Mistress Masquerade
Juliet Landon
UNEXPECTED TREASURE…Humiliated and betrayed by men, Lady Annemarie Golding has isolated herself from society. After a chance discovery of some intimate letters that could tarnish the Prince Regent's name she sees an opportunity to get revenge on erring husbands everywhere.Only Lord Jacques Verne stands in her way. An aide to the Prince, he has his orders to obtain the letters–at any cost. His pursuit of Annemarie is deliciously persuasive…but if she agrees to become his mistress can she be sure it's truly her he wishes to possess?"Charming, romantic…a feast for the history lover."–RT Book Reviews on Scandalous Innocent
‘What kind of man do you take me for? A rogue, like Mytchett?’
‘Leave him out of it, if you please.’
‘Gladly. But answer my question.’
‘I cannot!’ she retorted, squirming against him. ‘All I know is that you have your orders and that’s why you’re here. How should I know what kind of a man you are, my lord? You must have heard how skilfully I form opinions in that direction.’
‘Yes, I have. Stop struggling and listen to me. This is not what you believe.’
‘You will never convince me of that, my lord. If I did not own something you’d been told to get hold of at any cost you would show no more interest in Lord Benistone’s scandalous daughter than in any other widow.’
Mistress Masquerade
Juliet Landon
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
JULIET LANDON’s keen interest in art and history, both of which she used to teach, combined with a fertile imagination, make writing historical novels a favourite occupation. She is particularly interested in researching the early medieval and Regency periods, and the problems encountered by women in a man’s world. Her heart’s home is in her native North Yorkshire, but now she lives happily in a Hampshire village close to her family. Her first books, which were on embroidery and design, were published under her own name of Jan Messent.
Previous novels by the same author:
THE WIDOW’S BARGAIN
THE BOUGHT BRIDE
HIS DUTY, HER DESTINY
THE WARLORD’S MISTRESS
A SCANDALOUS MISTRESS
DISHONOUR AND DESIRE
THE RAKE’S UNCONVENTIONAL MISTRESS
MARRYING THE MISTRESS
SCANDALOUS INNOCENT
(collaboration with the National Trust)
SLAVE PRINCESS
Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks?Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
AUTHOR NOTE
The Regency, a period between the years 1811 and 1820, was dominated by George, Prince of Wales, eldest son of King George III and Queen Charlotte. He was a man of many facets, both attractive and ugly.
In 1811 George was required to take over his father’s duties because of a severe illness showing similar symptoms to insanity, projecting the young man into a situation he was unable to manage to anyone’s satisfaction—not even his own. This was not all his fault, but he was not a strong leader in any sense, preferring lavish displays of wealth and waste that drained the coffers dry at a time when funds were needed for the wars against Napoleon.
My depiction of him as an art-lover is fact, for he did indeed employ knowledgeable friends like Lord Hertford to act as buyer for his ‘newest toys’, Carlton House and Brighton Pavilion, on which he poured vast sums of money while at the other end of society thousands lived in terrible poverty after a series of bad harvests and severe winters.
In an otherwise intelligent and cultivated man, his insensitivity on a personal level was breathtaking, and it seemed to me, as a writer, that to include him in a story of this kind I must choose whether to concentrate on the sadness of his position or on his utterly reprehensible behaviour towards those he had once called his dearest friends. To allow Annemarie to rediscover her natural compassion I chose the former.
Emma Hamilton was one of those Regency characters whose colourful life needs no embellishment. Her story of ‘rags to riches’ both fascinates and repels us at the same time. It is an astonishing saga of how she exploited every attribute and talent she possessed to survive in a man’s world, becoming the mistress of several men in the process, including Lord Nelson. There is no evidence that she and the Prince Regent were actually lovers, but they were close friends—until Emma’s difficulties and demands became too much for him, when he failed to respond to her pleas for help.
Selfish to the last, George felt no responsibility to those he had once loved, though he kept thousands of love tokens, letters and mementoes. Again, one cannot help but find some sympathy for a woman like Emma Hamilton, so ill-used by her family and all those she had helped, who had taken full advantage of her generosity. Her ambition, apparent greed and amoral behaviour sometimes appear at odds with her naivety, innocence and longing for approval while expecting the same kindness from those she loved. I truly believe she could not tell her friends from her enemies most of the time. And that, sadly, was one of the greatest tragedies in her life, for she lived in the heart of a political and greed-ridden society whose loyalties dissolved faster than hers. Combine those expectations with a man like the Prince Regent and there is a recipe bound to collapse—like his protestations of eternal love.
Two such complex characters, so much to like and admire, so much to despise; their true stories are indeed stranger than fiction.
My main sources of information were The Prince of Pleasure by JB Priestley, which is now out of print, but there is plenty about George to be found in Ian Kelly’s brilliant book Beau Brummell, published by Hodder and Stoughton in 2006.
Kate Williams’s book, England’s Mistress, is all about Emma Hamilton and is excellent reading, published by Arrow in 2007.
Contents
Chapter One (#u33ccf0c2-bee8-57eb-9ab8-c021af128ef0)
Chapter Two (#u0c9678ef-c474-5243-b4f8-3dd1e3e62466)
Chapter Three (#u1d06f6f1-9396-587e-bc25-f141b0f347d2)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
London. June 1814
Lowering his morning newspaper with a loud crackle, Lord Benistone put down his magnifying lens and stared vacantly at the pot of marmalade, then across at his three daughters. ‘Poor unfortunate woman,’ he muttered. Two of them knew by the way he spoke that he was more likely to be thinking of their mother at that moment than the woman who featured, yet again, in The Times.
‘Obituaries?’ said Annemarie, his second eldest.
His eyes warmed at her assumption. ‘No, love. Not obituaries. Lady Emma Hamilton again. Another sale. She can have little more to sell now. You should go, Annemarie.’
‘To an auction? I think not, Papa. All the world will be there.’
‘I could request a private view for you. I can send a note to Parke at Christie’s. He’d allow it. I know you’d like something of hers, wouldn’t you? A memento? As an admirer?’
He’d got it wrong. Words of feeling were not his strong point. ‘Not so much admiration as sympathy,’ she said, ‘for the way she’s been treated since Lord Nelson’s death. All those wealthy friends and greedy relatives, and not one of them willing to help her out of her debts. She must be desperate by now.’
Her younger sister Marguerite’s opinion was only to be expected, particularly on a subject about which she knew little. At sixteen-and-a-half, she had still not learned the art of discretion. ‘I shall not be wasting my sympathy on a woman like that,’ she said, pushing her half-eaten breakfast away. ‘She’s brought it all on herself.’
It took much to make their father angry, but this hit a raw nerve and his hard stare at his youngest daughter would have made a bold man quake. ‘Marguerite,’ he said, softly, ‘I wish you would try to acquire the habit of thinking before you speak before it’s too late to make a lady of you. For one thing, no woman brings it all on herself. And for another thing....tch! Never mind. You wouldn’t understand.’
Even Marguerite knew then that he was thinking of their mother.
Oriel, the eldest sister, glanced at her sideways and pushed the plate back into place with one finger. ‘Unladylike,’ she said. ‘And I think an apology is called for.’
‘I’m sorry, Papa,’ Marguerite whispered. ‘I spoke rashly.’
‘No harm, child,’ he said, nodding. ‘No harm.’ The morning sun caught the top of his silvery hair as he looked again at Christie’s announcement. ‘You go and take a look, Annemarie. I don’t know whether she’ll have saved the best or the rubbish till last, but you may find something to take down to Brighton with you.’ At sixty-eight he was still a handsome man, in spite of the lack of exercise.
‘What are you looking for?’ said Oriel. ‘I wouldn’t have thought anything of Lady Hamilton’s would be to your taste. A little too flashy, perhaps?’
‘I’ve no idea. Something small, I suppose.’
Annemarie saw the flicker of amusement pass across her father’s face at that. There was barely a square inch of space at their Montague Street home that was not occupied by his well-known collection of antiquities, and he knew as well as she that by sending her to Christie’s auction rooms in his stead, his own curiosity would be assuaged without the temptation to buy. Even Lady Hamilton’s last pieces would reveal something of quality, if not rarity, for she and Lord Nelson had been presented with gifts from every corner of the world. Annemarie was due to return to her own house at Brighton the next day, so it seemed like a last chance to find something that would fit. Something small.
* * *
Only one hour later, a note was delivered to Montague Street assuring Lord Benistone that Mr Parke, Christie’s senior valuer, would be delighted to show Lady Annemarie Golding over the most recent acquisitions.
* * *
So it was that, by mid-afternoon, she had chosen not the small thing she’d intended, but one of a pair of matching bureau dressing-tables made by the elder Chippendale, no longer in the height of Regency fashion but exactly what she needed for her bedroom. She would have bought its twin also, but did not need two of them as Lady Hamilton and Lord Nelson apparently had. Widows such as herself only needed one of anything. The generous price of it, however, was certain to relieve the poor lady’s acute embarrassment more than all the other clutter she was selling, except for its twin which Mr Parke assured Lady Golding he would sell for at least as much. Even so, he pointed out that he knew of no one who would want to purchase the pair and was relieved to have got one of them out of the way so quickly.
* * *
It was delivered to Montague Street that very same day and, smoothing a gnarled hand over the rosewood surface, Lord Benistone bent to examine the delicate inlay, the pretty brass handles, the honeyed tones of the veneer, his fingertips reading the patterned woods as if they were words. ‘I’ll have it packed straight away for you,’ he said, ‘and ready for the wagon first thing in the morning. Will that do?’
‘Thank you, Papa,’ Annemarie said, glancing round the great hall where the brown bureau looked so ill at ease amongst the white carved reliefs and contorted stone figures, the smooth busts of Roman matrons, the urns and plaques. There was no point in repeating the countless invitations to go with her to Brighton. He would never leave his beloved collection, not even for a few days of bracing sea air, especially now when the whole of Europe was flocking to London for the end-of-war celebrations. The possibility of meeting other antiquarians was too good to miss. She could hardly blame him when she was using the same reason to escape to deserted Brighton where she was unlikely to meet anyone who knew her.
The other reason, she had to admit, was that the beautiful house on Montague Street had become more like a museum than a home and she longed for the white-and-pastel space of her own elegant rooms where she was not swamped by sculpted pieces of enormous proportions or paintings covering every vertical surface. They were even stacked against the furniture now, finding their way into the bedrooms, preventing the housemaids from cleaning and the housekeeper from keeping order. Entertaining had been out of the question for years unless the guests were fellow-collectors, making for some very one-sided conversations. It was not difficult for any of them to understand why their mother had left last year, although the manner of her leaving was another thing entirely. That would be even harder to understand and not a day passed when Annemarie did not feel the wound it had left.
They never spoke of it, papa and his daughters, but now it seemed as if something had tweaked at that raw nerve again as the day of Annemarie’s departure drew nearer and his usually clear voice faltered as his hands ceased their caress of the rosewood. ‘This thing will be all right,’ he whispered, ‘but it’s you I’m concerned about, lass. You’ve been more affected by what happened than your sisters and, at twenty-four years old, it’s time you found somebody else to take care of you properly. Holing yourself up by the sea is hardly the right way to go about it, is it? And when I’m no longer...’ His voice trembled on a sob as the thought took over. ‘I ought to have seen it coming, oughtn’t I?’
Annemarie had not seen him like this before. Taking him into her arms, she hushed him with mothering sounds and felt him tremble as if a cool breeze had ruffled him. Then he was still again, composed and dignified, determined not to be seen caring too deeply for his loss. It was affairs of the heart that had been his undoing. That, and a disastrous misdirection of his attention. Perhaps there was more of him in young Marguerite than he cared to admit.
Withdrawing from her comfort, he sniffed and pushed a tear away with a knuckle, smiling thinly at the unusual lapse. ‘You’re so like her,’ he said, touching her cheek. ‘Oh, I don’t mean like that. I mean in looks. The way she was when I first saw her: same glossy black hair, velvet skin, amethyst eyes. A beautiful creature.’
She smiled. What loving father did not think his daughters beautiful?
* * *
Later, she tried her persuasions on Oriel. ‘I wish you were coming with me,’ she said as they watched Marguerite disappear with a swirl up the wide staircase still in a state of agitation from breakfast.
‘And I wish you were staying here with us,’ Oriel said, tucking her hand through her sister’s arm. Upstairs, a door slammed and her soft grey-blue eyes rolled heavenwards before turning to Annemarie’s.
‘She means no harm, love.’
‘She doesn’t have the sense to mean anything,’ said Oriel ‘That’s the problem. We never know what she’s going to say...or do...next. That’s why it’s best if I stay here to keep an eye on her. Besides....’
‘Yes, I know. You have Colonel Harrow. I would never drag you away from him, just to keep me company.’
Oriel blushed, her smile lighting up her serenely lovely face like sunshine on water. Annemarie picked up the hand that was through her arm to check on the sapphire-and-diamond engagement ring. Colonel Harrow was fortunate to have won her and not for the world would Annemarie have claimed priority when the couple had so recently been reunited after his return from the Peninsula Wars. Oriel’s relief to find him unharmed after so much hard fighting against Napoleon’s forces had moved them all to tears of joy, especially after Annemarie’s own late husband had fared less well. As a couple, Oriel and William were now able to take part in the celebrations that would last for months, if the Prince Regent could find the funds to pay for them.
Oriel shared in the study of her ring. ‘It’s not only that,’ she said. ‘It’s Father too, isn’t it? He prefers it if one of us is here to show his visitors round the collection and Marguerite is no help because she doesn’t know the first thing about it. At least we can tell Egyptian from Assyrian.’
Giggling at the mental picture of Marguerite’s carefully cultivated ignorance, Annemarie could not suppress the uncharitable retort, ‘Yes, and the longer she refuses to learn, the less likely she’ll be asked to help. She knows that, the little minx. And Papa knows it, too. He should take a stronger line with her.’
‘He did at breakfast though, didn’t he?’
‘He should do it more often.’
‘She takes notice of Cecily,’ said Oriel, wiping a finger over the stone curls of a Roman’s beard. ‘This one hasn’t been dusted lately.’
‘Thank heaven for Cecily. She’s a saint.’
Father’s widowed cousin Cecily was in a perfect position to visit their London home as one of the family while keeping her own luxurious house on Park Lane as an escape from the comings and goings of visitors to their papa’s “museum”. Quite often, Marguerite would stay overnight with her when a chaperon was required for an evening event, an arrangement that suited them all for a variety of reasons. Cecily had been the one to sponsor Marguerite’s coming-out ball last summer, and now she was just as likely to appear at the Montague Street breakfast table as Marguerite was at hers.
‘You ought not to be travelling down to Brighton on your own, though,’ Oriel said. ‘You know Father doesn’t like it above half. Won’t Cecily go with you?’
‘I would not want her to,’ Annemarie replied. ‘I’d rather she stayed where Marguerite is, while she’s flitting about from party to picnic every day. She’s quite determined to go to Lady Sindlesham’s ball tonight, you know, and Papa doesn’t seem at all concerned. Cecily is needed here. Anyway, love, I shall hardly be on my own with a maid and two coachmen, shall I? I’m not likely to come to any harm between here and the coast.’
‘You’re getting to be a recluse, Annemarie. It cannot be good for you.’
‘It’s best,’ she said, not wanting to explain.
‘Think of all the evening dresses. You know how you love dressing up.’
‘Don’t, Oriel. It doesn’t help.’
But it was true. To wear the newest fashions had always been one of her weaknesses, but without that frisson of excitement at the admiration they caused, the exercise seemed pointless when the stares she received would be laced with pity and curiosity to see how she was surviving last year’s scandal. She was not prepared to face that. Not yet.
Oriel’s arm squeezed hers, understanding. When Mama was with them once again and Annemarie began to show signs of taking her place in society, she and her handsome colonel would name a date for their marriage. It was typical of her that she would not put a seal on her own happiness before everyone else’s was assured. But never once had the two older sisters doubted that, one day, Mama would reappear and that their lives would then begin a return to normality.
It gave her sister no pleasure to keep them waiting, but for the life of her, she could find no way forwards.
* * *
The well-dressed delivery man touched the brim of his top hat. ‘Thank-ee, m’lord. Very generous, m’lord. Any time.’ A real swish beau, that one, he said to himself, watching the long stride disappear round the corner. It was one thing to be in such a cove’s good books, but that man could do some serious damage if the opposite applied, if those shoulders and that deep barrel of a chest were any indication, yet the blue superfine sported not one crease. Pocketing the gold coin, he patted the embroidered lettering on his black-velvet lapel that said, ‘Christie’s of London’ before climbing up on to the wagon to sit beside his mate. ‘It don’t get much easier than that, Rookie,’ he grinned.
‘Blabbermouth!’ replied Rookie, good-naturedly flipping the reins. ‘Giddup!’
Returning to the front of Christie’s Auction House, the admired beau climbed into his own conveyance, a cream-and-black curricle of exquisite delicacy, took the reins and whip into his gloved hands, nodded to his groom and moved away along King Street heading northwards, quite unaware of the admiration he had aroused.
Montague Street, he said to himself. That would be Benistone’s place, of course, a collector better known for his Greek and Roman artefacts and old masters than furniture. One of the best collections in London, so the Prince Regent believed. Sadly, Lord Benistone had suffered some notoriety over the loss of his beautiful ex-courtesan wife who had run off with the suitor of one of his daughters last year. He himself had been away in the Peninsula with Wellington at the time, so knew little of the details. The elderly father had never been a socialite, and what the daughters were like he did not know, though he’d heard that one of them had her mother’s looks, which might explain why that short-sighted worm Mytchett had taken what was on offer. His curiosity sharpened.
* * *
At Number Fourteen Montague Street, Lord Benistone’s butler was apologetic. The master was not at home. He was across the road in the British Museum. He liked to take a look at least once every two weeks. Would Lord Verne like to return tomorrow? Leave his card?
No, Lord Verne thought he could do better than that, though it would not do to betray his impatience. In the marbled hall lined with art objects, he had detected a white pedestal that had moved, very slightly, in a shadowy corner by the staircase. He took a chance. ‘I wonder...is Lord Benistone’s daughter at home? I have not yet had the pleasure of the lady’s acquaintance, but His Royal Highness the Prince Regent...ah!’
The pedestal moved forwards very slowly into the light and became a tall shaft of creamy-white flowing muslin topped by a scoop of peachy skin, a long neck unadorned except by wisps of escaping hair that curved on to her shoulders, the remainder of which was piled up into a gloriously untidy mass of glossy blackness that had obviously been set up there without mirror or abigail.
There were very few times when Lord Verne was bereft of speech, being an erudite man known for his ability to handle any situation with astonishing efficiency, but this was one of those times. Aware that his incredulous stare would be taken for incivility if he didn’t utter some kind of sound in the next three seconds, he let out his breath on a narrowly avoided whistle. ‘Miss...er...Benistone?’ he said. ‘I hope you’ll forgive my intrusion.’
Her black-rimmed gemstone eyes glared at him from beneath finely curved brows, one of which was cleft by a loosened ringlet that on any other woman would have signified untidiness, but on her was sensational. So, this could be the jilted daughter. If the mother looked anything like this, Verne thought, who could have refused her? But the amazing eyes remained stony and one could not have said that her welcome was even lukewarm as she stayed well out of reach. ‘No, we have not met, sir. I am Lady Golding, Lord Benistone’s second daughter. And you are?’
‘Lord Verne. At your service, ma’am.’ The use of his title, he thought, was justified on this occasion.
‘Then, in the absence of someone to introduce us, I suppose that must suffice. How do you do?’ Gracefully, she inclined her head in what he knew to be the precise degree demanded by etiquette and not one jot more. His own slight bow matched hers. He had no intention of offering more in civilities than she did. She adjusted a frill over her other wrist before clasping her hands beneath the high bodice of her gown.
The butler bowed and took Lord Verne’s hat and gloves and placed them on a vacant corner of the book-piled hall table before leading the way to a morning room that had now become a repository of treasures. There was very little room for manoeuvre, yet he was both surprised and amused when the butler, without being prompted, propped the door wide open with a gigantic plaster cast of a foot before leaving them alone. If one could be alone in such exalted company.
‘Casts of Michelangelo’s David,’ said Annemarie, noting his interest. ‘Here’s his nose and one of his hands.’ She blew a cloud of dust off it. ‘May I ask your business, my lord?’ Still no smile.
He decided to press for one. Foolishly, in retrospect. ‘Yes,’ he said, looking about him, ‘it would be difficult to get the rest of him in here without chopping him into further little bits, wouldn’t it?’
‘You mentioned the Prince Regent just now. Was there a reason for that?’ she said, ignoring his attempt at levity. She obviously did not appreciate having to deal with visitors, even noble ones, who turned up on the doorstep without a ticket expecting to be shown round individually. She would expect them to apply for the usual days: Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays. ‘Does his Highness wish to see the collection, perhaps?’
Verne accepted defeat. She was not going to thaw. ‘I mentioned the Prince Regent, my lady, because he has commissioned me to find something for him.’
Annemarie glanced sideways at the dusty piles of books, vases and body parts waiting to be catalogued. ‘Really. And would you know it if you saw it, my lord?’
So, she needed to be told that she was not talking to an ignoramus. Idly following her glance, he was needled into a retort. ‘Well now, I’d know that the hand you’ve just dusted off is by Bernini, not Michelangelo, like the nose. And I’d know that this bowl here is sixth century bc Attic and that you should put it somewhere safe. It’s a very rare piece. And behind you is an El Greco, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘It is!’ Annemarie retorted sharply. ‘What is it you’re looking for?’
Right. Now we’re level, Lady High and Mighty Golding, née Benistone.
‘For a Chippendale bureau. Oak, mahogany and pine, mostly.’
‘As you see, my father is not a collector of furniture. That is why I cannot ask you to sit. Most of our chairs are used for...other things...’
‘Yes, quite. But I was led to believe, my lady, that a Chippendale bureau was delivered to this address only today. The day before the Hamilton auction.’
A quick frown shadowed her face. ‘Mr Parke promised me—’
‘It was not Parke who gave me the information,’ he said. ‘I did not even ask him for it. One does not need to go to the horse’s mouth to find things out, if you’ll excuse the expression.’
‘I’m familiar with the Christie organisation, I thank you. I can guess how you made your discovery But you are wasting your time, my lord. There is no bureau here. Where on earth would we put such a thing?’
‘His Highnesss will be very disappointed. He’s offering a good price for it.’
‘Well, that’s not my concern. Why does he want it so much?’
‘The Prince’s buyer visited Christie’s auction rooms at mid-day and found that the pair had been split up. His Highness was very put out. He wants the pair, you see, and at the moment he has only one. He sent me to search for it’s twin.’
Angrily, she looked away, making it clear that knowledge of who had purchased the bureau was the very thing she had wished to avoid. Verne noted the angry flush and felt a moment of sympathy for this ravishing creature hiding herself away in this museum-like cavern with an ageing father and a heart growing cold with bitterness.
As if summoned by the butler, a well-dressed middle-aged lady appeared, entering from the hall with plenty of warning and looking from Annemarie to her visitor with a smile. One glance at the fair ringlets, the plump figure and the brightly rouged cheeks warned him that she was probably not one of the sisters.
‘Cecily, my dear,’ said Annemarie, ‘allow me to introduce Lord Verne. Mrs Cardew, my lord. My father’s cousin.’
‘Ma’am.’ This time, his bow received a smile in return.
‘My lord. You were hoping to meet Lord Benistone? Oh dear. He’s late.’
‘I was hoping to find Lord Benistone and a certain bureau, ma’am.’
Annemarie’s quick frown would have cracked a Greek urn, but it went unheeded. Mrs Cardew preferred him not to leave without some discussion. She was never usually so blind to Annemarie’s signals. ‘Oh, that,’ she said. ‘What a pity you’ve just missed it. It’s just been loaded on to the—’
‘That’s what I told his lordship,’ said Annemarie, stepping in quickly to stem the verbal flow, ‘that it’s not here.’
‘It’s going down to Brighton, you see,’ continued Mrs Cardew, brightly. ‘It’s for Lady Golding’s personal use.’
‘And it’s not for sale. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my lord, I have things to do.’
‘Ah, so it was here,’ Verne said, determined to persevere rather than be sent off with the flea in his ear that Lady Golding had in mind for him.
‘That is quite irrelevant, my lord,’ said Annemarie, sending him a withering look. ‘I’ve said it’s not for sale. Naturally I am mortified that his Royal Highness will be disappointed. Indeed, I shall probably lose a week’s sleep over it. I hope he soon recovers and finds something else he cannot live without. A diamond-studded horseshoe, for instance? A gold-plated handkerchief? A hair from the Great Chan’s beard? Poor man. So much wealth to get rid of.’
‘Annemarie, you must not say such things. Lord Verne and the Prince are sure to be close friends.’
‘Yes, I imagine they must be if all they have to do is to chase round London after things they can’t have.’
Taken aback by Annemarie’s sharpness, Mrs Cardew responded to a sudden clatter in the hall that heralded the arrival of the one who could save a difficult situation: Lord Benistone himself. She went off to investigate.
Lord Verne, however, placed himself between the door of the morning room and Lady Golding. He’d be damned if he’d let her have the last word. His voice was little more than a growl meant for her ears alone, spoken while their eyes locked together like cold steel. ‘I rarely chase after things I can’t have, Lady Golding. When I see what I want, I pursue it. And I usually make it mine.’
She could be in no possible doubt about his meaning, which had nothing to do with the bureau. Her eyes read his, down to the last letter. ‘Oh? With or without permission?’ she said.
‘Both,’ he replied, watching her eyes flinch. If his answer held a hint of ambiguity, he was certain she understood him well enough.
Her tongue was sharp, but not sharp enough to find a clever reply before the cousins returned, introductions were made, connections and interests defined. It was always a joy for Lord Benistone to find another man who shared his passion, and this man, working closely with the Prince Regent himself, had the best of credentials. Each had heard of the other.
* * *
Annemarie kept herself apart, fighting the temptation to run upstairs and shut herself away until he’d gone, her head echoing to his words, a statement of intent more than a challenge. After almost a twelvemonth, it was not what she needed to hear from any man hoping to find favour with her. Perhaps he believed that, after such a public disappointment, she would be desperate to regain her former standing in the fickle world of the ton, or that she was waiting for some bold knight to rescue a woman left desolate and pining. Nothing could be further from the truth. She wanted nothing any man had to offer, not even the nonsense about pursuing and owning. And for another thing, he was one of the Prince Regent’s set, and that condemned him in her eyes as irrevocably as all the rest put together.
All the rest? That tall athletic presence, too? The smooth doeskin breeches covering long muscular thighs, the matching waistcoat, under a creation that must have come from Weston of Old Bond Street, covering a deep chest. No padding or lacing there, she was certain of it. The impeccably arranged neckcloth and white cuffs, a single diamond pin and gold fob-watch on a fine chain were the kind of elegance that Mr Brummell advocated. Nothing to attract attention. That trend-setting gentleman, however, had no say over a man’s physique or natural comeliness, and heaven knew she had seen enough men to know when one was several cuts above the rest. His long unmannerly stare had given her time to do the same and, although her scrutiny was not meant to approve, her reluctant conclusion was that his was the handsomest countenance she had ever seen.
She had also taken note of the ruthlessness there, too, the square chin and steel-grey eyes, the quick lift of his head when he’d sparred with her, determined not to be bested. His dark hair was a tangle of deep waves that had obviously resisted any attempt to tame it and there was a streak of white from his brow that disappeared into the rest, like foam on the sea. She had seen the manicured nails, the dusting of dark hairs on the backs of his strong hands, an unsettling detail that reminded her of how dangerous such a man could be.
Still, there was one comforting thought: he would not be getting her bureau for any price, so he might as well go quietly and leave her alone. As for Cecily’s contribution, that was one of those annoying but forgivable mistakes, a result of her natural friendliness and her longing to re-establish Annemarie’s connection with the beau monde that had been allowed to lapse.
This time, Cecily’s enthusiasm was somewhat misplaced when she added her voice to Lord Benistone’s invitation. ‘Yes, indeed, my lord, of course you must dine with us. Miss Marguerite and I will be leaving for Lady Sindlesham’s ball later on, but Lord Benistone loves nothing more than to hear who has acquired what. Annemarie, my dear, will you allow me to go and speak to cook?’ A response seemed to be superfluous when Cecily was already halfway to the door, leaving Verne wondering exactly who was mistress here, Mrs Cardew or Lady Golding.
Cecily’s unique position within the family caused such anomalies to happen occasionally. She meant well, but what annoyed Annemarie more was the almost indecently brisk acceptance by which the tenacious Lord Verne took advantage of her father’s craving for men like himself to converse with. In no time at all, the two of them were away into Lord Benistone’s inner sanctum, talking nineteen to the dozen as if they had known each other for years instead of minutes, all protests about not being properly dressed for dinner dismissed with a wave of the master’s hand. ‘No matter, dear boy. Neither shall I be. No time for that. Never have. Nobody minds here. Come and tell me if his Highness has a bronze like this.’ And away they went without a backward glance, leaving Annemarie fuming at her own impotence.
Somebody did mind. She did. She preferred it if people dressed for dinner. What else would they dress for if not for the evening? She could hardly blame her father for latching on to a man so closely involved with the Prince Regent’s treasures, but she knew that this man had come here for something he was sure he could get, one way or another. And Lord Benistone was such a generous and obliging man, far too willing to say yes because it took less effort than to say no. With the latter, explanations were usually needed.
* * *
After their acrimonious introduction, it would have been quite unrealistic for Lord Verne to expect anything from Lady Golding except a polite frostiness, which is exactly what she delivered, even though etiquette demanded that they sat next to each other. Obviously, she was not inclined to exert herself for his sake, but no one seemed to notice when the youngest sister was intent on making enough effort for both of them with her girlish chatter.
Dressed in her white ballgown, the young lady looked astonishingly pretty with dark brown curls framing features that, in another year or two, would become more classically beautiful, though never as stunning as her sister. She did not possess anything like Lady Golding’s intelligence or depth either, her eagerness to please reminding Verne of a puppy that went into raptures at the sight of an audience. Especially a male audience. The eldest sister, Miss Oriel Benistone, was dining out that evening so he was not able to compare the siblings further, but the father and his cousin kept up a stream of conversation between them that made Lady Golding’s studied silence seem piquant to Verne. Even enjoyable. It was some time since he’d met such tangible hostility and never from a lovely woman. The situation was intriguing, all the more so when his brief was to get results at all costs.
Inevitably, the conversation turned to the elusive bureau wanted by the Prince Regent for Carlton House, the ongoing renovations of which were so much over budget that he was having to petition Parliament for extra funds for their completion. Miss Marguerite Benistone aired the question her father was too polite to ask. ‘Doesn’t the Prince have enough funds of his own, Lord Verne?’
Verne smiled indulgently at her. ‘His Highness never has enough funds. The Pavilion at Brighton is another half-finished project costing huge sums in improvement and decoration.’
‘Not to mention,’ said Annemarie, unexpectedly, ‘the cost of entertaining the crowned heads of Europe this summer after a war that has drained the country of every spare penny. No wonder Lady Hamilton is having to sell her effects to make ends meet. We shall all be doing the same if his Highness insists on covering the rooftops of his Pavilion with fancy Indian domes.’
‘You don’t approve of the Prince, I take it?’ said Verne, goading her.
Before she could answer, Mrs Cardew stepped smartly into the breach. ‘Ah, but think of all those celebrations in the parks since Bonaparte was taken into custody, all the dances and routs, all the returning militia to entertain. Did you serve in the King’s army, my lord?’
‘Until a few months ago, ma’am. I was in the Peninsula Wars with the Prince of Wales’s Own Regiment.’ He knew that would only confirm Lady Golding’s assumption that, as one of the Prince Regent’s cronies, he was sure to be as unprincipled as the rest of them. The 10th Hussars were best known for glamour, wealth, women, drinking and riotous behaviour, amongst other things. The knowledge would do nothing to endear him to her, he was sure. Idly, he wondered where Mrs Cardew stood in the scheme of things. Did she live here with Lord Benistone as dedicated chaperon, or was she simply an obliging cousin? Would it be worth cultivating her help to get what he wanted? He touched his forehead just below the white streak. ‘I have found that making a study of antiquity is safer than pursuing angry Frenchmen.’
‘Oh,’ said Marguerite, ‘but you must know how all English ladies simply hero-worship Napoleon Bonaparte, Lord Verne. Such a stern, scowling face must send goose-pimples...what? Oh!’ A look from her father, and Mrs Cardew’s gentle hand on her arm, stopped the gushing tribute in mid-flow as she directed her limpid brown eyes towards Annemarie’s stony expression. ‘Oh...yes, of course. Sorry, Annemarie.’
With the slightest shake of her head, Annemarie dismissed the gaffe without explaining its significance to Lord Verne. But Verne had already made the connection, during his two hours with Lord Benistone, that Annemarie was the widow of Sir Richard Golding, one of Wellington’s best officers, killed by French sniper fire early in 1812. Married less than a year and known to everyone as a brilliant man, his death had been a great loss. Her grief must have been terrible, but obviously not enough to penetrate the consciousness of her younger sister.
Grasping at any subject of mutual interest, Lord Benistone reverted to buying and selling. ‘So this bureau you’re after, Verne. How much did you say his Highness is prepared to pay for it?’
‘No, Father!’ said Annemarie before Verne could reply. ‘It belongs to me, remember? It’s not for sale. Not at any price. If his Highness wants a pair, he can easily have one made to match and, in any case, if he’s as short of money as all that, he ought not to be offering to buy an expensive piece of furniture, ought he?’
Her father, blinking in guilt at his daughter’s pertinent reminder, gestured vaguely with his dessert spoon ‘Well then, there you are, Verne. If you want to get to the bureau, you’ll have to get to Annemarie first, eh?’ The shocked uncomfortable silence lasted for what seemed like an eternity until, to ease the embarrassment, he continued. ‘I was speaking in jest, of course. The bureau will be on its way to Brighton first thing in the morning and so will Annemarie. His Highness will have to find something else, won’t he?’
Mrs Cardew’s contribution, meant to ease the tension, did not have quite the desired effect. ‘Lady Golding’s other home is in Brighton, you see,’ she told Verne, who had seen that some time ago and had been thinking ever since how strange it was that he’d never met her there. ‘She does not care for the London crowds.’
‘I think you need not explain for me, Cecily dear,’ said Annemarie. ‘Lord Verne has more important matters to occupy his mind than where I choose to spend my time. May we drop the subject now and talk of something else?’
But her father’s idea of dropping a subject was not hers. ‘Look here, Annemarie. What was I saying to you only today about travelling all that way on your own? Eh? Now why don’t we ask Verne to accompany you, just to keep an eye on things?’
‘No, Father! Absolutely not! I prefer my own company, thank you.’
Lord Benistone heaved a sigh, waved his spoon again like a white flag of surrender and plunged it into his baked apple and clotted cream. ‘No, of course not,’ he said. ‘What am I thinking of? Verne will be tied up with the Prince’s business from morn till night. A busy time for you, young man.’ The spoonful disappeared into his mouth and the conversation swung away smoothly to less contentious matters concerning the mammoth task of accommodating the European royals, some of whom had other ideas about staying with the Prince Regent whose interminable meals bored them to tears.
It was no hardship to Verne to feed delectable snippets of harmless royal gossip to fascinated ladies and, although the one who interested him most refused to respond, the pleasure he derived from sitting beside her lifted the exercise to a different level, knowing that she listened, weaving him into her own thoughts. She would be thinking, naturally, that he was ingratiating himself with her father in order to obtain the bureau through him. In her present defensive mode, seething with resentment and distrust of men, she would be planning how to shake him off, how to keep him at a distance, how to strengthen the shield that guarded her damaged heart which, after a death and a desertion in the space of two years, would still be aching, to say the least.
He could try the leisured approach, but that would take more time than he had. Then there was the other kind, more of a risk, intended to unsettle her, to provoke her into doing something rash and to remind her that she was desirable. The choice was easy.
* * *
Once the meal was over, Mrs Cardew and Marguerite took their leave of the company, giving Verne the chance to make his excuses also. In the deserted hall, he lingered to speak alone with Annemarie, who had watched her father’s retreat with barely concealed alarm. His blunt question was intended to catch her off-guard, though it was less than successful. ‘You are still annoyed with me, my lady? For coming to your table in my topboots, or for pursuing my duty to the Prince Regent?’
‘Your duty, my lord, appears to have been pursued with some tenacity. What his Highness will say when you return empty-handed I refuse to speculate. That’s your problem, not mine. As for the boots...’ she looked down at the twinkle of candles on the immaculate leather ‘...I suppose one must be thankful they’re not covered in mud.’
‘Your father assured me I would be excused, my lady.’
‘My father would find an excuse for a fox eating his best hen, my lord. He obligingly believes his code is good enough for the rest of us. He’s never needed to justify anything he does, which can be endearing, but at other times not so.’
‘Then I can only apologise. I could easily have gone to change. My home is in Bedford Square, only a five-minute walk away.’
‘So close? I did not realise.’
‘Or you might have insisted? Well, if I’d realised who lived only a five-minute walk away from me, my lady, I would have called here months ago.’
‘On what pretext? To find something else his Highness cannot live without?’
‘No. This.’
His move towards her was too fast for her to see or avoid and before she could step backwards, his hand was gripping through the short frill that sufficed for a sleeve, his other hand slipping round to the back of her neck, bringing her mouth to his for a searching kiss that went far beyond a polite farewell. She was too astonished to protest or retaliate before the softness of her beautiful mouth gave way under his. Her hand came up to push at his shoulder, but by then it was too late. He had timed it to perfection. He prepared himself to catch the blow she would be sure to aim at his head , but it did not come. Her eyelids flickered before opening wide like windows to send out a fierce glare of concentrated fury then, with one hand to her mouth, she turned and whirled away towards the staircase, almost colliding with the butler who had come to pass him his hat and gloves before letting him out.
Chapter Two
Lord Verne had not been exaggerating when he’d told Annemarie that his home on Bedford Square was only a five-minute walk away but, striding out with some urgency, he managed it in three-and-a-half. Taking the curving staircase two steps at a time, his coat, breeches and vest were in a heap on the bed before Samson, his valet, arrived to assist, showing not the slightest surprise at his master’s decision to go out again immediately, wearing evening dress. After eleven years in Lord Verne’s service, Samson had become used to the mercurial changes of direction, plans made and unmade, instructions implied rather than specified. His master was to attend a ball, that much was clear, though hardly a word was exchanged between them.
* * *
Lady Sindlesham’s house in Mayfair was not unfamiliar to Verne. On that night, it was transformed for the benefit of her royal guests, and others, who had cause to be thankful that General Bonaparte was at last in safe custody. With one ear tuned over the general hum to the rise and fall of various European languages, Verne chatted to his hostess, nodded and bowed to the foreign dignitaries and their wives who sparkled and shimmered beneath twinkling chandeliers while his sharp eyes sought out his employer, the Prince of Wales, who had been appointed Regent three years ago during his father’s serious illness. Verne sauntered across to meet him, awaiting the royal attention. Then, a few quiet words, a smile and a nod, a gentle pat on the shoulder from the pudgy royal fingers, and Verne moved away again, this time to ascertain the whereabouts of a certain Mrs Cecily Cardew with whom he had dined only that evening. Biding his time until young Marguerite Benistone had been drawn into the set by a uniformed Prussian officer, he approached as if quite by chance and, with an impeccable bow, took the lady’s jewel-laden hand in his. ‘Mrs Cardew, what a delight. Such a crush.’
Her surprise was only to be expected, but she concealed it well behind a quick survey of the immaculate long-tailed coat, white vest and knee-breeches that Lady Golding would have preferred to have seen earlier. ‘Lord Verne, you’ve just missed her. Look, there she is. Over there.’ She waved an outsized feathered fan towards Marguerite and Verne caught the ice-blue flash of diamonds on Mrs Cardew’s ear-drops that almost reached her shoulders.
‘Enchanting,’ he replied. ‘May I procure a glass of punch for you?’
She knew at once that this was not a chance meeting. ‘Might be a little dangerous with so many jostling elbows. I expect you know most of these people, my lord?’
Her silver-grey gown rippled softly as he led the way to a covered long seat between two massive curtains where tassels hung as big as chimney pots from cords like ships’ hawsers. As they sat, she inclined her head towards him as if she knew the reason why he’d sought her out immediately after his briefing from the Prince Regent. Here was a man she could trust, at last, an ally in her quest to bring some light into Annemarie’s shadowy life. Mrs Cardew missed little that went on around her. Even now, Marguerite’s every move was being monitored.
‘Many, not most,’ Verne said. ‘Sindy’s good at this kind of thing, isn’t she?’
‘She’s had plenty of practice.’ Realising how that might sound, she shot him a mischievous blue-eyed smile. ‘Oh, I don’t mean it that way. Sindy and I are old friends. Her granddaughters are Miss Marguerite’s age. They go about together, you know. That’s why she was so determined to be here.’
‘Or she would have gone down to Brighton with her sister?’
‘Oh, I doubt that very much, my lord. There’s too much going on in London this year. Marguerite would never miss all that just to keep Annemarie company. It’s perfectly understandable. She came out only last year and the purpose of that is to make contacts, not to hide oneself away...’
‘In Brighton?’ Verne said, stepping into the pause.
Cecily’s sigh could hardly be detected over the music. ‘You were away when all that happened,’ she said, ‘or you’d have known about it. Most people have put it quite out of mind now, after a whole year, but Annemarie believes it has ruined her, you see. To her, it’s still happening, in a way.’
Verne decided to take the bull by the horns, time being in short supply. ‘Apart from yourself, ma’am,’ he said, ‘there is no one else I would ask and, even now, I am aware that an event such as this is hardly the time or place to be discussing such matters. But...’
‘But perhaps it’s better to hear uncomfortable things at first hand rather than the embellished accounts of others. Don’t you agree? At least then you’ll be in possession of the facts before you...well, I was going to say before you begin manoeuvres, but that sounds rather too military. Annemarie may have fallen short of her duties as hostess this evening, but that’s not to say she was unaffected by your presence. I’ve never known her use the wrong knife to butter her bread roll before.’
‘Slender evidence of regard, Mrs Cardew.’
‘I know, but it’s in the eyes too, isn’t it? Hers and yours.’
‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘So may I ask what did happen, ma’am?’
‘Indeed. You may already have heard that Lady Benistone was once a very lovely and successful courtesan. Well before your time, young man.’
At thirty-two, Verne could recognise an older woman’s kindly flattery when he heard it. ‘I had heard something to that effect,’ he said.
‘She was twenty-two years her husband’s junior. I say was, but of course she still is. We don’t know where she is. Even your employer, before he became Regent, pursued her without success. Lord Benistone kept her in some style and eventually she agreed to marry him. The trouble was...’ she said, lowering her voice.
‘Please don’t continue if you’d rather not. I shall understand.’
‘The trouble was...well, you’ve seen how things are there, haven’t you? It’s no kind of mess to keep a lovely woman and their three daughters in. She was a top-drawer courtesan, so you can imagine how she felt. Collecting was, and still is, my cousin’s passion. He’s not going to change now. No shortage of money. He’s always been able to buy anything he wanted.’
‘Including his wife.’
‘Even Esme Gerard. And she loved him, too. But only for so long. He gives his entire attention to his collection and then wonders why he’s lost the only woman he ever loved. Everyone can see it but him, although I think he’s coming to realise his failings more now. Lovely man. Wrong priorities.’
‘It’s not uncommon, ma’am.’
‘Unfortunately, it’s not. Lady Golding...Annemarie...was widowed only a year when it happened. Not long out of mourning and being courted by a smooth-tongued young rake who promised her the world.’
‘Sir Lionel Mytchett.’
‘Yes, him. And if her father had taken the trouble to investigate him, he’d have seen what was happening. The young blackguard! Playing on her emotions.’ Cecily’s voice lowered again, this time in anger. ‘Wooed her for close on three months and led her to believe he was about to make an offer for her.’
‘So she was in love with him?’
The pretty fair curls shook in denial, but the reply was less certain. ‘Who knows? I believe it was too soon after Richard. I believe she was probably more in love with the idea of being a married woman than with Mytchett himself. I had offered to hold Miss Marguerite’s coming-out ball at Park Lane. Well, they couldn’t possibly have held it at Montague Street and I’d done the same for Annemarie’s wedding. What none of us had quite appreciated was the growing attraction Mytchett had developed for Lady Benistone and what I think,’ she said, emphasising her own interpretation of events, ‘is that he’d seen in the mother something he could get without bothering to marry the daughter, if you see what I mean.’
Verne nodded. Mytchett was just the kind to take advantage of that situation. What a pity Lord Benistone had not looked after his family better.
‘Annemarie,’ Cecily continued, ‘was a twenty-three-year-old widow and Esme was as eager as she was to get away from Montague Street and live a normal kind of life. That’s what they both wanted, but it was less troublesome for him to take Esme than Annemarie. They disappeared at Miss Marguerite’s ball. He knew exactly what he was doing, but I doubt very much whether Esme had thought it through. She’s a creature of impulse, is Esme, like Annemarie was before this happened.’
‘A double loss,’ said Verne, watching Marguerite smile into her partner’s eyes.
‘A triple loss, my lord. Husband, beau and mother. She’s become embittered. She won’t allow her friends near and won’t socialise at all. Rejection is a terrible thing. It changes perfectly delightful people into avengers.’
‘It’s clear she wants nothing to do with men, after that.’
‘I’m afraid so. Any man hoping to make an impression on Annemarie will have to be very patient, with no guarantee of success. But if you would like some advice on the matter, my lord...?’
‘Anything you can offer, Mrs Cardew.’
‘Then you might begin by finding the mother,’ she said so quietly that Verne had to lip-read. ‘I doubt very much whether Lady Benistone would stay long with that scoundrel and I would not be surprised to learn that she’d already left him, though I cannot imagine how she’ll live without support. Women like Esme are not good at that, you know. And the family are miserable without her. All of them.’
Again, Verne’s attention was drawn to the swirling figure of Marguerite, her happy smile and arms outstretched to her partner. ‘So you don’t think Lady Benistone would return uninvited?’ he said.
Cecily’s sideways glance was full of forbearance, as if only a man could ask such a question. ‘Pride, my lord. That’s a terrible thing, too. It stops people doing what they ought to do and it makes them do things they shouldn’t.’ For the last closing bars of the music, Cecily’s sad conclusion was left unanswered. ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘the dance has ended. ‘Shall you stand up with her before you leave, my lord? We’d take it as a great favour.’
Obediently, and without a trace of reluctance, Verne rose to his feet, understanding that he would be expected to pay for the help he’d just been given. ‘Indeed I will, ma’am. It will be my pleasure.’
‘And I shall be happy to receive you at Park Lane, my lord.’
‘You are more than kind, Mrs Cardew. I shall take up your invitation.’
* * *
Two hours later, he was back in Bedford Square with a head too full of information to say much to Samson except that they’d be going down to Brighton tomorrow.
‘Very good, m’lord. Marine Pavilion, is it?’
Grunt.
‘Will it be the curricle or the phaeton, m’lord?’
‘Oh, don’t ask so many damned stupid questions at this time of night, man. I’ll decide in the morning.’
‘Certainly, m’lord. Only...you see...one trunk fits best on the curricle and the other fits on—’
‘Prepare me a bath. I need to think.’
‘Pleasant ball, was it?’
The deeply expressive groan warned Samson that he had ventured too far and, being usually so responsive to his master’s every whim, saw that he had better produce the required bath without delay and in silence.
* * *
Soaking in the hot water by candlelight, Verne watched the clusters of swirling soap bubbles while trying to connect the day’s events right up until the dance with Miss Marguerite Benistone, which he would normally have deemed too expensive a payment by half had he not discovered so much from her chaperon to make it worth his while. Miss Marguerite’s cup had truly runneth over when his friend George Brummell came to the rescue. He had taken some persuading to keep the girl occupied and Verne had had to promise him another hefty ‘loan’. The Lady Benistone saga fitted in with what he’d heard, but to have the approval and assistance of Mrs Cecily Cardew, a member of the family and self-appointed fairy godmother, had given him an advantage he needed in his pursuit of the avenging angel from whom he’d stolen a kiss that evening.
* * *
Cecily would not have been too surprised to learn that her cousin’s wife, Lady Benistone, had already left the scoundrel with whom she disappeared last year during Marguerite’s coming-out ball, having discussed what they had discovered about his character and motives beforehand, though not the plans that Lady Benistone had devised to avert a disaster. Or so she thought. But never in her darkest dreams could Cecily have imagined the circumstances in which the flight would take place for, if she had, she would have stopped Esme from taking matters into her own hands. In Cecily’s mind, Esme Benistone, with her experience of men, knew how to look after herself and, if she was less than competent in her understanding of financial affairs, she more than made up for it in her understanding of men. Even a confirmed bachelor like Lord Benistone, all those years ago, had lost his heart to her and she to him, to everyone’s astonishment.
Last summer, Esme Benistone had devised a scheme, which she had kept to herself, for luring Sir Lionel Mytchett away from her daughter. The greedy young fool was not hard to persuade that he was beloved by an older woman with a great deal of ready money. He had found her promises easy to believe. Relying on past experience, Esme had been convinced she could keep him in a state of anticipation for at least a week while she arranged with her bank for the release of the money she had once earned, which her generous husband had never drawn upon. It had accrued a quite considerable interest over the years. However, after the third attempt to negotiate a release, she was told that although the money was legally hers, she could not access it without her husband’s permission, a serious hitch in her plans that upset Sir Lionel. Esme could hardly be surprised by his anger, but she had not expected anything like the terrible repercussions of his rage.
‘You what?’ he had snarled at her as she returned to their lodgings. ‘What d’ye mean, couldn’t get at it? Why not? It’s yours, isn’t it? Isn’t that what you told me?’
Lady Benistone sighed. This was going to be difficult. They had been together less than a week, uncomfortable days during which she had used all her sexual allure to keep him sweet without actually letting him have what he thought would be his with very little effort. Now, she would have to bring her plan forwards. She was many years his senior and was not used to being snarled at. ‘Lower your voice, if you please,’ she said, coldly, removing her hat and pelisse. ‘I told you we could use my funds, yes, but I was mistaken. We can’t. Mr Treen at the bank was quite adamant that, without Lord Benistone’s written permission, he cannot release the money. Somehow, we shall have to manage without it.’ Even as she spoke the empty words, she knew the impossibility of managing, her intention from the very beginning having been to pay him off, then return to her family with what to her was a convincing reason for her uncharacteristic behaviour. And if Elmer had made time to listen to her concerns, none of this would have been necessary. He would have sent the deceitful creature packing as any father would and Annemarie could have begun again to rebuild her life with someone more worthy of her.
‘Manage?’ he yelled. ‘How are we supposed to manage, your ladyship? I’ve been relying on you for this and now you tell me... God’s truth, woman! If I’d known...’
‘Don’t use such oaths to me, Sir Lionel. I’ll not hear it. You have no idea how foolish you look when you’re in a childish temper. I’ve put up with you in this dreadful little place for almost a week now and I think that’s probably as much as I can take. And, yes, if you’d known my funds were tied up, you’d not have been interested, would you? You’d have kept to safer ground with my daughter. You have sold my jewellery and chosen to gamble with the proceeds when we might have been safely in France by now. Well, your luck runs out rather too fast for my comfort.’
Anyone could have understood the ease with which Annemarie had fallen for Mytchett’s suave good looks, his perfect manners and easy charm, his stylish dress, his talk of possessions and connections. Lord Benistone had been too preoccupied to make thorough investigations that would have verified, or not, his claims. In a rage, however, Sir Lionel was frighteningly unattractive, noisy and threatening, and Esme Benistone realised too late that she had just revealed her intentions as she had not meant to do. She could have slipped away while he was out. But not now.
She saw the understanding dawn behind his eyes, at first a blankness like an abacus before the beads start to count, before the payment takes shape, before the final reckoning. Even then, she did not guess what form this would take. Not once had she anticipated the danger in which she had placed herself. As Lady Benistone, an aristocrat, she was due every respect. This time, she had miscalculated.
She had tried many times since then to forget what happened during the next half-hour, but without success. Physical violence was quite outside her experience and, although fear lent her an extra strength, it was not enough to prevent his determined and brutal assault from reaching its appalling conclusion. With a hand clamped over her mouth she could make no one hear her and she was forced into a helplessness so painful that, when he released her, her stomach revolted too. Before he left, his words were intended to be as wounding and as insulting as his attack, hurled at her as revenge for misfired plans, unlined pockets and the exposure of his baseness. He would make sure, he told her, that she paid the full price for finding him out, if not with money, then with shame.
Left alone at last, it took her some time to gather herself together sufficiently to stand, in a daze of pain, and to look for some way of washing herself. To go upstairs was impossible and she must get away quickly before his return so, still trembling and sobbing, she covered her torn clothing with her pelisse, tucked her hair inside her hat and pulled down the veil. With painful slowness, she left the house unnoticed and staggered to the end of the street from where, eventually, she was able to summon a hansom cab. ‘Manchester Square,’ she called up to the cabbie.
‘You alright, ma’am?’ he said, kindly. ‘Nasty headache?’
‘No,’ she whispered, ‘but drive carefully.’
‘Right-ho, ma’am. Just leave it to me. Climb inside.’
Managing the steps into the cab was almost beyond her, but the kind man waited before clucking to his horse and, on arrival at Manchester Square, was concerned enough to climb down from his perch and help her out. It was then that Esme fainted in his arms, attracting the attention of a primly dressed lady’s maid who was about to turn into the basement gate of the nearest mansion. ‘Why, that’s Lady Benistone, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘Dunno, miss. She said to bring her here. But this looks like the Marquess of Hertford’s place, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘It is,’ said the young lady. ‘Be so good as to carry her ladyship in, will you?’
* * *
Annemarie told herself that Verne’s kiss had meant nothing, really, except the annoyance of a thwarted man. Yes, that was what it was about. Annoyance and to pay her back for her rudeness as a hostess when she ought to have shown more courtesy to her father’s guest. As for that nonsense of pursuing what he wanted...well...that was soldier’s talk. Too many years in the army and too little opposition from women. That was the problem with his sort. Hardly worth getting upset about.
She threw her slippers into one of the leather trunks, but Evie gave a sigh and patiently took them out again. ‘You’ll be wearing these, m’lady, not packing them,’ she said. ‘Why not just leave the packing to me? Shall I bring you a nice warm drink?’
Regarding the piles of linens and silks, the shoes and chemisettes, the velvet pelisses and muslin day-dresses, Annemarie was unable to assemble any of the outfits while her mind still seethed with indignation. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s getting late and I’m not helping, am I?’ Throwing herself on to the chaise-longue, she made use of Evie’s absence to hear again his crisp, ‘No. This’, and to feel his hard demanding fingers pressing into her arm and neck, taking her too much by surprise to escape as fast as she could have done. As she ought to have done. Words like ‘churl’ and ‘lout’ faded against the sensation of the kiss and once again she was making comparisons like a silly untutored schoolgirl while pressing a cushion against her breast.
* * *
During the six hours it took to reach Brighton, it would be less than the truth to say that she had banished the incident from her mind, having little else to occupy her. But her father need not have feared her being alone when she had her maid, two coachmen, grooms and footmen with her, some of whom would take the coaches back to London. A few stops to change horses, to take a light luncheon, and by evening they were amongst the wheeling, yelping seagulls, by which time she had examined the incident from every angle and at every tollgate and inn. Knowing how her father was quite capable of arranging an escort whether she wanted one or not, her eyes had surreptitiously searched for a physique that might resemble Lord Verne’s, but thankfully, she need not have bothered.
The sight of her own pretty house lifted her spirits even more than the blustering wind and the grey-blue expanse of sea. This was the place bought for her and Richard by Lord Benistone to use as a retreat, which she had decided to keep as a useful second home. Too close to the Steyne for her taste, it had been perfect for Richard who liked to be in the centre of things and, situated on the corner of South Parade, there were good views from the large windows.
Annemarie was right about Brighton being deserted during the London celebrations—the area of open lawn between the house and the Marine Pavilion was only thinly scattered with the summer colours of muslin gowns and bright uniforms. A few doors away, Raggett’s Men’s Club seemed strangely quiet, and Donaldson’s Library across the road was almost forsaken. It suited her well enough. She decided to pay a visit there tomorrow.
The cook, housekeeper and maids had been at the house for three days already to remove dust covers, make beds and prepare food, so the rooms were welcoming and well aired, flowers in bowls, hot water, the lingering scent of polish and scrubbed floors. After the heavy clutter of Montague Street, the pale prettiness of her patterned walls, the delicacy of the furniture and the fabrics reflecting sunshine and sea were like a breath of fresh air filling her lungs with a new freedom. She went from room to room to greet all the familiar feminine things that her father would certainly not have looked at twice. Nor would Richard, had he ever seen them.
She realised at once that the new bureau would be too large to fit comfortably in her cosy bedroom, but after some rearrangement, a space was made for it in an alcove by the chimney-breast as she experienced an unaccountable wave of possessiveness that recalled Lord Benistone’s blunder about Lord Verne having to get to her first. Until the bureau arrived, there would be plenty to keep her occupied, things she had stopped doing in London in case she met someone who knew her. It was their sympathy she could not bear. Revenge was what she wanted, not pity. Any kind of revenge would do as long as it hurt.
* * *
On the next day, sooner than expected, the bureau arrived and, after hours of tipping and tilting, trapped fingers, muffled oaths and doubts, the heavy piece was fitted into the space she had made for it. Lady Hamilton’s rooms at Merton Place, she thought, must have been vast to accommodate two of these easily. But that evening, all alone, she took the brass key from her toilette case and inserted it into the beautifully decorated keyhole on the long drawer above the knee-space, imagining how Lady Hamilton and her lover, Lord Nelson, would have stood to look at themselves in the mirror under the lid that now stood upright. At each side of the mirror were the sections that had intrigued her most in Christie’s saleroom, a maze of polished compartments holding ceramic pots and cut-glass bottles with silver tops, ivory-and-tortoiseshell brushes and combs, hand mirrors and silver scissors, ornately inlaid trinket boxes, slender perfume bottles with the fragrances still clinging to the glass. The Prince Regent had its twin and, in most respects, the two were identical except that this was the one made for a lady, which is why she had chosen it.
The mania for Lord Nelson memorabilia had gripped the country in the years since his death at Trafalgar in 1805, and even after nine years there were collectors who would pay well for any of his personal possessions, even a shaving brush. Perhaps, she wondered, that was why the Prince Regent was so keen to acquire his furniture. Or was it more to do with Lady Hamilton, with whom he’d once been infatuated, even while her husband and her lover both lived? Neither of the men had approved of the royal obsession, although since their deaths, Lady Hamilton had found it necessary to keep well in with the royal family in the hope of financial help that never came. The Prince’s disloyalty to his friends was as notorious as his appalling fashion sense.
In the fading light, Annemarie sat before her newest acquisition to unscrew tops and guess at the contents and marvel at the craftsmanship, the details, the coloured inlays, swags and festoons, gilded handles and key-plates. At one side of the centre was a neat hole where a long brass pin could be inserted to hold the lower drawer in place when the lid was locked. Having taken a cursory look into the drawer only to find an odd glove and a few empty silk reels for mending, she tried to close it before replacing the pin in its hole. Obviously she had disturbed some other fragment, for it refused to close.
Bending to look inside, she slid her fingers deep into the recess at the back of the drawer, easing it out further and discovering that the back panel was hinged to lie flat, concealing an extra compartment. Then, lowering her head to the same level, she caught sight of shadowy bundles tied with ribbon like miniature piles of laundered sheets in the linen cupboard, so flat and uniform that she knew they must be letters. She pressed one pile, releasing the one that had snagged on the woodwork above.
Her first instinct was to leave them where they were, for she had no right to read what Lord Nelson had written to the woman he loved. No one had. But curiosity lured her hand reluctantly inside to draw out first one bundle, then the next, until there were eight of them balancing on top of the silver stoppers, releasing an aroma of old paper and the acrid smell of attar of roses. Instantly, she was reminded of a visit to Carlton House with Richard to meet the Prince of Wales at his inauguration as Regent, where the cloying perfume had made her head reel. Richard had told her later that it was the prince’s snuff. ‘No taste,’ he had remarked. ‘Not even in snuff.’
Even then, she failed to connect him with these letters, being so certain of Lord Nelson’s involvement, especially after the furor of a few weeks ago, in April to be exact, when his personal letters to Lady Hamilton had been published in book form by the Herald, causing the most embarrassing scandal. Few people would have missed the storm that followed, the mass gorging upon every salacious detail of their passion and the inevitable condemnation of the woman who, it was assumed, had sold them to pay off her enormous debts. Few believed her insistence that they had been stolen from her by a so-called friend who was writing a life of Nelson, at her request. Those who knew her better were sure of her innocence, although few had rushed to her defence, and certainly not the influential Prince Regent who professed to adore her and regularly took advantage of her generous hospitality. If these letters were more of the same, Lady Hamilton had kept them well away from ill-intentioned servants and had then forgotten about them in one of her removals to temporary addresses and the sale rooms. Poor unfortunate woman indeed, she thought, turning over one of the bundles to look at the back. It was sealed with a coronet, as aristocrats did. Delivered by hand. No postmark or address. Only the name, Lady Emma Hamilton.
Flipping a thumb across the crisp folded edges, Annemarie reminded herself that, for all she knew, they could be perfectly innocent and not worth returning, though the stale perfume warned her of a different explanation. So she slid off the faded ribbon and unfolded the first letter with a crackle, turning it round to find the greeting, once so personal, then the foot of the page, whispering words never meant to be heard out loud. Your ever devoted and loving....Prinny.
Her hand flew to cover the words on her lips, hardly daring to believe what she was reading. Prinny was what the Prince Regent’s closest friends called him.
These were his letters to Emma Hamilton.
Private. Scandalous. Priceless.
The significance of the discovery was both frightening and exciting as, one by one, Annemarie slipped off the ribbons to release the dozens of intimate love letters, all the same size, paper, ink and handwriting with the flourishing signature of effusive endearments: beloved, eternal friend, adoring servant, always your own, Prinny. The greetings were equally extravagant. Dearest Muse. My Own Persephone. Most Heavenly Spirit, and so on. Repetitive, unoriginal and maudlin, sentiments that roused her fury that here again was a lover whose flowery words failed to match his actions, whose promises were empty and worthless. Lady Hamilton must by now have realised that her letters were lost, that someone somewhere would find and read them, and could use them to blacken her name further, and that if they were indeed made public like the Nelson letters, she could expect to be cut out of the royals’ lives for ever without any hope of help.
She began to refold them, tying them back into bundles. And yet, she thought, surely it would be the Prince Regent himself who would look like the villain if ever these were made public. Despite his protestations of enduring love and friendship, it was common knowledge that he’d refused to offer any help since the death of Lord Nelson, even refusing to petition Parliament to grant her a pension, using the excuse that she had not lawfully been Nelson’s wife. Having abused her friendship and ignored her vulnerability without a protector, he had offered nothing in return. More than likely he would become a laughing-stock to the whole nation just as he was acting host to all the European heads of state, all through the summer. With letters like these in the public domain, what would be his chances of getting Parliament to vote him more funds for his building projects, his banquets and lavish entertainments? Virtually none. No small wonder he’d sent a trusted friend to retrieve the bureau where his letters were kept which, for all he knew, might still be undiscovered by the purchaser. Herself.
It was not difficult to understand how the Prince could know where Lady Hamilton kept her correspondence. The Herald had often reported with some malice how, at her wild parties lasting for days, her guests had access to all her rooms at any time. She and the Prince had not been lovers, by all accounts, but he would have known her bedroom as intimately as all her other friends, to talk, watch her at her toilette, flirt and drink. He would know of her famed carelessness, her disorganisation, her hoarding of gifts and her generosity. Why else would he have dispatched Lord Verne so quickly to find the other bureau and to buy it at any price once he’d discovered that its twin was not the one he wanted? And why else would Lord Verne have attached himself to Lord Benistone like a leech until he could find a way to worm himself into his daughter’s favour? That was the plan. She was sure of it. The only way of saving dear Prinny from utter disgrace. He had already made a start and Annemarie had unobligingly removed herself by some sixty miles. Yet another reason for his annoyance.
The feeling of power that washed over her in those moments of discovery was difficult to convey. The almost sensual realisation that revenge was, literally, in her hands. At any time, she could do enormous damage to that irresponsible, immature fifty-two-year-old heir to the throne without morals or principles, who could turn his back on a woman he professed to adore and refuse to help. Epitomising everything she had learned to despise about men, he would be the perfect target for her retribution. At the same time, she could give what she got for the letters to Lady Hamilton to lend some dignity to her retirement, to help her and her young daughter find a new life away from her predatory family. How ironic would that be, she thought, to refund her in money what the prince had withdrawn in support? She fell back upon her bed, breathless with euphoric laughter and the heady feeling of control, wishing she had made the discovery in London instead of here, for then she could have taken them straight to a publisher to broker a deal without delay.
* * *
Later, in the peace of the night when she had listened to the distant swish of the incoming tide, she rose and, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, sat before the bureau where the stacks of letters made a shockingly silent threat until she could choose a moment to let the cat among the pigeons. The full moon washed across the silk damask-covered walls, its white stillness somehow commending a safer and less contentious option that would place the responsibility where by rights it ought to be, with Lady Hamilton herself. Annemarie ought to take them to her, as the owner, and explain. Let her do with them whatever she pleased, for if the blame from the previous scandal could be heaped on Lady Hamilton, as it had been, then surely this could be, too, if the letters were published. Some of the blame would certainly damage his Royal Highness, but there would be others only too ready to ruin Lady Hamilton even further, and to what purpose? The likelihood of her ever being freed from scandal would be small. Annemarie’s own selfish motives must be put aside. The choice could not be hers.
Pulling out her old leather portmanteau, only recently emptied, she stashed the bundles inside and fastened the catch, deciding to take them back to London as soon she could. Mr Parke at Christie’s would know of Lady Hamilton’s whereabouts. She climbed back into bed, shaking her head in amusement at her father’s absurdly unthinking gaffe about having to get at Annemarie first, and wondering how long it would be before she could expect to see Lord Verne here in Brighton about his master’s sordid business. For some reason, the challenge disturbed her rest and the first crying of the seagulls had begun before her imaginings were laid to rest.
* * *
Annemarie’s last visit to Brighton had been in the preceding autumn, since when spring had struggled out of a protracted winter worse than most people could remember. Even in June, the gardens surrounding the Steyne were only just recovering and the continuing alterations to the Prince’s Marine Pavilion were nowhere near complete, mainly through lack of funds and because he changed his mind every time he saw it. Sprouting the same scaffolding and heaps of building materials, it was attended by the same unhurried workmen with time to stare at every passable female who came close enough. Behind the Pavilion, the Indian-style dome that had received her sharp criticism sat like a glittering half-onion on top of the Prince’s stables, the palatial building designed to house his riding, carriage and race horses at a cost that would have fed London’s starving and homeless for the rest of their lives. Not to mention his disgruntled unpaid workforce.
Strolling past toiling gardeners and arguing foremen, Annemarie explored new pathways across the grass towards the great dome set behind pinnacles and fancy fretwork, torn between admiration for its perfect proportions and the fantastic mixture of Gothic with Oriental. Such was the extravagance of the man, she thought, who would one day be king, the same man whose extravagant sentiments had poured into letters to a woman he now ignored. Like a wound still aching, the need to inflict a similar hurt welled up again before she could hold it back and force herself to be rational. She had never knowingly hurt anyone. Could she begin now and truly enjoy the experience?
Yes, I can. All I need is half a chance. Just show me how.
A speckled thrush hauled at a worm only a few feet away from her red kid shoes, flapping away in alarm at a deep shout from behind her. ‘Hey! No right of way here, my lady. Private property, this.’ A burly man waving a plan from one hand approached her so fast that it looked as if he might pick her up and carry her off over his shoulder.
‘It was not private property last September,’ Annemarie replied, standing her ground. ‘So how is anyone to know? Who’s bought it?’
‘Prince o’ Wales,’ the man said. ‘That’s who. Fer ’is gardens. An’ you’ll ’ave ter go back the way you came.’ He pointed, belligerently.
‘I shall do no such thing. I’ll go out that way.’ Annemarie turned back towards the stable block. But she was no longer making a lone stand against authority, for hastening towards her with long strides was a tall figure she instantly recognised. He was emerging from the central arch of the building, as though her impulsive plea was about to show her the half-chance she had requested. By his tan breeches and looped-up whip, she saw that he had been riding and, even though his eyes were shaded by the rim of his beaver, they glared like cold pewter at the officious foreman.
‘M’lord...’ the man began, ‘this woman...’
Verne came to a halt beside Annemarie. ‘Lady Golding is my guest,’ he said. ‘Return to your work, Mr Beamish.’
‘Yes, m’lord. Beg pardon, m’lady.’ Mr Beamish nodded and walked back the way he had come, shaking the plan into submission, leaving Annemarie to face the man who, since last night, she had known must appear.
Now he had, she was unsure whether to be satisfied by her prediction or annoyed that, yet again, she would have to try to get rid of him, somehow. Which, when she was the trespasser, might have its problems. In the circumstances, it seemed rather superfluous to snap at Lord Verne with the first thing that tripped off her tongue. ‘What are you doing here?’ She knew before it was out that thanks would have been more polite.
He showed not the slightest surprise, as if she’d been a terrier whose snappishness came with the breed. ‘If you care to walk with me, my lady, I will tell you what I’m doing here,’ he said, unable to conceal the admiration in his eyes at her elegant beauty, the silk three-quarter-length pelisse of forest-green piped with red in a military style worn over a frothy spotted muslin day-dress, the hem of which made it look as if she walked in sea foam. Her bonnet was of ruched red silk piped with green, with a large artificial white peony perched at the back where green and red ribbons fluttered down like streamers. Red gloves, red shoes and a green-kid reticule showed him that, even when by herself in all other respects, fashionable dress was still important to her. Compared to other women, he put her in a class of her own.
Annemarie did not comply at once, though it would have been the obvious thing to do. ‘I do not think I want to walk with you, my lord, I thank you. I only came to...’ She paused. Why should she tell him?
But as if she had, he turned to look at the exotic stable building. ‘Yes, it’s a fine-looking place, isn’t it? That dome is all glass. A miracle of engineering. The inside is even better. Come, I’ll show you.’
‘The public are not allowed.’
‘I’m not public. And neither are you.’ The way he said it brought a breathlessness to her lungs and an extra meaning to the words.
‘Lord Verne,’ she said, pulling herself together, ‘the last time we met, you were...’
‘I was less than gentlemanly. Yes, I know. Shall we start again? And this time, sartorially correct, I shall not put a foot wrong. You have my word.’
‘I was not referring to your dress, my lord.’ She wanted to say, Go away and leave me alone, I don’t know how to deal with this kind of danger because I know why you’re here and this meeting is not as accidental as it looks. You want what I’ve got and we’re both pretending to know nothing of it.
‘Then I can only beg for a chance to redeem myself, Lady Golding. Allow me one chance, at least. I keep my curricle in there. We’re both at your service, if you would do me the honour.’
‘What are you doing here? I don’t remember you saying anything about a visit to Brighton. If it has something to do with me, then I think you should understand that I came to be alone with my memories. Having to make myself agreeable to comparative strangers with whom I have nothing in common is likely to have the opposite effect from what you have in mind. Please don’t let our meeting prevent you from doing whatever you came here to do. I’m sure the Prince Regent will need you by his side at this busy time.’
‘What do I have in mind, Lady Golding?’ he said, softly.
He would know, of course, how she had glanced more than once at his beautifully formed mouth as she talked, watching for reminders of how it felt upon her own lips, wondering what she was missing by such a determined rejection of his offer of friendship. He would not know whether she had found what he was looking for, nor was he likely to take no for an answer before he knew, one way or the other. He would have to convince her of his interest in her and she would be obliged to pretend that it was for her own sake, not for the sake of his mission. She was anything but flattered. Why make it easy for him?
Her reply had an acid sting. ‘Why, my lord, what the rest of the Prince’s 10th Hussars have in mind, I suppose. Everybody knows what’s on their list and I’ve seen nothing yet to suggest that you are any different.’
His wide, white smile did little to allay her fears in that direction, for it showed her that their thoughts had reached dangerous ground that ladies were usually careful to avoid. ‘Well, for one thing,’ he said, struggling with his smile, ‘the 10th and I parted company some months ago and, for another thing, there are always some exceptions to the rule, you know.’
‘I suppose you are one of the exceptions.’
‘Most certainly, or I’d not be in the Prince’s employment now.’
‘And the Prince is employing you to purchase a piece of furniture the owner has no intention of selling. Are you not rather wasting your time, Lord Verne?’
Mrs Cardew had warned him that he would need to be patient.
‘Lady Golding,’ he said, gently, ‘I am standing in a garden in the sunshine in front of a fabulous building, with the call of seagulls and the distant sound of the sea in my ears, while talking to the loveliest woman I’ve ever seen in my life, and you ask me if I’m wasting my time. Well, if this is wasting my time, all I can say is that I wish I’d wasted it years ago. Now, shall we just forget his Highness’s pressing need for expensive furniture and take a look at more interesting things? Then, if you wish, we can go across to Donaldson’s Library and take a cup of coffee, followed by a drive round town in a curricle. Do you drive?’
‘I used to.’
‘Good. Then we’ll find something in here for you to practice on, shall we?’ He offered her his arm and, because he had just said something to her that scalded her heart with suppressed tears, she placed her fingertips on the blue sleeve, feeling both the softness of the fabric and the rock-hard support beneath. It was as if, she thought, he knew what he had done and that his subdued flow of talk about the decoration, the materials, and the fittings inside the building was his way of buying time until she could find her voice again.
It would have been a pity to miss seeing such a place, just to make a point about not wanting to be in his company. And in spite of her reservations, and not knowing how best to handle the awkward situation, Annemarie could find nothing in his manner that made matters worse. Not once did they mention the bureau or the real reason for his being in Brighton, for it began to look as if Lord Verne had several good reasons for being there, one of which was to check on the paintings and ornaments being added to the Prince’s collection at the Marine Pavilion. He had been allowed to use a suite of rooms there, he told her, usually occupied by the Prince’s Private Secretary, so his acquaintance with the palace and stables staff meant that he had access to all the amenities, including the Prince’s cooks.
No one could have helped being impressed by the accommodation for the Prince’s horses. It resembled a Moorish palace, Annemarie remarked, more than a stable. Above them, the glass rotunda filled the circular space with pure daylight that sparkled on to a central fountain where grooms filled their pails. Carriage and riding horses, some still rugged-up in the pale royal colours, were led in and out through the fan-shaped arches while, on the balcony above, were the grooms’ cubicles behind a gilded façade. ‘And through here,’ said Verne, smiling at her awed expression, ‘is the riding-house. The horses are trained and exercised in here, and we have competitions too. The Prince is an excellent horseman. Always has been.’
‘You admire him, then?’
‘There’s much in him to admire, but he’s as human as the rest of us.’
Annemarie thought that the future monarch had no business trying to be as human as the rest of ‘us’, but she held her peace on the subject, at least for the time being. In a different way, the riding-house was as impressive as the stables, even more spacious, but lined and vaulted with timber to muffle the sounds. A thick layer of sawdust thudded beneath pounding hooves and the occasional bark of an order brought an instant response from the riders, many of whom were wearing Hussar uniform. There was no doubt that Lord Verne knew them, and the instructors, for hands touched foreheads as they passed, and nods reached him across the vast space. Obviously, Annemarie thought, Lord Verne had the Prince’s favour.
‘This is where you trained?’ she said.
‘No, this place went up while I was in Portugal with Wellington.’
‘So you’d have known my late husband.’ It was an unnecessary question dropped into the conversation, she knew, to remind him again of her background.
‘I knew of him,’ he replied. ‘Everybody did. He was well regarded.’
‘Yes.’
Another little barrier put in place, he thought. Well, I can deal with that, Lady Golding. I’ve managed difficult horses and I can manage you, too.
One of the uniformed instructors trotted across to greet them on a sleek and obedient grey gelding, patently pleased to see Verne there, but equally interested in his lovely stylish companion. Verne introduced him to her. ‘Lady Golding, allow me to introduce an old friend of mine, Lord Bockington.’
The pleasant-faced fair-haired officer made a bow from the saddle with a smile of approval and a grin at his friend, and she suspected that he was receiving a coded message to suppress what he might have said, had she not been the widow of Sir Richard Golding. ‘I am honoured, my lady. We always try to perform better when we have a special audience.’
‘Then I shall watch even more carefully,’ she replied, smiling back at him.
‘Watch this, then,’ he said. ‘See if you can see the difference since last week, Verne. This young lad learns fast. Brilliant potential.’ He trotted away to the side of the arena, reining back slowly before setting off to dance diagonally across the space. Annemarie had not seen this being practised before.
‘You were here last week?’ she said, without taking her eyes off the grey.
‘And the week before. And the week before that too,’ Verne answered, also watching. ‘A big improvement. Nearly fell over himself last week.’
‘Oh. I see.’
‘Good,’ he said, quietly, without indicating exactly what he meant. ‘Now, would you care to see the driving carriages while we’re here? He has some dashing phaetons and my own curricle is—’
‘Lord Verne,’ Annemarie said, stopping just inside the coach-house, a cool, spotlessly clean place lined with black-panelled coaches, shining brass and silver, and padded upholstery. The idea of driving again was more than appealing, in Brighton where she would not be remarked. But not with this man, not while she was being used so flagrantly to help him achieve his purpose. She had had enough of being used and now she was not so innocent that she couldn’t tell when it was happening again. Even if he did come to Brighton on weekly visits, that was no reason why she should be obliged to play this cat-and-mouse game with him. He had kissed her and today paid her an outlandish compliment and sought her company. She had better beware, for these were the first signs of something she must avoid at all costs. And she was one step ahead of him, which he must be aware of by now.
‘My lady?’ he said, stopping with her.
‘Lord Verne, I believe our scores are equal now.’
‘Enlighten me, if you will?’ He removed his beaver hat and, pulling off his gloves, stuffed them into the crown and placed it on the seat of the nearest vehicle. ‘What scores are we talking about?’
‘I showed you my bad manners when I was angry and you retaliated by showing me yours when you were angry. Now we have both redeemed ourselves, as you said you wished to do. You can go and get on with whatever you have to do here and I can do the same. Alone. Thank you so much for the tour of the stables. Do these doors lead to North Street?’ She had already seen the questions forming in his eyes. Angry? Me? When?
‘When was I angry with you, my lady? Do remind me.’
She ought to have kept quiet. She had set out the premise of a debate and now would have to refuse to elaborate. ‘Never mind,’ she whispered. ‘If you don’t recall it, then why should I? Please, which way is the exit?’
Shaking his head, he tried to hide his smile behind a knuckle as he came to stand four-square in front of her, lifting her chin to see beneath the bonnet into her deep violet eyes rimmed with black lashes long enough to sweep up moonbeams. ‘You thought I was angry when I kissed you?’ he said. ‘Really?’
She tried to move away, mortified that she had shown him so clearly what was in her mind. Secret thoughts, not to be shared. But now her back was against the cool wall, held there by his hands braced on either side of her, and she feared he meant to repeat it, after all her denials and disapprovals.
‘Since you ask, yes! Why else but to...?’
She saw his eyes widen. ‘To what? Humiliate you?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘It was unforgivable, my lord. I am not to be used so.’
‘If that’s what you believed, then it was indeed unforgivable of me and not at all what I meant. I would never use such means to humiliate a woman.’
‘Then if that is the case, please don’t say any more. We shall forget about it.’
‘I hope not,’ he murmured.
‘I would like to return home, if you please.’
‘Steady, my lady. I shall take you home, but there’s no need to go galloping off like a spooked filly.’ His head lowered to hers and she was compelled to watch his mouth, to hear the softly spoken words, few of which she could remember later, that sounded like those he might have used to a nervous horse about to bolt. Gentling. Calming. Words of admiration about breeding and class and exclusiveness, elegance and loftiness that needed a man’s hand, not an old man’s, nor a boy’s. She might have shown irritation at that too-personal opinion, but she did not, for something deep within her kept her still and listening, as though at last she was hearing the truth for the first time.
‘Come on, my beauty,’ he whispered, holding out his arm for her to take.
Placing her fingers again on the blue sleeve, she walked with him to the door, blinking at the sunlight.
Chapter Three
Giving oneself a good talking-to, Annemarie decided, was all very well if there was one talker and one listener. But now, besieged by voices of both reason and unreason, the pearls of wisdom fell on deaf ears. Added to these were other deep beguiling words that echoed round her memory, all the more potent for their lack of finesse: earthy, provocative words that men used about thoroughbred horses and, privately, about women. She ought to have been insulted, disgusted, but she was not. He had not kissed her again, but she felt as if he had. And more.
Impertinently, she thought, trying her best to malign him, he had referred to her late husband. Verne had said she needed a man’s hand, not an old man’s or a boy’s, a risky opinion only a man like him would dare to venture to the widow of Lieutenant General Sir Richard Golding. As he apparently anticipated, she had not reacted at all except that, in her mind, something was released like a moth from a chest of old clothes, silent words thought of but never used. Now, with a cup of tea and a warm scone, her feet up on the chaise-longue and the sound of rain lashing at the windows, she glanced across to the side of the white fireplace where hung the painting of her late husband.
To a stranger, he might have been taken for her father. As Lady Benistone had married a man many years older than herself, by coincidence so had Annemarie done the same, believing what she’d been told that wealth, security and a position in society was all a woman had any right to expect. She had been more easily influenced then. As a wedding present, Richard had given her a portrait of himself, a gilt-framed oval showing a silver-haired, black-browed soldier whose imperious gaze was levelled at something over to the left, his mouth unsmiling. Silver side-whiskers encroached like sabres on to his cheeks and covering his red coat were black cords and bright gold buttons, braids and badges, ribbons and stars. He’d told Annemarie exactly what they were, often enough: the army had been his life as well as his death and, innocently, she had seen herself as yet another decoration, another conquest to be prized and shown off like his medals. In the ten months of their marriage, she had accepted that that’s what army wives were for, apart from bearing the next heir.
After less than a year as Lady Golding, a whole year of deep mourning had seemed excessive when they had had so little time to get to know each other, several months of which had been spent apart. Ever one for priorities, Richard had told her all about himself and his astounding achievements, his position in Viscount Wellington’s trust and the high esteem of his own men, but as for getting to know his young wife, he had assumed that there was nothing much to know, even in bed. Since she knew so little about herself either, in that department, her indefinable feelings of disappointment became a guilty relief when that part of her wifely duties was discontinued, the nightly grunting and groping, squeezing and heaving, the rough irritable directions that made her feel foolishly inadequate. Craving appreciation and tenderness, she had sometimes thought that, if he could have worn his spurs in bed, he would have used them.
So, as a young widow, when she was made much of by a handsome young rake, flattered and soothed with fine words as soft as a perfumed breeze, Annemarie had soaked up the comforts of his attentions like a dry sponge waiting for the tide, not caring which direction it came from or what it brought with it. Warnings from her mother and Cecily went unheeded. All she cared for was to hear words of esteem and praise and, ultimately, of seduction, words never spoken by Richard, but which tripped off Sir Lionel’s tongue like honey. With uncomfortable memories still haunting her, Annemarie had never allowed much in the way of intimacies and, to be fair, Sir Lionel never persisted, saying that there’d be time enough for that. They had kissed, just a little, and she believed she might get used to it, given more practice and the right conditions, and several other provisos that, since she’d been kissed by a man rather than a boy, she now saw as being completely irrelevant.
Looking back, she realised it was not so much Sir Lionel and his clever wiles that seduced her, but the contrast. Youth versus age. Fun versus pomposity. Irreverence versus rules and an interest in her for her own sake rather than the obsessive requirements of a soldier-husband that infiltrated every waking hour. Since having the Brighton house to herself, she had changed almost everything: wallpaper and carpets, curtains and furniture. The portrait was kept as a reminder never again to allow any man to control her life, that nothing was half as satisfying as being able to direct one’s own affairs.
Thoughtfully, Annemarie sipped her tea and finished off the crumbly scone and strawberry jam while hearing those words again that were neither harsh nor conventionally seductive. A man’s hand, not an old man’s or a boy’s. What could be more exciting from one who must have known Sir Richard Golding better than he pretended to? And how much did he know about Sir Lionel Mytchett? Ringing the bell, she thought it was time to set things moving before the situation got out of hand. The letters must be taken up to London immediately and, in one stroke, get them out of her life for ever. The letters and the man.
* * *
Perhaps because more people than usual were leaving Brighton for the London celebrations, Mr Ash, the housekeeper’s handyman husband, had a hard time of it obtaining a post-chaise with postilions who were willing to drive all that way in torrential rain.
‘But it may not be raining tomorrow, Ash,’ Annemarie said, hopefully.
Dripping pools on to the hall floor, he was adamant. ‘It will, m’lady. They know it will, too. I tried all four posting-stables and only one had anything to offer and that’s an old clapped-out thing with only a pair of ’orses.’
This was not going to be the quick there-and-back trip she had hoped for. No wonder the Ashes were puzzled by her determination to spend six or seven hours on roads pitted with rain-filled potholes, but there was little choice and she could not afford to wait, not knowing how long it would take to find Lady Hamilton either. Nor did she particularly want her father to know of her mission. Lord Verne had taken her straight home without the slightest direction and she knew that their first meeting in Brighton would not be the last. Next time they met, she would be able to put a stop to his presumed interest by telling him she no longer had what the Prince Regent wanted.
* * *
With the first lurch of the post-chaise through inches of muddy water, her optimism was tested to its limits as the rain thundered down on the flimsy canvas roof that had already sprouted a leak down one corner. Through the front window they had a clear view of the two horses and the postilion riding one of them, huddled in a drenched greatcoat, his black shiny hat throwing off water with each bounce. The horses looked decidedly unhappy, but it was the state of the coach that concerned Annemarie most, groaning unsteadily over roads now awash with hours of heavy rain, one of the doors flying open as they dipped into a rut, then a window that would not stay up until it was jammed with a glove. The two portmanteaux were pressed against their feet, otherwise they might have fallen off before the coach came to grief on the long slow haul up to Reigate.
Some coachmen preferred a different route to this long punishing climb, so it was no particular surprise to the passengers when the coach slowed to a standstill, tilted dangerously, then swerved backwards into the hedge with a ripping crash, dragging the exhausted horses with it. The tilt immediately worsened, throwing them back into a corner of the seat with the floor angled like a wall and the inside waterspout spraying their heads with perfect precision.
The unflappable maid went to the heart of the matter. ‘Back axle gone,’ she said, readjusting her bonnet and brushing water out of her eyes. ‘Lost a wheel, too. We shan’t reach Reigate, never mind London.’
The postilion’s first duty was to his horses, which had suddenly found the energy to plunge about dangerously and to kick over the traces which he could not unhook from the chaise. But as the two passengers watched, helping hands came to hold the horses’ heads until they were released. Now they found that the door that would not stay closed would not open, despite all outside efforts to budge it. For such an immediate response, it was obvious that help must have been very close behind.
It may have seemed uncharitable to allow suspicion to take the place of thanks at that critical point, but how else could Annemarie have viewed the appearance of the very person she was hoping to cheat out of the prize they had both set their hearts on, the one in her portmanteau, the one they pretended did not exist? This was something she had not expected and which, in hindsight, she ought to have done. So much for taking control. Angrily, she kicked at the door just as a hand pulled from outside.
‘Lord Verne,’ she said, ‘are you making a habit of helping me out of difficult situations? Or is this truly a coincidence?’ Even with water running down his face, he was breathtakingly good looking. His buff-coloured fifteen-caped greatcoat was dark with rain and it was obvious he had been in the saddle, not inside.
‘We’ll discuss that later, if you please,’ he shouted against the roar of the rain and the thumping and neighing of horses. ‘This thing’s going to tip over any minute. Be quick and get out, then make a run for the carriage behind. Come on, woman! Don’t let’s get into an argument about it. Give me your hand.’ Grabbing the precious baggage with one hand, she gave him the other while preparing for his objection. ‘Leave that!’ he commanded. ‘I’ll bring the bags. Let your lass get out.’
If she had thought in her wildest dreams that this might happen, she might have done as smugglers’ wives do and stuffed the valuables into pockets around her bodice. As it was, she was determined not to let go, thereby making it clear to him as if it had been spoken out loud that here were the infamous letters and that she was taking them to London, even in a ramshackle coach with the heavens opening above them. His stare at the portmanteau in her hand, then at her grim expression, left her in no doubt that he understood what she was about. Even he could not hide the realisation in his eyes.
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