A Duke in Danger Read online

  “I refuse to worry about anything so absurd,” the Duke said loftily.

  However, as he walked from the Dining-Room towards the Library after an excellent meal, something struck him.

  Together with his satisfaction with the house and everything which now had changed his life to a bed of roses from one which at times had been on very hard ground, he felt that Jason Harling was undoubtedly longing for his future to be assured.

  “I suppose I shall have to marry,” he told himself.

  It was a depressing thought, and his mind wandered to the beautiful Lady Isobel Dalton.

  She had made it quite clear when he left Paris that as she would be in London next week, she expected to see a great deal of him.

  The daughter of a Duke and widow of an elderly Baronet who had died of a heart-attack from over-eating and over-drinking, Lady Isobel was a very gay widow.

  She had been one of the many women in Paris—French, English, and Russian—who had been eager to console the war warriors after their long years in the wilderness.

  At every party they had glowed like lights in the darkness, and the Duke had found that Isobel’s arms encircled his neck almost too eagerly, while her lips invited his even before he had any desire to kiss them.

  However, it would have been impossible not to become aroused by the fiery delights which Lady Isobel offered him, and by the flattery with which she made him feel he was the only man in the world.

  “I love you! I want you!” she had said a thousand times. “I loved you the moment we met, and now, dearest, you are in a position I never dreamt would be yours. I love you because you will behave exactly as a Duke should.”

  He was well aware that she pressed herself both physically and determinedly closer and closer to him, and when he had stayed with her after dinner the night before he left Paris, she had made her intentions very clear.

  “As soon as you have everything in order, I will join you,” she had said softly. “We will entertain and make our parties the smartest, the most fashionable, and the most influential in the whole of London.”

  She had given a little sigh before she said:

  “The Prince Regent is getting very old, and the Beau Monde needs a new leader, and who would look more handsome and more dashing or authoritative than you?”

  She paused, expecting the Duke to say that no-one was more beautiful than she was.

  But he realised that he was being pushed into declaring himself, and he had not yet made up his mind whether he wished to marry anyone, let alone Lady Isobel.

  When he thought about it, he knew it would be a marriage which would please his many Harling relations and be acclaimed as “sensible” by the Social World at large.

  Although Isobel could excite and arouse him as few women had been able to do, something which he called his “intuition” told him she was not really the type of woman with whom he desired to spend the rest of his life.

  He had learnt in the Army that women were for pleasure and should not encroach too closely on the man’s world of living, fighting, and dying for his country.

  Lady Isobel was very different from the attractive young Portuguese women who offered themselves to the tired men who needed some respite after the hard fighting in the Peninsular War.

  She was different, too, from the attractive, cheerful little French cocottes who could make a man laugh, however tired he might be, and even find it a joke that they had picked his pocket just before he left.

  But women were women, and while a man must sometimes relax from the hard realities of war, marriage was a very different thing!

  As he had travelled back over Northern France and had an uncomfortable crossing on a tempestuous Channel, the Duke, when he was not thinking of his new possessions, found himself thinking of Isobel.

  She was beautiful and confessed her love for him very convincingly.

  Yet, there was something stronger than that thought, which he could not understand, and which held him back from asking the question that she was longing to hear.

  “I must be with you, Ivar,” she had said a thousand times. “I cannot live without you, and I know you would be lost and lonely without me.”

  It had been easier to cover her lips with his and kiss her than to argue.

  The Duke had known when he left Isobel that she was closing up, before coming to London, the house in which she had been living in Paris.

  It was part of a deliberate plan, because she was determined with a steel-like will which lay somewhere in that soft, seductive body, that she would become the Duchess of Harlington.

  Thinking of her made the Duke feel restless.

  He walked to the fireplace and dragged violently at the elegant needlework bell-pull.

  He imagined the wire running down the corridor until the iron bell was jerked backwards and forwards in the passage outside the pantry-door, where it was impossible for Bateson and the footmen not to hear it.

  He did not have to wait long before the door opened and Bateson, rather breathless, appeared.

  “I have changed my mind,” the Duke said. “I have decided I will visit the Castle today. It should not take me more than two hours to drive there.”

  He saw a look of consternation on Bateson’s face.

  “Has Your Grace informed Lady Alvina of Your Grace’s intention?”

  “I meant to stay here,” the Duke said, “at least until the end of the week, but I will see the Castle and return either tomorrow or the day after.”

  “I think it’d be wise for Your Grace to warn Her Ladyship of your arrival.”

  The Duke smiled.

  “I expect I shall be comfortable enough, and after such a good luncheon I will not be very hungry for dinner. Congratulate the Cook, Bateson, after you have ordered the Phaeton and the new team of horses which I understand are already in the stables.”

  As he had no intention of arriving in England without excellent horses, he had asked Gerald, when he left Paris a week earlier, to go to Berkeley Square and see what horses were waiting for him.

  “If they are not up to scratch,” he had said, “buy me a team worth driving.”

  As he and Gerald shared a taste in horses, as in other things, he knew he would not be disappointed, and when twenty minutes later he was told that the Phaeton was at the door, he saw that his friend had done him proud.

  The four chestnuts were perfectly matched. They were also exceedingly well bred, and he knew he would be able to cover the distance from Berkeley Square to Harlington Castle very quickly.

  Unfortunately, at the moment he was not aware of what the record was, and as the groom who was to accompany him had also been engaged by Gerald, it was no use asking him.

  Instead, as his trunk was strapped to the back of the Phaeton, he said to Bateson:

  “I have told my valet to take the rest of the day and part of tomorrow off so that he can visit his relatives who live in London. I expect there will be someone who will look after me at the Castle.”

  “I hopes there’ll be, Your Grace,” Bateson murmured. “But I thinks it’s a mistake, Your Grace, not to take your own man with you.”

  “Nonsense!” the Duke replied. “You are worrying about me unnecessarily, as you did when I was a small boy. I am sure the Castle will be just as I remember it.”

  He sprang up into the Phaeton and took the reins from the groom.

  It was with a feeling of intense satisfaction that he looked forward to enjoying every minute of driving the finest team of horses he had ever possessed.

  The Phaeton, which Gerald had also purchased for him, was so light that it seemed almost to spring off the ground as if it had wings on its wheels.

  As he drove round Berkeley Square, he would have seen, had he looked round, Bateson staring after him with a look of apprehension on his old face.

  He walked into the house and, as he did so, told the footmen sharply to wind up the red carpet which they had put down over the steps and out over the pavement.
r />   Then he went into the kitchen, where his wife was clearing up after the luncheon with the help of two new scullery-maids who had no idea where to put anything.

  “Has he gone?” Mrs. Bateson asked.

  Bateson nodded.

  “He’s not to let Her Ladyship know that he’s coming.”

  Mrs. Bateson put down on the table with a bang the heavy brass sauce-pan she was holding.

  “We was told!” she said almost fiercely.

  “Yes, I know. His Grace had meant to stay here, I understand, for several days, and we’d then have had a chance to inform Her Ladyship.”

  Mrs. Bateson gave a sigh.

  “As it is, there’s nothing we can do. I suppose you didn’t think to say anything to him?”

  “ ’Course not! It’s not my place.”

  “He’ll have a shock, of that there’s no doubt!”

  As Mrs. Bateson spoke there was a ring on the bell. Bateson got up slowly from the chair.

  “Who can that be?”

  “Caller, probably.”

  “I suppose I’d better go myself,” Bateson grumbled. “These young ’uns won’t know what to say.”

  He padded slowly back along the passage to the Hall as if his feet were hurting him.

  As he opened the door, he saw to his astonishment that the Phaeton in which the Duke had just driven away was outside.

  “What is it? What’s happened?” he asked the groom who was standing on the door-step.

  “His Grace has left in the Library some papers which he particularly wanted with him.”

  Bateson smiled.

  It was somehow almost a relief to find that his new Master was human and could make mistakes like everyone else.

  “Come with me,” he said to the groom, and in a dignified manner walked across the Hall towards the Library.

  The Duke, holding the reins of his team outside the house, was frowning. He could not think how he could have been so stupid as to leave behind the papers the Bank had sent him with an inventory of the contents of the Castle.

  He supposed he had been so busy admiring the house and its contents that it had for a moment slipped his tidy, self-disciplined mind, which usually made him punctilious about the smallest detail with which he was concerned.

  However, he had gone only a short distance and little time would be lost.

  It was then that he heard a voice. He looked down to see an elderly man with white hair and a somewhat lugubrious face looking up at him.

  “May I ask, Sir, if you’re the new Duke of Harlington?” he enquired.

  “I am.”

  “I was a-calling to see Your Grace.”

  “I am afraid you are too late. I am just leaving. I will be back in a few days.”

  “It’s important that I see Your Grace now.”

  “What is it about?” the Duke asked.

  As he spoke he glanced towards the front door, hoping the groom would return and he could be on his way. With a little hesitation the man said:

  “It concerns certain family treasures. I have one here in which I think Your Grace’d be interested.”

  “Thank you, but I am not buying anything at the moment.”

  “It is not a question of buying it, Your Grace, but redeeming.”

  As the man spoke he opened the black bag he was holding in his hand and drew out a large silver bowl. The Duke looked at it indifferently, then noticed the crest engraved on the side of the bowl.

  When he looked a little more closely, he was aware that it was an exquisite piece of silver-work which he was almost sure was by Louis XV’s famous goldsmith Thomas Germain.

  His mind went back to the last time he had dined at the Castle. He could almost swear the bowl had stood on the Dining-Room table between the candelabra.

  His father, who was there with him, had remarked that there was no family in the whole country with such a fine collection of silver-and gold-work as the Harlings’.

  “Where did you get that?” he said harshly.

  Before the man could answer, the Duke added:

  “If it has been stolen, you have no right to have it in your possession!”

  “I’ve every right, Your Grace, as I can prove, should you be interested.”

  The Duke drew in his breath.

  “I am interested,” he said, “and I want a very good explanation or I shall have you taken in front of the Magistrates!”

  The man did not seem unduly perturbed.

  At the moment the groom returned, holding the papers in his hand. As he was about to climb onto the Phaeton, the Duke said:

  “Hold the horses, I have to see this man before I leave.”

  As he spoke, he took the papers from the groom and transferred them to the inside pocket of his coat. Then he stepped down onto the pavement.

  “Follow me,” he said sharply, walking up the steps and into the house.

  The man followed him across the Hall and into the Library, and Bateson closed the door behind them.

  “Let me see that bowl again!” the Duke demanded. “What is your name?”

  “Emmanuel Pinchbeck, Your Grace. I’m a pawnbroker.”

  “A pawn-broker!” the Duke repeated.

  That was something he had not expected.

  “Are you telling me this bowl was pawned?”

  “Yes, Your Grace, with a great number of other things.”

  The Duke’s lips tightened as he put the bowl down on the table. It was the most beautiful piece of silver-work he had ever seen.

  “You had better start from the beginning,” he said quietly but with a note of steel in his voice. “Tell me how you came into possession of this bowl. Who brought it to you?”

  Without speaking, Emmanuel Pinchbeck drew out a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to the Duke. It was somewhat soiled but he could read written quite clearly:

  I, Emmanuel Pinchbeck, have loaned the sum of thirty pounds on a silver bowl circa 1690 and will keep it in my possession as long as the interest of thirty per cent is paid to me annually by the owner, who accepts the terms of this contract.

  In an elegant, educated hand was the signature Alvina Harling.

  The Duke looked at it and his chin was squared and his lips set in a hard line. He then said:

  “How many other things have you besides this bowl?”

  “Six small pictures, Your Grace, several miniatures, four more silver bowls, a snuff-box which is very elegant set with emeralds and diamonds, and two gold candelabra worth a good deal more than what they were pawned for.”

  There was silence before the Duke said:

  “Why have you come to me?”

  “I’ve come to you, Your Grace, because on hearing that Your Grace had inherited the title, I thought it would be to your advantage to redeem everything I hold.”

  There was again silence. Emmanuel Pinchbeck quickly went on:

  “Frankly, Your Grace, I needs the money, and the arrangement isn’t satisfactory to me as it stands.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because thirty per cent is a good deal lower than other pawn-brokers charge, and I’m unable to sell what has increased in value, not because of their intrinsic worth, but because the price of gold and silver has risen.”

  “You mean they would be worth more melted down?” the Duke asked.

  He spoke with a note of horror in his voice, but Emmanuel Pinchbeck merely nodded.

  “Yes, Your Grace. As I said, times are hard, and I can’t go on holding all these things indefinitely.”

  “How long have you held them already?”

  “Nearly three years, Your Grace. I’ll never get my money back, and as I said, that’s not satisfactory. Not satisfactory at all.”

  The Duke realised that he was serious, and there were beads of sweat on his forehead.

  At the same time, he knew that the man was speaking the truth when he had said that thirty per cent was less than many pawn-brokers charged, and it was not satisfactory from his point of
view to hold goods that he could not sell.

  Because the Duke was a just man, he said:

  “I realise that you have been extremely honest in not selling any of these things, especially those which you say could be melted down. I will therefore buy back from you everything that you hold which has come to you from the person whose signature is on this paper.”

  The old man’s eyes seemed to light up and he smiled. “I’m very grateful, Your Grace. I knew when I heard of your gallantry in battle that you’d treat me fairly and that I needn’t be afraid to approach you.”

  “I am glad you did,” the Duke said. “I will now pay you immediately what is owing on this silver bowl. I shall be returning to London the day after tomorrow, at the very latest, and I suggest you bring the rest of the things here to me.”

  “That’s very kind of Your Grace.”

  “What is the final total on this piece?” he enquired. Emmanuel Pinchbeck looked at him out of the corners of his eyes before he said:

  “It’s been with me for two years and two months, Your Grace.”

  The Duke made a quick calculation and drew from the wallet which he took from the pocket of his coat notes for well over the amount necessary.

  He handed them to Emmanuel Pinchbeck, who swiftly put them away as he said:

  “I’m extremely grateful to Your Grace. It’ll be a weight off my mind and’ll certainly make things easier for me financially.”

  “I shall see you in two days’ time,” the Duke said. “In case I am held up, send someone to enquire if I am here before you yourself bring the goods.”

  “I’ll do that, Your Grace.”

  The Duke walked towards the door, and Emmanuel Pinchbeck, carrying the empty bag, followed behind. Bateson was in the Hall, and the Duke said:

  “You will find a piece of silver on my desk. Have it cleaned and put in the safe until I return.”

  There was a sharp ring in his voice and his eyes were cold as he spoke. Bateson looked up at him apprehensively, opening his lips as if to say something. But it was too late.

  The Duke was out of the house, and, seating himself once again in the Phaeton, he took the reins from the groom and the horses moved off.

  As he drove away for the second time, Bateson turned to Emmanuel Pinchbeck, who was watching him go, and said fiercely: