Love Me Forever

  CHAPTER ONE ~ 1780

  The coach came to a standstill and a second later the door was opened by a footman. Before the man could speak the words that already moved his lips, the Duke’s voice, curt and authoritative, came from the inside of the coach,

  “Why have we stopped?”

  “One of the leaders has gone lame, Your Grace.”

  “Have him changed immediately with one of the outriders.”

  “Very good, Your Grace.”

  The man would have withdrawn, but a further order stopped him.

  “Let down the steps.”

  The footman did as he was commanded and the Duke stepped out on to the roadway.

  It was a calm summer evening with only a faint breeze in the air to dispel the heat of the day. The sun had vanished from the sky, the twilight was giving way to the purple of the night and the first evening stars were glittering above the pointed tops of the trees that bordered the road.

  There was an unusual bustle and sense of urgency about the coachman and the postilions hurrying to free the leader from the traces. When the Duke gave an order, it was obeyed and with a deftness and speed which bespoke efficiency and a sense of discipline.

  The Duke gave a quick glance at the horses. He was an acknowledged judge of horseflesh and the team that drew his coach were not only perfectly matched but outstandingly beautiful.

  Their perfection was part of the whole entourage. The coach of deep blue with its panels emblazoned with the Duke’s Coat of Arms, the glittering polish of lamps and crested harness, the liveries of blue and silver and the powdered wigs under the coachmen’s cockaded black hats all commanded admiration.

  The horse that had gone lame was now having its leg felt by the experienced fingers of the Duke’s chief coachman but His Grace did not linger to ask what was wrong.

  Instead he turned his back on the colourful cavalcade and walked a little way into the wood on the side of the road.

  In his embroidered coat of cerise velvet and diamond-buttoned waistcoat, he was a colourful figure himself as he strode away from the light of the carriage lanterns into the shadows of the trees.

  It was only when he was a little way from the hustle and bustle of the horses and servants that he turned to look back at them and then to glance down the road and wonder what had happened to the rest of his carriages.

  The Duke travelled in style, as befitted his position, but he could never remember that the heavy Berlins, which carried his luggage and the other members of the staff, found it difficult to keep up with the swift pace of his own chosen team of horses and the lighter build of his coach which had been specially designed for speed.

  The Duke gave the missing carriages behind him a fleeting thought, but then immediately he returned to what had engaged his mind when the coach had stopped. It was indeed of so much import that he had been preoccupied with it ever since they had left Calais and started on the road for Paris.

  Over and over again he had reiterated to himself a conversation he had had with the Prime Minister before he left London.

  “It is a difficult and dangerous game, Melyncourt,” William Pitt had said to him, “and I can think of no one more likely to succeed than yourself. There is no reason why they should suspect you. For one thing you have never been a Politician and your reputation for being, well, how shall we put it, interested in the fair sex, should be sufficient excuse for you to pay a pleasurable visit to Paris.”

  There had been a smile on William Pitt’s lips and a twinkle in his eyes as he spoke and the Duke had found himself smiling back at this brilliant and extraordinary young man who had taken on the arduous duties of Prime Minister at the age of twenty-four.

  Although he was, as William Pitt had indeed said, no Politician, the Duke could appreciate the enormous difficulties of the position in which Pitt had found the country on assuming office.

  The Peace of Versailles, signed a year before, had put an end to a desperate War when Britain had stood alone against the world. France, Holland, and Spain had combined against her to aid the American Colonists in their War of Independence. Russia, Denmark, Sweden, Prussia and also Austria had signed a pact of Armed Neutrality and ranged themselves against her.

  When William Pitt had come to power, Britain lay exhausted, almost bankrupt and entirely isolated. But in six months he had with his genius for figures begun the uphill task of restoring Britain’s greatness. Already she was selling goods to the U.S.A. and already she had a considerable commercial trade with France. This was just a beginning but, as William Pitt told the Duke, there was a great deal more to be done.

  “Spain is ambitious,” he said, “and we have to watch her, Austria and Prussia are ready to spring at each other’s throats and Russia and Sweden are sparring. There will be trouble in the Netherlands and I want a pact of non-aggression between Russia and Turkey. To restore the Balance of Power I have to watch all of them.”

  “You have set yourself a somewhat formidable task,” the Duke remarked drily.

  “Yes, we have to restore the Balance of Power,” he repeated, almost as though he spoke to himself, then as if he suddenly remembered the Duke’s presence, he continued, “at the moment France is in no mood to be aggressive. The War has cost her fourteen million francs, but her victories in America have given her a taste for blood.

  “What is more, she adores intrigue. It is born in her, part of her nature. Her Ministers will say one thing but they will mean something very different. No one could appear on the surface more friendly or more considerate to us than France at the moment, but I want to know what goes on behind closed doors. I want to know what they think about us, what they think of the pretensions of Spain and Holland, where their sympathies lie when the British Ambassador has gone home to bed.”

  “You really believe that I can help you?” the Duke asked.

  “I am sure of it,” Pitt said with one of the beguiling smiles that had the power of making men willing to serve him at whatever cost to themselves.

  The Duke said nothing for a moment and Pitt, watching him, liked his quietness and the air of restraint that he felt was somehow characteristic of the man. He had not been mistaken in his choice, he was sure of that, although there were few in London who would have agreed with him.

  At thirty-eight the Duke of Melyncourt had a reputation for being hard and difficult. He had a forceful personality, which made him many friends and assured him an equal number of enemies. He was rich, powerful and had a reputation which, if not unsavoury, was not particularly desirable. It was, however, not surprising, Pitt thought, that women ran after him. He was exceptionally good-looking and the breadth of his shoulders, which well balanced his height, was slightly out of place in the exquisite satin, laces and embroidery of the prevailing fashion. A hard man, a good-looking man, what else?

  The Duke looked up then and the eyes of the two men met.

  “Tell me exactly what you want me to do,” the Duke asked softly.

  In those quiet words Pitt was confirmed in the shrewdness of his judgment.

  Here was a man who understood action, a man who could think and move quickly, moreover, a man who could command.

  It was of what Pitt had said during that interview which had lasted for nearly an hour that the Duke was thinking as he stood on French soil and heard about him the soft faint noises of a wood at night time.

  For a second he attended to what he heard and, as he thought how in the woods at Melyn there would be just such sounds as these, he had a sudden pang of homesickness. If he had not been here, sent on this fantastic mission by a Prime Minister who was almost young enough to be his son, he would have been at home just in from riding, sitting down with a glass of wine, while his valet drew off his boots. Comfortabl
y tired, he would relax and talk to members of his house party of the sport they had enjoyed and of the plans they had made for the evening.

  The Duke was well aware that an invitation to Melyn was a prized possession. The house, of great beauty and antiquity, was also comfortable and full with treasures collected by each succeeding generation. He supplied his guests with superlative food and even more superlative wines and the company was chosen not because they were important or famous or even intelligent, but they could each bring some unique and unusual quality to the party.

  If Politicians were included, it was not because they had power or influence, but because they themselves were outstanding personalities. That, of course, was the reason why Pitt had stayed at Melyn. He had been Chancellor of the Exchequer at the time, a post from which most men would have shrunk had they been twice his age, which was then twenty-three.

  “Going to stay at Melyn?” people had questioned him. “I cannot imagine what you will think of Sebastian Melyncourt. He is an extraordinary person, I don’t suppose you will like him.”

  But Pitt had liked the Duke. Strangely enough they had found many things in common and perhaps they had each recognised in the other a faith in their own infallibility. Whatever it might have been, the result of that one visit to Melyn was that the Duke now found himself here in France with a mission that was giving him, to say the least of it, a predominance of anxious thought.

  The trouble was he had no idea how he was to obtain the information that Pitt said he required. The Prime Minister had in fact been able to be of little help save to give him a broad outline of what he wanted.

  “When I was in France last year,” he said, “I was fêted and acclaimed in a manner that was meant to leave me with no apprehension of anything but that France had become, overnight as it were, our staunchest and truest friend. It was perhaps because my reception was so warm and overwhelming, that I am suspicious. I am English enough to suspect people when they are too voluble. I may be wrong in this instance that remains to be seen. But go and find out what you can. I have a feeling that your report will be all the more perceptive because you know none of the intrigues that use up so uselessly the majority of our Ministers’ time.”

  That sounded all very well in the Cabinet Room of Number 10 Downing Street, the Duke thought, but it left him in a curious predicament when it came to the point. He had no idea whom to trust. He had no indication as to who might be presumed to be a staunch friend of Britain and who might not.

  He had heard Walpole’s eulogies of the beauty, grace and charm of Queen Marie Antoinette. He had heard those who accompanied Pitt on his visit the year before laugh at the gauche clumsiness of Louis XVI. He had heard talk of the extravagance and the immorality of the French Court, but it meant very little to him for the reason that he was not particularly interested.

  He had been to France often enough before the War. He had gone over nearly every year for boar hunting. He had stayed in Paris and visited Versailles when first Madame de Pompadour and then Madame du Barry had reigned over the vacillating heart of Louis XV. But now he felt that all he knew of France was as ephemeral as a glass of champagne.

  He had gone to Paris in the past only to amuse himself.

  This journey was so very different and yet he was determined to succeed. It was not only because he liked Pitt and because the young Prime Minister had chosen him.

  It was not only because he wished to be successful in anything he undertook, it was something deeper than that. It was perhaps the sudden-realisation that in a life in which previously he had sought only pleasure and amusement here was something that he could do for the country he belonged to, the country that he was deeply and sincerely fond of.

  The Duke looked towards the road. The horses were ready, the postilion’s mount had been placed in the traces vacated by the leader, the lame horse was standing on the grass verge and one of the grooms was kneeling to extricate something from its hoof. He walked over the uneven ground which lay between him and the coach and, as he did so, noticed for the first time on the far side of the road there stood a great wall.

  It lay back from the road and he had not perceived it in the darkness. Now a young moon was rising over the trees and by its light he could see the wall, grey and austere, silhouetted against the paler sky.

  For a moment he wondered what it was and then above it he saw the roofs mounting one above the other surmounted by a tapering spire and he knew it to be a Convent or a Monastery.

  “A shoe has worked loose, Your Grace,” the footman said at his elbow.

  “That is what I thought,” the Duke replied.

  “There is but five miles to Chantilly where we spend the night, Your Grace. If there is a blacksmith by the roadside, the groom will call him up.”

  “Tell him to bring the animal along gently.”

  “Very good, Your Grace.”

  The Duke stepped into the coach.

  “And tell the coachman to hurry.”

  “Very good, Your Grace.”

  The door was closed and the coach moved off. The Duke sank back against the padded seats. He was tired of travelling and he allowed himself to reflect that he was also hungry. He preferred riding to being driven, but he knew that the Parisians would expect him to arrive in style and it would be a mistake to disappoint their expectations.

  He had already sent his cousin, Hugo Waltham, ahead to engage a mansion where he would stay while he was in Paris and to make every possible arrangement for his convenience.

  Hugo would see to it that all Paris was apprised of the distinction of the man who was about to pay the City a visit.

  The Duke smiled a little. Quiet and unobtrusive in many ways Hugo managed to get things done with an efficiency that was entirely commendable.

  The Duke yawned suddenly, thank goodness he would be in Paris tomorrow night. He found that travelling by coach invariably tried his patience. He stretched out his legs and, as he did so, he had a curious feeling that he was not alone.

  Some sixth sense, some intuition he could not entirely account for, made him suddenly on his guard.

  He felt his muscles tighten and almost without his being aware of it his hand went towards the pocket of his velvet coat in which reposed a pistol. Then at that moment there came a sound, a sound hardly articulate, but strangled at its very birth and yet nevertheless a sound.

  Incredulous the Duke looked round the coach. A candle, flickering in the silver lantern, showed him the satin-covered seats empty save for himself, but on the floor there was a pile of rugs. Far too hot for them to be necessary this evening, there were, however, times on every journey when the occupant of a coach was glad of them. The Duke looked closely.

  There was no doubt of it, the rugs appeared bulkier than they had done earlier in the day.

  He drew his pistol from his pocket. It was primed and so ready for use for the Duke knew of old that on journeys such as this highwaymen and robbers were likely to appear when least expected.

  Holding the pistol in his right hand, the Duke bent forward and with a swift, almost savage, gesture drew the sable rug from the floor onto the seat. For a moment he thought he was mistaken and that there was no one there and then there was a movement.

  Slowly a figure wearing a black cloak raised itself from the floor.

  The Duke put out his hand. His grasp was strong and merciless and there was a sudden cry of pain.

  “Who are you?” the Duke asked. “What are you doing here?”

  In answer the figure on the floor, twisting a little beneath the hand that gripped so mercilessly, a small soft shoulder, threw back the hood that obscured her identity.

  For a moment the Duke could only stare at what the light from the lantern revealed.

  A small white face was turned towards him, two very large, rather frightened eyes looked up into his and, as the dark hood fell further from the wearer’s head, it revealed a mass of soft red-gold hair, which glittered and shone in the candlelight.

/>   “Who are you?” The Duke asked the question again, but this time his voice was less peremptory.

  “Pardon, monsieur. I am so sorry. I hoped you would not find me for I meant only to travel with you as far as Chantilly.”

  “How did you know that is where I am going?” the Duke enquired.

  “I heard your men say so and, while they were seeing to the lame horse, I slipped into the coach. The door was open and there was no one to stop me.”

  Her voice was soft and low and she spoke, the Duke noticed, this strange young woman who had hidden herself beneath his rugs, in a very correct and educated manner.

  Slowly the Duke took his hand from her shoulder and then he removed the rug from where he had tossed it and indicated the seat beside him.

  “Will you sit down?” he invited her.

  Nervously and yet with a grace that was not very easy in a moving swaying coach, the girl rose to her feet and sat herself on the seat beside him.

  It was easier now to see her more clearly. She was very young and very lovely. There was too something aristocratic and well-bred about the exquisite outline of her features and the long slim fingers that clutched a little nervously at the front of her dark cloak.

  “I am delighted,” the Duke said suavely, “if I can be of assistance to you, mademoiselle. If you wish to travel to Chantilly, my coach is at your disposal, but surely you need not put yourself to such discomfort? It cannot have been very pleasant beneath those hot rugs.”

  His words brought a flush to her cheeks and then a faint smile to her lips.

  “Merci, monsieur, you are very kind. But you must think me a little – well – unconventional.”

  “It is not for me to question your method of travel,” the Duke replied, “although I admit I am somewhat curious.”

  The stranger gave a little sigh and glanced out of the window. But there was little to see save trees and they were travelling rather swiftly.

  “Perhaps I should explain,” she said softly. “I have run away from the Convent.”

  As she spoke, the candle in the lantern flickered low and went out.