Mistress Masquerade

* * *

Annemarie kept herself apart, fighting the temptation to run upstairs and shut herself away until he’d gone, her head echoing to his words, a statement of intent more than a challenge. After almost a twelvemonth, it was not what she needed to hear from any man hoping to find favour with her. Perhaps he believed that, after such a public disappointment, she would be desperate to regain her former standing in the fickle world of the ton, or that she was waiting for some bold knight to rescue a woman left desolate and pining. Nothing could be further from the truth. She wanted nothing any man had to offer, not even the nonsense about pursuing and owning. And for another thing, he was one of the Prince Regent’s set, and that condemned him in her eyes as irrevocably as all the rest put together.

All the rest? That tall athletic presence, too? The smooth doeskin breeches covering long muscular thighs, the matching waistcoat, under a creation that must have come from Weston of Old Bond Street, covering a deep chest. No padding or lacing there, she was certain of it. The impeccably arranged neckcloth and white cuffs, a single diamond pin and gold fob-watch on a fine chain were the kind of elegance that Mr Brummell advocated. Nothing to attract attention. That trend-setting gentleman, however, had no say over a man’s physique or natural comeliness, and heaven knew she had seen enough men to know when one was several cuts above the rest. His long unmannerly stare had given her time to do the same and, although her scrutiny was not meant to approve, her reluctant conclusion was that his was the handsomest countenance she had ever seen.

She had also taken note of the ruthlessness there, too, the square chin and steel-grey eyes, the quick lift of his head when he’d sparred with her, determined not to be bested. His dark hair was a tangle of deep waves that had obviously resisted any attempt to tame it and there was a streak of white from his brow that disappeared into the rest, like foam on the sea. She had seen the manicured nails, the dusting of dark hairs on the backs of his strong hands, an unsettling detail that reminded her of how dangerous such a man could be.

Still, there was one comforting thought: he would not be getting her bureau for any price, so he might as well go quietly and leave her alone. As for Cecily’s contribution, that was one of those annoying but forgivable mistakes, a result of her natural friendliness and her longing to re-establish Annemarie’s connection with the beau monde that had been allowed to lapse.

This time, Cecily’s enthusiasm was somewhat misplaced when she added her voice to Lord Benistone’s invitation. ‘Yes, indeed, my lord, of course you must dine with us. Miss Marguerite and I will be leaving for Lady Sindlesham’s ball later on, but Lord Benistone loves nothing more than to hear who has acquired what. Annemarie, my dear, will you allow me to go and speak to cook?’ A response seemed to be superfluous when Cecily was already halfway to the door, leaving Verne wondering exactly who was mistress here, Mrs Cardew or Lady Golding.

Cecily’s unique position within the family caused such anomalies to happen occasionally. She meant well, but what annoyed Annemarie more was the almost indecently brisk acceptance by which the tenacious Lord Verne took advantage of her father’s craving for men like himself to converse with. In no time at all, the two of them were away into Lord Benistone’s inner sanctum, talking nineteen to the dozen as if they had known each other for years instead of minutes, all protests about not being properly dressed for dinner dismissed with a wave of the master’s hand. ‘No matter, dear boy. Neither shall I be. No time for that. Never have. Nobody minds here. Come and tell me if his Highness has a bronze like this.’ And away they went without a backward glance, leaving Annemarie fuming at her own impotence.

Somebody did mind. She did. She preferred it if people dressed for dinner. What else would they dress for if not for the evening? She could hardly blame her father for latching on to a man so closely involved with the Prince Regent’s treasures, but she knew that this man had come here for something he was sure he could get, one way or another. And Lord Benistone was such a generous and obliging man, far too willing to say yes because it took less effort than to say no. With the latter, explanations were usually needed.

* * *

After their acrimonious introduction, it would have been quite unrealistic for Lord Verne to expect anything from Lady Golding except a polite frostiness, which is exactly what she delivered, even though etiquette demanded that they sat next to each other. Obviously, she was not inclined to exert herself for his sake, but no one seemed to notice when the youngest sister was intent on making enough effort for both of them with her girlish chatter.

Dressed in her white ballgown, the young lady looked astonishingly pretty with dark brown curls framing features that, in another year or two, would become more classically beautiful, though never as stunning as her sister. She did not possess anything like Lady Golding’s intelligence or depth either, her eagerness to please reminding Verne of a puppy that went into raptures at the sight of an audience. Especially a male audience. The eldest sister, Miss Oriel Benistone, was dining out that evening so he was not able to compare the siblings further, but the father and his cousin kept up a stream of conversation between them that made Lady Golding’s studied silence seem piquant to Verne. Even enjoyable. It was some time since he’d met such tangible hostility and never from a lovely woman. The situation was intriguing, all the more so when his brief was to get results at all costs.

Inevitably, the conversation turned to the elusive bureau wanted by the Prince Regent for Carlton House, the ongoing renovations of which were so much over budget that he was having to petition Parliament for extra funds for their completion. Miss Marguerite Benistone aired the question her father was too polite to ask. ‘Doesn’t the Prince have enough funds of his own, Lord Verne?’

Verne smiled indulgently at her. ‘His Highness never has enough funds. The Pavilion at Brighton is another half-finished project costing huge sums in improvement and decoration.’

‘Not to mention,’ said Annemarie, unexpectedly, ‘the cost of entertaining the crowned heads of Europe this summer after a war that has drained the country of every spare penny. No wonder Lady Hamilton is having to sell her effects to make ends meet. We shall all be doing the same if his Highness insists on covering the rooftops of his Pavilion with fancy Indian domes.’

‘You don’t approve of the Prince, I take it?’ said Verne, goading her.

Before she could answer, Mrs Cardew stepped smartly into the breach. ‘Ah, but think of all those celebrations in the parks since Bonaparte was taken into custody, all the dances and routs, all the returning militia to entertain. Did you serve in the King’s army, my lord?’

‘Until a few months ago, ma’am. I was in the Peninsula Wars with the Prince of Wales’s Own Regiment.’ He knew that would only confirm Lady Golding’s assumption that, as one of the Prince Regent’s cronies, he was sure to be as unprincipled as the rest of them. The 10th Hussars were best known for glamour, wealth, women, drinking and riotous behaviour, amongst other things. The knowledge would do nothing to endear him to her, he was sure. Idly, he wondered where Mrs Cardew stood in the scheme of things. Did she live here with Lord Benistone as dedicated chaperon, or was she simply an obliging cousin? Would it be worth cultivating her help to get what he wanted? He touched his forehead just below the white streak. ‘I have found that making a study of antiquity is safer than pursuing angry Frenchmen.’

‘Oh,’ said Marguerite, ‘but you must know how all English ladies simply hero-worship Napoleon Bonaparte, Lord Verne. Such a stern, scowling face must send goose-pimples...what? Oh!’ A look from her father, and Mrs Cardew’s gentle hand on her arm, stopped the gushing tribute in mid-flow as she directed her limpid brown eyes towards Annemarie’s stony expression. ‘Oh...yes, of course. Sorry, Annemarie.’

With the slightest shake of her head, Annemarie dismissed the gaffe without explaining its significance to Lord Verne. But Verne had already made the connection, during his two hours with Lord Benistone, that Annemarie was the widow of Sir Richard Golding, one of Wellington’s best officers, killed by French sniper fire early in 1812. Married less than a year and known to everyone as a brilliant man, his death had been a great loss. Her grief must have been terrible, but obviously not enough to penetrate the consciousness of her younger sister.

Grasping at any subject of mutual interest, Lord Benistone reverted to buying and selling. ‘So this bureau you’re after, Verne. How much did you say his Highness is prepared to pay for it?’

‘No, Father!’ said Annemarie before Verne could reply. ‘It belongs to me, remember? It’s not for sale. Not at any price. If his Highness wants a pair, he can easily have one made to match and, in any case, if he’s as short of money as all that, he ought not to be offering to buy an expensive piece of furniture, ought he?’

Her father, blinking in guilt at his daughter’s pertinent reminder, gestured vaguely with his dessert spoon ‘Well then, there you are, Verne. If you want to get to the bureau, you’ll have to get to Annemarie first, eh?’ The shocked uncomfortable silence lasted for what seemed like an eternity until, to ease the embarrassment, he continued. ‘I was speaking in jest, of course. The bureau will be on its way to Brighton first thing in the morning and so will Annemarie. His Highness will have to find something else, won’t he?’

Mrs Cardew’s contribution, meant to ease the tension, did not have quite the desired effect. ‘Lady Golding’s other home is in Brighton, you see,’ she told Verne, who had seen that some time ago and had been thinking ever since how strange it was that he’d never met her there. ‘She does not care for the London crowds.’

‘I think you need not explain for me, Cecily dear,’ said Annemarie. ‘Lord Verne has more important matters to occupy his mind than where I choose to spend my time. May we drop the subject now and talk of something else?’

But her father’s idea of dropping a subject was not hers. ‘Look here, Annemarie. What was I saying to you only today about travelling all that way on your own? Eh? Now why don’t we ask Verne to accompany you, just to keep an eye on things?’

‘No, Father! Absolutely not! I prefer my own company, thank you.’

Lord Benistone heaved a sigh, waved his spoon again like a white flag of surrender and plunged it into his baked apple and clotted cream. ‘No, of course not,’ he said. ‘What am I thinking of? Verne will be tied up with the Prince’s business from morn till night. A busy time for you, young man.’ The spoonful disappeared into his mouth and the conversation swung away smoothly to less contentious matters concerning the mammoth task of accommodating the European royals, some of whom had other ideas about staying with the Prince Regent whose interminable meals bored them to tears.

It was no hardship to Verne to feed delectable snippets of harmless royal gossip to fascinated ladies and, although the one who interested him most refused to respond, the pleasure he derived from sitting beside her lifted the exercise to a different level, knowing that she listened, weaving him into her own thoughts. She would be thinking, naturally, that he was ingratiating himself with her father in order to obtain the bureau through him. In her present defensive mode, seething with resentment and distrust of men, she would be planning how to shake him off, how to keep him at a distance, how to strengthen the shield that guarded her damaged heart which, after a death and a desertion in the space of two years, would still be aching, to say the least.

He could try the leisured approach, but that would take more time than he had. Then there was the other kind, more of a risk, intended to unsettle her, to provoke her into doing something rash and to remind her that she was desirable. The choice was easy.

* * *

Once the meal was over, Mrs Cardew and Marguerite took their leave of the company, giving Verne the chance to make his excuses also. In the deserted hall, he lingered to speak alone with Annemarie, who had watched her father’s retreat with barely concealed alarm. His blunt question was intended to catch her off-guard, though it was less than successful. ‘You are still annoyed with me, my lady? For coming to your table in my topboots, or for pursuing my duty to the Prince Regent?’

‘Your duty, my lord, appears to have been pursued with some tenacity. What his Highness will say when you return empty-handed I refuse to speculate. That’s your problem, not mine. As for the boots...’ she looked down at the twinkle of candles on the immaculate leather ‘...I suppose one must be thankful they’re not covered in mud.’

‘Your father assured me I would be excused, my lady.’

‘My father would find an excuse for a fox eating his best hen, my lord. He obligingly believes his code is good enough for the rest of us. He’s never needed to justify anything he does, which can be endearing, but at other times not so.’

‘Then I can only apologise. I could easily have gone to change. My home is in Bedford Square, only a five-minute walk away.’

‘So close? I did not realise.’

‘Or you might have insisted? Well, if I’d realised who lived only a five-minute walk away from me, my lady, I would have called here months ago.’

‘On what pretext? To find something else his Highness cannot live without?’

‘No. This.’

His move towards her was too fast for her to see or avoid and before she could step backwards, his hand was gripping through the short frill that sufficed for a sleeve, his other hand slipping round to the back of her neck, bringing her mouth to his for a searching kiss that went far beyond a polite farewell. She was too astonished to protest or retaliate before the softness of her beautiful mouth gave way under his. Her hand came up to push at his shoulder, but by then it was too late. He had timed it to perfection. He prepared himself to catch the blow she would be sure to aim at his head , but it did not come. Her eyelids flickered before opening wide like windows to send out a fierce glare of concentrated fury then, with one hand to her mouth, she turned and whirled away towards the staircase, almost colliding with the butler who had come to pass him his hat and gloves before letting him out.

Chapter Two

Lord Verne had not been exaggerating when he’d told Annemarie that his home on Bedford Square was only a five-minute walk away but, striding out with some urgency, he managed it in three-and-a-half. Taking the curving staircase two steps at a time, his coat, breeches and vest were in a heap on the bed before Samson, his valet, arrived to assist, showing not the slightest surprise at his master’s decision to go out again immediately, wearing evening dress. After eleven years in Lord Verne’s service, Samson had become used to the mercurial changes of direction, plans made and unmade, instructions implied rather than specified. His master was to attend a ball, that much was clear, though hardly a word was exchanged between them.

* * *

Lady Sindlesham’s house in Mayfair was not unfamiliar to Verne. On that night, it was transformed for the benefit of her royal guests, and others, who had cause to be thankful that General Bonaparte was at last in safe custody. With one ear tuned over the general hum to the rise and fall of various European languages, Verne chatted to his hostess, nodded and bowed to the foreign dignitaries and their wives who sparkled and shimmered beneath twinkling chandeliers while his sharp eyes sought out his employer, the Prince of Wales, who had been appointed Regent three years ago during his father’s serious illness. Verne sauntered across to meet him, awaiting the royal attention. Then, a few quiet words, a smile and a nod, a gentle pat on the shoulder from the pudgy royal fingers, and Verne moved away again, this time to ascertain the whereabouts of a certain Mrs Cecily Cardew with whom he had dined only that evening. Biding his time until young Marguerite Benistone had been drawn into the set by a uniformed Prussian officer, he approached as if quite by chance and, with an impeccable bow, took the lady’s jewel-laden hand in his. ‘Mrs Cardew, what a delight. Such a crush.’

Her surprise was only to be expected, but she concealed it well behind a quick survey of the immaculate long-tailed coat, white vest and knee-breeches that Lady Golding would have preferred to have seen earlier. ‘Lord Verne, you’ve just missed her. Look, there she is. Over there.’ She waved an outsized feathered fan towards Marguerite and Verne caught the ice-blue flash of diamonds on Mrs Cardew’s ear-drops that almost reached her shoulders.

‘Enchanting,’ he replied. ‘May I procure a glass of punch for you?’

She knew at once that this was not a chance meeting. ‘Might be a little dangerous with so many jostling elbows. I expect you know most of these people, my lord?’

Her silver-grey gown rippled softly as he led the way to a covered long seat between two massive curtains where tassels hung as big as chimney pots from cords like ships’ hawsers. As they sat, she inclined her head towards him as if she knew the reason why he’d sought her out immediately after his briefing from the Prince Regent. Here was a man she could trust, at last, an ally in her quest to bring some light into Annemarie’s shadowy life. Mrs Cardew missed little that went on around her. Even now, Marguerite’s every move was being monitored.

‘Many, not most,’ Verne said. ‘Sindy’s good at this kind of thing, isn’t she?’

‘She’s had plenty of practice.’ Realising how that might sound, she shot him a mischievous blue-eyed smile. ‘Oh, I don’t mean it that way. Sindy and I are old friends. Her granddaughters are Miss Marguerite’s age. They go about together, you know. That’s why she was so determined to be here.’