Mistress Masquerade. Juliet Landon

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.

      Pulling out her old leather portmanteau, only recently emptied, she stashed the bundles inside and fastened the catch, deciding to take them back to London as soon she could. Mr Parke at Christie’s would know of Lady Hamilton’s whereabouts. She climbed back into bed, shaking her head in amusement at her father’s absurdly unthinking gaffe about having to get at Annemarie first, and wondering how long it would be before she could expect to see Lord Verne here in Brighton about his master’s sordid business. For some reason, the challenge disturbed her rest and the first crying of the seagulls had begun before her imaginings were laid to rest.

      * * *

      Annemarie’s last visit to Brighton had been in the preceding autumn, since when spring had struggled out of a protracted winter worse than most people could remember. Even in June, the gardens surrounding the Steyne were only just recovering and the continuing alterations to the Prince’s Marine Pavilion were nowhere near complete, mainly through lack of funds and because he changed his mind every time he saw it. Sprouting the same scaffolding and heaps of building materials, it was attended by the same unhurried workmen with time to stare at every passable female who came close enough. Behind the Pavilion, the Indian-style dome that had received her sharp criticism sat like a glittering half-onion on top of the Prince’s stables, the palatial building designed to house his riding, carriage and race horses at a cost that would have fed London’s starving and homeless for the rest of their lives. Not to mention his disgruntled unpaid workforce.

      Strolling past toiling gardeners and arguing foremen, Annemarie explored new pathways across the grass towards the great dome set behind pinnacles and fancy fretwork, torn between admiration for its perfect proportions and the fantastic mixture of Gothic with Oriental. Such was the extravagance of the man, she thought, who would one day be king, the same man whose extravagant sentiments had poured into letters to a woman he now ignored. Like a wound still aching, the need to inflict a similar hurt welled up again before she could hold it back and force herself to be rational. She had never knowingly hurt anyone. Could she begin now and truly enjoy the experience?

      Yes, I can. All I need is half a chance. Just show me how.

      A speckled thrush hauled at a worm only a few feet away from her red kid shoes, flapping away in alarm at a deep shout from behind her. ‘Hey! No right of way here, my lady. Private property, this.’ A burly man waving a plan from one hand approached her so fast that it looked as if he might pick her up and carry her off over his shoulder.

      ‘It was not private property last September,’ Annemarie replied, standing her ground. ‘So how is anyone to know? Who’s bought it?’

      ‘Prince o’ Wales,’ the man said. ‘That’s who. Fer ’is gardens. An’ you’ll ’ave ter go back the way you came.’ He pointed, belligerently.

      ‘I shall do no such thing. I’ll go out that way.’ Annemarie turned back towards the stable block. But she was no longer making a lone stand against authority, for hastening towards her with long strides was a tall figure she instantly recognised. He was emerging from the central arch of the building, as though her impulsive plea was about to show her the half-chance she had requested. By his tan breeches and looped-up whip, she saw that he had been riding and, even though his eyes were shaded by the rim of his beaver, they glared like cold pewter at the officious foreman.

      ‘M’lord...’ the man began, ‘this woman...’

      Verne came to a halt beside Annemarie. ‘Lady Golding is my guest,’ he said. ‘Return to your work, Mr Beamish.’

      ‘Yes, m’lord. Beg pardon, m’lady.’ Mr Beamish nodded and walked back the way he had come, shaking the plan into submission, leaving Annemarie to face the man who, since last night, she had known must appear.

      Now he had, she was unsure whether to be satisfied by her prediction or annoyed that, yet again, she would have to try to get rid of him, somehow. Which, when she