A Duke in Danger Read online

  A DUKE IN DANGER

  Barbara Cartland

  Author’s Note

  The Army of Occupation in France after the defeat of Napoleon presented an enormous problem of organisation. The French thought that the feeding of 150,000 troops would be a miracle, and their attitude towards the force swung from welcome to resentment.

  What was more, the French were protesting that they would not pay their indemnity, and Madame de Stael predicted it would be paid “in gold the first year, in silver the second, and in the third in lead.”

  The occupation finally ended after the Congress of Aix-la-Chapelle in November 1818. But in England there were two different enemies—political agitation and economic distress. The soldiers returning home found that in the country for which they had fought so valiantly, there was no place for heroes.

  CHAPTER ONE

  1818

  THE DUKE OF Harlington arrived at Harlington House in Berkeley Square and looked round him with satisfaction.

  The house was obviously in excellent repair, and he viewed with pride the portraits of his ancestors on the walls and up the stairs.

  There were also the paintings collected by a previous Duke which included a number of those by French Masters.

  He had just come from France, where he had learnt to recognise the genius of the French artists in a way he had been unable to do before the war with Napoleon.

  However, he was intelligent enough to realise that since the end of the war he had increased his knowledge of a great number of things in which he had not been interested previously.

  A tall, extremely handsome man, his years as a soldier had left their mark on the way he walked, and perhaps too in the expression in his eyes.

  Women, and there had been a great number of them, had said to him that he always appeared to be looking for something below the surface and generally to be disappointed.

  He was not quite certain what they meant, but he had learnt to judge men and women by their fundamental personalities rather than by their superficial qualities.

  He had indeed owed his very important position in Wellington’s Army to his understanding of human nature.

  He was not only a leader, but, as someone had once said of him, he had that extra quality of magnetism which is found only in the greatest Rulers.

  It was a compliment that had made the Duke laugh when he heard it. At the same time, because he was not in the least conceited, he hoped it was true.

  Now as he walked from the Hall into the downstairs Sitting-Room and from there into the book-filled Library, he thought few men could have been as fortunate in life as he had been.

  He had survived five gruelling years in Portugal and Spain, then in France and finally at Waterloo, without receiving a scratch, when so many of his friends and contemporaries had been killed beside him.

  Then, because of his outstanding ability not only as a soldier but as a diplomat, he had become essential to the Iron Duke during the Years of Occupation.

  Looking back on them, they had undoubtedly been troubled times of frustration and political drama that concerned not only Britain but the whole of Europe.

  Yet now, though it seemed incredible, it was over, and by the end of the year—it was now three years after Waterloo—the Army of Occupation would have come home.

  After all the dramatic discussions, the tension of rising tempers, the decisions made and unmade, combined with the endless tug-of-war between the Allies, the Duke could hardly believe that he was at this moment, a free man.

  There was still the Congress of Aix-la-Chapelle which was to take place in October, but the Army was to be out of France by November 30.

  As far as the Duke of Harlington was concerned, he had now his own personal problems to settle, for Wellington had reluctantly allowed him to leave the Army at the beginning of the summer so that he could put his own affairs in order.

  It was a pleasant surprise to arrive in London to find that Harlington House at any rate seemed in fairly good shape.

  He had sent one of his Aides-de-Camp, an extremely trustworthy man, ahead of him, with instructions to see that the staff was notified of his arrival.

  He intended to stay under his own roof while he called on the Prince Regent, and if the King was well enough, to call on His Majesty at Buckingham Palace.

  It was strange to be back in England after so many years abroad, but stranger still to know that his position in life was now very different from what it had been when he was last here.

  Then as Ivar Harling, one of the youngest Colonels in the British Army, he had found a great deal to amuse him, most of which was unfortunately well beyond his purse.

  Now as the Duke of Harlington he was not only a distinguished aristocrat with many hereditary duties which had to be taken up, but also an extremely wealthy man.

  Letters which had been waiting for him at Paris from the late Duke’s Bankers enclosed not only a list of the possessions which were now his but also a statement of the money which was standing in his name.

  The amount of it seemed incredible, but as there was still so much to do for Wellington, the new Duke had set his own needs on one side and put his country first.

  When he reached the Library, he stood looking at the leather-bound books which made the walls a patchwork of colour and appreciated the very fine painting of horses by Stubbs over the mantelpiece.

  The Butler, an elderly man, came into the room.

  He was followed by a footman who was carrying a silver tray on which there was a wine-cooler engraved with the family crest and containing an open bottle of champagne.

  When a glass was poured out for the Duke, he noticed automatically that the footman’s livery did not fit well and his stockings were wrinkled.

  It was with some difficulty that he did not point it out to the man and tell him to smarten himself up.

  Then as the footman set down the tray on a table in the corner of the room, the Butler hesitated, and the Duke understood that he had something to say.

  “What is it?” he enquired. “I think your name is Bateson.”

  “Yes, Your Grace. That’s right.”

  There was a pause, then he began again a little hesitatingly:

  “I hope Your Grace’ll find everything to your liking, but we’ve only had three days to prepare for your visit, and the house has been shut up for the last six years.”

  “I was thinking how well it looked,” the Duke replied pleasantly.

  “We’ve worked hard, Your Grace, and while I presumed to engage several women to clean every room that Your Grace was likely to use, there’s a great deal more to be done.”

  “I suppose since the late Duke was so ill in the last years of his life,” the Duke said reflectively, “and did not come to London, you were down to a skeleton staff.”

  “Just my wife and myself, Your Grace.”

  The Duke raised his eye-brows.

  “That certainly seems very few in so large a house. Yet,” he added graciously, “it certainly looks as I expected.”

  “It’s what I hoped Your Grace’d say,” the Butler replied, “and if I have your permission to enlarge the staff further, I feel certain we can soon get things back to what they were in the old days.”

  “Of course!”

  The Duke twitched his lips at the Butler’s words.

  Already references to “the old days” had become a joke in the Army, in diplomatic and political circles, and, he was quite certain, in domestic ones too.

  Every country, and he had visited a great number since peace had been declared, had talked of nothing but the old days and how good things were then, compared to what they were now.

  He was quite sure that it was something that would be repeated to hi
m again and again in England.

  Then, as if Bateson realised that he had no wish to go on talking, he said:

  “Luncheon’ll be ready very shortly, Your Grace. I hopes it’ll be to your liking.”

  The Duke thought that the man was almost pathetically eager to please, and when Bateson shut the door behind him he wondered how old he was.

  He remembered that when he was a small boy and his father had brought him to this house, Bateson had been there, and he had thought him very impressive with six stalwart footmen behind him as he greeted them in the Hall.

  “It was a long time ago,” the Duke said to himself.

  By now Bateson must be well over sixty, but he could understand that having been in Ducal service all his life, the man had no wish either to make a change or to retire earlier than he need.

  The Duke was well aware that there was widespread unemployment in England and it would obviously be difficult for an elderly man to get a job.

  Besides which, with men released from the Army of Occupation coming home every month, the situation would become more and more difficult.

  He remembered the fuss there had been when the Duke of Wellington had proposed a reduction of thirty thousand men in the Army.

  Then he told himself that with the wealth he now owned, there was no need for him to make any reductions in staff; in fact, he would increase it in every house he owned.

  When he went into the Dining-Room to eat an excellent luncheon served by Bateson with the help of two footmen, he decided that his first task, now that he was back in England, should be to visit his new home, Harlington Castle, in Buckinghamshire.

  Even now, after he had thought about it for two years, he could hardly believe that it was his and that he was, incredibly and unexpectedly, the fifth Duke of Harlington!

  He was exceedingly proud to belong to a family that had played its part in the history of England since the time of the Crusades.

  However, he had never in his wildest dreams thought that he might succeed to the Dukedom.

  He had always been sensible enough to realise that he was a very unimportant member of the Harlings. His father had been only a cousin of the previous Duke, and there had been three lives between him and any chance of inheritance.

  But just as the war had brought devastation and misery to so many households over the whole of Europe, the previous Duke’s only son, Richard, had been killed at Waterloo.

  Ivar Harling had seen Richard just before the battle, and he had been in tremendous spirits.

  “If we do not defeat the Froggies once and for all this time,” he had said cheerfully, “then I will bet you a dinner at White’s to a case of champagne that the war will last another five years.”

  Ivar Harling had laughed.

  “Done, Richard!” he said. “I have the feeling I shall be the loser, but it will be in a good cause!”

  “It certainly will!” Richard replied with a grin; then he had added: “Seriously, what is our chance?”

  “Excellent, if the Prussian Guards arrive on time.”

  Both men had been silent for a moment, knowing that actually the situation was very much more critical than it appeared on the surface.

  “Good luck!”

  Ivar Harling, turning his horse, galloped to where Wellington was watching the battle and saw that the Duke had ordered his Cavalry to counter-attack.

  Then as he rode to the side of the great man, the Duke turned to his Aide-de-Camp, Colonel James Stanhope, and asked the time.

  “Twenty minutes past four.”

  “The battle is mine! And if the Prussians arrive soon,” Wellington said, “there will be an end to the war.”

  Even as he spoke, Ivar Harling heard the first Prussian guns on the fringe of a distant wood.

  When luncheon was over, the Duke suddenly felt as if the house was very quiet.

  He was used to having people moving incessantly round him, seeing scurrying Statesmen with worried faces trekking in and out of Wellington’s Headquarters in Paris, hearing sharp commands being given at all times of the day and night, and dealing with endless complaints, requests, and reports.

  There were also parties, Receptions, Assemblies, and Balls, besides the long-drawn-out meetings at which everyone seemed to talk and talk but achieve nothing.

  There had, however, been interludes which were tender, exciting, interesting, and very alluring.

  The Duke thought cynically that now that he was who he was, these would multiply and he could come under a very different pressure from what he had endured during the years of war.

  He was of course well aware that as the young General Harling, with many medals for gallantry, women had found him attractive.

  Those who had congregated in Paris either for diplomatic reasons or just in search of amusement had, where he was concerned, seldom been disappointed.

  While they had had a great deal to offer him, he had had nothing to offer them, but after it became known last year that he was no longer just an officer of the Household Cavalry but the Duke of Harlington, things had changed considerably.

  Now he knew he was a genuine catch from the matrimonial point of view.

  At the same time, alluring, exquisitely gowned, sophisticated married women would find it a “feather in their caps” to have him at their feet, or, to put it more bluntly, in their beds.

  War heroes were of course the fashion, and every woman wished to capture for herself the hero of the hour, the Duke of Wellington, or if that was impossible then the second choice was inevitably the Duke of Harlington.

  At times he found it difficult to prevent himself from smiling mockingly at the compliments he received or to suppress a cynical note in his voice when he replied to them.

  It was his friend Major Gerald Chertson who had put into words what he had half-sensed for himself.

  “I suppose, Ivar,” he had said, “you know that as soon as you get home you will have to get married?”

  “Why the hell should I do that?” the Duke asked.

  “First, because you have to produce an heir,” the Major replied. “That is obligatory on the part of a Duke! You must also prevent that exceedingly unpleasant relative of yours, Jason Harling, from eventually stepping into your shoes, as he is extremely eager to do.”

  “Are you telling me that Jason Harling is heir presumptive to my title?”

  “I certainly am,” Gerald Chertson replied. “At least he has been boasting of it lately, loudly and clearly all over Paris.”

  “I have never thought about it, but I suppose he is!” the Duke remarked.

  He remembered that Richard Harling had not been the only member of the family to fall at Waterloo. Another cousin, the son of the last Duke’s younger brother, had also died early in the battle, although it was not reported until three days later.

  On the fourth Duke’s death, in 1817, the title would have been his father’s, had he been alive. Instead, it was his.

  Now that Gerald spoke of it, he recalled that the title would next go to another and more distant branch of the family now represented by Jason Harling.

  He was the one relative of whom the Duke was thoroughly ashamed.

  He had always been extremely relieved that during hostilities he had not come into contact with Jason.

  They had, however, met in Paris after the war had been won.

  The Duke thought Jason had always been an odious child, and he had grown up into an even more odious man.

  He had seen very little of the war, but he had managed, by scheming and ingratiating himself in a manner which most men would think beneath them, to get himself a safe and comfortable post.

  He became Aide-de-Camp to an elderly armchair General who never left England until the French had laid down their arms.

  The way Jason toadied to those in power made most men feel sick, but it ensured that he lived an extremely pleasant life.

  He managed to move in the best social circles, and he never missed an opportunity to f
eather his own nest.

  The Duke had heard rumours of his accepting bribes and of other ways in which Jason took advantage of his position, but he had told himself it was not his business and tried not to listen.

  Now as head of the family he knew that he could not ignore Jason as he had in the past, and he had not realised that he was his heir should he not have a son.

  Aloud he had said to his friend Gerald Chertson:

  “If there is one thing that would make me look on marriage with less aversion, it would be the quenching of any hopes that Jason might have of stepping into my shoes.”

  “I have heard that he has been borrowing money on the chance of it,” Gerald replied.

  “I do not believe you!” the Duke exclaimed. “Who would be fool enough to advance Jason any money on the chance of my not producing an heir?”

  “There are always Usurers ready to take such risks at an exorbitant rate of interest,” Gerald remarked.

  “Then they must be crazy,” the Duke said angrily. “After all, I have not yet got one foot in the grave, and I am perfectly capable of having a family, and a large one!”

  “Of course, it all depends on whether you live to do so.”

  “What are you insinuating?”

  Gerald paused before he replied:

  “I heard, but paid no attention to it at the time, that after Richard’s death at Waterloo, Jason had a large wager that you would not be a survivor.”

  “Well, he lost his money,” the Duke said sharply.

  “I agree that you are now not likely to be killed by a French bullet, but there is always such a thing as an— accident.”

  The Duke threw back his head and laughed.

  “Really, Gerald, now you are trying to frighten me! Jason is far too much of a shyster to soil his hands with murder.”

  “I do not suppose it would be Jason’s hands which would get dirty,” Gerald Chertson answered drily. “Do not forget there was an attempt to assassinate Wellington in February.”

  “That is true. But Andre Cantillon was an assassin with a fanatical devotion to Bonaparte.”

  “I know that,” Gerald Chertson replied. “At the same time—and I am not trying to frighten you—Jason Harling has a fanatical devotion to himself and his future.”