Mistress Masquerade. Juliet Landon

the funds to pay for them.

      Oriel shared in the study of her ring. ‘It’s not only that,’ she said. ‘It’s Father too, isn’t it? He prefers it if one of us is here to show his visitors round the collection and Marguerite is no help because she doesn’t know the first thing about it. At least we can tell Egyptian from Assyrian.’

      Giggling at the mental picture of Marguerite’s carefully cultivated ignorance, Annemarie could not suppress the uncharitable retort, ‘Yes, and the longer she refuses to learn, the less likely she’ll be asked to help. She knows that, the little minx. And Papa knows it, too. He should take a stronger line with her.’

      ‘He did at breakfast though, didn’t he?’

      ‘He should do it more often.’

      ‘She takes notice of Cecily,’ said Oriel, wiping a finger over the stone curls of a Roman’s beard. ‘This one hasn’t been dusted lately.’

      ‘Thank heaven for Cecily. She’s a saint.’

      Father’s widowed cousin Cecily was in a perfect position to visit their London home as one of the family while keeping her own luxurious house on Park Lane as an escape from the comings and goings of visitors to their papa’s “museum”. Quite often, Marguerite would stay overnight with her when a chaperon was required for an evening event, an arrangement that suited them all for a variety of reasons. Cecily had been the one to sponsor Marguerite’s coming-out ball last summer, and now she was just as likely to appear at the Montague Street breakfast table as Marguerite was at hers.

      ‘You ought not to be travelling down to Brighton on your own, though,’ Oriel said. ‘You know Father doesn’t like it above half. Won’t Cecily go with you?’

      ‘I would not want her to,’ Annemarie replied. ‘I’d rather she stayed where Marguerite is, while she’s flitting about from party to picnic every day. She’s quite determined to go to Lady Sindlesham’s ball tonight, you know, and Papa doesn’t seem at all concerned. Cecily is needed here. Anyway, love, I shall hardly be on my own with a maid and two coachmen, shall I? I’m not likely to come to any harm between here and the coast.’

      ‘You’re getting to be a recluse, Annemarie. It cannot be good for you.’

      ‘It’s best,’ she said, not wanting to explain.

      ‘Think of all the evening dresses. You know how you love dressing up.’

      ‘Don’t, Oriel. It doesn’t help.’

      But it was true. To wear the newest fashions had always been one of her weaknesses, but without that frisson of excitement at the admiration they caused, the exercise seemed pointless when the stares she received would be laced with pity and curiosity to see how she was surviving last year’s scandal. She was not prepared to face that. Not yet.

      Oriel’s arm squeezed hers, understanding. When Mama was with them once again and Annemarie began to show signs of taking her place in society, she and her handsome colonel would name a date for their marriage. It was typical of her that she would not put a seal on her own happiness before everyone else’s was assured. But never once had the two older sisters doubted that, one day, Mama would reappear and that their lives would then begin a return to normality.

      It gave her sister no pleasure to keep them waiting, but for the life of her, she could find no way forwards.

      * * *

      The well-dressed delivery man touched the brim of his top hat. ‘Thank-ee, m’lord. Very generous, m’lord. Any time.’ A real swish beau, that one, he said to himself, watching the long stride disappear round the corner. It was one thing to be in such a cove’s good books, but that man could do some serious damage if the opposite applied, if those shoulders and that deep barrel of a chest were any indication, yet the blue superfine sported not one crease. Pocketing the gold coin, he patted the embroidered lettering on his black-velvet lapel that said, ‘Christie’s of London’ before climbing up on to the wagon to sit beside his mate. ‘It don’t get much easier than that, Rookie,’ he grinned.

      ‘Blabbermouth!’ replied Rookie, good-naturedly flipping the reins. ‘Giddup!’

      Returning to the front of Christie’s Auction House, the admired beau climbed into his own conveyance, a cream-and-black curricle of exquisite delicacy, took the reins and whip into his gloved hands, nodded to his groom and moved away along King Street heading northwards, quite unaware of the admiration he had aroused.

      Montague Street, he said to himself. That would be Benistone’s place, of course, a collector better known for his Greek and Roman artefacts and old masters than furniture. One of the best collections in London, so the Prince Regent believed. Sadly, Lord Benistone had suffered some notoriety over the loss of his beautiful ex-courtesan wife who had run off with the suitor of one of his daughters last year. He himself had been away in the Peninsula with Wellington at the time, so knew little of the details. The elderly father had never been a socialite, and what the daughters were like he did not know, though he’d heard that one of them had her mother’s looks, which might explain why that short-sighted worm Mytchett had taken what was on offer. His curiosity sharpened.

      * * *

      At Number Fourteen Montague Street, Lord Benistone’s butler was apologetic. The master was not at home. He was across the road in the British Museum. He liked to take a look at least once every two weeks. Would Lord Verne like to return tomorrow? Leave his card?

      No, Lord Verne thought he could do better than that, though it would not do to betray his impatience. In the marbled hall lined with art objects, he had detected a white pedestal that had moved, very slightly, in a shadowy corner by the staircase. He took a chance. ‘I wonder...is Lord Benistone’s daughter at home? I have not yet had the pleasure of the lady’s acquaintance, but His Royal Highness the Prince Regent...ah!’

      The pedestal moved forwards very slowly into the light and became a tall shaft of creamy-white flowing muslin topped by a scoop of peachy skin, a long neck unadorned except by wisps of escaping hair that curved on to her shoulders, the remainder of which was piled up into a gloriously untidy mass of glossy blackness that had obviously been set up there without mirror or abigail.

      There were very few times when Lord Verne was bereft of speech, being an erudite man known for his ability to handle any situation with astonishing efficiency, but this was one of those times. Aware that his incredulous stare would be taken for incivility if he didn’t utter some kind of sound in the next three seconds, he let out his breath on a narrowly avoided whistle. ‘Miss...er...Benistone?’ he said. ‘I hope you’ll forgive my intrusion.’

      Her black-rimmed gemstone eyes glared at him from beneath finely curved brows, one of which was cleft by a loosened ringlet that on any other woman would have signified untidiness, but on her was sensational. So, this could be the jilted daughter. If the mother looked anything like this, Verne thought, who could have refused her? But the amazing eyes remained stony and one could not have said that her welcome was even lukewarm as she stayed well out of reach. ‘No, we have not met, sir. I am Lady Golding, Lord Benistone’s second daughter. And you are?’

      ‘Lord Verne. At your service, ma’am.’ The use of his title, he thought, was justified on this occasion.

      ‘Then, in the absence of someone to introduce us, I suppose that must suffice. How do you do?’ Gracefully, she inclined her head in what he knew to be the precise degree demanded by etiquette and not one jot more. His own slight bow matched hers. He had no intention of offering more in civilities than she did. She adjusted a frill over her other wrist before clasping her hands beneath the high bodice of her gown.

      The butler bowed and took Lord Verne’s hat and gloves and placed them on a vacant corner of the book-piled hall table before leading the way to a morning room that had now become a repository of treasures. There was very little room for manoeuvre, yet he was both surprised and amused when the butler, without being prompted, propped the door wide open with a gigantic plaster cast of a foot before leaving them alone. If one could be alone in such exalted company.

      ‘Casts