‘Oh, don’t ask so many damned stupid questions at this time of night, man. I’ll decide in the morning.’
‘Certainly, m’lord. Only...you see...one trunk fits best on the curricle and the other fits on—’
‘Prepare me a bath. I need to think.’
‘Pleasant ball, was it?’
The deeply expressive groan warned Samson that he had ventured too far and, being usually so responsive to his master’s every whim, saw that he had better produce the required bath without delay and in silence.
* * *
Soaking in the hot water by candlelight, Verne watched the clusters of swirling soap bubbles while trying to connect the day’s events right up until the dance with Miss Marguerite Benistone, which he would normally have deemed too expensive a payment by half had he not discovered so much from her chaperon to make it worth his while. Miss Marguerite’s cup had truly runneth over when his friend George Brummell came to the rescue. He had taken some persuading to keep the girl occupied and Verne had had to promise him another hefty ‘loan’. The Lady Benistone saga fitted in with what he’d heard, but to have the approval and assistance of Mrs Cecily Cardew, a member of the family and self-appointed fairy godmother, had given him an advantage he needed in his pursuit of the avenging angel from whom he’d stolen a kiss that evening.
* * *
Cecily would not have been too surprised to learn that her cousin’s wife, Lady Benistone, had already left the scoundrel with whom she disappeared last year during Marguerite’s coming-out ball, having discussed what they had discovered about his character and motives beforehand, though not the plans that Lady Benistone had devised to avert a disaster. Or so she thought. But never in her darkest dreams could Cecily have imagined the circumstances in which the flight would take place for, if she had, she would have stopped Esme from taking matters into her own hands. In Cecily’s mind, Esme Benistone, with her experience of men, knew how to look after herself and, if she was less than competent in her understanding of financial affairs, she more than made up for it in her understanding of men. Even a confirmed bachelor like Lord Benistone, all those years ago, had lost his heart to her and she to him, to everyone’s astonishment.
Last summer, Esme Benistone had devised a scheme, which she had kept to herself, for luring Sir Lionel Mytchett away from her daughter. The greedy young fool was not hard to persuade that he was beloved by an older woman with a great deal of ready money. He had found her promises easy to believe. Relying on past experience, Esme had been convinced she could keep him in a state of anticipation for at least a week while she arranged with her bank for the release of the money she had once earned, which her generous husband had never drawn upon. It had accrued a quite considerable interest over the years. However, after the third attempt to negotiate a release, she was told that although the money was legally hers, she could not access it without her husband’s permission, a serious hitch in her plans that upset Sir Lionel. Esme could hardly be surprised by his anger, but she had not expected anything like the terrible repercussions of his rage.
‘You what?’ he had snarled at her as she returned to their lodgings. ‘What d’ye mean, couldn’t get at it? Why not? It’s yours, isn’t it? Isn’t that what you told me?’
Lady Benistone sighed. This was going to be difficult. They had been together less than a week, uncomfortable days during which she had used all her sexual allure to keep him sweet without actually letting him have what he thought would be his with very little effort. Now, she would have to bring her plan forwards. She was many years his senior and was not used to being snarled at. ‘Lower your voice, if you please,’ she said, coldly, removing her hat and pelisse. ‘I told you we could use my funds, yes, but I was mistaken. We can’t. Mr Treen at the bank was quite adamant that, without Lord Benistone’s written permission, he cannot release the money. Somehow, we shall have to manage without it.’ Even as she spoke the empty words, she knew the impossibility of managing, her intention from the very beginning having been to pay him off, then return to her family with what to her was a convincing reason for her uncharacteristic behaviour. And if Elmer had made time to listen to her concerns, none of this would have been necessary. He would have sent the deceitful creature packing as any father would and Annemarie could have begun again to rebuild her life with someone more worthy of her.
‘Manage?’ he yelled. ‘How are we supposed to manage, your ladyship? I’ve been relying on you for this and now you tell me... God’s truth, woman! If I’d known...’
‘Don’t use such oaths to me, Sir Lionel. I’ll not hear it. You have no idea how foolish you 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?’
*