Mistress Masquerade. Juliet Landon

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      * * *

      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 of Michelangelo’s David,’ said Annemarie, noting his interest. ‘Here’s his nose and one of his hands.’ She blew a cloud of dust off it. ‘May I ask your business, my lord?’ Still no smile.

      He decided to press for one. Foolishly, in retrospect. ‘Yes,’ he said, looking about him, ‘it would be difficult to get the rest of him in here without chopping him into further little bits, wouldn’t it?’

      ‘You mentioned the Prince Regent just now. Was there a reason for that?’ she said, ignoring his attempt at levity. She obviously did not appreciate having to deal with visitors, even noble ones, who turned up on the doorstep without a ticket expecting to be shown round individually. She would expect them to apply for the usual days: Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays. ‘Does his Highness wish to see the collection, perhaps?’

      Verne accepted defeat. She was not going to thaw. ‘I mentioned the Prince Regent, my lady, because he has commissioned me to find something for him.’

      Annemarie glanced sideways at the dusty piles of books, vases and body parts waiting to be catalogued. ‘Really. And would you know it if you saw it, my lord?’

      So, she needed to be told that she was not talking to an ignoramus. Idly following her glance, he was needled into a retort. ‘Well now, I’d know that the hand you’ve just dusted off is by Bernini, not Michelangelo, like the nose. And I’d know that this bowl here is sixth century bc Attic and that you should put it somewhere safe. It’s a very rare piece. And behind you is an El Greco, if I’m not mistaken.’

      ‘It is!’ Annemarie retorted sharply. ‘What is it you’re looking for?’

      Right. Now we’re level, Lady High and Mighty Golding, née Benistone.

      ‘For a Chippendale bureau. Oak, mahogany and pine, mostly.’

      ‘As you see, my father is not a collector of furniture. That is why I cannot ask you to sit. Most of our chairs are used for...other things...’

      ‘Yes, quite. But I was led to believe, my lady, that a Chippendale bureau was delivered to this address only today. The day before the Hamilton auction.’

      A quick frown shadowed her face. ‘Mr Parke promised me—’

      ‘It was not Parke who gave me the information,’ he said. ‘I did not even ask him for it. One does not need to go to the horse’s mouth to find things out, if you’ll excuse the expression.’

      ‘I’m familiar with the Christie organisation, I thank you. I can guess how you made your discovery But you are wasting your time, my lord. There is no bureau here. Where on earth would we put such a thing?’

      ‘His Highnesss will be very disappointed. He’s offering a good price for it.’

      ‘Well, that’s not my concern. Why does he want it so much?’

      ‘The Prince’s buyer visited Christie’s auction rooms at mid-day and found that the pair had been split up. His Highness was very put out. He wants the pair, you see, and at the moment he has only one. He sent me to search for it’s twin.’

      Angrily, she looked away, making it clear that knowledge of who had purchased the bureau was the very thing she had wished to avoid. Verne noted the angry flush and felt a moment of sympathy for this ravishing creature hiding herself away in this museum-like cavern with an ageing father and a heart growing cold with bitterness.

      As if summoned by the butler, a well-dressed middle-aged lady appeared, entering from the hall with plenty of warning and looking from Annemarie to her visitor with a smile. One glance at the fair ringlets, the plump figure and the brightly rouged cheeks warned him that she was probably not one of the sisters.

      ‘Cecily, my dear,’ said Annemarie, ‘allow me to introduce Lord Verne. Mrs Cardew, my lord. My father’s cousin.’

      ‘Ma’am.’ This time, his bow received a smile in return.

      ‘My lord. You were hoping to meet Lord Benistone? Oh dear. He’s late.’

      ‘I was hoping to find Lord Benistone and a certain bureau, ma’am.’

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