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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.’

      Annemarie’s quick frown would have cracked a Greek urn, but it went unheeded. Mrs Cardew preferred him not to leave without some discussion. She was never usually so blind to Annemarie’s signals. ‘Oh, that,’ she said. ‘What a pity you’ve just missed it. It’s just been loaded on to the—’

      ‘That’s what I told his lordship,’ said Annemarie, stepping in quickly to stem the verbal flow, ‘that it’s not here.’

      ‘It’s going down to Brighton, you see,’ continued Mrs Cardew, brightly. ‘It’s for Lady Golding’s personal use.’

      ‘And it’s not for sale. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my lord, I have things to do.’

      ‘Ah, so it was here,’ Verne said, determined to persevere rather than be sent off with the flea in his ear that Lady Golding had in mind for him.

      ‘That is quite irrelevant, my lord,’ said Annemarie, sending him a withering look. ‘I’ve said it’s not for sale. Naturally I am mortified that his Royal Highness will be disappointed. Indeed, I shall probably lose a week’s sleep over it. I hope he soon recovers and finds something else he cannot live without. A diamond-studded horseshoe, for instance? A gold-plated handkerchief? A hair from the Great Chan’s beard? Poor man. So much wealth to get rid of.’

      ‘Annemarie, you must not say such things. Lord Verne and the Prince are sure to be close friends.’

      ‘Yes, I imagine they must be if all they have to do is to chase round London after things they can’t have.’

      Taken aback by Annemarie’s sharpness, Mrs Cardew responded to a sudden clatter in the hall that heralded the arrival of the one who could save a difficult situation: Lord Benistone himself. She went off to investigate.

      Lord Verne, however, placed himself between the door of the morning room and Lady Golding. He’d be damned if he’d let her have the last word. His voice was little more than a growl meant for her ears alone, spoken while their eyes locked together like cold steel. ‘I rarely chase after things I can’t have, Lady Golding. When I see what I want, I pursue it. And I usually make it mine.’

      She could be in no possible doubt about his meaning, which had nothing to do with the bureau. Her eyes read his, down to the last letter. ‘Oh? With or without permission?’ she said.

      ‘Both,’ he replied, watching her eyes flinch. If his answer held a hint of ambiguity, he was certain she understood him well enough.

      Her tongue was sharp, but not sharp enough to find a clever reply before the cousins returned, introductions were made, connections and interests defined. It was always a joy for Lord Benistone to find another man who shared his passion, and this man, working closely with the Prince Regent himself, had the best of credentials. Each had heard of the other.

      * * *

      Annemarie kept herself apart, fighting the temptation to run upstairs and shut herself away until he’d gone, her head echoing to his words, a statement of intent more than a challenge. After almost a twelvemonth, it was not what she needed to hear from any man hoping to find favour with her. Perhaps he believed that, after such a public disappointment, she would be desperate to regain her former standing in the fickle world of the ton, or that she was waiting for some bold knight to rescue a woman left desolate and pining. Nothing could be further from the truth. She wanted nothing any man had to offer, not even the nonsense about pursuing and owning. And for another thing, he was one of the Prince Regent’s set, and that condemned him in her eyes as irrevocably as all the rest put together.

      All the rest? That tall athletic presence, too? The smooth doeskin breeches covering long muscular thighs, the matching waistcoat, under a creation that must have come from Weston of Old Bond Street, covering a deep chest. No padding or lacing there, she was certain of it. The impeccably arranged neckcloth and white cuffs, a single diamond pin and gold fob-watch on a fine chain were the kind of elegance that Mr Brummell advocated. Nothing to attract attention. That trend-setting gentleman, however, had no say over a man’s physique or natural comeliness, and heaven knew she had seen enough men to know when one was

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