By dawn, the Swan at Reigate was already preparing for the day. Annemarie’s room faced east, the rain had stopped and the clouds had scattered to allow a watery sun to brighten by the minute. Creeping back into the warm bed, she watched Evie move quietly round the room while she pondered over the events of last evening, hauling back for examination each word, gesture, look and touch. Clinging desperately to her original plan to get rid of the letters and return to Brighton without any more interference, she refused at first to contemplate an alternative, telling herself that what had happened was no more nor less than a man taking advantage of the situation. What made Lord Verne any different from the rest in that respect?
Perhaps she ought not to have asked herself a question that was so easy to answer. The differences were impossible to ignore and the more she thought about them, the louder the warning voices became. Remember what happened a year ago, they said. Don’t allow it to happen again. Revenge is what you seek, not beguiling words about wanting and pursuing and possession, however sweet the accompanying kisses that melted your knees. Stay in control, the voices told her. If it’s too pleasurable to let go of so soon, why not use it to your own advantage instead of his? Lure him on. Let’s see what he means by his persuasive methods. Suggest some real commitment, something more serious than a flirtation that will tie up his time and his money. Make him work hard to reach his goal. The letters.
The temptation became more and more irresistible, not to shake him off so soon, but to keep him guessing as to whether, or when, where or how she had passed the letters on, to whom, for how much, and for what purpose. He would think, naturally, that her intention would be to discredit the Prince Regent. So let him think so. After all, there was some truth in it. He would have deduced by now that the silly slip about visiting Christie’s was to find out where Lady Hamilton lived so that she could be given the money when the letters were sold. So let him think what he liked. Make him hang on, turn his pretence of desire into reality and then stop all contact. Tell him the letters had gone. Damage his pride, just as hers had been. Make him suffer.
Of course, she assured herself, she was not in the least influenced by that flutter in her throat she’d begun to feel when she thought about him. Not at all. The sweet melting of her body in his arms last night had nothing whatever to do with any longing to repeat the experience, or even to go further, eventually. She could control all that. True, she had not done so far, but she could, once her strategy was in place. After all, if her mama and papa had been lovers, then so could she take a lover, and if she had suggested last night that her parents might not approve of an unorthodox relationship, she was also reasonably certain that her father would not judge her and that Lady Benistone would probably never know. Less certain about the reaction of the others—Cecily, Oriel and her fiancé, and Marguerite, too—she decided she could not be expected to mould her life around their concerns when she was being offered a chance like this. She would take it. She’d be a fool not to.
Smiling, she rolled out of bed and sent Evie for some hot water. When she was gone, Annemarie pulled out the portmanteau from under the washstand, took a quick peep at the lock, then toed it back again. Today she would be taking his Highness’s letters to London in one of his own most comfortable carriages. And now, with good reason, she was about to suggest a liaison with a man who, only yesterday, she had asked to leave her alone. The contradiction of messages gave her butterflies.
* * *
The butterflies were still performing their dance when Annemarie entered the breakfast parlour an hour later to find Lord Verne already taking a cup of coffee before the food arrived. He was dressed immaculately in a snuff-brown cutaway coat, pale doeskin riding breeches and a crisp white shirt under a creamy-striped waistcoat with a gold seal and fob-watch hanging below. She thought she had rarely seen any man so well set-up at this early hour when most men of his sort would have been abed. Her father would have been up hours ago, but he was in every sense an exception.
She took the hand extended to her, accepting the touch of his lips upon her knuckles that afforded her a closer look at the thick brushed-back waves of dark hair and the tan on his lean cheeks that had not yet worn off. As he stood erect, she could not help wondering how much she would enjoy deceiving a man like him while preventing him from doing what he’d been sent to do. Would he accept her sudden change of attitude without question? Would he believe that his lovemaking had made her biddable and pliant? She would have to tread carefully to convince him that she was sincere.
‘Good morning, my lord. You were right. I did sleep.’ This was going to be the most bizarre conversation of her life, she thought. ‘I think I was halfway there before...er, before...’
‘Before you closed your eyes. Yes, at least halfway,’ he said, laughing. ‘I hope your memory is unimpaired, however. It would be a great pity if our conversation was all for nothing. Will you take coffee?’
‘Thank you. Is breakfast ordered?’
‘Yes, it’s best to get one’s order in early. Those stagecoach passengers had to stay overnight, you know. Heaven only knows where they all slept.’ He pulled out a chair for her, then poured the coffee into her cup and, as she watched his strong hands on the handle and lid, she recalled their shocking explorations last evening and the way she had not stopped them.
Outside the window, rooftops shone with sunlight and rain. ‘We’ll be there in no time,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘They may have cleared a track through the landslide by now, but we’ll go round to the west. Are you sure you want to go to Park Lane, not to Montague Street?’
A line of starlings strutted along the roof-ridge, jostling for position. ‘Yes, but I’ve been thinking,’ she said.
‘About our conversation?’
Before she could continue, the breakfast was brought in and laid upon the white tablecloth, dish after dish. Yet as Lord Verne helped himself to the eggs, bacon and hunks of warm bread, she knew that as soon as there was a lull in proceedings, he would expect an answer and now there was no time to backtrack. ‘About something you said.’
He waited, knife and fork poised. She was not finding this easy. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘So you did remember.’
‘About...oh, dear...this is so indelicate...about wanting me.’
‘Ah.’
‘Could you...perhaps...elaborate? Did you have something particular in mind? Or was it simply how you felt at that moment? You will not shock me, my lord, by explaining. I am not an innocent girl.’
The knife and fork were laid down as Verne gave her his full attention. ‘Believe me,’ he said, softly, ‘it was not said lightly, on the spur of the moment. I did not expand on the notion because I didn’t want to alarm you. Did you think I might have been insincere?’
‘It had occurred to me,’ she said, lifting the cover off a jam pot to look inside. ‘It’s difficult to know, isn’t it?’
‘I can see why you would think so. Did you have something specific in mind?’
Yes, I have it in mind to be your mistress, my lord. No, she couldn’t say that. He would immediately suspect something. Hostility one day, a close relationship the next. No, it was inconceivable.
‘You expressed a desire to help me back into society, my lord,’ she said, speaking to her plate. ‘And I suppose...well, I’ve been thinking it may not be such a bad thing to have someone like you to...be...er, to be seen with. Which, of course, would set tongues wagging. So...well...then I thought that, if I were to go one step further, I might suggest becoming...er...something closer?’
‘Closer than a friend, you mean? More like a mistress?’
There, the word was out in the open, like a weight falling from her shoulders. Piling a spoonful of golden honey on to her plate, she scooped it on to the corner of her toast and took a bite, nodding in agreement. ‘Mmm,’ she said.
The bacon and eggs remained untouched as he supported his lower lip with his knuckle, weighing up what it had cost her to make the suggestion after such recent antagonism. Whatever deep game she was playing, it had little to do with a desire to take her place in society once more, of that he was certain. It had even less to do with a sudden reversal of her feelings towards him, despite her participation in their lovemaking, for Lady Golding’s antipathy towards men would not be dispelled by a few hours of overnight reasoning. There had to be more to it than that, something that concerned him personally. Or the Prince Regent personally. Or those damned letters. Or all three.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘Say no more about it. I thought you would—’
His hand reached out across the table to stop the retraction. ‘No, please! I was a little...well...surprised, that’s all, and delighted, of course. I have no problems whatever with that. None at all. I can see many advantages, one of which would mean that you would be free of duties at Montague Street and this would give you the chance to do the things you used to do. In my company. Protected. I’ve never been one to think that a man’s mistress should be kept hidden away and ignored in public as if there was some shame in the connection. I have my own good reasons for wanting an alliance of the kind you suggest, too, you see.’
‘Other than the usual one, you mean?’
He smiled at that, sure that they were thinking along the same lines. ‘Yes, other than that, although I won’t deny the pleasure we’d both find there. It’s all these social functions I’m duty-bound to attend. Like you, I want a regular partner of whom I can feel proud, a woman I can admire for more than one reason and who has a certain position in society already. A beautiful intelligent mistress would be ideal, even if our agreement lasts no longer than this Season.’
‘Well, thank you for admiring me for more than one reason. That’s very gratifying, my lord. And for making it sound as if such an arrangement might benefit yourself as much as me. I would have thought you could have your choice of any single woman in the country, especially as an escort in such close contact with the Prince Regent, able to guarantee a place at all the best functions. But I have little experience at this kind of thing. Being a mistress, I mean. I imagine one is expected to set out certain...er...requirements? To avoid misunderstandings? Is that what one does?’
By the sound of things, he thought, she had already given the idea some detailed consideration, for she was coldly matter of fact about it, meant to convince him that he’d had no effect on her feelings and that it was a business arrangement devised to serve her some particular purpose, not necessarily one of those she had mentioned earlier. He was therefore prepared for a very precise list of benefits meant to test both his dedication and his pocket. She was a wealthy woman: she would expect him to match her standard of living, or to exceed it.
‘My lady, I do not expect there to be anything you could ask of me that I would balk at, unless of course you wished to use a team of white mules to draw your carriage, or bathe in asses’ milk twice daily. With all these foreigners in town, that could be a bit difficult to acquire. You will need a house in London, naturally. That goes without saying. With stabling for your horses. A place in Mayfair, perhaps?’
‘Mayfair...yes...would be perfect. Near enough to Father and my sisters, and to Mrs Cardew.’
‘And to me.’
‘Yes, to you, too. I would wish to live there permanently, you see, not to use the address only for...for assignations. That would not serve my purpose at all.’
And what exactly is your purpose? he wanted to say. But she had outlined a perfectly acceptable reason that would have to suffice until he could discover more, and he was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth when she had offered him more than he could ever have expected so soon. If there was an ulterior motive, he would have to wait for it to be revealed. ‘I can understand that,’ he said. ‘A London home of your own would be much more convenient for you, wouldn’t it? I would not like to deprive your father of you altogether, but you would be glad to have more space, I’m sure.’
‘Nevertheless, I feel a little selfish leaving my sisters to manage without my help. You have not met my older sister, have you? She’s engaged to be married to Colonel Harrow. Your breakfast is getting cold.’
‘Harrow? Fourteenth Light Dragoons? Is she indeed? Well then,’ he said, picking up his knife and fork, ‘perhaps we’re both urgently in need of some socialising. I’m sadly out of date, it seems. We shall do well together, my lady.’
Annemarie could feel nothing but relief, now that her proposition was understood without the dreaded need to explain herself. For one thing, she could not have explained herself any better without revealing something of the artifice, the year-old pain, the lacerated pride and the loss, especially of her beloved and treacherous mother, about whom he need be told no more than he already knew. And now, for the first time, it began to occur to her that, once more in contact with the beau monde, she might hear something of Lady Benistone’s whereabouts, some clue that her sisters hadn’t been able to discover. If Oriel and Marguerite required a convincing explanation of her uncharacteristic behaviour, that would be as good as any. It would not be far from the truth, either, for if Papa would not bestir himself to search for her, then she would. Whether Lady Benistone had resorted to her former way of life, had fallen on hard times, or was happily settled with her lover Annemarie had no way of knowing until she could make enquiries.
Memories of her mama’s beautiful face formed into the folds of the white napkin on her lap, sad violet eyes filled with regret, the lovely mouth trembling with wretchedness, the soft bloom of her cheeks streaked with tears. Like a sudden premonition, and without warning, Annemarie’s breath was drawn up into a sob too noisy to prevent it being heard. Raggedly, it fell out again as her hand flew to hold her forehead, but by that time Verne was beside her, lifting her bodily out of her chair to hold her against him as if he knew what the matter was without being told.
‘I know,’ he whispered into her hair. ‘I know. It’s all right. It goes against the grain to put yourself in my hands, doesn’t it? Hush, don’t try to deny it, my beauty. I know how it is with you, but whatever your reasons, I shall keep my side of the bargain. I shall not be unreasonable, or unfaithful, or anything less than careful. And I shall dress for dinner every evening.’
She inhaled the fresh scent of his skin. ‘I told you my reasons,’ she said.
‘Some of them, yes. But when a woman like you offers herself to a man she’s been trying to get rid of since they first met, he would have to be a serious ninnyhammer not to suspect some ulterior motive, wouldn’t he? And my reputation is not for being queer in my attic.’
‘No, I know that. I’m sorry. It’s too complicated. Too many issues.’
‘Hardly surprising. A lot has happened to you, so I believe. Well, we may not see eye to eye on everything, but however much you disapprove of me, there is at least one area where our tastes combine. Which you have obviously appreciated, or you’d not have suggested a liaison with me. Not in a million years. Would you, my beauty?’
‘No, I suppose not,’ she whispered.
His kiss was soft and undemanding, more like a reward for everything she had offered him and for what he’d won from her. Neither of them could have failed to see the direction of their shared interest, nor did they see any reason to pretend otherwise when there were so many attendant advantages. But Annemarie had already begun to notice that the revenge at the backbone of her scheme tended to weaken at times of physical contact with this amazing man. That problem would have to be addressed, or disaster would strike again, for he had implied a certain impermanence when he’d said ‘...even if our agreement lasts no longer than this Season’. He could not have made it plainer if he’d said ‘even if it lasts no longer than it takes to get hold of those letters’. Withdrawing herself from his arms, she wondered which of them was the deceiver and which the deceived.
‘Your breakfast will be quite cold, my lord.’
‘Nothing to worry about,’ he said, helping her back into her chair. ‘Only a few months ago I was glad to get any breakfast at all. You should eat a little more than a slice of toast, too, although we can stop for a bite along the way. Are you in a hurry to get back?’
‘Not any more. In such a comfortable carriage, I shall enjoy the rest of the journey.’
‘Glad to hear it. But we have a lot to discuss, and I don’t want to give you time to change your mind.’
‘I shall not change my mind, except about telling Father I’m in town. He’ll have to be told now, won’t he?’
* * *
By the time she returned to her room after breakfast, Annemarie’s butterflies were doing a different kind of dance that reached her legs and made her sit rather suddenly on the bed to think it through. Rarely had she made such an impulsive decision of that magnitude, the enormity of which astounded even her. Did she share this trait with her mama? Had impulsiveness led Lady Benistone into a situation from which she could not extricate herself? Would it do the same to her? Would she regret this to the end of her days? Was her bitterness still such a potent force that she would enjoy the eventual humiliation of a man who was doing no more than his royal employer’s bidding? Was that really what it was all about, or was she being influenced by other factors, too? The idea of living in her own London house and being seen on the arm of this particular nobleman would signal that the earlier scandal attached to Sir Richard Golding’s widow was hardly worth a mention and that the next tasty bit of gossip would cause envy rather than pity. She could expect some resistance from her loved ones, but that would have to be overcome. Had they not tried to persuade her for months to restart her life?
* * *
‘Yes, but not this way, surely?’ said Cecily later that same day.
‘His mistress?’ said Oriel, trying to keep the horror of it from showing. ‘Did you have to go that far? Couldn’t you just...well...be friends?’
Dear Oriel. So conventional. Foes would have been a more appropriate word. ‘No, love,’ Annemarie said, preparing for a sustained argument. ‘Why do you think I preferred to stay here in Park Lane rather than home? I couldn’t possibly have invited Lord Verne there as a friend of mine, knowing that Father would catch him by the lapels and drag him off to see his latest things. I wouldn’t get a look in, would I? A place of my own is what I need. Lord Verne understands that.’
He was, she had discovered, a very understanding kind of man. She had hardly needed to explain how desperate was her desire to separate herself from the set-up at Montague Street that had such bad memories for her. Thinking back on their conversation over lunch while the horses were being rested, he himself had been the one to enumerate what she would require by the way of servants: a cook, a butler and a housekeeper as well as the usual underlings. It would need rooms large enough for her to entertain, he said, to have friends to stay, and empty enough at the start for her to make choices about furnishings which they would have the pleasure of finding together. She would be able to polish her driving skills in town and the nearby Hyde Park, and she would be his companion at functions he was expected to attend. That, it seemed, was to be a part of the deal and Annemarie saw no reason to object since it would serve her purpose too. Quite willingly, she also agreed to accompany him on his art-collecting trips and to Brighton, too, and to entertain those collectors from whom he wished to purchase. As the daughter of Lord Benistone, one of the British Museum’s greatest benefactors, she would be an asset, he told her.
The discussion of allowances for housekeeping and personal expenditure had been postponed, but since the financial aspect of the arrangement was not of prime importance to her, she was content not to press for details. There was, after all, a limit to her new-found ill intentions that she preferred not to explore until later.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Cecily said. ‘It was just as well he came to visit, isn’t it?’
Annemarie was relieved to think that Cecily was more perplexed than scandalised, though in fact Cecily was taken aback more by the phenomenal speed than by the contract itself. Had Annemarie considered how this would affect Oriel’s situation? she wanted to know.
Before Annemarie could answer, Oriel spoke up in her sister’s defence. ‘Oh, no, Cecily. That’s unfair. Of course she’s thought about it, but one cannot always be using excuses of that kind to remain stuck for ever in a situation. I’m glad Annemarie has accepted Lord Verne’s offer. It may be rather sudden, but it couldn’t have come at a better time, and it won’t affect William and me in the slightest, not until he leaves the army, and he says that might not be for another year. I cannot wait to meet the brave man who’s managed to prise Annemarie out of her shell. I’m sure I shall like him, if she likes him well enough to agree to be his mistress.’
‘Thank you, dearest,’ said Annemarie, noting the mistaken change of roles. ‘I hoped you’d understand.’ She did not dare correct Oriel’s assumption that it was Verne himself who had suggested it.
‘I understand, too,’ said Cecily. ‘Of course I do. Wouldn’t anyone prefer to live in their own place with a lover, rather than...tch! Oh dear! How clumsy of me.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Annemarie, taking Cecily in her arms and soothing the faux pas with a stroking hand over the gaily striped satin shoulder. ‘Say no more. This sounds a bit like history repeating itself, doesn’t it? But it’s not. There’s more to it than meets the eye.’
‘Oh?’ they said, in unison. ‘More to it? Tell.’
What a fool to let secrets slip. That’s what sympathy does.
As upright as penguins, they sat down again on the pale-grey brocade sofa, smoothing their knees in anticipation of whatever it was they ought to be knowing.
What did it matter? They won’t approve, but I cannot keep this to myself for ever. ‘I don’t want Marguerite to know,’ she said. ‘Or Father.’
‘About you being Lord Verne’s mistress? How...?’
‘I don’t mean that. They’ll have to know about that. I mean...this.’ She pushed forwards the battered portmanteau that had stood beside her chair, half-hidden under the padded arm and the claw foot as if it had no business to be in such a tastefully furnished room.
‘I wondered why you insisted on bringing that in here,’ said Cecily. ‘What does it have to do with...the other thing?’ She glanced at it, accusingly.
So, starting with the purchase of the bureau, the alarming visit of Lord Verne and his intentions, and then the discovery of the letters in Brighton, Annemarie told them as much as she thought they needed to know because by that time it had become clear that, without the assistance of someone trustworthy, getting rid of them was going to be fraught with too many complications. Lord Verne had made it clear, in the nicest possible way, that he meant to spend quite a lot of his time in her company. Her margin of opportunity was already shrinking.
The portmanteau quickly became an object of fascination. ‘In there?’ said Cecily. ‘So that’s why you can’t let go of it. Good gracious, Annemarie, that’s dynamite. What are you going to do with them? Give them back? Is that why you’ve rushed back to London?’
Courteously, they listened to her options that stopped well short of the less-than-creditable scheme that would end it all, which she knew would find no favour in their eyes and might indeed antagonise them enough to refuse their help. With only a few unrealistic alternatives to offer, both Cecily and Oriel agreed that the letters should be returned, as quickly and as secretly as possible, to Lady Hamilton to whom they rightly belonged, fully understanding that to keep Lord Verne guessing would add to the fun, until she felt like telling him. Besides, they said, it would do no harm at all to frighten his Royal Highness to death—no, not literally—over something as potentially calamitous as a batch of intimate letters to a forlorn woman on whose friendship he had preyed. Could they read one? Just one?
Annemarie frowned at this. ‘No, dear,’ she said. ‘They’re private and very personal. We must not pry.’
‘Didn’t you?’ Cecily wheedled.
‘Only a few, just to see if they were all the same. They’re utterly ridiculous, from a man of his supposed intelligence.’
‘I’ll take them to her for you,’ Cecily said. ‘I know where she is.’
‘You do? I intended to ask Mr Parke at Christie’s, where I bought the bureau.’
‘No need. She’s been living under the Rule of the King’s Bench, on and off, for over a year now.’
‘Debtors’ prison?’ said Oriel. ‘Oh, the poor woman.’
‘With her daughter Horatia. I doubt she’ll ever be freed.’ Cecily’s matter-of-fact tone grated harshly on Annemarie’s tender heart. A forsaken woman and her twelve-year-old child confined to a debtors’ prison, losing not only her lover and her friends, but all hope, too, while she herself was debating the neatest way to feather her own comfortable nest, to nurse her temporary hurts, to settle old scores upon a man who was not even remotely involved except that she distrusted his motives, as she would have distrusted any man’s.
‘Would you?’ said Annemarie. ‘Would you really go to a place like that?’
‘Number Twelve Temple Place. I can get in there. Others do. Of course I’ll go.’
‘Thank you, Cecily. Remind me to give you the key before you go.’
‘Give it to me now, dear, then you can go up and change. You must be tired. I’m so glad you came here. When does your house-hunting begin?’
Delving into the depths of her velvet reticule, Annemarie found the tiny key and handed it to Cecily. ‘Tomorrow. It was kind of you, dear one, to let me stay. I shall now have time to go shopping for clothes. I left most of my things behind in Brighton.’
‘I’ll go with you,’ said Oriel, heading for the door. ‘You know there’s nothing I like more than that. After breakfast?’
‘Yes. But what about Marguerite? Is she at home?’
‘Staying at the Sindleshams. They’re taking her to see the firework display in the Park. Come and have dinner with Father and William and me. It’ll be a good opportunity to tell him what’s happening without little sister to stir things up. We’ll expect you both for seven, shall we?’
‘We’ll come,’ said Annemarie, embracing her.
But when Oriel had taken her leave, the perceptive Cecily appeared to need clarification on a few more points. With a hand on her waist, she propelled Annemarie towards the abandoned portmanteau, poking at it with the point of her toe. ‘So Lord Verne thinks these are still in your bureau, does he?’ she said.
‘I.... Why do you ask?’
‘Because, you little goose, any woman who insists on carrying her own luggage, as you did, from a carriage like that one is telling the world that no one else can be trusted with it. If he’s not worked it out for himself, he’s not the man I took him for.’
‘I told him I had valuables to take to Christie’s.’
‘Yes, dear. He deals with valuables most days of the week, I expect. Did you know he’s Simonstoke’s eldest son? There’s more wealth in that family than in the Prince Regent’s. Property scattered everywhere.’
‘Cecily, you may be right about him thinking I must have discovered them. That’s why I want them off my hands as soon as possible and I want you to take her some money, too. I cannot bear to think of her being penniless in a place like that. She deserves better. Although, of course, she took another woman’s husband, didn’t she?’
With a flicker of her eyebrows, Cecily agreed. ‘And you still intend, do you, even after they’re back where they belong, to let Verne believe you have them? Is that really just to keep his Royal Highness from sleeping at night, or is there more to that, too, than meets the eye?’
‘Oh dear. Have I not managed to convince you, Cecily?’
‘You have not quite managed, my love, to pull the wool down far enough over my eyes. And somehow I doubt that Verne will be as gullible either.’
‘The shoe is on the other foot. His interest in me goes only as far as those letters. After that, I shall cease to be of the slightest concern to him and I’m not in the least flattered that he thinks I don’t know it.’
‘So you intend to take him for a ride. Is that it?’
‘Yes, if you must know, it is.’
The uncompromising words cut no ice with Cecily, being no stranger to the confused emotions of young women, or to the conflicts that tear apart otherwise loving families. ‘Mmm,’ she said. ‘You wouldn’t want any advice from me, then, concerning the dangers.’
‘I’ve thought of the dangers, love. I know what I’m doing. How soon can you visit Lady Hamilton?’
‘I’ll go tomorrow while you’re out with Oriel. Will that do?’
Annemarie pulled out a handful of banknotes from her reticule. ‘This is what I was going to use for the journey,’ she said, handing it to Cecily. ‘Will you give it to her with my regards?’
‘That’s a lot,’ Cecily said, taking it with obvious reluctance.
‘It won’t be a lot to her. Now, shall I go up? Keep a close eye on the bag, won’t you? Put it somewhere very safe while we’re out this evening.’
‘You can be sure I will, m’dear. You’ll find everything you need in the Chinese Room. I’ll order the carriage for just before seven, shall I?’
Well done, my lord, she said to herself as Annemarie disappeared upstairs. You certainly don’t let the grass grow under your feet, do you? Opening her hand, she smiled at the key upon her palm before closing her fingers gently round it.
* * *
Upon her return to Montague Street, Oriel discovered that her fiancé was with her father, deep into a discussion about a collection of antiquities that the British Museum had bought in 1805, which was now thought to be less valuable than the £20,000 they had paid for it. ‘Mine is far superior, in fact,’ Lord Benistone was saying in a voice that bounced off the statue-lined corridor. ‘Ah...Oriel, m’dear,’ he said, catching sight of his eldest daughter, ‘we should ask Colonel Harrow to have dinner with us.’
‘We already have done, Father,’ she said, smiling sideways at her handsome William. ‘And I have a surprise for you. Annemarie and Cecily will be dining with us, too.’
Lord Benistone’s pale eyes wrinkled tightly round the edges like an old envelope, fixing his eldest daughter with a look of deep suspicion that she found more amusing than alarming. ‘Why isn’t she at Brighton? What’s going on?’
‘Lord Verne brought her back. There’s been a...a development.’ Oriel drew off her gloves and pulled at the ribbons of her poke bonnet, still smiling.
‘Oh! Has there indeed? Well, come along, miss. Are you going to tell me what this is all about?’
‘No, Father. We should allow Annemarie to do that herself, I think.’
‘In which case, Verne ought to be here when she does it, since I expect it concerns him, too. Invite him to dine, then we’ll get the story from both sides.’
The smile wavered, finding no support in William’s mischievous silence. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if she could tell you without—?’
‘No. If this is another of Annemarie’s impulsive decisions, I’d better be knowing about it before it’s too late.’
‘Too late to what, Father?’
‘To stop it. Where is she?’
‘Staying with Cecily. She thought—’
‘Hah! She thought I’d ask too many questions. She’s right. I shall.’
‘Father, Annemarie is a widow, you know.’
‘Exactly! Ought to know better.’ Crooking a finger at the footman who stood discreetly at one end of the hall, he scribbled a hasty message on one of the cards from the table and placed it in the man’s white-gloved hand. ‘Lord Verne. Bedford Square,’ he said.
‘Do you think you might find time to dress, Father, since we shall be having guests?’ Oriel enquired, with little hope of agreement.
Lord Benistone peered over the top of his spectacles with a frown. Catching the merest hint of a nod from his future son-in-law, he gave a non-commital grunt. ‘If there’s time,’ he said.
‘I’m glad Verne’s coming to dine,’ said Colonel Harrow. ‘I met him a few times. Quite a reputation he had in Spain. Remarkable chap, you know. It’ll be good to see him again.’
‘If he’s managed to interest Annemarie, he certainly is,’ she said. ‘I’d better go and talk to cook, dearest. I’ll join you in the conservatory.’
* * *
Knowing Lord Benistone as well as they did, Annemarie, Oriel and Cecily were not entirely taken in by his assumed concern about the new arrangement which, although it must have come as a surprise to him, he appeared to accept after some close questioning to which he must already have known the answers. Or most of them, anyway. There was no one else, he admitted rather grudgingly, he would have considered for the role as Annemarie’s escort, although he did not explain how he might have prevented it when her last one had been such a disaster. If he had any reservations about the unconventional nature of the relationship, he supposed they were both old enough to know what they were doing, by which he meant, they all understood, that he was hardly the one to protest when he had done the same himself.
But the ladies’ scepticism remained; Father would have shown less interest in the details had not Colonel Harrow been there as an interested observer. The answer he gave to the question of how much help Annemarie would be expected to give to showing his visitors round the collection, however, surprised them all.
‘Oh, no need to bother about that,’ he said, airily. ‘That’s been attended to.’
Cecily looked up, sharply. ‘Has it, Elmer?’ she said. ‘How?’
‘I’ve enlisted some help, dear,’ he said with an impish grin. ‘And before you ask where from, they’re from across the road. British Museum. They’re sending in three men on each of our open days to help with the extra visitors and with the cataloguing. I’ve had visitors here in droves, lately.’ Beaming mildly at his two daughters, he continued, ‘So you won’t be needed, either of you. Oriel dear, you’re free of duties. I’ve got some of their cleaners, too. How does that sound?’
It sounded, after a moment of stunned silence, too good to be true. ‘Are you expanding then, Papa?’ Oriel wanted to know, thinking of the new head.
‘Mmm, not exactly, m’dear. Now, isn’t it time for pudding?’
Unable to elicit anything more on the subject, their natural assumption was that, partly through their own devices and partly through his, they were being squeezed out of Number Fourteen Montague Street in favour of the collection. And while Annemarie was relieved by her father’s acceptance of her own plan to begin socialising, her feelings about being relieved of duties at home were ambivalent, to put it mildly.
* * *
‘It’s not that I wanted to be here three times a week,’ she told Lord Verne as he prepared to escort her and Cecily back to Park Lane, ‘but it does begin to look as if he was just waiting for me to disappear before getting in all this help. Why could he not have done it sooner? Why the sudden cataloguing? And cleaning. What would have happened if I’d not decided to...to live...somewhere else?’
‘To be my mistress? You’d have come back from Brighton to find a life-size marble statue of Adonis in your bed,’ he said, taking her hand in his. ‘Or worse, one of those leery centaurs. Just as a hint to move out.’
She struggled not to laugh, but failed. ‘Now you’re being vulgar,’ she said.
He grinned. ‘So you know about centaurs, do you? Ah!’
‘Enough, thank you. It was good of you to come at such short notice. Papa wanted you to meet Colonel Harrow again. He was glad to see you.’
Verne had been a few minutes late, delayed by his visit to his Royal Highness at Carlton House, but quite unaware that, while they waited, his exploits with Wellington’s army in Spain last year were being revealed in detail. Colonel Harrow’s 14th Light Dragoons and the 10th Hussars had joined forces for the Battle of Vitoria exactly one year ago when Jacques Verne’s bravery and daring had been the talk of the officers’ tents for months. Viscount Wellington himself had visited him in the field hospital and had commended his fierce attempts to save a crowd of French women who were fleeing with the Emperor Joseph from certain atrocities by uncontrollable men from his own side. The Emperor’s wagon train of over three thousand carriages had been over twelve miles long, full of priceless art and antiquities, taken from Valladolid by Napoleon’s brother, the Spanish king, accompanied by families, court officials and terrified women. Once intercepted, the carnage was indescribable, the looting a disgrace to the British army, the loss of the five-and-a-half million gold francs, countless treasures, jewellery, furniture and libraries, grabbed, torn, destroyed and stolen. Badly wounded, Verne had personally fought off the rampaging foot soldiers of his own side to protect the women dragged from the carriages. Ultimately, Vitoria had been a success, but at a terrible cost, including Wellington’s fury. Verne had been sent home to recover, returning to the capital only after months of nursing at his parents’ country home.
Sitting open-mouthed with astonishment, Annemarie had noted the admiration dawn upon the faces of her family as Colonel Harrow praised the courage of the man she was planning to bring to his knees. He had protected a crowd of helpless women, French, not English, from a howling mob of soldiers who would have torn them apart to get at the valuables they wore, a mob for whom a single jewel represented more than they could earn in a lifetime. Unlike her late husband, whose death had been his only injury, Verne had said not one word to her about his exploits, while she had casually labelled him with the usual anecdotal misconducts attached to his elite regiment. Apart from suggesting that he might be an exception, which she had chosen not to believe, he was allowing her to find out for herself what kind of man he was. The discovery did nothing to commend her programme of revenge and, when he eventually arrived with profuse apologies for lateness, Annemarie had already begun to see him more as a protector than a predator.
‘I was glad to see Harrow, too,’ he said. ‘He’s a good man. Perfect for your sister. They should be our first guests, with Mrs Cardew. D’ye think?’
‘We’ll give a dinner party. All your friends and mine.’
His white smile broadened into a laugh. ‘That’s my girl,’ he whispered. ‘Already you’re entering into the spirit of the thing. Shall we invite your father?’
‘If he dresses as he did tonight, then certainly,’ she said. Lord Benistone had risen to the occasion, giving his valet more to do than he’d had for years, as well as a shock that earned him a brandy after his master’s departure from the untidy clothes-scattered bedroom.
‘Last time I kissed you goodnight in this hall,’ Verne said, looking around him, ‘we were watched by a row of erotic nymphs on pedestals. Do you think we might have some more privacy, this time, before the others appear?’
Earlier that day, Annemarie would have made excuses not to, but with his hand pressing hers and a whole evening of his closeness, his talk and graceful mannerisms, his staggering good looks, the cold core of hardness in her heart, so long nurtured, had begun to soften round the edges enough to let him in. To her own surprise as well as his, she drew him towards the door of the morning room where they had first talked at cross-purposes and, once in the dark overcrowded space, turned to him as he closed the door softly.
‘No David’s hand this time,’ he said.
‘So mind the priceless Attic vase,’ she replied, lifting her arms to enclose him.
For a woman whose interest was flawed, Annemarie’s surrender to his kisses must surely have been convincing to anyone less astute than Verne. He had noticed the difference in her demeanour during the evening which, although by no means effusive, had been warmer than that first chilling experience, but not for one moment did he believe that the change had come about naturally. Not in a woman of her sort. Not so fast. Not so easy. So when her body bowed into his, her arms linked around his neck, he felt the apprehension as well as the curiosity and would liked to have known more about the change and the reasons for it. So hurt and vulnerable, yet prepared to sell herself for some cause or other.
This time, she was neither exhausted nor mellowed by wine, but fully aware of every part of him pressing against her from knee to nose, the strong hands across her back and grasping her shoulder, the intoxicating taste of his lips covering hers, warm and persuasive, enticing her to stay and respond. She could easily have pulled away when he took her head between his hands, holding her for a soft shower of kisses falling upon her eyelids, cheeks, chin and mouth. But she did not, smiling instead at the tender caress of a man who, with his sabre, could put to flight a rabble of blood-lusting men. That, while he was wounded.
‘That’s new to you, isn’t it, my beauty?’ he whispered, still holding her.
Huffing with laughter, she agreed, ‘Mmm. Everything is.’
‘Then I shall have the pleasure of teaching you.’
‘Have you had a great deal of experience, my lord?’ she said, holding his wrists.
‘That is a question mistresses and wives may not ask. If one says no, that implies a certain restraint which may not be entirely true. And if one says yes...’
‘That implies a certain intemperance that may not...’
‘Quite. Does it matter much to you?’
‘No, my lord. I knew the answer before I asked.’
She could not see his smile before his next kiss, but felt the sudden surge of energy behind it, as if her answer had pleased him. But instead of thinking him arrogant, her thoughts veered towards the lessons that awaited her in his arms and the pleasure she would have in learning from him. For how long they remained locked together in the darkness she could never remember, only that by the time they emerged into the hall, her legs had turned to water and a strange unfamiliar ache of longing had begun to suffuse her thighs, making her gasp at its sweetness.