Mistress Masquerade

Flipping a thumb across the crisp folded edges, Annemarie reminded herself that, for all she knew, they could be perfectly innocent and not worth returning, though the stale perfume warned her of a different explanation. So she slid off the faded ribbon and unfolded the first letter with a crackle, turning it round to find the greeting, once so personal, then the foot of the page, whispering words never meant to be heard out loud. Your ever devoted and loving....Prinny.

Her hand flew to cover the words on her lips, hardly daring to believe what she was reading. Prinny was what the Prince Regent’s closest friends called him.

These were his letters to Emma Hamilton.

Private. Scandalous. Priceless.

The significance of the discovery was both frightening and exciting as, one by one, Annemarie slipped off the ribbons to release the dozens of intimate love letters, all the same size, paper, ink and handwriting with the flourishing signature of effusive endearments: beloved, eternal friend, adoring servant, always your own, Prinny. The greetings were equally extravagant. Dearest Muse. My Own Persephone. Most Heavenly Spirit, and so on. Repetitive, unoriginal and maudlin, sentiments that roused her fury that here again was a lover whose flowery words failed to match his actions, whose promises were empty and worthless. Lady Hamilton must by now have realised that her letters were lost, that someone somewhere would find and read them, and could use them to blacken her name further, and that if they were indeed made public like the Nelson letters, she could expect to be cut out of the royals’ lives for ever without any hope of help.

She began to refold them, tying them back into bundles. And yet, she thought, surely it would be the Prince Regent himself who would look like the villain if ever these were made public. Despite his protestations of enduring love and friendship, it was common knowledge that he’d refused to offer any help since the death of Lord Nelson, even refusing to petition Parliament to grant her a pension, using the excuse that she had not lawfully been Nelson’s wife. Having abused her friendship and ignored her vulnerability without a protector, he had offered nothing in return. More than likely he would become a laughing-stock to the whole nation just as he was acting host to all the European heads of state, all through the summer. With letters like these in the public domain, what would be his chances of getting Parliament to vote him more funds for his building projects, his banquets and lavish entertainments? Virtually none. No small wonder he’d sent a trusted friend to retrieve the bureau where his letters were kept which, for all he knew, might still be undiscovered by the purchaser. Herself.

It was not difficult to understand how the Prince could know where Lady Hamilton kept her correspondence. The Herald had often reported with some malice how, at her wild parties lasting for days, her guests had access to all her rooms at any time. She and the Prince had not been lovers, by all accounts, but he would have known her bedroom as intimately as all her other friends, to talk, watch her at her toilette, flirt and drink. He would know of her famed carelessness, her disorganisation, her hoarding of gifts and her generosity. Why else would he have dispatched Lord Verne so quickly to find the other bureau and to buy it at any price once he’d discovered that its twin was not the one he wanted? And why else would Lord Verne have attached himself to Lord Benistone like a leech until he could find a way to worm himself into his daughter’s favour? That was the plan. She was sure of it. The only way of saving dear Prinny from utter disgrace. He had already made a start and Annemarie had unobligingly removed herself by some sixty miles. Yet another reason for his annoyance.

The feeling of power that washed over her in those moments of discovery was difficult to convey. The almost sensual realisation that revenge was, literally, in her hands. At any time, she could do enormous damage to that irresponsible, immature fifty-two-year-old heir to the throne without morals or principles, who could turn his back on a woman he professed to adore and refuse to help. Epitomising everything she had learned to despise about men, he would be the perfect target for her retribution. At the same time, she could give what she got for the letters to Lady Hamilton to lend some dignity to her retirement, to help her and her young daughter find a new life away from her predatory family. How ironic would that be, she thought, to refund her in money what the prince had withdrawn in support? She fell back upon her bed, breathless with euphoric laughter and the heady feeling of control, wishing she had made the discovery in London instead of here, for then she could have taken them straight to a publisher to broker a deal without delay.

* * *

Later, in the peace of the night when she had listened to the distant swish of the incoming tide, she rose and, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, sat before the bureau where the stacks of letters made a shockingly silent threat until she could choose a moment to let the cat among the pigeons. The full moon washed across the silk damask-covered walls, its white stillness somehow commending a safer and less contentious option that would place the responsibility where by rights it ought to be, with Lady Hamilton herself. Annemarie ought to take them to her, as the owner, and explain. Let her do with them whatever she pleased, for if the blame from the previous scandal could be heaped on Lady Hamilton, as it had been, then surely this could be, too, if the letters were published. Some of the blame would certainly damage his Royal Highness, but there would be others only too ready to ruin Lady Hamilton even further, and to what purpose? The likelihood of her ever being freed from scandal would be small. Annemarie’s own selfish motives must be put aside. The choice could not be hers.

Pulling out her old leather portmanteau, only recently emptied, she stashed the bundles inside and fastened the catch, deciding to take them back to London as soon she could. Mr Parke at Christie’s would know of Lady Hamilton’s whereabouts. She climbed back into bed, shaking her head in amusement at her father’s absurdly unthinking gaffe about having to get at Annemarie first, and wondering how long it would be before she could expect to see Lord Verne here in Brighton about his master’s sordid business. For some reason, the challenge disturbed her rest and the first crying of the seagulls had begun before her imaginings were laid to rest.

* * *

Annemarie’s last visit to Brighton had been in the preceding autumn, since when spring had struggled out of a protracted winter worse than most people could remember. Even in June, the gardens surrounding the Steyne were only just recovering and the continuing alterations to the Prince’s Marine Pavilion were nowhere near complete, mainly through lack of funds and because he changed his mind every time he saw it. Sprouting the same scaffolding and heaps of building materials, it was attended by the same unhurried workmen with time to stare at every passable female who came close enough. Behind the Pavilion, the Indian-style dome that had received her sharp criticism sat like a glittering half-onion on top of the Prince’s stables, the palatial building designed to house his riding, carriage and race horses at a cost that would have fed London’s starving and homeless for the rest of their lives. Not to mention his disgruntled unpaid workforce.

Strolling past toiling gardeners and arguing foremen, Annemarie explored new pathways across the grass towards the great dome set behind pinnacles and fancy fretwork, torn between admiration for its perfect proportions and the fantastic mixture of Gothic with Oriental. Such was the extravagance of the man, she thought, who would one day be king, the same man whose extravagant sentiments had poured into letters to a woman he now ignored. Like a wound still aching, the need to inflict a similar hurt welled up again before she could hold it back and force herself to be rational. She had never knowingly hurt anyone. Could she begin now and truly enjoy the experience?

Yes, I can. All I need is half a chance. Just show me how.

A speckled thrush hauled at a worm only a few feet away from her red kid shoes, flapping away in alarm at a deep shout from behind her. ‘Hey! No right of way here, my lady. Private property, this.’ A burly man waving a plan from one hand approached her so fast that it looked as if he might pick her up and carry her off over his shoulder.

‘It was not private property last September,’ Annemarie replied, standing her ground. ‘So how is anyone to know? Who’s bought it?’

‘Prince o’ Wales,’ the man said. ‘That’s who. Fer ’is gardens. An’ you’ll ’ave ter go back the way you came.’ He pointed, belligerently.

‘I shall do no such thing. I’ll go out that way.’ Annemarie turned back towards the stable block. But she was no longer making a lone stand against authority, for hastening towards her with long strides was a tall figure she instantly recognised. He was emerging from the central arch of the building, as though her impulsive plea was about to show her the half-chance she had requested. By his tan breeches and looped-up whip, she saw that he had been riding and, even though his eyes were shaded by the rim of his beaver, they glared like cold pewter at the officious foreman.

‘M’lord...’ the man began, ‘this woman...’

Verne came to a halt beside Annemarie. ‘Lady Golding is my guest,’ he said. ‘Return to your work, Mr Beamish.’

‘Yes, m’lord. Beg pardon, m’lady.’ Mr Beamish nodded and walked back the way he had come, shaking the plan into submission, leaving Annemarie to face the man who, since last night, she had known must appear.

Now he had, she was unsure whether to be satisfied by her prediction or annoyed that, yet again, she would have to try to get rid of him, somehow. Which, when she was the trespasser, might have its problems. In the circumstances, it seemed rather superfluous to snap at Lord Verne with the first thing that tripped off her tongue. ‘What are you doing here?’ She knew before it was out that thanks would have been more polite.

He showed not the slightest surprise, as if she’d been a terrier whose snappishness came with the breed. ‘If you care to walk with me, my lady, I will tell you what I’m doing here,’ he said, unable to conceal the admiration in his eyes at her elegant beauty, the silk three-quarter-length pelisse of forest-green piped with red in a military style worn over a frothy spotted muslin day-dress, the hem of which made it look as if she walked in sea foam. Her bonnet was of ruched red silk piped with green, with a large artificial white peony perched at the back where green and red ribbons fluttered down like streamers. Red gloves, red shoes and a green-kid reticule showed him that, even when by herself in all other respects, fashionable dress was still important to her. Compared to other women, he put her in a class of her own.

Annemarie did not comply at once, though it would have been the obvious thing to do. ‘I do not think I want to walk with you, my lord, I thank you. I only came to...’ She paused. Why should she tell him?

But as if she had, he turned to look at the exotic stable building. ‘Yes, it’s a fine-looking place, isn’t it? That dome is all glass. A miracle of engineering. The inside is even better. Come, I’ll show you.’

‘The public are not allowed.’

‘I’m not public. And neither are you.’ The way he said it brought a breathlessness to her lungs and an extra meaning to the words.

‘Lord Verne,’ she said, pulling herself together, ‘the last time we met, you were...’

‘I was less than gentlemanly. Yes, I know. Shall we start again? And this time, sartorially correct, I shall not put a foot wrong. You have my word.’

‘I was not referring to your dress, my lord.’ She wanted to say, Go away and leave me alone, I don’t know how to deal with this kind of danger because I know why you’re here and this meeting is not as accidental as it looks. You want what I’ve got and we’re both pretending to know nothing of it.

‘Then I can only beg for a chance to redeem myself, Lady Golding. Allow me one chance, at least. I keep my curricle in there. We’re both at your service, if you would do me the honour.’

‘What are you doing here? I don’t remember you saying anything about a visit to Brighton. If it has something to do with me, then I think you should understand that I came to be alone with my memories. Having to make myself agreeable to comparative strangers with whom I have nothing in common is likely to have the opposite effect from what you have in mind. Please don’t let our meeting prevent you from doing whatever you came here to do. I’m sure the Prince Regent will need you by his side at this busy time.’

‘What do I have in mind, Lady Golding?’ he said, softly.

He would know, of course, how she had glanced more than once at his beautifully formed mouth as she talked, watching for reminders of how it felt upon her own lips, wondering what she was missing by such a determined rejection of his offer of friendship. He would not know whether she had found what he was looking for, nor was he likely to take no for an answer before he knew, one way or the other. He would have to convince her of his interest in her and she would be obliged to pretend that it was for her own sake, not for the sake of his mission. She was anything but flattered. Why make it easy for him?

Her reply had an acid sting. ‘Why, my lord, what the rest of the Prince’s 10th Hussars have in mind, I suppose. Everybody knows what’s on their list and I’ve seen nothing yet to suggest that you are any different.’

His wide, white smile did little to allay her fears in that direction, for it showed her that their thoughts had reached dangerous ground that ladies were usually careful to avoid. ‘Well, for one thing,’ he said, struggling with his smile, ‘the 10th and I parted company some months ago and, for another thing, there are always some exceptions to the rule, you know.’

‘I suppose you are one of the exceptions.’

‘Most certainly, or I’d not be in the Prince’s employment now.’

‘And the Prince is employing you to purchase a piece of furniture the owner has no intention of selling. Are you not rather wasting your time, Lord Verne?’

Mrs Cardew had warned him that he would need to be patient.

‘Lady Golding,’ he said, gently, ‘I am standing in a garden in the sunshine in front of a fabulous building, with the call of seagulls and the distant sound of the sea in my ears, while talking to the loveliest woman I’ve ever seen in my life, and you ask me if I’m wasting my time. Well, if this is wasting my time, all I can say is that I wish I’d wasted it years ago. Now, shall we just forget his Highness’s pressing need for expensive furniture and take a look at more interesting things? Then, if you wish, we can go across to Donaldson’s Library and take a cup of coffee, followed by a drive round town in a curricle. Do you drive?’

‘I used to.’

‘Good. Then we’ll find something in here for you to practice on, shall we?’ He offered her his arm and, because he had just said something to her that scalded her heart with suppressed tears, she placed her fingertips on the blue sleeve, feeling both the softness of the fabric and the rock-hard support beneath. It was as if, she thought, he knew what he had done and that his subdued flow of talk about the decoration, the materials, and the fittings inside the building was his way of buying time until she could find her voice again.

It would have been a pity to miss seeing such a place, just to make a point about not wanting to be in his company. And in spite of her reservations, and not knowing how best to handle the awkward situation, Annemarie could find nothing in his manner that made matters worse. Not once did they mention the bureau or the real reason for his being in Brighton, for it began to look as if Lord Verne had several good reasons for being there, one of which was to check on the paintings and ornaments being added to the Prince’s collection at the Marine Pavilion. He had been allowed to use a suite of rooms there, he told her, usually occupied by the Prince’s Private Secretary, so his acquaintance with the palace and stables staff meant that he had access to all the amenities, including the Prince’s cooks.

No one could have helped being impressed by the accommodation for the Prince’s horses. It resembled a Moorish palace, Annemarie remarked, more than a stable. Above them, the glass rotunda filled the circular space with pure daylight that sparkled on to a central fountain where grooms filled their pails. Carriage and riding horses, some still rugged-up in the pale royal colours, were led in and out through the fan-shaped arches while, on the balcony above, were the grooms’ cubicles behind a gilded façade. ‘And through here,’ said Verne, smiling at her awed expression, ‘is the riding-house. The horses are trained and exercised in here, and we have competitions too. The Prince is an excellent horseman. Always has been.’

‘You admire him, then?’

‘There’s much in him to admire, but he’s as human as the rest of us.’

Annemarie thought that the future monarch had no business trying to be as human as the rest of ‘us’, but she held her peace on the subject, at least for the time being. In a different way, the riding-house was as impressive as the stables, even more spacious, but lined and vaulted with timber to muffle the sounds. A thick layer of sawdust thudded beneath pounding hooves and the occasional bark of an order brought an instant response from the riders, many of whom were wearing Hussar uniform. There was no doubt that Lord Verne knew them, and the instructors, for hands touched foreheads as they passed, and nods reached him across the vast space. Obviously, Annemarie thought, Lord Verne had the Prince’s favour.

‘This is where you trained?’ she said.

‘No, this place went up while I was in Portugal with Wellington.’

‘So you’d have known my late husband.’ It was an unnecessary question dropped into the conversation, she knew, to remind him again of her background.

‘I knew of him,’ he replied. ‘Everybody did. He was well regarded.’

‘Yes.’

Another little barrier put in place, he thought. Well, I can deal with that, Lady Golding. I’ve managed difficult horses and I can manage you, too.

One of the uniformed instructors trotted across to greet them on a sleek and obedient grey gelding, patently pleased to see Verne there, but equally interested in his lovely stylish companion. Verne introduced him to her. ‘Lady Golding, allow me to introduce an old friend of mine, Lord Bockington.’

The pleasant-faced fair-haired officer made a bow from the saddle with a smile of approval and a grin at his friend, and she suspected that he was receiving a coded message to suppress what he might have said, had she not been the widow of Sir Richard Golding. ‘I am honoured, my lady. We always try to perform better when we have a special audience.’

‘Then I shall watch even more carefully,’ she replied, smiling back at him.

‘Watch this, then,’ he said. ‘See if you can see the difference since last week, Verne. This young lad learns fast. Brilliant potential.’ He trotted away to the side of the arena, reining back slowly before setting off to dance diagonally across the space. Annemarie had not seen this being practised before.

‘You were here last week?’ she said, without taking her eyes off the grey.

‘And the week before. And the week before that too,’ Verne answered, also watching. ‘A big improvement. Nearly fell over himself last week.’

‘Oh. I see.’

‘Good,’ he said, quietly, without indicating exactly what he meant. ‘Now, would you care to see the driving carriages while we’re here? He has some dashing phaetons and my own curricle is—’

‘Lord Verne,’ Annemarie said, stopping just inside the coach-house, a cool, spotlessly clean place lined with black-panelled coaches, shining brass and silver, and padded upholstery. The idea of driving again was more than appealing, in Brighton where she would not be remarked. But not with this man, not while she was being used so flagrantly to help him achieve his purpose. She had had enough of being used and now she was not so innocent that she couldn’t tell when it was happening again. Even if he did come to Brighton on weekly visits, that was no reason why she should be obliged to play this cat-and-mouse game with him. He had kissed her and today paid her an outlandish compliment and sought her company. She had better beware, for these were the first signs of something she must avoid at all costs. And she was one step ahead of him, which he must be aware of by now.

‘My lady?’ he said, stopping with her.

‘Lord Verne, I believe our scores are equal now.’

‘Enlighten me, if you will?’ He removed his beaver hat and, pulling off his gloves, stuffed them into the crown and placed it on the seat of the nearest vehicle. ‘What scores are we talking about?’

‘I showed you my bad manners when I was angry and you retaliated by showing me yours when you were angry. Now we have both redeemed ourselves, as you said you wished to do. You can go and get on with whatever you have to do here and I can do the same. Alone. Thank you so much for the tour of the stables. Do these doors lead to North Street?’ She had already seen the questions forming in his eyes. Angry? Me? When?

‘When was I angry with you, my lady? Do remind me.’

She ought to have kept quiet. She had set out the premise of a debate and now would have to refuse to elaborate. ‘Never mind,’ she whispered. ‘If you don’t recall it, then why should I? Please, which way is the exit?’

Shaking his head, he tried to hide his smile behind a knuckle as he came to stand four-square in front of her, lifting her chin to see beneath the bonnet into her deep violet eyes rimmed with black lashes long enough to sweep up moonbeams. ‘You thought I was angry when I kissed you?’ he said. ‘Really?’

She tried to move away, mortified that she had shown him so clearly what was in her mind. Secret thoughts, not to be shared. But now her back was against the cool wall, held there by his hands braced on either side of her, and she feared he meant to repeat it, after all her denials and disapprovals.

‘Since you ask, yes! Why else but to...?’

She saw his eyes widen. ‘To what? Humiliate you?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘It was unforgivable, my lord. I am not to be used so.’

‘If that’s what you believed, then it was indeed unforgivable of me and not at all what I meant. I would never use such means to humiliate a woman.’

‘Then if that is the case, please don’t say any more. We shall forget about it.’

‘I hope not,’ he murmured.

‘I would like to return home, if you please.’

‘Steady, my lady. I shall take you home, but there’s no need to go galloping off like a spooked filly.’ His head lowered to hers and she was compelled to watch his mouth, to hear the softly spoken words, few of which she could remember later, that sounded like those he might have used to a nervous horse about to bolt. Gentling. Calming. Words of admiration about breeding and class and exclusiveness, elegance and loftiness that needed a man’s hand, not an old man’s, nor a boy’s. She might have shown irritation at that too-personal opinion, but she did not, for something deep within her kept her still and listening, as though at last she was hearing the truth for the first time.

‘Come on, my beauty,’ he whispered, holding out his arm for her to take.

Placing her fingers again on the blue sleeve, she walked with him to the door, blinking at the sunlight.

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