he’d met such tangible hostility and never from a lovely woman. The situation was intriguing, all the more so when his brief was to get results at all costs.
Inevitably, the conversation turned to the elusive bureau wanted by the Prince Regent for Carlton House, the ongoing renovations of which were so much over budget that he was having to petition Parliament for extra funds for their completion. Miss Marguerite Benistone aired the question her father was too polite to ask. ‘Doesn’t the Prince have enough funds of his own, Lord Verne?’
Verne smiled indulgently at her. ‘His Highness never has enough funds. The Pavilion at Brighton is another half-finished project costing huge sums in improvement and decoration.’
‘Not to mention,’ said Annemarie, unexpectedly, ‘the cost of entertaining the crowned heads of Europe this summer after a war that has drained the country of every spare penny. No wonder Lady Hamilton is having to sell her effects to make ends meet. We shall all be doing the same if his Highness insists on covering the rooftops of his Pavilion with fancy Indian domes.’
‘You don’t approve of the Prince, I take it?’ said Verne, goading her.
Before she could answer, Mrs Cardew stepped smartly into the breach. ‘Ah, but think of all those celebrations in the parks since Bonaparte was taken into custody, all the dances and routs, all the returning militia to entertain. Did you serve in the King’s army, my lord?’
‘Until a few months ago, ma’am. I was in the Peninsula Wars with the Prince of Wales’s Own Regiment.’ He knew that would only confirm Lady Golding’s assumption that, as one of the Prince Regent’s cronies, he was sure to be as unprincipled as the rest of them. The 10th Hussars were best known for glamour, wealth, women, drinking and riotous behaviour, amongst other things. The knowledge would do nothing to endear him to her, he was sure. Idly, he wondered where Mrs Cardew stood in the scheme of things. Did she live here with Lord Benistone as dedicated chaperon, or was she simply an obliging cousin? Would it be worth cultivating her help to get what he wanted? He touched his forehead just below the white streak. ‘I have found that making a study of antiquity is safer than pursuing angry Frenchmen.’
‘Oh,’ said Marguerite, ‘but you must know how all English ladies simply hero-worship Napoleon Bonaparte, Lord Verne. Such a stern, scowling face must send goose-pimples...what? Oh!’ A look from her father, and Mrs Cardew’s gentle hand on her arm, stopped the gushing tribute in mid-flow as she directed her limpid brown eyes towards Annemarie’s stony expression. ‘Oh...yes, of course. Sorry, Annemarie.’
With the slightest shake of her head, Annemarie dismissed the gaffe without explaining its significance to Lord Verne. But Verne had already made the connection, during his two hours with Lord Benistone, that Annemarie was the widow of Sir Richard Golding, one of Wellington’s best officers, killed by French sniper fire early in 1812. Married less than a year and known to everyone as a brilliant man, his death had been a great loss. Her grief must have been terrible, but obviously not enough to penetrate the consciousness of her younger sister.
Grasping at any subject of mutual interest, Lord Benistone reverted to buying and selling. ‘So this bureau you’re after, Verne. How much did you say his Highness is prepared to pay for it?’
‘No, Father!’ said Annemarie before Verne could reply. ‘It belongs to me, remember? It’s not for sale. Not at any price. If his Highness wants a pair, he can easily have one made to match and, in any case, if he’s as short of money as all that, he ought not to be offering to buy an expensive piece of furniture, ought he?’
Her father, blinking in guilt at his daughter’s pertinent reminder, gestured vaguely with his dessert spoon ‘Well then, there you are, Verne. If you want to get to the bureau, you’ll have to get to Annemarie first, eh?’ The shocked uncomfortable silence lasted for what seemed like an eternity until, to ease the embarrassment, he continued. ‘I was speaking in jest, of course. The bureau will be on its way to Brighton first thing in the morning and so will Annemarie. His Highness will have to find something else, won’t he?’
Mrs Cardew’s contribution, meant to ease the tension, did not have quite the desired effect. ‘Lady Golding’s other home is in Brighton, you see,’ she told Verne, who had seen that some time ago and had been thinking ever since how strange it was that he’d never met her there. ‘She does not care for the London crowds.’
‘I think you need not explain for me, Cecily dear,’ said Annemarie. ‘Lord Verne has more important matters to occupy his mind than where I choose to spend my time. May we drop the subject now and talk of something else?’
But her father’s idea of dropping a subject was not hers. ‘Look here, Annemarie. What was I saying to you only today about travelling all that way on your own? Eh? Now why don’t we ask Verne to accompany you, just to keep an eye on things?’
‘No, Father! Absolutely not! I prefer my own company, thank you.’
Lord Benistone heaved a sigh, waved his spoon again like a white flag of surrender and plunged it into his baked apple and clotted cream. ‘No, of course not,’ he said. ‘What am I thinking of? Verne will be tied up with the Prince’s business from morn till night. A busy time for you, young man.’ The spoonful disappeared into his mouth and the conversation swung away smoothly to less contentious matters concerning the mammoth task of accommodating the European royals, some of whom had other ideas about staying with the Prince Regent whose interminable meals bored them to tears.
It was no hardship to Verne to feed delectable snippets of harmless royal gossip to fascinated ladies and, although the one who interested him most refused to respond, the pleasure he derived from sitting beside her lifted the exercise to a different level, knowing that she listened, weaving him into her own thoughts. She would be thinking, naturally, that he was ingratiating himself with her father in order to obtain the bureau through him. In her present defensive mode, seething with resentment and distrust of men, she would be planning how to shake him off, how to keep him at a distance, how to strengthen the shield that guarded her damaged heart which, after a death and a desertion in the space of two years, would still be aching, to say the least.
He could try the leisured approach, but that would take more time than he had. Then there was the other kind, more of a risk, intended to unsettle her, to provoke her into doing something rash and to remind her that she was desirable. The choice was easy.
* * *
Once the meal was over, Mrs Cardew and Marguerite took their leave of the company, giving Verne the chance to make his excuses also. In the deserted hall, he lingered to speak alone with Annemarie, who had watched her father’s retreat with barely concealed alarm. His blunt question was intended to catch her off-guard, though it was less than successful. ‘You are still annoyed with me, my lady? For coming to your table in my topboots, or for pursuing my duty to the Prince Regent?’
‘Your duty, my lord, appears to have been pursued with some tenacity. What his Highness will say when you return empty-handed I refuse to speculate. That’s your problem, not mine. As for the boots...’ she looked down at the twinkle of candles on the immaculate leather ‘...I suppose one must be thankful they’re not covered in mud.’
‘Your father assured me I would be excused, my lady.’
‘My father would find an excuse for a fox eating his best hen, my lord. He obligingly believes his code is good enough for the rest of us. He’s never needed to justify anything he does, which can be endearing, but at other times not so.’
‘Then I can only apologise. I could easily have gone to change. My home is in Bedford Square, only a five-minute walk away.’
