Juliet Landon - Mistress Masquerade

His wide, white smile did little to allay her fears in that direction, for it showed her that their thoughts had reached dangerous ground that ladies were usually careful to avoid. ‘Well, for one thing,’ he said, struggling with his smile, ‘the 10th and I parted company some months ago and, for another thing, there are always some exceptions to the rule, you know.’

‘I suppose you are one of the exceptions.’

‘Most certainly, or I’d not be in the Prince’s employment now.’

‘And the Prince is employing you to purchase a piece of furniture the owner has no intention of selling. Are you not rather wasting your time, Lord Verne?’

Mrs Cardew had warned him that he would need to be patient.

‘Lady Golding,’ he said, gently, ‘I am standing in a garden in the sunshine in front of a fabulous building, with the call of seagulls and the distant sound of the sea in my ears, while talking to the loveliest woman I’ve ever seen in my life, and you ask me if I’m wasting my time. Well, if this is wasting my time, all I can say is that I wish I’d wasted it years ago. Now, shall we just forget his Highness’s pressing need for expensive furniture and take a look at more interesting things? Then, if you wish, we can go across to Donaldson’s Library and take a cup of coffee, followed by a drive round town in a curricle. Do you drive?’

‘I used to.’

‘Good. Then we’ll find something in here for you to practice on, shall we?’ He offered her his arm and, because he had just said something to her that scalded her heart with suppressed tears, she placed her fingertips on the blue sleeve, feeling both the softness of the fabric and the rock-hard support beneath. It was as if, she thought, he knew what he had done and that his subdued flow of talk about the decoration, the materials, and the fittings inside the building was his way of buying time until she could find her voice again.

It would have been a pity to miss seeing such a place, just to make a point about not wanting to be in his company. And in spite of her reservations, and not knowing how best to handle the awkward situation, Annemarie could find nothing in his manner that made matters worse. Not once did they mention the bureau or the real reason for his being in Brighton, for it began to look as if Lord Verne had several good reasons for being there, one of which was to check on the paintings and ornaments being added to the Prince’s collection at the Marine Pavilion. He had been allowed to use a suite of rooms there, he told her, usually occupied by the Prince’s Private Secretary, so his acquaintance with the palace and stables staff meant that he had access to all the amenities, including the Prince’s cooks.

No one could have helped being impressed by the accommodation for the Prince’s horses. It resembled a Moorish palace, Annemarie remarked, more than a stable. Above them, the glass rotunda filled the circular space with pure daylight that sparkled on to a central fountain where grooms filled their pails. Carriage and riding horses, some still rugged-up in the pale royal colours, were led in and out through the fan-shaped arches while, on the balcony above, were the grooms’ cubicles behind a gilded façade. ‘And through here,’ said Verne, smiling at her awed expression, ‘is the riding-house. The horses are trained and exercised in here, and we have competitions too. The Prince is an excellent horseman. Always has been.’

‘You admire him, then?’

‘There’s much in him to admire, but he’s as human as the rest of us.’

Annemarie thought that the future monarch had no business trying to be as human as the rest of ‘us’, but she held her peace on the subject, at least for the time being. In a different way, the riding-house was as impressive as the stables, even more spacious, but lined and vaulted with timber to muffle the sounds. A thick layer of sawdust thudded beneath pounding hooves and the occasional bark of an order brought an instant response from the riders, many of whom were wearing Hussar uniform. There was no doubt that Lord Verne knew them, and the instructors, for hands touched foreheads as they passed, and nods reached him across the vast space. Obviously, Annemarie thought, Lord Verne had the Prince’s favour.

‘This is where you trained?’ she said.

‘No, this place went up while I was in Portugal with Wellington.’

‘So you’d have known my late husband.’ It was an unnecessary question dropped into the conversation, she knew, to remind him again of her background.

‘I knew of him,’ he replied. ‘Everybody did. He was well regarded.’

‘Yes.’

Another little barrier put in place, he thought. Well, I can deal with that, Lady Golding. I’ve managed difficult horses and I can manage you, too.

One of the uniformed instructors trotted across to greet them on a sleek and obedient grey gelding, patently pleased to see Verne there, but equally interested in his lovely stylish companion. Verne introduced him to her. ‘Lady Golding, allow me to introduce an old friend of mine, Lord Bockington.’

The pleasant-faced fair-haired officer made a bow from the saddle with a smile of approval and a grin at his friend, and she suspected that he was receiving a coded message to suppress what he might have said, had she not been the widow of Sir Richard Golding. ‘I am honoured, my lady. We always try to perform better when we have a special audience.’

‘Then I shall watch even more carefully,’ she replied, smiling back at him.

‘Watch this, then,’ he said. ‘See if you can see the difference since last week, Verne. This young lad learns fast. Brilliant potential.’ He trotted away to the side of the arena, reining back slowly before setting off to dance diagonally across the space. Annemarie had not seen this being practised before.

‘You were here last week?’ she said, without taking her eyes off the grey.

‘And the week before. And the week before that too,’ Verne answered, also watching. ‘A big improvement. Nearly fell over himself last week.’

‘Oh. I see.’

‘Good,’ he said, quietly, without indicating exactly what he meant. ‘Now, would you care to see the driving carriages while we’re here? He has some dashing phaetons and my own curricle is—’

‘Lord Verne,’ Annemarie said, stopping just inside the coach-house, a cool, spotlessly clean place lined with black-panelled coaches, shining brass and silver, and padded upholstery. The idea of driving again was more than appealing, in Brighton where she would not be remarked. But not with this man, not while she was being used so flagrantly to help him achieve his purpose. She had had enough of being used and now she was not so innocent that she couldn’t tell when it was happening again. Even if he did come to Brighton on weekly visits, that was no reason why she should be obliged to play this cat-and-mouse game with him. He had kissed her and today paid her an outlandish compliment and sought her company. She had better beware, for these were the first signs of something she must avoid at all costs. And she was one step ahead of him, which he must be aware of by now.

‘My lady?’ he said, stopping with her.

‘Lord Verne, I believe our scores are equal now.’

‘Enlighten me, if you will?’ He removed his beaver hat and, pulling off his gloves, stuffed them into the crown and placed it on the seat of the nearest vehicle. ‘What scores are we talking about?’

‘I showed you my bad manners when I was angry and you retaliated by showing me yours when you were angry. Now we have both redeemed ourselves, as you said you wished to do. You can go and get on with whatever you have to do here and I can do the same. Alone. Thank you so much for the tour of the stables. Do these doors lead to North Street?’ She had already seen the questions forming in his eyes. Angry? Me? When?