Mistress Masquerade

She ought to have kept quiet. She had set out the premise of a debate and now would have to refuse to elaborate. ‘Never mind,’ she whispered. ‘If you don’t recall it, then why should I? Please, which way is the exit?’

Shaking his head, he tried to hide his smile behind a knuckle as he came to stand four-square in front of her, lifting her chin to see beneath the bonnet into her deep violet eyes rimmed with black lashes long enough to sweep up moonbeams. ‘You thought I was angry when I kissed you?’ he said. ‘Really?’

She tried to move away, mortified that she had shown him so clearly what was in her mind. Secret thoughts, not to be shared. But now her back was against the cool wall, held there by his hands braced on either side of her, and she feared he meant to repeat it, after all her denials and disapprovals.

‘Since you ask, yes! Why else but to...?’

She saw his eyes widen. ‘To what? Humiliate you?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘It was unforgivable, my lord. I am not to be used so.’

‘If that’s what you believed, then it was indeed unforgivable of me and not at all what I meant. I would never use such means to humiliate a woman.’

‘Then if that is the case, please don’t say any more. We shall forget about it.’

‘I hope not,’ he murmured.

‘I would like to return home, if you please.’

‘Steady, my lady. I shall take you home, but there’s no need to go galloping off like a spooked filly.’ His head lowered to hers and she was compelled to watch his mouth, to hear the softly spoken words, few of which she could remember later, that sounded like those he might have used to a nervous horse about to bolt. Gentling. Calming. Words of admiration about breeding and class and exclusiveness, elegance and loftiness that needed a man’s hand, not an old man’s, nor a boy’s. She might have shown irritation at that too-personal opinion, but she did not, for something deep within her kept her still and listening, as though at last she was hearing the truth for the first time.

‘Come on, my beauty,’ he whispered, holding out his arm for her to take.

Placing her fingers again on the blue sleeve, she walked with him to the door, blinking at the sunlight.

Chapter Three

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.