Mistress Masquerade

‘Many, not most,’ Verne said. ‘Sindy’s good at this kind of thing, isn’t she?’

‘She’s had plenty of practice.’ Realising how that might sound, she shot him a mischievous blue-eyed smile. ‘Oh, I don’t mean it that way. Sindy and I are old friends. Her granddaughters are Miss Marguerite’s age. They go about together, you know. That’s why she was so determined to be here.’

‘Or she would have gone down to Brighton with her sister?’

‘Oh, I doubt that very much, my lord. There’s too much going on in London this year. Marguerite would never miss all that just to keep Annemarie company. It’s perfectly understandable. She came out only last year and the purpose of that is to make contacts, not to hide oneself away...’

‘In Brighton?’ Verne said, stepping into the pause.

Cecily’s sigh could hardly be detected over the music. ‘You were away when all that happened,’ she said, ‘or you’d have known about it. Most people have put it quite out of mind now, after a whole year, but Annemarie believes it has ruined her, you see. To her, it’s still happening, in a way.’

Verne decided to take the bull by the horns, time being in short supply. ‘Apart from yourself, ma’am,’ he said, ‘there is no one else I would ask and, even now, I am aware that an event such as this is hardly the time or place to be discussing such matters. But...’

‘But perhaps it’s better to hear uncomfortable things at first hand rather than the embellished accounts of others. Don’t you agree? At least then you’ll be in possession of the facts before you...well, I was going to say before you begin manoeuvres, but that sounds rather too military. Annemarie may have fallen short of her duties as hostess this evening, but that’s not to say she was unaffected by your presence. I’ve never known her use the wrong knife to butter her bread roll before.’

‘Slender evidence of regard, Mrs Cardew.’

‘I know, but it’s in the eyes too, isn’t it? Hers and yours.’

‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘So may I ask what did happen, ma’am?’

‘Indeed. You may already have heard that Lady Benistone was once a very lovely and successful courtesan. Well before your time, young man.’

At thirty-two, Verne could recognise an older woman’s kindly flattery when he heard it. ‘I had heard something to that effect,’ he said.

‘She was twenty-two years her husband’s junior. I say was, but of course she still is. We don’t know where she is. Even your employer, before he became Regent, pursued her without success. Lord Benistone kept her in some style and eventually she agreed to marry him. The trouble was...’ she said, lowering her voice.

‘Please don’t continue if you’d rather not. I shall understand.’

‘The trouble was...well, you’ve seen how things are there, haven’t you? It’s no kind of mess to keep a lovely woman and their three daughters in. She was a top-drawer courtesan, so you can imagine how she felt. Collecting was, and still is, my cousin’s passion. He’s not going to change now. No shortage of money. He’s always been able to buy anything he wanted.’

‘Including his wife.’

‘Even Esme Gerard. And she loved him, too. But only for so long. He gives his entire attention to his collection and then wonders why he’s lost the only woman he ever loved. Everyone can see it but him, although I think he’s coming to realise his failings more now. Lovely man. Wrong priorities.’

‘It’s not uncommon, ma’am.’

‘Unfortunately, it’s not. Lady Golding...Annemarie...was widowed only a year when it happened. Not long out of mourning and being courted by a smooth-tongued young rake who promised her the world.’

‘Sir Lionel Mytchett.’

‘Yes, him. And if her father had taken the trouble to investigate him, he’d have seen what was happening. The young blackguard! Playing on her emotions.’ Cecily’s voice lowered again, this time in anger. ‘Wooed her for close on three months and led her to believe he was about to make an offer for her.’

‘So she was in love with him?’

The pretty fair curls shook in denial, but the reply was less certain. ‘Who knows? I believe it was too soon after Richard. I believe she was probably more in love with the idea of being a married woman than with Mytchett himself. I had offered to hold Miss Marguerite’s coming-out ball at Park Lane. Well, they couldn’t possibly have held it at Montague Street and I’d done the same for Annemarie’s wedding. What none of us had quite appreciated was the growing attraction Mytchett had developed for Lady Benistone and what I think,’ she said, emphasising her own interpretation of events, ‘is that he’d seen in the mother something he could get without bothering to marry the daughter, if you see what I mean.’

Verne nodded. Mytchett was just the kind to take advantage of that situation. What a pity Lord Benistone had not looked after his family better.

‘Annemarie,’ Cecily continued, ‘was a twenty-three-year-old widow and Esme was as eager as she was to get away from Montague Street and live a normal kind of life. That’s what they both wanted, but it was less troublesome for him to take Esme than Annemarie. They disappeared at Miss Marguerite’s ball. He knew exactly what he was doing, but I doubt very much whether Esme had thought it through. She’s a creature of impulse, is Esme, like Annemarie was before this happened.’

‘A double loss,’ said Verne, watching Marguerite smile into her partner’s eyes.

‘A triple loss, my lord. Husband, beau and mother. She’s become embittered. She won’t allow her friends near and won’t socialise at all. Rejection is a terrible thing. It changes perfectly delightful people into avengers.’

‘It’s clear she wants nothing to do with men, after that.’

‘I’m afraid so. Any man hoping to make an impression on Annemarie will have to be very patient, with no guarantee of success. But if you would like some advice on the matter, my lord...?’

‘Anything you can offer, Mrs Cardew.’

‘Then you might begin by finding the mother,’ she said so quietly that Verne had to lip-read. ‘I doubt very much whether Lady Benistone would stay long with that scoundrel and I would not be surprised to learn that she’d already left him, though I cannot imagine how she’ll live without support. Women like Esme are not good at that, you know. And the family are miserable without her. All of them.’

Again, Verne’s attention was drawn to the swirling figure of Marguerite, her happy smile and arms outstretched to her partner. ‘So you don’t think Lady Benistone would return uninvited?’ he said.

Cecily’s sideways glance was full of forbearance, as if only a man could ask such a question. ‘Pride, my lord. That’s a terrible thing, too. It stops people doing what they ought to do and it makes them do things they shouldn’t.’ For the last closing bars of the music, Cecily’s sad conclusion was left unanswered. ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘the dance has ended. ‘Shall you stand up with her before you leave, my lord? We’d take it as a great favour.’

Obediently, and without a trace of reluctance, Verne rose to his feet, understanding that he would be expected to pay for the help he’d just been given. ‘Indeed I will, ma’am. It will be my pleasure.’

‘And I shall be happy to receive you at Park Lane, my lord.’

‘You are more than kind, Mrs Cardew. I shall take up your invitation.’

* * *

Two hours later, he was back in Bedford Square with a head too full of information to say much to Samson except that they’d be going down to Brighton tomorrow.

‘Very good, m’lord. Marine Pavilion, is it?’

Grunt.

‘Will it be the curricle or the phaeton, m’lord?’

‘Oh, don’t ask so many damned stupid questions at this time of night, man. I’ll decide in the morning.’

‘Certainly, m’lord. Only...you see...one trunk fits best on the curricle and the other fits on—’

‘Prepare me a bath. I need to think.’

‘Pleasant ball, was it?’

The deeply expressive groan warned Samson that he had ventured too far and, being usually so responsive to his master’s every whim, saw that he had better produce the required bath without delay and in silence.

* * *

Soaking in the hot water by candlelight, Verne watched the clusters of swirling soap bubbles while trying to connect the day’s events right up until the dance with Miss Marguerite Benistone, which he would normally have deemed too expensive a payment by half had he not discovered so much from her chaperon to make it worth his while. Miss Marguerite’s cup had truly runneth over when his friend George Brummell came to the rescue. He had taken some persuading to keep the girl occupied and Verne had had to promise him another hefty ‘loan’. The Lady Benistone saga fitted in with what he’d heard, but to have the approval and assistance of Mrs Cecily Cardew, a member of the family and self-appointed fairy godmother, had given him an advantage he needed in his pursuit of the avenging angel from whom he’d stolen a kiss that evening.

* * *

Cecily would not have been too surprised to learn that her cousin’s wife, Lady Benistone, had already left the scoundrel with whom she disappeared last year during Marguerite’s coming-out ball, having discussed what they had discovered about his character and motives beforehand, though not the plans that Lady Benistone had devised to avert a disaster. Or so she thought. But never in her darkest dreams could Cecily have imagined the circumstances in which the flight would take place for, if she had, she would have stopped Esme from taking matters into her own hands. In Cecily’s mind, Esme Benistone, with her experience of men, knew how to look after herself and, if she was less than competent in her understanding of financial affairs, she more than made up for it in her understanding of men. Even a confirmed bachelor like Lord Benistone, all those years ago, had lost his heart to her and she to him, to everyone’s astonishment.

Last summer, Esme Benistone had devised a scheme, which she had kept to herself, for luring Sir Lionel Mytchett away from her daughter. The greedy young fool was not hard to persuade that he was beloved by an older woman with a great deal of ready money. He had found her promises easy to believe. Relying on past experience, Esme had been convinced she could keep him in a state of anticipation for at least a week while she arranged with her bank for the release of the money she had once earned, which her generous husband had never drawn upon. It had accrued a quite considerable interest over the years. However, after the third attempt to negotiate a release, she was told that although the money was legally hers, she could not access it without her husband’s permission, a serious hitch in her plans that upset Sir Lionel. Esme could hardly be surprised by his anger, but she had not expected anything like the terrible repercussions of his rage.

‘You what?’ he had snarled at her as she returned to their lodgings. ‘What d’ye mean, couldn’t get at it? Why not? It’s yours, isn’t it? Isn’t that what you told me?’

Lady Benistone sighed. This was going to be difficult. They had been together less than a week, uncomfortable days during which she had used all her sexual allure to keep him sweet without actually letting him have what he thought would be his with very little effort. Now, she would have to bring her plan forwards. She was many years his senior and was not used to being snarled at. ‘Lower your voice, if you please,’ she said, coldly, removing her hat and pelisse. ‘I told you we could use my funds, yes, but I was mistaken. We can’t. Mr Treen at the bank was quite adamant that, without Lord Benistone’s written permission, he cannot release the money. Somehow, we shall have to manage without it.’ Even as she spoke the empty words, she knew the impossibility of managing, her intention from the very beginning having been to pay him off, then return to her family with what to her was a convincing reason for her uncharacteristic behaviour. And if Elmer had made time to listen to her concerns, none of this would have been necessary. He would have sent the deceitful creature packing as any father would and Annemarie could have begun again to rebuild her life with someone more worthy of her.

‘Manage?’ he yelled. ‘How are we supposed to manage, your ladyship? I’ve been relying on you for this and now you tell me... God’s truth, woman! If I’d known...’

‘Don’t use such oaths to me, Sir Lionel. I’ll not hear it. You have no idea how foolish you look when you’re in a childish temper. I’ve put up with you in this dreadful little place for almost a week now and I think that’s probably as much as I can take. And, yes, if you’d known my funds were tied up, you’d not have been interested, would you? You’d have kept to safer ground with my daughter. You have sold my jewellery and chosen to gamble with the proceeds when we might have been safely in France by now. Well, your luck runs out rather too fast for my comfort.’

Anyone could have understood the ease with which Annemarie had fallen for Mytchett’s suave good looks, his perfect manners and easy charm, his stylish dress, his talk of possessions and connections. Lord Benistone had been too preoccupied to make thorough investigations that would have verified, or not, his claims. In a rage, however, Sir Lionel was frighteningly unattractive, noisy and threatening, and Esme Benistone realised too late that she had just revealed her intentions as she had not meant to do. She could have slipped away while he was out. But not now.

She saw the understanding dawn behind his eyes, at first a blankness like an abacus before the beads start to count, before the payment takes shape, before the final reckoning. Even then, she did not guess what form this would take. Not once had she anticipated the danger in which she had placed herself. As Lady Benistone, an aristocrat, she was due every respect. This time, she had miscalculated.

She had tried many times since then to forget what happened during the next half-hour, but without success. Physical violence was quite outside her experience and, although fear lent her an extra strength, it was not enough to prevent his determined and brutal assault from reaching its appalling conclusion. With a hand clamped over her mouth she could make no one hear her and she was forced into a helplessness so painful that, when he released her, her stomach revolted too. Before he left, his words were intended to be as wounding and as insulting as his attack, hurled at her as revenge for misfired plans, unlined pockets and the exposure of his baseness. He would make sure, he told her, that she paid the full price for finding him out, if not with money, then with shame.

Left alone at last, it took her some time to gather herself together sufficiently to stand, in a daze of pain, and to look for some way of washing herself. To go upstairs was impossible and she must get away quickly before his return so, still trembling and sobbing, she covered her torn clothing with her pelisse, tucked her hair inside her hat and pulled down the veil. With painful slowness, she left the house unnoticed and staggered to the end of the street from where, eventually, she was able to summon a hansom cab. ‘Manchester Square,’ she called up to the cabbie.

‘You alright, ma’am?’ he said, kindly. ‘Nasty headache?’

‘No,’ she whispered, ‘but drive carefully.’

‘Right-ho, ma’am. Just leave it to me. Climb inside.’

Managing the steps into the cab was almost beyond her, but the kind man waited before clucking to his horse and, on arrival at Manchester Square, was concerned enough to climb down from his perch and help her out. It was then that Esme fainted in his arms, attracting the attention of a primly dressed lady’s maid who was about to turn into the basement gate of the nearest mansion. ‘Why, that’s Lady Benistone, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘Dunno, miss. She said to bring her here. But this looks like the Marquess of Hertford’s place, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘It is,’ said the young lady. ‘Be so good as to carry her ladyship in, will you?’

* * *

Annemarie told herself that Verne’s kiss had meant nothing, really, except the annoyance of a thwarted man. Yes, that was what it was about. Annoyance and to pay her back for her rudeness as a hostess when she ought to have shown more courtesy to her father’s guest. As for that nonsense of pursuing what he wanted...well...that was soldier’s talk. Too many years in the army and too little opposition from women. That was the problem with his sort. Hardly worth getting upset about.

She threw her slippers into one of the leather trunks, but Evie gave a sigh and patiently took them out again. ‘You’ll be wearing these, m’lady, not packing them,’ she said. ‘Why not just leave the packing to me? Shall I bring you a nice warm drink?’

Regarding the piles of linens and silks, the shoes and chemisettes, the velvet pelisses and muslin day-dresses, Annemarie was unable to assemble any of the outfits while her mind still seethed with indignation. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s getting late and I’m not helping, am I?’ Throwing herself on to the chaise-longue, she made use of Evie’s absence to hear again his crisp, ‘No. This’, and to feel his hard demanding fingers pressing into her arm and neck, taking her too much by surprise to escape as fast as she could have done. As she ought to have done. Words like ‘churl’ and ‘lout’ faded against the sensation of the kiss and once again she was making comparisons like a silly untutored schoolgirl while pressing a cushion against her breast.

* * *

During the six hours it took to reach Brighton, it would be less than the truth to say that she had banished the incident from her mind, having little else to occupy her. But her father need not have feared her being alone when she had her maid, two coachmen, grooms and footmen with her, some of whom would take the coaches back to London. A few stops to change horses, to take a light luncheon, and by evening they were amongst the wheeling, yelping seagulls, by which time she had examined the incident from every angle and at every tollgate and inn. Knowing how her father was quite capable of arranging an escort whether she wanted one or not, her eyes had surreptitiously searched for a physique that might resemble Lord Verne’s, but thankfully, she need not have bothered.

The sight of her own pretty house lifted her spirits even more than the blustering wind and the grey-blue expanse of sea. This was the place bought for her and Richard by Lord Benistone to use as a retreat, which she had decided to keep as a useful second home. Too close to the Steyne for her taste, it had been perfect for Richard who liked to be in the centre of things and, situated on the corner of South Parade, there were good views from the large windows.

Annemarie was right about Brighton being deserted during the London celebrations—the area of open lawn between the house and the Marine Pavilion was only thinly scattered with the summer colours of muslin gowns and bright uniforms. A few doors away, Raggett’s Men’s Club seemed strangely quiet, and Donaldson’s Library across the road was almost forsaken. It suited her well enough. She decided to pay a visit there tomorrow.

The cook, housekeeper and maids had been at the house for three days already to remove dust covers, make beds and prepare food, so the rooms were welcoming and well aired, flowers in bowls, hot water, the lingering scent of polish and scrubbed floors. After the heavy clutter of Montague Street, the pale prettiness of her patterned walls, the delicacy of the furniture and the fabrics reflecting sunshine and sea were like a breath of fresh air filling her lungs with a new freedom. She went from room to room to greet all the familiar feminine things that her father would certainly not have looked at twice. Nor would Richard, had he ever seen them.

She realised at once that the new bureau would be too large to fit comfortably in her cosy bedroom, but after some rearrangement, a space was made for it in an alcove by the chimney-breast as she experienced an unaccountable wave of possessiveness that recalled Lord Benistone’s blunder about Lord Verne having to get to her first. Until the bureau arrived, there would be plenty to keep her occupied, things she had stopped doing in London in case she met someone who knew her. It was their sympathy she could not bear. Revenge was what she wanted, not pity. Any kind of revenge would do as long as it hurt.

* * *

On the next day, sooner than expected, the bureau arrived and, after hours of tipping and tilting, trapped fingers, muffled oaths and doubts, the heavy piece was fitted into the space she had made for it. Lady Hamilton’s rooms at Merton Place, she thought, must have been vast to accommodate two of these easily. But that evening, all alone, she took the brass key from her toilette case and inserted it into the beautifully decorated keyhole on the long drawer above the knee-space, imagining how Lady Hamilton and her lover, Lord Nelson, would have stood to look at themselves in the mirror under the lid that now stood upright. At each side of the mirror were the sections that had intrigued her most in Christie’s saleroom, a maze of polished compartments holding ceramic pots and cut-glass bottles with silver tops, ivory-and-tortoiseshell brushes and combs, hand mirrors and silver scissors, ornately inlaid trinket boxes, slender perfume bottles with the fragrances still clinging to the glass. The Prince Regent had its twin and, in most respects, the two were identical except that this was the one made for a lady, which is why she had chosen it.

The mania for Lord Nelson memorabilia had gripped the country in the years since his death at Trafalgar in 1805, and even after nine years there were collectors who would pay well for any of his personal possessions, even a shaving brush. Perhaps, she wondered, that was why the Prince Regent was so keen to acquire his furniture. Or was it more to do with Lady Hamilton, with whom he’d once been infatuated, even while her husband and her lover both lived? Neither of the men had approved of the royal obsession, although since their deaths, Lady Hamilton had found it necessary to keep well in with the royal family in the hope of financial help that never came. The Prince’s disloyalty to his friends was as notorious as his appalling fashion sense.

In the fading light, Annemarie sat before her newest acquisition to unscrew tops and guess at the contents and marvel at the craftsmanship, the details, the coloured inlays, swags and festoons, gilded handles and key-plates. At one side of the centre was a neat hole where a long brass pin could be inserted to hold the lower drawer in place when the lid was locked. Having taken a cursory look into the drawer only to find an odd glove and a few empty silk reels for mending, she tried to close it before replacing the pin in its hole. Obviously she had disturbed some other fragment, for it refused to close.

Bending to look inside, she slid her fingers deep into the recess at the back of the drawer, easing it out further and discovering that the back panel was hinged to lie flat, concealing an extra compartment. Then, lowering her head to the same level, she caught sight of shadowy bundles tied with ribbon like miniature piles of laundered sheets in the linen cupboard, so flat and uniform that she knew they must be letters. She pressed one pile, releasing the one that had snagged on the woodwork above.

Her first instinct was to leave them where they were, for she had no right to read what Lord Nelson had written to the woman he loved. No one had. But curiosity lured her hand reluctantly inside to draw out first one bundle, then the next, until there were eight of them balancing on top of the silver stoppers, releasing an aroma of old paper and the acrid smell of attar of roses. Instantly, she was reminded of a visit to Carlton House with Richard to meet the Prince of Wales at his inauguration as Regent, where the cloying perfume had made her head reel. Richard had told her later that it was the prince’s snuff. ‘No taste,’ he had remarked. ‘Not even in snuff.’

Even then, she failed to connect him with these letters, being so certain of Lord Nelson’s involvement, especially after the furor of a few weeks ago, in April to be exact, when his personal letters to Lady Hamilton had been published in book form by the Herald, causing the most embarrassing scandal. Few people would have missed the storm that followed, the mass gorging upon every salacious detail of their passion and the inevitable condemnation of the woman who, it was assumed, had sold them to pay off her enormous debts. Few believed her insistence that they had been stolen from her by a so-called friend who was writing a life of Nelson, at her request. Those who knew her better were sure of her innocence, although few had rushed to her defence, and certainly not the influential Prince Regent who professed to adore her and regularly took advantage of her generous hospitality. If these letters were more of the same, Lady Hamilton had kept them well away from ill-intentioned servants and had then forgotten about them in one of her removals to temporary addresses and the sale rooms. Poor unfortunate woman indeed, she thought, turning over one of the bundles to look at the back. It was sealed with a coronet, as aristocrats did. Delivered by hand. No postmark or address. Only the name, Lady Emma Hamilton.