By the time they arrived at Ragley Hall, Annemarie was sufficiently briefed to know what to expect from the seriously wealthy Hertfords. The Marchioness came down the wide stone steps in a froth of mauve chiffon and satin that stopped on the very low neckline, her free hand waving her greetings well before the carriage had rocked to a standstill. Bewigged and liveried, the footman opened the door and let down the folding steps in front of a mansion considerably larger than Carlton House, and grander. Annemarie was no stranger to grandeur and opulence, but this ancestral home was one of the most magnificent she’d ever seen, built to reflect the family’s position in society. If Annemarie had wondered what common ground there could possibly be between Lady Hertford and her badly behaved husband, she soon saw that, while he knew what treasures to buy, she knew exactly how to display them to advantage without turning the place into a museum.
The Marquess was not far behind his wife, older than her by some fifteen years yet stylish and sprightly and still the proud owner of a fuzz of brick-red hair and profuse side-whiskers that showed no sign of greying. Ostentation and excess in all their forms came more naturally to him than restraint, and certainly earned him more countenance than he might otherwise have had, not being a particularly handsome man. To make up for this, he had the most charming manner.
‘So this is what it takes to get you here, Verne,’ he said quite seriously. ‘If only I’d known.’ As if to put Annemarie at her ease after the scolding, he turned a twinkling smile upon her, sharing the joke. ‘My lady,’ he said, taking her hand, ‘I can now see why he waited so long. A very discriminating man, our friend Jacques. Now I forgive him.’
No ordinary welcome could have pleased her more. He was, as Verne had told her, actually a very likeable fellow. The unsavoury and very disparaging remarks her father had occasionally let fall about the Marquess’s adulterous escapades wandered through her mind as they were led into the Great Hall, yet her recent meeting with the Prince Regent had taught her, if anything, that she would do well to reserve her judgement of people’s characters.
The motherly Lady Hertford linked her arm through hers. ‘It’s been a long journey for you, my dear. You must be tired. I’ll take you straight up to your room and have some refreshments sent up. Your maid arrived last night with Jacques’s valet, so all will be ready for you. We usually eat at seven. Plenty of time to relax.’
To their delight, they had been given adjoining rooms connected by a door, an acknowledgement of their relationship that Verne had assured her would cause not the slightest lift of an eyebrow amongst the Hertfords. Yet it had been very late that night when they made good use of the convenience after hours that passed too quickly in talk and being shown art treasures which, they were told, were only a fraction of what the house contained. Wrapped in each others’ arms, she and Verne had slept between monogrammed silk sheets under a pale yellow canopy embroidered with buttercups, dandelions and daffodils, waking only once in the early hours to make love and then to sleep again until Evie had drawn the curtains.
* * *
The tall sash windows looked out across endless views of landscaped parkland that rolled away from the house over lawns, lakes and carefully placed trees into the morning haze of Warwickshire. Verne threw up the window-pane and placed an arm around Annemarie’s shoulders. ‘Would you like to go riding this morning? Hart has a well-stocked stable. I expect he’ll—’ He stopped, glancing at Annemarie’s expression. ‘What? What is it?’
‘Over there...there...by that clump of trees. On horseback. See?’
‘Yes, it looks as if Hert is already out there.’
‘With a woman, Jacques. And it’s not Lady Hertford, either. They didn’t say they had another guest staying. Surely he doesn’t have a mistress here, does he? Lady Hertford would not allow that.’
‘Out of the question,’ said Verne, turning her away. ‘Let’s get dressed and go down to breakfast. I’m hungry.’
Annemarie was reluctant to move. ‘Yes, but who is she?’
‘We’ll find out soon enough. We’ll join them when we’ve eaten.’ He disappeared into his room and closed the door, leaving her with the impression that he knew who the guest was, but would not say.
‘Do you know who she is, Evie?’
‘No, m’lady. I haven’t seen anyone else. No maid, either.’
‘Strange.’
* * *
After breakfast, at which their hostess was not present, they rode with Lord Hertford on thoroughbred horses through the parkland, during which Annemarie broached the subject of guests in the hope that her host would elaborate. But he was as evasive as Verne, saying only that the lady was recovering from a slight indisposition and preferred to avoid company, and that they might meet her later on, if she was willing. With that, Annemarie had to be satisfied, and tried to put it out of her mind during their tour of the vast house and the family portraits by Sir Joshua Reynolds.
* * *
In the evening, after a memorable dinner and excellent conversation, Lady Hertford and Annemarie left the men to their port while they took tea in the drawing room, browsing through scrapbooks and several ancient account books belonging to the estate in its earliest days. Annemarie had not quite reached that level of familiarity that permitted her to ask, point-blank, about the extra unseen guest, so she was relieved when the Marchioness tugged at the bell-pull, whispered to the footman and told Annemarie that she had requested her other guest to join them, at last. ‘You may be surprised to see her here,’ she said, unaware of how much she understated the case after Annemarie’s year of anguish.
The door opened to allow a tall graceful woman to enter, her bearing so elegant and poised that, even though she had once been more shapely than this, her identity was impossible to mistake. ‘Lady Benistone, m’lady,’ said the footman, bowing out.
In retrospect, Annemarie thought, it might have been kinder if she’d been given some warning, or an option on where and how best to meet. Suddenly, like this, not only had her mind to adjust to the shock of seeing her mother after a whole year of absence and such a traumatic parting, but also to the change in the one she had last seen as a beauty in the full flower of maturity, rounded and luscious and brimming with good health. The woman was the same, and the beauty too, but now it filtered through months of grief and desperate worry, thinning her down to a shadow, saddening her lovely eyes and pinching her cheeks.
She was hesitant, unsure of her reception, fearful of instant rejection. Her soft voice reflected her anxiety. ‘Annemarie,’ she said. ‘Dearest...oh, dearest!’ Holding out her arms, she pleaded for physical comfort and prayed that her daughter, at least for a moment or two, would grant it her.
With a cry, Annemarie was on her feet, her face drained of all colour. ‘Mama...Mama!’ she whispered. ‘It is you. Tell me I’m not dreaming.’
‘It’s me, love. Forgive me. Hold me...oh, hold me.’
It was only a few steps into the motherly arms Annemarie had longed for, even while she had struggled to understand the treachery, the abandonment and the lack of communication: a year’s worth of anger and misery which, in these last few weeks, had changed to a greater need to know that Mama was safe and well. And now, that seemed not to be enough. In her arms, she wanted explanations that would justify her terrible period of pain. She wanted to know of Mama’s sufferings, too, for it was obvious that she had suffered, and to make her aware of the damage she had done for the sake of one mad Season of lust, excitement and a younger man’s admiration. That was what it was all about, wasn’t it? His admiration and her remaining power to attract a man away from a younger woman. And now, Mama was in the protection of an older man, a hardened womaniser whose misdemeanours, in Annemarie’s mind, all at once took precedence over his attributes. How could Mama have stooped so low? Again.
Annemarie clung and sobbed, her face buried in the long neck that still gave off the familiar perfume of a rose garden. ‘Why?’ she cried. ‘Why did you?’
Gently stroking her daughter’s back, Lady Benistone hardly knew where to start. ‘It’s a long story, my darling. It’s not at all what you think.’
‘What am I supposed to think, Mama, when you’re here with...?’ She could hardly say what she meant with Lady Hertford standing by.
‘Hush, love. Don’t weep. Please don’t weep any more. I can tell you everything, then you may begin to understand better. But will you tell me about my dear ones...the girls...and Papa? Are they well? I long for news of them. Shall we sit and talk?’
She could not deny her mother this, although there was a side of her, the hurt side, that questioned whether this concern was truly genuine or whether it had emerged through a recent conscience. Lady Hertford must have suspected Annemarie’s cynicism. ‘That would be a good start, my dears,’ she said, laying a kindly hand on the young shoulder. ‘I’ve told your mama all I know, but that’s not a great deal. She needs to hear it from you. Be kind to her. She’s had a hard time. Perhaps I ought to have warned you.’
So they sat close together, holding both hands and sharing a small handkerchief as names wove in and out, not happily, but forlorn, puzzled and cast adrift, with Father going through some kind of inexplicable change rather like an adolescent in love. When she added, with conviction, that he needed his wife back, Lady Benistone’s tears flowed faster. ‘I cannot,’ she cried, shaking her head. ‘Don’t you see? I can never return, Annemarie.’
‘Why not? Is it the state of the house? It still upsets you?’
‘No...oh, no! Not that. I’d go back to live anywhere with Papa, if I dared. But after what’s happened, how could I ever face him? I am quite disgraced now. I’ve dragged my lord’s name through the mud and made all society pity him. And my family, too. He’s always been so very good to me. How can I return now, as if nothing had happened?’
The questions were left unanswered, interrupted by the return of the men, neither of them disconcerted to find three tear-streaked faces. Being a stickler for etiquette, the Marquess insisted on introducing Lord Verne to Lady Benistone, who could not otherwise have acknowledged him. Her apologies for her appearance at such a time were immediately set aside by Verne’s delight at meeting the mother of his mistress, and if she was rather puzzled when he said that this moment fulfilled an ambition of his, she did not pursue it when there were more pressing questions to be asked.
Annemarie kept up the pressure, still certain that her mama must be rescued from Lord Hertford’s attentions as a matter of some priority, while not actually saying anything to insult her kind hosts. ‘Marguerite needs you, Mama,’ she said. ‘She’s sorely in need of your influence. Cecily has been a wonderful chaperon, but you know what Marguerite is like. So headstrong. And dear Oriel won’t set a date for her wedding until things are back to normal once more. You must put aside your fears, Mama. Papa grieves for you. I can hardly bear it. He’s sold some of the collection to the British Museum recently, but he won’t tell us why. I’m wondering if he intends to sell the house.’
With downcast eyes, Lady Benistone shook her head. ‘It’s not possible,’ she whispered. ‘Too much has happened. I cannot believe he’ll take me back.’
Frowning, Annemarie glanced across at the Marquess, who sat totally relaxed in his deep wing chair, following the conversation with interest and showing no sign of responsibility for any distress. The man was inhuman, she thought, convinced of his guilt. Verne came to the rescue, bringing the sad exchange round to a point where explanations could replace imminent accusations. Taking Annemarie’s hand in his, he held it on his knee and gave a gentle squeeze to indicate his support. ‘Lady Benistone,’ he said, ‘I think it would help your daughter to know something of the circumstances surrounding your decision to leave your family. If you’d rather I left the room...?’
‘No, Lord Verne, please don’t. I cannot tell you how grateful I am for your support of Annemarie. Isabella has told me what you’ve done for her and I think you all ought to know what happened and how.’
‘I know what happened,’ said Annemarie. ‘I was there, Mama.’
‘Yes,’ said Lord Verne, gently, ‘but there are usually two sides to a story. I think you should hear your mother’s version.’
‘I’m sorry, Mama. Please go on.’
To revive the memories of the incident she had tried hard to forget was so painful that there were moments when Lady Benistone had to stop to recover herself. She had known there would have to be explanations and that Annemarie would be hurt all over again, but the Hertfords, the lady’s maid and their doctor were the only ones who knew about the stillbirth of a son at eight months, for they had disguised the pregnancy well, and the resulting illness was explained as ‘a problem common to women of a certain age’. No one else, they said, needed to know and this part of the sorry story she would spare her daughter.
Nevertheless, there was yet another shock in store for Annemarie, which her mother believed could come from no one but herself, concerning the reason why Mytchett was so eager to lay his hands on Annemarie’s legacy from her late husband in retaliation for leaving a mistress, his sister-in-law, and her child without a penny to live on. ‘You would have seen it in your husband’s will, dearest, if he ever intended to leave them anything,’ said her mother. ‘And he obviously wanted you never to find out.’
‘Mytchett?’ said Annemarie, horrified. ‘Mrs Mytchett?’
‘Sir Lionel’s brother’s widow. Cecily and I found it out.’
‘Then why could you not have told me, Mama?’
‘Just before Marguerite’s ball, dearest? How could I do that? I thought it was best for all the attention to be on your sister than on your distress over your late husband’s scandal. Could you have concealed it? I doubt it. I had to prevent Mytchett declaring himself somehow, for I know you’d have accepted him in the excitement of the moment, only to regret it later.’ To her credit, she did not add, as she could have done, that there would have been no need to take matters into her own hands if she could have obtained Elmer’s attention. At that time, they had almost stopped discussing anything and certainly nothing personal or domestic, although she had tried. ‘I thought I was doing the right thing,’ she whispered through her tears, ‘but I see now that my plan was flawed from the start. In the end, we were all hurt, weren’t we? Do forgive me. I’ve missed your papa and his funny ways so much and I’ve never stopped loving him.’
The hairs on Annemarie’s arms prickled as her mother voiced the same unsound scheme of getting a man to commit and then leaving him, which she, too, had thought of in her secret heart, except that Verne was no villain and had done nothing to deserve such shabby treatment. Nor would it be money he’d be left without, but her love, newly found and unconditional, a far more precious and rare commodity. How strange that their strategy had been so similar, and stranger still that they were doomed to failure. The startling news of Sir Richard’s mistress had been a shock, but less than it might have been if their marriage had been as sweet as her relationship with Verne. That would have been unbearable. ‘Don’t weep, Mama,’ she said, weeping herself. ‘Please don’t weep. If only we’d known. Could you not have sent us a message?’
‘I was ill for weeks, dearest, and terribly ashamed. I pleaded with Isabella not to say where I was until I’d had time to recover. I knew what you and papa would be thinking, that I didn’t care about my loved ones, that I’d wrecked Marguerite’s big day and that I’d stolen the man you loved.’
‘I did not love him, Mama. I didn’t know what love was, then.’
Lady Hertford intervened. ‘I wanted to let you know she was safe, my dear, but I had to respect her wishes. I knew there would come a time.’
Lady Benistone looked fondly at her friend. ‘She and Francis have been Good Samaritans,’ she said. ‘I could not have been better cared for.’
Annemarie’s spontaneous admission that she now knew what it felt like to be in love was received by Verne with something like jubilation. In one respect, he thought it was a pity that it had taken such heartache within a family to expose the direction of her gentle heart. But such was the way love appeared. ‘Lady Hertford,’ he said, ‘could you not assure Lady Benistone that her family would gladly receive her with open arms just as her daughter has done? You and Hart have showered her with kindness, nursed her back to health and brought her up here for safety. Mytchett can have no more interest in her now.’
‘Lord Verne,’ said Lady Benistone, ‘I know you mean well, but I have stretched the generosity of my family too far. Too much time has passed for me to expect forgiveness from them. I’ve done too much damage by my foolishness. People talk. The scandal will take years to die down. As for thinking Sir Lionel will let matters rest where they are...well...he won’t. It’s a matter of pride. He’ll make a nuisance of himself and my darling lord must not be any further humiliated or harassed than he has been already. Ragley Hall is safe. London isn’t.’
On the last point, Annemarie was obliged to agree. Both Ragley Hall and the Hertfords were safe. No longer could she assume that the Marquess had designs on her mama’s virtue. Sadly, she had been guilty of misjudging almost everyone involved in this heartbreaking episode. She had learned that her parents adored each other and that it had taken this to remind them of it.
The talking continued far into the evening with so much to tell, so many misconceptions to untangle, so many hurts to salve. Eventually, when stifled yawns made conversation difficult to follow, they went their separate ways although, for Annemarie, too much had emerged for her to let go of it easily in soothing sleep. No sooner had Samson and Evie been dismissed than she began a series of questions that soon began to sound more like protests. ‘You knew about Mama being here, didn’t you? You knew before we set off. Lady Hertford told you, didn’t she, and she had promised Mama not to betray her confidence. You could have told me, to spare me the shock. Couldn’t you?’
‘Lady Hertford,’ said Verne, lounging half-naked across the end of the bed, ‘promised not to tell your family. Well, she didn’t. She told me instead. And what would you have done if I’d told you beforehand? You’d have dashed straight round to your family and told them. Wouldn’t you?’
‘Of course I would. They...’
‘Which is exactly what Lady Benistone wanted to avoid. So.’ He ducked as a sandal hurtled towards his head.
‘So don’t be so damned logical!’ she said crisply. ‘I can’t stand it when you’re logical at this time of the night. And I expect you knew about the mistress, too, didn’t you? Don’t prevaricate.’
‘I was not going to prevaricate. I did know, yes.’ Turning the sandal over in his hands, he appeared not to be taking her question seriously enough. ‘Can’t imagine how you keep these things on your feet. It looks more like a—’
‘I thought as much.’ The second sandal flew, was caught and held against the other. ‘And you might put those down when I’m talking to you.’
Lazily, he placed them on the floor and then, without the slightest warning, swooped across the space and picked her up like a feather, falling back with her in his arms into the soft embrace of a very large easy chair. Trapping one of her arms behind him, he caught her other hand before she could use it as a lever. ‘All right, that’s enough, my beauty. You’re upset and angry, and you’re quite entitled to be. But not with me. Be still now!’
Wearing only a fine silk nightgown, her loose hair half-covering her tear-stained face, she struggled against the indignity and the severity of his command, thinking that a sympathetic hearing would have been more welcome than reasoning, at this late hour. But she was held in an iron grip with tears of helplessness and relief rolling off the end of her chin. Eventually, she buried her face in the smooth warm skin of his chest as she had wanted to do all evening, sobbing out things she could not have said before. ‘Poor...poor Mama...suffered so much...and we didn’t know. And...all for my sake...she’s not well...so thin and sad. We must get her home, Jacques. She needs us and we need her.’
‘She’ll need time to get used to the idea, sweetheart. This is as much a shock to her as it is to you, remember. She can’t have known long that we were coming.’
‘I feel so...so stupid,’ she whispered. ‘Why could I not...?’
‘Not what?’
‘Not have seen what a money-grabbing scoundrel the man was. And Sir Richard. What on earth was I thinking of not to know about...her? I’ve been so naïve, Jacques. And everyone laughing at my stupidity. And Mama and Cecily not telling me because they thought I was in love and not able to handle the truth. And I wasn’t. I only wanted to be married, with a house, and children, and...’
‘Hush now. No more weeping. You can stop berating yourself. I dare say most women desire those things without knowing what love is. Most men, too. But if it’s taken all this to show you how it really feels, then none of it was wasted, was it? Do you know how it feels now?’
The mass of black shining hair nodded below his chin and he felt the warmth of her lips upon his skin as she kissed his chest, sending vibrations tingling into his heart. ‘Good,’ he whispered. ‘That’s all right then.’
‘How did you find out....about her...the Mytchett woman?’
‘Barracks’ talk. Soldiers have little to do but gossip and her husband had been one of them. I hear what goes on.’
‘I wish you’d told me.’
‘There was no need for you to know at the time. It certainly would not have done my cause any good to malign your late husband. Your mama had a reason for telling you. I didn’t.’
‘What cause?’
‘To make you mine, my beauty. What else?’ he said, stroking back a sheet of hair from her face. ‘I told you at our first meeting, but you were not listening.’
‘I was listening, but I assumed it was bravado. You came for the bureau.’
His deep groaning sigh made her lift away from his chest to look up at him, but when she saw the twitch of his mouth at the corners she sank back again. ‘Tch!’ he said. ‘There’s nothing for it, is there? I shall simply have to take an axe to that damned bureau before we can get it out of the reckoning. Can we establish here and now, my darling girl, that after my first glance at you that day, I decided that you were going to be mine and that the bureau was no more than an excuse to stay close? And if you need it any plainer than that, I intended there and then that the title of Lady Verne would suit you better than Lady Golding. Since that moment, I’ve been crazily in love with you. Truly. So can we now forget the bureau and its contents? Good grief...you’re not weeping again, are you?’
‘Oh, Jacques,’ she said, sitting up. ‘Doe. I’b dot weeping. But this was dot supposed to happen and dow my plan isn’t going to work.’
‘Ah, the plan. Do you want to tell me about it?’
‘It’s dot a very dice one.’
‘I gathered as much. Tell me anyway. I promise not to co-operate.’
‘Doe. I suppose I hoped you might dot. I was dot intending to fall in love with you, you see, and—’
‘No one intends to fall in love, sweetheart.’
‘No, I know. But I was intending not to fall in love with you.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘And now I have. So I can’t walk off and leave you, which is what I planned to do, without hurting myself very badly. And you were not supposed to fall in love with me for months.’
‘Months?’ he exclaimed. ‘As long as that?’
‘Yes, by which time we’d have got the house up and running and you’d have invested a lot of money in it and in me, too, and you’d have been hurt and angry, and then I’d have been revenged for my hurts.’
‘And that was the plan? To say goodbye and go back to Montague Street or your house in Brighton?’
‘Well...yes.’
‘You and your mama are more alike than I thought. I have to say, my love, that as plans go, they don’t come much dafter than that. Quite addle-brained, in fact. Was that really the best you could come up with? Eh?’ Tipping her back again into his arms, he kissed her soundly until she cried to be released.
‘It’s not going to work, is it?’ she said, lamely, touching his lips with her fingertips. ‘Do you really want me to be your wife instead of your mistress, Jacques?’
‘Could you ever doubt it, sweetheart? Your plan never stood a chance. And as for this need for retribution, I think you may have to let it go. You cannot punish the whole of mankind....well, me anyway...for the sins of other people. What’s done is done and one has to put it down to experience. I went along with the mistress thing because I could see from the beginning what that was all about. After all the resistance, it could only be about wanting my commitment and raising my expectations, and then the pleasure of ruining them. I could see your jealousy, too, sweetheart. That told me quite a lot.’
‘I’m ashamed, Jacques. I thought love would be sweet and comfortable, but it can be painful, can’t it? I’ve never felt jealousy like that before. It was much worse than having Mama go off with that man. I felt humiliated by that, but it was nothing like the black despair I felt after the theatre débâcle. And I knew then that I adored you. Don’t ever leave me, Jacques. Please. Don’t hold this against me. I want to be your wife, but I don’t deserve you.’
‘My tigress!’ His hand slipped beneath the loose silk and found the soft fullness of her breast, holding it possessively as he bent to kiss her again, dispelling any lingering doubts about who deserved who most. In her lover’s embrace, the heavy blanket of foreboding and uncertainty that had already begun to slip away now faded like a wintry fog, leaving her heart to overflow with a new lightness. Not knowing how, when, or even if she could safely readjust her plans for their future, she had kept all indications of her adoration concealed from him as far as she was able, not being as sure of his feelings as she would like to have been. Now, her doubts had flown. He loved her, wanted her and would be faithful to her. Of that she was sure. He had been waiting for her capitulation and who could blame him after all that defiance? His tigress, he had called her.
Even so, he refrained from teasing her about her earlier resistance for he knew of the reasons, and there was so much more to content them than the abolition of problems. His loving that night was careful, slow, and perfectly tailored to her needs, her overworked emotions, her readjustment to personal security and the relief of the reunion with her beloved mother. She did not reach a climax of the same previous intensity, but he knew by her sighs and caresses that her enjoyment was in no way diminished when there were untold years of loving to look forward to. Sleep overcame them long before the list of urgent topics could be discussed, most of them to do with Mama and her return to the family who needed her. But their last words before sleep, mumbled into hair and against warm moist skin, were of a more personal nature, all the more treasured for being withheld on so many other occasions. Liberated, Annemarie’s sleep consoled her for all her foolishness while Verne’s dreamless sleep was more like a reward for his confidence and tenacity.
* * *
Their last day at Ragley Hall was spent in talks with Lady Benistone intended to persuade her of an ecstatic welcome at Montague Street, although Annemarie was not able to say with any conviction how much, or little, the living conditions had changed to make her future comfort greater than before. But with a year’s news to catch up on, the day flew past easily, with breakfast on the following day, a Monday, their last meal together for some time. Neither of them knew for how long.
Just like Lord Benistone, Lord Hertford’s addiction to The Times at breakfast was excused; one was rarely expected to converse at such times, even with guests present. Spontaneous outbursts of information did emerge, however, when it was thought worth sharing. ‘Oh, listen to this,’ he said from behind the double pages.
Annemarie exchanged glances with her mother and smiled. ‘My lord?’ she said, politely.
‘Four people killed,’ he said. ‘That’s appalling!’
‘Where is this?’ said Verne, mopping up his egg yolk.
‘Vauxhall Gardens. Saturday night. The fireworks, you know. Prinny’s latest attempt to entertain the masses. Well, no one expected them to turn up in their thousands, apparently. Dreadful crush. Dangerous conditions,’ he read, picking through the most evocative words. ‘Carriages smashed. Clothing ripped to shreds. Two women crushed against the barriers. One man badly burned by a firework, died from injuries. Another fell into the river. Oh! What’s this? Good heavens above, Verne. You’re not going to believe it.’ The newspaper collapsed in a heap upon the Marquess’s empty plate, revealing a shocked expression and a pallor in stark contrast to the red hair. ‘Perhaps...?’ Deep with concern, his eyes indicated that the ladies might prefer to leave rather than hear the details.
‘What is it, Francis?’ said Lady Benistone. ‘I’m not going to be shocked and nor is Annemarie. Read it to us, if you please.’
‘I think you are,’ he said, lifting the newspaper. ‘A body, found downstream from Vauxhall, was identified as that of Sir Lionel Mytchett, well-known gamester and member of White’s Club. Well, they’ve got that wrong. He was thrown out last year. The body was badly lacerated, it says. Fell into the river and drowned. No witnesses. So that’s the last we’ll be seeing of him, then. Can’t say I’m heartbroken.’
When there was no response from across the table, his lordship let The Times fall again to look at his guests before folding it up and laying it quietly down. Lady Benistone was being held in her daughter’s arms, with only one hand smoothing over her back to indicate the direction of their thoughts. Then, still with their arms around each other, they turned and left the room.
‘No witnesses?’ said Verne, frowning. ‘At Vauxhall?’
‘That’s what it says.’
‘Rubbish! What do you make of it?’
‘I think,’ said the Marquess, pulling at his whiskers, ‘that this makes the problem of Esme’s return to London a little less complicated. Wouldn’t you say so?’
‘Imminent, Francis. I’ll do what I can to make it happen.’
‘So Benistone’s selling up, is he?’
‘I have yet to find out. He’s playing his cards very close to his chest, these days. What he’ll do when he finds she’d been under your roof for the last few months I cannot imagine. I hope he doesn’t jump to the same conclusions as Annemarie.’
That idea gave the Marquess several moments of very loud and irreverent amusement, his wife not being in the room, entirely inappropriate to the news just imparted, ending with the flippant suggestion that he might have to go into hiding.