A Shaft of Sunlight

CHAPTER ONE 1819-1

CHAPTER ONE 1819The butler at Alverstode House in Grosvenor Square was surprised to see the Viscount Frome alighting from his Phaeton.

His surprise was not connected with his Lordship’s appearance because he was used to such resplendence, knowing the Viscount’s ambition was to be the most acclaimed ‘Tulip of Fashion’ in the Beau Monde.

What however was astonishing was that the twenty-one year old Ward of the Duke of Alverstode had appeared so early in the morning.

Barrow was well aware that like the rest of the Dandies the Viscount rose late and spent at least two hours preparing himself to face a critical world.

Yet now when the hands of the clock had not reached nine the Viscount was walking up the steps towards him.

“Good morning, my Lord!” Barrow said. “You’ve come to see His Grace?”

“I am not too late?” the Viscount asked anxiously.

“No, indeed, my Lord. His Grace returned from riding but ten minutes ago, and Your Lordship’ll find him in the Breakfast room.”

The Viscount did not wait to hear any more, but walked across the impressive marble hall towards the breakfast room which overlooked the garden at the back of the house.

As he expected, the Duke of Alverstode was seated at a table in the window, with ‘The Times’ propped up in front of him on a silver stand while he ate a hearty breakfast with which he drank coffee.

As the Viscount walked into the room the Duke looked up with the same expression of surprise as had appeared on his butler's face.

“Good morning, Cousin Valerian,” the Viscount said.

“Good Heavens, Lucien! What brings you here at this early hour? Can you have been engaged in a duel that you have risen so early?”

“No, certainly not!” the Viscount replied sharply before he realised that his Guardian was merely teasing him.

He crossed the room to sit down on the other side of the table. Then there was a silence which told the Duke without it being put into words that his Ward was nervous.

“If it was not a duel,” he remarked after eating another mouthful of the lamb chop which was in front of him, “then what can be perturbing you?”

Again there was silence before almost as if the words burst from his lips the Viscount replied,“I am in love!”

“Again?” the Duke exclaimed, pausing in his eating.

“This is different!” the Viscount replied. “I know I have thought myself to be in love before, but this is very, very different.”

“In what way?” the Duke enquired.

The tone of his voice made the Viscount look at him apprehensively.

There was no doubt his Guardian was an extremely handsome man, but he was also an awesome one, and there was nobody in the whole of the Beau Monde who did not treat the Duke of Alverstode with respect.

Even the women who pursued him, and there were a great many of them, admitted when they were confidential with one another that they found him a little frightening.

Even the Regent was known to conform to the Duke’s opinion and seldom contradicted anything he said.

“I want to marry Claribel,” the Viscount said after a pause, “but you made me promise I would not propose marriage to anybody until I had your permission.”

“A very wise precaution on my part,” the Duke said dryly. “I cannot believe you would be very happy if I had allowed you to marry that Don’s daughter who took your fancy when you were at Oxford, or that Opera Dancer you assured me at the time, was the love of your life.”

“I was very young then,” the Viscount replied hastily.

“You are not so very old now.”

“I am old enough to know my own mind!” the Viscount retorted. “I know I shall be exceedingly happy with Claribel, and at least you cannot say she is ‘common’ which is how you referred to the other ladies who have engaged my attention.”

The Duke raised his eyebrows.

“ ‘Ladies’?” he queried and it was an insult.

“Have it your own way,” the Viscount said petulantly. “They were not ‘up to scratch’, as you pointed out to me in no uncertain terms, but you can hardly cut off my money as you threatened to do then because I want to marry Claribel, because for one thing she has a fortune of her own.”

“That is always useful,” the Duke conceded, “but tell me more about this new enchantress who has captured your somewhat vacillating heart.”

The Viscount needed no encouragement. He bent forward eagerly in his chair, his elbows on the table, to say,

“She is beautiful so beautiful that she makes me think she has stepped down from Olympus – and yet she loves me! Can you believe it? She loves me for myself!”

The Duke’s expression was rather more cynical than usual and he looked across the table thinking that a great number of women had already thought themselves in love with his Ward, and he was certain there would be a great many more.

The Viscount’s father was a distant cousin who had been killed at Waterloo, and it had been a distinct and not particularly pleasant shock for the Duke to find that he had become the Guardian of his son.

He was aware that the late Viscount Frome’s will had been made some years earlier while his own father was still alive.

It had simply stated that if anything happened to him while he was on active service with Wellington’s Army, his son and any other children he might have, were to become Wards of the Duke of Alverstode.

The Duke had often thought it was a careless omission on the part of the Solicitors who had drawn up his cousin’s will not to have named his father as the 3rd Duke.

This would have meant that he himself could have passed on what was undoubtedly a tiresome duty to some other member of the family.

At the same time, because he was legally Lucien’s Guardian, he was determined to see that the boy did not make what was in his opinion a disastrous marriage.

There was no doubt that everybody who had engaged or captured the Viscount’s attention up to date had been from a social point of view completely unacceptable.

There had been not only the two ladies already mentioned but also, the Duke remembered, a socially ambitious widow several years older than Lucien who had fancied herself a Viscountess.

Besides these a lady of very doubtful virtue had tried to make a great deal of trouble about her ‘broken heart’ which fortunately had been most successfully mended when she received a large number of golden sovereigns.

“Your eulogy of this mysterious creature of mythology is very touching,” the Duke said mockingly, “but so far you have omitted to tell me her name.”

“She is Claribel Stamford,” the Viscount said in a rapt voice.

He saw the frown of concentration on the Duke’s face as he tried to remember where he had heard the name.

“Stamford,” he said after a moment. “You do not mean that she is the daughter of Sir Jarvis Stamford, the race-horse owner?”

“That is right,” the Viscount said, “I thought you would remember him. He owns some excellent horse-flesh, and if you recall he pipped one of your horses to the post last year in the Cambridgeshire.”

“Victorious was off-colour that day!” the Duke said defensively, then laughed as he added, “I remember now that Stamford was certainly remarkably elated at beating me.”

“Even so, there is no need for you to be prejudiced against his daughter.”

“I have not said I am prejudiced,” the Duke protested.

“Then you will allow me to marry her?” the Viscount asked eagerly.

The Duke was silent.

He was thinking that at twenty-one his Ward was still very young, and in some ways as ingenuous and, in his opinion, as ‘hare-brained’ as any schoolboy.

He had also been very wild and in some people’s opinion had sowed a prodigious and unprecedented number of ‘wild oats’.

Not that the Duke thought any the worse of him because of that, for it was what he expected any young man would do when there was no war on which to expend his high spirits, regardless of who was injured in the process.

The Duke was quite certain in his own mind that Claribel, or whatever Lucien’s latest infatuation was called, was not likely to prove a more suitable wife than any other of the women who had taken his fancy.

While he was pondering the matter for some time in silence, the Viscount had been watching the Duke’s face anxiously, and now he said impetuously, “If you are going to refuse me permission to pay my addresses to Claribel, Cousin Valerian, I swear I will persuade her to run away with me and damn the consequences!”

The Duke stiffened and said sharply,“If she is the type of girl you should marry, and certainly the sort of girl to whom I would give my approval, she would refuse to do anything so outrageous!”

He paused before he added,

“No decent girl, and certainly none with any idea of correct behaviour, would contemplate for a moment posting to Gretna Green or being married in some ‘hole and corner’ manner which, as you are well aware, is only a type of blackmail on those who hold your best interests at heart.”

The Viscount threw himself back in his chair in a sulky manner.

“Now that I am twenty-one I thought I was allowed to be a man, not a puppet tied to your apron-strings!”

The Duke’s rather hard mouth twitched.

“A rather mixed metaphor, my dear Lucien,” he said, “but I get your meaning.”

“You certainly treat me as if I was in petticoats,” the Viscount complained.

“Strange though it may seem,” the Duke replied, “if I do, I am thinking of your interests and yours only. But I will certainly admit that Miss Stamford sounds a better proposition than anything you have suggested previously.”

There was a new light in the Viscount’s eyes.

“Then you will consider my request?”

“Most certainly!” the Duke replied.

Once again the Viscount was bending forward eagerly.

“You had best meet Claribel, and then you will understand why I wish to make her my wife.”

“That is just what I was about to suggest,” the Duke said, “and I always think it is best to see people at their own home against their natural background.”

“You mean... ?” the Viscount asked hesitatingly.

“I suggest you ask Sir Jarvis if he is prepared to invite you and me to stay with him for a day or so.”

“In the country?”

“Definitely in the country!” the Duke said firmly.

The Viscount looked at his Guardian uncertainly.

“I cannot quite understand, Cousin Valerian, why you think that is important.”

“Must I make explanations?” the Duke asked. “I should have thought my reasons were obvious.”

“Sir Jarvis has a house in London and Claribel enjoys attending Balls that are taking place there at the moment.”

“I am sure she does,” the Duke replied, “and as you dance very prettily she doubtless finds you an admirable partner.”

He did not make it sound a compliment and the Viscount, who fancied himself on the dance-floor, flushed a little resentfully. Then he said,“If I suggest a visit to the country and Sir Jarvis does not wish to leave London, what shall I do?”

“I think,” the Duke said loftily, “you will find Sir Jarvis will be only too agreeable to the suggestion of inviting me to be his guest. If on the other hand he prefers to wait indefinitely before issuing such an invitation, then, you, my dear Lucien, must wait too.”

There was something in the way the Duke spoke that told the Viscount there would be no point in arguing further.

At the same time he was worried in case Claribel who loved London would not wish to return to the country.

His thoughts were very obvious to the Duke who however had returned to his perusal of ‘‘The Times’, turning the newspaper over on its silver rack and drinking his coffee as he read it, apparently no longer interested in his Ward.

The Viscount did not speak for a few minutes.

Then he said hesitatingly, “I suppose, Cousin Valerian, I should thank you for not having given me a complete set-down. I am sure when you meet Claribel you will understand what I feel about her.”

“I am sure I shall,” the Duke replied.

He finished his coffee, put down the cup and pushing back his chair rose to his feet.

“And now,” he said, “I have a great deal of work to do. What really worries me is what you will find to occupy yourself with until your friends, who I believe seldom wake before noon, are capable of receiving you. .

“You are laughing at me,” the Viscount replied in an annoyed tone.