The Wanton Bride

Mark frowned—he had discerned the quiver of anxiety in Emily’s voice. ‘I have not seen him since last week at White’s when we played cards. I went this morning to his lodgings in Westbury Avenue, but his landlady said she’d not seen him for some days. I assumed he was staying with all of you at Callison Crescent. I’m not pursuing him for a gambling debt, I assure you,’ Mark added mildly, noticing her sharp look. ‘Tarquin expressed an interest in coming to Cambridge with me, that is all.’

Emily recalled then that Mark Hunter had a vast country estate in Cambridgeshire. Tarquin had visited it before and returned quite in awe of its size and splendid appointments. But now her thoughts returned to a place closer to home. She grimaced with disappointment as she recalled her conversation earlier with her father. ‘Papa said he would call in at Westbury Avenue this afternoon. From what you have said, he will be wasting his time.’ An unconscious sigh escaped Emily. ‘It is too bad of Tarquin to go off like that without a word.’ She raised anxious eyes to his face. ‘Do you have any idea at all where he might be? I know he pursues unusual entertainment. Are there any boxing bouts or cockfights that might have taken him out of town?’

Mark looked down into a heart-shaped face that was tense with concern. She wanted his help and he would have loved to be able to give it. Unfortunately he had no idea where Tarquin was.

Despite knowing that Miss Emily Beaumont didn’t like him, Mark had always harboured a soft spot for Tarquin’s sister. It was not simply her looks that attracted him, although she was exquisitely pretty and had an alluring little figure. Presently her curves were primly hidden beneath her velvet coat, but he’d seen her dressed in less and admired the way her body tautened silk in all the right places. And on such occasions when she’d quickened his pulse, he’d brooded on trying to alter her opinion of him. Inwardly he smiled, for it would be no easy task. And therein lay another reason she held a fascination for him. Emily Beaumont had a robust character and was not too timid to challenge him or to speak her mind. A lamentable amount of young ladies tended to blush and stammer in his presence. Emily was more likely to flash him a glare from silver eyes than flirtatiously flutter those wonderfully long lashes at him.

But she was looking at him now in mute appeal and that surely indicated she was open to being persuaded he was not the heartless fellow she’d previously thought him. Mark was reasonably sure that her brother was simply lying low to avoid paying his dues. But he was willing to keep his thoughts to himself and act knightly for the beguiling chit.

‘I’ve not heard of any such events taking place,’ Mark said levelly. ‘But that does not mean none exist. I can make some proper enquiries and try to find him, if you’d like me to,’ he offered huskily.

Emily gave a spontaneous smile. ‘Thank you, sir. I would indeed like you to do that. It would be reassuring to know that Tarquin is simply acting thoughtlessly and selfishly as usual.’ She had, she realised with a pang of regret, betrayed criticism of her brother’s character. Previously when with this man she had always been defensive if mention was made of Tarquin’s shortcomings. But her patience was wearing thin where he was concerned. He had let them all down in the past with his antics and they had rallied to support and to protect him. But Tarquin gave little back—even in the way of thanks—and Emily was aware that her parents’ lack of concern over his whereabouts sprang from a relief that their eldest son had taken himself and his problems away for a while.

Vexation caused a sigh to escape Emily. She would like to similarly forget Tarquin. Considering he had once driven away the only man she had ever loved, it seemed absurd that she could not banish the bothersome wretch from her mind.

Emily surfaced from her introspection to become conscious of a pair of deep blue eyes steadily watching her. Mark Hunter was aware of a momentary lapse in her role as loyal sibling. She guessed he was also reflecting on her reason for suddenly warming towards him.

Just minutes ago she had greeted Mark Hunter with distinct coolness. Now she felt awkward. They both knew that her abrupt change of attitude was simply due to the fact that she needed his help. That glint in his eyes was mockery, she was sure, and probably signalled that he thought her a hypocrite. And why should he not? She was on the verge of acknowledging it herself! Emily briskly dipped her head and took a step away from him.

‘Were you about to go in and make some purchases?’ Mark asked conversationally, seeking to delay her departure.

Emily shook her head. ‘No…we were just window-shopping. If you do come across my brother, Mr Hunter, I’d be grateful if you’d remind him where the Beaumonts live. Perhaps he might think to call in and say hello. Good day, sir.’

A smile curved his lips, acknowledging her ironic tone. ‘I won’t forget, Miss Beaumont. I’ll let you know if I discover Tarquin’s likely whereabouts.’

After a murmur of gratitude Emily approached her friend and Mrs Emerson. Sarah was still persevering in trying to engage Barbara in a chat about French fashions. Barbara’s responses had been limited to a variety of tight-lipped expressions.

After polite farewells Emily and Sarah walked off along Regent Street. They had distanced themselves by only a few yards when Sarah glanced back over a shoulder. ‘He’s still looking at you,’ she hissed into Emily’s small ear. ‘And Mrs Emerson has an unladylike scowl on her face.’

‘He could be looking at you,’ Emily immediately pointed out. ‘Barbara is probably in a fit of the sulks from having delayed her shopping spree. I don’t say I blame her. Those silks looked quite wonderful. It is a shame we didn’t see what else was on the shelves.’

‘Let’s go back,’ Sarah breathed. ‘Why should we not? We were at Madame Joubert’s first, after all.’

‘Don’t be silly; it would look as though we’re following them.’ Emily gave Sarah’s arm a little tug to turn her about. ‘And stop staring at them, for goodness’ sake!’

Chapter Two

‘Stop staring at them, for Gawd’s sake!’

The young woman’s booted toe made ungentle contact with her companion’s shin. He yelped and swore beneath his breath at her. ‘Wot you do that fer, Jenny?’ he snarled.

‘To stop you gawping like an idiot,’ Jenny Trent hissed back. ‘This ain’t the time and place to be seen.’ The young woman shot a look from under dropped lids and cursed quietly. ‘I reckon the nob she was talking to has spotted us watching her. We don’t want to be tangling with the likes of him!’

Mickey Riley affected nonchalance as he turned to look across the street. Fleetingly he met Mark Hunter’s steady stare. His attention soon returned to his companion. ‘Fellow’s looking at you, Jenny.’ He leered at the pretty woman at his side. ‘I know his sort. Quality with cash and an eye for petticoat, he is.’ He chewed his lips and gave Jenny a sly look. ‘We could’ve found richer pickings than Beaumont.’

‘Bit late to be thinking that now!’ She pinched his arm, urging him to move on. ‘You and your daft ideas!’ she scoffed.

Mickey Riley eyed the distinguished gentleman propped against the doorjamb of the posh shop, whose pretty ladybird was pointing out to him something she liked in the window. The fellow didn’t seem that interested; he soon glanced again across the street. ‘I reckon he’s taken with you, Jen. Give him something to look at,’ he urged his shapely young companion.

Jenny scowled up at Mickey, but did instinctively twitch at her skirts thus revealing a pair of shapely calves and ankles. She shook back her auburn curls, setting them bouncing beneath the elaborate concoction of feathers perched on her head.

‘Good girl,’ Mickey praised with an appreciative grin and threaded her arm through his.

Mark Hunter watched the couple disappear into the Regent Street throng. Had Mickey Riley known his thoughts, he might have felt less cocksure. It was not Jenny who had taken Mark’s interest, but Mickey himself.

Mark allowed Barbara to steer him inside the shop. He made appropriate noises as she indicated the things she liked, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

It seemed a rather odd coincidence that Emily Beaumont should mention Tarquin and cockfights to him just moments before he clapped eyes on a fellow he had last seen arguing with Tarquin at a cockfight in Spitalfields Market. It had been a heated enough exchange for Mark to enquire after the fellow’s identity. Tarquin had obliged him with that information when he subsequently joined him at the ringside of a boxing bout, but had seemed reluctant to divulge more about Mickey Riley, or the subject of their disagreement.

The incident had been some weeks ago, but Mark had a good memory for faces, and Riley’s appearance was quite striking. He looked to be about Mark’s own age of thirty-two, yet had hair as grey as smoke and a complexion that had been ravaged by the elements to nut brown. Riley also had a misshapen nose that led one to believe he was, or had once been, a pugilist. Notwithstanding those blemishes, he was well built, and an oddly handsome man.

When Mark had witnessed the altercation between Tarquin and Mickey—who was quite obviously of a different social class—he had not been surprised or concerned. Tarquin’s love of gaming brought him into contact with all sorts of people at all sorts of venues. His friend would wager on a street scrap between two bruisers or a race of thoroughbreds at Epsom. Unfortunately, wherever he went, Tarquin had an unholy knack of backing a loser.

Most gentlemen with such an appalling record of luck would find diversion of a different kind. Yet after almost a decade, and a small fortune squandered, Tarquin still followed the philosophy that the next stake would bring it all right.

Mark’s thoughts returned to Mickey Riley. If Tarquin owed him money—perhaps from a bet that night in Spitalfields—Riley didn’t seem the sort of fellow to take the loss lightly. Of course, Tarquin’s debts were not his business…at least, not until he decided to call in the loan he had made him last year, and added to them, Mark wryly reflected.

But the sardonic tilt to his lips was soon gone. Mark’s mood became sombre, for he had an uneasy feeling that Mickey and his female companion had been watching Emily. Or it could have been Sarah Harper they were interested in, but instinct persuaded him it was not.

It seemed absurd to suppose that Riley might accost Emily because her brother owed him money. But it was certainly not unheard of for even well-connected creditors to pursue the relatives of those who tried to renege on a deal. Big and brash as Riley looked, perhaps he was too craven to approach Mr Beaumont senior with his complaints and was stalking his daughter instead.

Mark darted impatient looks about the cloyingly scented shop. Madame Joubert was rustling hither and thither, her arms full of froth, as she tempted Barbara to make her purchases. As he watched the pretty trivia pile on the counter, he wondered whether he was letting his imagination run riot. There was little substance on which to found his suspicions.

He had no proof that Riley and his female companion were doing more than enjoying a leisurely afternoon stroll. If they had been watching Emily and her friend, was it necessarily from sinister motives? Two attractive young ladies, obviously of enviable status, were bound to draw the attention of those less privileged.

It was a reasonable explanation, but ultimately did not quell Mark’s suspicions. He had a sudden urgent desire to quit the modiste’s, immediately track down Tarquin, and demand he tell him what the hell he had lately been up to.

‘Man over there give it to me. He told me to bring it to you.’

Emily looked down at the ragged child who had moments ago yanked rudely on her coat to gain her attention. The boy had then stuck out a grimy hand that clutched a note. Tentatively Emily took the paper and then peered in the direction that the wizened-faced little urchin was pointing. She couldn’t see anybody at all who looked to be the likely sender. People were stepping briskly along the pavements, going about their business with no hint of any interest in her.

She looked enquiringly at the boy, who was wrinkling his freckled nose. He cuffed at his face as he looked up and down the street. ‘He’s gorn,’ he admitted with a shrug. ‘But he was over there and he give me it and then he give me this.’ Dirty fingers were opened to reveal a few coppers. ‘You gonna give me anythin’?’ he boldly asked and peered at Emily with one eye open and one closed against the afternoon sunlight brightening his sallow complexion.

Recovering her senses and her voice, Emily murmured, ‘Oh, of course.’ She fished in her reticule and then tipped a few more coins to chink on those reposing on his blackened palm. His fingers trapped the pennies, then he was haring away as though he feared she might snatch them back.

Emily walked on slowly towards Callison Crescent. She had a few minutes ago left Sarah at her door and had been barely five minutes from her own home when the lad had accosted her. Curiously she inspected the note. It was sealed, but there was no name or direction on it, just the sooty marks left by the child’s fingers. She made to open it, then hesitated. With a little inner smile she wondered if perhaps she had a secret admirer. If so, she ought to, at her leisure, discover his identity. She slipped the parchment into a pocket. It certainly would not have come from the gentleman who openly admired her.

Mr Stephen Bond was not prone to such romantic gestures as employing guttersnipes to deliver her a billet-doux. But he was nice enough, if rather predictable. Emily let out a sigh. Thinking of that gentleman had reminded her that Mr Bond was due to dine with them later and of course he would be exceedingly punctual.

‘I expected you home before this,’ was the peevish greeting that Emily received from her mother as she stepped into the hallway. ‘You have not forgot that we have company?’

‘No, Mama,’ Emily said. ‘I know Mr Bond is coming at seven.’

‘Well…good…let Millie do something pretty with your hair. The curls looks limp.’ Her mother circled her and picked a loose golden tress from the shoulder of her blue velvet coat. ‘Stephen is to bring his grandmamma with him this evening. She is up from Bath and seems eccentric. I was introduced to her at the Revue and couldn’t but invite her when Stephen mentioned he was coming. She had on the ugliest gown I ever did see. It was a shade of purple with fawn stripes. What possessed her to wear a green hat with it?’

Emily gave her mother a wicked smile. ‘If she arrives here in the same ensemble, perhaps we should demand to know.’

Penelope Beaumont chuckled, but her humour soon faded and she frowned at the door. ‘And your father is late home too. It’s nearly a quarter to six.’