A Theatre of Love

Chapter One ~ 1879-1

Chapter One ~ 1879The Duke of Moorminster arrived back in England in a bad temper.

It had been a very tiring trip to Holland where he had been at the request of Queen Victoria and the Prime Minister.

If there was one thing he found boring it was the speeches made by Statesmen who looked like Burgomasters.

Also those made by Burgomasters, who looked exactly like the portraits of their ancestors in the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam and he wondered as he listened if anything eventually evolved from such long-winded platitudes.

However, by what he considered extremely good luck, he was able to leave Holland a day earlier than he had expected.

He therefore, through the British Embassy, cabled to London to alert his staff.

He knew, if nothing else, that he would have a good dinner waiting for him on his return.

Fate was, however, against him as the ship leaving from Rotterdam was delayed for a long period of time and the voyage was then extremely rough.

The Duke was a good sailor, but it was raining heavily and far too cold to go out on deck.

So he was confined to a cabin, which, he thought scornfully, was too small for a rabbit hutch.

It was some consolation when he stepped ashore at London Dock to find his own carriage drawn by two of his well-bred houses waiting patiently for him.

And his secretary was fortunately there to see to his luggage.

Having greeted Mr. Watson, he drove off intent only on reaching his house in Grosvenor Square and having a long hot bath.

It was far later than he had intended and he was therefore feeling hungry.

Even the glass of champagne, which his butler had ready for him, and some pâté de foie gras sandwiches did not entirely change his mood.

When he reached his house, he went upstairs straightaway to his room and he was frowning.

The footman, who was there to valet him until his own valet arrived with his luggage, looked at him apprehensively.

Mr. Watson had left the more urgent of the letters awaiting the Duke on his chest of drawers.

He was very pleased to see that there were only a few of them, but he knew that there would be a large pile waiting for him downstairs in his study. He had no intention of reading any of them until tomorrow.

He looked at those on his chest of drawers and saw that there was one in a blue envelope.

He recognised the hand-writing, as Mr. Watson had done, and so had not opened it.

The Duke, put the other letters aside and slitting open the envelope drew out a note from Fiona Faversham.

He knew before he even read it that it was a letter to welcome him back home.

She had, of course, expected that he would receive it tomorrow.

Lady Fiona Faversham was now so much a part of his life that he wondered sometimes just why she troubled to write to him.

Whilst he was away in Holland, he had received a letter from her almost every day.

It seemed unnecessary now for her to write to him welcoming him home.

She undoubtedly expected him to be with her tomorrow evening for dinner.

Then, when he read the endearments that she started her letter with, he knew the reason.

It was all too obvious for him to even try to question it.

Fiona wished to marry him.

It was in fact assumed by most of their friends that that was what he would eventually do.

Nearly thirty-four, the Duke was well aware that his whole family thought that it was now time that he produced an heir.

They continually hinted that it was in fact his duty as the Head of the Family.

They were indeed prepared to welcome Lady Fiona with open arms.

She was one of the most beautiful women in England and they all believed that he was infatuated with her. To make everything even more sublime, she was also the daughter of the Duke of Cumbria.

The only stumbling-block in all of this was that the Duke himself had no wish to be married.

If he had to be, he preferred to choose his own wife irrespective of anybody else’s ideas.

He most certainly did not want in any circumstance to be pressured up the aisle by people who, he thought, should mind their own business.

And that firmly included his whole family.

He carried out all his duties as he was expected to do where it concerned the innumerable uncles, aunts and an amazing number of cousins.

But he disliked their presuming on their relationship or interfering in his private life.

It was true that he found Lady Fiona very attractive. When she had burst on London when her days of mourning were over, he had found that it was impossible to resist her.

She had been married when she was not yet eighteen to Lord Faversham. He not only came from one of the oldest families in England but was at the time extremely wealthy.

He was also a very attractive and charming gentleman.

Someone had remarked that he had enjoyed more love affairs than most people had hot dinners.

He had fallen wildly in love with Lady Fiona.

He had swept her off her feet and had beguiled her family into believing that he would ‘turn over a new leaf’.

Human nature being what it is, he did nothing of the sort.

After a honeymoon visiting all the romantic places in Europe, Lord Faversham had returned to England with his bride.

He had then taken up his life from where it had left off.

The trouble was that Eric Faversham could not resist a pretty face.

“It really means nothing, darling,” he had told Fiona.

She had caught him out spending the night with a woman whose beauty embellished the pages of the magazines and newspapers.

“But you have been unfaithful to me!” Fiona had protested plaintively.

“I love you and I promise you that what I felt for Isobel was no more important than drinking a glass of champagne.”

Unfortunately, as the years passed by, the ‘glasses of champagne’ multiplied.

Fiona was asserting that she could stand no more of it when Eric Faversham was killed.

He was taking part in a Steeplechase in which all the riders had wined and dined far too well.

Because some idiotic member of the party had dared them to do so, they had ridden after dinner.

They wore their evening clothes with one eye covered with a black patch.

Several riders in the race had suffered injuries and two horses had had to be destroyed.

Eric Faversham had broken his neck and he had died instantly.

Fiona had not pretended in any way to grieve for him.

His numerous love affairs had humiliated her and it hurt her greatly to know that she could not hold her husband.

Yet her beauty, which had improved with age, sent other men into ecstasies.

She had retired to her father’s house in the country for the conventional year of mourning.

Queen Victoria would not have approved of the year being shortened under any circumstances.

Fiona was sensible enough to return to London only when she had put away the last of her mauve and grey gowns.

Anyway they had not become her half so well as when she had worn black and more black.

Because her hair was red, the deep red of Hungarian women, her skin was dazzlingly white.

Her eyes were not the clear green that they should have been with such colouring.

At the same time once a man had looked deeply into them he felt as if he had just fallen into a whirlpool. And there was no chance of being saved.

To say that Fiona caused a sensation in London Society would be to describe it mildly.

At twenty-five she was no longer the innocent unsophisticated girl she had been when she first married.

Her husband had taught her about love.

She had also learnt a great deal from the women who he had likened to ‘glasses of champagne’.

Fiona made up her mind that her second marriage would be very different from her first.

Apart from anything else, she discovered after Eric’s death that he had left a mountain of debts and was not nearly as wealthy as both she and her parents had been led to believe in the first place.

He had been wildly extravagant in the way that he lived and especially in the parties he gave.

Besides this he was unnecessarily generous to the women who he favoured and at the same time he was a compulsive gambler.

There was enough money left for Fiona to be comfortable.

But it was not the great fortune that she had eagerly anticipated.

She knew, however, that she wanted a position in Society second only to Royalty.

She also desired a husband who was wealthy enough to fully indulge her every whim.

There was only one man who could fulfill all these requirements and one man who was attractive enough to make her heart beat faster.

He was the Duke of Moorminster.

When almost by instinct they gravitated towards each other the first time they met, she thought that she had won the ‘Jackpot’.

The difficulty was to persuade him to say the five magical words,

“Will you be my wife?”

As it happened, the Duke was well aware of Fiona’s intentions from the very first.

He had been angled for, pursued and seduced by every woman he met from the moment he left Eton.

He would have been very stupid not to be aware that he was the biggest matrimonial catch in the country.

He had learned to recognise the danger signals even before he was forced to confront them.

He had grown very adept at managing to avoid the more obvious traps set for him by ambitious mothers of debutante daughters.

He found Fiona amusing, witty and very sure of herself in a way that he really appreciated.

They were in reality two of a kind and, when he became her lover, he found that he had to exert himself, which was unusual, in order to dominate the situation as he was always accustomed to do.

She was compliant and, as somebody had said, they ‘talked the same language’.

He therefore found it easy to enjoy a scenario which he felt confident he could control.

He allowed Fiona to become a very essential part of his life and in London they saw each other almost every day.

They were invited to the same parties and, if he gave one himself, she played the hostess.

When he went to the country the same thing happened and, having helped him choose the guests, Lady Fiona came with him.

She made everything during the week or weekend pass smoothly and most enjoyably.

He hardly noticed when she moved her bedroom next to his because it was ‘more convenient’.

He had taken it very much for granted that they would dine together the following night when he had expected to return from Holland.

It was actually an oversight or perhaps for once he was being a little more cautious.

But he had neglected to instruct his secretary in his cablegram to inform Lady Fiona that he was to return earlier than expected.

After his bath, he went downstairs to dinner.

He thought with a large dining room it would have been pleasant to have her sitting beside him.

She would be telling all that had happened while he had been away and he knew that she would be amusing and he recognised that too there would be a great deal for him to hear.

Who the Prince of Wales was courting and who had quarrelled with whom.

And, of course, what new affaires de coeur were taking place amongst their intimate friends.

It was actually very unusual for the Duke to dine alone.

As the silence was somewhat oppressive, he talked to his butler as he and two footmen served the meal.

Redding, who had been with him for many years, was closely in touch with the servants at Moor Hall.

The Duke therefore learnt what were the prospects for a good bag at the shoot he had arranged for Boxing Day.

He also learnt how good the hunting had been since he had been away.

“They’d an excellent run on Saturday, Your Grace,” Redding was saying, “and a kill in Bluebell Wood just afore they reached the pool.”

The Duke knew exactly where that was and he wished that he had been there to enjoy the day.