Читать книгу Mistress Masquerade - Juliet Landon - Страница 9

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.