Mrs Cardew preferred him not to leave without some discussion. She was never usually so blind to Annemarie’s signals. ‘Oh, that,’ she said. ‘What a pity you’ve just missed it. It’s just been loaded on to the—’
‘That’s what I told his lordship,’ said Annemarie, stepping in quickly to stem the verbal flow, ‘that it’s not here.’
‘It’s going down to Brighton, you see,’ continued Mrs Cardew, brightly. ‘It’s for Lady Golding’s personal use.’
‘And it’s not for sale. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my lord, I have things to do.’
‘Ah, so it was here,’ Verne said, determined to persevere rather than be sent off with the flea in his ear that Lady Golding had in mind for him.
‘That is quite irrelevant, my lord,’ said Annemarie, sending him a withering look. ‘I’ve said it’s not for sale. Naturally I am mortified that his Royal Highness will be disappointed. Indeed, I shall probably lose a week’s sleep over it. I hope he soon recovers and finds something else he cannot live without. A diamond-studded horseshoe, for instance? A gold-plated handkerchief? A hair from the Great Chan’s beard? Poor man. So much wealth to get rid of.’
‘Annemarie, you must not say such things. Lord Verne and the Prince are sure to be close friends.’
‘Yes, I imagine they must be if all they have to do is to chase round London after things they can’t have.’
Taken aback by Annemarie’s sharpness, Mrs Cardew responded to a sudden clatter in the hall that heralded the arrival of the one who could save a difficult situation: Lord Benistone himself. She went off to investigate.
Lord Verne, however, placed himself between the door of the morning room and Lady Golding. He’d be damned if he’d let her have the last word. His voice was little more than a growl meant for her ears alone, spoken while their eyes locked together like cold steel. ‘I rarely chase after things I can’t have, Lady Golding. When I see what I want, I pursue it. And I usually make it mine.’
She could be in no possible doubt about his meaning, which had nothing to do with the bureau. Her eyes read his, down to the last letter. ‘Oh? With or without permission?’ she said.
‘Both,’ he replied, watching her eyes flinch. If his answer held a hint of ambiguity, he was certain she understood him well enough.
Her tongue was sharp, but not sharp enough to find a clever reply before the cousins returned, introductions were made, connections and interests defined. It was always a joy for Lord Benistone to find another man who shared his passion, and this man, working closely with the Prince Regent himself, had the best of credentials. Each had heard of the other.
* * *
Annemarie kept herself apart, fighting the temptation to run upstairs and shut herself away until he’d gone, her head echoing to his words, a statement of intent more than a challenge. After almost a twelvemonth, it was not what she needed to hear from any man hoping to find favour with her. Perhaps he believed that, after such a public disappointment, she would be desperate to regain her former standing in the fickle world of the ton, or that she was waiting for some bold knight to rescue a woman left desolate and pining. Nothing could be further from the truth. She wanted nothing any man had to offer, not even the nonsense about pursuing and owning. And for another thing, he was one of the Prince Regent’s set, and that condemned him in her eyes as irrevocably as all the rest put together.
All the rest? That tall athletic presence, too? The smooth doeskin breeches covering long muscular thighs, the matching waistcoat, under a creation that must have come from Weston of Old Bond Street, covering a deep chest. No padding or lacing there, she was certain of it. The impeccably arranged neckcloth and white cuffs, a single diamond pin and gold fob-watch on a fine chain were the kind of elegance that Mr Brummell advocated. Nothing to attract attention. That trend-setting gentleman, however, had no say over a man’s physique or natural comeliness, and heaven knew she had seen enough men to know when one was several cuts above the rest. His long unmannerly stare had given her time to do the same and, although her scrutiny was not meant to approve, her reluctant conclusion was that his was the handsomest countenance she had ever seen.
She had also taken note of the ruthlessness there, too, the square chin and steel-grey eyes, the quick lift of his head when he’d sparred with her, determined not to be bested. His dark hair was a tangle of deep waves that had obviously resisted any attempt to tame it and there was a streak of white from his brow that disappeared into the rest, like foam on the sea. She had seen the manicured nails, the dusting of dark hairs on the backs of his strong hands, an unsettling detail that reminded her of how dangerous such a man could be.
Still, there was one comforting thought: he would not be getting her bureau for any price, so he might as well go quietly and leave her alone. As for Cecily’s contribution, that was one of those annoying but forgivable mistakes, a result of her natural friendliness and her longing to re-establish Annemarie’s connection with the beau monde that had been allowed to lapse.
This time, Cecily’s enthusiasm was somewhat misplaced when she added her voice to Lord Benistone’s invitation. ‘Yes, indeed, my lord, of course you must dine with us. Miss Marguerite and I will be leaving for Lady Sindlesham’s ball later on, but Lord Benistone loves nothing more than to hear who has acquired what. Annemarie, my dear, will you allow me to go and speak to cook?’ A response seemed to be superfluous when Cecily was already halfway to the door, leaving Verne wondering exactly who was mistress here, Mrs Cardew or Lady Golding.
Cecily’s unique position within the family caused such anomalies to happen occasionally. She meant well, but what annoyed Annemarie more was the almost indecently brisk acceptance by which the tenacious Lord Verne took advantage of her father’s craving for men like himself to converse with. In no time at all, the two of them were away into Lord Benistone’s inner sanctum, talking nineteen to the dozen as if they had known each other for years instead of minutes, all protests about not being properly dressed for dinner dismissed with a wave of the master’s hand. ‘No matter, dear boy. Neither shall I be. No time for that. Never have. Nobody minds here. Come and tell me if his Highness has a bronze like this.’ And away they went without a backward glance, leaving Annemarie fuming at her own impotence.
Somebody did mind. She did. She preferred it if people dressed for dinner. What else would they dress for if not for the evening? She could hardly blame her father for latching on to a man so closely involved with the Prince Regent’s treasures, but she knew that this man had come here for something he was sure he could get, one way or another. And Lord Benistone was such a generous and obliging man, far too willing to say yes because it took less effort than to say no. With the latter, explanations were usually needed.
* * *
After their acrimonious introduction, it would have been quite unrealistic for Lord Verne to expect anything from Lady Golding except a polite frostiness, which is exactly what she delivered, even though etiquette demanded that they sat next to each other. Obviously, she was not inclined to exert herself for his sake, but no one seemed to notice when the youngest sister was intent on making enough effort for both of them with her girlish chatter.
Dressed in her white ballgown, the young lady looked astonishingly pretty with dark brown curls framing features that, in another year or two, would become more classically beautiful, though never as stunning as her sister. She did not possess anything like Lady Golding’s intelligence or depth either, her eagerness to please reminding Verne of a puppy that went into raptures at the sight of an audience. Especially a male audience. The eldest sister, Miss Oriel Benistone, was dining out that evening so he was not able to compare the siblings further, but
