The Odious Duke Read online

  His Lordship had on several occasions supported his contention by finding men who were so immensely strong and heavy that they won the fight by sheer weight of flesh.

  But on this occasion the Duke and Harry Sheraton had foreseen the type of fighter that his Lordship was more than likely to produce and had confronted him unexpectedly with the Bombardier.

  The Bombardier had been kept well away from London at Harry Sheraton’s estate in Suffolk and trained until he was in tip-top condition and then the mere sight of him in the ring was enough to send the odds soaring in his favour.

  A really magnificent specimen of manhood with huge muscular development, enormous shoulders and with it a nimble pair of legs, he floored Jed Blake in the first five minutes and finished the fight in under twenty.

  “Farrington has lost a packet!” Harry Sheraton exclaimed with glee as he and the Duke drove back to London from Wimbledon Common, where the mill had taken place.

  “Serve him right, he has crowed like a cock on a dunghill for long enough,” the Duke replied. “He will not be so top-lofty in future, not when we are about at any rate.”

  “You spotted Hawkins. Remember?” Harry Sheraton said. “When you visited me in Barracks six months ago, we saw him as we walked across the square and remarked, ‘that chap ought to strip well’!”

  “Did I?” the Duke queried. “I had forgotten.”

  “You were right! Once again you proved your superiority over the enemy!” Harry Sheraton mocked. “Somewhat insignificant foe agreed, nevertheless the one who needed to be defeated.”

  “Still gunning for me, Harry?” the Duke asked, quizzing him with a glint of amusement in his eyes.

  “Thinking over what you said last night,” Harry Sheraton replied. “Only I ask you once again, Theron, not to do anything so nonsensical. Call whole plan off, would not be difficult.”

  “If there is one thing I have a dislike for,” the Duke drawled, “it is the well-meaning efforts of those who try to interfere in my life. I regret now, Harry, that I revealed my intentions. I should not have told you what I was about until my approaching nuptials were announced in The Gazette. I would then have been spared this endless sermonising which I find intolerably wearisome.”

  “All right! All right,” Harry Sheraton agreed. “Will cease prosing, but I promise you, Theron, nothing but ill luck will come of it.”

  It was these words that the Duke was to remember quite frequently in the days to come.

  *

  However the following morning he rose with a clear head, feeling beneath a fashionable air of languid passiveness a faint stirring of interest because he was setting in motion a plan that he had thought out down to the last details.

  This was the way that he had deployed his troops on the Peninsula, following the strict example set by the Duke of Wellington, who always averred that nothing was too insignificant or too small to command his personal attention.

  As the Duke ate his breakfast, partaking heartily of several lamb chops, a well-roasted spring chicken and a dish of kidneys enriched with cream, he sent for Mr. Graystone to ask him for the last-minute details concerning not only his journey but also those of whose hospitality he intended to avail himself.

  “I do know Lord Upminster,” the Duke said when Mr. Graystone appeared. “A verbose Nobleman who I am certain will wish to confound me with the wonders of his country estate. Did he not win some prize?”

  “His Lordship’s cattle, Your Grace, were highly thought of at the Show that took place last year and which was honoured by the presence of His Majesty.”

  “I thought it would be something like that,” the Duke nodded. “And Wilmington? What are his interests?”

  “Racing, Your Grace. His Lordship won the Derby three years ago and has a horse that is fancied for the Gold Cup this year.”

  “Then we will have plenty to discuss,” the Duke said. “Do you think his animal will beat Clarion?”

  “I am convinced that Your Grace’s horse will be the winner,” Mr. Graystone responded quietly. “And so, may I add, Your Grace, is every member of your staff.”

  The Duke smiled.

  “It is early days, but Clarion certainly seems to be shaping up well. There is no doubt about it, Graystone, Lawrence is a good trainer.”

  “He certainly is, Your Grace. No one could doubt that, considering Your Grace’s recent successes on the turf.”

  “No indeed,” the Duke agreed. “And Mallory? What are the Earl of Mallory’s interests? I have indeed met him, but I cannot recall anything outstanding about his Lordship. A somewhat anaemic individual and I shall be surprised if he has a decent piece of horseflesh in his stables!”

  “You are right, Your Grace. The Earl of Mallory is interested only in building. He has enlarged his house, torn down the Elizabethan wings, erected others and is now completing a Chapel adjacent to the Mansion which, they say, will be one of the most incredible pieces of architecture in the whole of Yorkshire.”

  “That will be interesting at any rate,” His Grace said. “Thank you, Graystone. You are sending Carter with me I suppose?”

  “Naturally, Your Grace, seeing that it is inevitable that Your Grace must spend several nights on the road. Mr. Carter will deal well with everything concerning accommodation at the inns. “I have given him full instructions, Your Grace, and a groom has been sent ahead to see that every possible comfort is prepared for Your Grace’s arrival.”

  “Excellent!”

  The Duke walked from the dining room, accepted his hat, gloves and whip from the attendant footmen and stepped into the spring sunlight The cavalcade outside was attracting attention from a number of wide-eyed small boys, a crossing-sweeper, several draymen and an Italian with a hurdy-gurdy and a red-capped monkey on his shoulder.

  It was not in the least surprising that they stared in admiration at the magnificent team of four black horses that pulled the Duke’s travelling chariot. There was a coachman and a footman on the box, both wearing blue and yellow livery that was as well-known in London as the Royal crimson and gold.

  There was another footman up behind the carriage and two outriders both mounted on fine examples of horseflesh from the Duke’s stables.

  Behind them, prepared to ride at the rear of the carriage, was the Duke’s Head Groom astride a fine animal that in its very magnificence seemed to make all the other bloodstock pale into insignificance.

  The Duke’s favourite stallion, Salamanca, was also jet-black with a white nose and three white fetlocks. He was the Duke’s favourite mount and, when His Grace rode him, it was difficult to imagine that any other man and horse could be so perfectly complementary, one of the other.

  Drawn up behind Salamanca was the baggage chaise containing Mr. Carter, who was Mr. Graystone’s senior clerk, and also the Duke’s valet, Jenkins.

  This vehicle boasted only two horses, but, as it was especially built for speed, it was seldom left behind on a journey. And there was indeed great rivalry between the two coachmen as to who would be able to reach the destination first.

  The Duke, who always insisted on inspecting his bloodstock before they went out on any major expedition, looked them over now and asked,

  “The luggage can go ahead. Where do we change horses?”

  “At Baldock, Your Grace.”

  Mr. Graystone gave a slight nod to the butler who in his turn made an almost imperceptible gesture to the coachman of the baggage chaise.

  Moving smoothly, the horses’ silver bridles glinting in the sunshine, their coats polished as brightly as the Duke’s Hessian boots, the baggage chaise glided across the gravel sweep that led into Park Lane.

  The coachman and footmen removed their hats as they passed the Duke, who nodded to them briefly.

  As soon as the baggage chaise had moved, its place was then taken by the Duke’s highflyer phaeton drawn by four chestnuts. Its high yellow wheels and small black-painted body made it appear like an enormous wasp, as the chestnuts, tossing their heads
and fretting to be off, moved behind the travelling carriage.

  “Your Grace has a most pleasant day for the drive,” Mr. Graystone remarked respectfully.

  “It is certainly not the day to be cooped up inside a carriage,” the Duke said. “I shall change vehicles at Eaton Socon. I think you told me that Lord Upminster’s house is only three miles from there.”

  “That is right. Your Grace.”

  “I will arrive in style, but I will go with speed,” the Duke remarked. “The carriage can leave now.”

  He was aware that his Head Coachman, who drove the travelling carriage, was raring to be off. Already incensed that the baggage chaise had gone ahead, he was frightened that this small advantage might enable the Junior Coachman to reach Baldock before him.

  He had on various occasions suffered this indignity as the smaller chaise could pass other vehicles more easily and was very much more manoeuvrable in towns or villages.

  As soon as the Duke gave him permission, the Head Coachman set his team in motion with a determined air that told those who watched their departure that the animals would be put into their stride at the very earliest opportunity.

  At the same time there was no question of the horses being sprung or pushed too hard for, if the Head Coachman had a fault, it was that he was inclined to over-cosset his bloodstock.

  The Duke was just about to step into his phaeton when a footman approached the house wearing the resplendent livery of the Hungarian Embassy. The man appeared to be in such a hurry that he was almost running to reach His Grace.

  Slipping behind the Duke, the butler intercepted the flunkey before, with inconceivable vulgarity, he could thrust the note that he held into the Ducal hands.

  There was a slight pause when the note, having been taken from the messenger, was held by the butler while one of the footmen fetched a silver salver from inside the marble hall.

  When it arrived, the butler then placed the note on the salver and proffered it to the Duke with an apologetic air of one who expects to be waved aside.

  But the Duke, instead of leaving it in Mr. Graystone’s capable hands as his staff had anticipated, took the note from the silver salver and then opened it.

  It only contained a few lines, but those watching His Grace thought that they saw a glint of interest in the lazy expression of his eyes.

  “Tell the man I will myself convey an answer,” the Duke said to the butler, who relayed the message to the Embassy footman with an air of one who condescends.

  “Goodbye, Graystone,” the Duke said and without any further ado climbed into his highflyer and took the reins from his groom’s hands.

  There was no mistaking the expert way he drove his horses across the gravel sweep and into Park Lane. His coachmen were all exceptional drivers, but the Duke had a style and a flair that made every one of his staff, from Mr. Graystone down to the youngest footman, stare after him appreciatively and wish they could emulate even a quarter of His Grace’s expertise in everything he undertook.

  The Duke, to his groom’s great surprise, instead of turning right on leaving Selchester House and proceeding up Park Lane towards the road leading North, turned left and after travelling a short distance cornered his chestnuts into Curzon Street.

  There, nestling amongst other grand houses of the Nobility, was one impressive mansion that flew the Hungarian flag.

  The Duke pulled up his team and gave the reins to his groom with the injunction,

  “Walk the horses, Fowler.”

  A moment later he entered a door headed with the imposing Coat of Arms of the Hapsburgs.

  There seemed to be an inordinate amount of red carpet up which His Grace was led to the first floor. Through the open doors of several large salons he could see huge crystal chandeliers, a profusion of gilt furniture and marble statues as he proceeded along a corridor that led to the back of the house.

  The servant knocked discreetly on one of the closed doors and a woman’s voice bade him enter.

  The Duke was ushered into a large room bathed in sunshine. It was furnished as a sitting room, but there was also a draped Empire-shaped bed in the style made popular by the Empress Josephine of France by one wall.

  Seated in front of a decoratively painted gold mirror, having her hair arranged by the most famous coiffeur of the Beau Ton, was the Princess Zazeli Muzisescu.

  She glanced round indifferently as the door opened and then, when she saw who stood there, she sprang to her feet with a cry of joy.

  The Duke was stationary in the doorway, a smile on his lips.

  Then, as the Princess threw wide her arms, he moved towards her, a glint of amusement in his eyes as he saw how she was garbed.

  Zazeli Muzisescu was one of the famous beauties of the whole of Europe. Half-Hungarian and half-French by her birth she had married a Hungarian Diplomat whose meteoric rise in his profession was entirely due to his wife’s machinations on his behalf.

  Nicknamed by her many detractors in England as “Dusk to Dawn”, in France as “Toujours prête” and in Italy simply as “Presto”, Zazeli with her beauty, her passionate nature and her unerring instinct in collecting the most important men in every country as her lovers, had an almost unique place in the Social world.

  She made no pretence at all or apology for her behaviour and, being a member of the oldest and most revered family in Hungary and in fact a cousin of the Emperor, it was impossible for anyone to snub her socially.

  Equally her husband’s Diplomatic position gave her an immunity from the over-scandalised gossip of the strait-laced and disapproving Dowagers.

  Zazeli was beautiful in a manner that was peculiarly her own. She had long dark-red hair, which fell down to her waist, high cheekbones, and slanting passionate eyes that always seemed to be smouldering with the fire of desire.

  Her features were classical, her mouth provocative and she had an almost perfect figure, which was an allurement in itself.

  Now, quite oblivious of the hairdresser, who was bowing himself tactfully from the room, she ran to the Duke, who saw in the sunshine that she was wearing only a huge emerald necklace and a négligée of emerald green chiffon which was completely transparent.

  There were enormous rings on the long fingers of each of her white hands. Zazeli was never without them.

  As she flung herself tempestuously into the Duke’s arms, he could feel the warmth of her exquisite body and knew before she looked up at him with smouldering eyes that she was just as desirable as ever.

  He had not seen Zazeli for three years, since they had enjoyed a brief but dynamic interlude in Paris, which had made the gossips shake their heads and go out of their way to warn the Duke that he was playing with fire.

  His Grace was unperturbed by their croakings. He enjoyed Zazeli, but, however much people might fear it, there was no chance at all of his losing his head even in the face of extreme provocation and temptation.

  Nevertheless he was amused by her behaviour and the fact that she was in some ways a forbidden pleasure made him quite determined that, if Zazeli desired his company, he had no intention of refusing it to her.

  “Mon brave! Mon cher! It is enchanting to see you!” Zazeli cried out, lifting her lips to his and inviting his kiss with an abandon that in other women would have seemed shameless.

  The Duke kissed her and then held her at arm’s length.

  “Let me have a good look at you,” he said. “You have not changed, except perhaps you are more beautiful than I remembered.”

  “Vous êtes charmante,” she smiled. “It is how I remember you, mon cher ami, always saying the right thing. Ma foi! I believe you are taller than ever. That delightful air of noble distinction is still there. You are very handsome, mon Duc, and I have indeed missed you. How I have missed you! Have you missed me?”

  “But, of course,” the Duke replied. “Who else but you could do such outrageous things? Or indeed be so alluring so early in the morning.”

  “I did not expect you so soon,”
she answered. “Had I known I would have not been so over-dressed.”

  She glanced at him under her long eyelashes and they both laughed.

  “Your husband?” the Duke enquired. “Is he with you?”

  “He arrives here today. I have travelled with the Ambassador, it is always much more comfortable.”

  The Duke laughed again.

  “And so we have one day at least,” Zazeli went on, “not that Viktor would interfere, but there are so many official engagements that I must accompany him to.”

  The Duke moved further into the room to perch on the arm of a sofa.

  He looked as handsome as Zazeli had declared him to be with the sun shining on his thick dark hair, his grey eyes twinkling and his lips twisted in a smile that most women found irresistible.

  There was also a little gleam behind his eyes, which dispelled the cold indifference that often made his fine features seem hard and a little grim. He watched Zazeli and the gleam became accentuated.

  The necklace encircling her long white neck glittered in the sunlight and it revealed the lovely curves of her tip-tilted breasts, her tiny waist and the almost Grecian perfection of her narrow hips.

  “It is unfortunate,” the Duke said slowly, “and I only wish you had let me know that you were arriving, but I am at this very moment leaving London.”

  “C’est impossible!” Zazeli exclaimed, her eyes clouding over, her lips pouting like a child who has been deprived of a toy it really wanted.

  It was part of her charm and fascination that Zazeli could mirror in her face every emotion with the passing of a second.

  Now, at the Duke’s words, from being so radiant and excited, she became woebegone and distressed.

  So much so that he informed her,

  “I shall not be away from London for long. What is the length of your stay?”

  “A week, ten days, a fortnight, who can tell?” Zazeli said. “Viktor attends a conference at the Court of St. James. Alors, if the negotiations are over quickly, perhaps I shall be gone before you return.”