Count the Stars

by Barbara Cartland

  “Curse you, it was not a mist but a fog,” the Duke replied. “Anyway, I know the way to York. I have twice been to the races in Doncaster.”

  “There is one more condition which I forgot to mention,” Freddie said. .

  “What is that?”

  “You have to reach York without being recognised. If you reveal your true identity or you are pointed out as being the Duke, then the chestnuts are mine.”

  “I assure you I have no intention of losing my horses. And I know exactly the right place to hang the Canaletto at The Castle.”

  “It will remain empty,” Freddie said confidently. “And I shall warn my groom to get the stables ready.”

  “Damn you!” the Duke answered. “I will prove you wrong. I will be the winner of this contest if it is the last thing I ever do!”

  As he spoke, he walked across the room to the wine-cooler to pick up the bottle of champagne in order to replenish his own glass and that of his friend, so he did not notice the look of satisfaction in Freddie’s eyes.

  No one knew better than he that the Duke had been wasting his life for the last few years among the so-called delights of the Beau Monde.

  There were racing, mills, cock-fighting and gambling to supplement the endless round of balls and assemblies, receptions and, of course, the dance halls of the ‘fashionable impures with whom the Noblemen spent much of their time.

  Freddie had watched a young man, who had been idealistic, enthusiastic and incredibly brave, become progressively more cynical, bored and indolent and knew that the Duke was losing something very precious.

  They were both of them in their thirtieth year. While Freddie had stayed in the Regiment, the Duke on his father’s death had, at first, been busily occupied putting his estates in order and then he had found little to do which required his intelligence.

  There were too many skilled employees to lift every possible burden from his shoulders and as the King grew older even his hereditary duties at Court were little but a sinecure.

  Freddie had thought for some time that he should do something for his closest friend, but the opportunity to speak freely had never presented itself until now.

  “When do I leave on this wild-goose chase,” the Duke asked.

  “As soon as possible,” Freddie replied. “Otherwise you may be quite certain that Wentover will be knocking on your door demanding an explanation.”

  The Duke looked startled.

  “He could hardly take me to task for not proposing to his daughter last night.”

  “Why not?” Freddie asked. “The betting in White’s is that the engagement will be announced before the end of the week.”

  “Why should they assume that?”

  “Because Wentover has been boasting that he will be riding your hunters this winter and has already decided that he would be able to hunt with at least two more packs than he can now afford.”

  “I have never heard such cheek!” the Duke said. “As he weighs at least sixteen stone, I am not letting him give my horses a sore back.”

  “If you stay here, you will have to explain that to him in words of one syllable.”

  “Very well – I will leave immediately after luncheon.”

  Freddie lifted his glass.

  “To your journey and may you find what you seek.”

  “I am not seeking anything,” the Duke replied crossly.

  Freddie opened his lips to refute this idea and shut them again.

  He rose to his feet hampered by his riding boots.

  “I am going back to the Barracks to change,” he said. “If you are still here when I return, I will say ‘goodbye’ to you then. If not, I will sound suitably surprised by your departure. I shall also complain bitterly in the Club that you did not tell me where you were going.”

  The Duke, who had only taken one sip of his champagne, put his glass down on the table.

  “I suppose you know that this is a crazy idea!”

  “Take enough money with you to bring you home,” Freddie said. “And remember there are always highwaymen to take it off you.”

  The Duke looked startled.

  “Do you remember,” he continued, “how the General used to tell you to be ready for anything and remember that it’s always likely to be the worst.”

  “I remember that,” the Duke smiled. “You are making me positively apprehensive!”

  “You used to rather enjoy dangerous situations,” Freddie said reflectively. “But I suppose now you have grown old and fat – ”

  It was not possible to say any more, for the Duke had picked up a silk cushion and flung it at him.

  “You are taking an unfair advantage,” he moaned. “I would knock you down, but in that fancy rig you would only lie on your back like an old sheep.”

  “When you return fitter than you are now,” Freddie answered, “I will take you on and see if you can last ten rounds. At the moment I imagine you are only capable of three.”

  “Get out, damn you!” the Duke exclaimed. “I know you are only saying all this to goad me into doing what you want. Very well, Freddie, I will go to York and, if I get my throat cut on the way or die of exhaustion, I will come back and haunt you!”

  “I will drive your chestnuts down to The Castle and put some flowers on your grave,” Freddie replied. “Presumably you will be interred in the family vault!”

  He did not wait to hear the Duke’s reply, but went out of the library, closing the door behind him.

  The Duke was laughing as he walked across the room to his desk. He seated himself in the high-backed chair on which was carved the Brockenhurst Coat of Arms.

  Then he rang the gold bell, which stood beside the gold inkpot and opened the blotter on which his Coat of Arms appeared, again in gold.

  A servant answered the bell and the Duke asked for his Comptroller, Mr. Dunham.

  A middle-aged man, he had been with the previous Duke for the last years of his life and now served his present employer with tact, loyalty and an expertise that made everything run like a well-oiled machine.

  “Morning, Dunham,” the Duke said, as he came into the room.

  “Good morning, Your Grace. I have here the plans you asked for, for the construction of a private Racecourse at The Castle.”

  “I have no time for that at the moment,” the Duke replied. “I am leaving London immediately after luncheon, which I wish to be at twelve-thirty.”

  “I will see to it, Your Grace. Will you be driving your phaeton?”

  “I am going on horseback and alone,” the Duke answered.

  His Comptroller looked at him incredulously, as he went on,

  “As far as the household is concerned and anyone who makes enquiries – I have gone abroad.”

  “Your yacht, as you know, Your Grace, is always ready to leave harbour at an hour’s notice.”

  “I have not forgotten, Dunham,” the Duke said, “but there is no need to send anyone to notify the Captain of my arrival. If I do join the yacht, it will be a surprise.”

  Mr. Dunham looked faintly apprehensive, but did not speak.

  The Duke went on,

  “I want Hercules, no I think Samson, brought to the front door at one o’clock. After that you will not be able to be in communication with me, until I notify you of where I am.”

  “I don’t wish to sound impertinent, Your Grace,” Mr. Dunham said respectfully, “but I feel worried that you should be leaving without a groom.”

  “I wish to go alone,” the Duke replied firmly, “and I am likely to be away for two weeks, perhaps more. As I have said, everybody is to be informed I have gone abroad.”

  He knew as he spoke that his Comptroller was longing to ask him a dozen questions, but was too well trained to do so.

  “I shall, of course, require money,” the Duke said. “A Letter of Credit, which will be honoured by my bank, notes of a high denomination and, of course, enough loose sovereigns not to be an encumbrance.”

  Mr. Dunham made a note on th
e pad he held in his hand as the Duke spoke.

  Now he waited for any other instructions.

  The Duke walked towards the door. He had almost reached it when he turned back to say,

  “You have known me for a great number of years, Dunham. Would you say that I am out of condition in any way?”

  The question took his Comptroller by surprise.

  Then, knowing that the Duke expected an immediate flattering answer, Mr. Dunham hesitated.

  “No need to put it into words, Dunham,” the Duke said sharply and left the room.

  *

  Riding North an hour later the Duke found himself resenting the implication, both from Freddie and his Comptroller, that he was not fighting fit.

  He always prided himself that, unlike most of his contemporaries, he was athletically in the peak of condition as he had been when he was in the Army.

  Then the long hours in the saddle, the strenuous travelling over foreign and hostile country, the fighting, the never being certain when the next meal would turn up, made him almost a young Samson.

  It had in fact been his nickname amongst the men he served with and it was why he had called one of the finest horses he had ever owned by the same name.

  Samson, the black stallion he was riding now, demanded all his Master’s strength and expertise to keep him under control.

  The Duke knew if he was honest, that despite the pugilistic bouts and fencing which he enjoyed several times a week, he had allowed himself to gain weight and there were several more inches of flesh on his body than there had been five years ago.

  He admitted that Freddie had been right when he had stated he was cosseted and pampered and that he had grown to take it all for granted.

  Fine linen sheets on beds that were soft as a cloud, superlative food which was served up by his chef at every meal, claret that was bought by his Agents from the finest vineyards in France, which once again were in production after the devastation of war, were part of his routine of life and taken for granted.

  Then, of course, there was the softness of white arms around his neck, red lips raised willingly and usually hungrily towards his.

  ‘It’s not really a man’s life,’ he told himself, ‘as I should have discovered sooner. Perhaps Freddie is right, this will be an adventure in living. All the same, I doubt it!’

  He could not help acknowledging, however, that when he rode away from Berkeley Square alone, without a groom in attendance, and seen the puzzled expression on the face of Mr. Dunham, the butler and five of his six-foot-tall liveried footmen, he had felt somewhat strange.

  He could not remember when he had last set off by himself without an escort and it was impossible in a way not to regret the comfort of driving his team of perfectly matched chestnuts that Freddie had always envied.

  Also if he was going to Newmarket or to stay at any other place outside London, his valet would normally have gone ahead to have everything ready for his arrival.

  If he was travelling any distance, there would be two or perhaps four outriders in attendance. One of them was, if he had to stay at an inn, an excellent cook.

  Now on the road leading North, the Duke wondered if in his haste to leave London he had forgotten anything of real importance.

  He had told his valet that he required only what could be carried attached to the saddle.

  “Do you mean to say, Your Grace, that I’m not coming with you?” Jenkins had asked incredulously.

  “I will let you into a secret, Jenkins,” the Duke replied. “I have accepted a wager and, if I am to win it, I have to look after myself.”

  “You’ll never manage that, Your Grace.”

  “What do you mean?” the Duke asked sharply. “Just because you mollycoddle me, it does not mean to say I am helpless without you.”

  He knew that was what Jenkins was thinking, as the man tightened his lips.

  “What I require you to do,” the Duke went on, “is to pack me some shirts, something comfortable I can change into when I have ridden all day, a night-shirt and my razor and it’s impossible for me take anything more.”

  “I presume Your Grace will require fresh cravats,” Jenkins said in the triumphant tone of a servant who had found a flaw in a plan he disapproved of.

  “If I don’t have everything I need,” the Duke said sharply, “I shall be extremely annoyed when I return.”

  “Your Grace had much better let me come with you,” Jenkins remarked.

  The Duke did not deign to reply and merely started to change his clothes.

  Instead of the close-fitting champagne-coloured knitted pantaloons he wore, he put on a heavier pair, which he had not worn for some time and which he found to his increased irritation were slightly tight.

  It annoyed him, but he did not mention it.

  Refusing the highly polished, very elegant riding boots, which had recently been delivered from Maxwell’s in Dover Street, he chose instead an old and comfortable pair of riding boots that Jenkins thought he should have discarded ages ago.

  The Duke was sensible enough to realise that he must not appear too conspicuous, not only because he would lose his bet if he was recognised, but in case he attracted too much attention as a lone and therefore unprotected rider.

  He slipped a small pistol into the pocket of his grey whipcord riding jacket and to Jenkins’ disgust tied his cravat in a careless unfashionable style, which was more suitable to a country Squire than a gentleman of fashion.

  When it came to choosing his hat, the Duke again picked up one that was high-crowned, but five years old that had been somewhat battered by the wind and rain when he had been out shooting.

  “You don’t look right to me, Your Grace, and that’s a fact,” Jenkins remarked.

  “It is how I wish to look,” the Duke replied loftily.

  “I don’t know what the world’s a-coming to,” Jenkins muttered beneath his breath. “Your Grace going off alone and dressed in such a hobbledehoy fashion.”

  The Duke did not reply. He merely filled his pockets with the money that Mr. Dunham had brought upstairs to his bedroom.

  As he did so, he could see in the looking-glass that Jenkins was rolling up the clothes he wished to take with him in a waterproof cover that could be attached to the back of the saddle.

  The valet then produced two black slippers, which could be inserted in the pockets of the saddle.

  Then, with a resigned expression in his voice, he left the bedroom to take them down the stairs.

  The Duke looked round and for a moment he regretted leaving the grand four-poster bed with its red silk curtains and his insignia emblazoned in bright colours over the pillows.

  He could see the velvet jewel-boxes containing his decorations, which, if he had stayed in London, he would have worn tonight at a ball that was being given by the Duke and Duchess of Bedford at their delightful house in Russell Square.

  The Duchess was very attractive, but, as the Duke thought of her, he remembered that if he attended the ball, as he had meant to do, Imogen would have been waiting for him.

  She would be looking exceedingly beautiful, for with her fair hair, big blue eyes and flawless complexion, he had thought when he first saw her that she was the very embodiment of loveliness and that no man could ask for more.

  He was certain, now he thought about it, that Imogen did not desire him as ardently as her father and mother did.

  She was, in fact, so stupid that the Duke thought it unlikely her desire for anything extended beyond the reflection of her own face in the mirror.

  Lord Wentover was, however, well aware of his value as a son-in-law, while Lady Wentover must have deliberately inveigled other hostesses into helping her to secure a Ducal husband for Imogen.

  Looking back the Duke remembered how at every dinner party Imogen was always seated beside him.

  At house parties which young girls were not usually invited to, Imogen had been there and it was only because she was so beautiful that he had been seduced a
way from his liaison with a fascinating older woman, who was married to a Statesman of some repute.

  Imogen, always Imogen!

  He thought now that he had fallen into the trap that had been set for him, as if he had been a greenhorn tasting the delights of London for the first time.

  ‘How could I have been so foolish to think that for one moment she would content me as a wife,’ he asked himself, ‘or even be capable with her lack of brains of filling the role that would be required of her as Duchess of Brockenhurst?’

  He remembered how house parties at which his mother played hostess at Hurst Castle, or any of his father’s other houses, had always seemed to sparkle.

  The male guests had been distinguished, intelligent and witty while beautiful, elegant and sophisticated women had added to the entertainment.

  As a young man, the Duke could remember more clearly than anything else the interesting topics that were discussed around the dinner table after the ladies had retired to the drawing room.

  Or after hunting the men would gather in the library of The Castle to talk of the run of the day, the political situation and, of course, news of the progress of the war.

  ‘Damn it!’ the Duke said to himself, ‘I have not only gone soft in the body but in the brain.’

  It made him so angry that he spurred Samson into a gallop and it was only when both Master and horse were breathless that the Duke drew in the reins so that they carried on at a more moderate speed.

  He was so deep in thought that the sun sank in a blaze of glory over the horizon and the first evening star was visible in the translucent sky before the Duke realised he must find somewhere to stay the night.

  He had ridden cross-country and he had an idea that he was considerably further North than he might have expected.

  Now he returned to what he thought must be the main road to look for an inn.

  Two miles later he found one and thought vaguely that he remembered passing it on a previous journey, but he had never stopped there.

  It appeared from the outside as if it might be comfortable within.