The talk about cages, Annemarie told herself, was not something to be taken too seriously. Men said that kind of thing and Verne had probably expressed the same sentiment to other women after making love. He would have a stock of such compliments, surely, a man of his obvious experience. Even so, he appeared to be more than satisfied with her limited repertoire, for he had made love to her again almost immediately before joining her in sleep for an hour, after which they had dressed in a state of dreaminess with hardly a word between them, walking shamelessly hand in hand across the Steyne to take tea in her cosy rooms on the corner of South Parade.
The earlier visit to the house by Samson, Verne’s valet, had not been solely for his master’s comfort. As well as delivering his evening dress and travelling valise, he had another more personal mission concerning the lady’s maid Evie, knowing that unless he made his peace with her, he was going to be on the wrong side of the door indefinitely. So with this in mind he made himself as agreeable to Mrs Ash as he knew how, on the basis that she might sway the young lady’s opinion in his favour.
Hoping to satisfy her own curiosity about the cause of the conflict, Mrs Ash lost no time in putting forwards the view that she thought the young man quite charming and what was there about him not to like? She put it to Evie within minutes of the young man’s leaving. Had something happened? she wanted to know.
‘Too forward, that’s all,’ said Evie, recalling the two incidents at Reigate, one of which was only hours old.
As soon as he’d seen the cushion-shaped brown-paper parcel under Evie’s arm, he’d known the time had come for an explanation. Though he’d dodged behind a few of the Swan’s guests to escape, Evie was on the warpath with no intention of letting him avoid her anger. ‘You didn’t mind who you landed in trouble, did you? Thief! And you making up to me all friendly, like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. Well...that’s for your trouble!’ The smack across his face almost knocked him into the banister and would have been bad enough by itself had not several men made matters worse by turning to watch.
‘Oi!’ he said. ‘Steady on, miss. I can explain...honest,’
‘Honest my foot!’ Evie had snapped. ‘That you’re not!’
Samson held his cheek to cool the sting. ‘Give me a chance, then. Look, come away from this gawping crowd and I’ll tell you.’
‘You can start by telling me what was in that portmanteau that was valuable enough for you to help yourself to, you thieving—’
‘Shh! Cut it out, Miss Evie.’ The accusation hurt. He’d only obeyed orders. ‘I was told it had valuables in, that’s all. And I was curious. So while you were downstairs I took a peep inside.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing much. Only bundles of letters addressed to Lady Something; I couldn’t read the writing in that light. Well, I thought they might be of interest to Lord Verne, so I took them out and put the cushion there instead.’
‘Why on earth would Lord Verne be interested in bundles of letters?’
‘Well, I dunno. I thought perhaps they might have been from Lady Golding’s husband...you know...Sir Richard...’
‘I know that!’
‘To his mistress, or somebody.’
‘His what? What mistress?’
‘Oh, come off it, Miss Evie. I expect everybody knew.’
‘I’m Miss Ballard to you, and no, everybody didn’t know, Mr Samson. I didn’t, for one thing, and nor did Lady Golding. And don’t you go putting it about, or I’ll...’
‘Yes, right. No need to fly up again. Maybe I’m wrong, then.’
‘You were certainly wrong to take what doesn’t belong to you. So you passed these letters on to Lord Verne, did you? And what has he done with them?’
‘No idea, Miss Ballard. He may have burnt them for all I know.’ That much was true. All he’d done was to get whatever was in the portmanteau, as instructed, put something in its place and then relock it. His thieving days were over and it was rare for him to meet a victim and have to explain.
‘Then you can get rid of that!’ Evie had said, shoving the parcel at him. ‘And if the room is locked, you’ll know how to get into it, won’t you?’
After that encounter, Samson’s avoidance tactics had been more successful, but his words had lingered uncomfortably in Evie’s mind like a heavy weight, reinforcing a suspicion she’d held for years about Sir Richard’s behaviour. Had he kept a mistress? Sent her letters? Reclaimed them before his death? Bought them back to avoid blackmail?
‘Mrs Ash,’ she said, hanging the last of Annemarie’s gowns on the wardrobe rail. ‘Did...er...did Sir Richard keep a mistress?’
A denial would have burst out immediately: the hesitation provided the dreaded confirmation. Mrs Ash turned to the view overlooking the Steyne, sighing before she answered. ‘He did,’ she said. ‘I thought you knew.’
‘No,’ said Evie. She sat on the edge of the white silk-covered bed, staring beyond the housekeeper at the wheeling seagulls. ‘No, I didn’t. Lady Golding doesn’t know, either. Does she?’
‘We kept it to ourselves,’ said Mrs Ash. ‘The poor lady had no need to know. She had enough to put up with, without that. And then when all that business blew up after he’d gone, it seemed best to let it die a natural death. It’s just a bit uncomfortable that the woman should have been living here in Brighton, where Lady Golding loves to be.’
‘Here? Oh, no!’
‘He used to come down here without her for a few nights, telling us he’d be at Raggett’s Club when Mr Ash knew full well he wasn’t. I suppose Lady Golding thought he’d be on duty at the barracks. He never gave anyone credit for being able to see what he was up to. Mr Ash knows most of what goes on in Brighton. It was one of those terraced houses on Arlington Street where he went. A private house, not a brothel. I don’t know any more than that. It’s over and done with. You’ll not tell her, will you?’
‘No, I certainly won’t, Mrs Ash.’
‘You suspected something, though. Why did you ask?’
‘Oh, I’d just like her to be married again instead of a man’s mistress.’
‘Is that what Lady Golding is? Lord Verne’s mistress?’
‘Yes, that’s what we have to get used to, Mrs Ash, for the time being.’
‘Mind you, Lord Verne’s got a bit more going for him than... Oh well, I mustn’t say too much on that score, must I? I expect she knows what she’s doing.’
Evie stood up, smoothing the dent made on the bed. ‘Mmm,’ she said. ‘I hope she does.’ She closed the wardrobe door gently. Samson’s assumption that the letters could have been to Sir Richard’s mistress was, of course, just that. An assumption. He could have been quite mistaken but, if that’s what they were, then Lady Golding would have experienced yet another blow to her pride at a time when she was at her lowest ebb. Equally puzzling was the timing. Where had the letters been since Sir Richard’s death? Here at Brighton? Evie thought she knew every nook and cranny of her mistress’s rooms, drawers and cupboards. The idea of Lord Verne possessing incriminating material that was none of his business did not sit easily with her when he had in all other respects shown himself to be the embodiment of respectability, quite unlike the previous earwig who had laid siege to her mistress’s heart. Whatever the letters were, incriminating or not, Lord Verne had no right to them and now both she herself and Mrs Cardew were involved in deceiving Lady Golding into believing they were safely disposed of. If only she could be more sure of her ground.
* * *
Later that day, while Lady Golding and Lord Verne were exploring the delights of the Royal Pavilion, Evie took a stroll in the sunshine along Marine Parade. Discreet enquiries at Donaldson’s Library had assured her that Arlington Street was somewhere along here, thus setting a scene of respectability which would surely help her enquiries. It had been over two years since Sir Richard’s death in the January of 1812, time enough for the occupants to have changed, but when Evie had scanned the list of subscribers to the library and discovered the familiar name of Mytchett, she felt that her prying into Lady Golding’s affairs was excused. Here was a connection she had not expected. A relative of Sir Lionel Mytchett’s? The late Sir Richard Golding’s mistress?
Small signs of hard times were immediately apparent: an unswept step, flaking paint on the door, unpolished brass knocker and door handle. A curtain twitched at one side as Evie waited, not expecting her rat-a-tat to be answered with any promptness. When the door opened at last after the third knock, the cautious approach was close to what Evie had predicted, a weary face framed by untidy dark ringlets under a lace cap and a greeting that had obviously been prepared for a creditor rather than a friend. ‘Yes? If you’re from Scott and Wildings, you can tell them I’ll pay on Friday.’ The door began to close.
Evie put out a hand to stop it. ‘No...er, no! I’m not from Scott and Wildings. This is a private visit. Personal. To see Miss...er...Mrs Mytchett?’ Having caught sight of another face on the level of the lady’s knee, most of it obscured by a sticky fist, she revised her choice of titles. ‘Is this where she lives?’
‘Who wants to know?’
Deception was never Evie’s strong point, nor did she think to achieve anything extra by pretending to be someone she was not. ‘Don’t be alarmed,’ she said. ‘My name is Miss Ballard, lady’s maid to Lady Golding. Might I have a few words with Mrs Mytchett? In private?’
Two deep-brown eyes scanned her from bonnet to shoes and back again while the wisdom and foolishness of the meeting was debated and the child turned its face into the mother’s faded skirts. To be sure, Evie couldn’t tell whether the little moppet was a son or a daughter when the wild halo of fair curls could have belonged to either. The woman’s expression gave little away as she opened the door with reluctance, as if there was something wedging it closed. ‘I wondered. Mind out the way, Richie,’ she muttered, hauling the child back by one shoulder.
‘Wondered?’ said Evie, edging her way through the gap.
‘Yes. How long it would be before something like this happened. It’s him you want to be talking to, not me, Miss Ballard.’
‘You are Mrs Mytchett?’
‘I am.’
The light dimmed noticeably as the door was closed and Evie felt the shabby claustrophobic narrowness press inwards as the child whined to be picked up, still sucking its fist. The mother complied, grunting with the effort, then leading her guest into a room that might once have been pretty, but was now threadbare, faded and sadly in need of renovation. Glancing at Mrs Mytchett’s back, Evie judged that she was probably still in her late twenties, shapely but ill served by a muslin day-dress from which a section of frill had come adrift. There was no sign of a maid, but a high pile of folded cotton garments lay upon the small side-table next to a sewing-box.
Evie settled herself in a battered old chair, noticing Mrs Mytchett’s regular features and the unfortunate down-turn about her mouth. Blotchy skin and reddened eyelids had robbed her of any youthful bloom there must once have been, but Evie could well imagine that, before the child, Mrs Mytchett would easily have attracted any man. ‘I beg your pardon for the intrusion,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I ought to say that Lady Golding did not send me here to quiz you. I came on my own account. She doesn’t know about my visit and I don’t intend to tell her, either, because—’
‘Because she didn’t know her husband had a mistress? Is that it?’ Mrs Mytchett said, settling the child on her knee. ‘Well, I knew it’d only be a matter of time before she did. There are not many secrets to be kept in a place the size of Brighton, Miss Ballard.’
‘No, I suppose not. But when you said just now that I ought to be talking to “him”, did you mean your husband? And ought I to be addressing Lady Mytchett?’
‘No. My late husband was in Sir Richard’s regiment, killed soon after we were married. He was Sir Lionel’s brother.’ She almost smiled at Evie’s surprise. ‘Sir Lionel Mytchett is my brother-in-law and, no, before you jump to conclusions, we are not lovers. He stays here when he wants to quit London, when things get too hot for him, you understand. By that, I mean when he runs out of money. I have my uses,’ she added in a quiet tone loaded with bitterness, her lips touching the top of her child’s head. ‘Don’t I, Richie love?’
‘How old is he?’ Evie asked.
‘Almost four. He can talk well enough when he wants to. Takes after his father for that.’
‘Sir Richard?’
‘Yes. He doesn’t remember him though.’ She looked about her as if she also was struggling to remember him. ‘It wasn’t like this, then.’
‘Forgive me for asking, but what was it like? Was Sir Richard generous?’
‘You may as well know. The house was left to me by my husband, so Sir Richard had no expense there. In fact, he did quite well for himself to have a house bought by his wife’s father and another one here owned by me. He paid for things, when he came to visit, and I suppose you could say I was kept in a modest style, though he never showed me off and I never had enough to save. He was not over-generous. Women were commodities to him, but without that support I would have fared much worse. Especially when this one came along.’
‘But when Sir Richard died, surely he made provision for you both?’
Her top lip was pulled in between her teeth as, slowly, she shook her head. ‘No. He didn’t. Not one penny. Well, that would have been to admit that we existed, wouldn’t it? And that would never do. After that, we didn’t exist, Miss Ballard. I take in sewing because I can do it at home, but at the time it hit me hard, I can tell you, with his child to provide for. And my brother-in-law sponging off me as if I were a gold mine.’
‘Has Sir Lionel not helped at all, with his connections?’
‘He had a plan. I suppose he thought he was helping. He thought that if I’d been provided for, he could have managed my finances and done pretty well out of it. Living here cost him nothing, you see. When he realised he’d get no more help to pay for his horses and women and gambling debts, he decided to seduce Sir Richard’s widow the way he’d seduced me. That way, if he could get Lady Golding to marry him, he’d have access to her funds. You’re looking shocked, Miss Ballard. Did you think my brother-in-law loved Lady Golding?’
Evie’s breath hovered in her lungs until she let it out on a sigh between parted lips. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘but I think my mistress cared for him.’
‘Yes, well. He’s good at that, is Lionel. Has ’em eating out of his hand. I’m sorry if she got the thin end of the wedge, like me, but at least she can be miserable in comfort, can’t she? From what I’ve heard, she sounds like a very nice lady.’
‘She is,’ Evie whispered. ‘She’s the best mistress ever. But did you say that Sir Richard seduced you, Mrs Mytchett?’
For the first time, her hostess smiled. ‘Lord, Miss Ballard! Did you think I was a professional? No...o! I was a young broken-hearted widow. My new husband was down here at the barracks, then he was sent out to Portugal. So when he was killed in action, Sir Richard came to see if I was all right. That’s when it started. That’s when things like that always start, isn’t it? When a woman seeks to replace something she’s lost. I must have been the easiest target ever. Young. Lonely. Naïve. Flattered by the attention of a high-ranking officer. I didn’t even know that mistresses usually asked for a settlement. Housekeeping money, personal allowances. That kind of thing. Lionel told me I should have fleeced him while I had the chance.’
It was on the tip of Evie’s tongue to commiserate, to say how sad and how sorry before she realised that, although she was, it would not do to say so. Her mistress had also suffered badly, but what Mrs Mytchett had told her about her own callous brother-in-law was a shocking tale of heartlessness she could never have imagined, planned with a cold-bloodedness that made Evie thank Providence her mistress knew nothing of. Nor would she, ever.
But the plan had misfired, hadn’t it? How much of that did Mrs Mytchett know? ‘It sounds,’ Evie said, ‘as if Lady Golding had a narrow escape at your brother-in-law’s hands, although he came close to breaking her heart. Did you know that he changed his mind and ran off with Lady Golding’s mother instead?’
Mrs Mytchett stroked the mop of hair back from her son’s sleepy forehead to plant a soft kiss upon the smooth skin. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I read about it in the newspaper, but all he said when he called in at Christmas, was that he needed more money because the jewellery Lady Benistone had taken with them was not going to be enough.’
‘And you couldn’t help him out?’
Mrs Mytchett’s eyebrows flickered upwards, her eyes searching over the mess in the squalid room. ‘What do you think, Miss Ballard? I sit here and sew till my fingers bleed and I fall asleep over my work. I can’t help myself out any more.’
‘No. I’m sorry. That was thoughtless of me. You don’t deserve a brother-in-law like that. So you have no idea where he and Lady Benistone are living?’
‘No idea. He doesn’t keep me informed.’
‘Did Sir Richard ever write to you, Mrs Mytchett?’
‘Heavens above, no! He used to say you can never tell what a woman would do with letters, so he never took that risk. He wouldn’t have known what to say, anyway. Talking, yes. But not writing. So why did you come here, Miss Ballard? To ask if I knew where Lady Benistone might be? I can’t help you, I’m afraid. If I had any idea, I’d tell you. I have nothing to lose by it.’
So the letters now in Lord Verne’s possession were not from Sir Richard to Lady Something, nor did his mistress have a title except plain Mrs, and if Evie’s personal opinion of Sir Lionel Mytchett was exceedingly poor to begin with, it was now at rock bottom after hearing of his calculated plan concerning Lady Golding. Even though it was prompted by Sir Richard’s brutal neglect of his son’s welfare, not to mention his mistress’s, Evie realised that the scheme was essentially to feather Sir Lionel’s own nest rather than that of his brother’s widow.
Any hope she had cherished of hearing news of Lady Benistone now faded like wraiths in the afternoon sun as she walked back to South Parade where, from the top of the stairs, she saw the arrival of Lady Golding and Lord Verne. Before her heated conversation with Samson, she had been inclined to look upon his lordship with kindliness, especially in view of his impeccable connections to royalty. Now, however, after hearing how he’d taken possession of her mistress’s private papers, doubts about his intentions began to form just as they had about Sir Lionel. She prayed she might be mistaken, for never was there such a fine figure of a man with such caring manners. This one was certainly out of the top drawer, even if his valet was light-fingered.
* * *
Taking afternoon tea together, Annemarie and Lord Verne sat on opposite sides of a dainty rosewood table set in the bay window, each with a hand linked across the crisp white tablecloth, their eyes occasionally meeting in secretive smiles before returning to an idle study of passers-by and carriages. For her, everything had changed, as she had known it would, and Verne’s perception of this was yet another mark in his favour—no light-hearted banter or embarrassment, no gloating, only quietness and reflection, caught and contorted in the bulbous silver teapot.
‘Jacques,’ she whispered, holding his eyes with her own.
‘Mmm?’
‘Don’t ever tell me about all the others, will you? I don’t want to know.’
Verne did not pretend to misunderstand. From the start of this relationship she had assumed an air of confidence that, in less than a day, had disintegrated into a storm of jealousy out of all proportion to the cause. Now she appeared to be anticipating another complication of her own which he believed had surfaced only since their ecstatic lovemaking that afternoon. She was making up comparisons to herself, not to him.
His hand tightened over hers and slid up to her wrist. ‘Sweetheart,’ he said, ‘since you ask, I have no memory of any other except the one who was in my arms an hour or so ago. I have never had a mistress before, nor ever wanted one. I told you, no woman has ever held my attention for long enough for me to want her to myself. Until now. You, my lady, I can’t get enough of.’
‘You know so little about me,’ she protested, half-warning him of things to come.
‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘Part of our agreement, if you remember, was to re-enter society with the intention of trying to locate Lady Benistone. Wasn’t it?’
She nodded.
‘So let’s try not to throw obstacles in the way before we’ve begun, shall we? When we’ve found her, then you can show me how difficult you can be and I’ll show you how well I can manage you, and we’ll see who wins. Is that a deal, my lady?’
The lovely mouth widened, excited by the implied challenge. ‘Deal,’ she laughed, laying her free hand on top of his, light as a feather. ‘More tea, my lord?’
He held out his cup and saucer. ‘Good. So no more comparisons. You are beyond compare, both in bed and out of it. Another cup, if you please.’
It was so much what she wanted...needed...to hear as the realisation swirled through her like an incoming tide that she loved him, as it had done earlier when he had taken her out of her depth and brought her back safely to shore, too exhilarated to speak. Now, although he pretended not to notice it, the silver teapot shook a little as she poured.
* * *
Before he could remedy the deficiency in his knowledge of her, Verne was plied with questions about himself, his travels abroad and his time with Viscount Wellington’s army, his interest in art and the classical world, in antique treasures and his work for the Prince Regent. With some shame, she remembered how he had corrected her over the plaster hand, underestimating his knowledge, which she now realised far exceeded her own. Mostly, she knew what things were, but he knew their history and provenance in detail, and although she had never before discussed the subject of her father’s interest, or wanted to, with Verne it seemed to come alive as he related stories of his hunts for whatever it was his royal master thought he wanted, only to change his mind after all, or forget he’d ever wanted it.
Would this same fickleness apply also to the bureau? Annemarie wondered. Now the letters were restored to Lady Hamilton, would both master and servant eventually lose interest? It was with some trepidation that she waited to see Verne’s reaction as they entered her bedroom to dress for dinner, half-expecting him to ask to examine it, after all the furor. But Evie was there to assist her mistress as Verne sat on the chaise-longue to talk and watch, as if they had been intimate friends of long standing, and if he as much as glanced at the controversial bureau, Annemarie didn’t see it.
* * *
Later, however, when they returned to the candle-lit bedroom and Evie’s duties were done, Verne sat on the wooden chest at the end of the bed, resting his arms on his thighs. The surface of the bureau shone like warm satin beneath the silver candelabrum and the appreciative sweep of his eyes. ‘So this is it,’ he said. ‘You chose well, my lady. It’s a very well-made piece.’
Wearing her lace-frilled ivory negligee, Annemarie came to sit beside him. ‘Yes, I think so, too, but wait till you see what’s under the lid. This part is even better.’ Lifting the central section, she disclosed the mirror on the underside and the array of cut-glass and silver containers, the tools and polished wood compartments that she had not yet had time to fill with her own potions and perfumes. Together, they admired the beautiful vessels, trying to identify the aromas and decide on their uses as the soft light played over Annemarie’s skin and the sheen of her loose hair. Relaxed and more at peace than she’d been for days, she now saw no reason to keep from him the secret place where the letters had been.
She drew the drawer out and released the catch to open the extra space at the back, inviting him to put his hand inside. ‘It’s quite roomy. See?’ she said.
He paused. ‘Ah!’ he said. ‘So this is where she kept them. What a very forgetful lady.’ His arm disappeared as far as his elbow.
‘She would have had more important things on her mind,’ Annemarie said. ‘Like how to pay her bills, for one thing.’
Verne’s hand withdrew, bearing a flat blue-leather box. ‘So what can this be, I wonder? Did you know about it?’
‘No, indeed I didn’t. I didn’t look for anything else.’
‘Well,’ he said, placing it on her knee. ‘I think you should take a look. If it’s jewellery from Prinny, it’ll be worth a fortune. He was very generous with his trinkets while he was still enamoured.’ He drew the candelabrum forward.
Holding it towards the light, she lifted the lid, blinking at the sudden blaze of flashing jewels that had not seen daylight for many years, set in gold, nestling on a bed of dark-blue velvet: a brooch, earrings, bracelets, a ring, a hair-comb and a deep multi-stranded necklace of massive pearls, amethysts and diamonds winking like living rainbows. Imprinted on the cream satin on the inside of the lid was the gold lettering of Rundell and Bridge, Ludgate Hill, London.
‘His favourite jeweller,’ said Verne. ‘This is worth a fortune.’
‘If only she had remembered it, it might have solved a few of her problems.’
‘Would you wear it?’
Tipping the box this way and that under the candles, Annemarie shook her head. ‘Not I. Not my style. Too flashy. Besides, it’s not mine, is it?’
‘You bought it with the bureau.’
‘A mistake. It will have to be returned.’ Suddenly, she smiled. ‘That’s it! We’ll take it back to him. He can’t have the letters now, can he, so perhaps this will ease his disappointment.’
‘Like rubbing salt into a wound, I’d say,’ said Verne. ‘And anyway, he’ll have forgotten all about this. Why remind him? You could wear the pieces separately. Or in pairs.’ Taking the box from her, he laid it on the bureau and removed the vee-shaped necklace, holding against the peachy skin of her neck. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Turn round.’
She did as he asked, presenting her back to him, but instead of fastening it round her neck, he laid it across her forehead with the largest pearl-drop hanging between her brows, the amethysts and diamonds encircling her black hair like the diadem of some exotic queen of the east, with the gemstones matching the colour of her eyes to perfection. ‘There,’ he said, turning her round to face him, ‘that’s more your style. But wait. This won’t do, will it?’ He eased her negligee off her shoulders, then the straps of her nightgown, letting the ivory lace fall to her waist. Taking handfuls of her hair, he spread it in tatters over her shoulders and let it fray across her breasts while she sat motionless, as entranced as any sitter whose pose is being arranged by the artist, only being able to guess at the effect. ‘Now give me your feet,’ he said.
‘My feet?’
‘Lift,’ he commanded. Reaching for one of the bracelets, he fastened them around her ankles. ‘Perfect. They’ll look better there than on Emma Hamilton’s chubby arms.’
There had been moments, during their intimate dinner, when Annemarie had speculated on the way in which he might instigate the lovemaking in her home rather than in his own apartment. Would he be inhibited by Sir Richard’s stern portrait, or hindered by the absence of his valet? Would he bypass the preludes so important to her enjoyment, or would every time be specially designed to make her want more and still more? ‘I don’t suppose,’ she said, watching him undress, ‘that either the royal jeweller or their patron had this in mind, either, my lord. Will the jewellery hinder lovemaking, or enhance it, do you think?’
Magnificently naked, he drew her to her feet with his warm hands on her elbows. ‘We’ll soon find out,’ he said, huskily.
She need not have been concerned about his memory, for the long slow raptures of his loving began even while they stood pressed together along every surface, their hands reaching and smoothing over contours denied to them since their previous encounter, every touch inflaming their desire, increasing their need of each other. Words of endearment slipped between kisses, most of which Annemarie had not heard before in this context—‘superb creature...bewitching...dazzling beauty...fascinating...mismanaged woman’—words that made her feel rare, unique and desperately wanted. Once again, flimsy unstable thoughts of the reasons behind this relationship tried to break through the bliss that engulfed her in his arms, thoughts to do with that word ‘mismanaged’ that no doubt referred to her initial hostility and her need for retribution. But Verne’s skill was such that few thoughts survived for more than a heartbeat under the burning path of his hands, caressing, lifting and stroking, sending shivers of ecstasy deep into places that no one had reached before him.
On the cool linen sheets she was covered by the warmth of his body, glowing above her in the soft candle-light and rippling with a vigour that bore no affinity to any of those white marble examples in her father’s collection. Verne’s physique was firm and substantial, powerfully built and in superb condition, this alone being enough to excite Annemarie to heights that closed her mind to everything except being possessed by such a red-blooded male whose intelligence was as robust as the rest of him. He was, she thought, a complete man, more than a match for her in every way, imposing himself upon her only so far and allowing her to do what she believed was what she wanted.
Her way and his fused together in deliciously slow explorations that drew gasps of delight and moans of pleasure, taken by him as a signal to go further than before with hands and lips, knowing that the whole long night lay at their disposal. Time slipped seamlessly away as Verne taught her things about herself that she had never suspected, tender places on her body that responded like wildfire to his touch and melted her thighs, spreading her legs wider. ‘Now,’ she whispered. ‘I cannot wait any longer. Now, Jacques!’
‘Shall I make you wait, my beauty?’ he said, teasing her. ‘Shall I make you plead?’
‘I am pleading,’ she said. ‘I’m aching for you.’
There was no more banter then as he ceased the tantalising caress that had already worked its magic, taking its place with his throbbing member that threatened to rebel against his discipline. And although, this time, his entry was rather less gentle than before, it was what Annemarie wanted, for now she trusted his motives as she had never trusted her late husband’s, not as anger or disregard but as an expression of unbridled passion. She cried out as he joined her, bringing his head down to meet her lips in a surfeit of sensation to assure him that he had read her mind well, that he need not hold in check the powerhouse of his loins. ‘Make it last...oh...make it last,’ she contradicted herself, softly.
‘Ah, my love...I cannot. I want you too much...forgive me!’ He could not see her laughter. He had waited too long for her plea and now his desire completely overwhelmed him, carrying him wildly on without knowing whether she had kept pace with him or not.
But she had. Again, he had taken her to the very brink of the abyss from which she had flown and soared into unthinking space as her body sang to its own kind of harmony and vibrated to her lover’s insistent beat. Still pulsing to the rhythm, her body settled back to earth as her arms enclosed his sagging shoulders, her lips whispering words of their own devising that told him of her euphoria and of her amusement at the fierce onslaught of his hunger. She did not tell him of two words she’d heard him utter in his undisciplined moments that might, if she’d taken them at face value, have given her an indication of his feelings for her. Had they been an idle slip of the tongue? Had he been holding the sentiment in check until then for fear of seeming presumptuous? Was he now beginning to feel for her what she could no longer ignore in herself and, if so, where was this dangerous game going to end and with whose heartbreak?
* * *
The amethyst necklace had long since slipped away to tangle in Annemarie’s hair, though it had not interfered with the next sleepy lovemaking or the one after that at dawn and was anything but sleepy. As the light seeped through the curtains, there was laughter and protest as priceless jewels were disentangled, the kind of mirth that had never before played any part in her experience.
‘Keep still, dammit!’
‘Ouch! That’s still attached.’
‘Wait. I shall have to kiss you again.’
‘No, that’s Evie with our tea. Cover yourself!’
‘Why? Hasn’t she seen...?’
‘Shh! Let me go! How am I going to explain this?’ Annemarie held up a tress of black hair with a stream of sparkling brilliants clinging tenaciously to the end.
As it turned out, there was no need for explanations. The sight that met Evie’s astonished gaze was of her naked mistress sitting cross-legged with her back to Lord Verne, who appeared to be engaged in extracting a fistful of jewels from a very tousled head.
* * *
Two days of being almost constantly in Verne’s company only made Annemarie regret that it could not have been longer. Between walks along the shore and drives through the country lanes, during which they were allowed the use of the Prince’s curricles, phaetons and high-stepping horses, they visited the shops, libraries and tearooms. And at last she was shown round the ongoing renovations to the Royal Pavilion, so opulent that she came away feeling quite intoxicated by his Highness’s over-decorated style. It seemed to typify the complexity of his nature: a man of contrasts and contradictions, a man who could spend thousands of pounds on baubles for his lady friends, yet ignore them when their need was greatest.
They walked towards the carriage-house where a curricle had been harnessed up for them. Annemarie went on ahead to speak to the horses just as Verne’s attention was diverted by the appearance of his friend Lord Bockington who had shown off his gelding’s paces to them on their first visit. ‘Something you might be interested to know, sir,’ said the fair-haired young man, keeping his voice low.
‘Tell me?’ said Verne, walking with him to the back of the curricle.
‘Well, last time we met, I was very struck by Lady Golding’s beauty, sir. And I suppose it stayed in my mind for quite some time.’
‘I’m sure. Go on.’
‘So I tried to recall when I’d last seen a woman with her looks, then I knew. It was last summer in London. The woman I saw was an older version of Lady Golding. Surely a relative, I’d have thought. She was so like her.’
‘Was she alone?’
‘No, she was in the company of the Marquess of Hertford. I remember it well.’
‘Hertford? Are you sure, Bock?’
‘Positive, sir. He was helping her into his carriage outside his house in Manchester Square as I passed by.’ The note of concern had not escaped him. ‘I don’t know whether the Marchioness was with them or not. She may have been in the carriage. I didn’t look. I had no reason to.’
‘Of course not. Was it a travelling coach?’
‘Four horses and...yes...come to think of it, there were trunks on the back. I thought no more about it at the time except that Lord Hertford always manages to have a beautiful woman with him, wherever he is.’
Verne noted his friend’s wistful tone. ‘And if you had his kind of blunt, so might you, Bock. Even if you were as ugly as sin itself. Which you’re not.’ Without actually saying so, Verne knew that his reference to Lord Hertford’s looks would be perfectly understood. He was known as ‘Red Herrings’ to his acquaintances because of his fiery red hair and whiskers. ‘Thank you for telling me,’ he said. ‘It might be useful.’ Verne nodded as Lord Bockington bowed and turned to go. ‘Now, my lady. Are we ready to set off?’
His lack of conversation was passed off as concentration as he took the curricle eastwards away from Brighton’s traffic, but soon it became obvious that he was preoccupied. ‘You’re very quiet,’ said Annemarie.
‘I was thinking that this will be our last day here. We must start for London early, tomorrow.’
There was, she thought, the slightest hint of anticipation in his voice.