It Is Love Page 2

  “Good!” declared Winifred. “The last thing I need is having to cope with you running off with a unicorn!”

  “I’ll never be able to find a unicorn,” Verna replied despondently. “It’s a dream that will end in nothing. I’ll marry an Earl and become a Countess. I’ll become boring and middle-aged like all Countesses and that will be the end of me. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!”

  She sighed.

  Life was suddenly very depressing.

  *

  Michael Belmont yawned as he woke up.

  He had to practically force his eyes open, knowing that the sight of the shabby room where he was now forced to live would offend him.

  The windowpane was cracked, the wallpaper dirty and there was a general air of melancholy.

  Nobody looking at his squalid surroundings would realise that he was Viscount Larne, the eldest son and heir of the Earl of Belmont.

  He groaned as he recalled the previous night when he had gone to the casino, determined to win back some of the money he had lost gambling earlier in the week.

  But, as so often happened he had not only drunk far too much, but had again lost a great deal of money.

  He thought, as he usually did when his fortunes were low, that he was the unluckiest man alive.

  Whether he gambled on horses or cards, he seldom won so much as a penny and his rare winnings did not stay with him very long.

  ‘Why am I such a fool,’ he asked himself yet again, ‘as to keep on gambling, although I know that I am bound to lose, as the Gods are against me? When will I ever learn?’

  He realised that he had over-indulged last night because he felt tired and needed sustenance. For a while the alcohol had warmed him and made him feel much better about his circumstances.

  But as usual when he drank brandy, by morning he was left with a headache, dry mouth and a bad feeling.

  His mind ranged back over the last few days since arriving in Paris.

  At first he had put up at an expensive hotel, suitable to his position. His valet had been with him and for a short time he had lived well.

  But a few nights at the casino had severely depleted his funds and he had been forced to leave his hotel while he still had enough to pay the bill.

  To save money he had sent his valet home and moved into a cheap pension, a down-at-heel place where he could live frugally until his luck turned.

  He was quite convinced that it would happen any day, but mysteriously, it never did.

  He continued to lose, occasionally winning enough to keep his hopes alive, but never enough to cover his total losses and he did not even like to think of what those losses must be by now.

  The previous evening he had been overtaken by a kind of rage that had impelled him to stake more and more, refusing to accept that luck was against him.

  ‘My father was right,’ he thought gloomily. ‘I am good for nothing, just as he said.’

  And yet he had not always been like that.

  He recalled happy years at home whilst his mother had been alive. They had always been close and her death had shattered him. But what had made his grief even worse was his father’s behaviour.

  Lord Belmont had never been a faithful husband, though at least he had been discreet about his affairs. But it seemed that his wife’s death had been the trigger for a wild burst of self-indulgence and licentious behaviour.

  He had taken mistress after mistress, flaunting them before Society, even taking them back to Belmont Park, his ancestral home, and allowing them to occupy the room that had once belonged to his wife.

  In disgust Michael had fled, seeking forgetfulness in dissipation. He too had known too many women of the wrong sort and then to cap it all he had developed a taste for gambling.

  After all, he reasoned, why not? His inheritance was vast. It would be well nigh impossible for one man to go through it all.

  But his father had been completely outraged. He had no objection to women or drunken orgies. After all a gentleman of Society was expected to indulge himself.

  But losing money was a different matter.

  He had summoned his son home and they had had a serious quarrel, which ended in Michael fleeing the house yet again.

  Lord Belmont threatened to cut off his allowance, and Michael had retorted that it would make no difference.

  “You cannot incur debts if you have no means of paying,” the Earl had snarled.

  Michael had just shrugged his shoulders. His father would pay off his debts, no matter how much, for fear of a stain on the family name.

  He had won in advance and they both knew it.

  “Get out,” the Earl yelled. “Get out of my sight.”

  Michael had obliged willingly and for the next five years he had lived the life of a gambler and libertine, as indifferent to his father’s opinions as to the rest of the world’s.

  His male French friends introduced him to casinos, congratulating him warmly if he was a winner and helping him to drown his sorrows when he lost.

  The French women invariably welcomed him into their houses and, sometimes, their beds.

  He was delighted to spend both day and night with them not only because they found him attractive and never hesitated to say so, but also because they were not shocked by anything he said or did.

  Thus fortified he decided he could afford to ignore the opinions of his family.

  He told himself that he was also indifferent to his own opinion, but secretly he knew that was not true.

  His life was nothing more than a wild attempt to overcome a terrible feeling of futility, but always at the back of his mind was a little nagging voice that said things might have been different – might have been so much better.

  Depressed, he allowed his thoughts to dwell on his last visit to Belmont Park.

  His father had confronted him in a fury.

  “Debts and more debts,” he thundered. “I suppose you think you will pay them off from your inheritance? But let me tell you now, you won’t get another penny out of me, not even when I am dead!”

  With his father’s scorn still ringing in his ears, Michael had fled back to France, determined to stay there. He was welcomed into the country house of friends who had just bought their first horseless carriage, the new toy that Society was raving about called – the motor car.

  “It’ll never catch on,” Michael had scoffed. “You will never replace horses with that thing.”

  But the moment he was seated behind the wheel a transformation had come over him, and when the vehicle’s engine actually started he was filled with delight.

  Soon the whole family were laughing at him, as he became the horseless carriage’s most fervent enthusiast.

  As soon as he could drive well enough, he applied for a driving licence and passed the driving test with flying colours.

  He planned to buy his own car, but he could never decide between the new models that kept being produced.

  In the meantime his finances continued to dwindle and his attempts to revive them at the Paris gaming tables never succeeded.

  Down and down he had slid, vaguely aware of his descent, but not quite knowing what to do about it.

  Now he hauled himself up in bed to look again at the newspaper he had taken from a table downstairs when he had struggled back last night.

  He only had to look at his evening coat on the floor and his trousers thrown half onto a chair to remember that he had drunk too much.

  He had not even been able to read the paper and so had flung it on the floor too, where it had lain in a crumpled heap all night.

  Now, smoothing the pages with a grubby hand, he made an effort to concentrate on the words.

  Suddenly he grew tense at what he read.

  His father was dead.

  He read it again and again before he was, at last, convinced that it was true.

  His father, the Earl, had died the previous week. The funeral was being delayed while a search was mounted for his eldest son – who had vanished
.

  Michael sat, stunned.

  The very last words his father had ever spoken to him were to express his anger and disapproval.

  Now they would never see each other again.

  But surely that was impossible?

  How could his father, who had always quarrelled with him and who had said he was a disgrace to the family, just vanish from the face of the earth?

  Then the truth struck him.

  He was now the Earl of Belmont.

  ‘I must go home at once,’ he muttered. ‘They are looking for me. How could I be such an irresponsible fool as to vanish and tell nobody where I was?’

  He rubbed his eyes, wishing his head did not ache so.

  ‘But that is all in the past,’ he added. ‘From now on, I shall have to live differently. I must start the journey home at once.’

  But how?

  He froze as yet another truth hit him.

  He had almost no money. Once he had paid for his room, he would not be able to afford the journey.

  ‘Why the hell was I such a fool?’ he asked himself.

  But he knew there was no real answer.

  ‘I shall have to borrow the money somehow. After all I am the Earl now. It should not be too hard to raise a loan from one of my friends or even a bank.’

  He groaned when he thought of his bad reputation.

  Who would ever want to lend money to Michael Belmont, knowing it would probably never be returned?

  But for Lord Belmont, maybe it would be different.

  He began to get ready, wishing his valet was there to help him. Shaving was difficult, but at last he managed it. He had a poor selection of clothes, having pawned most of them. His best attire was his evening dress, which he kept for the casino, but he could hardly wear that today.

  He did possess a morning suit, which should have made him appear respectable, but it had clearly seen better days. His valet might have kept it looking smart, but left in his care it was more than a bit shabby.

  But there was nothing else he could possibly do, so he donned the morning suit, wondering if anyone would lend him money once they had seen it.

  He was far from pleased by his appearance. It was not the right way for the new Lord Belmont to claim his inheritance, but it would have to do.

  Running downstairs, he went out into the street and headed across Paris to the smart part of the City.

  He was seeking the Hotel Belle Epoque, where he was on excellent terms with Pierre, the receptionist, after giving him a successful racing tip. Pierre would allow him to borrow the services of one of the hotel valets.

  But outside the hotel he paused, riveted by the sight of a large shiny motor car parked outside.

  This was not just any motor car.

  It was the most modern beautiful machine he had ever seen. It seemed to almost sing to him from a distance – and he followed the call.

  For several minutes he walked round and round the exquisite article, his senses reeling with admiration.

  It had what he had never seen before – back seats. Every car he had ever driven had just two seats, one for the driver and one for a passenger. But this one could take two more passengers in the rear.

  Impressed, he looked for the owner, peering into the hotel.

  A lady was standing at the desk talking to Pierre, who was listening to her with a furrowed brow.

  Michael noticed she was wearing a hat with a large veil, the kind ladies often wore when they were travelling in a car to protect them from the wind.

  He walked up to the desk and sidled closer to hear her speaking French with some difficulty. Obviously she was English.

  He listened to her and was amazed.

  She was trying to explain that she wanted to hire a capable driver to drive her to Calais and from there she would catch a ferry to Dover. Once in England she would take over the wheel herself and drive home.

  ‘She intends to drive this fabulous car herself!’ he thought, thunderstruck. ‘But ladies just do not do that.’

  It was obvious that Pierre was finding it difficult to understand her. He shrugged repeatedly, implying that she was asking for the moon.

  “But there must be someone who can help,” the young lady said desperately. “I thought such a good hotel would employ drivers or at least know where they can be found!”

  “I will try to find your Ladyship the sort of driver you want,” Pierre replied in French. “But our drivers only cover short distances in the City. We do not have anyone suitable for you at the moment.”

  “Then you must find someone for me and quickly!” she demanded. “I have to go back to England.”

  She spoke decisively and Michael could not repress a smile. He was not normally an admirer of very decisive ladies. He preferred them soft and fluttery – but this one was charming.

  Acting on impulse, he addressed her in English,

  “I wonder if I can help you.”

  Swiftly she turned round and he had a glimpse of a pair of dazzling blue eyes set in a sweet heart-shaped face.

  Michael drew a long slow breath, feeling the world spin around him.

  At last it settled back into place.

  But not the same place.

  Looking at this glorious girl, he knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Can I help you in any way?” he repeated.

  “Oh, you’re English!” she exclaimed. “Please make this man understand that I have to go home immediately and I need a driver to take me as far as Calais. After that I can manage.”

  “You certainly should not be stranded here in Paris all alone.”

  “I am not alone. Winifred is with me.”

  She glanced over to a far corner where there sat a large elderly woman, glaring at the world and seemingly at Michael in particular.

  “She is your only protection?” he asked, astounded.

  “I don’t really need protection. I am quite capable of looking after myself,” the girl asserted firmly.

  She was really such a dainty little thing, so pretty and vulnerable and yet so blithely confident that she could make the world do her bidding that Michael felt a tug on his heartstrings.

  “But I really need help with this car,” she carried on. “When I came abroad previously, my father was always with me – ”

  She added in a confiding voice,

  “I am not a particularly good driver.”

  Even this remark she managed to make sound like a good joke. But Michael, who could not imagine that any woman was ever a good driver, was beginning to consider her in dire need of care and protection.

  “Then Heaven seems to have sent me to you,” he said grandly. “I have to return to England myself right now, so perhaps I can drive you.”

  He thought he saw a flash of relief in her face, but it was quickly quenched and replaced by uncertainty.

  Her eyes flickered over his appearance and he realised that his shabby clothes worried her. For all she knew, he might be a ne’er-do-well.

  Which in a sense he was, he thought wryly.

  “Please don’t be in any way alarmed,” he hastened to say. “After all your maid is here to act as chaperone. I shall be little more than a servant, yours to command – ”

  Her eyes brightened.

  “Would you really drive me home?” she asked. “It would be very kind of you.”

  “Why don’t we sit down to talk this over? There is a queue building up behind us.”

  She glanced behind her and gave a guilty start.

  “Yes, you are quite right. We are holding everyone up and they look rather cross.”

  They moved away to a table with two empty seats. Here the light was a bit better and Michael could see that she was even prettier than he had at first thought.

  “I was admiring your motor car before I came in. I have never seen the like before.”

  “It’s a Daimler,” she told him. “The firm has only just brought it out and my Papa bo
ught one of the first.”

  “And he lets you drive it?” enquired Michael with an involuntary emphasis of astonishment.

  He knew he had made a mistake when he saw the sparkling annoyance in her eyes.

  “And why, pray, should Papa not let me drive it?”

  “No reason at all,” he amended hastily.

  “Are you one of those old-fashioned stick-in-the mud men who think women belong only in the home, and should never be allowed outside to do anything interesting? Because if so, let me tell you – ”

  How glorious she was, he pondered, dazed and not hearing a word. He was well past listening, past anything except thinking just how amazingly lucky he was that this heavenly creature had crossed his path.

  “So just what do you think of that?” she asked him triumphantly.

  He came out of his blissful dream.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I asked what arguments you might have to refute mine, but of course you were not listening.”

  “But I was,” he replied, crossing his fingers. “You are so right. Too many men will take a blinkered view of women, but I gather your father is not one of them.”

  “Papa likes his children to share his enthusiasms. I was reared like my brothers and I can do anything they do. Play golf, drive a car, ride a horse!”

  “And I’ll wager that you do these things as well as they.”

  She looked shocked.

  “As well as – ?”

  “I mean that, of course, you do them better.”

  “Of course,” she agreed, her lovely face full of fun.

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am.”

  Their eyes met.

  Mutual understanding glowed between them and it filled him with a pleasant irrational happiness.

  “I meant to drive all the way here,” she added, “but I don’t have a licence to drive in France, so I hired a driver at Calais. All went very well until I reached my brother Andrew’s house, just south of Paris.

  “He heard about the new Daimler and wrote to say he wanted to see it, so Papa said I could drive it down to show him. But when I arrived I found that he was about to depart for Italy. My driver didn’t want to leave the area, so he could not take me back to Calais.