Harlequin Historical February 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Major's Wife\To Tempt a Viking\Mistress Masquerade (48 page)

‘You
what
?' he had snarled at her
as she returned to their lodgings. ‘What d'ye mean, couldn't get at it? Why not?
It's yours, isn't it? Isn't that what you told me?'

Lady Benistone sighed. This was going to be difficult. They had
been together less than a week, uncomfortable days during which she had used all
her sexual allure to keep him sweet without actually letting him have what he
thought would be his with very little effort. Now, she would have to bring her
plan forwards. She was many years his senior and was not used to being snarled
at. ‘Lower your voice, if you please,' she said, coldly, removing her hat and
pelisse. ‘I told you we could use my funds, yes, but I was mistaken. We can't.
Mr Treen at the bank was quite adamant that, without Lord Benistone's written
permission, he cannot release the money. Somehow, we shall have to manage
without it.' Even as she spoke the empty words, she knew the impossibility of
managing, her intention from the very beginning having been to pay him off, then
return to her family with what to her was a convincing reason for her
uncharacteristic behaviour. And if Elmer had made time to listen to her
concerns, none of this would have been necessary. He would have sent the
deceitful creature packing as any father would and Annemarie could have begun
again to rebuild her life with someone more worthy of her.

‘Manage?' he yelled. ‘How are we supposed to manage, your
ladyship? I've been relying on you for this and now you tell me... God's truth,
woman! If I'd known...'

‘Don't use such oaths to me, Sir Lionel. I'll not hear it. You
have no idea how foolish you look when you're in a childish temper. I've put up
with you in this dreadful little place for almost a week now and I think that's
probably as much as I can take. And, yes, if you'd known my funds were tied up,
you'd not have been interested, would you? You'd have kept to safer ground with
my daughter. You have sold my jewellery and chosen to gamble with the proceeds
when we might have been safely in France by now. Well, your luck runs out rather
too fast for my comfort.'

Anyone could have understood the ease with which Annemarie had
fallen for Mytchett's suave good looks, his perfect manners and easy charm, his
stylish dress, his talk of possessions and connections. Lord Benistone had been
too preoccupied to make thorough investigations that would have verified, or
not, his claims. In a rage, however, Sir Lionel was frighteningly unattractive,
noisy and threatening, and Esme Benistone realised too late that she had just
revealed her intentions as she had not meant to do. She could have slipped away
while he was out. But not now.

She saw the understanding dawn behind his eyes, at first a
blankness like an abacus before the beads start to count, before the payment
takes shape, before the final reckoning. Even then, she did not guess what form
this would take. Not once had she anticipated the danger in which she had placed
herself. As Lady Benistone, an aristocrat, she was due every respect. This time,
she had miscalculated.

She had tried many times since then to forget what happened
during the next half-hour, but without success. Physical violence was quite
outside her experience and, although fear lent her an extra strength, it was not
enough to prevent his determined and brutal assault from reaching its appalling
conclusion. With a hand clamped over her mouth she could make no one hear her
and she was forced into a helplessness so painful that, when he released her,
her stomach revolted too. Before he left, his words were intended to be as
wounding and as insulting as his attack, hurled at her as revenge for misfired
plans, unlined pockets and the exposure of his baseness. He would make sure, he
told her, that she paid the full price for finding him out, if not with money,
then with shame.

Left alone at last, it took her some time to gather herself
together sufficiently to stand, in a daze of pain, and to look for some way of
washing herself. To go upstairs was impossible and she must get away quickly
before his return so, still trembling and sobbing, she covered her torn clothing
with her pelisse, tucked her hair inside her hat and pulled down the veil. With
painful slowness, she left the house unnoticed and staggered to the end of the
street from where, eventually, she was able to summon a hansom cab. ‘Manchester
Square,' she called up to the cabbie.

‘You alright, ma'am?' he said, kindly. ‘Nasty headache?'

‘No,' she whispered, ‘but drive carefully.'

‘Right-ho, ma'am. Just leave it to me. Climb inside.'

Managing the steps into the cab was almost beyond her, but the
kind man waited before clucking to his horse and, on arrival at Manchester
Square, was concerned enough to climb down from his perch and help her out. It
was then that Esme fainted in his arms, attracting the attention of a primly
dressed lady's maid who was about to turn into the basement gate of the nearest
mansion. ‘Why, that's Lady Benistone, isn't it?' she said.

‘Dunno, miss. She said to bring her here. But this looks like
the Marquess of Hertford's place, if I'm not mistaken.'

‘It is,' said the young lady. ‘Be so good as to carry her
ladyship in, will you?'

* * *

Annemarie told herself that Verne's kiss had meant nothing,
really, except the annoyance of a thwarted man. Yes, that was what it was about.
Annoyance and to pay her back for her rudeness as a hostess when she ought to
have shown more courtesy to her father's guest. As for that nonsense of pursuing
what he wanted...well...that was soldier's talk. Too many years in the army and
too little opposition from women. That was the problem with his sort. Hardly
worth getting upset about.

She threw her slippers into one of the leather trunks, but Evie
gave a sigh and patiently took them out again. ‘You'll be wearing these, m'lady,
not packing them,' she said. ‘Why not just leave the packing to me? Shall I
bring you a nice warm drink?'

Regarding the piles of linens and silks, the shoes and
chemisettes, the velvet pelisses and muslin day-dresses, Annemarie was unable to
assemble any of the outfits while her mind still seethed with indignation.
‘Yes,' she said. ‘It's getting late and I'm not helping, am I?' Throwing herself
on to the
chaise-longue
, she made use of Evie's
absence to hear again his crisp, ‘No. This', and to feel his hard demanding
fingers pressing into her arm and neck, taking her too much by surprise to
escape as fast as she could have done. As she
ought
to have done. Words like ‘churl' and ‘lout' faded against the sensation of the
kiss and once again she was making comparisons like a silly untutored schoolgirl
while pressing a cushion against her breast.

* * *

During the six hours it took to reach Brighton, it would be
less than the truth to say that she had banished the incident from her mind,
having little else to occupy her. But her father need not have feared her being
alone when she had her maid, two coachmen, grooms and footmen with her, some of
whom would take the coaches back to London. A few stops to change horses, to
take a light luncheon, and by evening they were amongst the wheeling, yelping
seagulls, by which time she had examined the incident from every angle and at
every tollgate and inn. Knowing how her father was quite capable of arranging an
escort whether she wanted one or not, her eyes had surreptitiously searched for
a physique that might resemble Lord Verne's, but thankfully, she need not have
bothered.

The sight of her own pretty house lifted her spirits even more
than the blustering wind and the grey-blue expanse of sea. This was the place
bought for her and Richard by Lord Benistone to use as a retreat, which she had
decided to keep as a useful second home. Too close to the Steyne for her taste,
it had been perfect for Richard who liked to be in the centre of things and,
situated on the corner of South Parade, there were good views from the large
windows.

Annemarie was right about Brighton being deserted during the
London celebrations—the area of open lawn between the house and the Marine
Pavilion was only thinly scattered with the summer colours of muslin gowns and
bright uniforms. A few doors away, Raggett's Men's Club seemed strangely quiet,
and Donaldson's Library across the road was almost forsaken. It suited her well
enough. She decided to pay a visit there tomorrow.

The cook, housekeeper and maids had been at the house for three
days already to remove dust covers, make beds and prepare food, so the rooms
were welcoming and well aired, flowers in bowls, hot water, the lingering scent
of polish and scrubbed floors. After the heavy clutter of Montague Street, the
pale prettiness of her patterned walls, the delicacy of the furniture and the
fabrics reflecting sunshine and sea were like a breath of fresh air filling her
lungs with a new freedom. She went from room to room to greet all the familiar
feminine things that her father would certainly not have looked at twice. Nor
would Richard, had he ever seen them.

She realised at once that the new bureau would be too large to
fit comfortably in her cosy bedroom, but after some rearrangement, a space was
made for it in an alcove by the chimney-breast as she experienced an
unaccountable wave of possessiveness that recalled Lord Benistone's blunder
about Lord Verne having to get to her first. Until the bureau arrived, there
would be plenty to keep her occupied, things she had stopped doing in London in
case she met someone who knew her. It was their sympathy she could not bear.
Revenge was what she wanted, not pity. Any kind of revenge would do as long as
it hurt.

* * *

On the next day, sooner than expected, the bureau arrived and,
after hours of tipping and tilting, trapped fingers, muffled oaths and doubts,
the heavy piece was fitted into the space she had made for it. Lady Hamilton's
rooms at Merton Place, she thought, must have been vast to accommodate two of
these easily. But that evening, all alone, she took the brass key from her
toilette
case and inserted it into the beautifully
decorated keyhole on the long drawer above the knee-space, imagining how Lady
Hamilton and her lover, Lord Nelson, would have stood to look at themselves in
the mirror under the lid that now stood upright. At each side of the mirror were
the sections that had intrigued her most in Christie's saleroom, a maze of
polished compartments holding ceramic pots and cut-glass bottles with silver
tops, ivory-and-tortoiseshell brushes and combs, hand mirrors and silver
scissors, ornately inlaid trinket boxes, slender perfume bottles with the
fragrances still clinging to the glass. The Prince Regent had its twin and, in
most respects, the two were identical except that this was the one made for a
lady, which is why she had chosen it.

The mania for Lord Nelson memorabilia had gripped the country
in the years since his death at Trafalgar in 1805, and even after nine years
there were collectors who would pay well for any of his personal possessions,
even a shaving brush. Perhaps, she wondered, that was why the Prince Regent was
so keen to acquire his furniture. Or was it more to do with Lady Hamilton, with
whom he'd once been infatuated, even while her husband and her lover both lived?
Neither of the men had approved of the royal obsession, although since their
deaths, Lady Hamilton had found it necessary to keep well in with the royal
family in the hope of financial help that never came. The Prince's disloyalty to
his friends was as notorious as his appalling fashion sense.

In the fading light, Annemarie sat before her newest
acquisition to unscrew tops and guess at the contents and marvel at the
craftsmanship, the details, the coloured inlays, swags and festoons, gilded
handles and key-plates. At one side of the centre was a neat hole where a long
brass pin could be inserted to hold the lower drawer in place when the lid was
locked. Having taken a cursory look into the drawer only to find an odd glove
and a few empty silk reels for mending, she tried to close it before replacing
the pin in its hole. Obviously she had disturbed some other fragment, for it
refused to close.

Bending to look inside, she slid her fingers deep into the
recess at the back of the drawer, easing it out further and discovering that the
back panel was hinged to lie flat, concealing an extra compartment. Then,
lowering her head to the same level, she caught sight of shadowy bundles tied
with ribbon like miniature piles of laundered sheets in the linen cupboard, so
flat and uniform that she knew they must be letters. She pressed one pile,
releasing the one that had snagged on the woodwork above.

Her first instinct was to leave them where they were, for she
had no right to read what Lord Nelson had written to the woman he loved. No one
had. But curiosity lured her hand reluctantly inside to draw out first one
bundle, then the next, until there were eight of them balancing on top of the
silver stoppers, releasing an aroma of old paper and the acrid smell of attar of
roses. Instantly, she was reminded of a visit to Carlton House with Richard to
meet the Prince of Wales at his inauguration as Regent, where the cloying
perfume had made her head reel. Richard had told her later that it was the
prince's snuff. ‘No taste,' he had remarked. ‘Not even in snuff.'

Even then, she failed to connect him with these letters, being
so certain of Lord Nelson's involvement, especially after the furor of a few
weeks ago, in April to be exact, when his personal letters to Lady Hamilton had
been published in book form by the
Herald
, causing
the most embarrassing scandal. Few people would have missed the storm that
followed, the mass gorging upon every salacious detail of their passion and the
inevitable condemnation of the woman who, it was assumed, had sold them to pay
off her enormous debts. Few believed her insistence that they had been stolen
from her by a so-called friend who was writing a life of Nelson, at her request.
Those who knew her better were sure of her innocence, although few had rushed to
her defence, and certainly not the influential Prince Regent who professed to
adore her and regularly took advantage of her generous hospitality. If these
letters were more of the same, Lady Hamilton had kept them well away from
ill-intentioned servants and had then forgotten about them in one of her
removals to temporary addresses and the sale rooms. Poor unfortunate woman
indeed, she thought, turning over one of the bundles to look at the back. It was
sealed with a coronet, as aristocrats did. Delivered by hand. No postmark or
address. Only the name, Lady Emma Hamilton.