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
