From the very beginning, Cecily had not entirely approved of Annemarie’s unconcealed hostility towards Lord Verne. Now, when she had been told of the reason for the abrupt change, she could not approve of that either. Being resentful and distrustful of men was one thing, but this was a dangerous game to play with a man of his calibre and deceitful, too, given his proven gallantry towards women. She had watched with some consternation how Annemarie had responded to him during the evening and wondered how much of that was due to Colonel Harrow’s glowing account and how much to whatever had happened in Brighton. Was Annemarie as good an actress as that, or was her heart being softened, despite her protestations? Cecily knew her very well and did not believe she had it in her to persist in any attempt to break a man’s heart, thinking it would mend hers in the process. Annemarie had never been in the least spiteful. She would not be able to do it and, what was more, Verne did not deserve it.
With these worrying thoughts in her mind as she prepared for bed, the idea of a further collaboration with Verne seemed like a natural progression. Perhaps to let him know where the letters had been taken? Just to keep him one step ahead instead of one step behind? He would know how to handle the information, what to do next, whether to proceed with this unsound domestic relationship that was intended to lead nowhere, or not.
She decided to take a look, to reassure herself.
Placing the portmanteau beside her feet, she unlocked the catch and flicked the leather tab back, pulling the sides apart wide enough to allow one hand inside. But instead of contacting the firm edges of folded papers, her fingertips encountered something soft. She gave a yelp, withdrew her hand and opened the bag wider, staring in disbelief at the corded upper edge of a cushion.
‘Of course,’ she whispered. ‘I should have known. He doesn’t need my help, does he? Clever devil. He’s already got them. One step behind, indeed. Was it ever likely, Cecily my girl?’ She pulled the cushion out, a pretty thing, a blue-velvet border round a silk patchwork, neatly made with tassels at each corner. But for whom? Would the owner be missing it? Of the letters there was no sign. She placed the cushion beside her on the bed as a tap on the door made her start, guiltily. ‘Who is it?’ she said, kicking the portmanteau under her legs.
‘Me, ma’am. Evie.’ The door opened enough to allow Evie to peer round. ‘Sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but m’lady wonders if—?’
‘Come inside and close the door.’ The very person who would know.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Cecily rarely beat about the bush to no purpose. Patting the cushion, she directed Evie’s attention, observing with some satisfaction how the pretty eyes latched onto the contrast of pale blue on the bright pink silk of her bedspread. ‘Where did this come from?’ she said. ‘You appear to recognise it, Evie.’
At Cecily’s beckoning finger, Evie approached and took the cushion for a closer look, turning it over and over as if to make sure. ‘Yes, ma’am. There were two of them on the window-seat.’
‘Where?’
Evie’s eyes opened wide as they met Cecily’s. ‘Er...at the Swan, ma’am. In Lady Golding’s room. Last night. Where we stayed.’
‘Yes? And who else was in the room? With you, I mean.’
‘No...er...no one, er...’ Her gaze dropped back to the cushion as if it might contradict her.
‘Ee...vee?’
The young maid stroked the cushion as a deep pink blush flooded her face, deeper than her pale curls, and the blue eyes filled with tears at being so soon discovered in a lie she could not maintain.
‘For heaven’s sake, don’t weep,’ Cecily said, ‘or your mistress will want to know why. What is it you came for?’
‘A pearl button, ma’am, to replace one that’s missing.’
‘Over there in the drawer. Needle and thread, too. Go and stitch the button, then before you go to your own room, come back here to me. We have to talk. And don’t look like that, lass. I’m not about to have you dismissed.’
‘Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.’ Evie fled.
* * *
Twenty minutes later she was back with the rest of the story. ‘It was Lord Verne’s valet, ma’am. Samson. He came to the room to ask if I needed to go down for some supper. His lordship had told him there were valuables to be watched and he offered to stay with them while I went to get a tray. He’s a very superior kind of young man, ma’am. Quite top-lofty he is.’
‘I’m sure he is, Evie. So you went down and left him in the room.’
Evie nodded, glancing again at the offending cushion. ‘I didn’t think,’ she said.
‘Didn’t think what? That he couldn’t pick the lock of a portmanteau? Most lordship’s valets can pick locks as easy as breathing, girl. And much else besides. They’d not be much use to them if they couldn’t.’
‘Oh dear, ma’am, this is terrible. What’s her ladyship going to say when she discovers her valuables are missing?’
‘Leave that to me. I take it you had supper together, then, you and Mr Samson?’
‘Yes, ma’am, I took supper up for us both. It took ages for me to get it, what with all the stagecoach passengers staying overnight. He took the tray back down when we’d finished. Very polite he was. I’d never have thought he was a thief. Such a correct young man, ma’am.’
‘Very nimble-fingered he was, too, Evie. Listen to me. I don’t suppose for a moment he’ll have told Lord Verne that he took anything from the portmanteau, so you must not say anything either. Lady Golding has left it for me to deal with and I shall. So now you need take no action, except to beware of presentable polite young men who offer to do you a favour. Was it only supper you had together, Evie?’
Evie did not pretend to misunderstand, for by then she was quite capable of believing the worst of Samson, despite their pleasant hour together. ‘It was only supper, ma’am. Nothing else. I know when to draw the line.’
‘Good. Now, this should be taken back to where it belongs, or they’ll be thinking at the Swan that Lady Golding is a real rum touch, nicking their best room cushions.’
Cecily’s slang brought a weak smile to Evie’s face. ‘I’ll take it. Lady Golding would not have noticed it, so I can always slip it back if we call there again. Goodnight, and thank you, ma’am,’ she said, tucking it under her arm. ‘I’m so sorry about this. I shall not be so trusting again.’
‘Goodnight, Evie.’ Cecily’s eyes rolled heavenwards as the door closed. ‘Tch!’ she said. ‘Now what?’ So much for Verne wanting no more to do with Annemarie once he had the letters. He had taken them and then decided to take her as his mistress. The Prince Regent would now be breathing a huge sigh of relief and no wonder Verne had been late for dinner. Mission accomplished.
* * *
Cecily was not the only one to have reservations about Annemarie’s newest plans. Since that morning, when Annemarie had first suggested it, there had been time enough, as the countryside passed her by, for her to ponder on the wisdom of becoming the mistress of a man she scarcely knew. Such a position was fraught with danger even if it had been arrived at after a lengthy consideration, which it had not. But now she felt as if she’d been manoeuvred into it without being able to blame anyone but herself. Mistresses were not in the least uncommon, nor were they particularly ostracised except by the envious, but it had never been an ambition of hers to live the life of a demi-rep rather than a wife. What would be her chances of marriage when this affaire came to an end? Was she effectively devaluing herself by this? Would it be worth the effort? Or the risk?
Later, after returning to Park Lane, she saw the chances of a change of mind becoming even more remote after her father’s approval, which she suspected would not have been so forthcoming if he’d not already seen Lord Verne as a fellow antiquarian and collector. He had not even suggested she should give it more thought. Were fathers not supposed to be a little more protective? Resistant? Suggesting alternatives? Nor had Verne’s lengthy goodnight been calculated to give her time to think again. For the second time, and without the excuse of fatigue, she had put up no resistance to his kisses. Worse, she had been thinking about the earlier ones all through dinner. No wonder he was suspicious of her swift change of heart when she herself was unsure how much was pretence and how much was genuine. Was it all moving too fast for comfort?
The problem of how to rid herself of the letters, however, was virtually solved, the only consequence now being to keep Verne from knowing whether she had them and what she had done with them. Obviously, his attempts to stay close to her in order to find out would be his main concern, and so when he arrived after breakfast to escort the two sisters on their shopping expedition, with a smart two-horse barouche waiting outside, that was seen as a game to be played out by them both.
* * *
They were back on Park Lane in time for a late luncheon after several productive hours of shopping, finishing off at Gunter’s in Berkeley Square for refreshing ices. ‘Oh, Cecily, you never saw such fabrics. And the lace. And furs. The glacé silks and grenadines. I purchased striped barège enough for a skirt, with a violet silk to make a matching jacket,’ said Annemarie, searching through the parcels, ‘a shilling and threepence a yard, and satins at four shillings. But I need something for this afternoon. Perhaps I could borrow your maid to go with Evie to Montague Street to bring a few of my other clothes back here. It’ll be a few days before my new things are ready.’
‘Of course. You cannot continue to borrow Marguerite’s evening dresses as you did last night.’
‘I bought her a pair of satin shoes, to say thank you. And this, dear Cecily, is for you.’ The hatbox was deep with layers of tissue to protect a white-lace and silk-flower creation for Cecily’s fair curls, exclusive, expensive, and utterly extravagant. ‘For you to wear at the theatre with your Chantilly lace shawl,’ said Annemarie.
‘Oh, my dear child, there’s really no need to thank me. You know you’re always welcome here, love.’
‘Not just that,’ said Annemarie. ‘This morning, too. Did you see her?’
In view of the shopping spree, Cecily thought she had forgotten about Lady Hamilton. ‘Yes, I saw her,’ she said, trying on the lace cap before the mirror.
‘And? Was she pleased?’
Cecily came to sit beside her. ‘Tie it for me. Should the bow be to this side? Yes, she was surprised and pleased. She wants you to know how immensely grateful she is for your thoughtfulness. In fact, she sent you a note. Here you are. She apologises for its hastiness, but I got the impression she was preparing to move again. Rather quickly.’
‘They’re letting her out, then?’
‘That’s how it looks. She didn’t say, and I didn’t like to ask, but she nearly wept when I gave her the money. She could hardly believe it.’
‘Poor lady. Well then, that’s all out of the way, isn’t it?’
‘Indeed it is. Now you can forget about it at last.’
The note was brief and made no mention of the letters, but that, Annemarie thought, was probably not surprising if she was in a hurry to leave. For another thing, it was safest to leave such matters unspoken. Her relief to have the letters returned would surely be as great as Annemarie’s.
For a few moments, the thought kept her still and pensive. She had so much enjoyed her morning’s shopping with Oriel and Lord Verne, who seemed to know what she would like without being told. She had felt completely at ease each time his friends had waved and saluted him, or her acquaintances had nodded and smiled to see her in town again, and it had taken some effort to remind herself that she needed no man in her life when his company had made such a vast difference to her enjoyment.
So now, just as she was about to agree with Cecily that she could forget about the controversial matter at last, the darker side of her memory prompted her to recall her wounds, to keep them open and not to allow a morning’s pleasure to soothe them.
Cecily was quick to notice the hesitation before the reply. ‘You are going to forget about it, love, aren’t you?’ she said, rising to take another look in the mirror. ‘You’re not going to pursue this revenge thing, are you? Verne’s interest is quite unfeigned, you know. Can you not tell?’
‘Cecily, pursuing the revenge thing, as you call it, is what it’s all about. That’s why I’ve agreed to become his mistress, isn’t it? The deeper he commits himself, the better. And the longer his Royal Highness is made to squirm, the more I shall think it all worthwhile.’
‘That’s not like you, Annemarie. Not like you at all,’ Cecily said. ‘I’ve put the empty portmanteau in your room. You’ll need it again before long.’
‘I shall, my dear. Verne is taking me to see a house this very afternoon.’
‘So soon? Where? Did he say?’
‘He wouldn’t tell me, but I hope it’s not too far away from you.’
Layers of tissue and ribbon spilled from bed to floor, soft fabrics, printed and plain, silky and sheer, their colours mingling like pools of paint on an artist’s palette. And there was another treat, she thought. She would ride with him in the park. The days ahead seemed all at once filled with new possibilities, with colour, and promise, and purpose.
Mrs Cecily Cardew, however, did not share Annemarie’s optimism, seeing this vengeful side of her intended specifically to hurt the man who least deserved it. Convinced that Annemarie would not have agreed to become Verne’s mistress unless she felt something for him, how could she now intend to use him so badly, a man she herself could have fallen for thirty years ago? Ought she to warn him? Or would he already have suspected some ulterior motive? Of course he would. The man was no fool to be taken for a ride by a bruised-hearted beauty like Annemarie Golding.
* * *
The house on Curzon Street could easily have been reached on foot had it not been more fun to arrive in the handsome curricle Lord Verne had brought from Bedford Square. At the Park Lane end of the street that ran almost parallel to Piccadilly, the white-fronted house was elegant and discreet, rising in four storeys behind black-and-gold cast-iron railings, white stone steps and polished wall-lamps. Nothing, Annemarie thought, could be more fitting than this for a house of one’s own, not even the house he’d mentioned on the very superior Upper Brook Street.
She was even more convinced of its rightness when they entered the hallway; the graceful classic lines were in the latest style, spacious and beautifully decorated in pale apricot and white with a winding staircase as delicate as a spider’s web. The narrow frontage was misleading, for the rooms leading off the hall were large, high-ceilinged and airy, the salon at one side having tall windows at both ends, one of which overlooked a private garden filled with the afternoon sun.
‘Stables beyond,’ said Verne, watching her face for signs of pleasure. ‘Large enough for three horses and a phaeton. The house has only just become available, recently redecorated.’
‘I can smell the paint,’ she whispered. ‘I like the flock wallpaper. And the oak floor, too. It would be a pity to cover it. Perhaps a small Turkish carpet in the centre.’
‘Want to see the other rooms? Through here. Dining room and breakfast parlour. A small study where you can do your accounts and letters. Kitchens are below.’
Their feet echoed in the unfurnished rooms, yet in Annemarie’s vivid imagination each one took on the aspect of the private and personal London space that had so far only existed in her dreams, near enough to Cecily and within easy distance of her father, where she could either be alone or with those old friends she had avoided for so long. Here she could be mistress of her own home, as she was at Brighton, but with all the other amenities she had done without for a year and with the freedom from marble intruders in the form of dust-collecting clutter. Being the mistress of this man at the same time would be a small price to pay for such benefits. She might have to compromise. She might have to make it last longer than planned.
Upstairs, the wide landing led to several bedrooms and dressing rooms equipped with the latest facilities, marble-topped, gold-plated and mirrored. ‘It’s a little palace,’ she said, smiling at one of their many reflections.
‘Like it? Will it do? Would you like to see the other place I found?’
‘No. I mean...yes, I do like it. I don’t need to see anywhere else. This has all I need. Thank you. Is it expensive?’ She knew it must be.
‘I’ve told you,’ he said. ‘I choose only the best.’
She did not expect him to tell her. The question was indelicate.
Two pigeons alighted on the windowsill outside, the female looking distinctly unimpressed by the male’s strutting and bobbing. ‘Silly things,’ she whispered.
‘He’s trying to make himself agreeable,’ Verne said.
‘Beware of men who try to make themselves too agreeable.’
Verne took hold of her shoulders as the female flew off, his hands sliding down to her elbows, along her forearms to take the gloved hands that rested beneath her high bodice. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘You’ve enjoyed our sparring as much as I have, my beauty. I expect there’ll be more. But just remember that I hold the reins.’
‘No white mules, then.’
‘No white mules. I shall not be made a laughing-stock.’
‘I was not serious, my lord.’
‘I am,’ he said, turning her round, deftly.
She knew then by the glint of steel in his eyes that he had begun to understand some of her motives. Her question about the cost of the house had been a mistake, revealing what was on her mind. Except that it had now begun to matter rather less than it had at the beginning. His unsmiling mouth was close to hers. ‘Perhaps we should take a look at the other house,’ she said. ‘Perhaps this is a little too large. Really...I wouldn’t mind.’
He kissed her before answering, to reassure her. It was softly comforting, meant to ease her awakening conscience. The variety of his kisses astonished her. One for every mood and occasion. ‘Too late,’ he said, touching the tip of her nose with his lips. ‘You and your sisters have been uncomfortable for far too long. I can offer one of them some space. Leave it at that.’ He kissed her again, hungrily, as if kissing was easier than explanations. ‘Now, at risk of being thought too agreeable, how about that drive in Hyde Park? It’s about time for the Prince’s Military Review.’
She took his arm. ‘It’s been a long time,’ she said, studying the tassel on her reticule. ‘A whole year.’
‘And society has a remarkably short memory,’ he said. ‘There are no questions to be answered. Just smile, that’s all you need to do. Everyone will be watching the soldiers and the Prince’s guests.’
‘Yes, of course.’ She heard the sound of her own too-easy acceptance and knew she ought to have been making things more difficult for him, to test his resolve as she’d planned from the start. Once she was installed here, he would believe his access to the letters would be relatively simple, and she would have to keep him thinking so until she could choose a moment to tell him that, this time, he really was wasting his time, money and effort. For some reason, the thought did not give her the same pleasure it had only days ago.
I shall not be made a laughing-stock, he’d said, words that challenged all Annemarie’s notions of revenge and sent a cold shiver along her arms. By now, he would have understood more of the scandal involving Lord Benistone’s beautiful wife and, by implication, their daughter and he would be thinking, as such men often did, that he would be the one to come to the rescue. He would think, no doubt, that with a little persuasion she would gratefully open up her heart and let him in, that all would be well, wounds healed, pride mended.
But that was not how it would be as long as Mama was still missing and sorely needed by them all. For Annemarie’s heart to heal, she would have to know that Mama was safe and happy, and the way to find out was to throw herself back into society and search. Papa was too proud to try. It was entirely up to her. A year was too long for both of them and Lord Verne’s intervention had opened up a way to solve several problems all at the same time. She rubbed the hair along her arms back into place, hoping that the price of revenge would not be beyond her means and that Verne’s interest in the precious letters would not wane too soon. Had it already begun to wane? He had asked no questions about her proposed visit to Christie’s with the portmanteau since their arrival. Ought she to stir his memory, just to find out?
* * *
By the time Verne’s curricle arrived at the park through a sea of coaches, carriages and pedestrians, the Military Review was well under way and every open space was occupied by smartly uniformed troops and their mounted leaders, kings, czars and princes, generals and officers of state. To Annemarie, it looked as if the whole of London had turned out to see the colourful occasion in all its splendour, to cheer everyone in uniform except the Prince Regent himself, whose unpopularity must by now have been glaringly obvious to his royal guests. Hissing and booing, cat-calls and insults followed his every move, and although Annemarie understood the reasons for this as well as anyone, it made her sad and uncomfortable to see the poor man publicly reviled on what was intended to be a day of rejoicing. He had been forbidden, both by his father and by Parliament, from taking an active part in the offensive against Napoleon. Now, in his bid to thank the generals who had organised the victorious armies, the only thanks he personally received were grumbles about the too-lavish hospitality and gripes about the general discomforts of being on daily and nightly display in London.
Verne glanced at the gloved hand covering her lips and the frowning eyes above. ‘You are shocked, my lady?’ he said. ‘I thought you’d—’
‘I’d what?’ she replied, glaring at the hands holding the reins. ‘Be happy to see him so insulted, in public, and unable to stop it? Why doesn’t someone take his part? He’s putting on a good show for them. What more could he do?’
In fact, to entertain Londoners, the Prince Regent could have done little more when every park was busy with booths and fanciful structures from bridges to pagodas, temples and towers, mock battles and firework displays. Every blade of grass was worn away, the air reeked of smoke and food, and the noise had sent even the cows running away to greener pastures, depriving ordinary folk of their milk. The loud critics complained that laundry-women were neglecting their duties and that the expense of daily extravagances on this scale were not being met by his Royal Highness any more than his massive banquets were.
‘But you’re one of his sternest critics, surely? Are you not?’ he said.
‘I am, yes. But I cannot agree that humiliating the poor man in front of his guests is the thing to do. Making one’s displeasure known is allowed, but this is altogether different. Let’s go. I’ve seen enough.’
He did not at once turn the horses but, from a distance of several carriages, watched how the Prince, his friend, tried to ignore the hostility of the crowd and to pretend that the cheers were as much for him as for General Blücher, everyone’s favourite. The fixed smile on the Prince’s florid face was pitiful to watch, for Verne knew that he dared not venture anywhere in public on his own for fear of being attacked by mobs. ‘Would you care to meet him again?’ he said.
Her reply came after only a moment’s hesitation. ‘Yes. Yes, I would. This is unbearable. You knew how it would be, didn’t you?’
‘It’s always like this. He knows what to expect.’
‘Yet he’s arranged for weeks of celebrations. He must be hating it.’
‘He does. Every minute of it, but he has courage, I’ll say that for him.’
Annemarie could have countered this with some less praiseworthy attributes, but feelings of sympathy for the Prince and disgust at the rude behaviour of the crowds suspended any words of censure which, until now, had been the only ones to spring to mind.
Before she herself could question this unexpected compassion, the Prince’s eyes, which had been searching the carriages for the sight of a more friendly face, suddenly found Verne’s curricle. She noticed how Verne touched the brim of his grey beaver in salute and saw the Prince take in his partner, herself, reverting to a smile so explicit in its hope of an exchange that she found herself responding, in spite of all her earlier reservations. The merest dip of her bonnet and the smile cost her nothing, but the relief on the Prince’s face made her feel that, to him, it had been beyond price.
The royal cavalcade moved on, prancing and wheeling, and Verne turned the horses’ heads away through the crowds with only inches to spare. ‘That was well done, my lady,’ he murmured. ‘He won’t forget.’
‘From what I’ve heard,’ she replied, returning a wave from a surprised acquaintance, ‘his Highness forgets such things quite easily, but remembers insults for years. I hope you’re prepared to be dropped like a hot brick when your usefulness comes to an end.’
He smiled at her cynicism. ‘I’ll try to remember your caution, my lady. Do you predict my usefulness ending any time soon?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I would not be so foolhardy. I’m sure you’ll know as soon as I do.’
They could have been talking about their own relationship rather than the royal patronage, but now she had already begun to see matters in a different light and did not want his usefulness to end in the foreseeable future, let alone any time soon. She had hidden away for so long that the memory of being driven in flashy curricles by handsome blades had been stifled in favour of her bitterness and it had taken only one morning of shopping, a look at a new house and a drive past nodding and waving acquaintances to lift her spirits well beyond her memories of darker things. Not only that, but she had surprised herself as well as her escort by an unforeseen softening of her attitude towards one who, although still a sad character, was being given no credit whatever for trying to please. No matter how many times Annemarie would like to have given the man a good dressing-down, she still could not find it in her heart to rejoice at the public indignities the prince was suffering. She had not expected to care.
Whatever thoughts Verne harboured about Annemarie’s pity for the beleaguered Prince, which he believed was as unexpected to her as it was to himself, he understood instinctively that it would be best not to press for an explanation. So he manoeuvred the curricle beyond the crowds to where she might take the ribbons more safely and there relinquished the matched pair of bay geldings into her hands with only the slightest of misgivings, taking into account the lapse of a whole year. He need not have been concerned about her proficiency for he could see that, as soon as she arranged the reins between her fingers and flicked the whip, catching its tail-end deftly, that everything she had ever learned about driving came back in one moment. Without feeling the need to offer any advice except, once, the word ‘steady’ on a bend, he sat back with no more to do than admire yet another of this complex woman’s capabilities.
As she had suspected, he had known many women, but loved none of them, having grown quickly tired of their predictability and of the ease of the chase, which to a man like him was more than half the excitement. This lovely creature had allowed herself to be caught, almost, with the intention of wreaking some mischief, and he was under no illusions who it was she intended to hurt most. Not after the betrayal she had suffered. His plan now was to play the same game, but to make her enjoy it too much to end it. The sooner he could show her how much more she had to learn, the better his chances of changing her mind, as she had just demonstrated was by no means impossible. What he must find out without delay was whether she had in fact discovered the theft of the letters, or whether she was pretending not to have done. And for this, he decided that Mrs Cardew would be the one to help.
‘Stop at the end, if you please,’ he said. ‘Did you have your own curricle and pair, my lady? Or did you hire?’
‘I had a phaeton and pair,’ she replied, drawing the horses to a gradual halt. ‘I’ve never driven a curricle before.’
‘Never driven...? Are you serious?’
She had surprised him yet again. Sitting there in her cool grey-and-white riding habit with a white fur pill-box pinned to her glossy black hair and a black feather boa flung over one shoulder, she looked for all the world as if tooling a high sporting curricle round the park called for no great skill, which he knew was not the case at all.
Turning her laughing eyes to his, she caught the blend of admiration and concern before he was able to conceal it. ‘Quite serious,’ she said. ‘Now nothing will do but for me to have a curricle, too. Or a perch-phaeton, perhaps. One can see so much more from this height.’
If she had expected him to demur at the cost, she had certainly not expected that he would jump at the chance of spending hundreds of pounds on a vehicle such as his, at least one-hundred-and-fifty pounds a year on the cost of keeping a horse, not including the groom’s salary and his livery. A horse for her to ride would be an additional expenditure, twice as much as a curricle with extra for fodder, care and tack. The mercenary sound of her casually delivered requirements sat ill on her conscience, so it was all she could do not to contradict herself when he took the reins without betraying the slightest alarm and said, ‘Of course you must. I’ve seen a rather nice pair of dapple-greys that might suit you well. I’ll take you to see them, now I’ve satisfied myself you’ll be able to handle them. As for a sporting phaeton, I think that more suitable for a lady than a curricle. We’ll go and see my coachmaker.’
‘Whatever you wish,’ she said, handing him the whip. ‘But there’s no particular hurry. Perhaps I may be allowed to drive yours until then.’
‘Certainly, as long as I’m with you.’
He was too engrossed in navigating the bouncing vehicle between two groups of pedestrians to notice the slight smile that lit her eyes and twitched at her lips. Only a few days ago, she reflected, his proprietorial reply would have set her back up. Now, she felt that things were going according to plan and that Jacques Verne’s presence beside her was not nearly as disagreeable as it had been at first.
* * *
If tensions appeared to be lessening as a result of their accord over material matters, neither of them had forgotten the underlying motives behind this new understanding. Each of them had something the other wanted: in his case, the letters, in her case, his adoration and all the trappings that went with it. Nevertheless, none of the theatre-goers at Covent Garden that evening would have suspected anything from the handsome couple except the wish to enjoy each other’s company.
Annemarie’s maid, Evie, taken on for her skills in dressmaking, had that afternoon brought an armful of gowns from Montague Street to Park Lane to be restyled using the trimmings bought only that morning. By evening, she had turned a white-silk overgown of satin and sheer stripes into a watery vision of flowing ripples by constructing a new undergown of cerulean silver-threaded blue, layering the lower part with deep ruffles that just skirted the new blue-satin slippers. The neckline echoed the hem with soft ruffles tied on the shoulders with narrow silk roulette-cords, leaving Annemarie’s upper arms exposed. Her long gloves of finest white lace looked as if she’d dipped her arms in foam. The foamy look was one she rather cared for. Her hair was so luxurious as to need no covering except silver ribbons tied à la Grecque, piled high on top of her head from which a profusion of tendrils escaped from the edges. Her only jewellery was a pair of long diamond-and-pearl earrings that accentuated her swan neck. Verne could hardly keep his eyes off her—nor in spite of the other attractions around them, could many of the audience.
Verne had a box in the theatre to which he had invited Mrs Cardew, Oriel and Colonel Harrow. Escaping from the noisy throng downstairs in the saloon where Annemarie had been recognised and welcomed by polite friends as if nothing in particular had happened, the small party arranged themselves without quite appreciating the extent of the interest they were causing to those down below. From their own level, heads craned forwards to look and wave, shouting things that could not be heard over the din and, from below, eye-glasses were raised to inspect every detail of the group with blatant curiosity. Annemarie herself might have wished for less attention, but could hardly complain when to be seen with her new and influential lover, a companion of the Prince Regent, no less, was exactly what this was all about. Back in the beau monde once more, she was parading her recovery as though what had happened a year ago had had no lasting effect. Outwardly. Inwardly, matters were rather different, but who was to know that except, perhaps, dear Cecily?
‘Look over there,’ said Oriel, in her ear. ‘To the left.’ Several boxes further along, young faces peered over the balcony, their pale gowns softened by fluttering fans and the deeper tones of more mature figures and a bevy of young men crowding behind them. The small space seemed to be overflowing. ‘That’s Marguerite, isn’t it? With the Sindleshams?’
‘So it is,’ Annemarie said, catching the shriek of recognition over the din as Marguerite spotted her sisters. Her wave was anything but discreet. ‘She’s coming over.’ An uncomfortable quiver of alarm and annoyance pulsed through the older sisters, though not Cecily, who swayed aside as the sudden onrush of female bodies swept like a tidal wave into the confined space of their box.
The three Sindlesham daughters had been brought, apparently, not so much to see the rare appearance of Lady Golding, but to gaze at close quarters with nothing short of veneration at the undeniably handsome figure of Lord Verne. He towered over them, meeting their awed upturned faces with an avuncular amusement although, at Marguerite’s effusive greeting to her sisters, he quickly realised that this excess of joy was meant to impress him, in a roundabout manner. His heart sank, however, when Marguerite lost not a moment in recalling their last meeting, as if her friends needed reminding.
‘Such a fine dance it was,’ she gushed to Annemarie and Oriel. ‘I swear Lord Verne and I quite outshone every couple on the floor. Just as if we’d danced together for years. Where? Why, at Lady Sindlesham’s ball,’ she went on, unstoppable, bouncing her brown curls. ‘You should have been there, Annemarie. We had no idea you were ready to socialise again after—’
‘Thank you, Marguerite,’ Cecily said, laying a hand on the girl’s arm. ‘But look! The curtains are parting. You should return to your box now. We’ll catch up with you in the interval, shall we?’
‘Oh, yes. I shall be coming home with you afterwards.’
‘Really? Well, thank you for letting me know, dear.’
‘I would have, Cecily, but I haven’t had a moment to think.’
‘Sounds to me,’ said Cecily to the swarm of departing muslins, ‘as if you’ve had plenty of time to think. Little minx.’ Glancing sideways at Annemarie, she saw something of the damage Marguerite’s boast had done, wishing with all her heart that she, Cecily, had found a quiet moment to impart the information before the garrulous mischief-making sister. But it was too late. Annemarie’s expression, usually so unrevealing, sent goose-bumps along Cecily’s arms.
Even Annemarie herself could not have explained exactly how or why the tidings just foisted upon her at the end of a very satisfying day should have affected her so adversely, so severely, so unreasonably. In a random heap, it seemed as if every insecure thought, every white-hot jealousy and all the heartbreaking pain of loss came crashing through a barrier behind which they’d been lurking, waiting for just such a moment to revisit her despite her conviction that, this time, she was in control. In one resounding crash, she saw her plans disintegrate and, much worse, the feelings for Verne that were growing, heedless of her permission, deep in the vulnerable regions of her heart, exposed, torn and tangled.
Yes, it was a monstrous over-reaction, but such was the delicacy of this new situation, well planned and sure to work, that even the slightest impediment was enough to tear the inconsistent and fragile ties that had begun to form, ties that only she would break when the time came. So, he had danced with Marguerite after spending the evening at Montague Place, after kissing her. And Cecily must have known too, for she’d been at the Sindleshams’ ball and had said nothing of it. If that was not a conspiracy, then what was?
Watching the damage sink into Annemarie’s imaginings, Verne cursed himself for not seeing it coming, for not quelling Marguerite’s babble of girlish excitement, not being able to explain that the dance had been no more than a kindness to Mrs Cardew for her assistance. As the play began, still to an ill-mannered chatter from the audience, he took Annemarie’s hand in his, to comfort her. But she withdrew it and, taking his wrist, would have slammed his hand heavily upon his knee had he not resisted in time. He knew then that he would have his work cut out to smooth things over.