Harlequin Historical February 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Major's Wife\To Tempt a Viking\Mistress Masquerade (62 page)

‘Has Sir Lionel not helped at all, with his connections?'

‘He had a plan. I suppose he thought he was helping. He thought that if I'd been provided for, he could have managed my finances and done pretty well out of it. Living here cost him nothing, you see. When he realised he'd get no more help to pay for his horses and women and gambling debts, he decided to seduce Sir Richard's widow the way
he'd
seduced me. That way, if he could get Lady Golding to marry him, he'd have access to
her
funds. You're looking shocked, Miss Ballard. Did you think my brother-in-law
loved
Lady Golding?'

Evie's breath hovered in her lungs until she let it out on a sigh between parted lips. ‘I don't know,' she said, ‘but I think my mistress cared for him.'

‘Yes, well. He's good at that, is Lionel. Has 'em eating out of his hand. I'm sorry if she got the thin end of the wedge, like me, but at least she can be miserable in comfort, can't she? From what I've heard, she sounds like a very nice lady.'

‘She is,' Evie whispered. ‘She's the best mistress ever. But did you say that Sir Richard
seduced
you, Mrs Mytchett?'

For the first time, her hostess smiled. ‘Lord, Miss Ballard! Did you think I was a professional? No...o! I was a young broken-hearted widow. My new husband was down here at the barracks, then he was sent out to Portugal. So when he was killed in action, Sir Richard came to see if I was all right. That's when it started. That's when things like that always start, isn't it? When a woman seeks to replace something she's lost. I must have been the easiest target ever. Young. Lonely. Naïve. Flattered by the attention of a high-ranking officer. I didn't even know that mistresses usually asked for a settlement. Housekeeping money, personal allowances. That kind of thing. Lionel told me I should have fleeced him while I had the chance.'

It was on the tip of Evie's tongue to commiserate, to say how sad and how sorry before she realised that, although she was, it would not do to say so. Her mistress had also suffered badly, but what Mrs Mytchett had told her about her own callous brother-in-law was a shocking tale of heartlessness she could never have imagined, planned with a cold-bloodedness that made Evie thank Providence her mistress knew nothing of. Nor would she, ever.

But the plan had misfired, hadn't it? How much of
that
did Mrs Mytchett know? ‘It sounds,' Evie said, ‘as if Lady Golding had a narrow escape at your brother-in-law's hands, although he came close to breaking her heart. Did you know that he changed his mind and ran off with Lady Golding's mother instead?'

Mrs Mytchett stroked the mop of hair back from her son's sleepy forehead to plant a soft kiss upon the smooth skin. ‘Yes,' she said. ‘I read about it in the newspaper, but all he said when he called in at Christmas, was that he needed more money because the jewellery Lady Benistone had taken with them was not going to be enough.'

‘And you couldn't help him out?'

Mrs Mytchett's eyebrows flickered upwards, her eyes searching over the mess in the squalid room. ‘What do
you
think, Miss Ballard? I sit here and sew till my fingers bleed and I fall asleep over my work. I can't help myself out any more.'

‘No. I'm sorry. That was thoughtless of me. You don't deserve a brother-in-law like that. So you have no idea where he and Lady Benistone are living?'

‘No idea. He doesn't keep me informed.'

‘Did Sir Richard ever write to you, Mrs Mytchett?'

‘Heavens above, no! He used to say you can never tell what a woman would do with letters, so he never took that risk. He wouldn't have known what to say, anyway. Talking, yes. But not writing. So why did you come here, Miss Ballard? To ask if I knew where Lady Benistone might be? I can't help you, I'm afraid. If I had any idea, I'd tell you. I have nothing to lose by it.'

So the letters now in Lord Verne's possession were
not
from Sir Richard to Lady Something, nor did his mistress have a title except plain Mrs, and if Evie's personal opinion of Sir Lionel Mytchett was exceedingly poor to begin with, it was now at rock bottom after hearing of his calculated plan concerning Lady Golding. Even though it was prompted by Sir Richard's brutal neglect of his son's welfare, not to mention his mistress's, Evie realised that the scheme was essentially to feather Sir Lionel's own nest rather than that of his brother's widow.

Any hope she had cherished of hearing news of Lady Benistone now faded like wraiths in the afternoon sun as she walked back to South Parade where, from the top of the stairs, she saw the arrival of Lady Golding and Lord Verne. Before her heated conversation with Samson, she had been inclined to look upon his lordship with kindliness, especially in view of his impeccable connections to royalty. Now, however, after hearing how he'd taken possession of her mistress's private papers, doubts about
his
intentions began to form just as they had about Sir Lionel. She prayed she might be mistaken, for never was there such a fine figure of a man with such caring manners. This one was certainly out of the top drawer, even if his valet
was
light-fingered.

* * *

Taking afternoon tea together, Annemarie and Lord Verne sat on opposite sides of a dainty rosewood table set in the bay window, each with a hand linked across the crisp white tablecloth, their eyes occasionally meeting in secretive smiles before returning to an idle study of passers-by and carriages. For her, everything had changed, as she had known it would, and Verne's perception of this was yet another mark in his favour—no light-hearted banter or embarrassment, no gloating, only quietness and reflection, caught and contorted in the bulbous silver teapot.

‘Jacques,' she whispered, holding his eyes with her own.

‘Mmm?'

‘Don't ever tell me about all the others, will you? I don't want to know.'

Verne did not pretend to misunderstand. From the start of this relationship she had assumed an air of confidence that, in less than a day, had disintegrated into a storm of jealousy out of all proportion to the cause. Now she appeared to be anticipating another complication of her own which he believed had surfaced only since their ecstatic lovemaking that afternoon. She was making up comparisons to herself, not to him.

His hand tightened over hers and slid up to her wrist. ‘Sweetheart,' he said, ‘since you ask, I have no memory of any other except the one who was in my arms an hour or so ago. I have never had a mistress before, nor ever wanted one. I told you, no woman has ever held my attention for long enough for me to want her to myself. Until now. You, my lady, I can't get enough of.'

‘You know so little about me,' she protested, half-warning him of things to come.

‘Listen to me,' he said. ‘Part of our agreement, if you remember, was to re-enter society with the intention of trying to locate Lady Benistone. Wasn't it?'

She nodded.

‘So let's try not to throw obstacles in the way before we've begun, shall we? When we've found her, then you can show me how difficult you can be and I'll show you how well I can manage you, and we'll see who wins. Is that a deal, my lady?'

The lovely mouth widened, excited by the implied challenge. ‘Deal,' she laughed, laying her free hand on top of his, light as a feather. ‘More tea, my lord?'

He held out his cup and saucer. ‘Good. So no more comparisons. You are beyond compare, both in bed and out of it. Another cup, if you please.'

It was so much what she wanted...needed...to hear as the realisation swirled through her like an incoming tide that she loved him, as it had done earlier when he had taken her out of her depth and brought her back safely to shore, too exhilarated to speak. Now, although he pretended not to notice it, the silver teapot shook a little as she poured.

* * *

Before he could remedy the deficiency in his knowledge of her, Verne was plied with questions about himself, his travels abroad and his time with Viscount Wellington's army, his interest in art and the classical world, in antique treasures and his work for the Prince Regent. With some shame, she remembered how he had corrected her over the plaster hand, underestimating his knowledge, which she now realised far exceeded her own. Mostly, she knew what things were, but he knew their history and provenance in detail, and although she had never before discussed the subject of her father's interest, or wanted to, with Verne it seemed to come alive as he related stories of his hunts for whatever it was his royal master thought he wanted, only to change his mind after all, or forget he'd ever wanted it.

Would this same fickleness apply also to the bureau? Annemarie wondered. Now the letters were restored to Lady Hamilton, would both master and servant eventually lose interest? It was with some trepidation that she waited to see Verne's reaction as they entered her bedroom to dress for dinner, half-expecting him to ask to examine it, after all the furor. But Evie was there to assist her mistress as Verne sat on the
chaise-longue
to talk and watch, as if they had been intimate friends of long standing, and if he as much as glanced at the controversial bureau, Annemarie didn't see it.

* * *

Later, however, when they returned to the candle-lit bedroom and Evie's duties were done, Verne sat on the wooden chest at the end of the bed, resting his arms on his thighs. The surface of the bureau shone like warm satin beneath the silver candelabrum and the appreciative sweep of his eyes. ‘So
this
is it,' he said. ‘You chose well, my lady. It's a very well-made piece.'

Wearing her lace-frilled ivory negligee, Annemarie came to sit beside him. ‘Yes, I think so, too, but wait till you see what's under the lid. This part is even better.' Lifting the central section, she disclosed the mirror on the underside and the array of cut-glass and silver containers, the tools and polished wood compartments that she had not yet had time to fill with her own potions and perfumes. Together, they admired the beautiful vessels, trying to identify the aromas and decide on their uses as the soft light played over Annemarie's skin and the sheen of her loose hair. Relaxed and more at peace than she'd been for days, she now saw no reason to keep from him the secret place where the letters had been.

She drew the drawer out and released the catch to open the extra space at the back, inviting him to put his hand inside. ‘It's quite roomy. See?' she said.

He paused. ‘Ah!' he said. ‘So this is where she kept them. What a very forgetful lady.' His arm disappeared as far as his elbow.

‘She would have had more important things on her mind,' Annemarie said. ‘Like how to pay her bills, for one thing.'

Verne's hand withdrew, bearing a flat blue-leather box. ‘So what can this be, I wonder? Did you know about it?'

‘No, indeed I didn't. I didn't look for anything else.'

‘Well,' he said, placing it on her knee. ‘I think you should take a look. If it's jewellery from Prinny, it'll be worth a fortune. He was very generous with his trinkets while he was still enamoured.' He drew the candelabrum forward.

Holding it towards the light, she lifted the lid, blinking at the sudden blaze of flashing jewels that had not seen daylight for many years, set in gold, nestling on a bed of dark-blue velvet: a brooch, earrings, bracelets, a ring, a hair-comb and a deep multi-stranded necklace of massive pearls, amethysts and diamonds winking like living rainbows. Imprinted on the cream satin on the inside of the lid was the gold lettering of Rundell and Bridge, Ludgate Hill, London.

‘His favourite jeweller,' said Verne. ‘This
is
worth a fortune.'

‘If only she had remembered it, it might have solved a few of her problems.'

‘Would you wear it?'

Tipping the box this way and that under the candles, Annemarie shook her head. ‘Not I. Not my style. Too flashy. Besides, it's not mine, is it?'

‘You bought it with the bureau.'

‘A mistake. It will have to be returned.' Suddenly, she smiled. ‘That's it! We'll take it back to him. He can't have the letters now, can he, so perhaps this will ease his disappointment.'

‘Like rubbing salt into a wound, I'd say,' said Verne. ‘And anyway, he'll have forgotten all about this. Why remind him? You could wear the pieces separately. Or in pairs.' Taking the box from her, he laid it on the bureau and removed the vee-shaped necklace, holding against the peachy skin of her neck. ‘No,' he said. ‘Turn round.'

She did as he asked, presenting her back to him, but instead of fastening it round her neck, he laid it across her forehead with the largest pearl-drop hanging between her brows, the amethysts and diamonds encircling her black hair like the diadem of some exotic queen of the east, with the gemstones matching the colour of her eyes to perfection. ‘There,' he said, turning her round to face him, ‘that's more your style. But wait. This won't do, will it?' He eased her negligee off her shoulders, then the straps of her nightgown, letting the ivory lace fall to her waist. Taking handfuls of her hair, he spread it in tatters over her shoulders and let it fray across her breasts while she sat motionless, as entranced as any sitter whose pose is being arranged by the artist, only being able to guess at the effect. ‘Now give me your feet,' he said.

‘My feet?'

‘Lift,' he commanded. Reaching for one of the bracelets, he fastened them around her ankles. ‘Perfect. They'll look better there than on Emma Hamilton's chubby arms.'

There had been moments, during their intimate dinner, when Annemarie had speculated on the way in which he might instigate the lovemaking in her home rather than in his own apartment. Would he be inhibited by Sir Richard's stern portrait, or hindered by the absence of his valet? Would he bypass the preludes so important to her enjoyment, or would every time be specially designed to make her want more and still more? ‘I don't suppose,' she said, watching him undress, ‘that either the royal jeweller or their patron had this in mind, either, my lord. Will the jewellery hinder lovemaking, or enhance it, do you think?'