Regency Mistresses: A Practical MistressThe Wanton Bride

by Mary Brendan

  ‘It’s the right place right enough,’ Mickey returned on a bark of a laugh, but he avoided her eyes. Suddenly he stooped and grabbed the little bag of provisions and potions she had brought with her. ‘Come along, miss, won’t do to dawdle or we’ll never get back to town afore it gets dark.’ As though to emphasise that threat he glanced up deliberately at the lowering clouds in the west.

  Emily skipped after his striding figure despite the host of niggling suspicions in her mind. Before she could voice even one anxiety, the door was suddenly opened by a manservant. Emily hesitated, the hairs on the back of her neck stirring as she noted the fellow’s neat uniform. It was an unusual livery of brown and gold that she recalled seeing before … quite recently. An instinct made Emily stop and take a pace back.

  Riley had noticed her hesitation and, firmly clasping one of her elbows, propelled her up the steps and into the hallway. The manservant immediately closed the door and silently withdrew.

  Emily spun about to gaze at Riley. But his attention was elsewhere.

  ‘There … all ready and waiting,’ he said, with a leer, but it was not her he was addressing in such a lewd tone of voice.

  Slowly she became aware of approaching footfalls and twisted about. Her soft mouth slackened in amazement and her delicate brows pulled together. ‘Nicholas?’ She tested the name even though she could see quite clearly that it was indeed her former fiancé. She gave a little hysterical laugh. ‘Oh, never say that you have given my brother shelter. I thought the two of you were still at odds. Do you know all about Tarquin’s disappearance?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t, my dear, nor do I want to,’ Devlin said bluntly. ‘But over dinner you can tell me all about it, if you like. I’m prepared to indulge you, despite I couldn’t give a tinker’s cuss how he does. It’s you who arouses my interest,’ he concluded throatily.

  Emily’s soft lips slackened, her eyes grew round. An absurd notion that the two men might have been in cahoots to dupe her entered her mind and refused to budge.

  ‘I take it this is mine?’ Riley said and snatched up something from the hall table.

  Emily whisked about to look at him, but was uncertain to what he referred. Then she heard the unmistakable chink of coins as they were dropped into his pocket.

  Mickey Riley had been paid by Viscount Devlin to bring her here! Swiftly she strode to Nicholas and glared up into his tawny eyes. ‘Have you plotted with this … this cur to trick me? Have you brought me here for no good reason?’

  Nicholas put out a hand to touch her face soothingly. ‘You’re here for a very good reason, my love. I know you remember another such time when we were alone … and both so very pleased to be so. Soon you’ll be glad I acted the despot.’

  Emily savagely slapped away the fingers that stroked her cheek. ‘You despicable beast!’ She would have returned her fist to her side, but it spontaneously raised and made vicious contact with his jaw. Obliquely she heard Riley give a hoot of laughter.

  Nicholas pressed a few fingers to the livid stain her assault had put on his skin.

  ‘If it’s taming you want tonight, I’ll give it to you,’ he said hoarsely, his eyes darkening with a mix of anger and excitement.

  Emily felt fear painfully knotting her insides, but steeled her courage, determined not to panic. ‘Was it not enough that you seduced me once before?’ she whispered in a tone of sheer loathing.

  ‘Of course not, or why would I go to such trouble and expense to do it again?’ Nicholas tore his eyes from Emily’s lovely features to give Riley a speaking look.

  A ribald chuckle from Riley was the extent of him taking his leave. The sound seemed to echo about the hallway, petrifying Emily for a moment. Quickly gathering her senses, she flew towards the open door to escape from the house but, from the shadows, the manservant appeared. The fellow turned the key in the lock and removed it. As Emily watched her gaoler disappear she remembered where she had before seen that distinctive earth-brown livery: it had been in Whiting Street. Devlin’s coachman had been caped in brown and gold.

  Her heart was thudding painfully slowly as she turned back to Devlin. She felt barely able to breathe let alone speak. Finally her arid, trembling lips formed brave words. ‘You are a devil and I am utterly ashamed that I once knew so little about your character that I wanted to marry you.’

  ‘Hush …’ Devlin purred as he pursued her retreating figure until she was cornered. ‘You have nothing to fear from me, Emily. I understand that you are angry at my scheming with that ghastly ruffian. But what could I do?’ He shrugged elegant shoulders. ‘You refused to meet me … sent me cruel letters spurning my love. Why? I want nothing from you that you have not before freely given.’

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘I’ll swing for Devlin! I should have finished him off last time!’ The dangerous sentiment exploded from Tarquin as Mark’s curricle ground to a halt outside the Beaumont residence in Callison Crescent.

  As they had sped through the northern suburbs of town Mark had been similarly plagued by murderous thoughts. But he had kept tightly leashed his emotions and his threats. For now, saving Emily was his only concern. Once that was achieved he would be ready to turn his mind to retribution …

  ‘Devlin will pay.’ It was a vow as cold and hard as a knife thrust. ‘You may stake your life on it. But for now we must ensure Emily is warned of the dangers.’

  Tarquin sprang to the ground, his features contorted with anguish and remorse. Mark knew his friend was concerned not only for the safety of his sister but for his wife too.

  About half an hour ago Jenny had been set down. Shortly before she had disembarked, she had voiced her fear that Mickey would exact revenge if he discovered she had ruined his deal with Devlin. But she had bravely reassured Tarquin that she would lie low with an aunt who lived in Hackney until things could be sorted out. And there, in Brewer Street, they had left her.

  ‘Your wife is right in one respect,’ Mark said. ‘Riley doesn’t yet know you have returned to your family. If he tries to use your absence to lure Emily away, the trick is exposed for what it is.’

  The grooves about Tarquin’s mouth deepened as he manfully strove to conceal his distress. He had set in motion a disastrous sequence of events and the consequences were coming home to roost. Mark saw Tarquin’s lips tighten, but felt not a twinge of pity for him. Emily was his only concern; once he knew for certain she was safe, Tarquin would be the second target for his wrath.

  ‘It might be wise to keep the worst of it all from your parents,’ Mark suggested tightly. ‘Their natural outrage might create a hue and cry and give the miscreants time to skedaddle or concoct a defence.’

  ‘There’s nowhere that cur can hide that I won’t find him.’

  ‘I’ll deal with the Viscount.’

  Tarquin cuffed his dewy nose, then paced restlessly back and forth on the pavement. ‘You may go and batter the fiend if you like, but it won’t stop me killing him afterwards! I had him for a callous libertine, but not so low that he would scheme to ruin a gentlewoman he once purported to adore!’ Abruptly he stalked off towards the house, but Mark called him back.

  ‘What caused you to fight him all those years ago? Did your hatred spring from the broken engagement between Emily and Devlin?’

  Tarquin shook his head and gazed fiercely into the dusk. ‘The engagement was broken after I gave him a beating, not before.’ He paused, shifted his weight from foot to foot. ‘I’ve never told Emily this—or my parents for that matter. Emily, especially, would be mortified to know what sort of vile character she’d once loved. She was upset for months after their betrothal ended.’ He gave Mark a piercing look. ‘If my father had found out he would have called for pistols. But I trust you to keep this to yourself.’ His unshaven chin was cradled in fidgeting fingers. ‘In my opinion the Viscount was relieved the betrothal came to nought. He was a fortune hunter, and Emily’s dowry was never going to be enough to satisfy his greed, or his debts.’ Tarquin’s expression
turned sheepish. ‘You probably think I’ve got a devil of a nerve to talk so about a fellow’s gambling debts, but I would never sell my soul, or betray a woman’s love, for cash.’ He plunged his hands into his pockets. ‘Anyhow, on one long night in White’s, when we both had been several hours at the faro table, I took a short break. He didn’t know I’d returned and was close behind him. I overheard him boasting about Emily to one of his cronies … lewd disrespectful talk … about how fortunate he was that his betrothed was a hot wanton, as though already he had bedded her.’ Tarquin drew in a sharp breath. ‘He was drunk, it’s true, but there was no excuse for such despicable slander. Devlin’s a weasel. I should have finished him off then, when I had the chance.’

  Mark felt a tightening in his gut and his back teeth clenched together, making his jaw ache. ‘I’m glad you told me,’ he said with steely quiet. ‘Now go … do what you must to make your apologies to your family.’ Without another word he set the curricle in motion. As he pelted through the streets towards Belgrave Crescent, one thought tormented his mind. Was it slander, or had the Viscount and Emily been lovers when they were engaged?

  A bittersweet memory niggled at Mark’s consciousness, made him fear the truth was the answer he didn’t want. Emily had ended their first kiss too soon and, in frustration, he had made a crass remark. His attempt at conciliation had been rebuffed and she had refused to elaborate on her reasons for rejecting a compliment on her innocence. Now, with wounding insight, Mark suspected he knew what she meant by it. Once she had been Devlin’s mistress as well as his betrothed. Perhaps the Viscount thought he was entitled to that intimacy again … whether she was willing or not.

  ‘Arrange for fresh horses to be brought round. At once!’

  Geoffrey Lomax gazed at his master’s broad back as he strode the hallway, then took the stairs two at a time. Snapping from his daze at being on the receiving end of such uncharacteristic churlishness from Mr Hunter, the butler sprang to do his bidding.

  Within minutes Mark was again in the lobby, the weight of razor-edged steel in one pocket of his greatcoat balanced by a duck’s foot pistol in the other. He was not a violent man, and hoped the weapons would remain unused, but he accepted he must be prepared for any eventuality.

  If Devlin were not at home this evening, Riley’s slum would be his next port of call. Mark suspected that a fight would erupt if Riley’s two henchmen were about. A brawl, even with odds stacked against him, would not usually bother him. Without vanity he accepted his notoriety as one of Gentleman Jackson’s finest. But he did not want his mettle tested. He wanted to be fit and able to protect Emily if the need arose.

  Aware that his grim-faced master was on his way out without another word passing between them, Lomax hopped to intercept him. ‘Umm … there was a caller in your absence, sir. I promised to give you the lady’s note as soon as you returned.’

  Mark halted at once and frowned fiercely at Lomax. ‘A woman came here to see me?’

  ‘Miss Beaumont was her name, and she seemed upset to have missed you. She left a note,’ Lomax concisely informed his master.

  ‘Give it to me at once,’ Mark demanded hoarsely, a hand already outstretched to receive it.

  Lomax hurried to the console table and gazed in vain. He crouched on spindly legs to see if the note had dropped to the floor. He scanned an arc of marble in case it had gone further adrift.

  Mark walked towards him, his expression thunderous.

  ‘I cannot understand it, sir. I put it here. I know I did.’

  ‘Has another servant moved it?’

  ‘They wouldn’t dare … nobody has been near nor by except …’

  ‘Except?’ Mark prompted with dangerous impatience.

  A grimace of disbelief distorted the butler’s features, for what he suspected, yet hesitated to mention, was outlandish … perhaps calumnious. ‘Mrs Emerson called, a few minutes after Miss Beaumont left. Mrs Emerson did study her reflection in this mirror, but she said not to mention her visit, so of course I would not have done so …’

  Before the servant had concluded his explanation Mark loosed a terse dismissal and strode to the door, his lips a thin white line on clenched teeth.

  The note reposed on polished mahogany amid crystal perfume bottles and chased silver boxes. Barbara was seated on her little velvet boudoir chair, her dark eyes resting on the tantalising white rectangle. Abruptly she picked it up. Her pale fingers slipped to the sealing wax, then withdrew. Irritably she tapped the paper against a thumbnail as she strove for the courage to open it. If Mark ever discovered what she had done there would be no adequate explanation for such outrageous impertinence. But now that she had stolen the note, it seemed silly to simply imagine what it might contain. Holding it to the window, or to candlelight, had elicited not a hint of what message was concealed within. With a gulped breath, and a burst of activity, Barbara tore at the wax, quickly unfolded the parchment and scanned the single paragraph.

  Riley has discovered Tarquin’s whereabouts, and that he is ill, and wants to see me. Riley will not disclose the exact location other than to say it is on the outskirts of town. It cannot be too distant as he promises we will return before dusk. I do not completely trust him, yet don’t know what he might gain from such a lie. So I shall go with him, and do my best to persuade Tarquin that he must return to face the music. I trust we will return safely together and that you might continue to give your support and counsel to Tarquin. I wish I had found you at home to tell you all this …

  Barbara frowned and read it again, then, with a little oath, tossed it aside. It had not been worth the effort at all! She had hoped—or rather dreaded—that she had intercepted a love letter, or one that informed Mark that he’d impregnated the little trollop. But what had she got? Just drivel concerning Emily’s gadabout brother and a fellow called Riley who knew where the wastrel was to be found. What cared she for any of that?

  Perhaps she had been too hasty in thinking Mark and Emily were in love. Barbara picked over the words more carefully, looking for hidden meaning. Emily might have written of her regrets at not finding Mark at home, but there was no hint of passion in her prose.

  A sound of pattering feet made Barbara swivel on her chair. Her maid appeared in the doorway, her small chest heaving as though she had sprinted up the stairs. ‘The monsieur is here, madame, but I said he must wait below, for he looks so very angry …’ The French girl shivered into silence as she sensed Mark’s presence behind her.

  ‘You may leave us, Claudine,’ Barbara said, but her voice sounded shrill, and her unsteady fingers swiftly slid back and forth behind her to try to conceal the parchment with boxes and bottles.

  Her fluttering fingers and flustered demeanour made a purely cynical smile touch Mark’s mouth.

  Barbara gained her feet in a sinuous movement and swayed towards him, arresting his progress towards the dressing table. ‘This is a most pleasant surprise,’ she murmured huskily and went on tiptoe with her face tilted as though to kiss him.

  Mark caught the twin white limbs that would have snaked about his neck. Keeping a firm grip on her wrists, he pulled her with him towards the dressing table. A perfume pot crashed to its side, filling the air with musky scent, as he carelessly cleared the note of obstacles. But for a tic close to his mouth, Mark’s face remained impassive as he read Emily’s cry for help.

  ‘I … I came to see you earlier,’ Barbara started in a rush, disturbed by his peculiar stillness. ‘You were out. When I said I might soon chance upon you in Hyde Park, Lomax gave me the letter to take to you …’ Her words faded away to awkward silence, but it was not her fluent lie unsettling her as much as the vivid blue eyes boring coldly into her.

  ‘Is that so?’ Mark asked in a voice of silky steel. ‘For the moment we will ignore the poor likelihood of any such meeting. What excuse have you for opening a letter addressed to me?’

  Barbara’s cheeks bloomed beneath his contempt. ‘It might have been a pressing matter,’ she brea
thed, in a burst of inspiration. ‘Indeed, I deemed it to be of a vital nature, for your butler to want it so quickly delivered,’ she smoothly reasoned with a winning smile. ‘When I could not see you in the Park I thought I ought to open it and find out if that were so, in case I should search for you elsewhere.’

  Mark grunted a mirthless laugh and extricated his hand from fingers that had crept to erotically fondle his palm. ‘You’re a mischief-maker, Barbara, amongst other things.’ He strode away from her and was again at the door when he added, ‘It’s a pity it has come to this between us. I’ve no time now to say more, but I think you already suspect how I feel. In any case, know this: I despise liars and thieves.’

  As Mark leaped from his curricle outside the Beaumonts’ home, Tarquin hurtled down the steps as though he had been waiting for his friend to hove into view.

  ‘Thank God you’re back! Emily is not at home and hasn’t been seen since early this afternoon,’ Tarquin gabbled, his brows drawn tight together in consternation.

  Mark felt a stab of anguish. It was the news he had expected, yet dreaded to hear, from one of the Beaumonts.

  ‘My parents are not yet too concerned—they think she is probably gone off with her friend Sarah Harper. They often spend many hours together. Let’s see if she is at Sarah’s. It’s not far …’

  ‘She isn’t there,’ Mark bleakly dashed Tarquin’s hopes whilst raking fingers through his dark hair. Abruptly he pulled from a pocket Emily’s note and thrust it at Tarquin.

  Tarquin moved to stand beneath the pale light of a gas lamp to scan it. ‘Damnation! Jenny was right! He’s used the very trick she mentioned. We’re too late. Devlin’s got her.’ This last was uttered in a voice that vibrated with horrified disbelief.

  ‘But where? Where has he got her?’ Mark clipped out in a tone that hinted at desperation. He strove to stay calm. The boundary of his control was crumbling. But to succumb to rage would defeat reason. And then he would never help Emily. Her note was a tangible proof of her trust in him. In the lines of her composition he had sensed her heartfelt plea that he must come to her rescue if it transpired that Riley was up to no good. Mark tipped back his head and aimed a string of foul curses at the emerging stars. If only he had been at home when she called. But he had been in Enfield, evicting her brother from the hunting lodge. He squeezed shut his eyes, but the hideous images of Emily’s torment would not quit his mind.