The Glittering Lights (Bantam Series No. 12) Read online

  “How do you know that?” he asked sharply. “People have said something of that sort to me before, but we have only just met.”

  “Yes ... I know,” Cassandra answered.

  “I know what you are thinking,” he said unexpectedly, “and I believe you feel the same way I do, that we are not strangers to each other.”

  “Why should we feel like that?” Cassandra answered, without attempting to deny his assertion.

  “I do not know,” he replied, “but it is something I am determined to find out.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Cassandra and the Duke sat talking and time seemed to speed by so quickly that it was with genuine surprise she found it was after two o’clock in the morning.

  She had never before had a meal alone with a man except her father.

  She realised now how much more interesting and indeed entrancing it was to talk intimately with the Duke, to feel the stimulus of his mind and above all, to know that their eyes were saying so much more than their lips actually spoke.

  There was no mistaking the admiration in the Duke’s expression. There was something very personal in their conversation, something which made even the most banal subjects somehow seem special to them both.

  They talked of horses and the Duke said:

  “You sound as if you have ridden quite a lot.”

  “I have,” Cassandra answered.

  She saw a question in his eyes and added:

  “Perhaps it is easier when one is living in the North than it would be in the South.”

  “Maybe it is less expensive,” the Duke conceded. “At the same time I am sure wherever you are there will always be men who will wish you to ride their horses.”

  Cassandra knew he was thinking that an actress would not be able either to afford horses or to have much time for hunting! So she excused herself by saying:

  “My father keeps horses.”

  “Your father lives in the North?”

  “Yes.”

  “I would like to see you on a horse,” the Duke said.

  Then with a different note in his voice he said: “Will you come with me to Tattersall’s tomorrow?”

  “To the Sale-Rooms?”

  He nodded.

  “Tomorrow is Friday,” Cassandra said. “I thought as the sales are on Monday, one could only inspect the horses on Sunday.”

  “That is true for the general public,” the Duke answered, “but my horses are arriving at Knightsbridge Green tomorrow morning from my stables in Newmarket and from Alchester Park.”

  “You are selling them?” Cassandra exclaimed.

  “I am selling the last twenty of my father’s stud.”

  She heard the pain in his voice and said impulsively:

  “But you must not do that! Your father’s horses are famous.”

  “I have to sell.”

  “But why?”

  There was a twisted smile on his lips as the Duke replied:

  “Is not the reason obvious? Why does one have to sell anything that one treasures except for money?”

  Cassandra was silent. She could not understand what was happening.

  If the Duke thought he was going to marry the rich Miss Sherburn, why should he dispose of his precious horses? She knew from the expression on his face that they meant as much to him as they had to his father.

  The Alchester Stud was famous, and the late Duke in the last years of his life had won a great number of races.

  He had also been a notable Patron of the Turf, a member of the Jockey Club, and was so popular that whenever he appeared on a race-course he was cheered by the crowds.

  It seemed incredible to Cassandra that the new Duke should dispose of the Stud that had taken his father a life-time to build up and on which he had expended not only money but loving care.

  She was finding it difficult not to ask the questions that were trembling on her lips when the Duke went on:

  “I would like you to see my horses. It will be the last time that I shall look at them, except perhaps when they are racing under someone else’s colours. I could not bear to attend the sale on Monday.”

  “I can understand that,” Cassandra said. “But surely if you need money so badly, there is something else you can sell?”

  “Do you suppose I have not thought of that?” he asked almost sharply. “No, there is nothing.”

  It seemed to Cassandra as he spoke that he withdrew from her, so that for the first time that evening they were no longer close and friendly, but strangers.

  Then the party which included Connie Gilchrist rose to leave the Restaurant.

  The women’s voices were so loud and shrill as they said goodnight to each other that it was impossible to go on talking until they had moved down the Restaurant towards the door.

  Connie Gilchrist however turned back and walked towards the Duke.

  He rose to his feet as she approached.

  “How are you, Varro?” she asked. “I’ve not seen you this last week.”

  “I have been out of London as it happens,” the Duke replied. “I only returned this evening—too late to come to the Theatre.”

  “We all wondered what had happened to you,” Connie Gilchrist said.

  She was blonde, very pink and white and attractive, Cassandra thought, but her voice was not as pretty as her face. There was something slightly harsh about it, and just a touch of commonness in the way she pronounced some of her words.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow evening, I hope,” Connie said. “Goodnight, Varro.”

  “Good-night, Connie,” he replied.

  She hurried after her friends, an exaggerated bustle of pink satin rustling behind her.

  The Duke re-seated himself beside Cassandra.

  “I did not introduce you,” he said. “Did you wish to meet her?”

  “I am quite content to admire her from afar,” Cassandra answered.

  “She is a great draw,” the Duke said. “I will take you to the Gaiety one evening; it will amuse you.”

  “Thank you,” Cassandra replied.

  The Duke signalled to the Wine-Waiter who filled up their glasses.

  Cassandra began to think that she ought to suggest leaving, and yet she could not bear the evening to come to an end.

  Perhaps tomorrow the Duke would regret the various invitations he had given her. Perhaps he would not find her so interesting or so attractive as he had appeared to do earlier in the evening.

  Since they had talked of his horses it seemed as if his mood had changed.

  “I must try to think of a way to amuse him,” Cassandra told herself.

  Then as she was frantically searching for a new subject, the Duke said:

  “What do you think about when you are acting?”

  Cassandra considered for a moment.

  “When I am playing a part,” she answered, “I am trying to think of the effect it will have on the people who are listening to me.”

  This was the truth, she thought. For she had not thought of herself during the evening, but solely of the impression she was making on the Duke.

  “That is not the answer most actors and actresses give,” the Duke said. “They usually say that they think themselves into the role they have to play so that in fact they become the person they depict.”

  “I suppose that is how it should be,” Cassandra said.

  “They are lucky!” the Duke exclaimed. “Actors and actresses can play a role, and then discard it. When they leave the stage, they can become themselves. They do not have to go on pretending!” There was a note in his voice that told Cassandra that he was speaking personally.

  “I think what you are trying to say,” she said slowly, her eyes on his face, “is that the people who are not on the stage have to go on acting indefinitely.”

  She smiled and continued:

  “Have you forgotten that Shakespeare said—All the worlds a stage and all the men and women merely players?’ ”

  “That may be true,” the
Duke said, “but the trouble is the play goes on too long. There is no escape. Only actors and actresses can change their roles and, as I have said, are free to be themselves.”

  “Do you really think that is so desirable?” Cassandra asked. “I think actors and actresses are mimics and, if they are really professional, they have to subordinate their own personalities to the part they are playing. If not, they become even on the stage, like so many of our famous actors, themselves ... very thinly disguised.”

  “What do you mean by that?” the Duke asked.

  “If an actor has any personality,” Cassandra answered, “he is not Julius Caesar, Bottom, or, if you like, a Crossing-Sweeper or a Policeman. Instead, he is Martin Harvey, or Beerbohm Tree in that particular part, and one can never really forget the person beneath the trappings.”

  She paused and went on: “Just as when I watched Mrs. Langtry tonight, I was not thinking of the miserable, unhappy woman trying to save her brother, but how skilfully Lily Langtry was pretending to be her.”

  “I have never thought of it that way,” the Duke said slowly. “Can you not see that a good actress should have as little character or personality of her own as possible?”

  Cassandra continued. “Then when you watch her in a part you are not distracted by the knowledge that she herself is doing it.”

  “You are destroying my illusions about the stage,” the Duke said accusingly.

  “I think that you are envious merely of actors because you are bored with your own part,” Cassandra said daringly.

  “Who would want to play the Duke?” he asked bitterly.

  “A great number of people,” Cassandra answered, “and actually it is a hero’s role. How much you make yourself a real hero is up to you.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “Of course I believe it! If we are assuming as we have been, that we each have in life a special part to play, a Lawyer must be a Lawyer, that is his profession. But whether he is a good or bad one is up to him!”

  She went on:

  “The same applies to a Salesman or Labourer or a Duke! I think in life we cannot often alter our role, but we can improve the performance!”

  The Duke looked at her for a long moment and then he said: “You are a very remarkable person, Sandra. You have given me a lot to think about. Something I certainly did not expect to happen this evening!”

  “What did you expect?”

  The Duke paused for a moment as if he considered his words.

  “I expected to be amused, beguiled, captivated. You are, as you are well aware, one of the loveliest people I have ever seen.”

  “Again you speak as an expert?” Cassandra smiled.

  “Of course!” he answered. “But now you have opened new vistas, unlocked doors that I had thought were closely shut. How shall I describe the effect you are having upon me?”

  There was an expression in his eyes that made Cassandra feel shy.

  She saw that while they had been talking the Restaurant had been emptying and now there were only a few couples like themselves left, and the waiters were yawning.

  “I think ... I should go ... home,” she said.

  “I suppose we must,” the Duke answered reluctantly.

  He asked for the bill.

  Cassandra sent for her wrap and they walked towards the entrance. Romano was waiting with a bunch of pink roses in his hand.

  “May I ask you to accept these?” he said to Cassandra. “His Grace has brought many beautiful women to my Restaurant, but tonight you have eclipsed them all.”

  “Thank you,” Cassandra said a little shyly.

  She took the roses, a doorman called a hackney-carriage and the Duke assisted her into it.

  “Tomorrow, if you will dine with me,” he said, “I will try to produce a vehicle more worthy of you. I am ashamed that tonight I must treat you in such a shabby fashion.”

  “It has been a wonderful evening,” Cassandra said softly.

  The cab smelt of hay, old leather and horse.

  But it was close and intimate to be sitting next to the Duke and she knew as he put his arm around her shoulder that he was thinking the same thing.

  She felt a thrill run through her! Then as he drew her closer and she realised he was about to kiss her, she turned her head away. “No!”

  “No?” he questioned. “I want to kiss you, Sandra, I want it more than I can possibly tell you.”

  “We have ... only just ... met,” Cassandra murmured.

  It was difficult to speak sensibly with his arm touching her. She had a feeling of weakness she had never known before, a weakness combined with a kind of wild excitement which made it hard to think clearly.

  “I feel I have known you for a very long time,” the Duke said in his deep voice. “I feel too that we were meant to meet. There is something inevitable about it.”

  Cassandra did not speak and after a moment he said:

  “You are so lovely, and so completely and absolutely different from anyone I have ever met before.”

  He gave a little laugh.

  “You will tell me that it sounds banal, and yet it is true. I cannot explain it in words, but I know that this is different.”

  “In what ... way?” Cassandra asked.

  “That is something I intend to explain to you, but not tonight.” The Dukes arm tightened.

  “You tell me not to kiss you, but I have the feeling, Sandra, that if I insisted you would not resist me.”

  Cassandra felt a little quiver run through her at his words. He felt it too.

  “But because this is different,” he went on, “because I want you to think of me in a very special way, I will not kiss you until you allow me to do so. But do not keep me waiting too long.”

  He was silent for a moment and then he cried:

  “Time is short. I cannot explain, but the sands of time are running out as far as I am concerned.”

  “What do you mean?” Cassandra asked.

  “You would not understand,” he answered, “but I can only beg you, Sandra, to let me grasp what little happiness I can. I need more desperately than I can explain the happiness of knowing you.”

  “You speak as ... if you were ... going away,” Cassandra managed to say.

  “That is in fact what will happen,” the Duke said. “But until I do, I have to see you. I must see you!”

  His arm drew her close. Then unexpectedly he released her and sat back in the corner of the cab.

  “I sound almost hysterical,” he said, “and I cannot explain.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, as you just reminded me, we have only just met, because you do not wish me to kiss you, and because—how do I know that you are feeling as I am feeling tonight?”

  “What ... are you ... feeling?”

  “Do I have to answer that?” he asked. “I think you know that something entirely unusual has suddenly happened to me, and I am almost conceited enough to hope it has happened to you too.”

  He paused and then he said:

  “Look at me, Sandra.”

  She turned her head and by the lights of the street lamp that were shining on both their faces, it was easy for her to see the expression in his eyes.

  “You are so lovely,” he said hoarsely, “so incredibly, unbelievably lovely! Oh God! Why did I have to meet you at this particular moment of my life?”

  The Duke called for Cassandra on the following morning at half past twelve.

  She had begged him not to come earlier, knowing that it would take some time for her to explain to her Aunt that she was out to luncheon, get to the flat and change her clothes.

  The most difficult person to deal with was Hannah who, having sat up until three o’clock the night before, was in a thoroughly disagreeable mood.

  It had however not been such a hardship as she had tried to make out.

  When Cassandra let herself into the flat, she had found Hannah fast asleep on a bed in the small bed-room, and it had b
een quite difficult to awaken her.

  The Night-Porter had called them a cab, and they had driven back to Park Lane with Hannah not only grumbling every inch of the way but threatening to return to Yorkshire and tell Sir James what was going on.

  Cassandra had managed to pacify her, but it had been difficult this morning to get her to return to the flat and help with her change of clothing.

  The gown Cassandra was wearing when the Duke arrived was very attractive. At the same time it was a little too gaudy to be anything other than theatrical.

  Of bronze silk trimmed with velvet, the skirt was draped at the front and swept behind into a bustle. The little jacket which ended at the waist was trimmed with fur and buttoned down the front with imitation topazes.

  Because she had real jewels to match, Cassandra could not resist wearing a topaz brooch, bracelet and ear-rings—a set which her father had given to her the previous year.

  He had told her not to wear the ear-rings until she was married, but she thought now they made her look more sophisticated. They were also very fetching, with a bonnet trimmed with topaz-yellow feathers, which was tied under her chin with velvet ribbons.

  Cassandra was only just ready and was waiting in the Sitting-Room when the Duke knocked at the door of the flat.

  She let him in and she could not disguise the amusement in her eyes as she watched him glance around at the over-decorated, vulgar Sitting-Room.

  “Is this yours?” he began with an incredulous note in his voice.

  Then he exclaimed:

  “But of course not! This is Hetty Henlow’s flat! I have been here once before, many years ago.”

  “Then you know my landlady?” Cassandra laughed.

  “I know old Lord Fitzmaurice who pays for it,” the Duke replied. “He is a member of White’s and he has been keeping Hetty for years!”

  Cassandra stiffened.

  She had never heard the expression before, but she could guess what it implied.

  She suddenly felt ashamed that the Duke should see her in such a place.

  Before, the flat had merely seemed common and gaudy, but now, being deeply in love, she could not bear him to associate her with anything crude or immoral.

  “Let us go,” she said quickly.