Harlequin Historical February 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Major's Wife\To Tempt a Viking\Mistress Masquerade (65 page)

On the surface, the two of them had had little in common except the favour of the Prince Regent and the resulting place in high society. But Lady Hertford had never been as well liked, thought by many to have too much influence, too overbearing, too wealthy, too virtuous and moralising, and when it became known that she regularly read from the Bible to her royal friend, there were those who thought it hilarious rather than beneficial. But after speaking with him that day, Annemarie had been given a glimpse of his literary tastes and saw no reason why he would reject what the Bible had to offer.

So while the forthcoming visit to the Hertfords' country seat was sure to be a time-consuming inconvenience, Annemarie hoped that the reconnection with her mama's former friend might yield some useful information. Apart from which, the unexpected pleasure she had begun to derive from humouring her lover seemed to outweigh any disruption to her own plans.

* * *

Preparations for the first family dinner at Curzon Street were in full swing by the time they returned, the competent staff being as eager to display their expertise as Annemarie was to impress. Missing details were hardly noticed by the guests when food provided every kind of tempting delicacy which the aged and conservative cook at Montague Street rarely served. Venison pasties and potted pigeon, roast duckling with oranges, artichokes with young potatoes, stuffed mushrooms with anchovy sauce and collops of hare, the latter especially for Lord Benistone. He had dressed formally for the occasion, and Annemarie was not the only one to remark how sprightly and neat he looked. Nor was she the only one to notice her sister Marguerite's unusual quietness. ‘What's the matter with her?' she whispered to Cecily. ‘Is she unwell? Has she been overdoing things?'

‘She's been quiet since mid-day. Did she thank you for the shoes?'

‘Yes, but only when I asked her if she liked them. Is she still upset by the theatre fiasco, do you think?'

‘I cannot think so, dear. Not unduly. Perhaps Oriel will know.'

But Oriel did not know and was only able to suggest that Marguerite might have preferred to be out with her friends that evening. On the other hand, her lack of appetite might mean she was coming down with something.

* * *

It was past midnight when coaches were summoned and when Cecily, Oriel, and Colonel Harrow, not wishing to keep Marguerite up any longer, were the first to set off for Park Lane. As they were waved away into the night, Lord Benistone was handed a folded piece of paper by the youngest footmen who had discovered it under Miss Marguerite's chair and who was about to take it straight to his mistress. But, since Lord Benistone took it from him before he could do so, he had no choice in the matter. ‘I'll see she gets it in the morning,' said his lordship, tucking it into the pocket of his coat. ‘Goodnight, m'dear,' he said to his daughter, kissing her cheek. ‘Wonderful evening. Thank you. And you too, Verne. Splendid. Quite splendid. Hope the visit to Hertford's place goes well tomorrow. Let me know what he's got, won't you? It's sure to be top-drawer, though I've never approved of the man himself. Still, he's a friend of yours so I'll keep my mouth buttoned, but just keep my daughter out of his reach, mind. That's a good fellow.'

Verne was quick to reassure him. ‘She'll be well protected, my lord.'

‘Yes, of course she will. Didn't mean.... Oh well, goodnight to you both.'

* * *

Halfway down the street, however, the notion that it was not only Annemarie who might require protection, but Marguerite also, had made Lord Benistone call out of the window to his coachman to change direction. Consequently, he arrived at his cousin's address on Park Lane only moments after Marguerite's hasty departure to her room.

* * *

Smiling at her father's concern, Annemarie and Verne turned towards the staircase. ‘And how exactly are you going to keep me from the clutches of the Marquess of Hertford, my lord, if he's quite determined to have his wicked way with me?' she said. ‘Better women than me have found him irresistible, I believe.'

‘Do you know,' said Verne, taking her elbow to propel her up to the first step, ‘that for a woman of your obvious resistance to men, your mind takes on the most astonishing reversals from time to time. Here am I, chasing you all over the place and turning somersaults to gain a smattering of your interest, and yet all it might have taken would be a reputation like Hertford's and a head of hair like a bunch of carrots. I can see I've been going about it in quite the wrong way. Where did I fail?'

‘Well,' she said, allowing the propelling to continue, ‘not with the hair, anyway. There's nothing wrong with the silver streak. I find it intriguing. Nothing much wrong with the reputation, either. The fact that it's not quite as celebrated as Lord Hertford's is probably because he's had a twenty-year headstart on you. He has a son, too, doesn't he? A very wicked son.'

‘So he does, my lady. He also has...well...shall we say...others? Could that be an added attraction, perhaps? That he's proved his virility so many times? Alas, I have nothing in that department to boast of. Yet.'

‘Then perhaps that's because you have not applied yourself to the task with the same enthusiasm, my lord. Talking about it is one thing, but there's nothing so convincing as practice, I always think. Would you not agree?' Held close by Verne's hand beneath her arm, she paused with him on the angle of the staircase, sure that she would not be allowed to get away with such blatant provocation.

‘I could not agree more, Lady Golding. But are you telling me that your mind has been travelling along these lines throughout the evening while I, and probably our guests, too, believed it to be dwelling on chaste matters such as the exorbitant price of Mr Wedgwood's latest dinner service?'

She took hold of his ear to caress it and to touch the soft wave of hair she had wanted to slide through her fingers so many times while talking of mundane things. ‘I think I'm telling you, Lord Verne, that my mind has been travelling in this direction for most of the day. I watched your mouth as it ate and wished it was on me. I watched your hands and wanted them on me, too. Rapturously exploring. I wanted your attention. All of it. Your smiles and your husky laughter. I wanted your head in my arms, against my breast...' She gasped as the image made her voice falter, catching at her lungs. ‘And...oh...Jacques...I don't know what...what I shall do without...without...you.'

On the shadowy staircase, he took her face tenderly between his hands and looked deeply into her brimming eyes. ‘What is this, sweetheart? What's all this doing without me? Why? When are you going to do without me? We've only just started out. And if I'd been able to read your mind better, I'd have carried you upstairs in the middle of dinner. Our guests would have understood and, if they didn't, well, no matter. By the third time they might have begun to.'

‘Oh, Jacques...really!'

‘So what's brought all this on? Eh? This is strange talk.'

Between his hands her head shook in denial. ‘I don't know,' she whispered. ‘Just a feeling that...oh...it cannot last. Things don't last long with me, Jacques. I cannot expect this to, either. I'm too happy. And I'm afraid that the more I want you, the sooner you'll leave me.'

‘Oh, no, sweetheart. Oh, no. You've got that bit wrong. I'm not going anywhere and, what's more, these premonitions you have about our future are based on bad experiences and best ignored. If you've been thinking I'd forgotten about our search for Lady Benistone, I haven't. Everywhere I go I'm looking and listening, picking up information just as I do on the Prince's business. I have contacts everywhere. We shall find her. As for Hertford, we've been friends for years and he knows better than to make advances to any woman in my protection. Now, where were we? Oh, yes, I remember.' Swiftly, before she could reply, his arm was beneath her knees and she was being tilted backwards to see the plasterwork ceiling pass above her at a crazy angle and she was carried up to her room, warmed by the evening sun.

Heartened by Annemarie's untypical declaration, but also concerned by her misgivings, Verne was even more responsive than usual to her desperate need of reassurance, undressing her slowly while showering her with glowing words of praise, the sincerity of which she had no reason to question. And just think, he told her, what he might have missed if that white statue in her father's hall had not chosen to move that day.

But Annemarie scarcely heard the last of the frivolity for by then, bathing in the luxury of compliments, she urged him on to more daring explorations, opening herself to him as if words had been the key. Ignited by his bold hands, her fires blazed and demanded all his energies to stoke them until, feeling the scorching heat of her desire, he plunged into her at last, lifting them both to another level of bliss. There, for what seemed like a small ecstatic capsule of timelessness, no other world existed. Using all his self-control, he tried to make it last as she pleaded with him to do, but his desire was as great as hers and would not be held back. Too soon, the capsule shattered, whirling them through a rapturous void where time stopped again, and flew, and suffused them with a numbing, welcome exhaustion. Arms gathered, bodies nestled and nothing was said except, ‘Oh...love!' by Annemarie in half-sleep.

Verne smiled across the tumble of her hair, elated to have been the one to hear the word no other man had heard from her, even though she might not have been aware that she'd said it.

Chapter Nine

‘E
lmer, dear,' said Cecily, turning in surprise at her cousin's unexpected appearance. ‘Have you come for a nightcap?'

Lord Benistone removed the folded note from his pocket. ‘No,' he said. ‘I've brought this to show you. Found under Marguerite's chair. Once she realises it's missing she'll be more blue-devilled than she was before, I expect.'

‘Why ever should she be? Have you read it?'

‘Not yet. But what's she doing getting letters, Cecily? Did you know about it?'

‘She
is
almost seventeen, dear,' said Cecily, leading him into the dimly lit drawing room where Oriel and Colonel Harrow were alerted by the sound of his voice. ‘She's not tied to my apron strings any more than she is to yours.'

‘That's been one of the problems. D'ye want to read it?'

‘Marguerite's personal correspondence, Father?' said Oriel. ‘Ought you to?'

‘If it's making her miserable, then, yes, I ought,' said her father, seating himself in the fireside wing-chair and shaking the note open.

‘Might you not be coming too hastily to conclusions, my lord?' said Colonel Harrow, in a belated attempt to salvage Marguerite's privacy. But it came too late.

There was an uncomfortable silence as Lord Benistone began to read, though he could not finish it before his hand began to shake uncontrollably, and the crumpled paper was lowered hastily to his knee. ‘It's...it's from
him
!' he whispered. ‘That...that cowardly...
wretch
! Tch!'

‘Who, Father?'

On his feet in an instant, Colonel Harrow removed the offending note that shook like a leaf in the elderly man's hand, transferring it to Cecily who was able to verify what they already suspected. ‘Mytchett!' she said, unsteadily. ‘What on earth is
he
doing writing to Marguerite?'

‘And what is
she
up to,' Lord Benistone snapped, ‘I wonder? Perhaps you should read it out loud, Cecily, and then we might have an answer.'

Cecily could not, however, quite bring herself to read it word for word, but gave them the sense of it from the most relevant phrases. ‘He wants her to meet him, Elmer.'

‘I'll
bet
he does! Over my dead body.'

‘Yes, tomorrow night, Vauxhall Gardens, the firework display, if she wants...oh!...to see her mama...he'll take her...'

‘Where?'

‘Doesn't say. Eleven o'clock. But we know the man to be
such
a liar!'

A sharp cry from the doorway heralded a whirlwind of white muslin as Marguerite flung herself at Cecily, snatching the note out of her hand with a howl of distress. ‘No...no! You should not have done that, Cecily. You of all people. This is
private
! How could you? Oh....this is
too
bad.'

But Oriel caught her sobbing sister before she could escape, holding her in a tight embrace as Colonel Harrow closed the door. ‘Hush, dearest. Hush. You cannot keep this to yourself. We're responsible for your safety, love, and that dreadful man cannot mean a word he says. How could you ever have thought so after what happened to Annemarie? He's a
fiend
. You know he is.'

Until she was seated between Oriel and Cecily with their tender hands to soothe her, Marguerite's loud sobs drowned out much of her explanation. At last it became clear. ‘I wanted to be the one to bring Mama back. You all think...' Her pretty features were contorted with anguish as she struggled to express her intentions in the face of what she perceived to be a wall of disapproval.

Cecily coaxed it out of her. ‘What, love? What do we think? Come on, you can tell us. This is serious. Won't you share it with us?'

‘That I haven't cared...about Mama...not being here...and I
have
...and I keep doing the wrong things...without knowing why...or what...and I
do
care so much.'

‘Of
course
we know you care, silly girl,' came the irritated response from her father, ignoring the others' frowns.

Oriel would not let it pass. ‘Father,' she said, sternly, ‘if you could bring yourself to think of Marguerite as a young lady instead of a silly girl, it might help matters. You may not fully understand why she feels as she does, but Cecily and I can see why she is anxious to make a personal contribution, even by putting herself in danger to do it. Her motives are commendable, even though rather rash. Marguerite, how did you come by this letter?'

‘It was delivered by hand this morning, while you were out. I don't know who by. I haven't spoken to the man, or even seen him. That's the truth, Oriel.'

‘We believe you, love,' said Cecily. ‘So how did he...?'

‘If you read the rest, you'll see he was at the theatre when we were there and he saw Annemarie with Lord Verne, so he knows she's back in society again. He saw me there, too.'

‘So he writes to
you
?'

‘Well, he wouldn't write to her, would he? Or to Father. So he's asked me to meet him tomorrow at the fireworks because he's assuming I'll be there. He promises to take me to Mama. He
must
know where she is.'

‘And you believe him? A man of
his
sort?'

As her good intentions shattered before her eyes, Marguerite's sobs burst out once more and were controlled only with some difficulty. ‘What choice is there?' she howled. ‘I want her back! I don't
care
how.'

‘Yes, dearest,' Cecily said. ‘No wonder you've been out of sorts all day with this on your mind. Have you replied to him?'

‘I couldn't, there's no address to reply to. I suppose he thinks...'

‘You'll swallow his silly story,' said Lord Benistone. ‘Listen to me, Marguerite. When a scoundrel behaves the way he's done, he forfeits all rights to be believed. If he knows where Mama is, which I doubt, he'd have sent a letter to me direct. But this is all about a ransom. It's all about money, m'dear. It must have always been about money, right from the start.'

‘I thought I might be the one to bring her back, Papa.'

‘Well then, since I must now begin to regard my little girl as a young lady, I think you ought to be the one to meet him, too.'

‘Elmer!' Cecily cried. ‘What are you saying?'

‘I'm saying, Cec, that Marguerite can keep the rendezvous.'

‘Not alone, surely?'

‘Of course not alone. We'll all go.'

‘May I come too, my lord?' said Colonel Harrow. ‘I can make myself useful.'

Lord Benistone eased himself out of the chair as if everything was settled. ‘Certainly, William. You're family now.'

Cecily had hardly recovered from the shock. ‘What about Annemarie and Lord Verne? Shouldn't they know about this?'

‘Indeed not, Cecily. They're off to Warwickshire tomorrow. What's the point of upsetting her when there's no need? We can handle this on our own. Anyway, this is Marguerite's concern, is it not, young lady?'

‘Yes, Papa. Thank you.'

‘Then we'll thrash out the details tomorrow. No more tears now.'

‘Elmer,' said Cecily, when Marguerite had left them, ‘ought you to be doing this?'

‘Yes, Cec. I ought. I know exactly what the bastard's about and I've been waiting for a chance to get at him for a year. If it's fireworks he wants, that's what he'll get.'

* * *

The reputation of Vauxhall Gardens as a safe place to spend an evening had suffered in recent years and now, although there were still many attractions to be enjoyed, a rowdy element often spoiled the peace, the music and especially the drinking. For this reason, and also because of the extra thousands expected to turn up for the spectacle of a firework display, neither Cecily nor Lord Benistone had wanted Marguerite to go. He had relented when Oriel and Colonel Harrow had offered to stay by her side all evening. Revised plans now augmented her original escort to include Cecily, Lord Benistone, and no less than three of his lordship's burly assistants more used to handling bodies of marble and stone than living ones. Packed into two coaches, they set off through dense crowds towards Vauxhall, the horses being forced to a standstill many times before they reached the gates.

Once out of the coaches, however, they had to shout to make themselves heard above the racket. ‘This is impossible,' Oriel yelled, clinging to Colonel Harrow's arm. ‘We shall be trampled to death. How shall we ever find him?'

‘He mentioned Milton's statue,' her fiancé replied, ‘over on the Rural Downs overlooking the river. Perhaps it'll be less of a crush over there.'

Jostling, dodging and surging on a tide of shouting people, they made slow progress through the mass of revellers along the tree-lined avenues, passing temples and rotundas, pavilions, picture galleries and booths selling gifts, all brilliantly lit by festoons of coloured gas-lamps. Dance floors bounced in time to the crash of orchestras, the aroma of food from the intimate supper boxes around the sides mingling with the sour stench of sweating bodies and spilt ale.

Cecily grumbled about having to buy expensive tickets to meet a villain like Mytchett. It was not, she said, her idea of a bargain, and why could he not have met Marguerite in a more civilised venue?

‘It's the crowds who'll cover his tracks,' shouted Lord Benistone. ‘If he saw her with a crowd of her friends at the theatre, he'll assume she'll be with them here, too, with no one to take care of her properly. Keep her close, Cecily. Don't let her out of your grasp.'

There was no chance of that. Marguerite had wanted to come with only Oriel and Colonel Harrow as chaperons, but had had no conception of the potential danger from the rowdies who, like packs of hounds, bayed their way through the alleys and gardens, scattering families on all sides. Having been allowed to take a lead part in the plan, she was determined to be the one to find Mytchett amongst so many, though by now she could no longer believe that he would lead her directly to her mother. She stayed close, hemmed in by the solid black defence of the three bodyguards, her eyes darting and blinking at the mirrored reflections on all sides.

Past the large orchestra and sparkling fountain, they eventually managed to reach the Rural Downs, an open area of wild garden with the river in the background where grottos, caves, waterfalls and marble statues had been erected between dark conifers to represent an idyllic countryside. ‘Keep your eyes peeled,' Lord Benistone told them. ‘The fireworks are due to start soon and that's when he'll appear, when everyone's attention is diverted. Marguerite, he'll only be looking for you, not us. You go towards him, but not too close. We shall surround him. Cecily, you and Oriel stay beside this tree with William.'

Still muttering, Cecily thought the chances of finding Mytchett in this throng must be slender indeed, but she had not reckoned on Marguerite's doggedness. ‘There!' she cried, grabbing her father's arm. ‘Look, Papa! There, by Milton's statue. He's leaning on it. See?'

‘Are you sure? Is that him? I can't make out his face.'

Marguerite was convinced. ‘Yes, I
am
sure. I'm going...no...let me go. I'm going to speak to him.' Before her father could change his mind about her safety, she pushed herself forwards into the crowd towards the lounging figure whose dark-grey coat blended perfectly with the leaden statue, a camouflage that surely could not have been accidental. At that same moment, an ear-splitting scream of fireworks burst into the night sky from a tower erected at the far end of the field. Accompanied by squeals from the crowd and a seemingly orchestrated lifting of heads, the first rocket exploded, effectively redirecting all attention from below to above. The crowds came to an awe-inspired standstill.

Fearlessly, Marguerite stood her ground with only a few yards between them, confronting the young man before he could do more than push himself upright to meet her. ‘No!' she yelled at him. ‘Don't come any nearer. Just tell me...where is Mama?'

One could see the attraction, even in such an unlikely situation: tall and well proportioned, the pleasing flash of white teeth as he recognised her, the confident tilt of his head where a grey beaver sat respectably straight on fair wavy hair. The smooth voice was the same too, silky and calming, the voice with which he'd charmed Annemarie. ‘Miss Marguerite,' he called, holding out a hand towards her, already expecting too much. ‘I'll take you to her. I know how she's missed you. Come. You did well to get here on time. Where are your friends? Gave them the slip, did you?'

The whoops and squeals of excitement rose and fell around them, but Marguerite's attention remained firmly on her mission. ‘Stay there! Tell me where she is. Give me her address. We... I can find her,' she called.

Mytchett's eyes darted from side to side, searching the crowd. ‘We? Who've you brought with you? Come with me, quickly! I'll take you there,' he persisted, pushing towards her, reaching out for a hand, an elbow. Anything. There was now a tone of desperation in his voice.

But a steel hand darted out of the crowd to grasp Mychett's own elbow, swinging him round with a force that took him unawares. Thinking it was some hooligan, he shook himself angrily, bouncing off nearby revellers. At the same time, Marguerite was aware of the bulky presence of her father's man beside her, offering her his arm. ‘Better come back now, Miss Benistone. His lordship will deal with this,' he said. ‘Let's leave it to him. See, he's not alone.'

Peering through the crowd, she saw that her father's other two men had placed themselves on each side of Mytchett, preventing his escape, and that her father had come face to face, at last, with the man who had blighted their lives for a year. In the circumstances, it would have been unrealistic to expect Lord Benistone to retain his usual composure after so long struggling to accept his wife's absence. Now the sight of Mytchett and the sound of his seductive offer to Marguerite ignited some kind of primitive response in the elderly man that no one had encountered for years.