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.’
‘So close? I did not realise.’
‘Or you might have insisted? Well, if I’d realised who lived only a five-minute walk away from me, my lady, I would have called here months ago.’
‘On what pretext? To find something else his Highness cannot live without?’
‘No. This.’
His move towards her was too fast for her to see or avoid and before she could step backwards, his hand was gripping through the short frill that sufficed for a sleeve, his other hand slipping round to the back of her neck, bringing her mouth to his for a searching kiss that went far beyond a polite farewell. She was too astonished to protest or retaliate before the softness of her beautiful mouth gave way under his. Her hand came up to push at his shoulder, but by then it was too late. He had timed it to perfection. He prepared himself to catch the blow she would be sure to aim at his head , but it did not come. Her eyelids flickered before opening wide like windows to send out a fierce glare of concentrated fury then, with one hand to her mouth, she turned and whirled away towards the staircase, almost colliding with the butler who had come to pass him his hat and gloves before letting him out.
Chapter Two
Lord Verne had not been exaggerating when he’d told Annemarie that his home on Bedford Square was only a five-minute walk away but, striding out with some urgency, he managed it in three-and-a-half. Taking the curving staircase two steps at a time, his coat, breeches and vest were in a heap on the bed before Samson, his valet, arrived to assist, showing not the slightest surprise at his master’s decision to go out again immediately, wearing evening dress. After eleven years in Lord Verne’s service, Samson had become used to the mercurial changes of direction, plans made and unmade, instructions implied rather than specified. His master was to attend a ball, that much was clear, though hardly a word was exchanged between them.
* * *
Lady Sindlesham’s house in Mayfair was not unfamiliar to Verne. On that night, it was transformed for the benefit of her royal guests, and others, who had cause to be thankful that General Bonaparte was at last in safe custody. With one ear tuned over the general hum to the rise and fall of various European languages, Verne chatted to his hostess, nodded and bowed to the foreign dignitaries and their wives who sparkled and shimmered beneath twinkling chandeliers while his sharp eyes sought out his employer, the Prince of Wales, who had been appointed Regent three years ago during his father’s serious illness. Verne sauntered across to meet him, awaiting the royal attention. Then, a few quiet words, a smile and a nod, a gentle pat on the shoulder from the pudgy royal fingers, and Verne moved away again, this time to ascertain the whereabouts of a certain Mrs Cecily Cardew with whom he had dined only that evening. Biding his time until young Marguerite Benistone had been drawn into the set by a uniformed Prussian officer, he approached as if quite by chance and, with an impeccable bow, took the lady’s jewel-laden hand in his. ‘Mrs Cardew, what a delight. Such a crush.’
Her surprise was only to be expected, but she concealed it well behind a quick survey of the immaculate long-tailed coat, white vest and knee-breeches that Lady Golding would have preferred to have seen earlier. ‘Lord Verne, you’ve just missed her. Look, there she is. Over there.’ She waved an outsized feathered fan towards Marguerite and Verne caught the ice-blue flash of diamonds on Mrs Cardew’s ear-drops that almost reached her shoulders.
‘Enchanting,’ he replied. ‘May I procure a glass of punch for you?’
She knew at once that this was not a chance meeting. ‘Might be a little dangerous with so many jostling elbows. I expect you know most of these people, my lord?’
Her silver-grey gown rippled softly as he led the way to a covered long seat between