Bride of Doom

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

A captivating love story from the 100-million-copy bestselling Queen of Romance, first published in 1956, and available now for the first time in eBook. 'Neither her mother's devotion - nor her father's strength - could protect Fleur from the doom that awaited her.' In this dazzling sequel to Gold for the Gay Masters, Fauna's beautiful daughter Fleur comes to the fore. As alluring and fatally captivating as her mother, Fleur's life would never be a life of ease... This is Fleur's story. The story of an arranged marriage to the forbidding Baron of Cadlington, of her love for the young artist Peveril, of the darkly-predicted black heir who is born to her, of her fiery attempts to find escape, revenge - and fulfilment, of the restless urges that burn in her fated blood. Denise Robins has written another great historical novel, full of fire, passion, romance, excitement, high drama and adventure, capturing all the swagger and zest of its time.

Release date: June 26, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 544

Sample

THE fierce sad baying of hounds echoed and re-echoed through the dark forests that frowned down upon the Vale of Aylesbury. Across the Chiltern Hills a mass of sombre cloud had been broken up by a wild wind and tossed across the sky. A sudden storm of rain blotted out the landscape. At three o’clock on this afternoon in October in the year 1836, the hunt organized by Denzil, Lord St. Cheviot, was at an end. Even now hounds had closed in on the limp exhausted body of the beaten stag. Its life-blood was welling from a hundred jagged wounds torn by the teeth of the savage dogs.

It had been a long disappointing day for the members of his lordship’s hunt. The royal animal had given them a poor chase and only during the last hour or so had the pack found the scent and routed the wretched stag out of its hiding-place deep in the thicket.

St. Cheviot did not wait to watch the death-throes of his quarry. He was in one of his most sombre moods—in keeping with the stormy day. His friends who knew him well avoided him like the plague when he was in these evil tempers. Whispering together they looked after him as St. Cheviot wheeled round and pressing his spurs into the big black stallion whose sides were already foam-flecked and bloody, dashed like a madman along the thorny path that led out of the woods and into open country. Then he rode higher up the hill towards the summit on which stood the spectral outline of Cadlington House, the country seat of the St. Cheviots.

In all Buckinghamshire, there was no man with such a reputation as St. Cheviot’s for lunatic riding—or indeed for such cruelty. He rode without mercy. It was whispered among the ladies that he had no mind whether he broke the heart of a horse or a maid so long as they satisfied him initially. His was not a pretty character. But his immense wealth and the grandeur of his ancient title made him persona grata in most of the Drawing Rooms in London—or Buckinghamshire.

Like a fiend, the rain lashing him, St. Cheviot with crop and spur urged his horse up the steep hill. He was in a hurry to get home to dry clothes, fires and strong wine.

Seen thus through the gathering gloom, man and mount seemed to be one hewn out of the stormy landscape.

There could be no denying the spectacular looks of the thirty-year-old nobleman. He was immensely tall and although slender of flank, had wide powerful shoulders. He had lost the green Austrian hat which he had been wearing earlier today. His raven-dark hair soaked with rain was curled, long and thick, plastered to cheek and brow. His deep-set falcon eyes had a penetrating stare. Just now they were bloodshot and angry. The anger was mainly the backwash of an incident which had taken place at Cadlington last night.

The place was full of guests whom St. Cheviot had invited to attend the chase today. There were one or two women among them—wives of the sportsmen who came to Cadlington not because of any love of the host but because they were satellites ready to fawn upon St. Cheviot and accept his lavish hospitality.

One of the ladies—Sybil Forminster—whose husband was welcomed to Cadlington mainly because he, Lord Forminster, was a crack shot and duellist, had recently attracted St. Cheviot’s attention.

The Forminsters were not long married. Sybil was a beautiful girl—herself no mean horsewoman—with long golden hair and bright blue eyes. She was reputed to be as chaste as she was handsome and much in love with her bridegroom.

It was unusual for such a girl to visit Cadlington. St. Cheviot shunned matrimony and his mistresses, whom he frequently changed, were seldom either respectable or of his own class. Respectability bored St. Cheviot.

Last night, at the long rich banquet provided by the host, young Lady Forminster had been placed on the right of the host. Her husband, George, noted that St. Cheviot continually bent close to her and whispered in her ear, and that Sybil found it difficult to eat or drink. She appeared flushed and nervous. St. Cheviot had, in fact, drunk more than was usual and was in the throes of a sudden violent passion for the blonde beauty. George Forminster continued to watch gloomily—wishing, no doubt, that he had not brought his wife to Cadlington, no matter how splendid the chase or magnificent the hospitality. He had been in two minds about it. He did not like St. Cheviot but had been attracted by the thought of the stag-hunt—there were not many these days in the district.

Later, while the musicians played softly and the guests—most of them—gathered in the library to enjoy a game of cards—St. Cheviot had come upon Sybil, alone, in the gallery, where—a lover of painting—she had been examining some of the old portraits of the St. Cheviots. The ‘Black Barons’ they had been called—for without exception they had the ebony hair and dark eyes which Denzil inherited.

Sybil greeted her host with innocent courtesy. He looked splendid in his dark red coat and flowered satin waistcoat, and shewing a well-shaped leg in silken hose. But he soon let her know the evil intentions in his inflamed mind. Then she tried to elude him—it was obvious to her that he was inebriated. But he seized her in his arms and embraced her hotly. When she struggled and protested, he breathed mad proposals to her, adding:

“I am crazed by your white and gold loveliness. I will give you the world if you will leave Forminster and elope with me.” This he had said and looked so wild and passionate that the young girl uttered a frightened scream.

George Forminster heard the cry and came to his wife’s aid. Both men were swordsmen and weapons were drawn. In a few moments the gay mood of the festive evening changed. Cards were scattered and forgotten. A circle of men gathered around the duellists and in the portrait gallery, in flickering candle-light, the outraged husband fought St. Cheviot.

In less than a few seconds the unfortunate George Forminster was down, bleeding from a serious wound which had only just missed his heart. St. Cheviot was the better swordsman of the two. Drunk or sober—he could use that flexible wrist of his with almost fiendish dexterity.

As for the fair-haired bride who now knelt weeping by her unconscious husband’s form—she had lost any attraction she had held for St. Cheviot. He no longer glanced in her direction and was furious because he had been drawn into such a fracas. He had wanted amusement—not this. Livid, sweat pearling on his forehead, he smoothed the disordered lace and lawn at his throat and flung his sword on to the floor for scared-looking servants to pick up. Then he bowed to his open-mouthed, gaping guests.

“The party is over. Let us get to bed—we must be up early for the Meet,” he said.

Nobody dissented. The people who gathered around him as a rule did what St. Cheviot bid and without argument.

An hour later the episode was over and must not be referred to. Forminster’s carriage departed carrying the still insensible George and his wife away from Cadlington. St. Cheviot’s own house-physician went with them.

But the memory of the episode remained with St. Cheviot and spoiled his day. He disliked weakness in himself—as well as in others. He was bitterly angry that he had drunk too much and thus insulted Sybil Forminster. The silly little fool’s lips, so he reflected, had not been worth the kissing—or the consequence. It was a poor beginning to the week-end’s sport. And now the party lacked one of the finest shots. Forminster would recover, but quite obviously he would never set foot in Cadlington again.

All through his life, St. Cheviot had made more enemies than friends. But though tongues wagged and women feared him—men found him interesting and the women vied with each other for his favours. It would be no mean triumph to pull off a marriage with St. Cheviot and become mistress of Cadlington, the most splendid mansion in Buckinghamshire.

The great park trees loomed out of the mist of rain and frowned upon St. Cheviot as he slackened pace and drew near the top of the hill. Lights flickered from the keeper’s lodge beckoning him through the October gloom. He could no longer hear the huntsman’s horn or the cacophony of the snarling blood-thirsty pack behind him in the forest. All was quiet. He paused a moment to take a swill at a silver flagon of brandy. He was wet and cold. He had a mind to leave his guests to their own devices. He would like to take a carriage and drive through the dismal evening to London. A game of cards at White’s—a late supper with a pretty female more amenable than Sybil Forminster—they were decided attractions.

Down came the pitiless rain, ice-cold against St. Cheviot’s face. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. Suddenly his stallion reared, whinnied, and almost shot the unsuspecting nobleman from his saddle. Nevertheless Denzil kept his seat. Savagely he swore at the sweating frightened animal. Then, peering through the rain, he saw two figures: male and female. They had their arms around each other, huddled under sacks, like peasants trying to shelter from the storm. They must have been sheltering in the hedges, and St. Cheviot’s mount had been startled by their sudden appearance out of the gathering mists.

“What the devil do you two think you are doing?” his lordship shouted furiously.

The sacks dropped from the heads of the pair who stood revealed to Denzil. One a stripling boy—no more than twenty or so at the most—supporting the figure of a hunchback girl whose head barely reached his shoulder. They were not ill-dressed; the boy in shabby suit and cloak; the hunchback also covered by a long cloak, and wearing a bonnet. But they were a wet bedraggled-looking pair, and St. Cheviot, looking down contemptuously, felt his temper cool. He gave a brief laugh.

“No wonder Apollo was startled out of his wits—never did I see such apparitions,” he growled. “What the deuce do you two scarecrows do here in this weather, and on Cadlington Hill?”

The boy drawing nearer the horse and rider, spoke up:

“Sir, whoever you are, you need not insult either my sister or myself,” he said.

He spoke in an educated voice with a note of pride in it that surprised St. Cheviot, who dashed the raindrops from his eyes and looked closer. He noted now that the young speaker had a delicate but handsome face with large fine eyes; his mop of light brown curling hair was wet and tossed by the wind about his temples. No peasant this—but somebody of culture. St. Cheviot was suddenly curious.

“Who are you—why are you on my land?” he asked.

“My name is Peveril Marsh. This is my sister, Elspeth.”

“What do you here in this storm?” Denzil repeated the question and now turned his attention to the hunchback. She suddenly gave a low moan and swayed. The boy supported her, then let her fall back on the side of the road and knelt beside her. He cried out:

“Ah! For God’s sake, Elspeth, beloved sister! …”

Denzil scowled. He recognized the fact that this was no ordinary swoon. The unhappy girl was desperately ill. He hated illness in any shape or form but even he, who was not particularly charitable, could not ride on and leave such a youthful helpless pair to the mercies of the gathering night. The storm was growing worse. He shouted at the boy:

“What is wrong with her, in heaven’s name? Why are you here?”

“My sister is dying,” said the boy hoarsely and raised a white stricken face washed by the rain and his own tears. “Oh, God, I did wrong ever to allow her to leave London and journey this long way.”

“To see whom did you come?”

“A Mrs. Ingleby, sir, of Whiteleaf.”

“Whiteleaf? That is a mile away from here across the hill.”

“Yes, sir. We got lost and we had no money for a conveyance, once having spent so much on our fares in the coach which brought us from London to Monks Risborough.”

“Who is Mrs. Ingleby? I have not heard of her.”

“An aunt of my mother’s, sir,” the boy began to explain. “But she has been dead this twelve months. We did not know. We hoped to find bed and board with her. When we found her gone we set out by foot, meaning to beg a lift. We were misdirected by a woodcutter and we are here, and have been walking until, as you see, we can go no further. My sister is on the verge of collapse.”

And he added that Elspeth had been very sick for a long time and that it was in the hope that the country air might revive her that he had brought her this long way. He, Peveril explained, was an artist but had had little chance to indulge in his talent, for he was the sole support of the seventeen-year-old invalid. Their parents were dead. The boy earned a bare living working for a frame-maker in Cheapside.

This information bored St. Cheviot but he said:

“I will send two of my men down with horse and cart to pick you up. You can take shelter in the servants’ quarters at Cadlington for tonight. But it seems to me as though the shelter of the tomb would be more in keeping with your sister’s appearance,” he added brutally.

The boy who called himself Peveril Marsh looked wildly up at the big dark figure of the man. His cheeks grew scarlet with anger, and with despair. Then he turned back to his sister’s prostrate form. Tenderly he untied the bonnet. St. Cheviot, still peering, saw suddenly a face of astonishing beauty. It did not go well with the misshapen back, but of a certainty, he thought, she should have been a dream of loveliness. She had the same large eyes as the boy’s and long golden curls. But her face was white as death itself and her lips bloodless. Feminine beauty never failed to interest Lord St. Cheviot. And being superstitious, hunchbacks invariably held for him a morbid attraction. To touch the hump meant good luck; this he had always heard. He slid from the saddle, leaned down and laid a hand on the girl’s back. Immediately her large eyes opened and she looked straight up into his face. So peculiar and deep was her gaze that he felt a curious thrill run through him.

“Why, do you stare at me so, poor soul?” he muttered.

“Destiny,” she said in a thin quavery tone. “I know your destiny, sir—I am a seer.”

“What does she mean?” Denzil asked the boy roughly.

Peveril, with a tender look at the hunchback, said:

“My sister has prophetic powers. She has always been able to look into the future.”

Now St. Cheviot was vastly interested. Rain, wind, the icy darkness of this late October afternoon, all were forgotten. He had the supreme egotist’s intense desire to know what lay ahead of him. He knelt down by the girl.

“Tell me what you see?” he demanded in the voice of one who is accustomed to being obeyed.

But now the boy artist spoke up bravely:

“Sir, I fear my sister is gravely ill. I must get her to warmth and cover.”

“All in good time,” said St. Cheviot and, fixing his black glittering eyes on the girl, urged her afresh.

“What do you know of my destiny?” he asked.

“Elspeth, are you all right?” put in the boy with feverish concern.

She gave him a wan smile but kept her extraordinary eyes upon the handsomely-dressed gentleman who was bending over her. Then in a sepulchral voice she spoke to him once more:

“Your name—what is it?”

“Denzil St. Cheviot, Baron of Cadlington, who lives at Cadlington House,” he replied.

“St. Cheviot,” she echoed that name in a hollow tone. “The black barons.”

Surprised, he nodded.

“So they call us.”

“Still unwed,” she continued.

“By heaven, you are right,” St. Cheviot gave a coarse laugh, “and likely to remain so.”

“No,” said the dying girl. She struggled to sit up and pointed a finger at him. “Within twelve months from now you will be wed. I, who can see into the future, do foretell this marriage. And with it comes disaster. Oh, horrible!” she added and shuddered.

St. Cheviot’s lips curled.

“Marriage is for a man invariably a horrible disaster,” he said and laughed at his own jest.

“A horrible disaster,” repeated Elspeth Marsh. And now her breath came more quickly and with difficulty. “I see red-gold hair and violets. Yes. Watch out for red-gold hair and violets, sir … and for a black St. Cheviot.”

“What, another?” Denzil gave another strident laugh. “And what is all this nonsense about red hair and violets?”

Then the boy interrupted:

“You will live to see that she has spoken the truth. Elspeth is never wrong and this is maybe the last prophecy she will ever make.” His voice broke. He knelt down in the mud, his tears flowing as he tried to chafe some warmth into the hunchback’s icy little hands.

Again a strange superstitious thrill passed through St. Cheviot’s frame. Maybe it was true that the girl had vision. Sometimes, he knew, it was given to the dying to foretell what lay ahead. Again his hand touched the girl’s hump. “For luck,” he muttered.

But the boy did not hear. He had burst into bitter tears.

“Elspeth, dearest sister,” he cried.

Now St. Cheviot saw that the girl’s head had fallen back. She was dead. His lordship recoiled and turned back to his horse.

“I will send my servants to assist you,” he said curtly. “Wait here.”

The boy did not answer but flung himself across the body of his sister and continued to sob her name.

ST. CHEVIOT dug his spurs into the stallion’s flanks and urged the animal up the hill. He came to the great wrought-iron gates of his home. In the deepening dusk they took on a spectral aspect. Little could be seen at this hour, and in such weather, of the magnificent park surrounding the house. Two of the lodge-keepers, carrying lighted lanthorns, came running to open the gates for their master. He reined in his mount and flung a sharp order at one of the men.

“A few yards down yon hill you will find a lad—a stranger in these parts—and his sister, who has just expired. Have them brought to Cadlington and tell my footmen to see that they have attention.”

“Yes, m’lord,” said the man addressed.

St. Cheviot rode on between the sombre line of chestnuts that flanked the drive and were waving wildly in the gale. Soon he could see lights flickering from the windows of the House. Never had he been more glad to reach home. What a disappointing chase, he thought angrily—and what infernal weather. So far the whole week-end had been a disaster. Of a certainty he would return to London and leave his guests to their own devices.

Now he was outside the front door of Cadlington—shouting in his boisterous fashion for his groomsmen who came hurrying round from the courtyard. A footman flung open the door. Spears of light cut across the soaked lawns.

Cadlington House looked huge and forbidding in the purple stormy evening light yet it had a magnificence of its own—with the hill rising steeply behind, thickly wooded to the summit. In front of the house, the pleasure gardens were laid out in terraces. From here, tall windows commanded a magnificent view of the Buckinghamshire Weald.

Godfrey, first Baron of Cadlington, had built this house for his French-born wife, Marguerite. It bore the unmistakable Jacobean stamp—half stone, richly-timbered, containing some twenty-four or -five bedchambers, and a fine dining-hall surrounded by a musicians’ gallery. At a later date, Roland St. Cheviot, Denzil’s father, in atrocious taste, had added a wing. This stuck out from the rest of the building like a monstrous growth wrecking its beauty of design, for it was very lofty, rounded like a tower and turreted. It looked as grotesque as an illustration from a Teutonic fairy tale.

In the interior a winding staircase led to the highest turret which could be seen on a fine day for miles around. It had become a landmark.

Denzil, as a boy, had used it as a place of escape from parents or tutors. He had at one time kept up there wild animals that he had snared. One day a young maid-servant had been found on the staircase with her throat cut. How or why she came to such a sorry pass was never discovered. After that the tower had been shut up and the interior had fallen into a poor state of repair. It was now said to be haunted. Denzil was always intending to have the whole wing pulled down but some morbid fascination about the architectural excrescence held his hand.

Nobody ever went near the tower after dark. The local inhabitants regarded the tall frowning turrets with superstitious horror.

But the old house itself had all the graciousness and dignity of its age. And it was certain that no other in Aylesbury could boast of such fine linen-fold panelling or splendid fireplaces. The two staircases curving up to the musicians’ gallery were built of rosewood, richly carved.

Throughout the last two hundred years, Cadlington had braved the elements on these wild wooded hills, buffeted by gales and storms—drenched by fierce rains. In severe winters the grounds lay buried in deep snow.

At such times the icy hills were almost impassable and then Denzil St. Cheviot would betake himself to London or go to a sumptuous villa which he rented in Monte Carlo.

But in the spring and summer, Cadlington would lose its forbidding and gloomy appearance and gain much beauty. It could, indeed, look mellow and welcoming against the green hills when the gardens were aglow with flowers and the orchards rich with fruit blossom. The time St. Cheviot loved best was the late autumn; the shooting and hunting season. Such a cold stormy October as they had experienced today was exceptional.

A few moments later, St. Cheviot was in the warmth and brilliance of the great hall standing, legs straddled, in front of a leaping log fire. He drew off his gauntlets and shouted for wine. A young footman came running with glasses and decanters. A huge wolfhound which was St. Cheviot’s favourite pet, and so savage none but he dared touch her, had been lying in front of the fire. She rose and walked ponderously up to her master, wagging her tail. He looked down at her and patted the great head.

“Good bitch,” he growled. “Where the deuce has everyone got to—the place is dead.”

St. Cheviot had a loathing of being alone—even for a moment. Perhaps his conscience did not care for solitude—too much time for remembering—he had done evil in his life and had much to be ashamed of. At any rate, he liked company and grew ill-humoured when he was alone. If his female guests were resting at this hour before dinner, let them rest, he decided—later they might find him more entertaining.

Once inside Cadlington, the wind and the rain and the lonely countryside shut out, it was like being in another world; one of luxury and wealth—the enormous wealth of the St. Cheviots. The great house was stacked with treasures—a good deal inherited from the Lady Marguerite, Denzil’s French ancestress who had been an heiress in her own right. The hall in which St. Cheviot was now standing was hung with fine Gobelin tapestries. The tall-backed pointed walnut chairs with their seats of multi-coloured gros-point were French. The fine thick curtains of vermilion silk brocade, sweeping across the windows, had been brought from Paris, hung in the time of the first Baroness and never changed. Some of these gay touches in the decorations amused Denzil St. Cheviot, who had a fancy for Paris and its fashions.

But beauty, colour, art, music, all things lovely crept into St. Cheviot’s life only as a strange distorted foil to his inner spirit of darkness and depravity.

When he entertained here, he liked to do so with an ostentatious display of wealth and power. Tales of his astonishing banquets circulated through England. Those who had participated spoke afterwards of the lavish splendour. The long rich dinners eaten at a table laid with gold plate and rare china bearing the St. Cheviot crest—two eagles, with wings spread, their claws locked in conflict. The library in the west wing, filled with rare, handsomely bound volumes. Of a licentious nature, many were in Italian. But St. Cheviot was no great reader—the books had been appreciated by his father.

Within a few moments of the return of the master of Cadlington, the house blazed with lamp- and candle-light. He, washed and changed, sat before a fire in a small octagonal room, which he used as a private sanctum and kept particularly private documents under lock and key. When in here, it was more than any servant dared do than disturb him. Legs stretched before him, and with Alpha his wolfhound at his feet, Denzil sipped hot mulled wine. He began to feel more comfortable and agreeably-minded as the warmth crept back into his starved body. He had been soaked to the skin before he reached home.

He could not, however, forget the peculiar prophecy of the hunchbacked girl on the roadside. It haunted him.

Marriage … within twelve months from now … watch out for red-gold hair and violets, she had said, and a black St. Cheviot. Well, he had . . .