Mistress Masquerade

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‘M’lord...’ the man began, ‘this woman...’

Verne came to a halt beside Annemarie. ‘Lady Golding is my guest,’ he said. ‘Return to your work, Mr Beamish.’

‘Yes, m’lord. Beg pardon, m’lady.’ Mr Beamish nodded and walked back the way he had come, shaking the plan into submission, leaving Annemarie to face the man who, since last night, she had known must appear.

Now he had, she was unsure whether to be satisfied by her prediction or annoyed that, yet again, she would have to try to get rid of him, somehow. Which, when she was the trespasser, might have its problems. In the circumstances, it seemed rather superfluous to snap at Lord Verne with the first thing that tripped off her tongue. ‘What are you doing here?’ She knew before it was out that thanks would have been more polite.

He showed not the slightest surprise, as if she’d been a terrier whose snappishness came with the breed. ‘If you care to walk with me, my lady, I will tell you what I’m doing here,’ he said, unable to conceal the admiration in his eyes at her elegant beauty, the silk three-quarter-length pelisse of forest-green piped with red in a military style worn over a frothy spotted muslin day-dress, the hem of which made it look as if she walked in sea foam. Her bonnet was of ruched red silk piped with green, with a large artificial white peony perched at the back where green and red ribbons fluttered down like streamers. Red gloves, red shoes and a green-kid reticule showed him that, even when by herself in all other respects, fashionable dress was still important to her. Compared to other women, he put her in a class of her own.

Annemarie did not comply at once, though it would have been the obvious thing to do. ‘I do not think I want to walk with you, my lord, I thank you. I only came to...’ She paused. Why should she tell him?

But as if she had, he turned to look at the exotic stable building. ‘Yes, it’s a fine-looking place, isn’t it? That dome is all glass. A miracle of engineering. The inside is even better. Come, I’ll show you.’

‘The public are not allowed.’

‘I’m not public. And neither are you.’ The way he said it brought a breathlessness to her lungs and an extra meaning to the words.

‘Lord Verne,’ she said, pulling herself together, ‘the last time we met, you were...’

‘I was less than gentlemanly. Yes, I know. Shall we start again? And this time, sartorially correct, I shall not put a foot wrong. You have my word.’

‘I was not referring to your dress, my lord.’ She wanted to say, Go away and leave me alone, I don’t know how to deal with this kind of danger because I know why you’re here and this meeting is not as accidental as it looks. You want what I’ve got and we’re both pretending to know nothing of it.

‘Then I can only beg for a chance to redeem myself, Lady Golding. Allow me one chance, at least. I keep my curricle in there. We’re both at your service, if you would do me the honour.’

‘What are you doing here? I don’t remember you saying anything about a visit to Brighton. If it has something to do with me, then I think you should understand that I came to be alone with my memories. Having to make myself agreeable to comparative strangers with whom I have nothing in common is likely to have the opposite effect from what you have in mind. Please don’t let our meeting prevent you from doing whatever you came here to do. I’m sure the Prince Regent will need you by his side at this busy time.’

‘What do I have in mind, Lady Golding?’ he said, softly.

He would know, of course, how she had glanced more than once at his beautifully formed mouth as she talked, watching for reminders of how it felt upon her own lips, wondering what she was missing by such a determined rejection of his offer of friendship. He would not know whether she had found what he was looking for, nor was he likely to take no for an answer before he knew, one way or the other. He would have to convince her of his interest in her and she would be obliged to pretend that it was for her own sake, not for the sake of his mission. She was anything but flattered. Why make it easy for him?

Her reply had an acid sting. ‘Why, my lord, what the rest of the Prince’s 10th Hussars have in mind, I suppose. Everybody knows what’s on their list and I’ve seen nothing yet to suggest that you are any different.’

His wide, white smile did little to allay her fears in that direction, for it showed her that their thoughts had reached dangerous ground that ladies were usually careful to avoid. ‘Well, for one thing,’ he said, struggling with his smile, ‘the 10th and I parted company some months ago and, for another thing, there are always some exceptions to the rule, you know.’

‘I suppose you are one of the exceptions.’

‘Most certainly, or I’d not be in the Prince’s employment now.’

‘And the Prince is employing you to purchase a piece of furniture the owner has no intention of selling. Are you not rather wasting your time, Lord Verne?’

Mrs Cardew had warned him that he would need to be patient.

‘Lady Golding,’ he said, gently, ‘I am standing in a garden in the sunshine in front of a fabulous building, with the call of seagulls and the distant sound of the sea in my ears, while talking to the loveliest woman I’ve ever seen in my life, and you ask me if I’m wasting my time. Well, if this is wasting my time, all I can say is that I wish I’d wasted it years ago. Now, shall we just forget his Highness’s pressing need for expensive furniture and take a look at more interesting things? Then, if you wish, we can go across to Donaldson’s Library and take a cup of coffee, followed by a drive round town in a curricle. Do you drive?’

‘I used to.’

‘Good. Then we’ll find something in here for you to practice on, shall we?’ He offered her his arm and, because he had just said something to her that scalded her heart with suppressed tears, she placed her fingertips on the blue sleeve, feeling both the softness of the fabric and the rock-hard support beneath. It was as if, she thought, he knew what he had done and that his subdued flow of talk about the decoration, the materials, and the fittings inside the building was his way of buying time until she could find her voice again.

It would have been a pity to miss seeing such a place, just to make a point about not wanting to be in his company. And in spite of her reservations, and not knowing how best to handle the awkward situation, Annemarie could find nothing in his manner that made matters worse. Not once did they mention the bureau or the real reason for his being in Brighton, for it began to look as if Lord Verne had several good reasons for being there, one of which was to check on the paintings and ornaments being added to the Prince’s collection at the Marine Pavilion. He had been allowed to use a suite of rooms there, he told her, usually occupied by the Prince’s Private Secretary, so his acquaintance with the palace and stables staff meant that he had access to all the amenities, including the Prince’s cooks.

No one could have helped being impressed by the accommodation for the Prince’s horses. It resembled a Moorish palace, Annemarie remarked, more than a stable. Above them, the glass rotunda filled the circular space with pure daylight that sparkled on to a central fountain where grooms filled their pails. Carriage and riding horses, some still rugged-up in the pale royal colours, were led in and out through the fan-shaped arches while, on the balcony above, were the grooms’ cubicles behind a gilded façade. ‘And through here,’ said Verne, smiling at her awed expression, ‘is the riding-house. The horses are trained and exercised in here, and we have competitions too. The Prince is an excellent horseman. Always has been.’

‘You admire him, then?’

‘There’s much in him to admire, but he’s as human as the rest of us.’

Annemarie thought that the future monarch had no business trying to be as human as the rest of ‘us’, but she held her peace on the subject, at least for the time being. In a different way, the riding-house was as impressive as the stables, even more spacious, but lined and vaulted with timber to muffle the sounds. A thick layer of sawdust thudded beneath pounding hooves and the occasional bark of an order brought an instant response from the riders, many of whom were wearing Hussar uniform. There was no doubt that Lord Verne knew them, and the instructors, for hands touched foreheads as they passed, and nods reached him across the vast space. Obviously, Annemarie thought, Lord Verne had the Prince’s favour.

‘This is where you trained?’ she said.

‘No, this place went up while I was in Portugal with Wellington.’

‘So you’d have known my late husband.’ It was an unnecessary question dropped into the conversation, she knew, to remind him again of her background.

‘I knew of him,’ he replied. ‘Everybody did. He was well regarded.’

‘Yes.’

Another little barrier put in place, he thought. Well, I can deal with that, Lady Golding. I’ve managed difficult horses and I can manage you, too.

One of the uniformed instructors trotted across to greet them on a sleek and obedient grey gelding, patently pleased to see Verne there, but equally interested in his lovely stylish companion. Verne introduced him to her. ‘Lady Golding, allow me to introduce an old friend of mine, Lord Bockington.’

The pleasant-faced fair-haired officer made a bow from the saddle with a smile of approval and a grin at his friend, and she suspected that he was receiving a coded message to suppress what he might have said, had she not been the widow of Sir Richard Golding. ‘I am honoured, my lady. We always try to perform better when we have a special audience.’

‘Then I shall watch even more carefully,’ she replied, smiling back at him.

‘Watch this, then,’ he said. ‘See if you can see the difference since last week, Verne. This young lad learns fast. Brilliant potential.’ He trotted away to the side of the arena, reining back slowly before setting off to dance diagonally across the space. Annemarie had not seen this being practised before.

‘You were here last week?’ she said, without taking her eyes off the grey.

‘And the week before. And the week before that too,’ Verne answered, also watching. ‘A big improvement. Nearly fell over himself last week.’

‘Oh. I see.’

‘Good,’ he said, quietly, without indicating exactly what he meant. ‘Now, would you care to see the driving carriages while we’re here? He has some dashing phaetons and my own curricle is—’

‘Lord Verne,’ Annemarie said, stopping just inside the coach-house, a cool, spotlessly clean place lined with black-panelled coaches, shining brass and silver, and padded upholstery. The idea of driving again was more than appealing, in Brighton where she would not be remarked. But not with this man, not while she was being used so flagrantly to help him achieve his purpose. She had had enough of being used and now she was not so innocent that she couldn’t tell when it was happening again. Even if he did come to Brighton on weekly visits, that was no reason why she should be obliged to play this cat-and-mouse game with him. He had kissed her and today paid her an outlandish compliment and sought her company. She had better beware, for these were the first signs of something she must avoid at all costs. And she was one step ahead of him, which he must be aware of by now.

‘My lady?’ he said, stopping with her.

‘Lord Verne, I believe our scores are equal now.’

‘Enlighten me, if you will?’ He removed his beaver hat and, pulling off his gloves, stuffed them into the crown and placed it on the seat of the nearest vehicle. ‘What scores are we talking about?’

‘I showed you my bad manners when I was angry and you retaliated by showing me yours when you were angry. Now we have both redeemed ourselves, as you said you wished to do. You can go and get on with whatever you have to do here and I can do the same. Alone. Thank you so much for the tour of the stables. Do these doors lead to North Street?’ She had already seen the questions forming in his eyes. Angry? Me? When?

‘When was I angry with you, my lady? Do remind me.’

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.