Who Can Deny Love Read online

  But Cyrilla was there in that small poverty-stricken house in Islington and no one was aware of it except himself.

  ‘And that is how it must continue to be,’ he decided.

  He turned from the painting as the Prince entered the room behind him.

  “Well, Virgo!” His Royal Highness exclaimed. “I am delighted to see you! What news have you for me?’

  “Nothing very sensational, I am afraid, Sire,” the Marquis replied. “I have seen Isaacs, but he is being evasive. It’s not going to be easy for us to extract the information we require from him.”

  “That is what I was afraid you would say,” the Prince responded in a disappointed tone.

  “To keep him quiet, Sire,” the Marquis went on, “I have paid him for the Van Dyck.”

  “You have? That was extremely generous of you, Virgo, and of course I am very grateful.”

  “At the same time,” the Marquis said, “I was wondering whether you would loan it to me, or the Lochner, so that I can continue my search for the truth. I might want to show them to several people, but I think it would be a mistake for them to know that you are involved in any investigations I might make.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, I see your point!” the Prince agreed. “Take whichever one you wish, but don’t forget that I shall want it back.”

  The Marquis was so pleased at the Prince’s agreement that, almost without meaning to do so, he looked with delight at the Lochner painting.

  “Of course,” the Prince said hastily, “I would rather you took the Van Dyck, which has not yet been hung.”

  The Marquis was disappointed, but did not show it.

  “The Van Dyck it shall be, Sire,” he said, “and I hope it will not be long before I can return it to you.”

  “When you do, of course, you will have solved the mystery about them,” the Prince added.

  “Of course,” the Marquis agreed.

  “You will dine with me?”

  The Prince asked the question without much hope that the invitation would be accepted, but to his surprise the Marquis replied,

  “I should be delighted to do so, Sire.”

  The Prince looked at him searchingly.

  “You have not prevaricated. So, my instinct tells me, although I may be wrong, that last night was not a resounding success!”

  The Marquis laughed.

  “You are too perceptive, Sire.”

  The Prince linked his arm through that of his friend.

  “We all have our failures,” he said consolingly, “or what you could well call our disillusionments.”

  “That is true,” the Marquis agreed.

  He did not elaborate on the subject, for, although he knew that the Prince would have liked him to do so, he had made it a rule never to talk of the women on whom he bestowed his favours and he did not intend to break it now.

  The Prince was right in thinking that yesterday evening had been a failure.

  The Marquis had anticipated that Lady Abbott would amuse him and would prove as provocative as her gown had been at the Devonshire House party.

  Unfortunately, everything that happened had a familiarity about it that made the Marquis begin to feel bored within quite a short time of arriving at Lady Abbott’s mansion.

  The servants had been waiting for him in the hall and he had known, as he was escorted up the wide staircase to the first floor, that he would find discreet lights, a flower-filled boudoir and his hostess wearing a diaphanous negligée.

  “I hope you will not mind, my Lord, if we dine here tonight,” she said. “I have been a little fatigued today and need to rest.”

  Her glance at him from her slanting eyes under her darkened eyelashes belied the truth of her words and it was all too obvious what she expected.

  It was like the setting of a play, the Marquis thought savagely, in which he had performed the leading role a thousand times so that he was word perfect.

  Even the candlelit dinner served by silently moving servants seemed to taste the same, as did the wines, and, when they were alone and there was one of those silences pregnant with meaning between them, the Marquis had an almost irresistible impulse to thank her Ladyship for her hospitality and leave.

  That he had not done so was due to the fact that he thought a scene of injured feelings, protestations and perhaps even tears would be more than he could endure.

  Instead he had played the part expected of him and gone home cursing himself for being such a fool as to have expected anything different.

  ‘I obviously have a penchant for fakes!’ he told himself in the carriage driving back to Berkeley Square.

  Then his thoughts were with Cyrilla again and he knew that it was due to her and her alone that he had found the evening so banal and Lady Abbott’s attractions too obvious.

  He had gone to bed thinking of that small exquisite face with its huge eyes and the expression of purity and spirituality that he had never seen before in any woman he had ever known.

  He knew now that he wanted the hours to pass quickly so that he could return to Islington and see Cyrilla again, but he could hardly call on her at half-past seven in the morning and his horse, a fine stallion which was hard to control, was waiting for him outside the front door.

  He swung himself into the saddle and rode quickly towards the Park.

  Having reached it, he thought the freshness of the air and even the slight mist that still hung over the Serpentine reminded him of Cyrilla.

  She was as young as the morning, as fresh as the daffodils, the golden heralds of spring growing beneath the trees.

  Having arrived back at Berkeley Square, the Marquis had changed his clothes and dealt with a number of letters and problems concerning his estates presented to him by his secretary and had at last felt free to follow his inclination to reach Islington as quickly as possible.

  He drove off so intent upon his thoughts that he did not even see the raised hats of several of his male acquaintances and the wistful glances accorded him by a number of ladies.

  As he passed, they were thinking that no man could look more attractive, even though, as they well knew, such attractions were dangerous to those who succumbed to them.

  The Marquis reached Queen Anne Terrace in record time and, stepping down from his phaeton, rapped sharply on the door of number 17.

  There was no response for some time and he was wondering if, as had happened yesterday, Cyrilla was alone in the house while her maid had gone shopping.

  Then there was the sound of a bolt being pulled back and the door opened a few inches.

  It was the maid who stood there, the maid who had looked at him with disapproving eyes when he had driven away yesterday.

  He recognised her as the kind of superior elderly servant, who was usually to be found in far grander houses than this and in fact was the very backbone of his staff at Fane Park, where everything moved with traditional efficiency.

  “Good morning!” the Marquis said, as the maid did not speak. “I wish to see Miss Cyrilla Wyntack.”

  “Miss Cyrilla isn’t at home!”

  The words were spoken firmly and the maid would have shut the door, but the Marquis, by putting his hand on it, prevented her from doing so.

  “If she is out, I will wait.”

  “Miss Cyrilla isn’t receiving visitors,” the maid said in a tone of voice which suggested that he should have understood without explanation what being ‘not at home’ meant.

  “I think she will see me,” the Marquis said confidently.

  “No, my Lord!”

  “I insist!”

  It took a little of his strength to open the door wider and the maid stepped back a pace with the same hostile expression he had seen earlier.

  The Marquis waited, conscious that, as he had done before, he was using his authority without words.

  As he defeated her, the maid said at length,

  “If your Lordship’ll wait in the sitting room, I’ll tell Miss Cyrilla you’re here.” />
  The Marquis put his hat down on a chair and, as the maid opened the door for him, he walked into the sitting room.

  It seemed very small and he noticed, as he had been unable to do the day before, that the carpet was threadbare in places and the covers of the chairs had been neatly darned.

  He told himself that it was not the right setting for anyone so beautiful and so perfect as Cyrilla.

  ‘It is like seeing a perfect jewel set in pinchbeck instead of gold,’ he thought.

  He imagined the sort of background Cyrilla should have and knew that Lochner had seen it very clearly four hundred years ago.

  He heard footsteps outside the door and then she came in.

  One glance at her and the Marquis knew what had happened.

  He could see that she had been crying and he thought no woman could weep and look so ethereal while doing so.

  Her large eyes were still misty with tears, her lips were soft, her face was very pale and she looked, the Marquis thought, like a lily that has just been washed in the rain.

  For a moment they stood looking at each other, then neither the Marquis nor Cyrilla was certain afterwards how it happened, but suddenly she was in his arms, her face hidden against his shoulder and he could feel her whole body trembling.

  “I know what has happened,” the Marquis said in his deep voice.

  “Papa is – dead! He – died in his – sleep.”

  The words were very low and broken, but the Marquis heard them.

  “It has been a shock for you,” he said gently, “but you must be brave.”

  “I am – trying to be,” Cyrilla said, “but – everything seems to have come to a – stop because he is – no longer here.”

  “I think that is what we all feel when we lose someone we love,” the Marquis sighed.

  She did not answer and he knew that she was fighting against her tears and his arms tightened,

  “Have you arranged the funeral?”

  “N-no. Hannah said she – would find an undertaker – but perhaps I – ought to do that.”

  “You will do nothing of the sort,” the Marquis said. “Leave everything to me. He shall be buried in the manner that you would wish. I will not have you worrying about it and being made more unhappy than you are already.”

  Cyrilla gave a little sigh and he knew it was one of relief.

  “You are – very kind – and I know it is stupid of me – to feel so helpless.”

  The Marquis felt that she was a child whom he must protect and yet at the same time he was very conscious that the soft body he held in his arms was that of a woman.

  “Come and sit down,” he suggested. “Then I will go and talk to your maid and tell her that I will arrange everything.”

  “But we – ought not to – impose upon you.”

  She raised her head from his shoulder and looked up at him and the Marquis thought the tears in her eyes and on her cheeks made her even more beautiful than she had been when she came into the room.

  “You were not imposing on me,” he replied, “you are merely allowing me to do what I want to do, which is to look after you.”

  For a moment she was still and then she said again,

  “You are – very kind,” and moved away from him to sit on the sofa.

  With any other woman the Marquis would have thought such an action was deliberate so that he could sit next to her, but he knew Cyrilla’s thoughts were entirely with her dead father.

  A moment later he sat beside her, but not too near, nor did he touch her.

  “Is there a Church you have attended near here?” he enquired.

  “Hannah and I go to Church on Sundays at St. Mary’s,” she replied.

  “I will see the Vicar of St. Mary’s and arrange that your father shall be buried in the churchyard. ”

  “That is what I would – like,” Cyrilla said, “but – please – will you ask that he should be next to – Mama?”

  “Your mother is buried there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I am sure that will present no difficulties. Leave everything to me.”

  “How can I – thank you? I was – feeling so – lost, so terribly alone – and now – you are here.”

  “Yes, I am here,” the Marquis said firmly, “and so you are not lost, Cyrilla, nor are you alone. Please just leave everything to me.”

  He saw Hannah in the kitchen before he left the house and, although he had the feeling that she was wary of him and was certainly not inclined to trust him, she was not so hostile when she learnt that he was to see to the funeral.

  At the same time she asked,

  “Why should you bother yourself, my Lord?”

  “For one reason – because as a patron of the arts I realise that Mr. Wyntack was an extremely accomplished artist.”

  “It’s a pity more people didn’t think so when he was alive!” Hannah remarked tartly.

  “I think you will appreciate that Mr. Wyntack did not paint the sort of pictures that were likely to be popular with the type of customer who lives in this neighbourhood.”

  The Marquis heard her snort, but he knew she was aware that he was speaking the truth.

  He put some money down on the kitchen table.

  “Buy Miss Cyrilla everything she requires.”

  Hannah hesitated and, thinking that she was going to refuse, he quickly said,

  “I think you are both in need of nourishing food and, as I have said, I appreciated Mr. Wyntack as an artist.”

  Hannah knew it was an excuse so that he could help Cyrilla, but for the moment she was prepared to accept it

  “Thank you, my Lord,” she said in a not too gracious tone and dropped a curtsey.

  The Marquis was smiling as he left the house to drive to the Vicarage of St. Mary’s.

  The Vicar was home and the Marquis told him the reason why he had called.

  “I don’t remember, my Lord, ever meeting Mr. Wyntack,” the Cleric said, “but his daughter comes to Church with her maid every Sunday and I buried her mother two years ago.”

  “May I see the grave?” the Marquis enquired.

  “Of course, my Lord.”

  The Vicar escorted him out through a side door into the churchyard.

  “The tombstone is a very simple one,” he said. “I imagine they could not afford anything better.”

  The Marquis did not reply. He was reading what was inscribed,

  Lorraine

  Beloved of Frans Wyntack and Cyrilla

  Born: 1761. Died: 1800

  The tombstone was strangely worded, the Marquis thought, probably owing to the fact that Wyntack was a foreigner, but what he noticed particularly was that Cyrilla’s mother had been only thirty-nine when she died.

  ‘And she was very beautiful,’ he thought, remembering the painting that Cyrilla had shown him. ‘As beautiful as her daughter!’

  He wished he could have seen them together.

  But if Lorraine was dead, Cyrilla was very much alive and the Marquis knew that, having found her, he must never lose her again.

  He made arrangements with the Vicar for the funeral to take place within the next twenty-four hours.

  He was well aware that nothing could be more upsetting than to be in a house with a corpse, and because he was prepared to pay, the undertakers whom he saw next were ready to do anything that he asked.

  The Marquis was too tactful and also too careful of Cyrilla’s reputation to attend the burial service.

  It was unlikely that anyone would take the slightest notice of the death of an obscure and unknown artist in Islington, but one never knew.

  He therefore arranged for the hearse and for a carriage for Cyrilla and Hannah and sent a profusion of expensive flowers, but he stayed away until it was all over.

  Frans Wyntack was buried with an opulence he had never known in his lifetime and his grave was covered with wreaths that gave it a beauty he would certainly have appreciated.

  As they were driving back to
Queen Anne Terrace, Cyrilla said to Hannah,

  “I could not – believe, as I listened to the service that it was – Papa we were burying. I felt he had – already left us and was – happy with Mama.

  Hannah did not answer, but wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.

  “Do you remember when Mama was alive,” Cyrilla went on, “that she always seemed to know long before he opened the door that he was returning home? She would be on her feet and in the hall and then she would run towards him, crying, ‘Frans, oh, Frans, I have missed you! You have taken care of – yourself?’”

  Cyrilla’s voice broke on the words and she went on as if she spoke to herself,

  “Perhaps Mama will – think we did not take – care of him – properly.”

  “We did our best, Miss Cyrilla,” Hannah said gravely,

  “You were wonderful,” Cyrilla said, “but he ought not to have caught the chill that made him cough all last month. We should have made certain that he put on his overcoat before he went to see the dealers.”

  “He’d never listen!”

  “Only to Mama,” Cyrilla agreed.

  “It’s no use your reproaching yourself, Miss Cyrilla,” Hannah remarked. “We did our best and seeing how ill he was these last weeks, he’d not have wished to linger. Tossing and turning all night he was and often talking to your mother as if he really believed she was there.”

  “Perhaps she – was,” Cyrilla said beneath her breath.

  Then they were home.

  It was extraordinary, she thought, how the house seemed only an empty shell and because of it she had nothing to do.

  She went up to the studio to look at Frans Wyntack’s canvases, picking up those that were nearly completed and trying to understand what he had intended to portray with his strange splashes of light.

  ‘The Marquis – understood,’ she told herself.

  As if the thought of him conjured him up, at that moment she heard his voice in the passage, then his footsteps on the stairs.

  She felt her heart leap and, when he came into the room, he saw the joy in her eyes.

  He seemed very big and secure and it struck her that because he was there, the house no longer seemed empty and she was no longer lost and alone.

  “Hannah tells me everything went off well,” he said.