The Duke & the Preachers Daughter

by Barbara Cartland

  He opened The Times, but laid it down on his knee to sit thinking.

  What could he say? How could he persuade Richard that he was making the greatest mistake of his life?

  He thought of the boy as an untrained recruit under his command and felt a protective urge towards him that he had felt for so many of the young men who had come out from England.

  They had been forced to face the withering fire of the enemy and the discomforts of a campaign where one night they would be billeted in some flea-infested hovel in a Portuguese village, and the next would be bivouacking on a barren hillside without a shrub or a tree to protect them from the elements.

  He had known, however, it was not only an unknown enemy or the fear of death that had frightened them, but the fear that they might disgrace themselves in the eyes of their comrades.

  He remembered moving amongst them, talking to them, sustaining them, encouraging them.

  But a raw recruit had to obey his orders. Richard was a free man.

  The Duke looked round the library and thought not only how beautiful it was, but how peaceful.

  How could he tolerate the people with whom Delyth Maulden associated turning the place into a bear-garden, as he had seen happen in other large houses?

  The rowdiness of the young Bucks that had been growing steadily since the beginning of the century had been censured by the more sober-minded members of Society.

  But it was difficult for them to say much when the behaviour they so deprecated had been encouraged by the Prince of Wales before he became Regent.

  Now that he was older he had become more circumspect, although his long lists of elderly mistresses were virulently deprecated by the cartoonists.

  A way of social life once started was difficult to control and some of the behaviour amongst the younger men had made the Duke wish that he had them under his command and could treat them with the severity they deserved.

  Delyth Maulden headed a variety of attractive women who had laid aside their very femininity to take part in wild parties, crazy escapades and indiscretions that in the past had been the hallmark of actresses and prostitutes.

  As the future Duchess of Kingswood, Delyth Maulden knew only too well that marriage to Richard meant that a great many doors that were closed to her now would be opened, and she would have to be accepted in circles which previously had given her the ‘cold shoulder’.

  *

  “The Duchess of Kingswood!”

  The Duke uttered the words through gritted teeth and turned his head in surprise as the door opened.

  A footman stood waiting for his Master’s attention.

  “What is it?” the Duke asked.

  “Lord Tring has called to see you, Your Grace.”

  “At this hour of the night?” the Duke exclaimed, then added, “show his Lordship in.”

  A few seconds elapsed while his visitor was being brought along the corridor and then the footman announced,

  “Lord Tring, Your Grace!”

  The Duke had only to glance at his visitor to realise that something was seriously amiss.

  Lord Tring was still wearing his evening clothes, but he had pulled a pair of riding boots over his skin-tight trousers which fastened under the instep and his intricately tied cravat was slightly crumpled.

  His hair, that had obviously been arranged in the windswept fashion introduced by The Prince Regent, was now merely untidy and flopping about his forehead.

  “Good evening, Tring,” the Duke said in quiet unhurried tones. “What brings you here at this time of the night?”

  The young man looked over his shoulder waiting for the footman to close the door. Then he said in a voice that was curiously unsteady,

  “I had to come, sir! You are the only person who I felt would know what to do and be able to cope.”

  He spoke, the Duke knew, as a young soldier addressing his Commanding Officer, and there was an expression of trust in his eyes which was almost movingly familiar.

  “Have a drink,” the Duke suggested, “and tell me what has happened.”

  As if he felt in urgent need of it, Lord Tring went to the grog tray on a table in a corner of the room which the Duke indicated.

  He poured himself out a large brandy and drank it down in one gulp. Then he pushed back his hair from his forehead with a hand that trembled and came back towards the Duke.

  “It is – Richard, sir!”

  “Richard?” the Duke exclaimed. “What has happened to him?”

  He saw Lord Tring take a deep breath, then he replied,

  “He shot Sir Joceline Gadsby, then tried to kill himself!”

  The Duke remained quite calm.

  His eyes searched Lord Tring’s face as if he sought to substantiate the words he had just heard.

  Some seconds passed before he said, again calmly,

  “Sit down! You look as if you have ridden hard.”

  “When I saw what had happened,” Lord Tring replied, sinking down into a chair as if his legs would no longer carry him, “I knew that the only person who could help would be you.”

  “Why did Richard shoot Gadsby?” the Duke asked.

  He remembered the Baronet as a rather fulsome, over talkative member of White’s Club whom he had gone out of his way to avoid.

  He thought the man was an outsider and wondered how he had ever been admitted as a member.

  Then, as he thought of it, he knew what Lord Tring would reply.

  “Richard – found him,” his Lordship replied in an embarrassed tone, “with – Lady Delyth.”

  “Where?”

  “In – in bed, sir!”

  The Duke, who had been standing, sat down in an armchair as if he too needed its support.

  “Tell me from the beginning!” he commanded.

  “Richard arrived two days ago to stay with me and that night at dinner he announced that he and Lady Delyth were engaged to be married. Of course we toasted them and wished them every happiness.”

  “Of course!” the Duke commented sarcastically.

  “Quite a number of the men in the house party protested they were broken-hearted and half-jokingly tried to persuade Lady Delyth to change her mind.”

  The Duke thought she was unlikely to do that and Lord Tring went on,

  “I gathered that Sir Joceline was an old friend and therefore somewhat piqued that she was engaged.”

  The Duke knew that by saying ‘an old friend’ Lord Tring meant in fact that Sir Joceline had been, like so many other men, Delyth Maulden’s lover.

  He was the type of man, he was sure, who would not take no for an answer even if she was engaged to somebody else.

  “What happened tonight?” he asked.

  “We went to bed early because most of us were going racing tomorrow morning. I was the last to go upstairs and had not yet undressed, because I was discussing with my valet what I should wear tomorrow.

  “It was then, as we were talking, I heard a sudden explosion. For a moment I thought I must be mistaken, then as I thought it had come from a room on the first floor, not far from my own, it was followed by another.

  “I pulled open the door, ran down the passage and saw that the door of Lady Delyth’s bedroom was open – ”

  Lord Tring’s voice died away as if he found it hard to go on.

  “Tell me what you saw,” the Duke prompted.

  “Richard had obviously been standing at the foot of the bed, while Lady Delyth and Gadsby had been – together,” Lord Tring said in a low voice. “Gadsby was dead, and there was blood all over the sheets.”

  “And Richard?” the Duke enquired.

  “He was lying on the floor, with a bullet wound over his heart!”

  Lord Tring gave a little gulp as if it made him feel sick to remember what he had seen, and the Duke asked,

  “What did you do then?”

  “I went first to Richard and realised that while he was bleeding from a wound in his chest, he was still alive. I have seen enough wound
ed men, sir, as you know, not to be mistaken.”

  “Yes, I know. Go on!”

  “I fetched my valet to help me and we picked him up and carried him to his own room, which was not far away. Then I went back to the bedroom.”

  “What was Lady Delyth doing when you returned?”

  “She had got out of bed and put on something to cover her,” Lord Tring replied. “She was pale, but quite composed. ‘Joceline is dead,’ she said to me, ‘and unless you can think of some way out of this mess, Richard will hang for it’.

  ‘Don’t speak to anybody and keep your door closed,’ I said to her. Then, sir, I came to you.”

  Again Lord Tring looked at the Duke with the eyes of a man who thinks with utter relief that he can cast his burden upon somebody else.

  The Duke rose to his feet.

  “Quite right,” he said. “You can trust your valet to look after Richard in your absence?”

  “He was with me in the Regiment, sir, and he knows more about wounds and how to treat them, than half the doctors we had with us.”

  ‘That would not be difficult,’ the Duke thought to himself, but aloud he said,

  “I will order a horse and ride back with you. It will only take me a few minutes to change my clothes. Pour yourself another drink.”

  He walked across the hall, ordered his horse from a footman on duty and walked quickly but with dignity up the grand staircase.

  His valet was waiting for him in his bedroom.

  “I am going over to Tring Castle to fetch Mr. Richard, Hawkins,” the Duke said. “He has had an accident and will require careful nursing. I shall put him in your hands.”

  “What has happened, Your Grace?” the valet enquired.

  “Mr. Richard has been wounded,” the Duke told him cautiously.

  “In a duel, Your Grace?”

  “Yes, Hawkins, that is right – in a duel,” the Duke replied.

  The horse the Duke had ordered had been brought to the door only a few seconds before His Grace descended the stairs.

  Lord Tring was waiting for him in the hall.

  He still looked pale and somewhat stricken, but he had tidied his hair and adjusted his cravat, and the Duke knew as he joined him, that he instinctively straightened himself as if he was going into action.

  “Will we bring Richard back in one of your carriages or mine?” the Duke asked.

  “Mine are at your service, sir.”

  “Very well. Order one as soon as we arrive.”

  They rode down the oak-bordered drive and out through the great gold-tipped iron gates with their lodges on either side.

  Crossing the main highway, they took to the fields and rode as the crow flies across country towards Tring Castle. They moved so quickly that conversation between them was impossible.

  As both men were good riders and were mounted on superlative horseflesh, nothing was to be heard but the thunder of hoofs and the miles between the two great houses were quickly covered.

  The moonlight made the way easy and illuminated the ancient castle to which every succeeding generation had added, making it appear very romantic.

  Now it concealed, the Duke thought, something sordid and degrading, a scandal which had to be hidden at all costs.

  A duel was accepted as an honourable way of settling a quarrel, but the murder of a married man was punishable by death.

  He had no intention, if it was humanly possible, of letting Richard suffer for a crime which he knew was entirely the fault of the woman who had not been faithful to him, even on the first night of their engagement.

  When they reached the front of the castle, Lord Tring flung himself off his horse, while the Duke descended as leisurely as if he was in no great hurry.

  There were two night footmen on duty in the hall, who hurried forward to take their hats and riding gloves.

  Lord Tring paused as if he waited for the Duke to tell him how to proceed.

  “Will you order a carriage?” the Duke reminded him.

  “Oh, yes, of course!” Lord Tring said.

  He gave the order and one of the flunkeys hurried off towards the stables. Then the Duke mounted the stairs and Lord Tring led him along a wide corridor out of which opened the State rooms.

  It struck the Duke as exceedingly distasteful that Lady Delyth had been allotted the room that had until her death, been occupied by Lord Tring’s mother.

  It was one of the sights of the castle and it was reputed that Queen Elizabeth had slept there on one of her journeys around the countryside, when the size of her retinue and the expensive celebrations to honour her presence practically bankrupted her hosts.

  Lord Tring knocked, then without waiting for a reply entered the room.

  Delyth Maulden, wearing an extremely attractive negligée, was sitting at the dressing table in front of her mirror.

  Her long dark hair was streaming over her shoulders and the face she turned as the two gentlemen entered, was quite composed and, as the Duke had to admit savagely, exceedingly attractive.

  On the bed lay Sir Joceline, dead from a bullet that had hit him accurately in the heart.

  Ignoring Lady Delyth, the Duke walked to the bed and looked down at the dead man.

  “Have him dressed,” he said to Lord Tring. “Move him into the corridor, change and destroy the sheets. Your valet can do that without anyone else in the house knowing anything about it.”

  The Duke turned towards the door.

  “I would now like to see Richard.”

  “Yes, of course,” Lord Tring replied.

  “Have you nothing to say to me?” Lady Delyth interposed.

  The Duke stood still.

  Then he answered,

  “You will say that a duel took place in the corridor between two men who had imbibed too freely at dinner.”

  He paused before he continued,

  “You were fully dressed when it happened and it was a quarrel that began as you walked up the stairs together, over some triviality – such as who should escort you out riding tomorrow.”

  The Duke looked at her and added,

  “Let me make this clear, I am not inventing this charade to save your reputation, but wholly to prevent Richard from being arrested for murder.”

  “He is an hysterical fool!” Lady Delyth exclaimed contemptuously.

  “I agree with you,” the Duke replied, “and a blind and stupid one or he would have known you for what you are – a harlot!”

  His voice was like a whip.

  Then he turned away and, followed by Lord Tring, left the room.

  When they entered the room to which Richard had been carried, the Duke saw that his cousin was lying on the bed, still dressed except that his shirt was open down the front and his chest had been bandaged by the valet.

  He looked very pale, but when the Duke put his hand on his forehead, the skin felt warm and, when he felt his pulse, it was beating, although faintly.

  “I will take him home,” the Duke said to Lord Tring, “and when I have left and Sir Joceline’s body has been dressed, ride over to the High Sheriff. He was a friend of your father’s and I know he will do his best to help you.”

  “I will do what you say,” Lord Tring replied, “and thank you, sir.”

  There was no mistaking the gratitude in his voice and the Duke knew that he felt that his Commanding Officer had solved his problem just as he had solved so many others in the past.

  “When I have gone,” the Duke said, “make quite sure that you and that woman tell the same story about what occurred. It does not matter much what you say, as neither of the contestants will be in a position to contradict you.”

  His voice was harsh, because he knew that Richard was seriously hurt and might even be dying from his self-inflicted wound.

  At the same time, although it was perhaps dangerous to move him, the Duke knew he would rather trust him to Hawkins’s nursing than to anyone else’s.

  Like Harris, Hawkins had fought beside his master, but Lord
Tring was younger and Hawkins had been with the Duke for ten years.

  “Will you see if the carriage is there?” the Duke asked aloud, “then we will carry Richard downstairs.”

  As Lord Tring turned to leave the room, the Duke added,

  “Do not forget that when the High Sheriff sees Gadsby he must have a duelling pistol in his hand, which has recently been fired.”

  “You think of everything, sir,” Lord Tring exclaimed admiringly.

  “I am trying to.”

  Travelling slowly back along the twisting country roads, the Duke sat with his back to the horses.

  As he looked at Richard lying unconscious on the back seat of the carriage, he thought it would have been poetic justice, if he had expended his second bullet on Delyth Maulden rather than on himself.

  His experience of women told him that while she had appeared calm and unperturbed by what had happened, she was in fact shocked. But at the same time in her usual selfish manner, she was thinking only of herself.

  She had lost not one lover, but two. Sir Joceline was a rich man, but there was no likelihood of his ever becoming a Duke.

  The fact that a duel had been fought over her, would not surprise anybody and, as the Duke had said, would not damage her reputation more than it was damaged already. At the same time, it was understood that no decent, well-bred woman allowed herself to be the cause of a duel. Even though sometimes they were involved, the gentlemen would take great care to hide the real cause of a quarrel and attribute it to anything rather than the lady in question.

  But with her raffish, improper friends, Lady Delyth would doubtless, the Duke thought grimly, think it another feather in her cap.

  However, what was certain at the moment, was that nobody of Richard’s standing would be likely to offer her marriage.

  He wondered if after all that had happened, she would still try to cling to his offer and declare they were engaged. This was in fact, one of the reasons why he had decided to take Richard away from Tring Castle.

  If Delyth Maulden could come out of the sordid affair with her future assured, she would do so.

  Once Richard was home at Kingswood, it would be easy, the Duke thought, to make sure that she could not come near him, and at the same time, to intimate to the Social world that their betrothal had come to an abrupt end.