STARS IN THE SKY
In the drawing room he insisted Sylvia sit on the sofa beside him. He sat with his arm across the back of the sofa behind Sylvia. She was aware of his hand brushing against her shoulder. With sinking heart Sylvia saw that the clock in this room now said half past ten.
She knew she must bow to the inevitable and remain at Endecott for the night. She therefore broached the subject of the fire in her room with the Count. Would he please order Polly to light it?
"What, is my little chicken cold then?" The Count's words were slurred.
At this moment Polly came in with the coffee. Sylvia glanced at her before answering the Count.
"I find the red room cold, yes. It will be especially so by now."
Polly smirked as she leaned down to place the coffee before them. "You won't have no need of a fire, miss. Not with his lordship there."
Sylvia gasped in shock. The Count however merely threw his head back and laughed.
"That's enough now, Polly, you naughty girl!"
Polly glanced triumphantly at Sylvia and went out.
STARS IN THE SKY
BARBARA CARTLAND
Barbaracartland.com Ltd
Copyright © 2005 by Cartland Promotions
First published on the internet in 2005 by Barbaracartland.com
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanically, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval, without the prior permission in writing from the publisher.
eBook conversion by David Stockman
The Barbara Cartland Pink Collection
Barbara Cartland was the most prolific bestselling author in the history of the world. She was frequently in the Guinness Book of Records for writing more books in a year than any other living author. In fact her most amazing literary feat was when her publishers asked for more Barbara Cartland romances, she doubled her output from 10 books a year to over 20 books a year, when she was 77.
She went on writing continuously at this rate for 20 years and wrote her last book at the age of 97, thus completing 400 books between the ages of 77 and 97.
Her publishers finally could not keep up with this phenomenal output, so at her death she left 160 unpublished manuscripts, something again that no other author has ever achieved.
Now the exciting news is that these 160 original unpublished Barbara Cartland books are ready for publication and they will be published by Barbaracartland.com exclusively on the internet, as the web is the best possible way to reach so many Barbara Cartland readers around the world.
The 160 books will be published monthly and will be numbered in sequence.
The series is called the Pink Collection as a tribute to Barbara Cartland whose favourite colour was pink and it became very much her trademark over the years.
The Barbara Cartland Pink Collection is published only on the internet. Log on to www.barbaracartland.com to find out how you can purchase the books monthly as they are published, and take out a subscription that will ensure that all subsequent editions are delivered to you by mail order to your home.
If you do not have access to a computer you can write for information about the Pink Collection to the following address :
Barbara Cartland.com Ltd.
240 High Road,
Harrow Weald,
Harrow HA3 7BB United Kingdom.
Telephone & fax: +44 (0)20 8863 2520
Titles in this series
1. The Cross of Love
2. Love in the Highlands
3. Love Finds the Way
4. The Castle of Love
5. Love is Triumphant
6. Stars in the Sky
THE LATE DAME BARBARA CARTLAND
Barbara Cartland who sadly died in May 2000 at the age of nearly 99 was the world's most famous romantic novelist who wrote 723 books in her lifetime with worldwide sales of over 1 billion copies and her books were translated into 36 different languages.
As well as romantic novels, she wrote historical biographies, 6 autobiographies, theatrical plays, books of advice on life, love, vitamins and cookery. She also found time to be a political speaker and television and radio personality.
She wrote her first book at the age of 21 and this was called Jigsaw. It became an immediate bestseller and sold 100,000 copies in hardback and was translated into 6 different languages. She wrote continuously throughout her life, writing bestsellers for an astonishing 76 years. Her books have always been immensely popular in the United States, where in 1976 her current books were at numbers 1 & 2 in the B. Dalton bestsellers list, a feat never achieved before or since by any author.
Barbara Cartland became a legend in her own lifetime and will be best remembered for her wonderful romantic novels, so loved by her millions of readers throughout the world.
Her books will always be treasured for their moral message, her pure and innocent heroines, her good looking and dashing heroes and above all her belief that the power of love is more important than anything else in everyone's life.
"To look at the stars in the sky at night is always exciting and romantic wherever your are in our world."
Barbara Cartland
CHAPTER ONE
- 1878
It was after ten o'clock in the evening, but carriages were still rolling up to the imposing house on Park Lane that was the residence of Lady Lambourne. As the front door opened to admit various tardy guests, strains of the latest fashionable waltz escaped into the crisp night air.
Lady Lambourne's annual masked ball was famous and everyone of consequence in London hoped for an invitation.
The ballroom inside was crowded. Tiaras sparkled under glowing chandeliers. Couples whirled elegantly about the dance floor, creating a mêlée of colours. The muslin drapes at the French windows billowed gently, ushering in a welcome breeze.
Sylvia, daughter of the Duke of Belham, had danced until she was dizzy. She was hoping to sit out the next waltz but here was yet another gentleman reminding her that his name was on her card. She rose with as much grace as she could muster.
If she sat out too many dances she knew her two sisters or her step-mother, the Duchess of Belham, would swoop on her with outraged cries. Her sisters, Edith and Charlotte, had both managed to secure husbands at the last ball. Now it was to be Sylvia's turn. The last thing Sylvia wished for, however, was a society husband.
Since her father, the Duke of Belham, had remarried some eight years ago, the family had lived in London. The new Duchess of Belham wished it that way. She had no desire to bury herself and her handsome step-daughters deep in the country, at the family seat of Castle Belham.
"Why, I'd simply die with all that silence!" she would cry when the Duke tried to coax her into spending a summer at the castle. "And when it isn't silent the noise is simply barbarous – cows and cockerels and dogs – and foxes howling in the woods. My darling husband, if you love me, you'll never ask me to disappear into the wilds like that."
The Duke would fall silent, for he did love the Duchess and he was grateful that she was such a conscientious step-mother. As he did not relish spending the summers alone, he remained with his family in London or on the Riviera, where the Duchess insisted they keep a seafront residence. It was on the Riviera that he had discovered the pleasures of the casinos.
His elder daughters Edith and Charlotte were delighted with their exi
stence. They shared with their step-mother a love of town gossip, expensive hats, tea parties and balls.
Sylvia, however, longed for the country life. She greatly missed Castle Belham, where she had lived until the age of ten.
She remembered frosty mornings when she had run out to help the housemaid search for eggs. She remembered the bleating of lambs in the spring. She remembered lazy summer days when she sat in the boat-house, dangling her feet in the river. Days when the smell of new mown hay filled the air. She remembered most of all riding out with her father early in the morning, when the dew still glittered on the grass.
She and her father shared a passion for the country and for ancient Castle Belham.
Sometimes in London they rode out in Rotten Row, but it was not the same. There were too many other riders and one was rarely allowed to gallop.
Sylvia flinched as her latest partner dug his fingers into her waist. She stared resolutely over his shoulder as they slowly circled the floor. Oh, she was bored, bored with all this! Her satin shoes pinched her feet and her mask pinched her nose. She had danced with so many dull men who only wanted to indulge in light banter. Surely there was someone here, who had something to talk about other than Ascot or the latest singing sensation at Covent Garden!
At last the dance ended and Sylvia was led back to her seat. She sank gratefully onto the red velvet chaise and surreptitiously eased her feet out of her shoes. She exercised her ankles under her white dress, turning them first this way, then that.
"What are you doing, Sylvia?" came the simultaneous voices of her sisters. Sylvia looked up guiltily. Edith and Charlotte loomed over her. They were dressed respectively in red and jade, with matching masks through which their eyes glinted suspiciously.
"My feet are so tired," explained Sylvia. "I just had to take a rest."
"Have you kicked off your shoes?" demanded Edith incredulously.
Sylvia nodded.
"Oh, what are we going to do with you!" cried Charlotte. "Even after all this time in London, you still act like a country bumpkin! Don't you realise how lucky you are to be here? This ball is so popular, Lady Lambourne has taken to issuing only two invitations per family. We received five! We are highly honoured."
Sylvia sighed meekly. "Oh, I know, and I am grateful."
"Then why are you sitting here like a wallflower?" asked Edith.
"I promise you I have had ever so many dances."
"Ever so many is never enough!" declared Charlotte. "You have to dance with every gentleman who asks, because one of them just might be the one."
"Just think of how we persevered last year!" said Edith. "My feet were positively bleeding by the time Lord Rossington asked me to dance."
Sylvia was silent. She could not have borne to marry Edith's thin-lipped Lord Rossington, or the jowly Duke of Cranley whom Charlotte had ensnared.
The Duchess of Belham bustled up to her stepdaughters. The feathers in her tiara bobbed officiously and Sylvia had to bite her lip to stop herself smiling at the sight. "There is a rumour that Lord Salisbury himself is here tonight," beamed the Duchess. "And guess who I caught a glimpse of in the adjoining salon?"
"Who?" breathed Edith and Charlotte simultaneously.
"The Prince of Wales! He's wearing a mask but there's just no disguising that girth, my dears!"
"We want to see, we want to see!" squealed Edith and Charlotte. Forgetting Sylvia entirely, they rushed off in excitement. The Duchess frowned down at her youngest step-daughter.
"Now you are getting about, aren't you? You're a very pretty gel, you know, and you must resist that tendency of yours to hide!"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good, good. Well, I have promised a waltz to Lord Malmsbury. I had better go."
The Duchess sailed off in her voluminous blue gown.
Sylvia slid her feet back into her shoes and stood up. She caught sight of herself for a moment in one of the gilt mirrors that edged the ballroom. She supposed she was pretty, with her golden curls and her large blue eyes, but she rarely paid much attention to her appearance. Her sisters contended that were it not for her step-mother fussing over her wardrobe every morning, Sylvia would probably go about looking like a dairy-maid. The musicians struck up. Out of the corner of her eye Sylvia thought she saw her last partner bearing down on her again. No, she simply could not abide another dance! Without a backward glance she hurried over to the open French windows and passed through into the garden.
The fresh air was cool on her feverish cheeks. Tearing her mask from her face, she tripped across the terrace and down the steps onto the lawn. It was still March and not a warm night but Sylvia did not care. She had felt so imprisoned in that hot, noisy ballroom.
She stepped out of her shoes again and wriggled her toes in the damp grass. It was blissful. Then, shoes in hand, she flew down the garden, under the twinkling stars. The garden was one of the largest in London and she was breathless by the time she reached the fountain that stood at the bottom. Dropping her shoes, she stepped easily up onto the smooth encircling wall and walked dreamily around.
The stars above were mirrored in the water and looked like silver coins flung into a wishing well. Sylvia glanced back at the house – all lit up like a ship at sea – and then, lifting her dress gingerly, she dipped a foot into the fountain. How deliciously cool the water was! She dipped her other foot in. Heaven! She set up little waves with her toes that made the stars bob to and fro. As the water settled again, she noticed one star that shone with a particular brilliance. She stared hard at it, her head on one side.
"I wonder what you are called!" she mused aloud.
She gasped as a voice from the shadows answered her. "That is Arcturus, the Pathfinder."
Dropping her skirts, Sylvia sat quickly down and groped with her feet for her abandoned shoes.
"Are these what you are seeking?"
A tall gentleman in a black mask stepped forward. Sylvia saw her shoes sitting on his outstretched palm.
"Why…yes. Thank you."
The gentleman gave a bow and then to Sylvia's consternation knelt before her.
"Put out your foot," he commanded.
Blushing a little, Sylvia did as he asked. Gently the mystery gentleman slipped on her shoes. His head bent before her, Sylvia noted dark brows and hair of a blue-black hue. At least, it seemed blue-black in the moonlight.
His task done, the gentleman straightened and regarded Sylvia gravely.
"I hope I did not frighten you?" he murmured.
Sylvia shook her head. "No...I was startled, that is all." The gentleman rose as if to depart but Sylvia rushed on. "I am glad you…answered my question…for it's a very beautiful star and it was a pity not to know its name. I'd rather talk about the stars than racing or hats…or whatever famous person has arrived at the ball. I came into the garden to get away from all that."
The gentleman smiled. "I rather did the same," he said.
"So do you know the names of any of the other stars?" asked Sylvia.
"Yes, I do," he replied simply.
"That one there, for example," Sylvia pointed. Her eyes shone brightly in the moonlight and her golden hair stirred in the breeze. Her companion gazed at her a moment before answering.
"Which one? Oh, yes, that is the polar star. And there is the plough." He turned back to Sylvia. "Have you never been interested in the heavens before?"
"Oh," said Sylvia, ashamed. "I used to love looking at the stars and…wondering what else was up there…and what everything was called. But that was when I lived in the country. Since I've lived in London, I don't think about the sky so much. Most of the time it's hidden, by clouds or fog or…well, city air."
The gentleman smiled. "It is true, you rarely see the stars in all their glory here in London."
"How do you…know so much about them?" enquired Sylvia.
"Well, I am something of an amateur astronomer. I have a telescope at my home in the country."
"How fascinating!" exclaimed S
ylvia. She kicked at the grass and then looked up at her companion shyly. "Do you…live in the country most of the time?"
"I do."
"Oh, how I envy you," she sighed wistfully.
"Not many young ladies envy a country life."
"But I do! I miss it terribly. And I miss our family seat, Castle Belham. Do you know it?"
"As a matter of fact, I do," began the gentleman.
"And do you know the legend of the lost treasure of Belham?" Sylvia ran on.
The gentleman smiled. "I have heard some rumours but I do not know the legend in full."
"Then I will tell it to you!" cried Sylvia triumphantly. "In return for you telling me all about the stars."
Her companion hesitated. "I shall be glad to hear it, but I should like to offer you my cape. I am concerned that you are sitting out here with no shawl."
"Oh, I don't need one," cried Sylvia airily. "I grew so hot and bothered in there. I'm not cold at all. But I will accept your offer," she added quickly as she glimpsed a concerned frown forming on her companion's forehead.
Her companion removed his cape and slipped it around Sylvia's shoulders. Then he somberly sat down beside her to listen to her story.
"It all happened during the time of the Civil War. My ancestor, James, Duke of Belham, fought on the side of King Charles. When it became clear the Royalist cause was lost, he buried some of his fortune – jewels and gold nuggets – somewhere in the castle or castle grounds, and fled to France. There he enlisted in the services of the French King and was eventually killed in a skirmish against the French protestant rebels led by the Prince de Condé."
"And was the castle sequestered by Cromwell, when he came to power after the civil war?" enquired Sylvia's companion.
Sylvia shook her head. "No. Because, you see, the Duke's heir, his nephew, was a loyal Roundhead, and so Cromwell allowed him to keep everything."
"That is a most interesting story," said her companion.
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