Harlequin Historical February 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Major's Wife\To Tempt a Viking\Mistress Masquerade (70 page)

The embraces and cries of joy, although intended for the privacy of the hall, could not wait so long and, by the time they had moved inside, a small crowd of pedestrians were politely applauding Lady Benistone's return before they could move on. Inevitably, tears flowed through laughter, relief and some considerable amazement concerning Lord Benistone's secret renovations, a surprise to Marguerite as much as to her mama who, led by the hand into the drawing room, hardly recognised it. ‘The space...the light...ah, here's my little china dog...and my music, too. Ah, this is...oh, Elmer!' Unreserved, she threw her arms around his lordship's neck and wept. ‘I don't deserve it,' she cried. ‘You are too kind, my love. Too...
too
kind.'

‘Of course you do,' he said, holding her close, like a lover. ‘I should have done this years ago, sweetness. I should have seen what was happening.'

‘But all your treasures. What will you do without them? They meant so much to you.'

‘Not as much as my lovely wife and daughters,' he said, holding her elbows. ‘It began to look as if I was losing all of you at once. Even our dear Cecily didn't call as often as she used to. And I missed you so,' he said, plaintively. ‘I thought it was time I grew up, so Marguerite and I have done it together, haven't we, love?' Holding out his hand, he took his daughter's fingers and kissed their tips. ‘We've had time to talk. Journeys are good for that. Neither of us could walk off. And now our lovely Oriel can marry her William, and Annemarie will....well, who knows what Annemarie will do next?'

‘Papa! That's unfair!'

Verne came to her rescue with a possessive arm around her waist, laughing at her confusion. ‘With respect, my lord, we
do
know what Lady Golding will do next. She'll marry me.'

‘Weddings from Montague Street,' said Lord Benistone. ‘I like the sound of that. But perhaps we might precede them with a pre-wedding ball, since the last event was not the unqualified success it ought to have been. We'll do it again, properly this time. With Cecily to help, of course.' Turning to Marguerite with a gentle shake of her hand, he exchanged smiles. ‘Happy now?' he whispered.

* * *

With a younger and more innovative chef to replace the former one whose weariness had begun to show, dinner at Montague Street that evening was special in every way, from the carefully prepared menu with Lady Benistone's favourite dishes to the elegance of the table setting and the meticulous evening dress of the diners. There were so many thoughts to express, so much to discuss, news to exchange, plans to be revealed for a future that had once seemed so bleak, that it was late when the family dispersed, happier than they'd been for far too long.

Clinging together until the last moment, Annemarie and her mother had reached the point of intimate chatter that follows so easily after a surfeit of happiness, good company and wine, little exchanges that would be half-forgotten next day and would need to be elaborated on. The Prince Regent was always a source of such tales, though Lady Benistone had been touched, and amused, that he'd asked about her. ‘After all these years,' she giggled, linking arms. ‘Perhaps it's time he saw for himself, dearest. Lady Hertford told me... No, perhaps I ought not to say. Who he wrote to is not our concern, is it?'

‘Who
did
he write to, Mama? Anyone we know?'

‘He's had his letters returned to him now. And what a good thing, too. Can you imagine, what a scandal if they'd been made public like Lord Nelson's were in April? Poor dear. It would've been the end of him.' Her arm squeezed against Annemarie's. ‘Don't you remember what a furor it caused?'

‘For Emma Hamilton, you mean?'

‘Of course. She's been so indiscreet. But don't for heaven's sake let on that you know. Isabella only told me to make me smile.'

‘And did you, Mama?'

‘Well, yes. But not as much as Prinny, I expect. Goodnight, my love.'

Embracing, and with a glance over her mother's shoulder, Annemarie saw that Verne had been standing close enough to hear what had been said and that his face reflected all the concern she might have expected. Hardly able to believe her ears, she stared at him, shaking her head, then turning away, feeling her goodwill dissipate in a haze of confusion. Despite all she'd done to help, all she'd lost and gained, all she had believed in and the friends she'd trusted, her plan had come to nothing. Without her knowing it. Until now. ‘Cecily!' she called across the hallway. ‘Don't go yet. I need to speak—'

But Verne was there before her, reading her intentions. ‘No,' he said, softly. ‘Not now. Let her go. I'll explain.
Please
, Annemarie.' His emphatic plea was enough to prevent the confrontation that would surely have ensued before Cecily swirled out into the night air and the waiting carriage.

‘I needed to speak to her,' Annemarie said, angrily. ‘It's important.'

‘Yes, I know. We'll discuss it alone.'

‘Discuss?'
she retorted. ‘We'll have to do better than that, my lord. I need some answers.'

Verne had always hoped, with varying degrees of justification, that in time the letters would have been forgotten or, at least, pushed to the bottom of Annemarie's list of important things to remember. Realistically, he realised that it was still too soon for this kind of miracle and that he might one day have to make up a convincing story that would exonerate Cecily from all blame. After her assistance, he could not allow that to happen. If lies were a bad thing, then surely the protection of a friend was some kind of excuse.

* * *

Back at Curzon Street, he was quite prepared for her first salvo fired as soon as the bedroom door was closed behind them.

‘It was Cecily, wasn't it?' Annemarie began. ‘She was the one I gave them to. I trusted her and she unlocked my portmanteau and passed them on to
you
to give to the Prince Regent. So much for my trust. And all this time you've led me to believe I was doing a poor woman a good turn by returning what was
her
property. Laughing at me...the two of you...how
could
you do that? How else have you deceived me, my lord? No...let me guess...' White faced, pacing the room while pulling off her earrings, she was about to launch into another series of assumptions when she felt Evie's nimble fingers unhooking the high bodice of her evening gown. ‘You'd better leave us, Evie,' she said, pulling away. ‘I'll manage.'

Evie had been hoping to remain invisible for as long as possible but now, almost as white-faced as her mistress, she could not allow this tirade to develop so far in the wrong direction, even if it cost her her position. ‘My lady,' she whispered, avoiding Lord Verne's frowns, ‘please may I speak? I can explain what happened.'

‘Evie,' said his lordship, ‘I think you'd better do as Lady Golding says.'

‘But it was not Mrs Cardew's fault, m'lady. Please let me tell you,' Evie whispered, caught between the two of them. ‘It was all
my
fault.'

‘You, Evie? What did you have to do with it? Surely it was—'

‘No, m'lady. There was only a cushion in the portmanteau when Mrs Cardew took it out that afternoon. I don't know where she was supposed to be taking it, but I know it wasn't full of letters. She'd have got such a surprise when she opened it. Just that blue cushion from the inn. It weighed about the same, you see.'

Half-undone with her bodice falling off one shoulder, Annemarie sat on the bed, looking from Evie's distressed face to Verne's combined expressions of disbelief and resignation. Clearly, this was not the story he'd been going to tell. ‘Exactly what are you telling me, Evie?' Annemarie said. ‘That
you
unlocked my portmanteau?'

‘Not me, m'lady. Not personally. But somebody did. You remember how the inn was packed with passengers from the mail coach? And how I had to go down and get my supper, and how long I had to wait? Well, it's my belief that somebody got in and had a go at the portmanteau while I was out, m'lady, because when I returned it was open. Well, you were too tired and upset to be bothered about it that night, so I just took the cushion and put it inside. You said it had some jewellery in and I knew you'd discover the theft, sooner or later, but I thought it was best to say nothing until morning.' Evie's eyes filled with tears as she fumbled in her apron pocket for a handkerchief. ‘But I couldn't. Not then.'

‘And you locked the portmanteau up again?' said Annemarie. ‘How?'

‘The lock wasn't broken, m'lady. Somebody knew what they were doing. I used your key to lock it. I'd have told you about it, only there didn't seem to be a suitable time.'

‘So you don't know where the letters went, Evie?' Verne asked.

‘I didn't see any letters, m'lord. Lady Golding told me it was jewellery, you see. And then Mrs Cardew was to take it somewhere, but nothing was said after that so I assumed Mrs Cardew had resolved the problem.'

‘Yes, quite. So you think the contents were stolen by one of the guests?'

‘Must've been, m'lord.'

‘So,' said Annemarie, ominously quiet, ‘how did the...er...contents...find their way to the Prince Regent, I wonder?'

Evie glanced at Lord Verne while doing her utmost to clear her expression of all misgivings. ‘I can only suggest, m'lady, that whoever took them must have sent them on. Perhaps there'd be a reward of some kind.'

‘Ye-es. I'm sure there would be. Indeed, it sounds extremely likely.'

‘Rings true enough to me,' said Verne. ‘Evie took every care...'

‘Thank you, Evie. I think you should go now. It's getting late.'

‘Thank you, m'lady. You'll not blame Mrs Cardew, will you?'

‘Not at all, Evie. I've rarely heard such a concerted effort to save Mrs Cardew from any responsibility in the matter as I have just now. It's almost too good to be true. Goodnight, Evie.'

‘Goodnight, m'lady. M'lord.'

Verne watched the door close, shaking his head and wondering whether Evie's valiant story had made matters worse or better. He suspected the former, especially as the question of how the Prince got his letters back sounded as implausible as an honest thief. A squeak from the bed made him look up sharply. Annemarie had rolled over, face down into the white linen sheet, her arms bunched beneath her shaking body from which muffled sobs and yelps emerged, with the occasional moan.

‘Sweetheart...oh, my darling girl. Don't...don't weep. Let me explain.'

Another yelp. ‘Ah...not you, too,' she squeaked. ‘I can't
bear
it.'

‘What?' he said, placing a hand softly on her back to still the convulsions. ‘Can't bear what? She meant to protect Cecily, that's all. I knew you'd not believe her.'

It was then, when she turned towards him in the foetal position to ease her aching ribs, that he saw how she could hardly speak for laughter and that the wailing and squeaking were the beginnings and endings of words with no middles. For it was if an unyielding barrier had disappeared, leaving behind an empty space, totally without substance, meaning or importance. As Evie's ridiculously flawed explanation had been intended to excuse everyone except herself, even the thief, Annemarie was able to piece together the picture of that time in the Swan at Reigate when all was confusion and emotional turmoil, and an inexcusable unconcern for her maid's personal comforts which had always mattered to her. She had not asked about her supper, she had left her in charge of ‘valuables', and poor devoted Evie had had to fend for herself or find someone willing to help. The answer was obvious, wasn't it? The young man she'd had a fierce argument with, had cold-shouldered, warmed to, and was now protecting from extreme anger. Verne's own valet, following his master's instructions, who was following
his
royal master's instructions. How utterly absurd. What a comedy.

For some moments longer, Annemarie could only gasp out the explanations Evie had offered, ‘Evie protecting you...and Samson...you protecting Cecily....Cecily protecting...me, and me protecting...Lady Hamilton. Oh, Jacques! It's a wonder you could all keep track...of who...was protecting...whom! Oh dear. I've never heard anything so silly in all my life.' Mopping at her eyes, she sat up and flopped her arms about his neck. ‘Can we forget about it now, please?'

‘Darling, beloved! Do you mean that you don't care that the Prince has them instead of
her
?
Really?'

‘Not any more, my love. I wanted to hurt him, but now I don't. I wanted to help her, but it was already too late, wasn't it? She was leaving.'

‘You sent her money, Cecily says.'

‘At least I know she got that. It would have paid for something.'

‘But don't lay any of the blame at Cecily's door. She never saw the letters either. I had them by the time we left Reigate. She's a loyal friend.'

‘And I'm now protecting the disloyal one, am I not? The Prince who deserves it less than any of us. I could have ruined him. But I'm glad you stopped me.'

‘Are you, love? Am I forgiven? I had to do something drastic.'

‘I know. So maybe if you go and remove
your
evening clothes without your valet, we could do something drastic together before we sleep. Yes?' She put up her face for his kiss, made all the sweeter for knowing that, after all her efforts, he was the one who held the reins. A man above men. A man whose direction she would enjoy. A man she would love for ever.

Moments later, Verne emerged from his dressing room, tying the cord of his silk gown that concealed neither legs nor chest. Her lingering stare at the gaps made him smile. ‘Well?' he said. ‘Waiting for me?'

Annemarie pulled her own sheer negligee more tightly across her breasts. ‘No,' she said, picking up her hairbrush. ‘I'm waiting for an exquisitely mannered gentleman to invite me, with some deference, to spend an hour or two in polite conversation with him. But I fear that life is scattered with such disappointments.' She sighed, noisily.