“You must forgive this intrusion,” he said, holding out his hand, “but we have had a slight accident at your very gates, which has resulted most regrettably in a bent wheel. If I may ask for your hospitality for only an hour or so, I should be extremely grateful.”
The Duke bowed his head.
“Your Royal Highness is welcome to anything I can offer. I have a blacksmith here at The Castle.”
“So I have already learnt,” the Prince replied, “and he is at this very moment, I believe, examining the wheel.”
“I hope I may offer Your Royal Highness some refreshment,” the Duke proposed.
“Thank you, thank you!” the Prince replied, and looked meaningfully towards Cyrilla, who was standing at her father’s side.
She was thinking, in fact, that the Prince was exactly as she had imagined he would be and she noted the twinkle in his eye which told her that he was well aware that her father was somewhat discomfited by his sudden appearance.
“May I present, Sire, my daughter, Lady Cyrilla Holm,” the Duke stated formally.
“Enchanted! Absolutely enchanted!” the Prince said, looking at Cyrilla with the admiring expression in his eyes with which he regarded every pretty woman.
Then, as she curtseyed, he exclaimed,
“Surely we have met? Or have I seen you somewhere before?”
“N-no – Your Royal Highness,” Cyrilla replied. At the same time the colour rose in her cheeks.
She was well aware where the Prince had seen her.
Then as the Prince began,
“But I am sure I am not mistaken. I have seen you. I never forget a face!”
“The Marquis of Fane!” Burton announced.
The Duke had been surprised at the Prince’s appearance, but, as Cyrilla turned towards the door, she froze into immobility.
The Marquis, for the moment unaware of her presence, walked down the room, his eyes on the Duke, wondering as he came what his reluctant host would say when he learnt that it would take longer to repair the wheel than he had at first thought.
It was only as he drew nearer that he became aware that the Duke was looking at him in an extremely hostile fashion and the Prince was staring at someone standing beside him.
He took just a fleeting glance at the object of His Royal Highness’s attention, then froze as Cyrilla had.
He stopped completely still and looked at her, his eyes widening and he knew that his whole body had come alive!
She was here!
She was standing in front of him and his search was over!
“Cyrilla!”
He heard his voice say her name and was surprised that he was able to speak.
The Duke was frowning, but the Prince looked from the Marquis to Cyrilla, then gave a sudden exclamation.
“Now I know who she reminds me of and I know too who you have been looking for – the Virgin in the Lochner painting!”
The Prince’s voice ringing out broke the spell that had held the Marquis motionless.
He stepped forward to Cyrilla’s side, took her hand in his and said in a voice fraught with emotion,
“I have – found you! How could you leave me? How could you be so cruel? I have been distraught – off my head – because I thought I would never find you again!”
Cyrilla looked up into his eyes and it seemed to her at that moment that the whole world had turned a somersault and fallen back into place exactly as it should be.
The Marquis was there and she was no longer alone and unhappy.
He was telling her of his love and she was giving him hers and they were together again.
Then abruptly the Duke took command of the situation.
“I understand, Fane,” he said, “that you have met my daughter before and treated her in a manner which is certainly not to your credit.”
With an effort the Marquis looked away from Cyrilla and faced the Duke.
He stared at him as if he did not understand what he was saying, then, as if with difficulty he found the words, he said,
“I can explain, Your Grace.”
“It is quite unnecessary,” the Duke retorted sharply. “Cyrilla, will you ask Burton to bring wine for His Royal Highness? Then please retire to your own room.”
“Y-yes – Papa,” Cyrilla replied after a moment’s hesitation.
“No! You cannot leave me!” the Marquis asserted, holding on to her hand.
It was as if he had come back to sanity.
She gave him a quick, frightened little glance and, taking her hand away, moved across the room in obedience to her father’s command.
Fearing for a moment that the Marquis might follow her, the Duke said quickly,
“Will Your Royal Highness sit down? And you, Fane – perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me what verdict my blacksmith has given on the condition of your wheel.”
The Marquis’s eyes were still following Cyrilla,
She had reached the door and now she opened it and passed through without looking back.
With an effort he sat down on a chair opposite the Duke, saying as he did so,
“The wheel? Oh yes, the wheel of the phaeton! I am afraid it may take several hours.”
“I hope Your Grace will not feel we are imposing on your hospitality,” the Prince came in.
“Of course not, Sire,” the Duke replied. “And may I offer you some food, if you have not had luncheon?”
“We ate on our way here,” the Prince replied, “although I could hardly call it an adequate meal. If, before we leave, you could offer me a small repast, I assure you I should not refuse.”
“It will be seen to,” the Duke replied.
He looked up as the door opened.
“Ah, here is the wine. I hope it will be to your liking, knowing you are a connoisseur in this field.”
He did not make it sound like a compliment and the Prince was astute enough to know that it was not intended to be one.
His lips twitched, but he said quite gravely,
“Your Grace is too kind. Fane and I are extremely grateful.”
Burton, with a footman carrying a silver tray, moved towards the Prince and the Duke made a formal bow and went from the room.
As he reached the hall, he saw Cyrilla standing at the bottom of the stairs and he had the feeling that she was trying to make up her mind whether to defy him and return to the salon or to go upstairs as she had been ordered to do.
When she saw her father, she ran towards him.
“Please – Papa, please,” she said, “I must – see the Marquis – alone for a – moment. Please – let me.”
The Duke shook his head.
“There is no point in your being made more miserable than you have been already,” he said.
Cyrilla looked at him sharply and he added,
“I am not blind, my dear. I know how you have been suffering, but nothing can be solved by talking about it. You know his feelings on the matter. Of course they may have changed because of the difference in your circumstances, but are you really prepared to believe any explanation he offers you?”
Her father was expressing what Cyrilla had already thought herself.
For a moment she did not speak, then she said in a voice that was devoid of all feeling,
“I am – sure you are – right, Papa,” and started to walk up the stairs.
The Duke watched her for a moment, then sighed and walked down the passage towards the office of the Groom of the Chambers.
He was determined to feed and wine the Prince, then get rid of him and the Marquis of Fane as quickly as possible.
Meeting a footman, he sent him in search of the estate manager, who he thought would be able to expedite the repair of the phaeton’s wheel quicker than anyone else.
Cyrilla was moving slowly up the stairs, as if her youth had left her and she had suddenly grown old.
She had almost reached the top step when she heard the door open below her and without really meaning to, without cons
ciously thinking about it, she looked down.
She saw the Marquis come out of the salon and into the hall and hurry to the front door, where there were two footmen on duty.
“Where is Lady Cyrilla?” she heard him ask.
The footman to whom he spoke looked up towards her before he replied and the Marquis, following his gaze, saw her too.
He came up the stairs two at a time. When he reached her, he took her hand in his and led her onto the landing.
“I have to speak to you, I have to!” he said urgently. “Show me where we can talk.”
The urgency in his voice communicated itself to her and she moved quickly ahead of him and opened the door which led into the sitting room that was attached to the bedroom she was using.
She had made it very personal with a painting of her mother on a small easel by the window and, if nothing else told the Marquis it belonged to her, there was a profusion of flowers everywhere.
He came into the room, closed the door behind him, and said,
“My darling! My sweet! I have found you when I thought I had lost you forever!”
There was a note in his voice which she had not heard and it drew her as nothing had ever done before.
She looked into his eyes and was lost.
The next moment his arms were round her and he was kissing her frantically, passionately, desperately, as if he had come back from the grave, when he had never expected to find himself alive.
It was impossible to think. He knew only that, having been so miserable, so lost in an utter slough of despondency, he was now carrying her away into the divine light that she had known when he had kissed her the first time.
It was so perfect, so wonderful, that she could only feel as if he had given her back her heart and it was beating frantically and tumultuously against his and they were one and no one could ever divide them again.
‘I love you!’ Cyrilla wanted to say, but the Marquis said it for her.
“I love you! I worship you!” he said. “How soon will you marry me?”
They were the words she had wanted him to say and, yet somehow, now that he had said them, they did not matter.
He loved her as she loved him and it flashed through her mind that even being married could not make them closer than they were at this moment.
Then the Marquis was kissing her again, kissing her eves, her cheeks, her chin, even her little straight nose, before he made her lips captive.
“My darling, my precious! My little love, my Virgin of the Lilies! You are mine! Completely and utterly mine!”
His words were almost incoherent.
Then he raised his head to say,
“I have ridden all over London looking for you, so that now I know every hole and corner, every street and lane, every filthy alleyway and you were here, here all the time, where Fate has been kind enough to bring me.”
“It is always – Fate where we are concerned,” Cyrilla managed to whisper.
“I will never lose you again,” the Marquis vowed. “We will be married at once. I have already procured a Special Licence to use as soon as I found you. And, my darling, until my ring is on your finger, I swear I will not let you out of my sight!”
He knew by the radiance in her face that this was what she wanted.
“There are so many explanations to make to you,” he said, “so many excuses, but they are unimportant. All that really matters is that I love you and we will be married and happy as we knew we would be the first moment we saw each other.”
“I – love you!” Cyrilla whispered. “But – what will – Papa say?”
The words came to her lips without her really thinking about them and, even as she spoke, the door opened and the Duke came into the room.
One glance at his face told Cyrilla how angry he was and instinctively she moved a little nearer to the Marquis, as if for protection.
“Your behaviour, Fane, does not surprise me!” the Duke began scathingly. “It is what I might have expected.”
“You do not understand, Your Grace,” the Marquis replied. “May I have your permission to marry Cyrilla? We love each other and marriage is what we both want.”
“Marriage?” the Duke exclaimed. “So that is what you are offering her now! You were not prepared to offer her marriage before you were aware that she was my daughter.”
The Marquis took his arms from Cyrilla and straightened his back.
“It is difficult to explain, Your Grace,” he said, “although I will try to do so. I don’t know what Cyrilla has told you about our meeting, but we had no time to explain to each other anything about ourselves except that we were in love.”
He saw the sneer on the Duke’s face and knew that he did not understand.
“I promise Your Grace, this is the truth. It was only after Cyrilla had run away from me that I realised – and I admit it was extremely stupid of me – that I should have understood that she would wish to marry me, as I wished to marry her as soon as I thought about it.”
Even as he spoke, the Marquis realised that he was explaining himself very badly.
“That is very easy to say now,” the Duke remarked. “The fact remains, Fane, that you did not offer my daughter marriage and let me say firmly and categorically that I am not prepared to accept you as my son-in-law.”
Cyrilla gave a little cry.
“Oh, Papa! You cannot – mean – that!”
“I do mean it,” the Duke said, “and both you and the Marquis will appreciate that you cannot marry now or at any time in the future without my permission and that I will not give in any circumstances.”
He spoke slowly, as if he wished them to take in the full meaning of the words.
“If Your Grace will give me a chance to explain – ” the Marquis began.
“Explanations are unnecessary,” the Duke interrupted. “I disapprove of you, Fane, and I always have. What you call love will not alter my opinion. A leopard cannot change its spots, however hard it tries.”
“But that is not – fair, Papa,” Cyrilla argued.
“Fair or not,” the Duke replied, “you are my daughter and it is for me to decide whom you will marry and whom you will not marry.”
He saw the pain in Cyrilla’s expression and he added a little more kindly,
“You have seen for the last eight years what happens when a woman goes against the conventions and defies Society. The Marquis of Fane has flouted the conventions in somewhat the same manner. I can assure you that he would not make you happy nor would I allow you to live his type of life either as his wife or as his mistress.”
He glanced at the Marquis.
“I have no more to say on the matter and I request you, my Lord, to leave my house. Doubtless you can find shelter in the stables until the wheel of your phaeton is mended, which is being done as swiftly as possible. As soon as it is ready, you can collect His Royal Highness at the front door.”
Any other time the Marquis would have refused to accept the insult, but he could only look despairingly at Cyrilla.
“I can only say,” he said in a low voice, “that I love you and will go on loving you until I die.”
Tears flooded Cyrilla’s eyes and she could not answer him but could only clasp her hands together as the Marquis, with a dignity that was inescapable, turned towards the door and left the room without looking back.
After a moment the Duke followed him.
Slowly the tears that blinded her began to fall down Cyrilla’s cheeks.
She did not sob, did not even, as she wanted to do, collapse on the ground, she only told herself that she had no wish to go on living.
*
It had stopped raining by the time the wheel was repaired and the Marquis drove his phaeton round to the front door.
A message had already been sent to the Prince, who came down the steps escorted by the Duke.
“I must thank Your Grace for an excellent repast,” he said, “and I hope one day I shall have the chance to repay your ho
spitality.”
The Duke bowed in acknowledgement and watched as the Prince was helped by two footmen into the high seat of the phaeton beside the Marquis.
They drove off, the Marquis staring ahead and making no effort to raise his hat as the Prince did.
They had gone only a very short distance before the Prince asked,
“What the hell happened? You never came back to the salon and the Duke informed me that you were waiting outside.”
“As he ordered me to do,” the Marquis replied. “If you want to know the truth, Sire, he threw me out of the house!”
“For making love to his daughter? I don’t blame you, she is even more beautiful than my painting of her.”
The Marquis did not reply and the Prince went on,
“We know now it’s a fake, but a damned good one! So good, in fact, that I feel it was almost worth the money I paid for it.”
He stopped, smiled and added as if his honesty was forced from him,
“Or rather – what you paid!”
“The painting is of no importance,” the Marquis murmured.
“But the girl is,” the Prince added. “What are you going to do about her?”
“What can I do? The Duke will not give his permission for her to marry me.”
The Prince’s eyebrows went up.
“Caught at last, Virgo? Well, that certainly is a surprise! But I can understand. She is lovely – absolutely lovely!”
“What am I to do?” the Marquis asked rather pathetically.
The question seemed to be wrung from his lips.
“Run away with her?” the Prince suggested.
“I doubt if she will do that. I have only just begun to understand why she was living as she was in that squalid little house in Islington.”
“Was that where you found her?” the Prince enquired. “Why should she have been doing that?”
“I remember long ago,” the Marquis answered, “being told that the Duchess had left the Duke and was living in Ireland.”
“You mean that instead Her Grace was living in Islington?” the Prince questioned.
“With the artist she had run away with.”
The Prince, for all his faults, had always been quick-witted.
“Of course!” he exclaimed. “And he painted the fake of Lochner, using that lovely girl as his model. What a story! It’s like something out of a novel!”
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