Harlequin Historical February 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Major's Wife\To Tempt a Viking\Mistress Masquerade (66 page)

‘Where is she?'
The sound of his bull-like bellow could be heard above the yells of the crowd, turning heads in surprise, holding their attention at the enticing possibility of a brawl. Especially one between toffs.

Mytchett appeared to shrink with the shock. ‘I...I...er...don't know, my lord,' he shouted, though his words hardly mattered. ‘I wanted...er...to...'

‘Yes, you vile turd, you thought it was time to get your filthy hands on my youngest daughter, didn't you? Not satisfied with the damage you've done, you thought you'd fleece me for a few grand, didn't you? Eh? How much were you going to hold her for? Ten grand? Twenty? Well?'

Totally unprepared for this verbal assault, Mytchett tried to back away from the furiously aggressive lord. ‘No...no, sir. My lord, I can explain.' But his retreat was prevented by the two solid Benistone men and also by a deepening audience whose interest had begun to grow and even to take the side of the white-haired man whose courage they admired. Oblivious to the loud explosions and the flood of light from overhead, they closed in, shouting encouragement.

They were not, however, ready for Lord Benistone's response to Mytchett's whining denial, which was to catch the long thin horse-whip thrown to him by one of his henchmen and to crack it expertly across the space between them. Even Cecily had forgotten what a dashing young horseman he had once been. Then, far too suddenly for Mytchett to see it coming, he brought the lash down across the man's face with a wicked crack that made him scream, drawing a line of blood from brow to chin. Bending double, he covered the wound with his hands.

Marguerite's escort became more insistent. ‘Come, Miss Benistone, please. Come away to your sister. This is not going to be pretty.' Firmly, he moved her back to the tree where Cecily tried to shield her from the scene.

‘He ought not to have allowed her to come,' she said crossly to Oriel. ‘This is not the kind of thing a young girl ought to see.'

‘She's a woman now, Cecily dear,' said Oriel. ‘She may as well know that this is what happens. Father knew what he was doing.'

‘I cannot approve, all the same.'

Nevertheless, approving or not, the five of them watched as his lordship raised the cruel whip again to bring the lash accurately across Mytchett's bent back, his legs, arms and head. Held back by the two Benistone men and the cheering crowd, he could only double over to protect himself from the punishing cut that made ribbons of his coat and covered his face and hands with blood. Howling with pain, he barged blindly about trying to evade the next blow until Colonel Harrow came forwards to grasp Lord Benistone's wrist. ‘Enough, my lord! Enough.... Please, no more. He's got the message and you're tiring. Here, allow me to take this.' Turning him away, Colonel Harrow supported him through the onlookers and back to his group, none of whom paid any further attention to the ensuing plight of Sir Lionel Mytchett.

The excitable crowd had not had enough. Blood had been drawn and they wanted more. Howling and hooting, they leapt after the terrified man who staggered through the throng, hoping to disappear. But, blinded and half-fainting with pain, he headed for the bright reflections of fireworks on the surface of the River Thames, lurching down its precipitous bank with a sickening thud into the stinging coldness that numbed his senses and rolled him like a weed into its strong night current. Still not satisfied, the mob followed with yelps of blood lust, splashing and churning the water and scattering a kaleidoscope of exploding colours into the deep-black satin depths. Then, when they could neither reach nor see anything of their prey, they waded back to the bank, laughing at the fun and the applause as the river's surface broke for one last time, gurgling and smoothing like streamers of coloured silk.

Chapter Ten

B
y the time they arrived at Ragley Hall, Annemarie was sufficiently briefed to know what to expect from the seriously wealthy Hertfords. The Marchioness came down the wide stone steps in a froth of mauve chiffon and satin that stopped on the very low neckline, her free hand waving her greetings well before the carriage had rocked to a standstill. Bewigged and liveried, the footman opened the door and let down the folding steps in front of a mansion considerably larger than Carlton House, and grander. Annemarie was no stranger to grandeur and opulence, but this ancestral home was one of the most magnificent she'd ever seen, built to reflect the family's position in society. If Annemarie had wondered what common ground there could possibly be between Lady Hertford and her badly behaved husband, she soon saw that, while he knew what treasures to buy, she knew exactly how to display them to advantage without turning the place into a museum.

The Marquess was not far behind his wife, older than her by some fifteen years yet stylish and sprightly and still the proud owner of a fuzz of brick-red hair and profuse side-whiskers that showed no sign of greying. Ostentation and excess in all their forms came more naturally to him than restraint, and certainly earned him more countenance than he might otherwise have had, not being a particularly handsome man. To make up for this, he had the most charming manner.

‘So this is what it takes to get you here, Verne,' he said quite seriously. ‘If only I'd known.' As if to put Annemarie at her ease after the scolding, he turned a twinkling smile upon her, sharing the joke. ‘My lady,' he said, taking her hand, ‘I can now see why he waited so long. A very discriminating man, our friend Jacques. Now I forgive him.'

No ordinary welcome could have pleased her more. He was, as Verne had told her, actually a very likeable fellow. The unsavoury and very disparaging remarks her father had occasionally let fall about the Marquess's adulterous escapades wandered through her mind as they were led into the Great Hall, yet her recent meeting with the Prince Regent had taught her, if anything, that she would do well to reserve her judgement of people's characters.

The motherly Lady Hertford linked her arm through hers. ‘It's been a long journey for you, my dear. You must be tired. I'll take you straight up to your room and have some refreshments sent up. Your maid arrived last night with Jacques's valet, so all will be ready for you. We usually eat at seven. Plenty of time to relax.'

To their delight, they had been given adjoining rooms connected by a door, an acknowledgement of their relationship that Verne had assured her would cause not the slightest lift of an eyebrow amongst the Hertfords. Yet it had been very late that night when they made good use of the convenience after hours that passed too quickly in talk and being shown art treasures which, they were told, were only a fraction of what the house contained. Wrapped in each others' arms, she and Verne had slept between monogrammed silk sheets under a pale yellow canopy embroidered with buttercups, dandelions and daffodils, waking only once in the early hours to make love and then to sleep again until Evie had drawn the curtains.

* * *

The tall sash windows looked out across endless views of landscaped parkland that rolled away from the house over lawns, lakes and carefully placed trees into the morning haze of Warwickshire. Verne threw up the window-pane and placed an arm around Annemarie's shoulders. ‘Would you like to go riding this morning? Hart has a well-stocked stable. I expect he'll—' He stopped, glancing at Annemarie's expression. ‘What? What is it?'

‘Over there...
there
...by that clump of trees. On horseback. See?'

‘Yes, it looks as if Hert is already out there.'

‘With a woman, Jacques. And it's not Lady Hertford, either. They didn't say they had another guest staying. Surely he doesn't have a mistress here, does he? Lady Hertford would not allow that.'

‘Out of the question,' said Verne, turning her away. ‘Let's get dressed and go down to breakfast. I'm hungry.'

Annemarie was reluctant to move. ‘Yes, but who is she?'

‘We'll find out soon enough. We'll join them when we've eaten.' He disappeared into his room and closed the door, leaving her with the impression that he knew who the guest was, but would not say.

‘Do you know who she is, Evie?'

‘No, m'lady. I haven't seen anyone else. No maid, either.'

‘Strange.'

* * *

After breakfast, at which their hostess was not present, they rode with Lord Hertford on thoroughbred horses through the parkland, during which Annemarie broached the subject of guests in the hope that her host would elaborate. But he was as evasive as Verne, saying only that the lady was recovering from a slight indisposition and preferred to avoid company, and that they might meet her later on, if she was willing. With that, Annemarie had to be satisfied, and tried to put it out of her mind during their tour of the vast house and the family portraits by Sir Joshua Reynolds.

* * *

In the evening, after a memorable dinner and excellent conversation, Lady Hertford and Annemarie left the men to their port while they took tea in the drawing room, browsing through scrapbooks and several ancient account books belonging to the estate in its earliest days. Annemarie had not quite reached that level of familiarity that permitted her to ask, point-blank, about the extra unseen guest, so she was relieved when the Marchioness tugged at the bell-pull, whispered to the footman and told Annemarie that she had requested her other guest to join them, at last. ‘You may be surprised to see her here,' she said, unaware of how much she understated the case after Annemarie's year of anguish.

The door opened to allow a tall graceful woman to enter, her bearing so elegant and poised that, even though she had once been more shapely than this, her identity was impossible to mistake. ‘Lady Benistone, m'lady,' said the footman, bowing out.

In retrospect, Annemarie thought, it might have been kinder if she'd been given some warning, or an option on where and how best to meet. Suddenly, like this, not only had her mind to adjust to the shock of seeing her mother after a whole year of absence and such a traumatic parting, but also to the change in the one she had last seen as a beauty in the full flower of maturity, rounded and luscious and brimming with good health. The woman was the same, and the beauty too, but now it filtered through months of grief and desperate worry, thinning her down to a shadow, saddening her lovely eyes and pinching her cheeks.

She was hesitant, unsure of her reception, fearful of instant rejection. Her soft voice reflected her anxiety. ‘Annemarie,' she said. ‘Dearest...oh,
dearest
!'
Holding out her arms, she pleaded for physical comfort and prayed that her daughter, at least for a moment or two, would grant it her.

With a cry, Annemarie was on her feet, her face drained of all colour. ‘Mama...Mama!' she whispered. ‘It
is
you. Tell me I'm not dreaming.'

‘It's me, love. Forgive me. Hold me...oh, hold me.'

It was only a few steps into the motherly arms Annemarie had longed for, even while she had struggled to understand the treachery, the abandonment and the lack of communication: a year's worth of anger and misery which, in these last few weeks, had changed to a greater need to know that Mama was safe and well. And now, that seemed not to be enough. In her arms, she wanted explanations that would justify her terrible period of pain. She wanted to know of Mama's sufferings, too, for it was obvious that she
had
suffered, and to make her aware of the damage she had done for the sake of one mad Season of lust, excitement and a younger man's admiration. That was what it was all about, wasn't it? His admiration and her remaining power to attract a man away from a younger woman. And now, Mama was in the protection of an older man, a hardened womaniser whose misdemeanours, in Annemarie's mind, all at once took precedence over his attributes. How could Mama have stooped so low? Again.

Annemarie clung and sobbed, her face buried in the long neck that still gave off the familiar perfume of a rose garden. ‘Why?' she cried. ‘Why did you?'

Gently stroking her daughter's back, Lady Benistone hardly knew where to start. ‘It's a long story, my darling. It's not at all what you think.'

‘What am I supposed to think, Mama, when you're here with...?' She could hardly say what she meant with Lady Hertford standing by.

‘Hush, love. Don't weep. Please don't weep any more. I can tell you everything, then you may begin to understand better. But will you tell me about my dear ones...the girls...and Papa? Are they well? I long for news of them. Shall we sit and talk?'

She could not deny her mother this, although there was a side of her, the hurt side, that questioned whether this concern was truly genuine or whether it had emerged through a recent conscience. Lady Hertford must have suspected Annemarie's cynicism. ‘That would be a good start, my dears,' she said, laying a kindly hand on the young shoulder. ‘I've told your mama all I know, but that's not a great deal. She needs to hear it from you. Be kind to her. She's had a hard time. Perhaps I ought to have warned you.'

So they sat close together, holding both hands and sharing a small handkerchief as names wove in and out, not happily, but forlorn, puzzled and cast adrift, with Father going through some kind of inexplicable change rather like an adolescent in love. When she added, with conviction, that he needed his wife back, Lady Benistone's tears flowed faster. ‘I cannot,' she cried, shaking her head. ‘Don't you see? I can never return, Annemarie.'

‘Why not? Is it the state of the house? It still upsets you?'

‘No...oh, no! Not that. I'd go back to live anywhere with Papa, if I dared. But after what's happened, how could I ever face him? I am quite disgraced now. I've dragged my lord's name through the mud and made all society pity him. And my family, too. He's always been so very good to me. How can I return now, as if nothing had happened?'

The questions were left unanswered, interrupted by the return of the men, neither of them disconcerted to find three tear-streaked faces. Being a stickler for etiquette, the Marquess insisted on introducing Lord Verne to Lady Benistone, who could not otherwise have acknowledged him. Her apologies for her appearance at such a time were immediately set aside by Verne's delight at meeting the mother of his mistress, and if she was rather puzzled when he said that this moment fulfilled an ambition of his, she did not pursue it when there were more pressing questions to be asked.

Annemarie kept up the pressure, still certain that her mama must be rescued from Lord Hertford's attentions as a matter of some priority, while not actually saying anything to insult her kind hosts. ‘Marguerite needs you, Mama,' she said. ‘She's sorely in need of your influence. Cecily has been a wonderful chaperon, but you know what Marguerite is like. So headstrong. And dear Oriel won't set a date for her wedding until things are back to normal once more. You
must
put aside your fears, Mama. Papa grieves for you. I can hardly bear it. He's sold some of the collection to the British Museum recently, but he won't tell us why. I'm wondering if he intends to sell the house.'

With downcast eyes, Lady Benistone shook her head. ‘It's not possible,' she whispered. ‘Too much has happened. I cannot believe he'll take me back.'

Frowning, Annemarie glanced across at the Marquess, who sat totally relaxed in his deep wing chair, following the conversation with interest and showing no sign of responsibility for any distress. The man was inhuman, she thought, convinced of his guilt. Verne came to the rescue, bringing the sad exchange round to a point where explanations could replace imminent accusations. Taking Annemarie's hand in his, he held it on his knee and gave a gentle squeeze to indicate his support. ‘Lady Benistone,' he said, ‘I think it would help your daughter to know something of the circumstances surrounding your decision to leave your family. If you'd rather I left the room...?'

‘No, Lord Verne, please don't. I cannot tell you how grateful I am for your support of Annemarie. Isabella has told me what you've done for her and I think you all ought to know what happened and how.'

‘I
know
what happened,' said Annemarie. ‘I was there, Mama.'

‘Yes,' said Lord Verne, gently, ‘but there are usually two sides to a story. I think you should hear your mother's version.'

‘I'm sorry, Mama. Please go on.'

To revive the memories of the incident she had tried hard to forget was so painful that there were moments when Lady Benistone had to stop to recover herself. She had known there would have to be explanations and that Annemarie would be hurt all over again, but the Hertfords, the lady's maid and their doctor were the only ones who knew about the stillbirth of a son at eight months, for they had disguised the pregnancy well, and the resulting illness was explained as ‘a problem common to women of a certain age'. No one else, they said, needed to know and this part of the sorry story she would spare her daughter.

Nevertheless, there was yet another shock in store for Annemarie, which her mother believed could come from no one but herself, concerning the reason why Mytchett was so eager to lay his hands on Annemarie's legacy from her late husband in retaliation for leaving a mistress, his sister-in-law, and her child without a penny to live on. ‘You would have seen it in your husband's will, dearest, if he ever intended to leave them anything,' said her mother. ‘And he obviously wanted you never to find out.'

‘Mytchett?' said Annemarie, horrified. ‘
Mrs
Mytchett?'

‘Sir Lionel's brother's widow. Cecily and I found it out.'

‘Then why could you not have told me, Mama?'