A Hazard of Hearts

by Barbara Cartland

  Sometimes visitors to Mandrake leaving for London vowed they would never return. The Marchioness might still be a lovely woman, but it was unpleasant to see her avid and pulsating at the sight of money, concerned not with people’s deeper feelings or emotions, but only with the depths of their pockets.

  Also the new Marquis of Vulcan was not popular, and even those who went constantly to Mandrake felt that he did not make them welcome.

  Strange rumours grew and multiplied, still there was always a number of people ready to pass their leisure hours in staking vast sums of money.

  There were also those who were no longer persona grata at Court. They came to Mandrake. Persons passing through Dover to the Continent found Mandrake, only fifteen miles to the East, a good place to spend a few days either preparing for their journey or recovering from it. There were plenty more visitors with equally valid reasons and the Marchioness of Vulcan never lacked company.

  Perhaps the only thing she feared was the thought of being alone in the vastness of that great house.

  The door of her bedroom opened suddenly and Lord Vulcan entered. He was in riding clothes with boots of hessian leather fitting perfectly over tight breeches of the latest shade of yellow, his coat of a rich shade of brown had been cut by the great Stulz himself.

  “You wanted me, Mother?”

  He moved leisurely across her room, eventually coming to rest before the fireplace in which the fire was already lit. He stood looking around him at the huge four-poster bed, flanked by its great fronds of ostrich feathers, at the furniture of carved and gilded wood and at the curtains of Nile-blue brocade that framed the windows.

  “’Tis a pleasant scheme,” he approved. “I congratulate you.”

  “It’s not paid for yet,” the Marchioness replied petulantly.

  His Lordship’s eyes narrowed.

  “That last sum I gave you,” he said, “I believed it was for the decorations in the house.”

  “It covered but a quarter of the bills,” his mother replied, “and there is the laying out of the new gardens as well. Besides my mantuamaker was pressing.”

  Lord Vulcan took his snuffbox from his pocket. He seemed utterly unperturbed and yet there was a touch of steel in his voice as he said quietly,

  “I can give you no more for the present.”

  “What about this girl?”

  “I am not yet married to her.”

  The Marchioness sat up in bed.

  “The Ceremony must never take place, Justin. I have told you before and I tell you again that you can never marry.”

  His Lordship closed the snuffbox with a little click.

  “I have always told you, Mother, that I have no desire to do so under the circumstances.”

  “Then why bring this puny country miss here? You are crazy, Justin. If we cannot touch her money, she is merely another mouth to feed. She will have to be dealt with somehow, sooner or later. Send her away at once, today.”

  “Where to? You forget that her home has passed into my keeping.”

  The Marchioness made a gesture of impatience.

  “What does it signify to us where she goes? Why in Heaven’s name did you accept the wager?”

  “To tell the truth,” Lord Vulcan answered with an amused smile, “I have asked myself the same question. I was almost certain that I would not win that hand. I had been winning continuously and by every law of chance Sir Giles should have had his revenge on me.”

  “But having won,” his mother said crossly, “what is the point of going on with such a farce? You should release the girl from her debt if you are quite certain that there is no way of getting hold of the money.”

  “There is no way at all, as I think the child told you.”

  “How do you know? Did she inform you that I had spoken with her?”

  “No, she did not, but knowing your somewhat direct methods, my dear Mother – ”

  “Well, there is no reason why I should not speak with her, after all I am your mother.”

  “There is no doubt about that.” Lord Vulcan spoke suavely.

  His mother looked across the room at him and suddenly her face softened.

  “Justin dear, I know that I have been badgering you for money, but all the same you would not wish to wed this chit – this nobody?”

  The Marquis sighed.

  “I have told you so often, I can marry no one in the circumstances.”

  “Then send the girl away.”

  “Where to?” He raised his hand to check the impatient response on the Marchioness’s lips. “No, it is no use saying ‘anywhere’. After all I am in many ways responsible for her father’s death.”

  “Justin, I am vexed by such foolishness. You cannot be responsible for every idiot who takes his life because he loses at cards. The girl must have relations. If not, marry her quickly to some good-natured yokel. She will then be able to live on her own inheritance.”

  Lord Vulcan smiled.

  “Strangely enough it was exactly the idea I had in my mind after I had seen her at Staverley, although it will be difficult to find the yokel, here of all places.”

  There was a sneer in his voice as he spoke the last words.

  “I do not know what you mean by that,” the Marchioness said, “but I daresay we shall find someone who will offer for her. She is not without a certain attraction, but her clothes are lamentable.”

  “Surely, Mother, you of all people could remedy that?”

  The Marchioness looked at him.

  “I give you my word I had not thought of it. But, of course, it can easily be effected. I have some enchanting materials, gauzes, batiste and a sprigged dimity that is the very latest thing. Yvette shall make them up for her. We will find her a husband and then you will be rid of all responsibility.”

  The Marchioness was smiling now, her eyes sparkling, and she looked years younger than she had done a few minutes earlier.

  “Lud, boy, but you frightened me. I thought the girl interested you.”

  Lord Vulcan walked across to the window. He leaned against it, the sunshine on his face, and for the moment he looked curiously young and unspoilt.

  “One day, Mother,” he said very quietly, “there will have to be an heir to Mandrake.”

  “One day, of course,” the Marchioness said impatiently. “But not yet, Justin. I could not bear to be a grandmother. Why Eustace was saying only last night that you looked more like my younger brother than my son.”

  “Eustace Carrington is just twenty-three,” the Marquis answered. “He is also an extremely dissolute young man. I cannot commend you on your latest beau.”

  “He is rich,” the Marchioness retorted and then she laughed. “Dear Justin, you have always been so disapproving of my young men. I shall never forget how blue-devilled you were when you first discovered that I had a lover. I can hardly remember who it was now. Was it Charles Sherringham or William Felton? I cannot recollect, but I can well recall your fury. You could not have been very old at the time, but you raged at me. How I laughed!”

  “And I cried,” Lord Vulcan said.

  “Did you really?” The Marchioness looked at him with interest. “I never remember you crying even when you were a very little boy.”

  “I was careful not to disgrace myself in public.”

  “But you did cry over me? I am flattered. I wish I could make you cry nowadays.”

  His Lordship laughed shortly and it was not a very pleasant sound.

  “It is too late. I am hardened. But all the same, Mother, I dislike hearing your name coupled with that of so young a blade. There is too much difference in age.”

  “Age! I am all of a fidget when you speak of it. I swear I am afraid of the minutes as they pass. I can see the lines coming. Oh, Justin, if I could only remain eternally young!”

  There was a real pathos in her voice, but her son seemed to be unmoved by it. The Marchioness snatched up the hand mirror and impetuously reached out for the brandy that lay at her side.r />
  “Brandy will not make you any younger,” Lord Vulcan remarked.

  “It makes me feel younger,” the Marchioness retorted, “and it is very good brandy. It arrived only a few – ”

  Lord Vulcan held up his hand.

  “Spare me the details,” he said sharply. “I have told you before that I do not wish to know.”

  His mother laughed, her good humour entirely restored.

  “Dear Justin. How ridiculous you are! I vow that if I did not know you well I should believe that you were growing respectable.”

  Lord Vulcan walked across the room and stood beside the bed, looking down at the Marchioness.

  “I am going now,” he said, “there are a great many things to be seen to. Does the puppet show take place tonight as usual?”

  “Do you mean are we entertaining?” the Marchioness asked. “But of course! The Duchess of Dover is bringing a party over after dinner and some of the Officers from the Barracks will be dining here.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Perhaps, my dear Justin, there will be one amongst them who will take a fancy to your little country mouse. She shall be properly gowned tonight, I promise you that.”

  “Who else is coming?” Lord Vulcan asked.

  “La! But I cannot recollect,” his mother said vaguely. “We shall be about thirty to dinner, I expect, maybe more, and there will be dancing in the Long Gallery. But I think it distracts from the play. Pray Heaven I win tonight. I was in a rare corner the night before last after you had gone to London.”

  Lord Vulcan’s expression darkened.

  “I have told you, Mother, that this cannot go on.”

  “It’s only a phase,” the Marchioness said. “My luck will change, perhaps tonight. I must consult Madame Roxana and see if the stars are with me.”

  “Madame Roxana! Is that witch still here?”

  The Marchioness looked up at him.

  “Yes, Justin, she is still here. I could not do without her. She helps me. Without her guidance I might lose even more than I have done already.”

  “Nonsense,” his Lordship said. “And I have told you that I will not have that woman in my house.”

  The Marchioness smiled.

  “In your house, dear Justin?” she asked sweetly.

  Her son looked at her for a long moment and then without a word he walked from the room and the door closed behind him.

  The Marchioness lay still on her pillows for a moment or two before she laughed. A second later she clapped her hands together.

  The black boy ran from his corner.

  “Madame Roxana! Fetch her quickly,” the Marchioness commanded.

  He sped away to do as he was bid and while he was gone the Marchioness sipped her brandy and twirled round her finger a great diamond ring so that it caught the sunlight, sending forth iridescent rays that reflected themselves above her head.

  How well she remembered receiving that ring. The man who had given it to her had loved her to desperation. She had given him in exchange a miniature of herself and he had worn it round his neck until he died. Then his widow had returned it to her with a stiff frigid note. What a lover he had been! How impetuous! How passionate! She had loved him too, but not so much as she had loved his successor.

  He also was dead. He had been drowned at sea, sailing in search of treasure that he would have laid at her feet. Oh well, there were still men in the world and she was still lovely enough to attract them.

  But she would wager her chance of Heaven that there was no thrill such as could be found at the gaming tables. Gold! That was what she wanted nowadays and she knew well how to get value for it once it was hers.

  The Marchioness smiled secretly to herself. Someone came into the room.

  She turned her head and saw Madame Roxana, black-haired, with her great hooked nose and shifty dark eyes, she looked what she was, a gipsy. The Marchioness had found her in a back room in Bond Street where she was rapidly becoming the fashion.

  Ladies, veiled to escape recognition, crept up the narrow unlit stairs to consult her about their love affairs. Bucks sauntered in from the gaming Clubs to enquire if the stars would be profitable for them that night. She had been amazingly right where the Marchioness was concerned and Harriet had not found it difficult to bribe her away from Bond Street to Mandrake.

  The servants hated her. They were also afraid of her and she had managed by some strange method of her own to change the atmosphere of the beautiful high-ceilinged bedroom in which she slept so that it seemed low, dark and Oriental and those who entered it were uncannily aware of an alien influence.

  The black boy who had brought her into the room, having closed the door behind her, scurried to his corner with something that nearly resembled panic. His eyes were rolling in his head and it was obvious that he was afraid.

  The Marchioness was not interested in his feelings as she welcomed Madame Roxana with a smile and held out her hand to be kissed.

  “How is my Lady, my Queen, this morning?” the gipsy asked.

  “Tired,” the Marchioness answered, “but the brandy is reviving me.”

  The gipsy’s eyes slanted towards the bottle.

  “You would like some?” the Marchioness enquired.

  “Later, later,” Roxana said, “first we will talk of you. You won last night?”

  The Marchioness shook her head.

  “I warned you not to play,” the gipsy said. “The stars are not propitious for you at this moment. You must wait, you must have patience. You find it hard, my Queen, but don’t worry, your luck will change and then you will be glad and happy and remember that old Roxana told you so.”

  “Do you think my luck will change tonight?” the Marchioness asked eagerly. “Look at your cards. I need the money.”

  The gipsy produced a pack of large greasy cards from somewhere in the folds of her shapeless garment. She sat down on a low stool beside the bed.

  “There is something else too,” the Marchioness said. “There is a girl here. I want to consult you about her future.”

  “The little lady that his Lordship brought with him?” Roxana asked.

  The Marchioness glanced at her and made no comment on the fact that Roxana knew already about Serena. It was not surprising. Nothing went on in the house without her knowing about it. Harriet supposed that she had her spies amongst the servants or else it was true clairvoyance.

  “Read her cards for me,” she ordered.

  The gipsy shook her head.

  “That Roxana cannot do without her presence. The cards must know her, she must touch them.”

  “Then we will send for her,” the Marchioness said. “I have to talk with her too about another matter. Put out your cards for me, Roxana, and let’s pray that they are good.” As she spoke the Marchioness pulled the great tasselled bell rope beside her bed and a moment later her maid entered.

  “I wish to speak with Miss Staverley,” the Marchioness said, “ask her to come here.”

  “Very good, my Lady.”

  Her maid looked at the gipsy spreading the greasy cards out on the floor and gave a sniff and then she left the room.

  The Marchioness smiled.

  “Poor Martha, she disapproves of you and of my gambling and my drinking. In fact all my interests and actions are reprehensible to her and she thinks that she is privileged to express her disapproval. But I could not do without you, Roxana, you will not leave me, will you?”

  The gipsy looked up at her, hearing the fear in her voice.

  “Would I want to leave my Lady, my Queen?” she asked silkily and added, “If you win tonight, you will remember your poor Roxana who brings you luck?”

  “Yes, of course, I will. Did not I give you twenty-five guineas the last time I won? Tonight it shall be thirty if I win. Tell me, what do you see?”

  Roxana bent over the cards.

  “It is hard to say, the stars are rising for my Lady, but they are not in their full ascendancy. You may win, but it will be b
ut a handful of gold. There is a man who comes to the house – very dark – can see him – he frowns – he has a peculiarity – yes, yes – I can see now what it is – he is left-handed – you will win from him. He is rich, very rich.”

  “Oh, I know who that is,” the Marchioness said eagerly, “and he comes the day after tomorrow. Left-handed? Yes, there can be no mistake! You say I shall win from him?”

  “Yes, you will win from him. Wait, there is something else. You will talk with him. You will make – oh, what is the word? – an alliance with him over something – it will concern gold – but it is strange.”

  “Money? More money?” the Marchioness asked.

  “Yes, there is the glitter of gold, but – ”

  “Do I get it? Do I win it? Oh, look, Roxana, look quickly?”

  At that moment she moved impulsively in bed and the hand mirror fell to the floor with a crash and shattered into a thousand pieces.

  “Hell,” the Marchioness exclaimed impatiently. “Never mind, Roxana, go on.”

  But the gipsy had straightened herself.

  “It is gone,” she said, “I can see no more. The noise has disturbed me.”

  “Oh, I am sorry. How tiresome,” the Marchioness said. “But you saw me win?”

  “A little, a little money tonight.”

  “Thank goodness for that. But this man, you say he is rich. Maybe I shall win a great deal more from him, a great deal more.”

  There was a knock on the door and Martha entered.

  “Miss Staverley is without, your Ladyship.”

  “Show her in,” the Marchioness commanded, “and don’t go, Martha, I want you.”

  Serena came into the room.

  She was wearing a white muslin dress and over it a shawl of green cashmere to keep out the cold in the passages. By rights she should have been in mourning, but she had no money to make any purchases.

  She looked very young and very fresh as she entered the great room, dropping a curtsey to the Marchioness, her eyes falling curiously on the dark figure of Madame Roxana.