The Storms Of Love Read online

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The Russian infiltration into Afghanistan in 1873 was a mistake on the part of the Viceroy of India, Lord Northbrook, and the Gladstone Government in England.

  Afghanistan, the wild, mountainous independent Moslem country to the North of India was governed by the Amir Sher Ali after a bloody struggle for the succession.

  Sher Ali had no wish to be beholden to either the British or the Russians, but, as the former crept even closer to his Northern borders, he was wise enough to know that he would have to seek the protection of one or other of them.

  He feared the Russians more than the British and he therefore sent a special envoy to the Viceroy, Lord Northbrook, in 1873 offering a Treaty, which, in return for his allegiance to the British, would guarantee him an annual subsidy and recognise his youngest son, Abdulla Jan, as his heir.

  Lord Northbrook, a dry stick of a man, colourless and unimaginative and more interested in statistics than people, was instructed by Mr. Gladstone to ‘tick off’ Sher Ali for the imprisonment of his eldest and rebellious son Yakah Khan.

  Offended and angry Sher Ali turned to Russia and there was no doubt that Lord Northbrook’s action was responsible for the endless conflict with Afghanistan, stirred up by the Russians, that followed.

  Today we cannot help wondering if the Russian influence in 1878 and their provocation thereafter with Afghanistan, might in some way have influenced their decision and in 1981 to override and conquer it.

  Historically Lord Northbrook who resigned as Viceroy of India in 1875 was succeeded by Lord Lytton. He was unambitious, unconventional, a dreamer and a romantic poet.

  He was faced with one trial after another – the most famous of the century, the Second Afghan War, massacre and financial disaster.

  But his handling of the famine brought permanent advantages to India and his foresight strengthened Disraeli’s Afghan policy and made it workable. Through every difficulty he never lost the support and sympathy of Queen Victoria.

  CHAPTER ONE ~ 1875

  Driving to the Goodwood Races the Duke of Wydeminster thought with satisfaction that his team of horses was the most outstanding that he had ever owned.

  Once again, he told himself, he had been proved right, having bought them as foals at a sale held by one of his friends, when the majority of buyers had not considered them worth a second glance.

  The Duke, however, with his expert eye had sensed the possibilities in them and they were now the envy of everybody who saw them.

  He looked forward to the congratulations he would receive when he reached the Races not only from the Duke of Richmond but also from the other leading owners who would undoubtedly be present.

  Goodwood, the Duke was thinking, was not only the most beautiful Racecourse in England but also one of the most enjoyable.

  Set overlooking the wide lush green coastal plain from which one could see with the naked eye the English Channel, the Isle of Wight, and Chichester Cathedral, it was unique with its breathtaking view over the Downs.

  It was also, which was something the Duke particularly enjoyed, redolent with history.

  Whenever he went to Goodwood, he found himself thinking of its romantic origin, the first Duke of Richmond having been the son of Charles II and the ‘Fair Maid of France’, Louise de Kérouaille.

  Unlike some of the King’s other mistresses who were of low birth, Louise, a Breton, was the daughter of a French Nobleman and was Lady-in-Waiting to Charles II’s favourite sister, the Duchess of Orleans.

  It was always said that Charles’s love for Louise was different from the love he had for any of his other mistresses and in 1673 he created her Duchess of Portsmouth.

  From that time until the end of the King’s reign twelve years later she exercised a special influence over him that undoubtedly affected the nation’s relationship with France.

  Her son by the King was three years old when he was given the titles of Duke of Richmond, Earl of March and Baron Settrington.

  But the Duke of Wydeminster was thinking more of Charles II, to whom he often thought that in many ways, although not particularly in appearance, he had a close resemblance.

  Certainly Charles II had excelled in sports as he did and was vitally concerned with the development and prudent management of the nation, as the Duke was with his vast estates.

  What was more they undoubtedly had a close affinity in their appreciation of female beauty, although regrettably neither the King’s nor the Duke’s affairs lasted very long.

  At the same time, the Duke thought to himself, women made life very enjoyable.

  He was looking ahead now with almost a feeling of excitement to the beauty who he knew would be waiting for him when he arrived at Berkhampton House.

  It was a departure from the usual that he was not staying at Goodwood with the Duke of Richmond

  He had, of course, received His Grace’s invitation with the assumption that he would be the principal guest at Goodwood House and on the Racecourse.

  But the Duke of Richmond had at the same time received a pressing note from the Marchioness of Berkhampton begging him to honour her by his presence.

  He was just about to refuse when he realised that Lady Newbury would also be a guest of the Marchioness.

  Fenella Newbury had attracted his eye from the first moment he had seen her at a ball in London.

  He had thought her one of the most beautiful women he had seen for a long time, but he had not paid her a great deal of attention because her husband, Lord Newbury, was not one of the close circle of his special friends.

  When, however, unexpectedly he sat next to her at dinner the following week as the guest of one of the Ambassadors at the Court of St. James, he found that she was even lovelier than he had thought.

  Also the moment she looked at him there was an expression in her eyes that told the Duke that, like most women he met, she was overwhelmed by his appearance and very receptive to his attractions.

  The Duke would have been a fool, and he was in fact a very clever man, if he had not known that he had a special magnetism that drew women to him as if he was the Pied Piper.

  It was something he could not put into words, but it was nevertheless what he often thought to himself was a gift from the Gods.

  It had certainly made his life a pleasant and scented bed of roses.

  At the same time he was honest enough to realise that it had its distractions as well as its advantages.

  It meant that like the King, with whom he identified himself, no women lasted long in his life and he was invariably the one to become bored first.

  In fact he had never known a woman, at any time, to be bored with him and he often wondered why he had the power to make them so wildly overwhelmingly in love that they invariably lost not only their hearts but also their heads.

  The Duke was not a cruel man, in fact he was extremely compassionate, especially to animals and those in straitened circumstances.

  His generosity was well known and he was cheered so long and loudly on every Racecourse not only because his horses won, and the English have always loved a sportsman, but also because of his innumerable acts of kindness.

  His generosity in the sporting world and to everybody who appealed to him for help had gradually become known to the public and they appreciated him for that as well as for everything else.

  Where his women were concerned, however, he was forced to leave them weeping and to know that, although he had had no intention of doing so, he had broken their hearts.

  It seemed inevitable that what started as a light-hearted and amusing affaire de coeur, a game between two sophisticated experienced people, eventually became a battlefield with a victim left wounded, but that was never the Duke
.

  As he had said to his confidential secretary, who ran his household and knew all the ups and down of his personal life,

  “It’s ridiculous that I cannot dispense with my mistresses without a scene that would seem overdramatic at Drury Lane.”

  He was, at that moment, not speaking of an affair in the Social world, but with a pretty ballerina whom he had installed in a house in St. John’s Wood, but with whom he had finished because she no longer attracted him.

  According to the rules, when a protector abdicated and paid handsomely for the pleasure that he had enjoyed, there should be no tears and no recriminations, while the ‘Cyprian’ in question went back into circulation very much richer and usually with some valuable trophies to show for the experience.

  But where the Duke was concerned, there were clinging arms, streaming eyes and wailing voices pleading with him to stay and asking over and over again what had gone wrong.

  ‘It is not exactly that there is anything wrong,’ he mused, ‘it is just that sooner or later an uneducated woman, however talented, however pretty, fails to interest me.’

  That seemed reasonable enough until he thought of his conquests in the Social world, of whom he might almost say the same.

  It was true that the ladies in question were better educated, some even had a sparkling wit, and could certainly discuss the political situation or the latest scandal in high places as her lowlier sister was unable to do.

  But that invariably, the Duke found, led to her discussing him and his relationship with her, so that the conversation always came back to the same starting place, which was the passion they aroused in each other and which involved only their bodies and not their brains.

  Mr. Greyshot, his secretary, knew that the Duke did not expect an answer to his question, but for once he decided to give him one and he replied,

  “I think, Your Grace, the whole trouble is, if you will forgive me for saying so, that you are spoilt!”

  “Spoilt?” the Duke ejaculated and the word rang out like a pistol shot.

  “My mother used to tell me when I was a boy to count my blessings,” Mr. Greyshot said, “and when I count yours, as I frequently have to do, I find it makes a very long list and an incredibly satisfactory one!”

  The Duke smiled.

  “I agree with you, Greyshot, and I am not ungrateful to the Fates or to the Almighty, whichever you prefer. I was, in fact thinking as you are aware, not of my possessions but of the women in my life.”

  “All the same, Your Grace,” Mr. Greyshot persisted, “you have an attraction for the fair sex that they find irresistible and in consequence they wish to hold onto you and it is agonising for them to be forced to let you go.”

  “As I know to my cost,” the Duke said beneath his breath.

  “There is another adage that I think applies in this instance,” Mr. Greyshot continued, “which is ‘nothing is for free’, one pays for everything one receives.”

  “You can hardly accuse me of not settling my debts,” the Duke said sharply.

  “I was not speaking of cash, Your Grace.”

  “I am aware of that, at the same time it is usually an efficacious salve to a bleeding heart.”

  “Not where Your Grace is concerned.”

  His secretary spoke quietly and with a sincerity that was unmistakable.

  For a moment the Duke glared at him.

  Then he laughed.

  “All right, Greyshot, you win!” he said. “But what you are implying makes me feel very conceited.”

  Thinking over the conversation the Duke thought now that he certainly had much to be conceited about and added to his long list of conquests by the end of Goodwood Races would undoubtedly be Fenella Newbury.

  Thinking of her because she was so lovely, the Duke felt a sudden quickening in the part of his anatomy where he thought he kept his heart.

  Although he was unaware of it, there was a sparkle in his eyes in anticipation of what lay ahead.

  It was the same feeling, he thought, that he experienced at the end of a stalk when he put his rifle to his shoulder and drew a bead on what was known as ‘The King of the Moors’ silhouetted against the purple heather.

  He felt it when riding in the front of the field with the hounds just behind the fox and it was only a question of seconds before they overran him.

  He felt it when he brought down a high pheasant that to any other gun was out of reach and there was now that same excitement within his breast and a satisfaction that would make any man feel conceited.

  ‘I suppose in some ways I am exceptional,’ he ruminated as he drove on, ‘just as Charles II was exceptional in his way and we both of us manage to make the world a merrier place because we are in it.’

  He smiled at the idea and wondered if Fenella Newbury was waiting impatiently for his arrival and feeling as he was.

  It was astute of the Marchioness of Berkhampton, he thought, to have held Fenella out as a bait to induce him to be her guest rather than to stay as he usually did at Goodwood House.

  West Sussex was thick with noble mansions and their noble owners all competed with each other to fill their houses with the most important and the most amusing members of Society for Goodwood Week.

  West Dean, Stansted, Uppark, Cowdray, Petworth and Arundel were packed with the most distinguished names in the land.

  They would converge on them with valets, lady’s maids, coaches, phaetons, Victorias and broughams, besides of course grooms and horses to fill every stable to overflowing.

  Many of the distinguished guests were racehorse owners but none could boast better bloodstock than the Duke of Wydeminster.

  With another feeling of satisfaction he was quite certain that his horses would carry off at least three or four of the most coveted trophies of the Meeting.

  The Duke of Richmond, he knew, would be a formidable rival, for the Duke was a great expert on horseflesh and had himself, as the Earl of March, ridden five winners at the Goodwood Races of 1842.

  ‘He may be hurt that I am not staying with him,’ the Duke thought, ‘but I dare say he will guess the reason when he sees me with Fenella.’

  He was well aware that it was almost impossible for him to hide his love affairs from the inquisitive world he moved in.

  He often thought they knew whom he was making love to before it actually happened. But that was the penalty of stature and of being a bachelor.

  At least he did not have to worry, he reflected, about a jealous wife or, what could be much more irksome, ‘keeping up appearances in public’.

  He anticipated that he would have no trouble with Lord Newbury, although some of his charmers’ husbands had been inclined to become aggressive.

  He had, in fact, fought three duels and most unjustly he had in each case been the winner of the contests.

  “I suppose if there were any justice in life,” the Duke had once said to Mr. Greyshot, “I should have my arm in a sling today rather than poor Underwood who had definitely every reason to be aggrieved at my behaviour!”

  Mr. Greyshot had laughed.

  “I thought Lord Underwood was very brave in challenging Your Grace,” he said. “Most husbands are learning to turn a blind eye when you are about, as they don’t like being made to look a fool.”

  As it happened the Duke often felt rather sorry for them.

  He told himself that if he ever married, which he had no intention of doing for a great many years, he would never allow himself to be in the position of a cuckolded husband.

  It would be poetic justice he thought, but knew confidently that it never would happen.

  He was now nearing Goodwood and there was a touch of sea salt in the air.

  Everywhere he looked there was that particular beauty that he associated with this part of England and which in consequence he enjoyed more and more every time he came here.

  He found himself almost envying the Duke of Richmond that his estate was situated in this part of the country.

&
nbsp; Then he knew that it would be very hard for anything to equal the magnificence of Wyde, his family house in Buckinghamshire.

  From it there was a magnificent view and against its background of woods it glowed like a jewel, a very large and precious jewel, at which everybody seeing it for the first time gasped in sheer amazement.

  Thinking of his home made the Duke remember that only a week ago, when he had entertained a house party there, his grandmother had acted as hostess.

  Once a great beauty she was still at seventy an extremely impressive and lovely woman.

  But she had a sharp tongue and never hesitated to express her opinions with a forthrightness that many people found intimidating.

  She had taken her grandson to task as nobody else would have dared to do and informed him bluntly that it was time he settled down and took a wife.

  “You need not try to bully me, Grandmama,” the Duke said. “I have no intention of being married until I am too old to enjoy myself as I do now, and that will be when I have one foot in the grave!”

  “You have to have an heir!” the Dowager had snapped.

  “Of course,” the Duke agreed, “and I shall make sure, as my father omitted to do, that I do not have one son, but several.”

  He knew that this was a slightly unsporting reply, in fact what was known as ‘hitting below the belt’, for it had been a great disappointment to his grandmother that her only son, the Duke’s father, had also produced only him and not a number of brothers to make sure of the succession.

  “Then my advice is to get on with it!” The Dowager said, quite unabashed.

  “I understand your feelings, Grandmama, but I am more concerned with my own.”

  “A wife need not interfere very noticeably with your pleasures,” the Dowager said reflectively. “You would always behave with propriety towards her and doubtless the poor thing will fall head over heels in love with you, as all those other foolish women contrive to do!”

  The Duke laughed.

  “You are not very complimentary, Grandmama!”

  “Oh, I know you fancy yourself,” the Dowager said, “strutting about like a peacock with a dozen little peahens scurrying after you! But I want to hold your son in my arms before I die!”