Stars in the Sky

by Barbara Cartland

  "I…should like to go home, sir," she gasped. "Take me home!"

  "No, my dear, no!" cried the Count. "I want the woman who is to be my wife to be more knowledgeable in the ways of the world!"

  The driver whipped the horses on. Sylvia struggled to the window and gazed out, trying to see where they were heading. The handsome houses of Park Lane slipped by…the dark expanse of the park. Then they were hurtling along Oxford Street…the gloomy area around St Giles…plunging on into narrow, ill-lit streets, that even at this hour of the morning were not deserted.

  Figures lounged in doorways, men in long cloaks with hoods hiding their faces flitted in and out of carriages and disappeared through lamp-lit doorways. Sylvia was astonished at the sight of such activity, hours after the sun had set and not long before it would rise. Who were these people and did they ever sleep?

  The coach drew up outside a wooden, nail-studded door. The Count forced Sylvia out first. Then he gestured to the coachman to wait along the street, by a horse trough. As the coach drew away the Count turned and hammered on the door.

  A grille set in the door was drawn aside and a face looked out. It perused the Count and Sylvia for a moment. Then the grille slid shut and a second later the door opened. A portly doorman, in a striped waistcoat and breeches, beckoned them through. Sylvia hung back, glancing desperately up and down the street as if in the forlorn hope of seeing a friendly face.

  The Count squeezed her arm until she almost yelped.

  "Come on," he ordered through gritted teeth.

  Reluctantly she passed through the nail-studded door with him.

  A woman with violent red hair was coming towards them as they entered. She stood aside to allow them to pass.

  "Very nice too, Count," she smirked, indicating Sylvia.

  Sylvia barely glanced at her as she stumbled on. The passageway was narrow and lit by hissing gas jets. The walls seemed to be covered with posters advertising nightclub acts. There was a musky smell in the air.

  The Count kept a grip on Sylvia's elbow to hurry her along.

  Down some stairs, covered in surprisingly lush carpet and through a red velvet curtain, Sylvia entered a world she could hardly imagine existed.

  Smoke, shot through with the light from several chandeliers, hung in the air like a red mist. The atmosphere was so heavy with various perfumes that Sylvia could barely breathe. Men and women crowded around gaming tables or lounged on sofas. There was the constant sound of champagne corks popping, the buzz of conversation, screeches of triumph or groans of despair as the roulette wheel spun to a halt.

  What truly shocked Sylvia, however, was the fact that a great many of the patrons of the establishment seemed to be in various stages of undress.

  The men had discarded their cravats…undone their shirt collars…rolled up their sleeves. The women had loosened their hair…were in corsets and bloomers…or dresses cut so low at the front that little was left to the imagination.

  Sylvia kept her eyes down as the Count steered her through the jostling, leering crowd.

  "She's a ripe one!" leered a large, yellow-faced gentleman, pinching Sylvia's arm.

  A woman in bright green with heavily rouged cheeks and dark circles under her eyes, barred their way. Ignoring Sylvia, she reached up and traced a finger over the Count's lips.

  "I haven't seen you for a few weeks, duckie!" she murmured. "Forgot your little Kitty, have you?"

  The Count caught the woman's wrist, turned her hand over, and pressed his lips to her palm. "How could I forget – a woman so talented – in the arts of pleasure?"

  Sylvia closed her eyes for a moment. This was a nightmare. The Count was behaving in a reckless manner, as if wishing to provoke his fiancée. She realised that it was the effect of the copious amounts of drink he had no doubt taken that evening and she longed to be out of this place, away from him…safe at home.

  What could she do? Was there a single human being here who would help her escape? Whether it was the result of the smoke, or her own fatigue, the faces that loomed about her seemed distorted in feature, garish in colour.

  One woman parted full, reddened lips to reveal stumps of black teeth. Another, under clouds of pink powder, betrayed skin marked by smallpox. The eyes of the men seemed inflamed, their cheeks pitted with burst veins.

  Sylvia felt plunged into an inferno of vice and depravity.

  Other women came to flutter around the Count like floridly coloured birds. Sylvia felt herself elbowed aside. Then someone slipped an arm under her cloak and round her waist.

  It was the yellow-faced gentleman.

  "Ah! The little fish has slipped from the net. What bait do I have to use to catch her?"

  Sylvia struggled out of his grasp. "N..no bait at all, sir," she stammered. "J..just call me a carriage please and I shall be most obliged."

  The yellow-faced gentleman chuckled unpleasantly. "Let the fish go again? Not likely. Why don't we go for a ride in my carriage? There are places I know, secret places, where we'd be undisturbed."

  Tears filled Sylvia's eyes. As the gentleman lunged towards her again she drew back, stumbling against the figure of another gentleman behind her.

  "I..I'm sorry," she said, without turning.

  A firm hand grasped her elbow. "Might I be of service, madam?"

  The voice was so wonderfully, reassuringly familiar that Sylvia's head whipped round in immediate relief. "L..Lord Farron. Oh, take me home, please. Take me home!"

  She was too faint for the moment to register the utter coldness in his eyes as he bowed in compliance.

  "Come with me," he said.

  The yellow-faced gentleman stared after them open mouthed.

  Lord Farron led Sylvia through the crowd, which parted quickly before him after one glance at his stern, set features.

  As they reached the stairway he turned to regard her. "You have everything you came with?" he asked.

  Sylvia nodded, now noticing with a pang his cool manner towards her. As cool as it had been earlier at Lady Lambourne's. Her heart felt as if it would burst. If he had thought so little of her then, what must he think of her now, having found her at the Black Garter Club?

  On the other hand, she thought suddenly, what was Lord Farron himself doing in such a place?

  Swallowing, she ventured a question. "H..have you ever…been here before?"

  "Never!" he replied curtly.

  Puzzled as to why he should then be here on this occasion, she was about to follow Lord Farron up the stairs that led to the exit, when someone caught at her arm and halted her progress.

  "What's this? My fiancée sneaking off with a stranger?"

  Lord Farron turned from three steps above. "Hardly a stranger, Count von Brauer," he said.

  "Ah! It's you, Farron. What's your game?"

  "I am taking the young lady home, as she requested," replied Lord Farron coolly.

  The Count swayed as he stared at Lord Farron and his words were slurred. "Sheems to be shomething of a habit with you – rescuing damsels – in distress."

  Lord Farron's eyes narrowed. "Seems to be something of a habit with you, causing distress," he said. He held his hand out to Sylvia. "Come, madam."

  Sylvia was about to take his hand, when the Count burst past her and lunged up the stairs at Lord Farron.

  "The devil you'll take Sylvia with you," he grunted.

  Lord Farron, stepping to one side, caught hold of the Count's raised arm and hurled him back down the stairs. He landed groaning at Sylvia's feet. His eyes closed and opened and closed again.

  He was unconscious.

  Sylvia stared down at him. He was her fiancé, but she did not want to touch him or help him. She felt humiliated and embarrassed before Lord Farron.

  Lord Farron beckoned to the doorman who had come to the top of the stairs at the sound of the commotion.

  "Do you know where this gentleman lodges?" he asked.

  "I do," said the doorman. He mentioned the name of a street.


  Lord Farron nodded. "Then help me carry him to my coach," he said.

  "W..where are you taking him?" asked Sylvia.

  Without looking at her, Lord Farron replied. "Since his lodgings lie on the way to Mayfair, I will deposit him there first to – sleep off the effects of this night's entertainments. I will then take you on to your home."

  Not saying another word, Sylvia, hanging her head, followed Lord Farron and the doorman as they carried the Count to the coach. Lord Farron gave the address to the coach driver and they set off.

  *

  Sylvia sat back numbly in the carriage. Neither she nor Lord Farron spoke a word. The Count, sprawled on the seat beside Sylvia, breathed heavily through open lips. Sylvia thought she would die of mortification.

  Lord Farron must surely wonder what had drawn her to this odious man in the first place. He must wonder what she had been thinking of, accompanying her fiancé to such a den of iniquity.

  Only when the carriage drew to a halt again did Sylvia raise her eyes. For a moment she quite forgot her misery in surprise at what she saw beyond the carriage window.

  They did not seem to have travelled far from the Black Garter Club. They were in a mean, gloomy street lined with tall, narrow and grimy houses. Was it possible that the wealthy and well-connected Count lodged in one of these dwellings?

  It seemed so, for Lord Farron flung open the door and called for the driver's help in removing the Count.

  The Count, however, stirred at this point. Semiconscious, he was able to stagger from the carriage unaided. Lord Farron then put an arm under his shoulder and helped him towards the front door of a house marked number 12. The Count started to fumble in his pockets for a key.

  The coach driver settled back in his seat and sat lightly flicking his whip in the cold air.

  Sylvia stared at the façade of number 12. Did her father and stepmother know that the Count inhabited such dingy lodgings? Or had the Count been careful to only ever receive guests at his exclusive gentlemen's club in Pall Mall?

  A chill ran over her, as she wondered whether it was for its proximity to the Black Garter Club, that the Count had chosen these lodgings in the first place. He certainly must frequent the Black Garter a great deal, to be so familiar with many of its other patrons.

  "I need to stretch my legs," said the coachman suddenly above her. He climbed down from his box and strolled off along the street.

  Sylvia peered back at the doorway of number 12. The Count seemed to have found his key, for as she looked the front door opened and the two men disappeared inside. The door swung behind them but did not fully close.

  She glanced up the street at the retreating figure of the coachman. She realised from the sudden gleam near his mouth that he had lit a cigarette or a pipe. That's what he meant by 'stretch my legs,' she thought wanly.

  A man tottered up to the carriage window and looked in.

  "My word, but you're a charmer," he mumbled. It was obvious he was drunk.

  Sylvia drew back into the darkness of the coach. She had never in her life visited such streets as these nor encountered such people.

  The drunk staggered away. Sylvia wrapped her cloak around her. She was beginning to feel cold.

  At that moment she heard the sound of a scuffle from within the hallway of number 12.

  She flung open the door of the coach and almost tumbled out. She glanced up the street. The coachman was well beyond earshot now. She would have to really shout loudly to attract his attention and who knew what friends of the Count might be lurking nearby? The drunk was clinging to the iron railings of a house further along the street, but she would never have dreamed of approaching him for help.

  A cry of rage and then a thud issued from the hallway.

  It was clear that the Count had attacked Lord Farron again.

  Without another thought Sylvia hurried across the pavement to the Count's lodgings and pushed open the door. She blinked within the shadowy hallway, peering ahead of her.

  With a rush of relief she saw the Count lying flat on his back on the cold tiles.

  She took a deep breath and then moved down the passageway.

  Lord Farron, standing over the Count, looked up at the sound of Sylvia's footsteps.

  "He appeared to recover full consciousness and – decided to attack me again," he said. "I'm afraid I had to – knock him out. Rather hard."

  Sylvia nodded blankly. She was so thankful that Lord Farron had not been harmed.

  A door at the end of the passageway opened and a woman came out. Sylvia recognised the same red-haired woman who had been in the entrance of the Black Garter Club.

  "Lor' lummy," the woman said, approaching the recumbent Count, "he's had a skinfull, by the looks of it."

  "Which is his room?" asked Lord Farron coldly.

  The woman raised an eyebrow. "His suite is at the top of the house," she replied. "I lit a fire for him when I got in. Need any help getting him up there?"

  "None," said Lord Farron. He hoisted the Count on to his shoulders and started up the stairs. Sylvia hesitated and then, under the red-haired woman's amused gaze, followed him up.

  Lord Farron kicked open the door to the Count's room.

  This was not quite as drab as the rest of the house. Gas flickered in sconces on the wall and a fire burned brightly in the hearth. There were heavy velvet curtains at the window and one or two pieces of fine furniture, including two large sofas. A large book, surrounded by papers and smaller tomes, lay open on a table.

  Lord Farron dropped the Count on to one of the sofas and swung his legs up so that he was lying flat. Then he glanced at Sylvia.

  "Since you are here, perhaps you had better minister to your – fiancé yourself," he said in a bitter tone.

  Sylvia could not look at him. She nodded miserably and then pushed open the door set in the wall opposite. She discovered a washstand and basin in the small bedroom beyond. She poured a little water into the basin and, a flannel over her arm, carried the basin back to the unconscious Count.

  Lord Farron observed her from under dark brows all the while. When she undid the Count's collar, however, he turned abruptly away.

  Sylvia moistened the flannel in the basin and started to dab the Count's bruised forehead. Her actions were mechanical. She barely registered the Count at all. Although she never fully looked Lord Farron's way, she was yet aware of his every action.

  He moved about the room, reading the spines of the books on the shelves, or examining the few paintings on the wall with his head on one side. Sylvia ached for a kind glance or word from him.

  There was no sound in the room other than the crackle of the fire and the laboured breathing of the Count.

  "I…want you to know…I had no choice but to…accompany the Count…to that dreadful place," said Sylvia at last in a low voice.

  Lord Farron straightened a book on the shelf. "I know."

  Sylvia was surprised. She moved the Count's hair away from his forehead and started to clean a wound there. "You….you said you had never been…to the club before."

  "I haven't."

  Sylvia looked up at Lord Farron, perplexed. "Then why….?"

  "…was I there tonight?" Lord Farron finished Sylvia's sentence.

  Sylvia nodded. Lord Farron seemed to weigh his reply.

  "I had reason to believe that I would find – someone there in need of my assistance," he said eventually.

  Sylvia flushed at the idea that that someone might be – must surely be – herself. Before she could say a word, however, the Count slipped sideways on the sofa, his head rolling to hang over the edge. Sylvia rushed to support him at the same time as Lord Farron. As they lifted the Count's head back in place, their fingers met.

  The touch of Lord Farron's skin on hers sent a jolt through Sylvia. She almost moaned aloud at the sensation.

  Lord Farron himself stepped back as if burnt by the encounter. He passed a hand across his brow and then stared down at the Count. His lip curled in distast
e.

  "Why are you to give yourself – to that man?" he burst out fiercely.

  Sylvia flushed again but did not – could not – reply. Lord Farron turned on his heel and continued his prowl of the room.

  She dipped the flannel into the basin again and dabbed away a trickle of blood that had run down the Count's cheek. Every so often she cast an agonised gaze at Lord Farron.

  Lord Farron halted before the table on which was spread open the large, leather-bound tome. Lord Farron started as he saw that this was an ancient book of astronomy. In the middle of the open pages, a paper weight held down a piece of red-stained cloth. Leaning close to look, Lord Farron gave a loud exclamation.

  Sylvia looked at him, the flannel held in mid-air. She did not notice water starting to drip on the Count's face.

  "W..what is it?" she ventured to ask.

  Lord Farron frowned at her. "I'm not sure," he said.

  The cloth appeared to be a square of bandage and the red on it was – blood. The pages that lay beneath depicted a section of the sky at night, with all the stars marked.

  He took up the cloth. There was writing on it in black ink and, holding it closer to a gas lamp that stood on the table, he began to read.

  It was at this point that the Count, perhaps half drawn to consciousness by the drops of water on his face, began to mutter insensibly.

  Sylvia turned and stared down at him.

  "Below the one and then below – the greater O – cannot but follow – alpha's light – within the maze – holy stone – "

  Sylvia frowned. His words made no sense to her.

  Lord Farron, at first deeply engrossed in reading the cloth, suddenly looked up and listened with a keener ear to the Count's delirious words. He looked back at the cloth.

  "He is repeating some of what is written here," he said slowly.

  "And w..what is that?" asked Sylvia in a low voice.

  "It appears to be a poem or riddle of some kind," responded Lord Farron. "It corresponds in some way to the – map of the heavens – open on this page."

  "That book belongs to the Count?" asked Sylvia in disbelief. Her fiancé had never mentioned an interest in astronomy to her.

  "Let me see," said Lord Farron. With his free hand he flicked the pages to the frontispiece of the book. A name was written there on a bookplate.