Juliet Landon - Mistress Masquerade

Her first instinct was to leave them where they were, for she had no right to read what Lord Nelson had written to the woman he loved. No one had. But curiosity lured her hand reluctantly inside to draw out first one bundle, then the next, until there were eight of them balancing on top of the silver stoppers, releasing an aroma of old paper and the acrid smell of attar of roses. Instantly, she was reminded of a visit to Carlton House with Richard to meet the Prince of Wales at his inauguration as Regent, where the cloying perfume had made her head reel. Richard had told her later that it was the prince’s snuff. ‘No taste,’ he had remarked. ‘Not even in snuff.’

Even then, she failed to connect him with these letters, being so certain of Lord Nelson’s involvement, especially after the furor of a few weeks ago, in April to be exact, when his personal letters to Lady Hamilton had been published in book form by the Herald, causing the most embarrassing scandal. Few people would have missed the storm that followed, the mass gorging upon every salacious detail of their passion and the inevitable condemnation of the woman who, it was assumed, had sold them to pay off her enormous debts. Few believed her insistence that they had been stolen from her by a so-called friend who was writing a life of Nelson, at her request. Those who knew her better were sure of her innocence, although few had rushed to her defence, and certainly not the influential Prince Regent who professed to adore her and regularly took advantage of her generous hospitality. If these letters were more of the same, Lady Hamilton had kept them well away from ill-intentioned servants and had then forgotten about them in one of her removals to temporary addresses and the sale rooms. Poor unfortunate woman indeed, she thought, turning over one of the bundles to look at the back. It was sealed with a coronet, as aristocrats did. Delivered by hand. No postmark or address. Only the name, Lady Emma Hamilton.

Flipping a thumb across the crisp folded edges, Annemarie reminded herself that, for all she knew, they could be perfectly innocent and not worth returning, though the stale perfume warned her of a different explanation. So she slid off the faded ribbon and unfolded the first letter with a crackle, turning it round to find the greeting, once so personal, then the foot of the page, whispering words never meant to be heard out loud. Your ever devoted and loving....Prinny.

Her hand flew to cover the words on her lips, hardly daring to believe what she was reading. Prinny was what the Prince Regent’s closest friends called him.

These were his letters to Emma Hamilton.

Private. Scandalous. Priceless.

The significance of the discovery was both frightening and exciting as, one by one, Annemarie slipped off the ribbons to release the dozens of intimate love letters, all the same size, paper, ink and handwriting with the flourishing signature of effusive endearments: beloved, eternal friend, adoring servant, always your own, Prinny. The greetings were equally extravagant. Dearest Muse. My Own Persephone. Most Heavenly Spirit, and so on. Repetitive, unoriginal and maudlin, sentiments that roused her fury that here again was a lover whose flowery words failed to match his actions, whose promises were empty and worthless. Lady Hamilton must by now have realised that her letters were lost, that someone somewhere would find and read them, and could use them to blacken her name further, and that if they were indeed made public like the Nelson letters, she could expect to be cut out of the royals’ lives for ever without any hope of help.

She began to refold them, tying them back into bundles. And yet, she thought, surely it would be the Prince Regent himself who would look like the villain if ever these were made public. Despite his protestations of enduring love and friendship, it was common knowledge that he’d refused to offer any help since the death of Lord Nelson, even refusing to petition Parliament to grant her a pension, using the excuse that she had not lawfully been Nelson’s wife. Having abused her friendship and ignored her vulnerability without a protector, he had offered nothing in return. More than likely he would become a laughing-stock to the whole nation just as he was acting host to all the European heads of state, all through the summer. With letters like these in the public domain, what would be his chances of getting Parliament to vote him more funds for his building projects, his banquets and lavish entertainments? Virtually none. No small wonder he’d sent a trusted friend to retrieve the bureau where his letters were kept which, for all he knew, might still be undiscovered by the purchaser. Herself.

It was not difficult to understand how the Prince could know where Lady Hamilton kept her correspondence. The Herald had often reported with some malice how, at her wild parties lasting for days, her guests had access to all her rooms at any time. She and the Prince had not been lovers, by all accounts, but he would have known her bedroom as intimately as all her other friends, to talk, watch her at her toilette, flirt and drink. He would know of her famed carelessness, her disorganisation, her hoarding of gifts and her generosity. Why else would he have dispatched Lord Verne so quickly to find the other bureau and to buy it at any price once he’d discovered that its twin was not the one he wanted? And why else would Lord Verne have attached himself to Lord Benistone like a leech until he could find a way to worm himself into his daughter’s favour? That was the plan. She was sure of it. The only way of saving dear Prinny from utter disgrace. He had already made a start and Annemarie had unobligingly removed herself by some sixty miles. Yet another reason for his annoyance.

The feeling of power that washed over her in those moments of discovery was difficult to convey. The almost sensual realisation that revenge was, literally, in her hands. At any time, she could do enormous damage to that irresponsible, immature fifty-two-year-old heir to the throne without morals or principles, who could turn his back on a woman he professed to adore and refuse to help. Epitomising everything she had learned to despise about men, he would be the perfect target for her retribution. At the same time, she could give what she got for the letters to Lady Hamilton to lend some dignity to her retirement, to help her and her young daughter find a new life away from her predatory family. How ironic would that be, she thought, to refund her in money what the prince had withdrawn in support? She fell back upon her bed, breathless with euphoric laughter and the heady feeling of control, wishing she had made the discovery in London instead of here, for then she could have taken them straight to a publisher to broker a deal without delay.

* * *

Later, in the peace of the night when she had listened to the distant swish of the incoming tide, she rose and, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, sat before the bureau where the stacks of letters made a shockingly silent threat until she could choose a moment to let the cat among the pigeons. The full moon washed across the silk damask-covered walls, its white stillness somehow commending a safer and less contentious option that would place the responsibility where by rights it ought to be, with Lady Hamilton herself. Annemarie ought to take them to her, as the owner, and explain. Let her do with them whatever she pleased, for if the blame from the previous scandal could be heaped on Lady Hamilton, as it had been, then surely this could be, too, if the letters were published. Some of the blame would certainly damage his Royal Highness, but there would be others only too ready to ruin Lady Hamilton even further, and to what purpose? The likelihood of her ever being freed from scandal would be small. Annemarie’s own selfish motives must be put aside. The choice could not be hers.