Harlequin Historical February 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Major's Wife\To Tempt a Viking\Mistress Masquerade (51 page)

* * *

In his chamber next door, Lord Verne's air of quiet satisfaction was picked up by his valet who had now seen the latest object of his master's interest, after much speculation. ‘So far so good, m'lord,' he ventured, holding a clean shirt in front of the fire. ‘Like clockwork, I'd say.'

Verne made no reply. Luck had played a part. The weather, for one thing. One of the coachmen from the royal stables had been present at the posting-house when Ash, who had had several jobs in Brighton before being employed by Lady Golding's late husband, had tried to hire a post-chaise. The coachman had commiserated with him about the lack of choice, had heard him hire it on his mistress's behalf for the next morning and then, because he had seen her with Lord Verne that same day, had gone to tell him, thus receiving a nice little warmer for his pocket along with his lordship's thanks. From that, it needed little more than common sense to see that the lady's impetuosity, of which he had been warned, was at work either to distance herself from him or to pay a flying visit to the capital on some important matter. And since the post-chaise had been hired for two to three days, it had looked as if the latter was the case, verified only an hour ago by the portmanteau full of ‘valuables' and her determination not to be parted from it. To Verne, no other explanation was likely but that the Prince Regent's private correspondence of a highly controversial nature had been discovered, bundled into a battered old leather bag and was now intended for any publisher with the courage to make it public. He remembered well Lady Golding's passionate criticism of the Prince's excessive spending habits and how unfair it was that Lady Hamilton was having to sell her effects to make ends meet. It would be just like her, Verne thought, to turn the letters over for some exorbitant sum to give to Lady Hamilton, for she herself would not wish to benefit from their sale. Not at all.

Not at all?
‘Except...' he said, breathing the word out loud.

‘M'lord?' Samson said, eyebrows raised.

Lady Golding's thinly veiled dislike of the Prince Regent was surely another good reason why she would not think twice about discrediting him, making him a laughing-stock and the butt of coarse jests about his latest passions and short-lived
amours
. According to Mrs Cardew, the prince had even thrown out lures to Lady Benistone. That would be good enough reason for Lady Golding to sell the letters, make some money for the destitute recipient and bring his Highness down in the eyes of all Europe who, this summer, thronged the capital at his expense. She would see it as a justification, a kind of retribution for the hurts she had suffered at men's hands.

Verne had refrained from telling her what he'd heard about her late husband, how the high regard of his superiors did not accord with the opinions of those lower down the pecking order concerning his appalling harshness and bullying ways. If his manner as the older husband of a beautiful and sensitive young woman was anything like his reputation as a lieutenant-general, then she must have had a hard time of it, he thought, and no wonder she was wary and standoffish. Especially after the brief but devastating episode with Mytchett, of all the pernicious little toads. Why had somebody not warned her? What had Lord Benistone been thinking of?

He waited until Samson had arranged his cravat to both their satisfactions and then requested his valet's unwavering attention. He was to make the acquaintance of Evie, Lady Golding's maid. An attractive young lady, yes?

‘Indeed she is, m'lord. You want me to get...er...friendly?'

‘I don't want you to ravish her, lad. No. I know your kind of friendly.'

‘M'lord!' Samson sounded hurt.

‘Never mind “m'lord!” Just listen. This is what you do.'

Then followed detailed instructions, with allowances for some variations, that made good use of Samson's youthful experiences at the more disreputable end of London from which Verne had once rescued him.

* * *

Ash's warning about the timing of the journey was, as it turned out, not far off the mark, for now it was late afternoon, the sky darkening with ominous intent, and Annemarie ought to have been glad of comfort and shelter when so many other travellers had no choice but to carry on. Not expecting to influence Lord Verne's plans in the slightest, she was nevertheless determined to try, for the longer she remained here with the letters, which she was convinced he knew of, the more difficult it would be to ensure their safety. After all, she would have to leave the room occasionally and could hardly carry the portmanteau with her wherever she went. Not being of a particularly wily nature, she had not considered removing the letters from the bag and putting them somewhere else, which anyone more used to that kind of thing would have done. As long as they were there, locked up, not even Evie would stumble upon them, she thought.

‘You must go down and bring some food back on a tray as soon as I've gone,' she told Evie, ‘but lock the door after you and again when you return.'

‘Yes, m'lady,' Evie said, frowning at the muddied half-boot on the end of her arm. ‘Is there bad company, then?'

‘You never know,' said Annemarie, glancing in the mirror and preferring not to elaborate on the bad company that awaited her downstairs, thinking that he would be as unimpressed by her inappropriate dress for dinner as she'd been by his.

Downstairs, she sought out the obliging landlord to ask about the availability of a post-chaise to take her on to London that evening. The news was catastrophic. There had been a landslide on Reigate Hill that had washed the road clean away, which was why the stagecoach passengers were still there instead of moving on. No one and nothing would be able to use the road until it was cleared, he said. Much better to stay put, for the time being. ‘Ah, m'lord...I was just telling—'

‘Indeed, Hitchcock,' said Lord Verne, appearing through the milling guests. ‘I've just heard the news. Bad for travellers, good for landlords, eh? Lady Golding and I will have our supper as soon as it's convenient, if you please.'

‘It'll be with you in a matter of moments, m'lord. M'lady.' He bowed himself away, wondering why Lady Golding was so anxious to leave by herself in the middle of a thunderstorm.

Far from being unimpressed by Annemarie's appearance, Verne could hardly take his eyes off her, for the mulberry-coloured pelisse had given no hint of the pale mauve creation beneath: long, lace-frilled sleeves, low neckline and tiny bodice which she had tried to conceal with a lilac-patterned shawl of finest cashmere. Faint mudstains still clung to the hem, but these hardly showed in the shadowy candle-lit parlour, and now her hair was piled high in thick tumbling waves only just held up by a gauzy scarf shot with silver threads. As when he'd first seen her, the effect was sensationally negligent due in part, he thought, to her extraordinary beauty and the way she moved, like a gazelle. He also assumed that she must have brought little with her in the way of clothes.

This was the first time Annemarie had seen him in evening dress and the sharp opening salvo she had prepared evaporated in the genteel atmosphere of the cosy parlour, the blazing fire, the well-laid table and his amazing elegance. ‘Lord Verne,' she began, ‘I really must thank you for—'

‘Will you be seated, my lady? A glass of sherry, or madeira?'

‘Yes, thank you. As I was saying—'

‘Your room? Will you be comfortable there? Have you stayed here before?'

She took the glass from him with a sigh. ‘You're not going to allow me to thank you, are you? So let me try another angle, my lord. Why did you follow me from Brighton with an empty carriage belonging to his Royal Highness?'

His white knee-breeches glowed pink in the firelight as he settled himself opposite her in a high winged chair, like her own. Placing his glass on the small side-table, he smiled at her indulgently. ‘You are convinced that I followed you, are you not? Well, in a sense, I did, but only because I happened to set off when you did. I'm returning the Prince's carriage, you see, and this is the day I would normally leave Brighton. I do this most weeks. I thought I'd told you.' In the circumstances, he thought, there was no harm in stretching the truth just a little further than usual.

‘So you prefer to get soaked rather than ride
in
the carriage?'

‘I need my horse for the return journey and I've no intention of taking my curricle out on roads like river-beds. It was just fortunate that we caught up with you when we did, otherwise...'

‘Yes. Otherwise. And now I'm stuck here until the road is cleared, which is not at all what I'd planned. I need to reach London as a matter of some urgency.' His explanation about returning the carriage was not convincing. The horse could easily have been led behind while he stayed dry.

‘As we all do,' he said, ‘but at least you now have a place to stay until tomorrow. Then I'll convey you through the side roads and we can be there before mid-day if we set off early enough. Will that suit you? The coachman knows all the alternative routes like the back of his hand.'

‘Thank you. Yes.'

‘But...?' he whispered, catching the note of doubt in her thanks.

Tipping the amber-coloured liquid in her glass to catch the reflections, she shook her head, accepting the inevitable with obvious reluctance. ‘But...it seems to me, my lord, that each of our chance meetings has so far resulted in
me
being obliged to do something I don't particularly want to do. It's all getting rather predictable, isn't it? Perhaps, once we reach London, we might try harder to avoid each other. I shall
certainly
do so.'

‘Not a chance,' he said. ‘I cannot agree to that. What an absurd suggestion.'

Until you get what you want, my lord. Then you'll disappear fast enough.

‘Ah, yes, the bureau. Of course. I'd almost forgotten the bureau. Do give his Highness my apologies, won't you, and tell him how well it looks in my room?'

His smile at her sarcasm was lazily understanding, sending shivers through her in spite of the warm fire. She need not have tried to rile him or sail so close to the wind with her reference to the bureau, but some devil in her told her to tease him, tempt him and pull back safely, playing the arrogant creature at his own game. The devil had not reminded her, however, that the arrogant creature was a past master at this kind of thing, whereas she had no expertise at all.

‘You may be sure that I will convey your message to him, word for word,' he said. ‘And is your business with Christie's so urgent, my lady?'

‘Private,' she said. ‘Nothing anyone need know about.'

‘I only ask because I could take you either straight there or to Montague Street. Whichever you prefer.'

‘Neither. I shall stay on Park Lane with Mrs Cardew. I have my own good reasons for not wanting my father to know I'm in town. He'd want to know what I'm selling, who to, how much for, that kind of thing. It's best if he doesn't know.'

‘Exactly. Parents can be over-curious and well meaning, can't they?'

Annemarie stared at him. ‘You have parents, too?' she said.

The sherry in his glass slopped dangerously before he managed to anchor it to the table. Then, with a cough and a thump upon his shirt-front, he was able to answer, ‘Oh...indeed...I think so...somewhere.'

‘Oh, dear. I beg your pardon. Of course you do. I only meant...' Placing a hand to her forehead, Annemarie could only blame the day, the warmth, the sherry and the anxiety of the moment for her lapse of good manners. She was saved from having to explain her train of thought by the arrival of dinner borne by white-aproned waiters who soon covered the table with dish after dish, releasing succulent aromas of steaming meats, pies and sauces as the silver domes were lifted off. She suddenly realised that her last meal had been a hurried breakfast, that she was desperately hungry and that, as Lord Verne's guest, she had an obligation to be civil. There was no need, she told herself, to fear the change of plan for she still had the letters and was on the way to returning them to their owner. This was merely a hitch. Nothing more. There was nothing Lord Verne could do about that.

He was a more amiable host than she had been those few evenings ago, helping her courteously to the best portions of roast pigeon, pork with apple sauce, baked trout and fresh vegetables cooked to perfection, like the fried celery with melted butter. Between morsels, she tried to redeem her blunder by asking him about his family on the basis that men love nothing more than to talk about themselves. She soon discovered that, unlike Sir Richard, this man was much less forthcoming on the subject of his personal life, and all she was at first able to glean, without seeming to be over-curious, was that he was the eldest son of the Marquis of Simonstoke, near Salisbury, and that he had three siblings, one of whom was the mother of three small children. She was surprised at how much more she wanted to know. She wanted to keep him talking, to watch his face without seeming to stare.
His hair sweeps over the tops of his ears. How many women has he made love to? Does he have mistresses?
She was silent, wondering how to find out about his work for the Prince, which she could easily have done a few nights ago, had she not been so annoyed. He had placed his knife and fork down and leaned back in his chair, one tanned hand on the white tablecloth, his index finger just touching the stem of his glass, stroking...slowly.
As if it was skin...mine...
‘And your work with his Highness? I fear Sir Richard never had a very high opinion of his taste.' She regretted it, instantly. To hide behind a dead man's disapproval was cowardly, to say the least. She should learn to form her own opinions about such things.

Unsmiling, he countered her clumsy remark. ‘And but for one remarkable exception, his Highness never rated your late husband's taste very highly either, my lady.' Before Annemarie could pick up on the remarkable exception, he went on in defence of his royal patron. ‘Have you met him?'