The Shadow of Sin (Bantam Series No. 19) Read online

  The Earl, who had often met her, had found her a short, coarse, vulgar, unbalanced woman who could never at any time have attracted anyone so fastidious as the “First Gentleman of Europe.”

  Now he found himself hoping with a fervency that was unusual for him that she would in fact not spoil the Coronation.

  “I have made two very stupid mistakes in my life, Meltham,” the King reflected.

  “Only two, Sire?” the Earl enquired, “most of us make a great many more.”

  “Two that mattered,” the King answered. “One was to get married, the other to stage that damned Trial.”

  “I agree with you, Sire, but there is nothing you can do about it now.”

  “All I can say to you, Meltham,” the King said impressively, “is for God’s sake be careful whom you take for a wife.”

  “I have learnt by your example, Sire, and I have no intention of getting married.”

  “You are right! Absolutely right!” the King approved. “A man can have women in his life without marriage, but a wife can be the very devil!”

  Driving away from Carlton House, the Earl was convinced, though he had not said so to the King, that the Queen would try to enter Westminster Abbey. Lord Hood, who was Chamberlain to her, had already said openly that he would get her in if he had to drop her down from the Tower.

  But those in charge of the King’s arrangements were equally determined that she should not spoil the ceremony for which Parliament had voted the incredible sum of £243,000.

  On leaving Carlton House the Earl went to luncheon at his Club in St. James’s.

  As he entered he found a close friend, Captain Charles Kepple, resplendent in the uniform of the House-Hold Cavalry sitting in the Morning-Room with a glass in his hand.

  “I tried to see you yesterday, Vidal,” he said, “but heard you were out of London.”

  “I was in the country, Charles,” the Earl replied, “inspecting my new property.”

  He sat down in a chair opposite his friend and signalled the waiter to bring him a glass of sherry.

  “Your new property?” Charles Kepple exclaimed. “Then it is true! I had heard you had won Wroxley’s Estate at cards.”

  “For once rumour is correct,” the Earl answered.

  “Good Heavens!” his friend exclaimed. “What would you want with any more properties? You own half the British Isles as it is!”

  The Earl laughed.

  “As usual, Charles, you exaggerate.”

  “It is not like you to gamble so high,” Charles Kepple said. “You have always declared it to be a mug’s game.”

  “So it is!” the Earl replied. “I can amuse myself far more easily and more cheaply than by throwing my money away on baize tables in the company of nit-wits.”

  “There I agree with you,” Charles Kepple said. “Then why on this occasion?”

  The Earl sipped his sherry before he replied:

  “I was just entering the Card-Room to see who was there when I met Darleigh coming out. ‘Are you leaving?’ I asked.

  “ ‘If there is one thing I cannot stand,’ His Lordship replied, ‘it is seeing that outsider. Crawthorne plucking young chickens. It makes me sick!’ ”

  “I am not surprised,” Charles Kepple ejaculated. “It makes all of us sick. He gets them into his clutches, pretends he is their friend, and then rolls them for every penny they possess.”

  “That is just what he was doing last week,” the Earl said. “I walked up to the table and saw be had two real greenhorns with him: boys who had never played anything more exciting than ‘Snap’ or ‘Beggar my neighbour’ before they came to London.”

  “In Crawthorne’s hands they will learn the hard way,” Charles Kepple remarked dryly.

  “They were learning” the Earl said grimly, “and Wroxley was there too. He is older and I never did much care for the young man. At the same time I only had to look at him to realise that he was to let in the pockets and had not the guts to walk away.”

  “Crawthorne never lets them go,” Charles Kepple said.

  “When I reached the table,” the Earl went on, “I heard Crawthorne say:

  “ ‘Come on, Giles. It is not like you to be chicken-hearted.’ I knew by the look in his eyes and the way he was wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue he was onto a good thing.”

  “He is not really a clever gambler.” Charles Kepple interposed. “As you noticed, Vidal, when he is excited he always gives himself away.”

  “I joined in the game, which rather surprised them,” the Earl went on. “I had no idea what Wroxley was putting up as collateral. But when I won I saw the fury on Crawthorne’s face.”

  “I wish I had been there!” Charles Kepple cried.

  “I rose from the table,” the Earl went on, “and suggested to the two greenhorns that they have a drink with me.”

  “Did they accept?” Charles Kepple asked.

  “With alacrity. They had been mesmerised by Crawthorne. I paid for their drinks and sent them home to their mothers!”

  “Crawthorne must have wanted to murder you!”

  “I had no idea what I had won until the Steward in the Card-Room informed me it was Wroxley Priory!”

  Charles Kepple threw back his head and laughed. “Is not that just like you, Vidal?” he said. “You win a large Estate and you did not even realise for what you were bidding!”

  “I know now,” the Earl said quietly.

  “I seem to have heard of Wroxley Priory,” Charles Kepple said, “although I cannot think how. Or is it that I just know the name?”

  The Earl changed the subject.

  “I have just come from the King. I am sorry for him, Charles, he is extremely worried and apprehensive as to what will happen tomorrow.”

  “You mean how will the Queen behave?” Charles Kepple asked.

  “Exactly! He is haunted by the fear that she will spoil the ‘splendid ceremony, lavish, dignified, and memorable,’ on which he had set his heart.”

  “She will if she can!” Charles Kepple said prophetically.

  “My heart bleeds for him,” the Earl went on. “He is full of vanity, but no man deserves to suffer as he has suffered from that abominable woman!”

  “Has it put you off marriage?” Charles Kepple asked with a grin.

  “There is no reason for me to be put off more than I am already,” the Earl replied. “As I told the King, I have no intention of marrying.”

  “You will have to one day,” his friend said. “What about an heir?”

  “I think you have forgotten that I have a younger brother,” the Earl replied, “an extremely sensible and able man.”

  “That is true,” Charles Kepple agreed. “If ever there was a good soldier it is Jonathan. I served with him. He is as brave as a lion and his troopers would follow him anywhere.”

  “He will step very ably into my shoes,” the Earl said.

  “Good God, Vidal! You talk as if you were going to die tomorrow.”

  “On the contrary,” the Earl said, “I intend to amuse myself and enjoy not one woman, but a considerable number before I weary of the joys of life.”

  He finished his glass of sherry and the waiter brought him another.

  “I am still thinking of our Monarch,” he said. “I know, Charles, he would appreciate it if you were to call in and see him during the afternoon. This is not a time when he should be alone. We all know how emotional he is.”

  Charles Kepple laughed.

  “And unstable. He is so on edge that he seized Sir Benjamin Bloomfield—the innocuous Keeper of the Privy Purse—by the collar and gave him a good shake!”

  “He is often unpredictable,” the Earl remarked.

  “Did you hear what the Duke of Wellington said about him?” Charles Kepple enquired.

  “No, what did he say?”

  “He said, ‘The King is the most extraordinary compound of talent, wit, buffoonery, obstinacy, and good feeling, in short a medley of the most opposing qualitie
s with a greater preponderance of good I have ever known’.”

  The Earl laughed.

  “I think that sums up our friend very well. I like him—I always have!”

  “And he likes you,” Charles Kepple said. “I think in a way he relies on you, Vidal, and at the same time he admires you.”

  The Earl did not answer and he went on:

  “You are all the things he would like to be—dashing, wildly attractive to women, extremely intelligent, a sportsman, and at the same time cynical, ruthless, and, like him, determined when it comes to something you want.”

  “You flatter me!” the Earl said dryly.

  “I am just speaking the truth,” Charles Kepple smiled. “Let us go in to luncheon and, as you suggest, I will call at Carlton House. What are you doing this afternoon?”

  “I have plans,” the Earl answered enigmatically, but he did not elucidate further.

  When luncheon was over he drove his phaeton with an expertise that was remarkable through the traffic in Piccadilly towards Chelsea.

  Almost every pedestrian stopped to stare at the Earl with his hat at an angle and controlling the finest horse-flesh any man could desire.

  He travelled past Apsley House where the Duke of Wellington lived and down Sloane Street to some quiet houses clustered round the Royal Hospital which had been erected by Charles II for old soldiers.

  Here in small elegant houses the Gentlemen of the Beau Monde kept the lovely “Sylphides” who attracted their attention.

  Mademoiselle Désirée Lafette had been acclaimed by the theatre-goers of London as a rising actress of great talent.

  She had many accomplishments and could entertain both as a singer and a dancer.

  At the moment she was playing the lead in one of Sheridan’s witty Conversation Pieces at His Majesty’s Theatre, and the Earl found her beguiling not only on but off the stage.

  As he expected Désirée was resting at three o’clock in the afternoon, preparing herself for the arduous part she would play later in the evening.

  He handed his hat and cloak to the rather theatrical-looking maid-servant who had opened the door to him, and without waiting to be announced walked upstairs.

  He found as he had expected Mademoiselle Lafette reclining on a chaise-longue at the foot of the elaborately draped bed in her elegant if somewhat over decorated bed-room.

  She gave a cry of delight when he entered the room and rose from the couch to run towards him eagerly, her arms out-stretched, her dark hair which reached far below her waist flowing back from her attractive, piquant little face.

  Désirée was not beautiful, but she had a Frenchwoman’s allure and a fascinating countenance which men found hard to forget.

  “Mon cher, I was hoping so much that you would come to see me aujourd hui,” she said in her musical voice with a broken accent which the play-goers found irresistible.

  She put her arms round the Earl’s neck. He kissed her forehead and the tip of her nose before he said good-humouredly:

  “Do not throttle me, Désirée! It is damned hot this afternoon.”

  “Tiens, then I must not wear so many clothes!” she answered.

  The Earl saw she was wearing a negligee of pink gauze which made no attempt to conceal her nakedness. Round her neck was the diamond necklace he had given to her the previous week.

  “You look very alluring,” he said. “And here is something to add to your collection.”

  He drew a box from his pocket as he spoke and put it into her hands.

  Then as he divested himself of his coat to throw it down onto a chair he watched with a twinkle in his eyes the excitement on Désirée’s face.

  The open box revealed a diamond bracelet which glittered in the sunshine coming through the window.

  “C’est superb! Merci! Merci, mon brave. It is, as you know, what I have longed to possess.”

  She moved swiftly towards him with a grace which came from long years of learning ballet to put her arms round his neck.

  “The jewels are very marvellous,” she said, “but what are jewels unless you are with me? I was tres triste yesterday because je ne t’ai pas vu.”

  The Earl’s arms went round her and he felt her body moving sensuously against him.

  He said with a smile:

  “You are right, Désirée, you are over-dressed!”

  With experienced hands he removed first the necklace and then the diaphanous gauze negligee.

  It was nearly five o’clock before the Earl drove his phaeton back from Chelsea to Meltham House in Park Lane.

  There was a cynical smile on his lips as he tooled his horses through the traffic, and he was apparently so absorbed in his thoughts that he did not see various elegantly gloved hands waving to him as he passed through the Park.

  Meltham House was a magnificent edifice which had been built by his grandfather half-way down Park Lane.

  It was surrounded by its own garden, the rooms were vast and had the proportions and elegance which the King had insisted upon at Carlton House.

  The Adam Brothers had been responsible for the building and for the exquisite decoration of the Hall, the Salons, and the huge Banqueting-Room.

  The Library was considered one of the best examples of their work, and the Earl’s father had contributed to the house its fine collection of Dutch pictures which were only surpassed by those which had been acquired by the King when he was Prince of Wales.

  The Earl walked into the house to be greeted by his Butler and six footmen all wearing the Meltham livery of green and gold which was as well known in London as that of the Royal servants.

  “Lady Imogen is in the Silver Salon, My Lord,” the Butler said in a respectful tone as he took His Lordship’s hat.

  “Lady Imogen?” There was a frown between the Earl’s eyes and his lips tightened.

  “Her Ladyship has been waiting for over an hour, M’Lord.”

  The Earl seemed about to say something, then changed his mind.

  Instead he walked across the marble Hall and an attentive flunkey opened the door to the Silver Salon.

  It was a charming room over-looking the garden and there were flowers on the side-tables which gave it a feminine air and seemed to accentuate the beauty of the woman who rose from a chair at his entrance and held out her hands to him.

  Lady Imogen Berrington was undoubtedly one of the most beautiful women in London.

  The daughter of the Duke of Ruckton, she had been married almost out of the School-Room and widowed the previous year when her husband had been killed in an unnecessary and drunken duel in which he never should have taken part.

  Before his death Lady Imogen had decided he was a bore, and they had little in common, and to all intents and purposes she had gone her own way.

  For the past six months that way had led her to the Earl.

  While at first he had found her extremely attractive and enjoyed the wild, passionate overtures she made to him, he was beginning to find that she was far too possessive.

  In their relationship they had very different objectives.

  The Earl was not only an extremely clever man, he was also very experienced where women were concerned.

  Women had been in love with him ever since he was a boy, and when he inherited his vast Estates and the great wealth which made him one of the richest men in the country, he would have been very obtuse if he had not realised his own worth.

  He knew he had only to raise his finger for any marriageable woman in the Kingdom to fall into his arms.

  Mamas with eligible daughters wooed him on their knees, and because he was so attractive as a man it would have been difficult to find a bed-room door that would not open at his touch.

  He was well aware that Lady Imogen was not content with their present relationship. She wanted marriage and that was the one thing he did not intend to give her.

  She was however stalking him with a persistence that he himself had never had to expend in pursuit of a woman.

&nb
sp; He had the suspicion that she intended to inveigle him into marrying her simply by swaying public opinion in her favour.

  While the Beau Monde were prepared to close their eyes to innumerable liaisons amongst themselves, they disliked open scandals.

  The Earl guessed that Imogen was trying to manoeuvre him into a position where unless he behaved like a cad he would have to make reparation for the damage he had done her good name by proffering her a wedding ring.

  Only Imogen, he thought as he entered the Silver Salon, would have the audacity to call unaccompanied at a bachelor’s establishment!

  Only Imogen would look at him in just that way with a fire smouldering in her eyes and her lips parted provocatively.

  “I thought you had forgotten my existence,” she said in a low, rather husky voice.

  “I have been out of London,” the Earl said, and wondered irritably to how many more people he would have to explain his absence.

  “So I heard,” Lady Imogen answered. “I missed you last night at the Fitzgeralds’ Ball.”

  “Which I would not have attended had I been in London.”

  “They expected you.”

  “A great many people do that.”

  He stood looking at her as she stepped towards him.

  “I always expect you,” she said softly, “and lately you have been neglecting me.”

  The Earl moved away to put out his hand towards the bell-pull.

  “You would like tea?” he suggested. “And I could do with a drink.”

  The door was opened almost instantly and he gave the order while Lady Imogen seated herself on one of the gold-framed chairs knowing that it was a fitting back-ground for her green gown and her wide-brimmed bonnet trimmed with feathers.

  Her hair was a fiery red with touches of gold in it and her large dark-fringed eyes were green.

  She had been painted by all the great artists and acclaimed to be the most beautiful subject they had known since Emma Hamilton had been immortalised by Romney.

  “I want to talk to you, Vidal,” Lady Imogen said.

  Her voice was so full of intimate undertones that the Earl exclaimed with an expression of relief:

  “Ah! Here is the tea.”

  The Butler had evidently expected that tea would be required and it was brought into the room by three footmen.