Lost Laughter E-Book

Barbara Cartland

• Herausgeber: Barbara Cartland Ebooks Ltd
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Renowned for his lavish lifestyle and a roving eye, the handsome Valient, Viscount Ockley, is completely bowled over by the stunning heiress Niobe Barrington. But it is not just for her dazzling beauty that he pursues her with such ardour for, although he lives like a King, it is all on credit. In reality he is all but bankrupt and is facing the horror and squalor of the Fleet Prison for debtors and only by marrying into money can he hope to save himself and restore his ruined house to its former glory. But Niobe's father, Sir Aylmer Barrington, will not hear of it and so arranges for Niobe to marry the 'old and horrid' Marquis of Porthcawl! When Niobe breaks this unwelcome news to him, the Viscount storms from her house in a rage and threatens to marry the first woman he meets rather than let anyone know that Niobe has totally humiliated him. As he drives away in his phaeton, he meets the woman he will soon marry – an eighteen year old beauty who has stowed away under a blanket at his feet. It is Niobe's cousin, Jemima Barrington, who is fleeing the abuse and beatings she constantly suffers at Sir Aylmer's hands. And so in a sudden marriage of convenience the 'wrong' Miss Barrington becomes the new Viscountess Ockley causing outrage and consternation amongst all but Jemima, who is already deeply in love with the Viscount. The question of the moment is will the Viscount ever overcome his love for her cousin?

Leseprobe

Author’s Note

The Fleet Prison, which stood near the Fleet Market in London was where debtors were taken and forced to stay until they were either bailed out or their debts were paid by their friends and relatives.

Tobias Smollet, who was afterwards imprisoned for libel, wrote a book explaining how deplorably the prisoners were treated.

Everything depended, as in other prisons, on having enough money to bribe the jailors with and to be able to purchase what they required from the innumerable hawkers, tradesmen and shops in the vicinity.

There was, however, a worse hazard in the prisons even than being without money.

This was the ‘jail fever’ that swept through all the prisons at this time due to insanitary conditions and bad water.

Being taken to the Fleet Prison meant that one not only lost one’s freedom but very often one’s life.

This is the first novel I have written in which the hero has been a Viscount. This title dates from the beginning of the tenth century and is descended from the Office of Deputy or Lieutenant (Vice-Comes) of a Count.

Henry VI, crowned King of England and France, created John Lord Beaumont in 1440 ‘Viscount Beaumont in England and Vicomte Beaumont in France’.

The title received precedence above all Barons, but it did not become popular until the seventeenth century.

The eldest son of a Marquis or an Earl is often given the honorary title of Viscount, but in this case he is not entitled to sit in the House of Lords.

Chapter One ~ 1818

The Viscount Ockley tore out of the house, took the steps with a giant leap and literally threw himself into his phaeton.

He picked up the reins and brought the whip down on the backs of his horses, which made them spring forward so violently that the stable boy who had been holding their heads only just had time to jump clear.

Then the phaeton was away, swaying as the horses galloped at an unprecedented speed down the drive, the gravel flying out behind as the Viscount took the turn at the lodge gates on one wheel.

The dust from the narrow country road was billowing out behind and the villagers stared in astonishment as he sped past them.

He had driven for nearly three miles before the horses slowed down a little.

He appeared not to notice, but sat staring ahead, his eyes dark with anger and his lips in a tight line.

He was an exceedingly good-looking man with clear-cut features, a determined chin and a breadth of shoulder that made him an outstanding pugilist in Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Academy.

He was also considered a Corinthian when he had the right horses to drive and he was a formidable contestant in any Steeplechase.

It was inevitable that he should be a social success with the fair sex especially as he moved amongst the bucks and beaux, who had nothing better to do when they were not losing a fortune at cards than to discuss the latest ‘Incomparables’.

There was no doubt that Miss Niobe Barrington had taken the vacillating hearts of these gentlemen by storm, which was not surprising considering that she was not only beautiful but also the heiress to a considerable fortune.

Her father, Sir Aylmer Barrington, was not just ‘warm in the pocket’ as the current slang put it, he was a very rich man indeed and he made sure that everyone was fully aware of it.

He intended that his only daughter should command attention and he made sure of it by giving a ball that for sheer expenditure exceeded any other that was likely to take place during the Season.

He was also prepared to offer his hospitality to every aristocrat who was willing to accept it, the proviso being that they were eligible bachelors and so were participants in the matrimonial stakes for Niobe’s hand in marriage.

The Viscount, who was noted as having a roving eye that never missed an attractive woman, was completely bowled over the first time he saw Niobe.

He had accepted reluctantly the impressive but somewhat pretentious invitation card he found waiting for him at White’s Club simply because he had nothing else to do that evening.

As well he found that most of his contemporaries had likewise decided to put in an appearance at Sir Aylmer’s house in Grosvenor Square, although they had gone prepared to be sceptical having in the past found that heiresses on the whole had nothing to recommend them except for a large bank balance.

That Niobe was different was a considerable understatement.

She was ravishingly beautiful with hair the colour of ripening corn, eyes of periwinkle blue and the type of skin that had sent poets into a frenzy of creation since the beginning of time.

When her blue eyes looked up into the Viscount’s grey eyes, he was lost.

From that moment he pursued Niobe with an ardour that had surprised even his closest friends.

This not only surprised but delighted his creditors, who had almost despaired of ever having their accounts, which grew longer and longer every year, finally settled.

His tailor had actually opened a bottle of wine at home with his wife when he heard that the Viscount was likely to be ‘leg-shackled’ to one of the richest heiresses to appear on the social horizon since the War against Napoleon.

“I would not care if she had not a penny to her name,” the Viscount told his closest friend, the Honourable Frederick Hinlip.

“She would care if she had to live in that ramshackle mansion of yours without having the means to do it up,” Freddy replied, “and you know as well as I do that you need some new horses.”

The Viscount had the grace to look somewhat shamefaced.

“You know I am grateful for that loan of yours, Freddy.”

“You are welcome,” his friend answered with a grin, “except that I would sometimes like to ride them myself!”

“She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen!” the Viscount exclaimed raptly, forgetting for the moment the usually absorbing subject of horseflesh.

“I agree with you, but don’t forget you marry not only her but her father.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Sir Aylmer is as hard as nails and as tough as a rhinoceros. He is looking for the best for his Niobe and who shall blame him?”

“Are you insinuating that I am not good enough for her?” the Viscount demanded.

“I have heard that Porthcawl is being unusually attentive.”

“That old nitwit!” the Viscount scoffed. “He has a flabby handshake and always reminds me of a wet codfish!”

“He is also a Marquis!”

“The idea of Niobe even looking in his direction is laughable,” the Viscount said loftily.

He had, however, felt slightly apprehensive as to what was happening when Niobe had told him a week ago that her father did not favour him as a suitor,

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I say,” Niobe responded. “Papa believes that you are too irresponsible to make me a good husband. In point of fact, dear Valient, I fear that he is going to forbid you the house.”

“Then we must run away and elope!” the Viscount insisted firmly.

Niobe looked at him wide-eyed and he went on,

“I will obtain a Special Licence so that there will be no need to go posting off to Gretna Green or any of that nonsense. We will be married at the first Church we come to. Once you are my wife there will be nothing your father can do about it.”

“He will be very angry indeed. Besides I would like a grand Wedding with bridesmaids and a huge Reception afterwards with all the Society people present.”

“That is exactly what you shall have, my darling, if your father will give his consent to our marriage,” the Viscount urged her. “But if he refuses, there will be nothing we can do except take matters into our own hands.”

Niobe had risen from the sofa where they were sitting to walk with what she knew was exquisite grace across the room to the French window.

The house in Park Lane had a garden behind it and she was well aware that silhouetted against the green of the trees, with the sunshine on her golden hair, she was a picture of allurement.

The Viscount watched her as if he was bewitched.

“You are so beautiful so exquisitely beautiful!” he cried. “How could I lose you?”

She gave him a little beguiling smile and in a moment he was on his feet and had taken her in his arms.

“I love you! I love you, Niobe!”

Then he was kissing her wildly, passionately and demandingly and knew as he felt her respond there was no need for him to worry about the future.

When they were both breathless, Niobe moved from his arms to say,

“I forgot to tell you that we are going to the country this weekend. Papa has arranged to give another ball for me for our neighbours who live in Surrey. It will be very exciting with fireworks, gondolas on the lake and a gypsy orchestra in the garden besides another in the ballroom.”

“I am bored with balls!” the Viscount stressed petulantly. “I want you to myself. Shall I speak to your father and insist that we get married before the end of the Season?”

Niobe held up her hands in horror.

“No, no! It would only incense him and make him definitely refuse to let me see you again.”

She paused before she added,

“As it is, you will not be invited to the ball.”

“Do you mean to say that your father disapproves of me to that extent?” the Viscount asked her incredulously.

He had never in the whole of his life been barred from any house where he wished to be a guest and he found it quite incredible that Sir Aylmer would dare to ostracise him in this extraordinary fashion.

Niobe cast down her eyes.

“The trouble is, dear Valient, that Papa believes I am growing too fond of you.”

The Viscount’s eyes lit up.

“That is what I wish you to be, but I want you to say you love me.”

“I think I do, I am almost sure of it,” Niobe answered, “but Papa says love is one thing and marriage another.”

“What does he mean by that?” the Viscount asked angrily.

Niobe gave a little sigh.

“Papa wants me to make a very grand marriage.”

The Viscount stared at her as if he was stunned.

“Are you saying,” he asked at length in a voice that sounded strangled in his throat, “that your father does not think I am grand enough socially? I would have you know that the Ockleys consider themselves to be the equals of any family in the whole land. There is not a history book that does not mention us!”

“Yes, yes, I know all that,” Niobe said quickly, “it is just that Papa has other ideas.”

“What ideas?” the Viscount asked ominously.

Niobe made a little gesture with her hands that was very expressive.

“Are you telling me there is someone he favours more than me?“ the Viscount asked.

Niobe did not reply and he pulled her back into his arms.

“You are mine and you love me. You know you love me! You must be brave, my darling, and tell your father so.”

“He would not listen to me.”

“Then we will run away together.”

The Viscount was just about to explain how this could be done when Niobe, lifting her lovely face to his, said,

“Kiss me, Valient! I adore your kisses and I am so afraid of losing you.”

The Viscount kissed her until he forgot everything but her wild attraction.

*

Only when he was driving away from Park Lane did he remember that he had not had time to expound on the plans he had begun to make for their elopement.

He had, however, written her a passionate letter, which had been conveyed by his valet to Niobe’s lady’s maid so that there was no danger of it being intercepted by Sir Aylmer.

In reply he had had two scribbled lines from Niobe telling him to call on her at her father’s house in Surrey the following Monday.

The Viscount knew that the ball that he had not been invited to was to take place on Saturday and he decided that Niobe would want to see him alone after the house party had departed.

It was, however, infuriating to find that the majority of his friends were either staying at Sir Aylmer’s huge mansion or with friends in the neighbourhood.

Having nothing else to do he had driven to Hertfordshire to his own house, knowing that he would find it depressing, except that it could easily be restored to its former beauty when Niobe’s fortune could be expended lavishly on it.

The War had almost bankrupted the Viscount’s father who had not only invested a great deal of money on the Continent but had also no idea that he should economise personally.

When he died six months after his son returned to England after fighting with the Duke of Wellington’s Army and spending yet another year with the Army of Occupation, the new Viscount found that he had inherited a house falling to bits through lack of repair, a mountain of debts and nothing in the Bank to settle them with.

Because after the long years of war he wished to enjoy himself and make up for what he felt was the loss of his youth, the Viscount had shelved the pressing financial problems that faced him and thrown himself wholeheartedly into the gaieties that were to be found in London.

Regardless of the expense he had opened up Ockley House in Berkeley Square, shrugged his shoulders at the fact that it was mortgaged to the hilt and proceeded to live like a Lord despite the fact, as he had said to Freddy, that he had ‘holes in his pockets’.

It struck him after nearly two years of indulgence that sooner or later he would have to do something about his financial position and it was obvious that only marriage to an heiress could save him.

This would be no new departure in the Ockley family.

In most generations there had been an Ockley who had followed the dictates of his head rather than his heart and had taken a wife who had brought him either money or land.

As that had been their only asset, the Viscount often reflected cynically as he looked at their portraits hanging on the walls in the family house and thought them an extremely plain if not ugly collection of women.

When he had been camping out on some mountainside in Portugal or fighting in the heat and dust of France he had found himself thinking romantically of the type of woman he would marry.

He would not have been human if he had not been conscious of his own good looks and the fact that female hearts undoubtedly fluttered in their breasts when he appeared.

He wanted a wife who would be a complement to himself and he hoped that together they would breed plenty of children who would ensure that any future family portraits were an improvement on those of the past.

Niobe had seemed the answer to the soldier’s prayer and from his long experience of women the Viscount was aware that his kisses excited her and there was a gleam in her eyes when she looked at him and which he naturally expected.

When he had driven down to Surrey on Monday morning, he did not hurry his horses, despite his impatience to reach Niobe, because they belonged to Freddy.

He told himself that the correct time to call on her would be in the afternoon.

He had spent the whole of the weekend perfecting his plans for their elopement and was very conscious that in the inside pocket of his close-fitting well-cut but unpaid for driving coat he carried a Special Licence.

‘Sir Aylmer may well be annoyed,’ the Viscount ruminated, ‘but once we are married there will be nothing he can do and, as Niobe has her own money, he cannot cut her off with the proverbial shilling.’

It certainly had seemed as if everything was as he wished it to be and yet there was a small nagging doubt in his mind because Niobe had been so insistent on a grand Society Wedding.

It was not in fact the first time that she had mentioned it.

He recalled her saying that the Prince Regent had attended the marriage of one of her friends and she would feel chagrined if he was not the Guest of Honour at hers.

The Viscount had, of course, met the Prince Regent on various occasions, but had felt no particular wish for a closer acquaintanceship, finding the long-drawn-out dinners at Carlton House boring and the musical evenings that usually followed made him yawn.

What he enjoyed was frequenting the gaming rooms, the houses of pleasure and the dance halls with his friends who often attended such places merely as spectators or to have what might be described ‘as a rowdy evening’, which unfortunately invariably cost money.

At the same time they were very amusing, as were the night Steeplechases, the Race Meetings at Newmarket or Epsom and the hard-drinking dinner parties that always followed a day on the turf.

“I am sure that His Royal Highness will be delighted to be present at our Wedding,” the Viscount had said swiftly because it was expected of him.

He knew as he spoke that it was extremely doubtful that the Prince Regent would be there and, if Niobe was disappointed, there would be different pleasures that he could offer her.

As he drove down the well-kept drive and saw Sir Aylmer’s enormous mansion in the distance, the Viscount forgot everything but his desire to be with Niobe.

She was waiting for him in the salon, which, if he had noticed it, he would have thought over-luxurious to the point of poor taste.

But he had eyes only for Niobe herself who rose from a seat by the window as he entered looking, he thought, even lovelier than when he had last seen her.

Her gown matched the colour of her eyes and revealed the exquisite shape of her body and, while a critic might have thought that she was wearing too much jewellery for a young girl in the country, the Viscount saw only the curve of her enticing lips.

He put his arms around her.

“No, Valient. No!” Niobe insisted keeping him at arms’ length with her long white fingers.

“What do you mean ‘no’?” the Viscount enquired

“You are not to kiss me until you have heard what I have to tell you.”

“I have a great deal to tell you too.”

“You must listen to me first.”

Because he wished to please her, he forced himself to concentrate on what she was trying to say to him.

“I am afraid that this news will upset you, Valient, but Papa agreed that I should tell you myself.”

“Tell me what?” the Viscount quizzed her.

He had dropped his arms at Niobe’s insistence, but now he stood very tall and elegant beside her and he found it hard to think of anything but her beauty and the softness of her lips that he so wanted to kiss.

“What I have to tell you,” Niobe said, “is that I have promised to marry the Marquis of Porthcawl!”

For a moment the Viscount found it hard to understand what she was saying. It was almost as if she was talking to him in a foreign language.

Then, as the words penetrated his mind, he felt as if someone had struck him a heavy blow on the head.

“Is this some joke?” he asked.

“No, of course not,” she replied. “Papa is delighted. We are to be married next month.”

“I don’t believe it!” the Viscount exclaimed. “If this is your father’s plan, then we must do what we have already intended to do and run away at once.”

He knew even as he spoke from the expression on Niobe’s face that she would not go with him, but still he had to hear her say so.

“I have a Special Licence with me,” he said. “We will be married and then it will be impossible for your father to take you from me.”

“I am sorry, Valient, I knew this would upset you. Although I love you and I would like to have been your wife, I cannot refuse the Marquis.”

The Viscount drew in his breath.

“What you are saying,” he said slowly, and his voice was bitter, “is that you have been playing me along just in case Porthcawl did not come up to scratch, but now he has you are prepared to drop me like a red hot brick!”

He knew as he spoke that this was undoubtedly the truth.

“I am sorry, Valient,” Niobe stressed again, “but I hope after I am married that we can be friends.”

It was then that the Viscount lost his temper.

He had always had a temper. It was something that he had inherited from a long line of Ockleys, a temper that was seldom aroused, but, when it was, it exploded like the charge of a cannon.

Afterwards the Viscount could not remember exactly what he had said to Niobe. He was only aware as he spoke, not shouting but speaking with a bitter intensity words that cut like a whip, that she went very pale.

When she did not reply and he felt that there was nothing more that could be said, he had stormed from the room, intent on putting the greatest distance possible between himself and the woman who had so cynically betrayed him.

Now that he found it a little easier to breathe and the constriction in his chest was not so violent, he was aware that his horses, because of the speed that he had driven them at, were sweating and he himself felt unpleasantly hot.

The idea of heat drew his mind to something strange. He looked down on the floor of the phaeton and saw to his surprise that a rug was lying there in an unusual position.

Then, as he looked at it more closely, wondering why he should have brought a rug with him on such a hot day, it moved and he stared in sheer astonishment as a face appeared from under it.

It was a small oval face with two dark eyes looking at him somewhat apprehensively.

“May I come – out now,” a small voice asked. “I am very hot.”

“Who are you?” the Viscount asked sharply, “and what the Devil are you doing here?”

In answer the rug was thrown to one side and a girl, who appeared very slight and small, climbed onto the seat beside him.

She was wearing a somewhat crumpled gown and her dark head was bare except that hanging down her back, tied to her neck by two ribbons, was a most unfashionable bonnet.

The Viscount looked at her in amazement, then back at his horses and at her again before he asked,

“I suppose you have some reason for being in my phaeton?”

“I am ‒ running away.”

“From whom?”

“From my ‒ Uncle Aylmer.”

“Are you telling me that Sir Aylmer Barrington is your uncle?” the Viscount asked in a tone of fury.

“Yes.”

“Then in that case you can get out! I have no wish to have anything further to do with the Barringtons for the rest of my life!”

“I knew you would feel like that.”

“You knew?” the Viscount snapped. “What have you to do with the diabolical way that I have been treated by them?”

“Nothing,” came the reply, “except that I watched you being dangled on a string just in case the Marquis fell off the hook at the last moment.”

The fact that this was what he had thought himself made the Viscount so angry that he pulled his horses to a standstill.

“Get out!” he stormed. “Get out and be damned! And you can tell both your uncle and his daughter that I hope they rot in Hell!”

The way he spoke and the anger on his face should have intimidated the girl sitting beside him.

Instead she looked at him with commiseration in her eyes before she began,

“I am sorry, but actually – although you will not believe me – you have had a very lucky escape.”

“What the hell do you mean by that?” the Viscount enquired.

“You don’t know Niobe as I do. She is spiteful and unkind and would have made you extremely unhappy.”

“I don’t believe that Niobe is any of those things and, if you speak like that, I shall slap you!” the Viscount threatened.

‘That would be nothing new,” the girl answered. “When Uncle Aylmer beat me – this morning, I decided I must – run away. That is why I am here.”

“Beat you?” the Viscount echoed. “I just don’t believe you!”

“I will show you the marks if you like,” the girl answered. “He is always beating me. When I first came to live with them, he did it – because Niobe told him to and after that he enjoyed it!”

The Viscount stared at her in sheer astonishment.

He did not want to believe what he was hearing. But there was an unmistakable ring of truth in the way the girl spoke that was more convincing than if she had cried or expostulated at his disbelief.

He turned sideways to look at her.

She seemed to him very young and little more than a child.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“I am eighteen.”

“And what is your name?“

“Jemima Barrington.”

“And you really are Niobe’s cousin?”

“My mother was Sir Aylmer’s sister. She ran away from home with my father who was a distant cousin and they were very poor but very happy. When they died and I was an orphan, Uncle Aylmer took me to live with him. And that is why I know that you have had a lucky escape.”

As the conversation returned to him, the Viscount was scowling again.

“I am sorry for you, but you know as well as I do that I cannot involve myself with your troubles. I will take you wherever you want to go as long as nobody hears about it.”

“I don’t suppose that anybody would be interested,” Jemima replied. “Niobe hates – me and Uncle Aylmer finds me – an encumbrance.”

She gave a little sigh before she added,

“Who worries about a ‒ poor relation anyway?”

“Is that what you are?”

“My mother preferred love to riches. She was the exception – to the rest of the family.”

The Viscount thought that this was most probably true.

Niobe had certainly preferred a more important title than the one he himself possessed.

As if she knew what he was thinking, Jemima went on,

“Niobe is a snob like her father. She wants to sit with the Peeresses ‒ at the Opening of Parliament and if a Duke appeared at this moment the Marquis himself would be ditched – just as you have been!”

“I told you not to talk like that,” the Viscount scolded her.

“One day you will know that I am right.”

The Viscount was about to retort and then thought it undignified.