Harlequin Historical February 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Major's Wife\To Tempt a Viking\Mistress Masquerade (49 page)

Flipping a thumb across the crisp folded edges, Annemarie
reminded herself that, for all she knew, they could be perfectly innocent and
not worth returning, though the stale perfume warned her of a different
explanation. So she slid off the faded ribbon and unfolded the first letter with
a crackle, turning it round to find the greeting, once so personal, then the
foot of the page, whispering words never meant to be heard out loud.
Your ever devoted and loving....Prinny.

Her hand flew to cover the words on her lips, hardly daring to
believe what she was reading.
Prinny
was what the
Prince Regent's closest friends called him.

These were
his
letters to
Emma Hamilton.

Private. Scandalous. Priceless.

The significance of the discovery was both frightening and
exciting as, one by one, Annemarie slipped off the ribbons to release the dozens
of intimate love letters, all the same size, paper, ink and handwriting with the
flourishing signature of effusive endearments: beloved, eternal friend, adoring
servant, always your own, Prinny. The greetings were equally extravagant.
Dearest Muse. My Own Persephone. Most Heavenly Spirit, and so on. Repetitive,
unoriginal and maudlin, sentiments that roused her fury that here again was a
lover whose flowery words failed to match his actions, whose promises were empty
and worthless. Lady Hamilton must by now have realised that her letters were
lost, that someone somewhere would find and read them, and could use them to
blacken her name further, and that if they were indeed made public like the
Nelson letters, she could expect to be cut out of the royals' lives for ever
without any hope of help.

She began to refold them, tying them back into bundles. And
yet, she thought, surely it would be the Prince Regent himself who would look
like the villain if ever these were made public. Despite his protestations of
enduring love and friendship, it was common knowledge that he'd refused to offer
any help since the death of Lord Nelson, even refusing to petition Parliament to
grant her a pension, using the excuse that she had not lawfully been Nelson's
wife. Having abused her friendship and ignored her vulnerability without a
protector, he had offered nothing in return. More than likely he would become a
laughing-stock to the whole nation just as he was acting host to all the
European heads of state, all through the summer. With letters like these in the
public domain, what would be his chances of getting Parliament to vote him more
funds for his building projects, his banquets and lavish entertainments?
Virtually none. No small wonder he'd sent a trusted friend to retrieve the
bureau where his letters were kept which, for all he knew, might still be
undiscovered by the purchaser. Herself.

It was not difficult to understand how the Prince could know
where Lady Hamilton kept her correspondence. The
Herald
had often reported with some malice how, at her wild parties
lasting for days, her guests had access to all her rooms at any time. She and
the Prince had not been lovers, by all accounts, but he would have known her
bedroom as intimately as all her other friends, to talk, watch her at her
toilette
, flirt and drink. He would know of her famed
carelessness, her disorganisation, her hoarding of gifts and her generosity. Why
else would he have dispatched Lord Verne so quickly to find the other bureau and
to buy it at any price once he'd discovered that its twin was not the one he
wanted? And why else would Lord Verne have attached himself to Lord Benistone
like a leech until he could find a way to worm himself into his daughter's
favour? That was the plan. She was sure of it. The only way of saving dear
Prinny from utter disgrace. He had already made a start and Annemarie had
unobligingly removed herself by some sixty miles. Yet another reason for his
annoyance.

The feeling of power that washed over her in those moments of
discovery was difficult to convey. The almost sensual realisation that revenge
was, literally, in her hands. At any time, she could do enormous damage to that
irresponsible, immature fifty-two-year-old heir to the throne without morals or
principles, who could turn his back on a woman he professed to adore and refuse
to help. Epitomising everything she had learned to despise about men, he would
be the perfect target for her retribution. At the same time, she could give what
she got for the letters to Lady Hamilton to lend some dignity to her retirement,
to help her and her young daughter find a new life away from her predatory
family. How ironic would that be, she thought, to refund her in money what the
prince had withdrawn in support? She fell back upon her bed, breathless with
euphoric laughter and the heady feeling of control, wishing she had made the
discovery in London instead of here, for then she could have taken them straight
to a publisher to broker a deal without delay.

* * *

Later, in the peace of the night when she had listened to the
distant swish of the incoming tide, she rose and, wrapping a shawl around her
shoulders, sat before the bureau where the stacks of letters made a shockingly
silent threat until she could choose a moment to let the cat among the pigeons.
The full moon washed across the silk damask-covered walls, its white stillness
somehow commending a safer and less contentious option that would place the
responsibility where by rights it ought to be, with Lady Hamilton herself.
Annemarie ought to take them to her, as the owner, and explain. Let her do with
them whatever she pleased, for if the blame from the previous scandal could be
heaped on Lady Hamilton, as it had been, then surely this could be, too, if the
letters were published. Some of the blame would certainly damage his Royal
Highness, but there would be others only too ready to ruin Lady Hamilton even
further, and to what purpose? The likelihood of her ever being freed from
scandal would be small. Annemarie's own selfish motives must be put aside. The
choice could not be hers.

Pulling out her old leather portmanteau, only recently emptied,
she stashed the bundles inside and fastened the catch, deciding to take them
back to London as soon she could. Mr Parke at Christie's would know of Lady
Hamilton's whereabouts. She climbed back into bed, shaking her head in amusement
at her father's absurdly unthinking gaffe about having to get at Annemarie
first, and wondering how long it would be before she could expect to see Lord
Verne here in Brighton about his master's sordid business. For some reason, the
challenge disturbed her rest and the first crying of the seagulls had begun
before her imaginings were laid to rest.

* * *

Annemarie's last visit to Brighton had been in the preceding
autumn, since when spring had struggled out of a protracted winter worse than
most people could remember. Even in June, the gardens surrounding the Steyne
were only just recovering and the continuing alterations to the Prince's Marine
Pavilion were nowhere near complete, mainly through lack of funds and because he
changed his mind every time he saw it. Sprouting the same scaffolding and heaps
of building materials, it was attended by the same unhurried workmen with time
to stare at every passable female who came close enough. Behind the Pavilion,
the Indian-style dome that had received her sharp criticism sat like a
glittering half-onion on top of the Prince's stables, the palatial building
designed to house his riding, carriage and race horses at a cost that would have
fed London's starving and homeless for the rest of their lives. Not to mention
his disgruntled unpaid workforce.

Strolling past toiling gardeners and arguing foremen, Annemarie
explored new pathways across the grass towards the great dome set behind
pinnacles and fancy fretwork, torn between admiration for its perfect
proportions and the fantastic mixture of Gothic with Oriental. Such was the
extravagance of the man, she thought, who would one day be king, the same man
whose extravagant sentiments had poured into letters to a woman he now ignored.
Like a wound still aching, the need to inflict a similar hurt welled up again
before she could hold it back and force herself to be rational. She had never
knowingly hurt anyone. Could she begin now and truly enjoy the experience?

Yes, I can. All I need is half a chance.
Just show me how.

A speckled thrush hauled at a worm only a few feet away from
her red kid shoes, flapping away in alarm at a deep shout from behind her. ‘Hey!
No right of way here, my lady. Private property, this.' A burly man waving a
plan from one hand approached her so fast that it looked as if he might pick her
up and carry her off over his shoulder.

‘It was not private property last September,' Annemarie
replied, standing her ground. ‘So how is anyone to know? Who's bought it?'

‘Prince o' Wales,' the man said. ‘That's who. Fer 'is gardens.
An' you'll 'ave ter go back the way you came.' He pointed, belligerently.

‘I shall do no such thing. I'll go out
that
way.' Annemarie turned back towards the stable block. But she
was no longer making a lone stand against authority, for hastening towards her
with long strides was a tall figure she instantly recognised. He was emerging
from the central arch of the building, as though her impulsive plea was about to
show her the half-chance she had requested. By his tan breeches and looped-up
whip, she saw that he had been riding and, even though his eyes were shaded by
the rim of his beaver, they glared like cold pewter at the officious
foreman.

‘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?