Barbara Cartland - Love has his way

He struggled against a strange darkness and a paralysis that seemed to be overwhelming him.

Then he remembered no more.

*

Now it came back to him in a rush and with what was almost a superhuman effort with his head swimming, the Marquis forced himself to sit up on the bed.

‘ Dammit , I was drugged,’ he muttered to himself.

He could not believe that such a thing could happen to him like any greenhorn who came to London from the country and had his money taken from him by the first prostitute who accosted him in the street.

But now he, the Marquis of Sarne, the man who had boasted often enough that no one had got the better of him because he knew every trick in the trade, had been drugged with his own claret by a ballet dancer from Covent Garden!

How could she? Why should she?

Surely Nicole knew what would be the repercussions of such an action on her part?

Any Theatre Manager in London would sack a member of the cast who behaved in such a manner towards anyone as important and influential as the Marquis of Sarne.

He sat up and now with a greater effort he moved his legs off the bed and onto the floor.

As he did so, he put his hand to his forehead as if he was afraid that his head would burst open or fall off his neck.

‘God knows what it is that they gave me!’ he thought to himself, ‘but it must have been gunpowder for the effect it has!’

After a few seconds he opened his eyes and saw lying on the floor at his feet the paper which had been on his chest and must have been dislodged by his movements.

There were two pieces of it.

He stared at them for some time, seeing that on one was writing while the other appeared to be a printed form.

For a moment he was not particularly interested, only concerned with the splitting pain in his head and then, perhaps because he was sitting up, he began to feel a little more human.

‘I must get out of here as soon as I can,’ he told himself.

There was sunshine coming through the window that was uncurtained and he supposed that he had been there all night.

Finally with once again a hand to his forehead to help steady himself, he reached down with the other and, picking up the two pieces of paper, held them in front of his eyes.

On the first, which was written in a strong bold hand, were the words,

“My first inclination was, having drugged you, to then chuck you in the river. Then I thought that drowning was too good for you and have therefore made the punishment fit the crime.

Rather neatly, I think.

Kirkhampton.”

The Marquis stared at the note and then read it again.

So it was Kirkhampton who had drugged his claret, Kirkhampton whom he disliked and who disliked him, but he would never have credited him with the intelligence to do anything that would humiliate him so effectively.

“Damn him!” the Marquis swore aloud, “I will call him out if it is the last thing I ever do in my life.”

Then, as he looked at the other piece of paper that he had picked up from the floor, he stiffened.

For a moment he thought that his eyes must be deceiving him and he looked at it again.

It was a Marriage Certificate bearing his name!

He read it and re-read it.

It stated clearly, although he could hardly believe what he was reading, that a marriage had taken place on June 15 th, which had been the night before, between,

“ The Most Noble Vallient Alexander, Marquis of Sarne, bachelor, and Romana Wardell, spinster, the Ceremony having been conducted by the Reverand Adolphus Fletcher, Chaplain of His Majesty’s Prison at Fleet .”

“It just cannot be true!” the Marquis exclaimed.

But the Certificate appeared to be in order and he knew with a feeling of horror that the Chaplains who were to be found at the Fleet Prison would perform any Ceremony, however disreputable, for money.

Their behaviour was a total scandal, which the Marquis had heard complained about both inside and outside Parliament for many years.

He had not been particularly interested and, if there had been a Bill introduced to get rid of such pests. he had not been aware of it.

He felt sure now that a Marriage Service conducted by a Chaplain of the Fleet Prison was valid if he was in Holy Orders,. At least he had always heard so.

The Marquis rose to his feet.

Perhaps, he thought, this was a joke, a jest played on him by Lord Kirkhampton to pay him back for what he considered the insults that the Marquis had offered him over several years.

The first had been when the Marquis had questioned the riding of his jockey in a race at Newmarket and after an enquiry the horse had been disqualified.

Lord Kirkhampton had been absolutely furious and had told the Marquis in no uncertain terms what he thought of him.

After that they had ignored each other on many social occasions at which they were both present or in White’s Club.

Then there had been the time when they had been pursuing the same ‘fair charmer’.

She was indeed very beautiful and very flirtatious with a husband who, although he was distinguished, was very much older than she was.

He was frequently laid up and the lady in question had divided her favours for a few weeks between the Marquis and Lord Kirkhampton and, as was inevitable in such a situation, the Marquis had won.

He had then demanded that she should give up his rival.

“I like you both,” she had protested.

“That is not good enough for me,” the Marquis said. “You have to choose, my dear, and if you prefer Kirkhampton I shall understand. I was looking forward naturally to entertaining you at Sarne.”

He knew as he spoke that he was tipping the odds in his favour.

The party that he was giving at Sarne House included the Prince of Wales and it would be certainly an amusing visit not only for His Royal Highness, since everyone who was really interesting in the Beau Monde would be invited to entertain him.

“In the circumstances,” the lady had smiled, slipping her hand into the Marquis’s, “Lord Kirkhampton will have to dine alone tomorrow night.”

It was a victory that he had never been in any doubt of winning, but Lord Kirkhampton had naturally been livid with anger.

He tried to discredit the Marquis by abusing him to his friends, but they merely laughed.

“Leave Sarne alone,” he had been advised. “Surely there are plenty of other women in the world and other races for you to win?”

Lord Kirkhampton, who was a dark, vindictive and fiery man, had gone about muttering that he would have his revenge.

“So I will get even with you one day, Sarne!” he had stated only a month ago when the Marquis had outbid him at Tattersalls for a horse that they both wanted.

“Do you want to bet on it?” the Marquis had questioned him mockingly.

He had known, as his enemy walked away in fury, that the way he spoke had only added fuel to an already hot fire.

Now Lord Kirkhampton had struck back.

It could not be true what the Marriage Certificate purported to say.

Nevertheless the Marquis definitely felt anxious.

Feeling rather unsteady on his feet, he walked across the room and, seeing his reflection in a mirror, he stopped.

The drug had most certainly played havoc with his appearance.

He was looking unnaturally pale and there were dark lines almost as if they were those of dissipation under his eyes.

His muslin cravat, which had been crisp and spotless last night, clung limply around his neck and his hair, normally arranged in a windswept way favoured by the Prince of Wales, was definitely untidy.

The Marquis, however, turned away from the mirror.

What did it matter what he looked like? All he wanted was to go home and find out what the piece of paper in his hand meant.