Produced by Al Haines
[Transcriber's note: Extensive research found no evidence
that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Bandit Love
By JUANITA SAVAGE
AUTHOR OF
"The City of Desire," "Passion Island," "Don Lorenzo's Bride," "The
Spaniard," etc.
A. L. BURT COMPANY
_PUBLISHERS_
New York Chicago
Published by arrangement with The Dial Press
Printed in U. S. A.
COPYRIGHT, 1931, BY DIAL PRESS, INC.
BANDIT LOVE
CHAPTER I
Rotten Row on a brilliant June morning, and Hyde Park at its loveliest.
The London "season" at its height, and throngs of fashionably-dressed
men and women "taking the air," strolling idly to and fro, lounging on
little green-painted chairs, or leaning on the rails watching the
riders of all nationalities.
A sight well worth watching. It is the week of the International Horse
Show, and there are many foreign officers in gaily-coloured uniforms,
mounted on sleek and beautiful thoroughbreds, cantering along amidst a
throng of more soberly clad riders of both sexes.
The "liver brigade" is at full strength. These red-faced,
white-moustached, elderly men, with "Retired Colonel, Indian Army,"
stamped all over them, as it were, are probably telling each other, as
they try to urge their hacks to a gallop, that "the Row is becoming
demnably overcrowded, sir, and the place is going to the dogs. Those
confounded foreigner fellows look like circus performers, and that sort
of young woman wouldn't have been tolerated in my young days.... Gad!
just look at that girl!"
The girl in question is mounted on a high-spirited bay which is
resenting her mastery and is fighting to get the bit between his teeth.
The horse rears, jerking his fine head from side to side, then bucks
with a whinny of rage, and the "liver brigade" scatters. A mounted
policeman, on the alert to render assistance and prevent accidents,
brings along his well-trained steed at a hand-gallop, recognises the
rider of the bucking thoroughbred, and reins up with a grin on his
bronzed face.
He knows that Miss Myra Rostrevor, although she looks a mere slip of a
girl, is quite capable of riding and handling almost any horse that
ever was saddled, and is no more likely to be thrown than any of the
Italian officers who have been competing for championships at the
Olympia. He remembers, too, that when another woman's horse bolted
with her a few weeks previously, Miss Rostrevor easily outdistanced him
in pursuit of the runaway, brought the startled animal to a standstill,
and rode off without waiting for a word of thanks from the scared rider.
Idlers lining the rails, however, ignorant of the identity and
capabilities of Miss Myra Rostrevor, watch her struggle with her
spirited steed apprehensively if they are ignorant of horsemanship, and
with admiration if they are experienced.
"Ride him, missie, ride him!" ejaculates a lean, bronzed American
involuntarily. "Gee! some girl! She's sure got you beat, horse, and
you know it. Sits you as surely as an Arizona cowboy, and must have
wrists like steel although she's got hands like a baby. Attaboy! ...
Yep, she'll give you your head now, but I'll gamble she'll bring you
back quiet as Mary's little lamb."
He was right. Myra Rostrevor gave her mount his head for a time and
went the length of the Row, then reined him in, turned, and trotted him
back at a pace that would scarce have shaken up the most liverish of
the Indian Colonels. She eventually brought her horse to a standstill
close to the rails, and patted his neck as she bent forward to chat
smilingly to a tall, fair young man of aristocratic appearance and
languid air.
"I said it! Some good-looker, too," resumed the American, and turned
to a well-groomed stranger next to him, after eyeing the graceful
horsewoman admiringly. "Say, sir, do you happen to know who that young
lady is?" he inquired.
"Yes, I happen to know the young lady," responded the other, politely
willing to satisfy the American's curiosity. "She is a Miss Rostrevor,
daughter of a very old Irish family, and as wild a madcap as ever came
out of the Emerald Isle."
"She looks it," the American commented. "There's a spice of devil in
her expression, and I see she has red hair. I guess the man who
marries her will sure need a bearing rein and a special bit and snaffle
to keep that young beauty in order. But I'll bet she's not short of
admirers, and lots of fellers'd jump at the chance of marrying her, and
risk her kicking over the traces?"
"You are perfectly right, sir," answered the Englishman, with an amused
laugh. "Miss Rostrevor has a host of admirers, which is hardly
surprising, considering her remarkable beauty. Several young men have
lost their heads about her, and she is credited--or should it be
debited?--with having broken several hearts. Incidentally, the man to
whom she is talking might be interested in your remark about the
necessity for a special bit and snaffle. He and Miss Rostrevor are
engaged to be married."
"Is that so?" drawled the American, gazing at the engaged couple with
undisguised curiosity. "What is he? A Lord, or Duke, or something of
the sort?"
"No, he hasn't any title, but he is well-connected, and is one of the
wealthiest and most eligible young men in England. His name is Antony
Standish, and his income is reputed to be something like a hundred
thousand pounds a year. His father was Sir Mark Standish, a great
iron-master and coal magnate."
"You don't say! Lemme see. One hundred thousand pounds. That's round
about five hundred thousand dollars. Some income! What does Mr.
Antony Standish do?"
"Nothing, if you are referring to work. He does the usual Society
rounds, takes an interest in racing, and roams the world occasionally
in a palatial steam yacht. One does not have to worry about work if
one has an income of one hundred thousand pounds a year."
"No, I guess I'd somehow manage to struggle along on half a million
dollars a year myself and kiss work good-bye," said the American, with
a broad grin. "The little lady sure seems to have made a catch, sir,
judging from what you've told me, and yet Mr. Antony Standish somehow
don't look to me to be her style. By the look of Miss Rostrevor, and
the way she handled that horse, I should have guessed her fancy would
have run to something more of the big, he-man type, instead of to a
Society dandy. But one can never tell where women are concerned. And
five hundred thousand dollars a year will make any kind of guy almost
any kind of girl's ideal."
Antony Standish was not a "guy," in the colloquial English sense of the
word, but he was hardly the type of man one would have imagined as
likely to capture the heart of the high-spirited Irish beauty. He was
good-looking, with a fair complexion and a little sandy moustache, and
he carried himself with the air of a patrician, but his face lacked
character, and he had rather a weak chin. He had earned the reputation
of being one of the best-dressed men in London, had a host of friends,
most of whom called him "Tony," and he was talked of as "a good sport."
"Sure, and I wasn't showing off at all, at all, Tony," Myra Rostrevor
was saying to him in her soft, musical voice with a delightfully
attractive touch of the brogue. "It was Tiger here that was trying to
show off and make himself out to be my master.... Weren't ye, Tiger?"
She patted the sleek neck of her horse again as she spoke, and he
pricked his ears and tossed his head as if he understood. "There isn't
any horse or man who is going to master Myra Rostrevor," she added.
"That sounds like a challenge, Myra," drawled Tony Standish smilingly.
"How do you know but what I may adopt cave-man tactics after we are
married, and attempt to beat you into submission?"
Myra tossed her red-gold head much in the same way as her spirited
mount had tossed his, and trilled out a laugh.
"I think, Tony, you'd be even less successful than Tiger, and more
sorry for yourself than he is after your very first attempt," she
responded.
"So perhaps I'd better not make a first attempt, even in the hope of
getting a pat on the neck afterwards," laughed Tony.
There was pride and admiration in his pale blue eyes as he looked up at
the girl who had promised to marry him. He was the owner of many
priceless art treasures, none of which, however, was half as beautiful
in his eyes as Myra Rostrevor.
Her beauty was unique, and even in an assembly of lovely women she
would have attracted attention. Yet her features were not classically
perfect, her small nose had the faintest suspicion of tip-tilt, and
there was nothing stately or majestic about her. No one had ever
compared her to a Greek goddess, but even artists raved about her
beauty and charm, and competed for the privilege of painting her
portrait.
She was slim but shapely. Her hair was the auburn that Titian loved to
paint, with a golden gleam in it, as if a sunbeam had become entangled
and failed to escape. Her complexion, innocent of powder or cosmetics,
was clear and delicate as a rose-leaf but with the faintest tinge of
healthy tan. Her eyes, blue as summer seas, were fringed with long,
dark lashes, and she had an aggravatingly seductive dimple in each
cheek, and another in the centre of her daintily-rounded chin.
A lovely, fascinating and bewitching girl, whom the fates and the
fairies had endowed with that undefinable gift we call "charm." And
Myra had charmed the hearts out of many men, while remaining herself
heart-whole. She was still heart-whole although she was engaged to be
married to Tony Standish, and she had left her fiancé no illusions on
that point.
"Yes, I'll marry you, Tony, but I don't love you," she had told him,
when he proposed a second time after having been rejected on the first
occasion. "I'm going to marry you because Aunt Clarissa insists I must
marry a rich man, and you happen to be the least objectionable rich man
who wants me. I like you, Tony, and think you are rather a dear, but I
want you to understand I'm not in love, and you will be buying me. I'm
selling myself simply because I love all the good things of life,
because you can pay for them, and because Aunt Clarissa keeps badgering
me to marry and I am dependent on her for practically everything."
"You have turned down other fellows as rich as I am who were crazy
about you, and other men much more attractive, so you must love me a
little, Myra dear," Tony had responded. "I am going to make you love
me a lot."
Antony Standish had a good conceit of himself, which was hardly
surprising, for he was the only child of a very rich man, had been
pampered and made much of in his childhood, and later had been toadied
to and sought after by women as well as men, first as heir to, and
subsequently as the actual possessor of, a vast fortune. Many girls
with an eye on the main chance had set their caps at him, angled for
him, and made no secret of their willingness to become Mrs. Antony
Standish, and Tony was not unaware of the fact.
Perhaps it was because Myra Rostrevor had always seemed to be totally
indifferent to him that he had lost his heart to her, and made up his
mind to win her and make her his wife at all costs. It had not been
easy, but Tony had found a very willing ally in the person of Myra's
aunt, Clarissa, Lady Fermanagh. For Lady Fermanagh was only too
anxious to get her orphan niece off her hands, not only because Myra
was an expense, but because her madcap exploits occasionally drove her
almost to distraction, while her heartbreaking flirtations were the
cause of gossip.
Like her fiancé, Myra was an only child, who had been allowed to do
everything she liked practically since infancy, and had come to expect,
and accept, homage, almost as a right. Her father, Sir Dennis
Rostrevor, had at one time been wealthy, but had lost practically
everything in the Rebellion, when the great house that had been the
home of the Rostrevors for generations was burned to the ground.
The loss broke his heart and killed him, and his death almost broke
Myra's heart and left her for a time distraught and inconsolable, for
she had loved and adored her handsome and indulgent father. Time,
however, speedily heals grief's wounds when one is in the early
twenties, and in the social whirl of English Society Myra had all but
forgotten her loss and the dark days of tragedy in Ireland.
"Will you be at home if I call round in an hour or so?" inquired Tony,
as Myra was about to move off, her horse becoming restive again. "I've
got something important to discuss."
"Let me see," answered Myra. "I've got a luncheon appointment, then
I'm going on to Hurlingham, dining with the Fitzpatricks, and going on
later to Lady Trencrom's dance. Have to see my hairdresser and
manicurist at eleven this morning, but I expect I shall be free by
noon. Call about twelve, Tony, and don't forget to bring some
chocolate and cigarettes with you."
"Righto, old thing!" said Tony smilingly, and his eyes followed Myra as
she cantered away, the cynosure of many admiring glances.
Tony liked her to be admired. It seemed a compliment to his own good
taste and discrimination. He liked to think that other men envied him
his position as Myra's accepted lover. It pleased him to be pointed
out as the lucky man who had won the heart and hand of the beautiful
Miss Rostrevor, and he was not unconscious of the fact that he was
being pointed out as he strolled along the Row after watching Myra out
of sight.
"I remembered your instructions, darling," he announced, when he called
on his betrothed at her aunt's house in Mayfair a couple of hours
later. "Here we are! Chocs, your favourite brand of cigarettes, a few
roses, and--er--just a little thing here that caught my eyes in
Asprey's window, which I thought you might like."
The "little thing" he produced from his pocket was a platinum bracelet
set with diamonds, and Myra uttered an involuntary exclamation of
admiration as she opened the case containing it.
"How lovely! Sure, but you're an extravagant darlint, Tony! You
deserve a kiss for this."
She just brushed Tony's cheek with her lips, and evaded him when he
tried to enfold her in his arms.
"Myra, darling, I want to fix a date for our wedding," said Tony.
"Let's get married before the Season is over, or early in the Autumn,
and spend a long honeymoon in the East or in the South Seas. I want to
make you all mine as soon as possible, dear. Let's arrange to get
married next month."
Myra's smile faded, and she shook her red-gold head.
"Tony, darlint, I don't want to marry you just yet," she answered
gently. "I told you when we became engaged that you must give me time
to get accustomed to the idea of becoming your wife, time to try to
fall in love with you first."
"Why not reverse the usual procedure, marry me first and fall in love
with me after?" suggested Tony, and again Myra shook her head.
"I love taking risks, Tony, but that would be too great a risk," she
responded. "It would be ghastly for us both if I married you and found
myself incapable of loving you, and tragic if I fell in love with
somebody else later. Please be patient, Tony. I am really and truly
trying to fall in love with you."
"And you know I am tremendously in love with you, Myra, and want to
make you all my own," said Tony, capturing her hands. "I know I can
make you love me, and we will be enormously happy after we are married.
Do be a darling and let me fix a date for our wedding."
"Be a dear, Tony, and don't press me," pleaded Myra. "We are happy
enough as we are, and since we became engaged and Aunt Clarissa ceased
to badger me, I've been having a gorgeous time. Let's postpone fixing
a date for our marriage until next Spring, by which time I may be sure
of my own heart. Perhaps it's an old-fashioned idea, but I'd like to
be in love with the man I marry."
"I say, Myra!" exclaimed Tony, as if struck by a sudden idea, after a
few moments of silence. "I say! A promise is a promise, you know.
You won't throw me over and make me look and feel an ass, will you, if
you should happen to meet someone you think you like better than me?
You've promised to be my wife, you know."
"Yes, I know, Tony, but I also know you are too much of a sportsman to
hold me to my promise if I should happen to fall in love with another
man," Myra responded. "That isn't in the least likely to happen, Tony
dear, and I am truly trying to love you in the way a girl should love
the man she has promised to marry, as I have already told you. Let me
have my freedom and my fling for a few months longer."
"Well, I suppose it isn't any use my trying to bully you into marrying
me at once," said Tony, with a shrug, a sigh, and a wry smile. "But
you know I'm tremendously in love with you, darling, and I can't help
feeling jealous of the fellows who still go on dancing attendance on
you although you are engaged to me. I'm haunted by the fear of someone
stealing you from me."
"Tony, darlint, you've no need to be jealous," Myra smilingly assured
him, and patted his cheek. "There isn't anyone else. Dozens of men
profess to be in love with me, but there isn't a single man--or a
married man either--that I'm the slightest little bit in love with. So
don't worry! I promise you that if ever I do meet a man whom I'd
rather marry than you, I'll tell you."
And with that Tony had, perforce, to be content.