A Hazard of Hearts

by Barbara Cartland

  Slowly she walked down the stairs, finding it difficult for a moment to focus anyone’s face, conscious only that three men were rising from their chairs in front of the fire and that one person remained seated – a woman, whose dark passionate eyes seemed to burn their way into her awareness.

  Serena swept a curtsey and she looked from one to the other of the men towering above her.

  “I regret that I was not here to welcome you, my Lord.”

  She wondered which was the Marquis. She had somehow expected him to be old, much older than any of the three men present.

  Then a deep voice answered her.

  “We must apologise for our intrusion at such a late hour, Miss Staverley.”

  Her first impression was that he was so much younger than she had expected, her second, that she had been mistaken after all and that the lines of boredom on his face and the indifference in his eyes did not belong to the exuberance and enthusiasm of youth.

  But he was handsome – the most handsome man she had ever seen – and he had won her at cards!

  She stared at him, her eyes wide. Suddenly there was a movement, an exclamation from the woman sitting in the chair and a low-throated growl from Torqo.

  With a start Serena remembered her manners as a hostess.

  Eudora was lighting the candles in the drawing room, the big candelabra were blossoming in flower-like splendour beneath the long taper she held high in her withered arms. Soon the fire began to burn up. Quickly Eudora, far more dexterous than old Beaston, who was long past his work, brought some small sweet cakes, which Isabel nibbled disdainfully as if they were hardly good enough for her palate.

  It was all very formal and Serena was well aware that a silence had fallen on the visitors since her appearance. She had heard them talking and even laughing gaily as she came along the passage which led from her bedroom to the top of the stairs, but afterwards they had been silent except for the Marquis, who had asked her a few questions and listened with an obvious effort at politeness to her answers.

  It had not been long before they departed for London. As they made their farewells, the Marquis said to Serena,

  “I shall return tomorrow to see you alone. I regret the discourtesy that brought us here after you had retired for the night.”

  “Please don’t mention it, my Lord,” Serena said, dropping him a curtsey. “I shall be waiting for you tomorrow.”

  She raised her eyes to his face, but already he had turned away, his broad shoulders silhouetted for a moment against the moonlit sky through the open door.

  Then he was gone and the only sound was of the horses’ hoofs moving over the gravel drive and fading gradually into the distance and silence.

  She had gone up to her bed with her mind in a whirl. She had no idea what she felt or what she thought of the man she was promised to in marriage.

  This morning it was difficult even to remember what he had been like. It was easier to recall Isabel’s beautiful sulky face or the light of admiration in Lord Gillingham’s eyes and the way that Sir Peter Burley had tried to smile at her every time she looked in his direction. It was all very perplexing and disturbing and, because she hated to lie alone with her thoughts, Serena sprang from her bed and crossing the room drew back the curtains.

  It was still very early and the dew lay like diamonds over the grass, the mist was rising from the lake and the birds were already beginning to sing in the trees. Far away in the distance, where the wild woodlands came down to join the Park, she could see the pigeons winging their way from their roosting places towards the open cornfields.

  Staverley! How she loved it!

  And now at last the knowledge that it was no longer hers hurt her with an agony that was almost physical.

  There was a sudden bumping against the door of the room and Serena knew that her movements, quiet though they had been, had been overheard. She opened the door to Torqo, who rubbed himself against her, his tail wagging.

  Suddenly she knelt down on the floor beside him, put her arms round him and hid her face in the softness of his great neck.

  “Oh, Torqo,” she whispered, “do you realise what is happening to us?”

  He licked her face, thrilled by the sound of her voice and glad that she should speak to him to be conscious that anything was wrong. Serena raised her head, looked at him and gave a little laugh.

  “All right, Torqo,” she said aloud, “there is no use worrying, let’s take things as they come and try to be happy while we can.”

  He whined with delight and again she laughed, playing with him as if he was still a puppy, rolling him over on his back so that his great legs waved helplessly in the air.

  It was thus that Eudora found them as she entered the room with an early morning cup of chocolate.

  “You’re laughin’, Miss Serena?” she asked suspiciously, as if she thought that her ears and eyes might be deceiving her.

  “Yes, laughing, Eudora. It’s better than crying.”

  “I am glad you find somethin’ to laugh at,” Eudora muttered in a tone of gloom.

  “If crying would help matters, Eudora,” Serena replied, sitting down on the side of the bed and picking up her cup of chocolate, “I would cry. Besides, we have yet to know the worst.”

  “That is true,” Eudora sighed. “His Lordship returns today?”

  “He said so,” Serena replied. “We had better have a good luncheon prepared in case he arrives this morning.”

  “There is little enough in the house.”

  “There is the ham we were keeping for Michaelmas,” Serena answered, “there are plenty of fowls on the farm and the stable boy can ride to the village for some meat. What is the point of keeping anything, Eudora? But I don’t suppose that the Marquis – will live here.”

  For the first time her voice broke disconsolately and the fear that had been prevalent in her heart could no longer be denied.

  Staverley Court would be shut up. Closed and barred it would gradually sink into a state of decay, the rain would come through the roof, cobwebs would blind the windows and the gardens would grow wild and the flowers would run riot untended. The picture was infinitely pathetic.

  Then, quickly because she was afraid of her own thoughts, Serena said sharply,

  “Let’s talk about something else, Eudora. What shall I wear?”

  “Will you have your other muslin, Miss Serena? I washed and ironed it yesterday. It’s crisp and fresh and vastly becomes you.”

  Serena smiled.

  “Yes, I will wear that, Eudora. I feel it is important to make a good impression.”

  Eudora said nothing and Serena longed to ask her what she had thought of Lord Vulcan, but because she feared Eudora’s tongue the question remained unasked.

  hen she was dressed, she went downstairs. The windows in the drawing room were open, the room smelt fresh and fragrant and looked as usual with only the half-burnt tapers in the chandeliers to remind her that last night guests had been entertained here.

  She glanced at the chair where the Marquis had sat.

  She could see him now. A big man, he had an air of proud dignity that bespoke breeding and the whole bearing of a man sure of himself. That, Serena thought, was perhaps the one thing she remembered about him in all certainty – his air of self-assurance.

  Did she hate him? She was not sure, any more than she was sure this morning of his good looks, his courtesy or of her own impressions of him. Yet she knew, if she was honest, that she was afraid of him.

  Why should he concern himself with her? She was nobody and in this world there were few to equal or exceed his position and power. She thought of Lady Isabel Calver, so beautiful, so exquisitely dressed and the jewels sparkling round her white neck and on her wrists.

  “How inexperienced I am,” Serena sighed. “How little I know about the lives such people live. We are country cousins, you and me, Torqo.”

  She felt the dog nuzzle her hand and once again she took comfort from his presence beside
her.

  And Torqo stood by her side in the hall an hour later when Eudora reported that a coach was approaching.

  “A coach?” Serena echoed in surprise, remembering the phaeton with its magnificent pair of chestnuts that Lord Vulcan had driven away in the night before.

  Eudora was right. Coming down the drive was a coach, resplendent in claret and silver.

  Postilions were astride the leading horses and there were outriders in attendance. The cavalcade swept up to the front door, a footman sprang down to let down the steps and open the coach door.

  Out stepped the Marquis, as resplendent as his entourage. He wore a coat of azure blue silk with diamond buttons. This time there was no need to pull at the bell chain or to wait on a tardily opened front door.

  Beaston, in his ancient livery and white wig, was awaiting his Lordship and Serena came forward the moment he stepped into the hall.

  She curtseyed to him and felt unaccountably shy. She had a feeling that this pomp and ceremony was a gesture and that in some obscure way of his own Lord Vulcan intended it as an apology for the unconventionality of his visit the night before.

  He raised her fingers to his lips.

  “Your servant, Miss Staverley.”

  “Will you come into the drawing room, my Lord?”

  She led the way and no sooner had they seated themselves than Eudora was at Lord Vulcan’s elbow offering wine. He took the glass, but made no effort to drink it, merely putting it on a table beside him.

  For a moment they sat in silence until the tension was broken by Torqo walking slowly and with a dignity all of his own towards the Marquis. He sniffed at him a little suspiciously and then, apparently reassured, laid his great head upon his Lordship’s knee.

  “Is this your dog?” Lord Vulcan asked.

  “My own and a very dear friend, my Lord.”

  “I thought so last night,” Lord Vulcan observed.

  Again there was a pause and Serena, conscious that the Marquis was regarding her steadily, felt the colour rising in her cheeks.

  ‘He is young,’ she thought. ‘It is the expression on his face that belies his years.’

  His eyes, dark grey and somehow steely in their depths, were stranger than any she had ever beheld before in the face of a human being, but try as she would she could not keep her eyes on his. Her eyelids fluttered and her long dark eyelashes swept her cheeks which, flushed a moment ago, had now paled again.

  “There is a great deal that we have to say to each other. Miss Staverley,” Lord Vulcan said slowly.

  “There is,” Serena agreed.

  “First of all,” he went on, “may I express to you my deep regret at your father’s death?”

  His voice was clear and disinterested and somehow it seemed to Serena not exactly an impertinence but an intrusion that he should speak of her father at all when he had been instrumental, albeit indirectly, for the way he had died.

  Proudly Serena drew herself up and in a voice as cool and as clear as his Lordship’s she replied,

  “I think it would be well, my Lord, if we did not speak of my father’s death. The full facts of the events which led to his death and the reason why he died have been told to me by my cousin, Mr. Nicholas Staverley, who was present at White’s when he played with you and was with him later when he met his end – in a duel with Mr. Blacknorton. The Staverley estate and this house are now yours and I am ready to give you any information regarding them.”

  Lord Vulcan inclined his head.

  “Thank you.”

  “I have for your acceptance, my Lord,” Serena, went on, “the deeds of the estate, a list of the tenants and the names of those who have received pensions from my father these past years. You – you would wish to continue these?”

  For the first time there was a note of anxiety in her voice.

  “Of course.”

  “I am glad.”

  Her relief showed through her calmness and then, steeling herself, Serena continued,

  “There are lists too of the livestock on the Home Farm. I am afraid the accounts are not in very good order. We – my father – has not been able to afford – er – to obtain the services of a man of business lately.”

  “My own man will be here tomorrow,” Lord Vulcan said. “I have given instructions for him to enquire into all such matters.”

  “You will shut up the house?”

  Serena strove to keep her voice from betraying any emotion, but despite her resolution there was a slight quiver on the words.

  “I suppose so,” Lord Vulcan replied lightly. “Later, of course, it may be possible to find a purchaser.”

  With an effort that was almost superhuman Serena checked the cry that rose to her lips.

  Her fingers tightened for a moment as they lay in her lap and then she was Mistress of herself again.

  Now she knew that she hated him, hated this man who had come here to destroy the little world she had called her own, to destroy it carelessly and indifferently without a thought and without even obtaining any satisfaction from his destruction.

  She did not recognise until this minute how she had tried to find excuses for the Marquis, finding it hard because of its very exaggeration to accept Nicholas’s description of him. She had wanted, because in her heart of hearts she was afraid of the worst, to find the best, she had wanted him to be so much better and unmistakably nicer than his reputation.

  Now she knew that she had built for herself but a mirage. It was not the evil Lord Vulcan could do that she feared, but his heartlessness, his careless indifference to the feelings of human beings who must suffer through his very omnipotence.

  A purchaser for Staverley Court! Thus it was to be lost to her for ever.

  Somehow she had hoped that even if she married the Marquis she might come here and that it might still remain her home. Well, she would not give him the satisfaction of showing how much he had hurt her.

  Holding herself stiffly erect, she faced him with darkening eyes. Her very hatred, new born and virile within her, made her able to speak calmly of another matter,

  “The house and estate were, I believe, the first part of my father’s wager with you. The second part concerns me personally.

  “That is correct.”

  Serena took a deep breath.

  “My father told you, I believe, that on my marriage I should inherit eighty thousand pounds.”

  “That too is correct.”

  “It was my maternal grandfather’s money,” Serena explained, “he – he disliked my father because, being religious, he disapproved of gaming in all its forms. He left the money in trust for me until I should wed and he made it a stipulation that I should not anticipate in any form my inheritance. He was afraid, you see, that I should borrow money on my father’s behalf. Were I to do this, the Trustees were empowered to give the money direct to charity.”

  “I understand,” Lord Vulcan said.

  Serena rose from her chair and walked across to the window. She stood looking out into the garden. As always the beauty of it roused within her a feeling half-pain, half-pleasure. It was so lovely and now it was no longer hers.

  She felt for a moment the tears blind her eyes, swimming mistily before her sight so that the garden became indistinct and there were rainbows dancing iridescently on every blossoming bush and tree.

  “You love this place?” a voice beside her asked gravely, making her start, for somehow she had imagined that Lord Vulcan was still on the other side of the room.

  Serena nodded, because for a moment she could not speak.

  “I must show you a place that is even more beautiful,” Lord Vulcan said. “My own home, Mandrake.”

  Serena told herself fiercely that she would hate it. How could any place be as beautiful as Staverley?

  He was looking out of the window over her head and suddenly she was conscious of him, his nearness, of the strength that must lie beneath the languid grace of his hands and the studied elegance of his body.

>   With an effort she turned away from the window.

  “As you said, my Lord, we have many things to discuss.”

  “I thought we were discussing them,” Lord Vulcan answered.

  Serena threw back her head.

  “What are you – going to do with me?” she asked him.

  Even as she spoke the words, she wondered at her own daring. Immediately the telltale colour sprang to her cheeks again. But she forced her shyness from her, making herself face him defiantly even while she felt her pulses quicken and her heart beat faster.

  “That, of course, is an important question,” Lord Vulcan replied unsmilingly.

  “My Lord, I have a confession to make to you.”

  His eyebrows were raised in one second.

  “I rather expected it. You are in love with your cousin?”

  “No, of course not!”

  Serena’s reply was quick, spontaneous and almost indignant.

  “I am very fond of Nicholas, but there is nothing – like that between us.”

  “Then it is another local beau who has captured your heart?” Lord Vulcan suggested and now there was a note of cynical sarcasm in his voice that Serena resented.

  “On the contrary, there is no such person,” she retorted, “and it was not about my heart that I wished to speak.”

  “Indeed! Confessions from beautiful young women invariably involve the vacillations of their hearts.”

  “I am afraid I am not as experienced in such matters as you, my Lord,” Serena replied and thought for one moment that there was a faint twitch at the corner of Lord Vulcan’s mouth as if he appreciated her thrust.

  “I apologise,” the Marquis answered. “I will make no more guesses as to what you wish to confess.”

  “We were speaking just now,” Serena answered, “of my fortune and you believed, my Lord, that on my marriage I should inherit eighty thousand pounds. This is not correct.”

  “Indeed?”

  “No, it will be seventy-nine thousand pounds to be exact. I must be honest with you. I have in fact anticipated one thousand pounds.”

  “But I thought you said,” Lord Vulcan remarked, “that it was impossible for you to do such a thing.”