For all we know he may have taken a ship to America or is hiding in Scotland or the North of England. He knows that there is nothing now he can squeeze out of you.”

  “But – he might take his – revenge.”

  “Not if it is not going to pay him to do so,” the Marquis said. “Be sensible, Zia, and remember that now you are with me he knows that he has nothing to gain by pursuing you when there are a great many other women in the world who he will be able to extort money from.”

  “You – are right – of course you – are right!” Zia said. “At the same time – I am – frightened.”

  She shuddered and added in a small voice,

  “I have lived under the same – roof with him and I know – how ruthless he was and how utterly he is always determined at getting his – own way.”

  “I can only repeat,” the Marquis said, “that he will be no danger to you or to me, so let’s forget him.”