The Wanton Bride

‘I hope you are not going to make of me a liar, Miss Beaumont.’ Mark’s tone was mock-grave. ‘Mr Wilson is even now spying on us to see if we are friends and I do take you home.’

Emily glanced quickly at the building and immediately noticed a blind dropping back into place at a square-paned window. Renewed mortification sent heat fizzing beneath her cheeks. ‘Insufferable man,’ she muttered.

‘I take it that was directed at Mr Wilson, not at me,’ Mark drily remarked.

Emily looked up at him through a web of lashes and reluctantly returned him a small smile.

‘Shall I reprimand him before we leave?’

Emily shook her head, setting her blonde tresses dancing beneath her bonnet. ‘No; it was not entirely his fault that he mistook the situation. What he saw must have looked…odd…’ She bit her lip and frowned across the street.

Mark held out a hand to her and she permitted him to help her aboard his curricle. ‘Genteel young ladies are not often seen alone in these parts. They come usually with their male relations if they have business to conduct.’

That seemed to Emily to be a purposeful observation. She guessed he might next enquire what her business had been coming here in the first place. Keen to continue an easy dialogue, she quickly said, ‘I expect Mr Woodgate is nicer than Mr Wilson. It was Mr Wilson who appeared, was it not?’

‘Indeed it was.’ Mark set the beautiful greys in motion and drew smoothly into the flow of traffic in the street. ‘Mr Woodgate was a very decent chap. Mr Wilson was a better fellow too before his partner died. I think he now finds it all too much to deal with alone.’

‘Died?’ Emily echoed, aghast.

‘Mr Woodgate died suddenly of a heart attack some months ago now.’

Emily inwardly cursed that she’d made a mistake. Obviously Nicholas Devlin would have known that Woodgate was dead. It piqued Emily that her erstwhile fiancé knew she had lied about an appointment simply to dodge into the building and get away from him.

‘Are you not going to tell me who you were hiding from? Is his identity a secret?’

It seemed Mark Hunter’s thoughts were in tune with hers so Emily sought a brief explanation. ‘He is just an acquaintance; a gentleman I have not seen or spoken to for some while.’ To prevent a further interrogation she continued, ‘I have to purchase a birthday present for my mother. Would you be good enough to set me down in Regent’s Street? I should like to go to Madame Joubert’s.’

Mention of the modiste brought to mind the last time they had met. On that occasion Sarah had been with her when Mark and his mistress had chanced upon them window-shopping. Mark had volunteered to try to discover Tarquin’s whereabouts while Sarah and Barbara Emerson had looked at the silks. Quizzing Mark now over her brother might yield some information about Tarquin and have the added benefit of distracting him from questioning her further about Nicholas. Emily frowned at her hands for, in truth, she had no idea why she did not want Mark Hunter to know she had been avoiding the man who had come within a hair’s breadth of being her husband.

‘We have still not had word from Tarquin. Have you discovered anything that might shed light on what he is up to?’ Emily’s eyes shadowed as she recalled her parents’ anxiety over the lengthy silence from their eldest son. ‘My father is now quite concerned about him. Tarquin usually contacts him if he has problems, and we are sure he has. His landlady has not seen him for weeks and he appears to have left without paying his rent.’

Mark reined in the greys and glanced at Emily’s profile. She was chewing at her soft lower lip and slender fingers were intertwining nervously in her lap. Suddenly she turned and shot up at him a look of pure entreaty.

Mark felt the tightening in his gut that was not solely a lustful reaction to her sweet appeal. Emily Beaumont was getting under his skin in a way that disturbed him. In the hallway of the lawyer’s office he had been on the point of kissing her when they were interrupted. In truth, he was sorely tempted to divert to a quiet spot and do it now…but equally he wanted to find Tarquin and bawl him out for putting her through such torment. Mark’s jaw tightened as a liquid silver gaze clung to him. He snapped his eyes to the road ahead.

He had an idea where Tarquin might be hiding out, and he had discovered a bit about what the miscreant had recently been up to before he dropped from sight. It was not the sort of thing that could be recounted to the man’s unmarried sister.

Mark’s brother had volunteered some information when asked whether he had seen Tarquin recently. Sir Jason Hunter and his wife, Helen, had been returning from a performance in Drury Lane when they had spotted Tarquin drunkenly consorting with low life in a dark alleyway. Jason had drolly recounted how a particularly comely harlot had seemed to have a tenacious grip on his affections.

A grim smile twitched Mark’s lips. Perhaps Tarquin had taken seriously the sarcastic advice he had given him some months ago and was sampling a variety of vices instead of expending all his resources solely on gambling.

Emily’s soulful eyes were still on him and she was waiting patiently for his answer. Carefully he told her the bare bones of what he knew. ‘My brother and sister-in-law saw Tarquin about two weeks ago. I promise I will continue to investigate.’

‘Where was that? Where did they see him?’ Emily demanded to know. Mentally she made a note to call on Lady Hunter. Helen and she had been friends since before Helen’s marriage to Sir Jason Hunter.

‘They spotted him in the Covent Garden area when they were returning from the opera.’

‘Was he at the theatre too?’ Emily asked quickly. ‘Who was he with? We might be able to extract more information from his companions,’ she said excitedly.

‘He wasn’t in the theatre and his companions, from their description, will be hard to find. Jason only caught a glimpse of him from his carriage when journeying home. I promise I will find your brother,’ Mark said huskily as he drew the curricle to a halt outside Madame Joubert’s.

Emily held Mark’s gaze and in her mind whirled conflicting thoughts. Part of her was tempted to divulge to Mark that she had a little information on her brother too. Should she tell him that she had received a letter summoning her to Whiting Street? Mark might recognise the description of the fellow with the broken nose and be able to shed some light on his identity, and how he might be connected to Tarquin. But Emily’s natural caution with this man kept the words hovering on her tongue tip.

Mark Hunter had once had her brother sent to gaol over a paltry debt of a hundred pounds. They were friends again, but how dedicated was Mark Hunter to helping Tarquin? Emily didn’t really trust him or his loyalty to her brother.

Earlier she had reflected on the differences between Mark Hunter and Nicholas Devlin, but they had at least one thing in common: both had a keener interest in her than in her brother. And it was an interest she had no intention of encouraging. Both gentlemen were spoken for; yet today she had had first-hand knowledge of how fickle-hearted they were as husbands and lovers. With just a little encouragement—and a little privacy—she could have been kissed by either of them. The fact that they both were firmly attached elsewhere, yet would like to engage in a little dalliance with her made Emily seethe with indignation. Perhaps they imagined that, as she had reached an age when it was considered she might be left on the shelf, she would be grateful for their lecherous attention.

‘I’ll wait for you to make your purchases and take you home.’

Emily allowed the young tiger to help her dismount. Yes, indeed, Mark Hunter was definitely showing her a little more consideration than was due to the sister of one of his friends. He was angling, she was sure, to seduce her, and doubtless he thought his good looks and affluence would make her fall into his arms. Perhaps he imagined that she was so desperate for his help in finding Tarquin that she might act like a gullible fool. But she had acted so once before, with Nicholas, and had vowed never to do so again.

The Hunter brothers had long been known as rakish characters. Jason had reformed when he married Helen Marlowe and was now a devoted husband. Acidly Emily wondered whether Mark would similarly change when Mrs Emerson finally got him to the altar.

Subduing a sour smile, she swung about to look up at him from the pavement. He returned her gaze with a steady intensity that confirmed her suspicions. He wanted her.

‘Thank you for the ride, sir,’ Emily began lightly, ‘and for the offer to wait, but I have other things to do besides shopping.’ Before entering the modiste’s, she hesitated, beset by an urge to turn her head and see if he was still watching her.

Slowly she pivoted around and noticed that the curricle was quite still and so was he. Their eyes tangled for a moment, then Emily looked away. Her mind foraged for something to say to explain away her reason for stopping to stare at him. ‘Of course, if you learn any more about Tarquin’s dealings, then, good or bad, we would welcome news of him.’ Without waiting for his reply, she quickly whisked about and entered the shop.

Chapter Five

‘What did she say?’

Jenny Trent’s excited query drew nothing but a dark scowl from Mickey Riley. A sulky shrug slipped her hand from his shoulder and he slumped down on to a threadbare sofa. A stove was burning in the cramped back parlour they rented, but washing draped over a chair was blocking its meagre heat. Belligerently Mickey kicked away the obstruction and it overturned scattering the clothes onto grimy floorboards.

‘This place is a dump. Don’t you ever clean up, woman?’

Jenny slid a wary glance at Mickey as she put the chair back on its rickety legs. She picked up her stockings and petticoats, giving them a shake, before neatly arranging them on the slats again so they might dry.

‘She won’t fall fer it, will she?’ she said as she hung the last scrap of linen on black oak.

‘Dunno yet,’ Riley snapped.

Jenny eyed Mickey’s surly features, then perched on a stool opposite him. ‘She didn’t turn up,’ she muttered scornfully. ‘I told you it would be a waste of time.’

Mickey Riley surged to his feet, fists balled at his side. ‘I did right, I tell you,’ he bawled. ‘She was there, and on time, but an accursed nob went up to her. Then he saw me, and looked a bit curious, so I didn’t hang around. I know him. You do too. It was Devlin and I ain’t getting on his wrong side.’

‘Devlin?’ Jenny echoed, startled. Oh, she knew him and hated it when she caught his attention and he chose to spend cash on her. That fine and dandy appearance of his hid a nasty rough streak. ‘Do you think Tarquin’s sister told Devlin about the letter you sent?’

Mickey shook his head. ‘When he clocked me I walked off, but not far. I watched them from an alley. They was only together a few minutes. Looked to me like she was keen to dodge him ’n’ all. She nipped in Wilson’s office and Devlin went off in his carriage.’

‘Did you wait for her to come out?’

Mickey nodded and grunted a laugh. ‘Waste of time it were, too. When she came out of Wilson’s she was with another fellow. It were the same swell she was talking to by the posh French shop. She must’ve liked him good ’nuff—she went off with him in his flash rig. And that were the end of me chances.’

Jenny chewed her lower lip pensively. For a few moments the tiny room was quiet except for the sound of her tapping her small booted feet in rhythm against the dirty bare boards. ‘You gonna try fer another chance to meet her?’ she suddenly piped up.

Mickey’s curt nod answered her.