by Mary Brendan
She had been in Whiting Street at the same time as had Mickey Riley. Both had seemed oddly alert to the other’s presence, yet keen to keep it concealed. Only one reason could account for a meeting between them: Tarquin. Emily must have been summoned by Riley to learn what her brother had been up to. And in return, of course, he would expect a payment.
Nicholas settled back into the squabs with a satisfied smile on his lips. He rapped for his driver to set the coach in motion. One of these nights he ought to make use of the services of that pretty little girl of Mickey’s … Jenny, he believed was her name. And while he was there he would have a little talk with Riley and discover if there was a way that Tarquin Beaumont’s latest misdemeanour—whatever it was—might benefit them both …
‘If you’d rather not attend, I shall convey your regrets.’
It was the pained tone of voice rather than the words spoken that penetrated Emily’s deep thoughts. A swift glance at Stephen detected that he was pink with embarrassment. She guessed that he had been talking to her and she had, unwittingly, been ignoring him. ‘I’m so sorry, Stephen. What did you say?’ Emily blinked beneath her mother’s rebuking look.
Before Stephen could answer her Penelope did. ‘Stephen was just inviting us to Lady Gerrard’s soirée. Isn’t that wonderful?’ She shot a look at her daughter that dared her to disagree. ‘The invitation was issued to Stephen’s grandmother, who is her friend, but it has been extended to us too.’ Their guest received a grateful smile.
Emily’s small teeth sank into her lower lip as she tried to quickly summon up an acceptable excuse. In truth, she lately felt little like socialising. She had a vital and difficult task to undertake and that, together with incessant worries over Tarquin, was dampening her humour.
That morning she had received a note from Nicholas Devlin in which he stressed his pleasure at having finally had a chance to talk privately to her. The note had ended with him expressing a great desire that they might soon find another such opportunity. Emily had been stunned to receive it, and her first instinct had been to throw it on the fire. She might once have loved him, and been on the point of becoming his wife, but it had all turned to ashes years ago. He had married another woman and Frances was increasing with his child.
The Viscount’s letter to her, like his attitude on Whiting Street, was highly irregular to say the least. Emily had a suspicion that it was not a simple friendship that Nicholas was angling for, but a more intimate relationship. But it was finished between them. She was a mature woman now, not a silly girl just out of the schoolroom. She was able to control her senses and her future, and she had no intention of allowing a married man to so much as kiss her.
If she simply ignored his letter, he might be encouraged to send another. She had to let him know immediately, and in strong terms, that pursuing her was a lost cause—he would never again seduce her into wantonness.
Hard on the heels of her virtuous resolve came a very disturbing truth: Another gentleman had very recently and very easily made her act the wanton and the incident was impossible to put from her mind.
Emily fidgeted on her seat as phantom pressure from warm hard lips teased her mouth. She spitefully sank her teeth into the tingling skin to stop the sensation.
Tarquin … Viscount Devlin … She could accept that those gentlemen would be bothering her peace of mind, for both had given her due cause. But the most persistent images in her head were of Mark Hunter and what had occurred between them in the alleyway. And she wanted to dismiss that as inconsequential … as he had.
It was simply pique, she told herself. No woman would like to have a kiss—whether it had been welcome or not—dismissed by a gentleman with such a lack of gallantry. Neither could she be pleased with herself for having hinted she was unchaste. Would he have already forgotten what she said? Or was he mulling it over and deeming her quite capable of being a sullied woman?
This time it was a long and sibilant sigh from her mother that startled her to the present.
‘My … you are in a daydream today, Emily.’ Penelope chirped a brittle laugh. ‘Perhaps another cup of tea might liven you a little and help you concentrate.’
Emily murmured an apology. Indeed, she felt guilty for having again failed to talk to Stephen. He was a fine gentleman and deserved better than being ignored while her mind was preoccupied with the less worthy. ‘You must thank your grandmother, Stephen, for thinking of us and securing such an invitation—’
‘Well, that’s settled then,’ Penelope Beaumont interjected swiftly, before Emily could conclude her declination.
‘The invitation is also extended to your friend Sarah Harper.’ Stephen’s muted pleasure at her acceptance spoke volumes. Emily realised he was well aware that she would rather not attend. ‘Grandmama mentioned to Fiona Gerrard that you might like a young lady of your own age to accompany you. Not that there won’t be other young ladies present, of course. But you might not know any of them well enough to chat to …’ he finished lamely.
‘If you are to be there, Stephen, I shall have a friend to talk to,’ Emily said and gave him a comforting smile. She could not now cry off without causing a fuss and thus graciously accepted her defeat. ‘But I’m certain Sarah would be pleased to go too. I shall call on her later and find out for sure.’
When Stephen had gone Penelope surged to her feet and clapped her hands in delight. ‘Only think … Fiona Gerrard’s soirée! Augusta might be a rum old bird, but she has very influential friends, it seems. I expect she has secured us such a prized invitation to make up for being impolite when she came here to dine.’
‘Perhaps.’ Emily gave a slight smile. ‘A mere few days ago you were hoping Augusta would be on her way back to Bath by now.’
‘I know … and I don’t mind admitting that I hoped the old harridan might make the journey in a hearse.’ Penelope smiled wickedly. ‘Now I’m hoping dear Augusta might stay in London all Season. Who knows how many times we might be guests of Lady Gerrard? It might be a very happy time for you.’
Emily slipped her mother a shrewd look from silver eyes. ‘In what way are you hoping I might benefit, Mama?’
‘I think you know quite well, young lady.’ But Penelope went on to explain, ‘Lady Gerrard is known to have a host of eligible bachelors in her circle. We must make sure you look your very best—you might catch the eye of one of them.’
‘And what of Stephen?’ Emily asked wryly. ‘Is he now to be discouraged?’
‘Not at all!’ Penelope gasped. ‘We need a nice gentleman in reserve. By Michaelmas you must be spoken for. You cannot sit another year on the shelf. Oh … here’s your father home at last.’ Penelope rushed into the hallway to recount to him her exciting news.
Having listened with furrowed brow to his wife, Mr Beaumont nodded absently and made to walk on towards his study.
Penelope looked affronted by his lack of enthusiasm. ‘Well! I really think you could show a little more interest in such a promising opportunity for your only daughter. Your only daughter who, I might add, is worryingly close to her twenty-fifth birthday!’
Cecil turned about and gave an apologetic sigh. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, but lately I am too concerned over Tarquin’s whereabouts to take heed of much at all. I have been to several of his haunts and all the clubs in St. James’s. Nobody has any news of him. It has been a confounded long while since I had word from my heir.’
Emily had ventured into the hallway and heard what her grim-faced father said about his errant son. Strain was etched deeply about his weary eyes and Emily felt herself seething with anger at Tarquin.
For a moment she was tempted to blurt out to her father that she knew more than he did. But what comfort would there be for him in knowing that the ruffian who had been loitering about was issuing threats in his quest to locate Tarquin? Neither would her parents relish knowing that the last news of their eldest son was of him cavorting with harlots in Covent Garden. Indeed, should she disclose what she knew, it was sure t
o increase her father’s anxiety, and make her mother quite hysterical.
‘He will turn up soon enough, Papa. I know Mark Hunter is searching for him, too.’ Emily said encouragingly.
‘Our son is the most selfish wretch imaginable!’ Penelope suddenly burst out. ‘All the while we must concentrate on him … only him! Well, I refuse to let his shenanigans spoil our outing to Lady Gerrard’s. We will go, and we will enjoy ourselves!’ Penelope shot a look between her husband and her daughter. ‘I forbid another mention of Tarquin until the weekend!’
The sleek carriage slowed to a stop. After waiting and watching for a few minutes Viscount Devlin spotted, at a distance, the fellow he had been hoping would appear. He alighted and pulled his many-caped coat protectively about his elegant shoulders. With sheer distaste puckering his features, he began to pick a path, with the help of his cane, over dirt and debris underfoot. As he walked the gloomy lane, shadowy female bodies brushed against him, murmuring lewdly. He ignored them and roughly pushed away one bold harlot who persisted in clinging to his arm.
Crossing the road he approached a gin house spewing a pool of lamplight on to slimy cobbles. As he came closer, its raucous sound deadened the monotonous hum of begging irritating his brain.
‘Riley.’
His quarry spun about on hearing his name, and stared warily at Devlin as he stepped purposefully closer. ‘Evenin’ to you, sir.’ His tongue snaked over his lips. ‘Here for business?’
‘Why else?’ Nicholas sneered sarcastically and gave a speaking look at his squalid surroundings.
Mickey grimaced understanding, but his eyes were narrowed and alert. He hadn’t forgotten that this man had seen him in Whiting Street when he was there to meet Beaumont’s sister. And he was suspicious that the fine fellow was here for information, not pleasure.
‘Got a new girl called Lucy might take yer fancy. Young and fresh she is,’ Mickey said, hoping to distract any awkward questions by arousing the fellow’s lust.
‘I’ll take Jenny.’
Mickey shot a look at him. ‘She’s laid up … no use tonight …’
‘In that case, perhaps there’s another bit of business we might do.’ Two drunken navvies swayed past, arm in arm, roaring with laughter. Nicholas waited for them to weave away before gritting, ‘Is there a better place we might go to discuss this?’
Mickey chewed the inside of his cheek. Any mention of business pricked up his ears, but he didn’t trust this man. He didn’t trust him one bit. In fact, he’d sooner deal with Old Nick himself.
Noting his hesitation, Nicholas purred coaxingly, ‘There will be a tidy bit of blunt in this for you if things work out the way I like.’
It was what Mickey needed to hear. With a flick of his beady eyes to right and to left, he cocked his head and led the Viscount through an iron gateway. The alleyway led to a small door and Mickey indicated the Viscount should enter.
Inside, revellers could be heard through the wall, showing they were immediately behind the gin shop. The room held the unmistakable reek of poverty, and a few battered pieces of furniture.
Noting the Viscount’s disgust, Mickey said sardonically, ‘Best I can do at short notice. So if it ain’t a woman you’re after tonight, what can I do fer yer?’
‘You can tell me why you were on Whiting Street to meet Tarquin Beaumont’s sister.’
Mickey’s tongue tip hovered over his lips. ‘Who?’ he piped, all innocence.
Devlin smiled thinly. ‘Don’t act the fool and don’t bother lying. I know you were on Whiting Street to meet her.’
‘Told you that, did she?’
Devlin paced about the room, trying to find a spot where the atmosphere was less fetid. He came close to Mickey and looked directly into his eyes, for they were of similar height. ‘I know Miss Beaumont is trying to find her brother, and I would like to assist. That would please her. She might in turn then please me.’
Mickey gave a sly smile. ‘Ah … so you’d like to please Miss Beaumont … and have her please you …’
‘Indeed I would,’ Nicholas drawled
‘And you think I might be able to help.’
‘Yes.’
Mickey gave a chuckle. ‘That’s a thought, sir. That’s certainly a thought, and it is wot I do best. But it’s a bit risky with a classy lady ’cos there’s her family to consider.’
Viscount Devlin reached into an inside pocket and withdrew a silk purse. It was bulging fit to burst the seams. He leisurely slackened the drawstring and drew forth a gold sovereign. The glinting disc was held between thumb and forefinger while he shook the sack until chinking could be heard. His top lip curled as he saw Mickey’s eyes pounce greedily on the cash. ‘There’s twice that amount for you if it all goes to plan.’
Mickey shot a look at Devlin. He grinned, but his eyes were crafty slits. ‘You’ve come to the right place, sir. I’m sure that if Miss Beaumont got news that her brother were laid up somewhere, say somewhere quiet and very private, and him right poorly, well, I reckon she’d go there straight off to see him.’
‘I think so too,’ Nicholas Devlin said dulcetly. ‘I’m glad we understand one another.’
Mickey nodded.
‘Did you tell Miss Beaumont where her brother is hiding?’
Mickey shook his head, snorting a laugh. ‘I don’t know where the wily cove is, but she knows well enough that I’m on his tail, for I told her so straight.’
At Viscount Devlin’s enquiring look, Mickey brusquely explained, ‘I got a bit of business of me own to sort out with Beaumont. Nuthin’ that needs put a dampener on wot we just discussed.’
‘Good,’ Nicholas said. ‘You understand that we have not had a conversation of any sort?’
Mickey gave a bark of surly laughter. ‘Respectable gent like you … talk to the likes of me? Who’d believe that?’
Nicholas gave a nod.
‘I’ll see what I can do. Where can I contact you?’ Mickey asked.
‘You can’t. And don’t ever try to. I’ll return in a few days or so.’ Devlin turned towards the door, his nostrils flaring at the stench. ‘Let me out of this fleapit.’
Mickey sprang to open the door.
‘This new girl … she’s young and fresh, you say?’
‘She is indeed. Shall I fetch her?’ Mickey started to close the door again.
‘Not here, you fool,’ the Viscount barked with utter contempt. ‘My carriage is close by in Houndsditch. Send her there.’
Chapter Eight
Mark Hunter stepped swiftly into shadows to watch the black-cloaked figure traversing the rough cobbles. On reaching his carriage the Viscount sprang in, unaware he had been observed, and closed the door.
That Nick Devlin was sordid enough to seek pleasure in such a stew did not surprise Mark. Indeed, he had spotted him on other occasions doing business with whores in London’s back streets. But an idea stirred in his mind that another reason might have brought Devlin here tonight. Had the Viscount forgone the comfort of Mayfair to come, as he had, in search of Riley and some answers?
The only connection between Tarquin and Devlin that Mark knew of was a mutual loathing. After a moment he grunted a soft, self-mocking laugh. He was being too fanciful. Why would Devlin give a damn about Tarquin’s whereabouts? It was far more likely to be lust, not hatred, that had urged Nick to visit this haunt.
Pushing away from the wall, Mark was about to approach the gin shop when he heard soft footfalls and drew back against the brick once more. A young woman emerged from the murk and came towards him. Fleetingly their eyes met as she gazed, wide-eyed, up at him. But she didn’t speak or accost him. She hurried on past, winding tighter about her head a shawl covering a thatch of curly fair hair.
Mark pivoted on a heel to watch her. He had been surprised by her looks. She wasn’t raddled or dead-eyed as were many jades. But then the girl looked only about fifteen and had not yet lost the optimism of youth. She halted by Devlin’s carriage and used her fist to bang on the d
oor. Within a moment she had unceremoniously hiked up her skirts and disappeared inside. The vehicle remained stationary, although within seconds the carriage lamp began to swing on its hook.
Mark’s mouth thinned in disgust as he realised that Devlin could not even be bothered to take her somewhere more discreet. But of course he had no idea he had been noticed by one of his peers, being serviced by a whore in Houndsditch. The locals sloping around might know the Viscount by sight, and know what he was about, but that would not worry Devlin. However, talk of his debauchery, in polite society salons, might.
Mark had never liked Nick Devlin. Even before he had married the sister of one of his friends, simply for her fortune, he had despised the man for his deviousness.
Mark was aware that Emily had been engaged to Devlin about four years ago. He and Tarquin had then been barely acquainted and he had not known Emily at all at that time. Before this precise moment Mark had never given much thought to what had broken the betrothal between Miss Beaumont and the Viscount, or what had ignited the burning enmity between Tarquin and Devlin. But now he viewed things differently. Lately Emily Beaumont had been arousing his curiosity … as well as his body. He wanted to know about her life, past and present, and why she would once have agreed to marry such a character as Nicholas Devlin.
Mickey Riley spat out an oath beneath his breath. Was he never to be left to his own devices this evening? Again he slipped a look from beneath lowered lashes while trying to guess what this individual wanted. He certainly wasn’t a customer, but then there was always a first time for a bit of rough trade, even for fellows who seemed like they had never stepped foot outside Mayfair, and could afford a top-notch bit of muslin.