Sweet Adventure Page 2

  At the same time there was always the chance that, having received two gold pieces, he would never be seen again.

  Yet somehow Lord Lynke believed that he would keep his word.

  “My father was a gentleman.”

  There had been both pride and a kind of arrogance in his voice as he had said it, and in his “I do not wait on servants”. What cheek! And yet somehow he liked the little devil for having the guts to say it.

  It was hard to be choosy when one was hungry and Lord Lynke was quite certain that Venturo had been very hungry on many occasions. He had seen that particular look before and there was no mistaking it.

  It was not far to El Gallo de Oro and Lord Lynke entered to find that if it was not luxurious, but it was at least clean and welcoming.

  A private room was put at his disposal and the landlord undertook at once to send porters to the ship to tell the sailors where to bring his lordship’s trunks. The stables at the back of the inn were quite passable and, although Lord Lynke knew that his coachman would look at them askance, he anticipated that his horses would experience worse accommodation before they reached Madrid.

  He ordered dinner and then commanded that a bottle of wine should be sent to his sitting room immediately.

  “Pronto, Excellency! Pronto!” the proprietor said, bowing and scraping and well pleased with the thought that such a distinguished guest with well-lined pockets should patronise his inn.

  “A boy will be asking for me in an hour’s time,” Lord Lynke said. “See that he is shown in here.”

  “Si, si, Excellency!”

  “He may also be accompanied by a tailor and I wish to see him as well.”

  “Si, si, Excellency!”

  If the landlord was surprised, he did not show it. He was used to the vagaries and peculiarities of the aristocracy. He hurried away with suggestions for the chef and to fetch the key of the cellars, which lay deep beneath the building.

  Lord Lynke stretched his legs out in front of the log fire. How boring this was, he thought. He was already filled with foreboding of how uncomfortable and how incredibly dull the journey to Madrid was to be. And even when he reached the Capital there was not much to look forward to.

  He muttered a sudden oath and then told himself it was no use kicking against the pricks.

  He had brought it on his own head, although that was poor consolation.

  *

  He could see his uncle now, the Duke of Newcastle, Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, saying in his prim precise voice,

  “I am ashamed of you, Hugo.”

  “I cannot see why,” he had answered, wondering as he spoke how much the old boy knew and having a nasty uneasy foreboding of what was to come.

  “I am both ashamed and distressed,” the Duke repeated.

  “Perhaps you will enlighten me as to the reason for such disturbance, my Lord.”

  “I think you know the reason as well as I do,” the Duke had replied. “I sent for you immediately after an interview with Lord Rustington.”

  The blow had fallen! Lord Lynke knew that he had expected it. He had hoped, however, that he did not betray by even a flicker of an eyelid what the name meant to him.

  “Lord Rustington,” the Duke went on impressively, “has discovered all.”

  “I hope not!”

  The reply was irrepressible and it had the effect of making the Duke look even more pious and even more precise.

  “Hugo! You are the son of my favourite sister. I have done my best for you. I have endeavoured, since your poor father’s death, to guide and help you. I have failed lamentably. That is obvious both by your way of living and by the shocking, indeed, horrifying, revelations that Lord Rustington made this day.”

  “I am grieved if my behaviour distresses you,” Lord Lynke said. “But I would remind you, Uncle, that I am no longer a boy. In fact I am very nearly a middle-aged man and as such I consider that I am entitled to behave as I wish.”

  The Duke of Newcastle sighed.

  “At twenty-nine years of age, my dear Hugo, you are making the same mistake that many other foolish people have made. We are none of us permitted to do as we wish. We have our responsibilities not only to other people but also to our country.”

  “Our country, sir?”

  “Yes, Hugo, our country. A scandal at this moment would do a great deal of harm to the Monarchy.”

  “I had not thought of that,” Lord Lynke said involuntarily.

  “That is what I imagined,” the Duke said drily. “But unfortunately Lady Rustington is a Lady of the Bedchamber to Her Majesty. It was in that consideration and for that reason only that Lord Rustington came to see me rather than settling the matter himself either by a duel or by divorce.”

  “Divorce!”

  Lord Lynke looked startled.

  “Yes, divorce. It would require an Act of Parliament, but a man whose wife behaved as Lady Rustington has done might well consider that such an irrevocable action was essential.”

  “Poor Charlotte,” Lord Lynke murmured. “But I would, of course, stand by her.”

  The Duke of Newcastle looked slightly incredulous.

  “You will perhaps forgive me if I remind you, my dear Hugo, that you have not stood by the other ladies whom you involved in similar and most distasteful scandals. There was, if I remember right, Lady Winslow, that pretty Mrs. Fitzgerald, Lady Margaret – ”

  Lord Lynke held out his hand.

  “All right, Uncle. Spare me, I beg of you, the list of my indiscretions. But Lady Rustington is different. I-I love her.”

  The Duke permitted himself a pained smile.

  “Love is a word that has many meanings. I have always been quite convinced, Hugo, that you love nobody except yourself. I would also remind you that Lady Rustington is ten years older than you and, what is more, she is not, as you appear confidently to expect, anxious to spend the rest of her life in your company. She has, in fact, begged her husband on her knees to forgive her.”

  Lord Lynke’s face darkened.

  “He must have driven her to it then. Charlotte would, I am convinced, rather die than kotow to that stuck-up whited sepulchre who calls himself her husband.”

  “Nevertheless she has done so,” the Duke said sharply, “and the position is that Lord Rustington, most generously I must say, has agreed to forget this very reprehensible episode on one condition.”

  “He wants his pound of flesh, of course,” Lord Lynke retorted. “Edward Rustington is a nefarious, grasping – ”

  The Duke of Newcastle raised his hand.

  Thank you, Hugo. Your opinion of Lord Rustington is quite unnecessary. He has in this matter behaved extremely well.”

  “But his condition is – ?” Lord Lynke prompted.

  “That you should go abroad immediately.”

  “And that I refuse. I am engaged at Newmarket next week. I have two horses running and some very high stakes are involved. If Rustington thinks that he is going to drive me away, he is very much mistaken.”

  “I am afraid you have no choice in the matter,” the Duke said drily. “I have already accepted Lord Rustington’s conditions on your behalf.”

  “The devil you have!” Lord Lynke exclaimed.

  “Yes, Hugo, I have,” the Duke answered. “I have worked all my life for one thing, for the preservation of England’s greatness abroad and for the preservation of peace at home. At this moment we cannot afford a scandal in Court circles. The Young Pretender, Prince Charles Stuart, is just across the Channel awaiting his opportunity. The people are restless and the King is worried.”

  “Not without reason,” Lord Lynke murmured. “A lot of people wish that Charles Stuart was on the throne.

  The Duke ignored him.

  “Lord Rustington’s conditions are therefore something that concerns not only you and his wife but the whole British Constitution.”

  “You make me sound damned important,” Lord Lynke murmured.

  “You are important
only so far as I cannot allow you to make a disturbance at this particular moment. I have therefore arranged for you to go to Spain.”

  “To Spain!” Lord Lynke exclaimed. “Now, why Spain? A country I know nothing about although you made me learn the cursed language when I was at school.”

  “A very wise precaution,” the Duke said. “I believed that foreign languages would prove useful at some time in your life. I see I was not mistaken.”

  The Duke crossed the room to his desk and picked up some papers.

  “There are two reasons why you are to go to Spain,” he went on. “First, because the Queen of Spain, Elizabeth Farnese, made the suggestion a short while ago that a marriage between the King’s Ward, Doña Alcira, and an English Nobleman might be to the advantage of both countries. The suggestion was ignored at the time simply because no one quite understood her motive for making such a suggestion. And also because there was no one particularly suitable whom we could suggest as a bridegroom.”

  “And now you think that I am suitable?” Lord Lynke asked.

  “On the contrary I think you are most unsuitable,” the Duke said coldly. “But if you go to Spain as an aspirant for Doña Alcira’s hand, it will certainly give you the entrée into Royal and diplomatic circles.”

  “As a reluctant bridegroom!” Lord Lynke said drily. “Not a very attractive mission. And surely the punishment exceeds the crime?”

  “The punishment, as you put it, may not be so very arduous as you imagine,” the Duke answered. “Doña Alcira is the daughter of the late Duke of Carcastillo. She was married when she was very young to the Count of Talavera. He was killed shortly after their marriage when he was out hunting. Doña Alcira has inherited not only his estates, which are quite considerable but also those of her father. She is one of the wealthiest women in Spain and reputedly one of the most beautiful.”

  “And you really think that I would marry a woman not loving her?” Lord Lynke enquired.

  The Duke of Newcastle brought his hand down with what was almost a blow of violence on his desk.

  “Love! Love! You keep on harping on love, Hugo. How many women have you loved in the past year? In the past five years? In the past ten years since you left Eton? I dare swear that you will have difficulty in remembering half of them. Do you call that love? You lust after a woman for a short while. You imagine you are giving her your heart.”

  The Duke sniffed derisively.

  “When you see Doña Alcira, you will doubtless imagine that you love her. Anyway, you will pretend to love her so that you can control the vast estates of the Dukes of Carcastillo in Spain as well as your own very considerable estates here in England. That is an order, not only from me but from His Majesty.”

  “From His Majesty? From the King?”

  Lord Lynke looked astonished.

  “From the King. I have discussed the matter with him and with the Prime Minister. They both give their approval.”

  “So it has gone as far as that?”

  “Most certainly.”

  “But can Spain really want this?”

  “That, Hugo, is the most intelligent question you have asked so far. We have no real idea as to why Elizabeth Farnese made the suggestion in the first place, unless it was yet another bid for Gibraltar. We have always to remember what is at the back of her mind – the return of Gibraltar to Spain. We will never relinquish it – never!”

  Again the Duke brought down his clenched fist on the desk

  “And another thing. The Spanish Government has struggled incessantly since the Peace of Utrecht to evade the performance of their commercial engagements. They have employed every artifice to obstruct our trade in America. We find that wherever there are Spaniards there are troubles in the West Indian Ports and Officers who obstruct our lawful business.”

  “Well, what am I supposed to do about that?” Lord Lynke asked.

  “Quite a lot,” the Duke replied. “Sir Benjamin Keene, our Minister in Madrid, has written frequently asking for help, begging me to send out men whom he would trust to assist him in finding out what is going on beneath the veneer of pleasantry and peace. He is quite sure that something is afoot, but in his position it is very difficult to discover what it is.

  “That can be your job, Hugo. A little clever espionage, which will be easy because no one will suspect you as being in the least interested in anything except love.”

  The Duke spoke sarcastically.

  Lord Lynke threw back his head and laughed.

  “Really, Uncle! I have never heard such a preposterous school-boyish plot in the whole of my life. If you imagine for one moment that I shall be of the slightest use to you in such exploits, you must be demented. And if you imagine that I am likely to marry this swarthy-skinned heiress, you are also very much mistaken.”

  The Duke rose to his feet. His eyes were cold, his long thin nose seemed to register disapproval.

  “I am afraid, Hugo,” he said slowly, “you have no alternative. One of our trading ships, The Sea Hawk, will be waiting for you in Southampton Harbour a week from today. You can take with you what servants you wish. You will be treated with every courtesy and offered every facility while travelling abroad. You will be a distinguished visitor to a friendly country with introductions from myself as the Secretary of State and from Mr. Walpole as Prime Minister.”

  “It sounds very attractive,” Lord Lynke said mockingly. “But – ”

  “There is no ‘but,’” the Duke of Newcastle interrupted. “If you do not agree, you will be shanghaied and, when you recover consciousness with an extremely aching head, you will find yourself aboard a ship heading for Canada.”

  “You really mean that?” Lord Lynke asked incredulously.

  “I really mean it,” the Duke of Newcastle repeated. “You see, Hugo, it is a choice between you and England. And I have chosen England.”

  *

  Staring into the flames of the log fire in front of him, Hugo Lynke could see his uncle’s face as he said the last words.

  “I have chosen England.”

  The Duke was not very imaginative. He would never really be a great man. History would doubtless forget him and make small mention of his talents. And yet to him his country meant everything. More than wife and children and family, more even than himself.

  For the first time in his life Hugo Lynke felt a kind of affection for the man who had tried to play the very difficult role of Guardian over his wildness and irresponsibility.

  “Dammit!” he cursed aloud. “A dark-eyed heiress who will doubtless hate me as much as I hate her.”

  His head sank forward a little despondently on his chest as he thought of his horses at Newmarket, his friends gathered round the gaming tables and the pretty women who would miss him in all the gay spots of St. James’s.

  He felt a sudden sinking of his spirits, Spain, dark-eyed señoritas, castanets and bullfights.

  He hated the lot of them already.

  He had a sudden vision of Charlotte, her fair hair streaming over her shoulders as she put her arms around his neck. He could see her red lips quivering, the sudden tumultuous rise and fall of her breasts.

  Was it love that he felt for her?

  He asked himself the question and had a sudden nostalgia for England, for the world that he knew, for his friends, their conversation and laughter, for soft tender moments with women like Charlotte who were so much a part of his life.

  He knew that he was as homesick as any schoolboy.

  And then through the darkness of his thoughts came a proud little voice saying,

  “I do not wait on servants.”

  He chuckled unexpectedly.

  Even Spain might have its lighter moments.

  Chapter Two

  Señor Padilla bowed his customer to the door and turned towards the over-crowded counter. The floor was dirty, the beamed ceiling grey with cobwebs, but the delicatessen that was piled high in every corner of the tiny shop was of good quality.

  Señor
Padilla was fat and lazy, but he could select a sausage or purchase a ham with a keen eye that saw through the outer skin of the article into its very heart. He could detect a flavour where his competitors least expected it. He could persuade the farmers to bring him butter made of the choicest cream and eggs that really had been laid that morning.

  He waddled across the shop now, wiping his hands on his apron and contemplating with a faint sense of satisfaction that it was near his dinnertime.

  The door of the inner room opened. A small, rather dirty face peered into the shop.

  “Señor Padilla,” a voice said in an excited whisper.

  “Is that you, Venturo?” he asked loudly.

  “Quick, señor, I must speak to you.”

  Señor Padilla advanced to where his thin disagreeable wife sat adding up the accounts.

  “I will not be a moment, my dear,” he said mildly.

  His wife did not even acknowledge that he had spoken to her, but the end of her thin nose quivered a little as if in anger.

  Señor Padilla coaxed his large stomach through the gap in the counter, edged his way sideways along the narrow space behind it and pushed open the door of the inner room.

  In the centre of the room a small figure appeared to be dancing with excitement.

  “Señor, señor, what do you think has happened?”

  “What, indeed?” Señor Padilla enquired.

  In answer an open palm was extended to him where reposed two gold coins. Señor Padilla stared at them as if he could hardly believe his eyes.

  “Mother of God,” he exclaimed at last. “Where did you get them? You have not – you have not – ”

  “No I have not stolen them,” he was interrupted. “I am ashamed of you, señor, for having such suspicions of me.”

  “Then where, where could you have got them?” the Señor asked. “You have not – no, you cannot have – ”

  He stammered over the word and in answer he received a little laugh of sheer unbridled amusement.

  “No, señor!”