For some reason, neither Evie nor Samson knew what, their master and mistress were delayed at Ragley Hall while they had been sent off at the appointed time a little after dawn with instructions to contact Lady Golding’s family and invite them to Curzon Street without delay. Both Evie and Samson knew what that was about. Lady Benistone had been found. So, with leather bags and boxes piled on the opposite seat of the coach, trunks behind and on top, and the groom sitting up there with the coachman, they’d been told to change horses as often as necessary to reach London before dinner. It was just as well, Evie said to herself, that she had begun to like Mr Samson again when such proximity for a whole day could be a severe test of one’s inclinations. She was pleased to find that her original opinions of the smart young man had been, on the whole, correct.
Samson’s opinion of Miss Evie Ballard, despite the peppery encounter at the inn, was rather more basic than hers of him. In his book, she was a little cracker with a temper like a wildcat and a pair of eyes that flashed like lightning, a figure as trim as any stage-moll and a pair of lips that just skimmed a row of pearls, just ripe for kissing. In short, it had been worth his ride on the box with the supercilious groom and the outrageous fib he’d concocted to explain away the stinging handprint on his cheek. By the end of this journey, Samson was reasonably sure he could turn the fib into a reality.
Since then, he had adhered strictly to ‘Miss Ballard’ but now, for no apparent reason, she had responded to ‘Evie’ without a murmur. ‘I suggest we take Lady Golding’s luggage to Curzon Street first,’ he said, ‘and then I’ll go on to Montague Street and Park Lane before I take his lordship’s things to Bedford Square.’
‘Except for his overnight valise,’ said Evie. ‘I expect he’ll be staying...’
‘He’s not spent one night at home since...’
‘Since Brighton.’ They had changed horses for the third time and were now on the last stage of the journey, having taken cold food into the coach to save every last moment. Evie brushed the crumbs from her skirt and folded away the linen napkin.
Passing her the water bottle, Samson adopted his helpless expression. ‘Where does this go?’ he said.
‘Tch! Here.’ She leaned forwards to push it into one of the bags and found that, when she leaned back again, Samson’s arm was around her waist, pulling her gently to his side.
‘There, that’s better,’ he said.
With only the slightest hesitation, Evie relaxed against him.
The coach rocked and bumped along the roads to London with only the briefest of halts at the turnpikes or to let a wide wagon squeeze past. Evie untied the ribbons under her chin and eased the bonnet off her head, allowing her dark curls to brush against Samson’s cheek. ‘Nice,’ he whispered. ‘Very nice.’
* * *
Behind Evie and Samson by about one hour, the occupants of the other more luxurious coach were similarly disposed to go over old ground, in the light of recent revelations, and then to nestle together for a few more miles of comfortable silence until the need for another discussion. Having no doubt at all of the family’s forthcoming delight at the news of Mama’s safety, Annemarie’s main concern was that her comfort at Montague Street would not be any more designed around her wishes than it was before. Although Mama’s sudden walkout was, on the face of it, for a very unselfish reason, there was also an element of desperation behind it which, the women of the family knew, had been growing through years of neglect from the man she adored. His insistence on using their home as a museum, where visitors to his collection were more important than his wife and daughters, had contributed in no small part to Lady Benistone’s assumption that her husband would hardly miss her. She had told them so last night. Without his help, her plan had been the best she could devise and not a very clever one at that. Annemarie found it hard to anticipate any expression of joy on her Mama’s lovely face when she returned to Montague Street after Papa’s recent changes, whatever they were. Annemarie had not had a chance to look, nor had the others been inclined.
The news of Sir Lionel Mytchett’s death had been a shock to both mother and daughter, not a cause for rejoicing, but creating a kind of numbness. His not being there would take some getting used to. There had been many times, they said, when no death could have been too painful for him in their minds. Now, their relief was tinged with a sadness that any man’s death could be so ignominious. A fall into the river. What a lonely way to go.
Verne’s thoughts ran along rather different lines. Lacerations on the body, The Times had reported. To him, that meant only one thing. A horsewhipping. In public. By whom? Another cuckolded husband, more recent than Benistone? Or Benistone himself? Almost certainly, the family would have read the report by now. The forthcoming meeting at Curzon Street promised to be interesting.
* * *
Sipping brandy from one of Annemarie’s new crystal glasses, Lord Benistone had already made up his mind that the hasty summons to Curzon Street could only be to discuss the news in The Times that morning. He would, of course, have to explain to Annemarie his part in the tragedy, if that’s what it was, and hope that she would understand their reasons for leaving Vauxhall Gardens without delay. In the circumstances, it would have been quite impossible in such a crush to find any witnesses willing to describe exactly what had happened without implicating themselves at the same time. Nor was he himself inclined to volunteer any information. Without going into all the painful reasons for his being there, that would be out of the question. If Esme had also seen the news, he wondered what effect it would have on her decisions for the future. Sighing, he took another sip.
‘Elmer, my dear,’ said Cecily, entering the dining room as if the effort of responding to Annemarie’s message had been a little inconvenient, to say the least, ‘I wonder why this couldn’t have waited until tomorrow? What can there be to discuss? We had only just finished dining. Have you eaten yet?’
‘No.’
‘Then you ought not to be drinking that on an empty—’
‘Leave him alone, Cecily,’ said Oriel. ‘Hello, Papa. You all right?’ With a kiss to both cheeks, her smile lingered as she searched his face for signs of tiredness. Marguerite followed, hugging her father without a word, saying more in that one embrace than she’d said in a year. He could see that she had slept badly, that the fidgeting and simpering was missing, that her gown was without the usual frill and fuss, her hair swept upwards from her neck into the tall crown of her bonnet, her eyelids still puffy with weeping, yet the blue eyes bold with a new wisdom. She had been given a brief view of a man’s world and it had both frightened and sobered her for, as her father’s man had told her, it was not a pretty sight to see her peaceable parent in such a vengeful role. She had never thought him capable of it. She had never heard a man scream before, either, nor the howling of a crowd for the blood of a man they didn’t even know. Had they thrown him into the river, too?
Annemarie and Lord Verne were not far behind, their own news temporarily engulfed by hugs and handshakes and questions about who had read what and how that news was affecting them. ‘More than you might think, dear,’ said Cecily, helping herself from a plate of warm shortbread biscuits. ‘We were there, at Vauxhall Gardens. Elmer will tell you.’
‘What, all of you?’ said Annemarie.
‘Yes, all of us,’ said her father. ‘I was about to explain, thank you, Cecily. It was our Marguerite who orchestrated it. She’s the heroine in this.’
Attention was immediately switched to Marguerite, but the young lady’s attention was firmly fixed on the complicated pattern of the Axminster and it was clear, after a pause, that she was not going to take advantage of the situation to explain what had happened. So Cecily and Oriel gave a very detailed account of what had occurred on that night and the one before, adding that no one other than themselves, Lord Benistone’s three men and a very uncaring crowd of hooligans knew exactly what part Father had played in causing Mytchett’s injuries, which he had apparently tried to bathe in the river. It was not, they said, a very sensible thing to do, was it? However, said Cecily as an afterthought, they could hardly be expected to help him, so they had hurried away from the scene without knowing what became of him. It had taken them almost as long to get home as it had to get there, and she had lost a shoe and Elmer, poor dear, was exhausted by his rage.
And Marguerite, thought Annemarie, must have been shaken to the core to witness the brutality, however deserved. What was Father thinking of to allow her to see it? Was this more of the blindness that afflicted him where his family were concerned? Would he always put his own needs first? In a sudden outpouring of motherliness, she went to kneel before Marguerite, taking her into her arms and feeling the immediate response of softness in place of the resistance she had half-expected. Pressing her cheek against Marguerite’s, she crooned her sympathy as their mama had often done. ‘Oh, my sweet...oh, how dreadful for you...I’m so sorry it had to come to this.’
She felt the head shake against hers. ‘No, don’t be, Annemarie. Really. It was not like that. I wanted to be there. I wanted to do my part. Papa knew how much I wanted to make amends.’
‘Amends for what, love?’
‘For all the times I’ve not behaved like a lady,’ she whispered, ‘and said the wrong things without thinking.’
‘Oh, dearest. That’s all over now. But you should not have seen what you did.’
‘It has not harmed me, Annemarie. Papa knew what he was doing. We were well protected and what I saw may not have got Mama back, but it’s made me very proud of my papa.’ Reaching out with one hand, she sought her father’s and was immediately clasped, warmed and caressed.
‘You’re very courageous,’ said Annemarie, ‘and Mama will be proud of you.’
There was something in the way she said ‘will be’ that made Lord Benistone focus intently on her face to watch the smile radiate like the sun from behind a cloud. ‘Will be?’ he said. ‘Annemarie?’
‘Yes, Papa. Lord Verne and I have found her. Safe and well.’
Incomprehension played around his eyes. ‘But you’ve been to Ragley Hall.’ He looked across to Verne for verification. ‘Haven’t you?’
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Verne. ‘Lady Benistone is there. She’s been cared for by the Marchioness of Hertford since last year.’ There was never going to be an easy way to say this other than by leaving the Marquess’s name out of it, Verne thought, watching how his lordship’s eyes changed, hardened and challenged his.
‘Has she, indeed?’ Lord Benistone said, quietly. ‘And how safe is safe, exactly? In the Hertfords’ care? Yes, well I can guess what that means.’ He stood up, dropping Marguerite’s hand, visibly shaking.
‘She is safe, my lord,’ said Verne, glancing at Annemarie for help.
‘Papa,’ she said. ‘Are you not glad?’
He had turned white like parchment and, to hide his shock, held his face in his hands, his gnarled knuckles quivering. ‘Yes,’ he growled, ‘but I did not expect this, to be cuckolded twice...by...’
‘Papa! Stop! Listen! Please listen!’
But he was not listening. ‘I shall thrash the mangy little red-haired lecher!’ he yelled. ‘I shall take that whip to him and do as I did to—’
‘Papa...please...no, you’re not listening to me. You’re wrong. Mama has not been in any way unfaithful to you, nor has Lord Hertford acted dishonourably towards her. Please sit down and let Jacques and me tell you about it. Come on, Papa darling. You’re tired and distraught, and jumping to all the wrong conclusions. There, sit down while I pour you another brandy. And for pity’s sake eat something. Have you eaten anything since yesterday?’
The question was ignored as Lord Benistone’s confused emotions were engulfed in three pairs of loving arms that hugged and comforted, the sound of the women’s joyful cries eventually calming the fury that had not quite dissipated since Vauxhall. There were tears in his eyes, too, when he emerged, unashamedly sobbing. ‘Will she come back to us?’ he said. ‘Tell us what happened. Where’s she been all this time?’
Between them, Annemarie and Lord Verne gave them the full story of what, how and why their mama’s plan had failed, including Lady Benistone’s own interpretation of her incompetence that took care not to direct any of the blame towards her husband, although his nods showed them how he suffered. ‘My fault,’ he murmured more than once. ‘My fault entirely. She’d rather go to Hertford than to me. Too bad...too bad!’
‘It was Lady Hertford she needed,’ said Annemarie. ‘Her old friend. She was ashamed. She still is. She doesn’t believe you’ll take her back.’
‘Not take her back?’ his lordship roared. ‘How could she ever think that?’
‘Quite easily, my lord,’ said Verne, ‘after what happened to her. Mytchett made sure of her disgrace and now she doesn’t feel she deserves to be forgiven for it.’
‘God’s truth, man! It’s not a question of my forgiveness, is it? She must come home to us. She belongs here. The longer she stays away, the more talk there’ll be. I’m the one who needs her forgiveness. Me. I’ve treated her shamefully, poor woman. Just imagine going to those lengths to protect her daughter when I could have done it with two well-chosen words. I shall go up there myself and demand—’
‘Papa,’ said Marguerite, ‘do you think it might be better to ask rather than demand? Plead with her? Beg her? Tell her how we love and long for her? Tell her that in future you’ll pay her more attention, perhaps? And thank the Hertfords graciously for their care of her. You’ll have to accept their hospitality, remember, unless you stay overnight at the local inn.’
‘Then I should take you with me, young lady. With that kind of diplomacy, you can stop me flying off the handle, can’t you?’ Since none of them had ever seen, or heard, Lord Benistone so much as raise his voice before he horsewhipped Sir Lionel Mytchett, this excuse sounded implausible, though they were heartily in favour of Marguerite escorting her father on this delicate mission. It was testament to her transformation that she was now being given the role of diplomat when, only a few days before, she might have been their last choice.
‘Yes, Papa. I’ll go with you. We’ll bring her back together,’ she said.
‘But not until you’ve had something to eat, Elmer,’ Cecily said, observing the arrival of plates of food. ‘Come on, there’s enough here to feed an army.’
‘But I’m not dressed for dinner,’ his lordship said with a sideways glance at Annemarie. ‘Nor is Verne, I see.’
‘Papa,’ said Oriel, severely. ‘Let this be the last time, then.’
* * *
With the issue of Lady Benistone’s return taking precedence, the astonishing drama at Vauxhall Gardens had been pushed to one side of the discussions that passed between mouthfuls at the informal dinner table. For Annemarie, however, her father’s violence towards Sir Lionel Mytchett was just about the most uncharacteristic response she could ever have imagined when, for a whole year, his manner had been more quietly grieving than boiling anger. Which made her aware, yet again, of how she had misjudged his feelings on the subject and how deeply he had been affected. Before Oriel, Cecily and Marguerite returned to Park Lane, she managed to have a quiet word with them while Papa was talking to Lord Verne.
‘Something will have to be done about Montague Street,’ she said. ‘We cannot allow Mama to see it as it is, can we?’
‘Well, how is it?’ said Cecily. ‘Have you been there lately?’
‘No, I’ve been busy at Curzon Street and so have you. Then the four days in Warwickshire.’
‘So while Papa and I are away, why not go and see if you can make it habitable?’ said Marguerite. ‘Make two or three rooms fit for their use, at least. And the kitchens. There won’t be any food. There never is. And I don’t suppose she’ll have much in the way of luggage, except what Lady Hertford has provided.’
‘That’s what I thought, too,’ said Oriel. ‘We should go round there as soon as you’ve gone and see what’s to be done. Cecily?’
‘Certainly, dearest. I know your papa has moved some stuff out, but no more than that. I could hardly bring myself to look at what he’s left behind. We’ll go. If he can persuade her to return, things will have to change.’
‘I’ll persuade her,’ said Marguerite, quietly. ‘She’ll come.’
Oriel hugged her sister. ‘Of course she will, love. Of course she’ll come.’
* * *
Verne was not quite as astonished by Lord Benistone’s merciless punishment of Sir Lionel as Annemarie was. Nor was he as surprised as she was to discover that the father who had allowed his marriage to deteriorate so badly should suddenly have found the energy and motivation to retaliate. ‘It’s as if he’s been thinking about it all this time,’ she said, ‘to see how long he could bear it.’
‘It takes some men longer than others to realise what they must do about it, sweetheart.’ In the peace of their bedroom, shuttered but still curtainless, they rolled towards each other between herb-scented sheets to seek the warm comfort of arms, soft skin and accommodating curves.
‘You don’t think the authorities will start asking questions about what happened that night, do you?’ Annemarie said, snuggling into him.
‘They’ll do their best, I expect. But I would not be too concerned, if I were you. For one thing, Sir Lionel was found well downstream of Vauxhall, so they have no way of knowing exactly where he fell in. For another, even though they believe he’d been at Vauxhall, they’ll never find anyone to witness it in a crowd like that. They were all watching the fireworks, weren’t they? I don’t think your father is in any danger of being questioned. Accidental death, they’ll call it. Like the others.’
‘Mama could hardly believe it. Sir Lionel’s death, I mean.’
‘So wait till she hears what part your father played. I’ll wager she’s never seen that side of him.’
‘I think, dear heart, that at least four of the Benistone family have revealed a different side of themselves recently. Don’t you?’ she said, sleepily.
Verne slid his warm hand over the silky skin of her buttocks. ‘So might there yet be another side of this particular Benistone to be revealed, do you think? Or have I seen it all?’
Teasingly, she smoothed the sole of her foot down his leg. ‘I have no objection to you investigating further,’ she whispered, ‘just to make sure. If I’m to be the new Lady Verne, it’s only fair that you should know these things before you commit yourself.’
‘Sweetheart,’ he said, lifting himself up to rest on one elbow, ‘I was committed on that first day, even before you’d stopped snarling at me. Nothing’s changed. Nor will it.’
Despite the late hour, their tiredness and the highly charged emotions of the last few days, their loving was raised to yet another level of ecstasy that night, with so many of Annemarie’s personal dilemmas now solved, easily, gracefully, as if there had never been a good reason for them in the first place. Released from the debilitating revenge which had drained her zest for life and kept her friends at arm’s length, she saw how foolish and unnecessary her plans had been, how unfair and unworthy. Verne was everything she had ever wanted and now she was able to tell him so in words of love and in the liberal giving of her lovely body. After such lavish generosity, he could not have doubted for a moment that her love for him was genuine, all-consuming and free at last from self-imposed obstacles.
* * *
There was still much to be done at Curzon Street for which Annemarie had expected to have plenty of time between shopping expeditions, excursions and visits to exhibitions and, in the evenings, dinners, theatres and balls. It now looked as if she might have to spend two or three more days at the family home on Montague Street in order to restore some kind of order before Lady Benistone’s return, though she could not resent the effort that would be needed to achieve this. With Evie beside her and two housemaids trotting behind, she reached the newly painted, red front door at the same time as Cecily and Oriel.
Inside her former home, Annemarie found herself being one of an awestruck group who wandered slowly through room after room to admire and wonder at the space and light, the fashionable colours and handsome furnishings, the tasteful paintings of flowers, the sumptuous cushions, polished surfaces not seen for years and graceful ornaments that until now had been hidden behind the conglomeration of years. The spaciousness was almost overwhelming after the claustrophobic surroundings and the uncomfortable invasion of Lord Benistone’s treasures into their rooms. Her parents’ room had been transformed into a white haven of flowing curtains, lace, linen, brocade and silk, like a new page of a diary waiting to be written upon. A large bowl of white, cream and apricot roses stood on a low table by the sash window where the light caught the velvet petals, and Annemarie knew that this must have been described in detail by her father, for the colour scheme was Mama’s favourite, until it, too, had been swamped.
She felt a lump form in her throat and, glancing at her sister, saw tears glistening in her eyes. ‘Oh, Oriel,’ she whispered, ‘I never...ever...thought he’d do this.’
Oriel’s voice trembled. ‘He’s done it for Mama,’ she said. ‘Perhaps he thought that if he actually did something, something would happen for him, too.’
‘And it has,’ said Cecily, ‘hasn’t it? Have you ever seen him so full of energy? It’s as if clearing his house out has cleared his mind at the same time. I would never have thought he’d thrash a younger man the way he did. And then threaten to do the same to Lord Hertford. He really does care, doesn’t he?’
‘We just didn’t know what lengths he’d go to, to prove it. We may as well go home now. We’re not needed here.’
‘More flowers?’ said Oriel. ‘She loves flowers everywhere.’
‘Shall we go and interfere in the kitchen?’ said Cecily, impishly.
‘Just to check the menus? Well, someone has to do it,’ said Annemarie.
As it happened, they stayed the whole of the morning to check on things, to note the more personal details: soap, tissue-lined drawers, hangers in the wardrobe, her left-behind jewellery that needed a polish, her favourite tea in the caddy, her bone-china tea set, her music on the piano. They cast their eyes around Marguerite’s room, too, which she had not occupied for some time and which now had a beautiful Wilton carpet and matching curtains.
The three of them went into town to buy her a new white quilted-satin bedspread, a very daring pink satin negligee and slippers to match, and new towels embroidered with M and pink butterflies that seemed to represent a passing phase in her young life..
‘In Brighton,’ Annemarie said, ‘I met a rather dashing young cavalry officer. I think I shall ask Verne to invite him up to London. I would not be at all surprised if he took a shine to our new Marguerite.’
Cecily was not so sure. ‘I cannot see Lord Verne going along with that plan,’ she said, pulling on her gloves. On this point, however, she was mistaken.
* * *
‘He’s already here,’ said Verne that evening.
‘What, in London?’
‘In London. Shall you invite him to dine with us? I owe him a favour.’
‘By all means, if you think he’d regard it as a favour to dine with us. I could include him with the family,’ she added, with a studied nonchalance, ‘to chat with Marguerite? That would be doing me a favour.’
The smile that had been held back suddenly broke. ‘Little schemer.’ He laughed. ‘You think they might get along together, don’t you? Well, I think so, too. Bock’s a very level-headed chap. He’d be better company for her than those niffy-naffy types she was with at the theatre. He’s been around a bit, too.’
‘By which you mean he knows about women,’ said Annemarie, rather primly. She made as if to move away from his side, but was prevented by his arm slowly pushing her back into the sofa cushions, helplessly unbalanced, his body keeping her there.
‘You have a problem with that, my lady? Men knowing about women?’ he said, taunting her with a serious face much too close for argument.
‘No,’ she whispered.
‘Good.’
Hazily, at the back of her mind, she recalled how his own obvious experience had antagonised her, made her afraid and determined to be an exception to his rule, whatever that was. At the same time, it was useless to deny that his arrogance had excited and intrigued her, even while she tried to make it appear otherwise. And though she had never wished to know the details of his conquests, there was something tantalising about a man who had ‘been around a bit’ that had made her want to be the last one, the best, the hardest to catch. The prize. ‘Arrogant man,’ she said, just before his mouth slanted across hers, sending wave after wave of desire down to her womb, melting it, readying it for him.
‘Confident,’ he replied, allowing her a breathing space. ‘I had to be confident or I’d have got nowhere near you, would I? I knew you’d be difficult. Volatile. Defensive. Worth all the effort, though.’
‘Effort? What effort?’ she scoffed, anticipating his response. She had expected to be lifted up into his arms and carried upstairs, but not to be swung along the sofa with her legs somehow enclosing him, her head upon the tasselled bolster from which there was no escape. As she twisted and writhed under him, her struggle was used as fuel to feed her challenge, to move on past the tender preliminaries towards the effort she had just derided.
Without a word, he contained her flailing arms in one hand, his other hand knowing the quickest route to the softness of her thighs and the shadowy moistening folds whose ache demanded instant satisfaction. His kisses emptied her mind as his deft and skilful fingers worked their magic, preparing her to the last possible moment before his entry, causing her to mew at the sweetness of it and the urgency they were sharing. He released her hands only after the last wild surge of power and the shuddering climax, the directionless rapture, his groan of emptiness and her long sigh of completion. Then it passed through his mind, no more than that, how she had once suffered such impulsive lovemaking at the hands of her late husband, and how much she had learned since then about love in all its forms, from him. He did not remind her of it, the moment being too delicate to hold such unhappy recollections.
* * *
After three days and with no communication from Lord Benistone concerning the success of his mission, or otherwise, they could only wait patiently, and hope, and make what small last-minute preparations they could without in any way changing those made by his lordship. But by mutual consent, Annemarie and Lord Verne, Cecily, Oriel and Colonel Harrow gathered at Number Eighteen Montague Street in the late afternoon on the off chance that, if they were coming at all, it would be about then.
Their prediction was astonishingly accurate for, as the grandfather clock in the hall struck five, the sound of hooves and wheels rattled on the cobbles and came to a stop. Mr Quibly would have had the—mostly new—staff lined up to greet their master and mistress, but had been persuaded that Lady Benistone would prefer to be seen only by the closest members of her family, until later. It was Marguerite who emerged first with the happiest of smiles. In marked contrast to her previous childish manner, she stood back to allow them to see how Lord Benistone almost lifted his wife down the steps on to the pavement, setting her feet down safely, crooking his arm for her support and smiling like a bridegroom with his new bride.
The embraces and cries of joy, although intended for the privacy of the hall, could not wait so long and, by the time they had moved inside, a small crowd of pedestrians were politely applauding Lady Benistone’s return before they could move on. Inevitably, tears flowed through laughter, relief and some considerable amazement concerning Lord Benistone’s secret renovations, a surprise to Marguerite as much as to her mama who, led by the hand into the drawing room, hardly recognised it. ‘The space...the light...ah, here’s my little china dog...and my music, too. Ah, this is...oh, Elmer!’ Unreserved, she threw her arms around his lordship’s neck and wept. ‘I don’t deserve it,’ she cried. ‘You are too kind, my love. Too...too kind.’
‘Of course you do,’ he said, holding her close, like a lover. ‘I should have done this years ago, sweetness. I should have seen what was happening.’
‘But all your treasures. What will you do without them? They meant so much to you.’
‘Not as much as my lovely wife and daughters,’ he said, holding her elbows. ‘It began to look as if I was losing all of you at once. Even our dear Cecily didn’t call as often as she used to. And I missed you so,’ he said, plaintively. ‘I thought it was time I grew up, so Marguerite and I have done it together, haven’t we, love?’ Holding out his hand, he took his daughter’s fingers and kissed their tips. ‘We’ve had time to talk. Journeys are good for that. Neither of us could walk off. And now our lovely Oriel can marry her William, and Annemarie will....well, who knows what Annemarie will do next?’
‘Papa! That’s unfair!’
Verne came to her rescue with a possessive arm around her waist, laughing at her confusion. ‘With respect, my lord, we do know what Lady Golding will do next. She’ll marry me.’
‘Weddings from Montague Street,’ said Lord Benistone. ‘I like the sound of that. But perhaps we might precede them with a pre-wedding ball, since the last event was not the unqualified success it ought to have been. We’ll do it again, properly this time. With Cecily to help, of course.’ Turning to Marguerite with a gentle shake of her hand, he exchanged smiles. ‘Happy now?’ he whispered.
* * *
With a younger and more innovative chef to replace the former one whose weariness had begun to show, dinner at Montague Street that evening was special in every way, from the carefully prepared menu with Lady Benistone’s favourite dishes to the elegance of the table setting and the meticulous evening dress of the diners. There were so many thoughts to express, so much to discuss, news to exchange, plans to be revealed for a future that had once seemed so bleak, that it was late when the family dispersed, happier than they’d been for far too long.
Clinging together until the last moment, Annemarie and her mother had reached the point of intimate chatter that follows so easily after a surfeit of happiness, good company and wine, little exchanges that would be half-forgotten next day and would need to be elaborated on. The Prince Regent was always a source of such tales, though Lady Benistone had been touched, and amused, that he’d asked about her. ‘After all these years,’ she giggled, linking arms. ‘Perhaps it’s time he saw for himself, dearest. Lady Hertford told me... No, perhaps I ought not to say. Who he wrote to is not our concern, is it?’
‘Who did he write to, Mama? Anyone we know?’
‘He’s had his letters returned to him now. And what a good thing, too. Can you imagine, what a scandal if they’d been made public like Lord Nelson’s were in April? Poor dear. It would’ve been the end of him.’ Her arm squeezed against Annemarie’s. ‘Don’t you remember what a furor it caused?’
‘For Emma Hamilton, you mean?’
‘Of course. She’s been so indiscreet. But don’t for heaven’s sake let on that you know. Isabella only told me to make me smile.’
‘And did you, Mama?’
‘Well, yes. But not as much as Prinny, I expect. Goodnight, my love.’
Embracing, and with a glance over her mother’s shoulder, Annemarie saw that Verne had been standing close enough to hear what had been said and that his face reflected all the concern she might have expected. Hardly able to believe her ears, she stared at him, shaking her head, then turning away, feeling her goodwill dissipate in a haze of confusion. Despite all she’d done to help, all she’d lost and gained, all she had believed in and the friends she’d trusted, her plan had come to nothing. Without her knowing it. Until now. ‘Cecily!’ she called across the hallway. ‘Don’t go yet. I need to speak—’
But Verne was there before her, reading her intentions. ‘No,’ he said, softly. ‘Not now. Let her go. I’ll explain. Please, Annemarie.’ His emphatic plea was enough to prevent the confrontation that would surely have ensued before Cecily swirled out into the night air and the waiting carriage.
‘I needed to speak to her,’ Annemarie said, angrily. ‘It’s important.’
‘Yes, I know. We’ll discuss it alone.’
‘Discuss?’ she retorted. ‘We’ll have to do better than that, my lord. I need some answers.’
Verne had always hoped, with varying degrees of justification, that in time the letters would have been forgotten or, at least, pushed to the bottom of Annemarie’s list of important things to remember. Realistically, he realised that it was still too soon for this kind of miracle and that he might one day have to make up a convincing story that would exonerate Cecily from all blame. After her assistance, he could not allow that to happen. If lies were a bad thing, then surely the protection of a friend was some kind of excuse.
* * *
Back at Curzon Street, he was quite prepared for her first salvo fired as soon as the bedroom door was closed behind them.
‘It was Cecily, wasn’t it?’ Annemarie began. ‘She was the one I gave them to. I trusted her and she unlocked my portmanteau and passed them on to you to give to the Prince Regent. So much for my trust. And all this time you’ve led me to believe I was doing a poor woman a good turn by returning what was her property. Laughing at me...the two of you...how could you do that? How else have you deceived me, my lord? No...let me guess...’ White faced, pacing the room while pulling off her earrings, she was about to launch into another series of assumptions when she felt Evie’s nimble fingers unhooking the high bodice of her evening gown. ‘You’d better leave us, Evie,’ she said, pulling away. ‘I’ll manage.’
Evie had been hoping to remain invisible for as long as possible but now, almost as white-faced as her mistress, she could not allow this tirade to develop so far in the wrong direction, even if it cost her her position. ‘My lady,’ she whispered, avoiding Lord Verne’s frowns, ‘please may I speak? I can explain what happened.’
‘Evie,’ said his lordship, ‘I think you’d better do as Lady Golding says.’
‘But it was not Mrs Cardew’s fault, m’lady. Please let me tell you,’ Evie whispered, caught between the two of them. ‘It was all my fault.’
‘You, Evie? What did you have to do with it? Surely it was—’
‘No, m’lady. There was only a cushion in the portmanteau when Mrs Cardew took it out that afternoon. I don’t know where she was supposed to be taking it, but I know it wasn’t full of letters. She’d have got such a surprise when she opened it. Just that blue cushion from the inn. It weighed about the same, you see.’
Half-undone with her bodice falling off one shoulder, Annemarie sat on the bed, looking from Evie’s distressed face to Verne’s combined expressions of disbelief and resignation. Clearly, this was not the story he’d been going to tell. ‘Exactly what are you telling me, Evie?’ Annemarie said. ‘That you unlocked my portmanteau?’
‘Not me, m’lady. Not personally. But somebody did. You remember how the inn was packed with passengers from the mail coach? And how I had to go down and get my supper, and how long I had to wait? Well, it’s my belief that somebody got in and had a go at the portmanteau while I was out, m’lady, because when I returned it was open. Well, you were too tired and upset to be bothered about it that night, so I just took the cushion and put it inside. You said it had some jewellery in and I knew you’d discover the theft, sooner or later, but I thought it was best to say nothing until morning.’ Evie’s eyes filled with tears as she fumbled in her apron pocket for a handkerchief. ‘But I couldn’t. Not then.’
‘And you locked the portmanteau up again?’ said Annemarie. ‘How?’
‘The lock wasn’t broken, m’lady. Somebody knew what they were doing. I used your key to lock it. I’d have told you about it, only there didn’t seem to be a suitable time.’
‘So you don’t know where the letters went, Evie?’ Verne asked.
‘I didn’t see any letters, m’lord. Lady Golding told me it was jewellery, you see. And then Mrs Cardew was to take it somewhere, but nothing was said after that so I assumed Mrs Cardew had resolved the problem.’
‘Yes, quite. So you think the contents were stolen by one of the guests?’
‘Must’ve been, m’lord.’
‘So,’ said Annemarie, ominously quiet, ‘how did the...er...contents...find their way to the Prince Regent, I wonder?’
Evie glanced at Lord Verne while doing her utmost to clear her expression of all misgivings. ‘I can only suggest, m’lady, that whoever took them must have sent them on. Perhaps there’d be a reward of some kind.’
‘Ye-es. I’m sure there would be. Indeed, it sounds extremely likely.’
‘Rings true enough to me,’ said Verne. ‘Evie took every care...’
‘Thank you, Evie. I think you should go now. It’s getting late.’
‘Thank you, m’lady. You’ll not blame Mrs Cardew, will you?’
‘Not at all, Evie. I’ve rarely heard such a concerted effort to save Mrs Cardew from any responsibility in the matter as I have just now. It’s almost too good to be true. Goodnight, Evie.’
‘Goodnight, m’lady. M’lord.’
Verne watched the door close, shaking his head and wondering whether Evie’s valiant story had made matters worse or better. He suspected the former, especially as the question of how the Prince got his letters back sounded as implausible as an honest thief. A squeak from the bed made him look up sharply. Annemarie had rolled over, face down into the white linen sheet, her arms bunched beneath her shaking body from which muffled sobs and yelps emerged, with the occasional moan.
‘Sweetheart...oh, my darling girl. Don’t...don’t weep. Let me explain.’
Another yelp. ‘Ah...not you, too,’ she squeaked. ‘I can’t bear it.’
‘What?’ he said, placing a hand softly on her back to still the convulsions. ‘Can’t bear what? She meant to protect Cecily, that’s all. I knew you’d not believe her.’
It was then, when she turned towards him in the foetal position to ease her aching ribs, that he saw how she could hardly speak for laughter and that the wailing and squeaking were the beginnings and endings of words with no middles. For it was if an unyielding barrier had disappeared, leaving behind an empty space, totally without substance, meaning or importance. As Evie’s ridiculously flawed explanation had been intended to excuse everyone except herself, even the thief, Annemarie was able to piece together the picture of that time in the Swan at Reigate when all was confusion and emotional turmoil, and an inexcusable unconcern for her maid’s personal comforts which had always mattered to her. She had not asked about her supper, she had left her in charge of ‘valuables’, and poor devoted Evie had had to fend for herself or find someone willing to help. The answer was obvious, wasn’t it? The young man she’d had a fierce argument with, had cold-shouldered, warmed to, and was now protecting from extreme anger. Verne’s own valet, following his master’s instructions, who was following his royal master’s instructions. How utterly absurd. What a comedy.
For some moments longer, Annemarie could only gasp out the explanations Evie had offered, ‘Evie protecting you...and Samson...you protecting Cecily....Cecily protecting...me, and me protecting...Lady Hamilton. Oh, Jacques! It’s a wonder you could all keep track...of who...was protecting...whom! Oh dear. I’ve never heard anything so silly in all my life.’ Mopping at her eyes, she sat up and flopped her arms about his neck. ‘Can we forget about it now, please?’
‘Darling, beloved! Do you mean that you don’t care that the Prince has them instead of her? Really?’
‘Not any more, my love. I wanted to hurt him, but now I don’t. I wanted to help her, but it was already too late, wasn’t it? She was leaving.’
‘You sent her money, Cecily says.’
‘At least I know she got that. It would have paid for something.’
‘But don’t lay any of the blame at Cecily’s door. She never saw the letters either. I had them by the time we left Reigate. She’s a loyal friend.’
‘And I’m now protecting the disloyal one, am I not? The Prince who deserves it less than any of us. I could have ruined him. But I’m glad you stopped me.’
‘Are you, love? Am I forgiven? I had to do something drastic.’
‘I know. So maybe if you go and remove your evening clothes without your valet, we could do something drastic together before we sleep. Yes?’ She put up her face for his kiss, made all the sweeter for knowing that, after all her efforts, he was the one who held the reins. A man above men. A man whose direction she would enjoy. A man she would love for ever.
Moments later, Verne emerged from his dressing room, tying the cord of his silk gown that concealed neither legs nor chest. Her lingering stare at the gaps made him smile. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Waiting for me?’
Annemarie pulled her own sheer negligee more tightly across her breasts. ‘No,’ she said, picking up her hairbrush. ‘I’m waiting for an exquisitely mannered gentleman to invite me, with some deference, to spend an hour or two in polite conversation with him. But I fear that life is scattered with such disappointments.’ She sighed, noisily.
‘Is that so, my beauty?’ he replied, taking the brush from her hand as it rose to make the first sweep. ‘Then you’ll have to make do with me until he appears, won’t you?’ He sat himself behind her astride the long stool and took a fistful of her hair, sweeping down it expertly with the brush. ‘So what is this polite conversation to do with?’
‘You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Try me.’
‘No. It’s to do with some jewellery I own.’
‘Amethysts and diamonds, by any chance?’
‘Could be.’
‘You want them reset? Is that it?’
‘No. I want to give them to someone.’
‘I told you. I don’t think he’d appreciate the gesture.’
‘I was intending them for a her, not a him.’
‘Do I know her?’
‘Apparently, you knew of her before I did. She must be sorely in need of funds. She has a small child. Children are expensive. She has no protector, as far as I know. She could make better use of the jewels than me. They must be worth thousands.’
‘Very commendable, sweetheart,’ he said, brushing tenderly away from her temple. ‘But has it occurred to you that, if Mrs Mytchett were to take them to any jeweller, there would be questions asked about how she came by them? She’d be hard-pressed for a convincing answer, I should think.’
‘Then I’d better sell them myself, hadn’t I?’
‘Better still, let me take them back to Rundell and Bridges. They’ll give you a good price and they’ll be glad to see them again. There’ll be no questions asked.’
‘You agree that it would be a good thing to do? To help her out?’
The brushing continued. ‘An excellent thing. Generous. Typically charitable.’
‘She’s been badly used, but I hope she won’t regard it as charity.’
‘What, then?’
‘Recompense. Her deserts. I bear her no grudges. She need not know who the money comes from. In fact, I’d rather she didn’t.’
‘She might guess, though.’
‘I don’t see how. It’s worth a try.’
The brushing stopped as his arms enclosed her, his face nuzzling into her neck where he held the hair away. ‘It is indeed, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Now, are you still waiting for that exquisitely mannered gentleman to turn up?’
‘Too late,’ she murmured. ‘Perhaps I should make do with you, after all.’
‘Come to bed, then,’ he said, sliding the silk negligee off her shoulders. ‘We’ve had enough polite conversation for one night. Don’t you agree?’
‘Mmm,’ she said, leaning her head back to receive his kiss.
* * *
In her own white bedroom, Esme Benistone also made use of her husband’s services as lady’s maid, a task stretching way beyond the usual time with each detail of the room to be examined and reflected upon. ‘This thing,’ said his lordship, referring to her corset, ‘is not going to come off unless you stand still and allow me to unlace it. Is it?’
‘Dearest, I can unhook it from the front. Didn’t you know?’
He sighed. ‘How am I supposed to know that, after...?’
She turned to face him. ‘Don’t say it, love. We have some catching up to do, don’t we? It’ll be like old times when we were just finding out about each other.’
‘And loving what we found.’
‘I never stopped loving you, Elmer. I so wanted your love.’
‘Oh, dear heart, you never lost it. I’ve been so foolish. Please forgive me.’
‘We both have. Come to bed. Just your arms, your warmth, your love. The rest will come, in time. Will you give me some time, dearest?’
‘All the time in the world. I shall not lose you again. Come, lass.’
* * *
With so much else happening that summer—fêtes and garden parties, processions and massively over-subscribed dinners followed by balls, displays and exhibitions—the Benistone Ball, as it came to be known, was an exclusive affair to which only family and good friends were invited to celebrate the restoration of a divided generation. The Hertfords found it a perfect opportunity to reconnect with Verne’s family from Salisbury, the Marquess and Marchioness of Simonstoke, their younger sons, Robbie and Christopher, and the elder sister, her husband and young ones all of whom were overjoyed to know that, at last, Jacques had found a woman for whom he’d had to make rather more effort than usual. The scandal attached to her and her mama only added to their fascination, particularly in the case of the two young men whose immediate interest in Lady Golding’s younger sister caused a certain rivalry with Lord Bockington.
Bock had already won an advantage by being present at several family dinners in the preceding weeks, since when he had called on Marguerite almost daily, with her parents’ approval, to take her driving, with and without Cecily. By this time Marguerite’s affections were fully engaged by the handsome cavalry officer who had seen some action and who now understood the value of his information to Lord Verne. Smitten by Marguerite’s good looks, and already in love with her, he found himself enchanted by the fusion of innocence and finesse which had begun to show and which, quite naturally, she was learning to cultivate as a far more successful and attractive lure than her previous gaucherie.
‘I can hardly believe the change in her,’ said Verne, throwing down his riding gloves and whip. ‘She’s actually talking sense at last. She’ll be quite a woman in a year or two.’
Untying the veil knotted behind her head, Annemarie lifted off her riding hat to loose a river of black silk over her shoulders, at once softening the austere dark brown of her habit. Unbidden, the memory of that terrible episode after the theatre reminded her of how far she, too, had come when even something as meaningless as Marguerite’s girlish boast had set her afire with jealousy. Now, she could accept Verne’s praise of her sister without a qualm. She took his hand and led him into the morning room, recalling how her fortunes had changed so dramatically and how proud she had been riding beside him in the park, how striking he looked, how attentive, well liked by everyone and loved by her. ‘Have I told you...recently...?’ she said, closing the door and placing a hand on his lapel.
‘No,’ he said, automatically. ‘What?’
‘That I love you. Adore you. Is there another grade upwards of that?’
‘If there is, sweetheart,’ he said, taking her waist between his hands, ‘I don’t need to hear it. Love and adoration will do very nicely, thank you. It’s more than I ever expected, more than I ever dared to hope for and much more than I deserve.’
‘Oh...’ she smiled, tracing a line round his jaw with her thumb ‘...nobody said anything about deserving, my lord. No, you probably don’t deserve it, but there it is. Unconditional. Free. All yours.’
‘All mine,’ he whispered. ‘My glorious, scandalous woman.’ There was more than a hint of laughter behind the kiss that surfaced once before being submerged in a deeper passion that told them both how permanent their love had grown.
‘And there’s more,’ she said.
She had no need to elaborate when the way she said it, half-shyly, half-proud, gave him all the clue he needed. Sliding one hand down between them, he rested it below her waist, his eyes searching hers, questioning. ‘Truly?’ he said. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Fairly sure. Yes.’
‘Oh, my darling...sweetest...most wonderful creature!’ Tenderly, he held her close to him, the finest and rarest treasure he had ever beheld in all his searches.