Giving oneself a good talking-to, Annemarie decided, was all very well if there was one talker and one listener. But now, besieged by voices of both reason and unreason, the pearls of wisdom fell on deaf ears. Added to these were other deep beguiling words that echoed round her memory, all the more potent for their lack of finesse: earthy, provocative words that men used about thoroughbred horses and, privately, about women. She ought to have been insulted, disgusted, but she was not. He had not kissed her again, but she felt as if he had. And more.
Impertinently, she thought, trying her best to malign him, he had referred to her late husband. Verne had said she needed a man’s hand, not an old man’s or a boy’s, a risky opinion only a man like him would dare to venture to the widow of Lieutenant General Sir Richard Golding. As he apparently anticipated, she had not reacted at all except that, in her mind, something was released like a moth from a chest of old clothes, silent words thought of but never used. Now, with a cup of tea and a warm scone, her feet up on the chaise-longue and the sound of rain lashing at the windows, she glanced across to the side of the white fireplace where hung the painting of her late husband.
To a stranger, he might have been taken for her father. As Lady Benistone had married a man many years older than herself, by coincidence so had Annemarie done the same, believing what she’d been told that wealth, security and a position in society was all a woman had any right to expect. She had been more easily influenced then. As a wedding present, Richard had given her a portrait of himself, a gilt-framed oval showing a silver-haired, black-browed soldier whose imperious gaze was levelled at something over to the left, his mouth unsmiling. Silver side-whiskers encroached like sabres on to his cheeks and covering his red coat were black cords and bright gold buttons, braids and badges, ribbons and stars. He’d told Annemarie exactly what they were, often enough: the army had been his life as well as his death and, innocently, she had seen herself as yet another decoration, another conquest to be prized and shown off like his medals. In the ten months of their marriage, she had accepted that that’s what army wives were for, apart from bearing the next heir.
After less than a year as Lady Golding, a whole year of deep mourning had seemed excessive when they had had so little time to get to know each other, several months of which had been spent apart. Ever one for priorities, Richard had told her all about himself and his astounding achievements, his position in Viscount Wellington’s trust and the high esteem of his own men, but as for getting to know his young wife, he had assumed that there was nothing much to know, even in bed. Since she knew so little about herself either, in that department, her indefinable feelings of disappointment became a guilty relief when that part of her wifely duties was discontinued, the nightly grunting and groping, squeezing and heaving, the rough irritable directions that made her feel foolishly inadequate. Craving appreciation and tenderness, she had sometimes thought that, if he could have worn his spurs in bed, he would have used them.
So, as a young widow, when she was made much of by a handsome young rake, flattered and soothed with fine words as soft as a perfumed breeze, Annemarie had soaked up the comforts of his attentions like a dry sponge waiting for the tide, not caring which direction it came from or what it brought with it. Warnings from her mother and Cecily went unheeded. All she cared for was to hear words of esteem and praise and, ultimately, of seduction, words never spoken by Richard, but which tripped off Sir Lionel’s tongue like honey. With uncomfortable memories still haunting her, Annemarie had never allowed much in the way of intimacies and, to be fair, Sir Lionel never persisted, saying that there’d be time enough for that. They had kissed, just a little, and she believed she might get used to it, given more practice and the right conditions, and several other provisos that, since she’d been kissed by a man rather than a boy, she now saw as being completely irrelevant.
Looking back, she realised it was not so much Sir Lionel and his clever wiles that seduced her, but the contrast. Youth versus age. Fun versus pomposity. Irreverence versus rules and an interest in her for her own sake rather than the obsessive requirements of a soldier-husband that infiltrated every waking hour. Since having the Brighton house to herself, she had changed almost everything: wallpaper and carpets, curtains and furniture. The portrait was kept as a reminder never again to allow any man to control her life, that nothing was half as satisfying as being able to direct one’s own affairs.
Thoughtfully, Annemarie sipped her tea and finished off the crumbly scone and strawberry jam while hearing those words again that were neither harsh nor conventionally seductive. A man’s hand, not an old man’s or a boy’s. What could be more exciting from one who must have known Sir Richard Golding better than he pretended to? And how much did he know about Sir Lionel Mytchett? Ringing the bell, she thought it was time to set things moving before the situation got out of hand. The letters must be taken up to London immediately and, in one stroke, get them out of her life for ever. The letters and the man.
* * *
Perhaps because more people than usual were leaving Brighton for the London celebrations, Mr Ash, the housekeeper’s handyman husband, had a hard time of it obtaining a post-chaise with postilions who were willing to drive all that way in torrential rain.
‘But it may not be raining tomorrow, Ash,’ Annemarie said, hopefully.
Dripping pools on to the hall floor, he was adamant. ‘It will, m’lady. They know it will, too. I tried all four posting-stables and only one had anything to offer and that’s an old clapped-out thing with only a pair of ’orses.’
This was not going to be the quick there-and-back trip she had hoped for. No wonder the Ashes were puzzled by her determination to spend six or seven hours on roads pitted with rain-filled potholes, but there was little choice and she could not afford to wait, not knowing how long it would take to find Lady Hamilton either. Nor did she particularly want her father to know of her mission. Lord Verne had taken her straight home without the slightest direction and she knew that their first meeting in Brighton would not be the last. Next time they met, she would be able to put a stop to his presumed interest by telling him she no longer had what the Prince Regent wanted.
* * *
With the first lurch of the post-chaise through inches of muddy water, her optimism was tested to its limits as the rain thundered down on the flimsy canvas roof that had already sprouted a leak down one corner. Through the front window they had a clear view of the two horses and the postilion riding one of them, huddled in a drenched greatcoat, his black shiny hat throwing off water with each bounce. The horses looked decidedly unhappy, but it was the state of the coach that concerned Annemarie most, groaning unsteadily over roads now awash with hours of heavy rain, one of the doors flying open as they dipped into a rut, then a window that would not stay up until it was jammed with a glove. The two portmanteaux were pressed against their feet, otherwise they might have fallen off before the coach came to grief on the long slow haul up to Reigate.
Some coachmen preferred a different route to this long punishing climb, so it was no particular surprise to the passengers when the coach slowed to a standstill, tilted dangerously, then swerved backwards into the hedge with a ripping crash, dragging the exhausted horses with it. The tilt immediately worsened, throwing them back into a corner of the seat with the floor angled like a wall and the inside waterspout spraying their heads with perfect precision.
The unflappable maid went to the heart of the matter. ‘Back axle gone,’ she said, readjusting her bonnet and brushing water out of her eyes. ‘Lost a wheel, too. We shan’t reach Reigate, never mind London.’
The postilion’s first duty was to his horses, which had suddenly found the energy to plunge about dangerously and to kick over the traces which he could not unhook from the chaise. But as the two passengers watched, helping hands came to hold the horses’ heads until they were released. Now they found that the door that would not stay closed would not open, despite all outside efforts to budge it. For such an immediate response, it was obvious that help must have been very close behind.
It may have seemed uncharitable to allow suspicion to take the place of thanks at that critical point, but how else could Annemarie have viewed the appearance of the very person she was hoping to cheat out of the prize they had both set their hearts on, the one in her portmanteau, the one they pretended did not exist? This was something she had not expected and which, in hindsight, she ought to have done. So much for taking control. Angrily, she kicked at the door just as a hand pulled from outside.
‘Lord Verne,’ she said, ‘are you making a habit of helping me out of difficult situations? Or is this truly a coincidence?’ Even with water running down his face, he was breathtakingly good looking. His buff-coloured fifteen-caped greatcoat was dark with rain and it was obvious he had been in the saddle, not inside.
‘We’ll discuss that later, if you please,’ he shouted against the roar of the rain and the thumping and neighing of horses. ‘This thing’s going to tip over any minute. Be quick and get out, then make a run for the carriage behind. Come on, woman! Don’t let’s get into an argument about it. Give me your hand.’ Grabbing the precious baggage with one hand, she gave him the other while preparing for his objection. ‘Leave that!’ he commanded. ‘I’ll bring the bags. Let your lass get out.’
If she had thought in her wildest dreams that this might happen, she might have done as smugglers’ wives do and stuffed the valuables into pockets around her bodice. As it was, she was determined not to let go, thereby making it clear to him as if it had been spoken out loud that here were the infamous letters and that she was taking them to London, even in a ramshackle coach with the heavens opening above them. His stare at the portmanteau in her hand, then at her grim expression, left her in no doubt that he understood what she was about. Even he could not hide the realisation in his eyes.
‘Valuables,’ she said, clambering up the sloping floor with the bulky thing under one arm. ‘Taking them to Christie’s. I can manage it, thank you.’ As an excuse not to allow the Prince Regent’s most trusted aide to hold a battered old bag, it was bound to sound ludicrous, but it was the best she could do, though it hampered her exit from the shattered vehicle and must have tested Verne’s patience sorely. He said nothing, handing her out through the narrow door, lifting her and the extra bulk on to the saturated grass verge where the soft mud almost pulled off one half-boot. Thrown off balance, she pitched forwards and would have fallen flat on her face but for his arms across her body, keeping her upright, but as helpless as a child.
‘Here, give it to me while you get your boot back on,’ he said with noticeable tolerance. ‘Come on. I’m not going to run off with it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered, passing it to him. ‘I didn’t mean...’
Unable to tell whether he squinted at the rain running into his eyes or from laughter, her heart flipped at that moment and the sneaking thought that she might even be glad to see him was pushed firmly back where it belonged, in cold storage. He was the very last person she wanted to see, of course. Wasn’t he?
The beautifully appointed travelling coach to which Annemarie and her maid were consigned like two shipwreck survivors could hardly have been more different from the rickety post-chaise and its unroadworthy livestock. At once it was obvious that it was one of those from the Prince Regent’s carriage-house that Annemarie had seen the day before, every detail indicating quality and comfort, from the soft green-velvet upholstery inside to the team of four matched bays outside, steaming in the downpour. Twice as roomy, the carpeted interior was like a sumptuous cocoon in which they could hear themselves speak without having to shout. When the carriage moved off, bouncing gently over the verge which set the tassels swinging, Annemarie peered out of the window to catch a glimpse of Lord Verne mounting his horse. ‘So who did he bring this carriage for?’ she said. ‘And, for that matter, what is he doing here?’
Their baggage was now stored safely in a rack above their heads, leaving the last mile to Reigate to provide Annemarie with a revised plan of action, for now she had lost not only her private conveyance but also the secrecy that was paramount to the success of her mission. Whatever plan she could come up with would have to include Lord Verne, whether she liked it or not.
* * *
The Swan at Reigate had accommodated the Prince Regent’s guests many times before and the businesslike host who might have assigned the occupants of a clapped-out post-chaise to a back room had no hesitation whatever in showing Lord Verne’s lady, however bedraggled, to the best bedroom where a boy was even then lighting a fire in the cast-iron grate. Annemarie’s whispered objection to Lord Verne as they entered the Swan’s portals had received a terse reply. ‘This is not what I had planned, my lord,’ she told him, holding the portmanteau away from her damp pelisse. ‘I intended to go straight on after changing horses. I cannot delay, you see.’
Travellers off the stagecoach were stomping in, damp, stiff, crumpled and hungry, and wishing their plans were more flexible. The passageway smelled of wet wool and leather, and Lord Verne’s only response was to place an arm across her back to move her on and to say, ‘Yes, we’ll discuss it when we’ve dried off, shall we? Have you eaten since you left home?’
‘No, I intended—’
‘Then come down to my private parlour when you’re ready. I’ve ordered a meal. You can lock your room. Your valuables will be quite safe while we eat.’
Following the landlord up the polished staircase, there was no chance for her to argue before she and Evie were ushered into the best chamber, low-beamed and pine-scented, cosily furnished and creaky-floored. Assured of the Swan’s very best service, however slight, the two were left alone to recover from their ordeal.
* * *
In his chamber next door, Lord Verne’s air of quiet satisfaction was picked up by his valet who had now seen the latest object of his master’s interest, after much speculation. ‘So far so good, m’lord,’ he ventured, holding a clean shirt in front of the fire. ‘Like clockwork, I’d say.’
Verne made no reply. Luck had played a part. The weather, for one thing. One of the coachmen from the royal stables had been present at the posting-house when Ash, who had had several jobs in Brighton before being employed by Lady Golding’s late husband, had tried to hire a post-chaise. The coachman had commiserated with him about the lack of choice, had heard him hire it on his mistress’s behalf for the next morning and then, because he had seen her with Lord Verne that same day, had gone to tell him, thus receiving a nice little warmer for his pocket along with his lordship’s thanks. From that, it needed little more than common sense to see that the lady’s impetuosity, of which he had been warned, was at work either to distance herself from him or to pay a flying visit to the capital on some important matter. And since the post-chaise had been hired for two to three days, it had looked as if the latter was the case, verified only an hour ago by the portmanteau full of ‘valuables’ and her determination not to be parted from it. To Verne, no other explanation was likely but that the Prince Regent’s private correspondence of a highly controversial nature had been discovered, bundled into a battered old leather bag and was now intended for any publisher with the courage to make it public. He remembered well Lady Golding’s passionate criticism of the Prince’s excessive spending habits and how unfair it was that Lady Hamilton was having to sell her effects to make ends meet. It would be just like her, Verne thought, to turn the letters over for some exorbitant sum to give to Lady Hamilton, for she herself would not wish to benefit from their sale. Not at all.
Not at all? ‘Except...’ he said, breathing the word out loud.
‘M’lord?’ Samson said, eyebrows raised.
Lady Golding’s thinly veiled dislike of the Prince Regent was surely another good reason why she would not think twice about discrediting him, making him a laughing-stock and the butt of coarse jests about his latest passions and short-lived amours. According to Mrs Cardew, the prince had even thrown out lures to Lady Benistone. That would be good enough reason for Lady Golding to sell the letters, make some money for the destitute recipient and bring his Highness down in the eyes of all Europe who, this summer, thronged the capital at his expense. She would see it as a justification, a kind of retribution for the hurts she had suffered at men’s hands.
Verne had refrained from telling her what he’d heard about her late husband, how the high regard of his superiors did not accord with the opinions of those lower down the pecking order concerning his appalling harshness and bullying ways. If his manner as the older husband of a beautiful and sensitive young woman was anything like his reputation as a lieutenant-general, then she must have had a hard time of it, he thought, and no wonder she was wary and standoffish. Especially after the brief but devastating episode with Mytchett, of all the pernicious little toads. Why had somebody not warned her? What had Lord Benistone been thinking of?
He waited until Samson had arranged his cravat to both their satisfactions and then requested his valet’s unwavering attention. He was to make the acquaintance of Evie, Lady Golding’s maid. An attractive young lady, yes?
‘Indeed she is, m’lord. You want me to get...er...friendly?’
‘I don’t want you to ravish her, lad. No. I know your kind of friendly.’
‘M’lord!’ Samson sounded hurt.
‘Never mind “m’lord!” Just listen. This is what you do.’
Then followed detailed instructions, with allowances for some variations, that made good use of Samson’s youthful experiences at the more disreputable end of London from which Verne had once rescued him.
* * *
Ash’s warning about the timing of the journey was, as it turned out, not far off the mark, for now it was late afternoon, the sky darkening with ominous intent, and Annemarie ought to have been glad of comfort and shelter when so many other travellers had no choice but to carry on. Not expecting to influence Lord Verne’s plans in the slightest, she was nevertheless determined to try, for the longer she remained here with the letters, which she was convinced he knew of, the more difficult it would be to ensure their safety. After all, she would have to leave the room occasionally and could hardly carry the portmanteau with her wherever she went. Not being of a particularly wily nature, she had not considered removing the letters from the bag and putting them somewhere else, which anyone more used to that kind of thing would have done. As long as they were there, locked up, not even Evie would stumble upon them, she thought.
‘You must go down and bring some food back on a tray as soon as I’ve gone,’ she told Evie, ‘but lock the door after you and again when you return.’
‘Yes, m’lady,’ Evie said, frowning at the muddied half-boot on the end of her arm. ‘Is there bad company, then?’
‘You never know,’ said Annemarie, glancing in the mirror and preferring not to elaborate on the bad company that awaited her downstairs, thinking that he would be as unimpressed by her inappropriate dress for dinner as she’d been by his.
Downstairs, she sought out the obliging landlord to ask about the availability of a post-chaise to take her on to London that evening. The news was catastrophic. There had been a landslide on Reigate Hill that had washed the road clean away, which was why the stagecoach passengers were still there instead of moving on. No one and nothing would be able to use the road until it was cleared, he said. Much better to stay put, for the time being. ‘Ah, m’lord...I was just telling—’
‘Indeed, Hitchcock,’ said Lord Verne, appearing through the milling guests. ‘I’ve just heard the news. Bad for travellers, good for landlords, eh? Lady Golding and I will have our supper as soon as it’s convenient, if you please.’
‘It’ll be with you in a matter of moments, m’lord. M’lady.’ He bowed himself away, wondering why Lady Golding was so anxious to leave by herself in the middle of a thunderstorm.
Far from being unimpressed by Annemarie’s appearance, Verne could hardly take his eyes off her, for the mulberry-coloured pelisse had given no hint of the pale mauve creation beneath: long, lace-frilled sleeves, low neckline and tiny bodice which she had tried to conceal with a lilac-patterned shawl of finest cashmere. Faint mudstains still clung to the hem, but these hardly showed in the shadowy candle-lit parlour, and now her hair was piled high in thick tumbling waves only just held up by a gauzy scarf shot with silver threads. As when he’d first seen her, the effect was sensationally negligent due in part, he thought, to her extraordinary beauty and the way she moved, like a gazelle. He also assumed that she must have brought little with her in the way of clothes.
This was the first time Annemarie had seen him in evening dress and the sharp opening salvo she had prepared evaporated in the genteel atmosphere of the cosy parlour, the blazing fire, the well-laid table and his amazing elegance. ‘Lord Verne,’ she began, ‘I really must thank you for—’
‘Will you be seated, my lady? A glass of sherry, or madeira?’
‘Yes, thank you. As I was saying—’
‘Your room? Will you be comfortable there? Have you stayed here before?’
She took the glass from him with a sigh. ‘You’re not going to allow me to thank you, are you? So let me try another angle, my lord. Why did you follow me from Brighton with an empty carriage belonging to his Royal Highness?’
His white knee-breeches glowed pink in the firelight as he settled himself opposite her in a high winged chair, like her own. Placing his glass on the small side-table, he smiled at her indulgently. ‘You are convinced that I followed you, are you not? Well, in a sense, I did, but only because I happened to set off when you did. I’m returning the Prince’s carriage, you see, and this is the day I would normally leave Brighton. I do this most weeks. I thought I’d told you.’ In the circumstances, he thought, there was no harm in stretching the truth just a little further than usual.
‘So you prefer to get soaked rather than ride in the carriage?’
‘I need my horse for the return journey and I’ve no intention of taking my curricle out on roads like river-beds. It was just fortunate that we caught up with you when we did, otherwise...’
‘Yes. Otherwise. And now I’m stuck here until the road is cleared, which is not at all what I’d planned. I need to reach London as a matter of some urgency.’ His explanation about returning the carriage was not convincing. The horse could easily have been led behind while he stayed dry.
‘As we all do,’ he said, ‘but at least you now have a place to stay until tomorrow. Then I’ll convey you through the side roads and we can be there before mid-day if we set off early enough. Will that suit you? The coachman knows all the alternative routes like the back of his hand.’
‘Thank you. Yes.’
‘But...?’ he whispered, catching the note of doubt in her thanks.
Tipping the amber-coloured liquid in her glass to catch the reflections, she shook her head, accepting the inevitable with obvious reluctance. ‘But...it seems to me, my lord, that each of our chance meetings has so far resulted in me being obliged to do something I don’t particularly want to do. It’s all getting rather predictable, isn’t it? Perhaps, once we reach London, we might try harder to avoid each other. I shall certainly do so.’
‘Not a chance,’ he said. ‘I cannot agree to that. What an absurd suggestion.’
Until you get what you want, my lord. Then you’ll disappear fast enough.
‘Ah, yes, the bureau. Of course. I’d almost forgotten the bureau. Do give his Highness my apologies, won’t you, and tell him how well it looks in my room?’
His smile at her sarcasm was lazily understanding, sending shivers through her in spite of the warm fire. She need not have tried to rile him or sail so close to the wind with her reference to the bureau, but some devil in her told her to tease him, tempt him and pull back safely, playing the arrogant creature at his own game. The devil had not reminded her, however, that the arrogant creature was a past master at this kind of thing, whereas she had no expertise at all.
‘You may be sure that I will convey your message to him, word for word,’ he said. ‘And is your business with Christie’s so urgent, my lady?’
‘Private,’ she said. ‘Nothing anyone need know about.’
‘I only ask because I could take you either straight there or to Montague Street. Whichever you prefer.’
‘Neither. I shall stay on Park Lane with Mrs Cardew. I have my own good reasons for not wanting my father to know I’m in town. He’d want to know what I’m selling, who to, how much for, that kind of thing. It’s best if he doesn’t know.’
‘Exactly. Parents can be over-curious and well meaning, can’t they?’
Annemarie stared at him. ‘You have parents, too?’ she said.
The sherry in his glass slopped dangerously before he managed to anchor it to the table. Then, with a cough and a thump upon his shirt-front, he was able to answer, ‘Oh...indeed...I think so...somewhere.’
‘Oh, dear. I beg your pardon. Of course you do. I only meant...’ Placing a hand to her forehead, Annemarie could only blame the day, the warmth, the sherry and the anxiety of the moment for her lapse of good manners. She was saved from having to explain her train of thought by the arrival of dinner borne by white-aproned waiters who soon covered the table with dish after dish, releasing succulent aromas of steaming meats, pies and sauces as the silver domes were lifted off. She suddenly realised that her last meal had been a hurried breakfast, that she was desperately hungry and that, as Lord Verne’s guest, she had an obligation to be civil. There was no need, she told herself, to fear the change of plan for she still had the letters and was on the way to returning them to their owner. This was merely a hitch. Nothing more. There was nothing Lord Verne could do about that.
He was a more amiable host than she had been those few evenings ago, helping her courteously to the best portions of roast pigeon, pork with apple sauce, baked trout and fresh vegetables cooked to perfection, like the fried celery with melted butter. Between morsels, she tried to redeem her blunder by asking him about his family on the basis that men love nothing more than to talk about themselves. She soon discovered that, unlike Sir Richard, this man was much less forthcoming on the subject of his personal life, and all she was at first able to glean, without seeming to be over-curious, was that he was the eldest son of the Marquis of Simonstoke, near Salisbury, and that he had three siblings, one of whom was the mother of three small children. She was surprised at how much more she wanted to know. She wanted to keep him talking, to watch his face without seeming to stare. His hair sweeps over the tops of his ears. How many women has he made love to? Does he have mistresses? She was silent, wondering how to find out about his work for the Prince, which she could easily have done a few nights ago, had she not been so annoyed. He had placed his knife and fork down and leaned back in his chair, one tanned hand on the white tablecloth, his index finger just touching the stem of his glass, stroking...slowly. As if it was skin...mine... ‘And your work with his Highness? I fear Sir Richard never had a very high opinion of his taste.’ She regretted it, instantly. To hide behind a dead man’s disapproval was cowardly, to say the least. She should learn to form her own opinions about such things.
Unsmiling, he countered her clumsy remark. ‘And but for one remarkable exception, his Highness never rated your late husband’s taste very highly either, my lady.’ Before Annemarie could pick up on the remarkable exception, he went on in defence of his royal patron. ‘Have you met him?’
‘Once, at his inauguration as Regent at Carlton House three years ago. It was not a comfortable experience.’
‘Well then, you saw a different man from the way he was in his youth. I met him first when I was a lad, and he could not have been kinder or more courteous to me, when he had far more important things to do. When he heard I was interested, he showed me his paintings and porcelain and told me how to recognise the makers, and I can tell you there’s little wrong with his taste in fine things. If he dresses rather flamboyantly, that’s his nature. He won’t pretend to be what he isn’t. You either like him, or you don’t.’
‘You said he was a fine horseman, too.’
‘He is. One of the best and most knowledgeable. And before you tell me horses cost a fortune, I agree, they do. He wants only the best, but I can’t dislike a man for that. So do I.’
‘Which is why, I suppose, you profess to pursue what you want and make it yours. A fine sentiment, my lord, but quite unrealistic, apart from causing unnecessary heartache.’
‘I’m glad you remembered my words. Keep them in mind.’
‘I will. Your loyalty to his Highness is commendable, but I have never thought that a penchant for the finer things of life gives one the licence to ignore one’s duty as a husband and father. Or as a future king, either.’
It was obvious to them both that, as the words slipped out, warmed on good food and wine, she had her own father in mind as well as the Prince Regent. Verne’s silence allowed her judgement to go unchallenged while her eyes flickered away from his and she made a play of pulling her shawl more closely around her shoulders to hide the peachy skin from his sight. The conversation had swung round to herself, the very thing she had wished to avoid. Perhaps she ought not to have mentioned his royal employer when she had so recently discovered material that could damage him beyond repair.
‘I take it, then, my lady, that you would derive some satisfaction from seeing erring husbands dealt with harshly. Do you have anything particular in mind?’
Deep waters. Too deep to wade into at this time of night. Any further and she would have verified what he already suspected. ‘It was your work I meant to ask about, my lord, not the Prince Regent’s qualities, or lack of them.’
Accepting her retreat with a nod of his head and what Annemarie thought was a barely disguised grin of satisfaction, he passed her a plate of fruit tartlets. ‘Will you try one?’ he said. ‘I can recommend them.’
‘Thank you. Your approval of fruit tarts must be reliable, at least.’
Concentrating on the first sweet mouthful, she did not see his reaction, though she heard the deep laughter at her riposte, and the rest of the meal was conducted in an atmosphere of amicable stalemate.
* * *
Some time before the table was cleared and glasses of wine taken back to their fireside chairs, Annemarie felt herself succumbing to the appeal of Verne’s company. If only their motives had not diverged so acutely. He had the kind of intelligence she admired, but what would he be making of her limited knowledge and experience? His manners, apart from one aberration, were faultless, but how could one overlook the immoral behaviour that epitomised his old regiment, The Prince of Wales’s Own? Was he the exception he claimed to be? He was loyal, but was his loyalty misplaced? Or did it show that he preferred to see strengths rather than weaknesses, even when these were serious? His personal magnetism went without saying, but what was his record with women? To her bewilderment, he had tried his charm on her, with some success. Obviously, he was well practised and sure of himself, sure of getting what he wanted and of walking away afterwards without a backward glance, but how she would love to call his bluff, for what had been that question on dealing harshly with erring husbands if not about what she intended to do with the letters? He was probing, of course, and she could keep him guessing even after the return of the letters to Lady Hamilton.
Seated once again in the comfortable fireside chair, waves of exhaustion threatened to extinguish the hostility hovering over their conversation, none of which was lost upon her host when words with more than two syllables began to suffer noticeably and stifled yawns kept her black-lashed eyelids weighed down with tiredness.
In different circumstances, he would never have taken advantage of a woman’s weakness. But Verne had concluded some time ago that this situation called for something altogether more dramatic, something that would make an impression on her other than the rescue, the accommodation, the food, wine and company, something that would shake the foundations of the contempt for men upon which she was building her opinions. She might well be fighting fatigue, but he was a reasonably good judge of women and, although her particular problems were new to him, he knew that it would not be her memory that would suffer in the morning, but her conscience, and therefore her attitude towards himself. That had to change, for he had not been deceived by her attempts at politeness in between the embittered remarks, nor did he believe she was as unaffected by him as she pretended to be. There was an interest there that she would like to have kept hidden, which Mrs Cardew herself had noticed, as he had. It was time for her to be stirred out of her complications.
‘How long do you intend to stay in London?’ he asked.
Blinking, she summoned back the wariness with an effort. Was it something she should be telling him? ‘Not long,’ she said, blearily. ‘I have to find someone first.’ She did not notice his sudden alertness, nor her own indiscretion.
‘Lady Benistone?’ he ventured.
A sad frown clouded her eyes as she tried to focus on him, nodding her head as if he’d uncovered a secret thought. ‘What do you know about Lady Benistone?’ she asked. ‘You were out of the country.’
Smoothly, he replied. ‘Yes, and now I’m back.’
‘It’s time I was going.’ With astonishing speed, she was out of the chair and swivelling towards the door with one foot treading upon the long shawl that her other foot was holding down. Her legs, usually so agile, refused to compensate.
He caught her as she fell, knocking over the small table and sending the empty glass bouncing across the floor, holding her hard against him until she could untangle her feet. But although she clung to him for support, she was tired and needled by his mention of a painful subject, by her feet being stuck in folds of cashmere and by trying to hold back the guilty stirrings of a physical attraction she had sworn never again to release. Her usual composure deserted her along with the last remains of her energy as she tried to twist herself out of his restraint, pushing instead of clinging. Too tired even to plead for release, she felt the predictable tightening of his arms and the pressure of his hard thighs and, without knowing quite how it happened, the warm searching invasion of his mouth over hers, silencing even the thoughts that waited there.
Warnings evaporated. Resistance became compliance and, with her rock-solid objections wavering in the deepest corners of her mind she was carried helplessly on a wave of bliss that her body craved, but had never experienced. No kiss she had known or imagined compared to those few moments when nothing was required of her except to bathe in his exciting closeness and to let him show her what he had meant by ‘a man’s hand’. A man’s kiss, not an old man’s or a boy’s. Exhausted as she was, untutored and still nagged by latent hostility, she could tell the difference.
He had known that, for the first few moments at least, she would lack the energy and motivation to protest, but he could not have predicted her unexpected eagerness that went way beyond his hopes. Nor had he quite foreseen how his first taste of her lips threatened to drive from his usually cool head any thought of restraint or regard for her inexperience. A widow she might be, but of lovemaking she probably knew little beyond what two short disastrous encounters had taught her. Yet in his arms she was softened by tiredness and pent-up desire that neither of them had managed to hide. What hot-blooded male would resist the temptation to prolong the experience for the sake of tomorrow’s recriminations?
He felt the sinuous bending of her body and the reach of one hand towards his ear, effectively permitting him to drink deeply at the lips he had watched all evening, even while remaining aware of how, at any moment, she might take flight as she had almost done moments before. Carefully, expertly, his mouth moved over the silken skin of her throat, his hand deep in her hair to hold her entranced and yielding to the butterfly touch that travelled erratically so that she could not anticipate its course towards the skimpy bodice, shoulder and neck, then to the beautiful rising mounds of her breasts.
She gasped and held his jaw to stop the journey, telling him by her signal that here lurked a spectre dark enough to break the spell. He closed her startled eyes with his whispers and soft kisses. ‘Hush, my beauty. Stand still.’ Lapping at her lips one last time, he drew away just far enough to keep her there, half-expecting an explosion of outrage, once her awareness had returned to berate her conscience.
But there was no explosion, only breathless words of reproach, clearly linking his desires to more material matters. ‘This is not the way, my lord,’ she said. ‘There is really...no need...’
‘No need to what?’
‘To go to these lengths to get what you want. Following me to London. Dining with me. Now...this. I am not to be bought...this way.’
‘You think that I arranged for the rain and a landslide? You credit me with more influence than I deserve, my lady. This was not planned any more than your stumble against me was, but if I take advantage of the situation, who would blame me?’
‘I would. Most people would. It is not the conduct of a gentleman towards a lady, nor is it the way to get at the bureau.’
‘To hell with the bureau,’ he said, brusquely. ‘That’s the last thing on my mind while I’m standing here with you in my arms, believe me.’
His plain speaking made her blush and she looked away angrily. ‘I wish I could believe that,’ she whispered.
‘Do you? You still think this is all about persuasion? You think I have no more regard for your intelligence than to think you’d fall for that kind of low trick? That I would use coercion of this kind to change your mind about a piece of furniture? Saints alive, woman! What kind of man do you take me for, a rogue, like Mytchett?’
‘Leave him out of it, if you please.’
‘Gladly. But answer my question.’
‘I cannot!’ she cried, squirming against him. ‘All I know is that you have your orders and that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? How should I know what kind of a man you are, my lord? You must have heard how skilfully I form opinions in that direction.’
‘Yes, I have. Stop struggling and listen to me.’
‘Let me go!’
‘No. Listen. This is not what you believe.’
‘You will never convince me of that, my lord. If I did not own something you’d been told to get hold of at any cost, you would show no more interest in Lord Benistone’s scandalous daughter than in any other widow. I suggest you return to one of your mistresses in London...or wherever...and let her take your mind off things. I’m not such a hen-brain that I can’t see when I am being used. I’ve learned a thing or two in one year.’
‘Wrong on two counts,’ he said, keeping her pressed against the wall, though now he held her face in one warm hand while his thumb stroked softly across her chin and lips, his other hand clasping her wrist against his shoulder. ‘Shall I tell you?’
‘No.’
‘One is that, having discovered the existence last weekend of Lord Benistone’s scandalous daughter, owning her has become more important to me than anything she owns. When I said that I pursue what I want and make it mine, you knew then that I meant you. Didn’t you?’
‘No.’
He smiled, moving the soft pad of his thumb again. ‘Little liar. That kiss, by the way, was not meant to make you angry, but to show you that I was serious. I want you, Lady Annemarie Golding.’
‘That’s ridiculous!’ she said.. ‘Utterly—’
The thumb pressed softly, stopping the protest. ‘On the second count, I don’t have a mistress in London or anywhere else and, even if I did, she would not manage to take my mind off things, as you call them. My mind has been on you since we met, my scandalous, damaged, reclusive beauty, and I intend to take you back into society and show you what you’ve been missing.’
‘I know what I’ve been missing,’ she retorted.
‘No, you don’t.’ The way he said it, looking deeply into her eyes with such intensity, left her in no doubt of what he meant.
‘Lord Verne, just because my parents had an unorthodox relationship before their marriage, you should not assume that they would approve of their daughters doing the same. Besides, I want no more to do with men. I have decided to take full control of my life. Alone. You think I need help. Well, I don’t. I can manage.’
‘As you did today, you mean?’
‘I would have managed, one way or another.’
‘So was it better to do it my way? Or yours?’
‘Safer, and possibly more comfortable,’ she said, ignoring the ambiguity.
‘Safer,’ he echoed, softly. ‘So you’re going to play safe for the rest of your life, my lady, and let a bad experience colour your views of mankind in general. A woman of your calibre should not be hiding herself away from the world, in case—’
‘I see! So I’m a coward! That’s what you’re saying? Let go of me!’
Having been quite prepared for her fury at his accusation of faint-heartedness, his hard body and arms closed like a vice around her, tilting her head back against his deep-blue coat for another kiss that gave her a glimpse of what she had been missing, whether she would admit it or not. From beneath his searching lips, a mewing cry emerged as she felt his hand pass down her body from breast to thigh, lingering over each undulation with a gentle pressure that spanned her like an octave before the return journey. Yet this most intimate and indecent caress held her spellbound with a confusion of guilty pleasures. While she knew that any well-brought-up woman would have resisted it to her utmost, she let it happen, abandoning her lips to his in a sweet distraction of senses. Thoughts of outrage scattered in all directions, leaving nothing except the deep rapture of desire, of being made to feel rare and precious, not for a man’s pleasure alone, which had always sullied her previous experiences. She felt herself become still again under his touch, waiting for the next caress, for the direction of his kisses, for the intoxicating male scent of him, the taste of his skin and the softness of his hair on her fingertips, his support of her wilting body.
It had gone too far. Her fine words about controlling her life were meaningless. He must have known, even then, how he could change all that. He also knew how to be gracious as the victor. ‘I shall not let you go,’ he whispered against her cheek. ‘But no more decisions now. We’ll talk again tomorrow. You need to sleep.’
‘I shall not sleep.’
‘You will. I’ll take you up. Come, can you stand? Take my arm.’
‘Lord Verne,’ she said, pressing her lips with the back of her hand.
‘My lady?’ he said, smiling at the gesture.
‘You have compromised me. It was most unfair of you.’
‘My lady, only you and I know what has passed between us. To the rest of the world, we met on the road and dined together. That’s all. We sleep in different rooms and tomorrow I shall be offering you a lift in my carriage while I ride outside. Now what could be more correct than that? Whatever agreement we reach in the morning will be the result of an amicable discussion taken over breakfast, although I should warn you that my mind is already made up. I dare say yours might take a little longer.’
Exactly what this so-called discussion would be about Annemarie was not sure, for he had not proposed anything more specific than wanting her, which she dismissed as meaning wanting what she had, in spite of his denials. The need for sleep, however, was greater than her need to understand, so she allowed him to draw her hand through his arm as he opened the door, walking out into the passageway to the distant sound of laughter coming from the taproom.
But as he walked back to his room, Verne recalled Mrs Cardew’s advice that, if he wanted to make headway with Annemarie, he must first find the mother. Better than that, he thought, would be to help Annemarie to find her, and to do that, she must venture out into society, with him. What better reason than that did he need to stay close to her, as he’d told her he would?