by Mary Brendan
‘Didn’t say it weren’t about money … said it weren’t about gaming.’ Mickey Riley’s expression had hardened and his voice was little more than a sibilant hiss.
His change in attitude made Emily warily put distance between them. ‘Quickly explain, for I have tarried here with you long enough.’
Mickey shifted sideways to prevent her slipping past him on the path. With a sinister calm he said, ‘If you know where he is you’d best let on or I’ll have to come knockin’ on yer father’s door. Poor lass has got nowhere to go, y’see …’ Suddenly he interrupted himself with a low curse and shot a frown over Emily’s shoulder. With almost comic clumsiness he backed away a yard or two in a few seconds. ‘Best finish this another time,’ he muttered, then set off briskly up the alley.
Emily spun about to see what had made the fellow abruptly turn tail. She immediately recognised the imposing dark-haired gentleman who was standing by a smart landau. At their ease, and seated in the landau, were her friend, Helen, and her husband, Sir Jason Hunter. The couple were carrying on a laughing conversation with Mark Hunter, who had splayed a hand idly on the glossy coachwork.
Mark was no longer chatting to his brother and sister-in-law, although his smiling expression remained unchanged, and the couple were in no way alerted to the fact that his attention was actually at a distance.
Abruptly Mark gave the landau a final tap and stepped away from it. Emily watched Helen wave at him as the vehicle moved smoothly away heading west.
She had no doubt that Mark had watched her talking to the ruffian, and seen the fellow slope away. She had no doubt too that Mark was about to approach her and ask some awkward questions. He stood sentinel at the mouth of the narrow alley for a moment, trapping her, before strolling very purposefully towards her.
‘Miss Beaumont …’
‘Mr Hunter …’
The hint of challenge in her tone pulled his mouth wryly aslant.
‘Were you again tolerating the company of your troublesome fellow?’
Emily knew immediately to whom he referred, although, of course, Mark was still unaware that Viscount Devlin was the man who had forced her to seek sanctuary in Mr Wilson’s office. ‘Umm … no … it was not him I was avoiding on Whiting Street.’
‘Ah,’ Mark said. ‘I thought perhaps it might not be him. Of the two of you Riley seemed the more eager to get away just now.’
‘Riley?’ Emily echoed, testing the name. ‘You know him?’ She unconsciously stepped close to Mark to hurry his reply.
‘I take it that he did not introduce himself. He must improve his manners.’
Emily coloured faintly at his ironic tone.
‘His name is Mickey Riley and I am intrigued to know why you were talking to him.’
While awaiting her answer, and expecting it in any case to be evasive, Mark pondered on the time Mickey Riley and his lady friend had seemed to be watching Emily outside the modiste’s shop. He had wondered then if Riley would have the audacity to approach Emily over an unpaid debt of Tarquin’s. In his wisdom, he had deduced that Tarquin owed money to Riley over that cockfight. Now his suspicions were straying elsewhere.
He had heard that Mickey Riley procured for a slightly better class of petticoat than the usual drabs who congregated about Covent Garden. Mark, having learned from his brother that Tarquin had last been spotted with a comely harlot in that area, thought it likely that Riley was chasing Tarquin’s payment for another vice. In fact, Mark was fearful Mickey Riley was bothering Emily in his role as pimp, not bookie. Tarquin might be ignorant of the fact that his sister was being dragged into his sordid world, but nevertheless it seemed to be the case.
‘Why were you talking to him?’ Mark’s voice was harsh with suppressed anger. Had Tarquin been within reach he would have throttled him. ‘Was Riley asking you for money?’
Emily immediately bridled at such a curt interrogation. ‘I do not see, sir, that our private conversation is any of your business.’ She tipped her blonde head to a confident angle and made to pass him, but a hand shot to the redbrick wall, blocking her path.
‘Tell me what he wanted.’
Emily curled five fingers over the solid arm beneath his sleeve. The muscle tightened very little in response to her fierce attempt to move him. Unwilling to participate longer in an undignified tussle, she snatched back her hand and stepped away from him. ‘I repeat, sir, that my conversation with Mr Riley is none of your business. And your arrogance in demanding to know of it is breathtaking.’
‘Your naïveté is breathtaking, Miss Beaumont, if you expect to deal with Riley alone. Besides, you made all of this my business when you solicited my help in finding Tarquin. A moment ago you did not even know Mickey Riley’s name. I would hazard a guess you certainly know nothing about his character or what he does.’
Emily slanted him a mutinous look. Reluctantly she allowed that what he had said was correct. Mark obviously knew that a link existed between Riley and Tarquin and to deny it would be pointless. She had to admit, too, that Tarquin’s lengthy absence was becoming a sinister mystery and she felt unequal to solving it alone. She had thus far been allowing her natural antipathy towards Mark to get the better of her. His arrogance needled her, and she certainly did not trust him, but he was rich and powerful and he was Tarquin’s friend. She needed just such a gentleman’s support for she was sure that Riley would soon return. Without money or physical strength to oil his tongue, she would get nothing from him but more riddles and garbled threats.
She could reveal all to her father, but she was quite sure now that no mild explanation was to be had for her brother’s disappearance. When they had been dining with Stephen and his grandmother earlier in the week, her father’s melancholy had concerned her. His strained features haunted her mind again now. He was worried for both his sons, not just his firstborn. Emily understood why her parents had encouraged Tarquin to move out of the family home and into his own apartment. They wanted to put distance between Robert and his older brother’s excesses in case Robert might follow the example of the brother he idolised.
Conscious she had been some minutes lost in introspection, Emily shot a glance up at Mark. She forged a small smile; it elicited a cynical look.
Mark was not for a moment fooled by her faux cordiality and a grimace of impatience impressed on her that he still required an answer to his question.
In a snap she explained, ‘Mr Riley sent me a message to meet him in Whiting Street. The note hinted I would get news of Tarquin.’ A terse hand flick ridiculed the likelihood. ‘It transpires he doesn’t know where my brother is. In fact, he expects me to disclose to him Tarquin’s whereabouts.’ A glance from beneath her lashes revealed Mark’s expression to be unyieldingly stern. ‘A moment ago I told Riley I don’t know where my brother is, but I’m not sure he believes me.’
‘Did you not tell him all that yesterday?’
Emily shook her head. ‘I didn’t manage to speak to him because …’ She hesitated and frowned.
‘Because a troublesome fellow scared him off.’
‘Yes,’ Emily muttered.
‘And who was that?’ Mark drawled, but his easy tone held an edge of steel.
Emily turned her head, ignoring his probing. ‘I have bowed to your bullying and explained about my conversation with Mickey Riley. Please do not annoy me by being too impertinent.’
Emily watched as he leisurely strolled closer. He halted inches away, so close that his broad shoulders completely blocked her view of the road. Slowly he withdrew a hand from where it was lodged in his pocket. Long lean fingers trapped her chin, turned her to look at him.
‘I am trying very hard, Miss Beaumont, not to wash my hands of all of this and leave you to your own devices.’
Emily gazed up into eyes of peacock blue and felt her stomach lurch at the threat she read there. Again she bit back defiant words and impressed on herself that this man would have better luck than would she in unearthing Tarquin. His ruggedly handso
me face was very close to hers; she blinked as she noticed his long lashes drooping lazily to conceal that he was watching her mouth.
‘But you will not abandon me, will you, sir?’ The challenge was issued in a voice of silky insolence, and immediately Emily regretted what she had done.
‘Will I not?’ Mark asked with specious softness. ‘And what makes you so sure of that?’
Emily attempted to jerk her face free, but his grip tightened just enough to keep her still.
Very well, if he wanted to know, she would tell him that she knew no noble reason existed for his unexpected helpfulness! But several silent moments later Emily was still finding it difficult to reveal her conceit and accuse him of lusting after her. The more she tried to concentrate on whipping up righteous indignation, and the courage to slander him, the more intensely conscious she was of his touch scorching her jaw.
‘Why will I not abandon you?’ Mark demanded with veiled amusement. He propped an elbow on the wall and leaned closer. After a moment he felt a surge of tenderness soften his mockery, for her embarrassment was causing her complexion to glow rosily. ‘Come, say it. I promise I won’t object if you tell me that I’m a fool too susceptible to your beauty and too tolerant of your acid tongue. It’s the truth after all.’ His fingers extended, caressing a fiery cheek before he abruptly dropped the hand to his side. But he didn’t move away and mere inches separated their bodies.
Emily snatched a peek at eyes blackened with desire. Don’t annoy him, you need his assistance, was the thought racing in her mind. But despite his undeniable usefulness, what really kept her so still and quiet was a longing to again have his cool fingers curving soothingly on her hot cheek. She craved to know how it would feel to have Mark Hunter kiss her.
The yearning was undeniable and, of its own volition, her body seemed to sway forward, her face tilt to tempt a mouth that looked firm and warm …
Mark dipped his head the few inches required to skim together their lips. When she didn’t immediately skitter away from that gentle salute, he took immediate advantage. His palms slid to cradle her jaw’s sharp fragility and keep her close.
Emily sensed the pressure of his mouth increasing, coaxing her to part her lips while the long fingers, circling softly on her cheeks, continued to skilfully subdue any sensible thought she had of objecting to the liberties he was taking. She yielded to his wooing and her full lips parted to allow his tongue to languidly taste hers. In a daze she rested her weight against him, revelling in the icy fire that was coursing through her limbs. A slow hand travelled to her nape to smooth sensitive places and a delicious shiver passed over Emily, making her sigh against his mouth.
Mark drew her further into his embrace, greatly aroused by her unexpectedly eager response. His mouth plundered hers sweetly, defying her to protest as his hands slipped beneath her coat to caress her body.
A shock shivered through Emily as his thumbs brushed firmly over her rib cage to stroke the two tender nubs peaking beneath her bodice. Her back was beginning to arch invitingly when suddenly she tensed and her eyes flew wide. A hawker’s raucous shout reached her from the street and made her once more alert to where she was … and with whom. She jerked back.
Emily twisted her face free, horribly, shamefully aware that she was behaving like a brazen hussy with a man she knew was firmly attached elsewhere … and in broad daylight too!
She snatched herself from Mark’s embrace in two shaky backward steps. Her breathing was ragged as she whispered, ‘Thank you, Mr Hunter, for proving to me what I had suspected about you all along.’
Mark’s eyes narrowed on her flushed face. Her frigid tone and sparking eyes indicated he was to hear nothing complimentary. ‘And what do you suspect about me, my dear?’ he gritted out. The first exquisite taste of her had ended too soon and he felt cheated and frustrated.
‘I suspect, sir, that you will expect me to reward you for any assistance you give in finding Tarquin.’
‘Do you? And what exactly am I expecting to receive?’
Emily blushed scarlet. ‘You know very well. And I will not talk indelicately for your titillation.’
Mark tilted his head up and his hands gestured at the sky in exasperation. ‘God’s teeth! It was just a kiss … and not a very satisfying one at that.’
Emily blanched in mortification. Despite being ashamed of acting the wanton, she couldn’t deny she had thought their kiss had been thrilling … but not for him, it seemed.
Mark noticed the fleeting hurt that puckered her features. ‘It was nice … sweet … but unfinished,’ he explained gently. When she simply tilted her chin and flounced away from him he added, ‘You’re not yet a woman. When you are you’ll understand—’
‘Oh, I understand very well,’ Emily snapped. She pivoted back to face him to add coolly and quietly, ‘I am twenty-four years old and you need not patronise me.’
‘I’m not patronising you, I’m appreciating your innocence.’
‘Please don’t,’ Emily countered fiercely. ‘Your esteem is not appropriate.’
The silence that followed seemed to echo hollowly between the two high walls on either side of them. Emily jerkily swallowed, immediately regretting that her temper had caused her to unwisely hint at something very private. With her skirts clenched in quivering fists, she attempted to slip past him.
Mark refused to stand aside, although he kept his hands firmly in his pockets. ‘My esteem is not appropriate?’ he repeated softly. ‘Now it has been bestowed I think you owe me an explanation for throwing it back in my face. What is incorrect about my good opinion of your innocence?’
Emily nipped her lower lip in small teeth to prevent an outburst. She had no intention of resuming their previous dialogue. In an icy tone she demanded, ‘Please let me pass at once. I have been out too long and my parents will be worried for my safety.’
‘I understand their fears; you might have been waylaid by a reprobate.’
‘Indeed,’ Emily countered with acid amusement. ‘But rest assured, I will not mention meeting you.’
Mark gave her a sardonic smile. ‘And Riley? Will you tell them about him?’
Emily sent him a stare that might have turned a lesser mortal to stone. Mark unflinchingly returned her regard.
‘No. Will you tell them?’
‘Not if you’d rather I did not.’ He adopted an ironic innocence. ‘I swear I require nothing for that favour other than you let me immediately escort you home.’
After a moment of inner turmoil Emily finally capitulated and said sourly, ‘Why, thank you, sir, I accept your kind offer.’
Once handed into his curricle, she girded herself for a further interrogation. But he said nothing more at all; the journey passed in silence.
When he politely helped her down in Callison Crescent he said, ‘I shall increase my efforts to unearth your brother, but for my benefit as much as yours. There are some pressing matters I would discuss with him.’ His vivid eyes veered to her tense face. ‘In short, Miss Beaumont, when I drag him back I shall require nothing for the service.’
Emily began her muted thanks, but before their conclusion he was back on the seat and setting off again at speed.
Chapter Seven
‘I’ll tell you what I told the rest, sir. I haven’t seen Mr Beaumont for a good while now. And, if you catch up with the slippery devil, you can tell him from me that I want my rent. If I don’t soon get it, I’ll set the duns to find him.’ With that fervent threat Mrs Dale tried to close the door in Viscount Devlin’s face. The toe of one of his polished boots was swiftly wedged on the threshold and prevented her doing so.
‘The rest?’ Nicholas asked and gave the landlady a smile. ‘Other people have been here looking for him?’
Mrs Dale allowed him to push the door a little wider open, her eyes slipping over him in sly assessment. He was Quality, no doubt about it, and might pay her for her time and trouble if she answered a few of his questions. He was probably in a similar situation t
o hers: owed cash by that wastrel and with no idea how to run him to ground. At the beginning she’d thought Mr Beaumont a fine fellow, with his nice clothes and posh voice, and had no hesitation in renting him rooms.
This house on Westbury Avenue was one of the sounder properties Mrs Dale owned and was in a nice part of town, too. Yet, in her bitter experience, the well-heeled taking suites in Chelsea were no better at paying their rent than were the poor souls cramped in an attic in Whitechapel.
‘You said other people have been looking for Mr Beaumont,’ Viscount Devlin prompted with ill-concealed irritation at her brooding silence.
The landlady crossed her arms over her shrivelled chest and leaned on the doorjamb. A grimace was aimed at the heavens. ‘Mr Beaumont senior came looking for him. Oh, and before that there was a fellow looked like a street bruiser with a bent nose and hair as grey as fog. But a young feller, he seemed, for all that. Then there was a gentleman like yourself … Quality, he were, with fine clothes and a handsome face.’ Mrs Dale simpered sideways at the Viscount. ‘He had dark hair though, not fair like yours, and might have been taller too.’
‘Thank you.’ After a cursory nod Nicholas was down the steps and by his carriage.
Having taken up a comfortable position for a lengthy chat, Mrs Dale looked disappointed to see him go so soon. With a cluck of the tongue she turned to go back inside. Realising the nob had left without so much as handing over a farthing she swung back to snarl, ‘Tightfist’, before slamming the door.
Nicholas got into his carriage, whistling. He had got what he wanted and more besides. Mrs Dale’s description of the bruiser was detailed enough for him to be sure that it was Riley who had called looking for Tarquin. He had suspected that Mickey Riley was somehow involved in Tarquin’s disappearance. The fellow described as Quality was probably an acquaintance from one of the gaming clubs who was keen to call in his IOU quickly. He was not surprised to learn that Mr Beaumont senior had also been looking for his son. The family would, by now, know he’d absconded. Emily would thus be aware … and concerned … that her brother was in trouble.