A Hazard of Hearts

by Barbara Cartland

  “And your name? Will you tell me your name – ” Serena began, but at that moment the door opened and a little old man wearing the Vulcan livery came into the room.

  “I heard voices, my Lord, he began.

  Then he saw Serena and stopped with a start of astonishment.

  “I have a visitor, Newman, and, dear me, I am forgetting my manners. Bring the lady a dish of tea, Newman.”

  “Very good, my Lord.”

  The valet’s surprise at seeing Serena was almost ludicrous and, when he had left the room, the old gentleman chuckled.

  “Newman believed that you must have dropped down the chimney. There is only one entry into this part of the house and the door is bolted and barred.”

  “You enjoy such solitude, sir?”

  “Yes, yes, I like solitude and I have few enough visitors. My son, of course, visits me frequently and very occasionally, my wife. But Harriet is always engaged. She has always been enamoured with entertaining.”

  Serena stared at him. Then her mouth opened and she gave a little exclamation.

  The old gentleman looked at her.

  “Dear me, dear me, I ought not to have said that. Could you forget it?” There was a sudden twinkle in his eye. “No, I suppose not. That is why I have no visitors. You see, m’dear, I cannot keep a secret, never could.”

  He pushed his wig a little farther back on his head and it gave him almost a comical expression and then he pulled it forward again and now it was easy for Serena to see why her first impression of his face had been one of familiarity.

  Justin was like his father. They had the same clear-cut features, the same steel-grey eyes set beneath strongly marked eyebrows, the same jaw and the same thin aristocratic nose. But if this was Justin’s father –

  Serena suddenly clasped her hands together. If this was Justin’s father, then Justin was not Lord Vulcan and not entitled to be styled ‘the Marquis’.

  The old gentleman was chuckling a little.

  “I shall be in disgrace again. I nearly always am, one way or another, but I think I can trust Hubert Staverley’s granddaughter! Will you give me your word that you will not reveal what I am about to tell you?”

  “My hand on my heart, sir,” Serena exclaimed, “and I think I have guessed your secret. You are the Marquis of Vulcan – Justin’s father.”

  “That is right, my dear. That is right. But I ought never to have let the cat out of the bag. It is a long story and in my humble opinion not an engaging one. But you shall judge for yourself. Ah, here comes our tea.”

  The valet entered with a big silver tray. He set it down on a small table by the fireside, which his Lordship hastily cleared of books.

  “I have made the tea, my Lord,” he said in a low voice.

  “Quite right! Quite right!”

  The old gentleman turned to Serena.

  “You will excuse me, ma’am, if I do not make your tea myself, but I am so absentminded. Sometimes I put in a great number of teaspoonfuls, far too many and very extravagant, at other times I forget to put in the tea altogether. Newman does it for me. He is very careful. We have to be with such a heavy duty to pay on tea.”

  He poured Serena out a cup and suddenly Serena felt a pang of pity.

  Had he any idea of the lavish expenditure that was accepted without comment in the other part of the house?

  Or had he ever guessed that the tea he drank might have entered the country without yielding its lawful tax?

  The valet withdrew and, sipping his tea, the Marquis said,

  “As you have discovered me, it is only fair that you should know the reason why I am here, otherwise you might be imagining all sorts of things, might you not?”

  “I should be glad if you would trust me with your story, my Lord, but if you would prefer not to inform me of anything so intimate, I shall fully understand.”

  “And be curious for the test of your life?” the old gentleman queried and then he laughed. “No, no, my dear, I was young myself once, fact is, I have never ceased to be curious when there are things to be learned and things to discover about other people. Nowadays I have a preference for discoveries in books, but at your age I preferred them to be walking about on two legs. Well, to begin. You have met my wife?”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “And my son?”

  “ – Yes.”

  It was difficult not to hesitate before she answered, but the old man seemed quite pleased with the monosyllable.

  “He is a splendid fellow and I am proud of him. He never forgets me, never. Sometimes we read together, but usually we just talk. He tells me about the world outside. I have never regretted leaving it, but Justin makes certain that I shall have no regrets. A fine boy, a very fine boy.”

  For a moment the old man seemed to have forgotten that he was about to tell Serena his story and then at last he continued,

  “But you desired to learn from me why I am here. Well, the truth is it all began because I was a gamester.”

  “A gamester!” Serena exclaimed.

  “Yes, yes, I know what you are thinking. That I am like my wife. But that is not quite correct. My heart’s not in it. I played a mildish hand when I was in London, but not overmuch, if you understand me. Now and then at The Cocoa Tree or Watier’s I would while away the time before taking Harriet to Almack’s. A game in some friend’s rooms would pass the hour while she was being attired for a ball, but that was all gaming meant to me. I had no penchant for those rubbishing hells, it was books I loved and I had already begun the history of Mandrake.”

  “Is that what you are writing now?” Serena interposed.

  “And have been for the last twenty years. It will be a fine tale when it is finished, if I ever finish it.”

  He looked around the room with a little sigh and then continued,

  “To be frank with you, I have always cared for books beyond everything else in my life. That is what Harriet says and she vows I ought to have married one! A jest, of course, but there’s a grain of truth in it. I seem a dull dog to her. I suppose really I was too old to marry the lovely child she was when first I saw her, but she was like all the Fairytales I had read when I was a boy rolled into one. There are no words really to describe her, that incomparable face, and I thought and believed that I could make her happy!”

  The old man sighed and stared into the fire.

  “But I was old, too old, I suppose. Soon I grew tired of the social round and the gay life. It left me no time for reading, and undoubtedly no time for writing. I came back to Mandrake and left Harriet to herself. Then unexpectedly she returned. We disagreed for the first time in our lives, for she wanted to make changes in the house, she wanted to fill it with people. I suppose I had become used to being alone, for I did not like people in my house. Besides I wanted to get on with my book.”

  There was another gentle sigh and Serena knew that the old gentleman was recalling disagreements and arguments.

  Then he went on,

  “When things were at their most difficult, a friend of mine fell ill. He was a very distinguished émigré from France, Prince Charles de Fauberg St. Vincent. He was in the prime of life, but he suffered greatly with his heart, just as I have suffered from mine all through my life, in fact ever since I was at Eton with your grandfather. Being a foreigner and because he was in pain, the Prince thought that he was about to die. No stamina, those foreign fellows, even the best of them. He was a friend of Harriet’s and my wife begged me to talk with him and rouse him. Having no pluck, he just lay there waiting for death to overtake him. I went to his bedside.

  “‘Charles, dear fellow,’ I said, ‘there is nothing wrong with you. Rouse yourself, come back to the world. There are a great many years of enjoyment left for you yet.’

  “‘It is too late,’ the Prince answered, ‘too late, my old friend, for I am dying.’

  “‘Dying!’ I cried. ‘You must be foxed, for you are no more dying than I am. Both our hearts play us false at times, but
that is not to say that we are either of us for the grave for another quarter of a century.’

  “He did not answer me, so, being determined to rouse him, I said,

  “‘I will wager you, Charles, that I will die before you. How is that for a sporting offer?’

  He smiled at me weakly.

  “‘You will lose your money, Vulcan.’ I shook my head.

  “‘I shall gain yours,’ I said.

  “‘What will you bet?’

  “‘Anything you like,’ he replied, ‘because I am bound to win.’

  “‘I will lay you ten thousand guineas,’ I retorted.

  “‘No, twenty thousand, twenty thousand that I am a dead man before you, Charles.’

  For the first time in weeks he laughed.

  “‘I will live just to spite you,’ he cried.”

  The old gentleman took a deep breath.

  “Can you guess the end of the story?”

  “I think so,” Serena answered.

  “My wife wanted money. She needed it for Mandrake, I wanted solitude. I suppose now it was a wrong thing to do, but the Prince was a very rich man. Twenty thousand guineas would mean very little to him and it meant a great deal to Mandrake. So I died, I died of the smallpox! Only my wife and my most devoted valet nursed me during the last days of my illness. The coffin was screwed down before anyone could see me and catch the infection. I was laid to rest with great pomp in the family vault. But here I am – a living corpse!”

  The old gentleman chuckled and Serena had to laugh too.

  “It’s an amazing tale,” she exclaimed, “exciting enough for a book.”

  “I have often thought of that myself,” the old Marquis said, “maybe one day I will write the story, but it could never be published.”

  “And your son? Does he mind?” Serena could not forbear to ask the question.

  “Ah, Justin! He did not know for over a year. At first he was very angry, in fact I have never known him so angered. He swore that he would reveal all. He made things very uncomfortable for us all, but we persuaded him, at least Harriet did. For one thing the money was spent and nobody wanted to return it and for another I was content. I prefer this life. I have everything I need, my comforts, my own servant, a view from my windows and the knowledge that I am here at Mandrake.”

  The old Marquis made a gesture with his arms and added,

  “What is more, I have the time to write. If you only knew how much I disliked the mutton-headed people I had to meet night after night! If they could read, they never did so except to make sure that they were invited to every fashionable rout. Oh, and those interminable dinner parties! Thank God I am now spared the boredom of the Beau Monde.”

  He spoke rather like a naughty little boy playing truant and Serena had to laugh.

  “I am vastly obliged to you, my Lord,” she said, “for entrusting me with your secret. It is, I assure you, safe in my keeping. And now I must leave you or I shall be encroaching on your solitude.”

  “Ah, but I like visitors occasionally,” the old Marquis said, “especially when they are young and beautiful like yourself.”

  Serena smiled at him.

  “Thank you, my Lord, for the compliment. May I come again?”

  “I shall be very grieved if you do not. But your visit must be a secret, remember, and you must never reveal to anyone that we have met.”

  “I give you my word of honour, my Lord, that no one shall know that I have found my way here. And if you wish to stop my coming again, it is very simple, you have but to lock the door.”

  “I never thought of that,” the old Marquis said, “but the door shall remain open, permanently open, and you promise me that you will return?”

  “I promise that.”

  “And now you want to reach the garden. I have my own way, of course, and I go out at night to take the air. Newman and I walk together. There is something very wonderful about Mandrake in the moonlight. One night you must come with me and let me show you how beautiful it is.”

  “I would like that,” Serena said simply.

  The old man touched the bell and almost instantly the door opened.

  “Show this Lady to the garden, Newman.”

  Serena dropped a curtsey.

  “Goodbye, my Lord, and thank you once again.”

  “Your servant, my dear.”

  He raised her hand to his lips. For a moment, as he bent his head, his broad shoulders were silhouetted against the light from the window and she thought that it might have been Justin who kissed her hand.

  Chapter Ten

  “I am exceeding envious of your riding habit,” Isabel said, reining in her horse and drawing up alongside Serena where, mounted on a magnificent chestnut, she waited at the end of a long grass mile.

  Serena smiled.

  “I am so afeared of spoiling it,” she said, “that I hardly dare to move. It was only finished for me yesterday.”

  “I have never seen such velvet,” Isabel declared, pulling off her riding glove and stretching out her hand to stroke Serena’s skirt. “I swear it is not obtainable in England.”

  Serena blushed, and looking round, tried hastily to change the conversation.

  “Surely that is Lord Vulcan coming towards us?” she asked.

  “Yes, it is Vulcan right enough,” a voice said from behind, making both Serena and Isabel jump.

  Lord Gillingham on horseback had approached them unseen and behind him, also mounted, was Nicholas.

  “Oh, there you are!” Isabel exclaimed. “Serena and I are as mad as fire with both of you. We thought that you would have the courtesy to wait on us, even though we were a trifle delayed. Instead of which we were informed by the stable boy that his Lordship and Mr. Staverley, becoming vastly impatient, had taken themselves off’.”

  Gilly laughed.

  “What a fibber you are, Isabel. All the same Nicholas and I were in revolt. We had waited long enough for wenches, however attractive they might be.”

  “Hark at them, Serena,” Isabel said with mock severity. “Did you ever listen to such abominable impertinence?”

  “Well, don’t get in a pet, Isabel,” Gilly asked, “and you need not blame Nicholas. The poor fellow would have waited until tomorrow morning if I had let him.”

  Nicholas looked embarrassed, but he said nothing and Serena wished she could chide him for his humility and patient acquiescence where Isabel was concerned. But now was not the moment and at any rate the opportunity was lost for her even to defend him, for at that moment the Marquis galloped up on a great black horse, which he had some difficulty in reining in.

  “Gad, sir, but that is a fine animal,” Gilly exclaimed.

  “Good morning, ladies,” the Marquis said, raising his hat, and then replied to Lord Gillingham,

  “You are right. Thunderbolt is a splendid creature, but he is not easy to ride, there is too much Arab in him.”

  As if Thunderbolt knew that he was being admired, he pawed the air and pranced around and it was impossible not to admire the capable way that the Marquis handled him.

  “Be careful, Justin,” Isabel admonished. “I declare I am frightened to death of such a monster. He looks to me as though he would be devilishly bad-tempered and might throw you at any moment.”

  The Marquis smiled.

  “I will be careful, Isabel, and Thunderbolt already knows who is his Master. And now, if you will excuse me, I will gallop some of the devil out of him.”

  The Marquis swept off his hat and went off at a fine speed, leaving the others staring after him.

  “The cursed fellow can ride, I will grant him that,” Nicholas said sourly and Isabel turned round in the saddle to laugh at him.

  “Poor Nicholas,” she said, “has that cast you into yet another despondency? But I vow that you yourself sit a horse as to the manner born.”

  “Nicholas has always been very good with horses,” Serena said, but it was obvious that Nicholas was not to be consoled.

 
He rode well, but the quiet grey mare that he was astride gave him no chance to show off. It was difficult to emulate the picture that Lord Vulcan’s elegant figure made astride a pure bred horse.

  The little party now set off to ride towards the end of the Park and Serena drew a little apart from the others, not wishing to join in their chatter. She did not seek solitude to think for she was afraid of her own thoughts.

  So much had happened and so overwhelming had been the experiences that she had encountered within the last two days, that she wanted above all things to have a moment’s respite to cast away the clouds that overcast her and the problems that beset her from every side and to remember only the sunshine, the freshness of the air and the movement of the horse beneath her.

  She loved riding and had learnt to handle what horses there were at Staverley Court ever since she was a small child. But it was a very different thing to be riding at Mandrake. The horse she rode now was a fine sensitive animal and, as its groom put it, was “a niceish piece of blood for a lady”.

  Serena would not have been feminine if she had not known how vastly becoming her new riding habit was. It was cut from that wonderful velvet, the texture of which had excited Isabel and there was real lace at her neck and in her hat a curling plume that touched her shoulder.

  Serena knew that she appeared the very figure of fashionable elegance and, as she rode, she wondered whether the Marquis had noticed her and if so what he had thought.

  ‘The Marquis!’

  Even as her thoughts named him, she recalled that the title was incorrect. Vividly before her eyes there appeared the kindly aged face of his father. She had not been able to sleep last night, but had lain awake seeing picture after picture forming itself in the darkness.

  There was one of the aged Marquis surrounded by his books, others of the long dark tunnel that she had passed through in search of the Marchioness, of the cavern with its flaming torches lighting the rough-hewn ceiling, of the faces of the smugglers, the Marchioness standing amongst them, beautiful, glittering, fantastic and then that dark stream of blood pouring from the dying man’s open mouth.

  She dared not dwell on that thought, which horrified and haunted her, and it required her utmost resolution to force it from the surface of her mind even while it remained underneath, recurring again and again like an uneasy ghost.