Harlequin Historical February 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Major's Wife\To Tempt a Viking\Mistress Masquerade (47 page)

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

L
ord 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.'

‘Or she would have gone down to Brighton with her sister?'

‘Oh, I doubt that very much, my lord. There's too much going on
in London this year. Marguerite would never miss all that just to keep Annemarie
company. It's perfectly understandable. She came out only last year and the
purpose of that is to make contacts, not to hide oneself away...'

‘In Brighton?' Verne said, stepping into the pause.

Cecily's sigh could hardly be detected over the music. ‘You
were away when all that happened,' she said, ‘or you'd have known about it. Most
people have put it quite out of mind now, after a whole year, but Annemarie
believes it has ruined her, you see. To her, it's still happening, in a
way.'

Verne decided to take the bull by the horns, time being in
short supply. ‘Apart from yourself, ma'am,' he said, ‘there is no one else I
would ask and, even now, I am aware that an event such as this is hardly the
time or place to be discussing such matters. But...'

‘But perhaps it's better to hear uncomfortable things at first
hand rather than the embellished accounts of others. Don't you agree? At least
then you'll be in possession of the facts before you...well, I was going to say
before you begin manoeuvres, but that sounds rather too military. Annemarie may
have fallen short of her duties as hostess this evening, but that's not to say
she was unaffected by your presence. I've never known her use the wrong knife to
butter her bread roll before.'

‘Slender evidence of regard, Mrs Cardew.'

‘I know, but it's in the eyes too, isn't it? Hers
and
yours.'

‘Mmm,' he said. ‘So may I ask what
did
happen, ma'am?'

‘Indeed. You may already have heard that Lady Benistone was
once a very lovely and successful courtesan. Well before your time, young
man.'

At thirty-two, Verne could recognise an older woman's kindly
flattery when he heard it. ‘I had heard something to that effect,' he said.

‘She was twenty-two years her husband's junior. I say
was
, but of course she still is. We don't know where
she is. Even your employer, before he became Regent, pursued her without
success. Lord Benistone kept her in some style and eventually she agreed to
marry him. The trouble was...' she said, lowering her voice.

‘Please don't continue if you'd rather not. I shall
understand.'

‘The trouble was...well, you've seen how things are there,
haven't you? It's no kind of mess to keep a lovely woman and their three
daughters in. She was a top-drawer courtesan, so you can imagine how she felt.
Collecting was, and still is, my cousin's passion. He's not going to change now.
No shortage of money. He's always been able to buy anything he wanted.'

‘Including his wife.'

‘Even Esme Gerard. And she loved him, too. But only for so
long. He gives his entire attention to his collection and then wonders why he's
lost the only woman he ever loved. Everyone can see it but him, although I think
he's coming to realise his failings more now. Lovely man. Wrong priorities.'

‘It's not uncommon, ma'am.'

‘Unfortunately, it's not. Lady Golding...Annemarie...was
widowed only a year when it happened. Not long out of mourning and being courted
by a smooth-tongued young rake who promised her the world.'

‘Sir Lionel Mytchett.'

‘Yes, him. And if her father had taken the trouble to
investigate him, he'd have seen what was happening. The young blackguard!
Playing on her emotions.' Cecily's voice lowered again, this time in anger.
‘Wooed her for close on three months and led her to believe he was about to make
an offer for her.'

‘So she was in love with him?'

The pretty fair curls shook in denial, but the reply was less
certain. ‘Who knows? I believe it was too soon after Richard. I believe she was
probably more in love with the idea of being a married woman than with Mytchett
himself. I had offered to hold Miss Marguerite's coming-out ball at Park Lane.
Well, they couldn't possibly have held it at Montague Street and I'd done the
same for Annemarie's wedding. What none of us had quite appreciated was the
growing attraction Mytchett had developed for Lady Benistone and what
I
think,' she said, emphasising her own interpretation
of events, ‘is that he'd seen in the mother something he could get without
bothering to marry the daughter, if you see what I mean.'

Verne nodded. Mytchett was just the kind to take advantage of
that situation. What a pity Lord Benistone had not looked after his family
better.

‘Annemarie,' Cecily continued, ‘was a twenty-three-year-old
widow and Esme was as eager as she was to get away from Montague Street and live
a normal kind of life. That's what they both wanted, but it was less troublesome
for him to take Esme than Annemarie. They disappeared at Miss Marguerite's ball.
He knew exactly what he was doing, but I doubt very much whether Esme had
thought it through. She's a creature of impulse, is Esme, like Annemarie was
before this happened.'

‘A double loss,' said Verne, watching Marguerite smile into her
partner's eyes.

‘A triple loss, my lord. Husband, beau and mother. She's become
embittered. She won't allow her friends near and won't socialise at all.
Rejection is a terrible thing. It changes perfectly delightful people into
avengers.'

‘It's clear she wants nothing to do with men, after that.'

‘I'm afraid so. Any man hoping to make an impression on
Annemarie will have to be very patient, with no guarantee of success. But if you
would like some advice on the matter, my lord...?'

‘Anything you can offer, Mrs Cardew.'

‘Then you might begin by finding the mother,' she said so
quietly that Verne had to lip-read. ‘I doubt very much whether Lady Benistone
would stay long with that scoundrel and I would not be surprised to learn that
she'd already left him, though I cannot imagine how she'll live without support.
Women like Esme are not good at that, you know. And the family are miserable
without her. All of them.'

Again, Verne's attention was drawn to the swirling figure of
Marguerite, her happy smile and arms outstretched to her partner. ‘So you don't
think Lady Benistone would return uninvited?' he said.

Cecily's sideways glance was full of forbearance, as if only a
man could ask such a question. ‘Pride, my lord. That's a terrible thing, too. It
stops people doing what they ought to do and it makes them do things they
shouldn't.' For the last closing bars of the music, Cecily's sad conclusion was
left unanswered. ‘Ah,' she said, ‘the dance has ended. ‘Shall you stand up with
her before you leave, my lord? We'd take it as a great favour.'

Obediently, and without a trace of reluctance, Verne rose to
his feet, understanding that he would be expected to pay for the help he'd just
been given. ‘Indeed I will, ma'am. It will be my pleasure.'

‘And I shall be happy to receive you at Park Lane, my
lord.'

‘You are more than kind, Mrs Cardew. I shall take up your
invitation.'

* * *

Two hours later, he was back in Bedford Square with a head too
full of information to say much to Samson except that they'd be going down to
Brighton tomorrow.

‘Very good, m'lord. Marine Pavilion, is it?'

Grunt.

‘Will it be the curricle or the phaeton, m'lord?'

‘Oh, don't ask so many damned stupid questions at this time of
night, man. I'll decide in the morning.'

‘Certainly, m'lord. Only...you see...one trunk fits best on the
curricle and the other fits on—'

‘Prepare me a bath. I need to think.'

‘Pleasant ball, was it?'

The deeply expressive groan warned Samson that he had ventured
too far and, being usually so responsive to his master's every whim, saw that he
had better produce the required bath without delay and in silence.

* * *

Soaking in the hot water by candlelight, Verne watched the
clusters of swirling soap bubbles while trying to connect the day's events right
up until the dance with Miss Marguerite Benistone, which he would normally have
deemed too expensive a payment by half had he not discovered so much from her
chaperon to make it worth his while. Miss Marguerite's cup had truly runneth
over when his friend George Brummell came to the rescue. He had taken some
persuading to keep the girl occupied and Verne had had to promise him another
hefty ‘loan'. The Lady Benistone saga fitted in with what he'd heard, but to
have the approval and assistance of Mrs Cecily Cardew, a member of the family
and self-appointed fairy godmother, had given him an advantage he needed in his
pursuit of the avenging angel from whom he'd stolen a kiss that evening.

* * *

Cecily would not have been too surprised to learn that her
cousin's wife, Lady Benistone, had already left the scoundrel with whom she
disappeared last year during Marguerite's coming-out ball, having discussed what
they had discovered about his character and motives beforehand, though not the
plans that Lady Benistone had devised to avert a disaster. Or so she thought.
But never in her darkest dreams could Cecily have imagined the circumstances in
which the flight would take place for, if she had, she would have stopped Esme
from taking matters into her own hands. In Cecily's mind, Esme Benistone, with
her experience of men, knew how to look after herself and, if she was less than
competent in her understanding of financial affairs, she more than made up for
it in her understanding of men. Even a confirmed bachelor like Lord Benistone,
all those years ago, had lost his heart to her and she to him, to everyone's
astonishment.

Last summer, Esme Benistone had devised a scheme, which she had
kept to herself, for luring Sir Lionel Mytchett away from her daughter. The
greedy young fool was not hard to persuade that he was beloved by an older woman
with a great deal of ready money. He had found her promises easy to believe.
Relying on past experience, Esme had been convinced she could keep him in a
state of anticipation for at least a week while she arranged with her bank for
the release of the money she had once earned, which her generous husband had
never drawn upon. It had accrued a quite considerable interest over the years.
However, after the third attempt to negotiate a release, she was told that
although the money was legally hers, she could not access it without her
husband's permission, a serious hitch in her plans that upset Sir Lionel. Esme
could hardly be surprised by his anger, but she had not expected anything like
the terrible repercussions of his rage.