by Lucy Ashford
Lord Sebastian Corbridge was silent. But his slender white hand, which glittered with jewelled rings, twisted in some agitation around the stem of his glass.
Outside the sepia clouds still surged menacingly overhead, and the pavements glinted with puddles in the yellow light of the street lamps as Hal and Marcus proceeded on foot towards the Strand. But at least the rain had ceased; and the citizens of London were heading out again for the gaming clubs of St James’s, or the colourful taverns and theatres beyond Leicester Fields. Hal Beauchamp—as fair as Marcus was dark, with a slighter build, and an open, sunny countenance—was cheerfully extolling the merits of the dining parlour at the Bull’s Head. They’ll set us up with some excellent victuals, Marcus!’ he promised. The claret’s first rate as well, I assure you. And then we could go on somewhere for a decent game of hazard—’
‘No! No gaming.’ Marcus’s vivid, handsome face, which had relaxed in the company of his friend, was suddenly serious once more. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever cast the dice again, Hal.’
Hal Beauchamp pulled a droll expression. He was dressed as usual in the most expensive, if discreet of styles; his long greatcoat that swept almost to the ground was exquisitely tailored, and his beaver hat and shining top-boots bore evidence of the tender care of a skilful valet. ‘Oh dear, oh dear me,’ he sighed. ‘It’s the end of the world indeed if Major Marcus Forrester renounces the fine art. What would your devoted soldiers say? Remember the game of hazard we had in camp, just before the raid on Wilmington last year? The enemy were all around, and you were saying, “One more throw, gentlemen. Just one more throw. I feel that my luck is in…”’
Marcus laughed, but his eyes were bleak. ‘It hasn’t been in lately, Hal.’
‘No.’ His friend’s expression softened. ‘I heard about your injury, at the siege of Savannah. Do you have somewhere to stay in London?’
Marcus shook his head. ‘Not yet. The army pensions office offered me some tedious post in recruitment with lodgings all in, but I refused. And I haven’t started looking for anywhere else yet. I just wanted to find Corbridge.’
‘And kill him? So I must assume you were planning on sleeping in Newgate gaol tonight,’ said Hal lightly as they jostled their way through the crowds that thronged Haymarket. ‘I have a better suggestion. Come and stay with Caroline and me, in Portman Square. Far more comfortable than Newgate, I assure you.’
Marcus struggled, then smiled. It was very difficult not to smile when Hal was around. They’d been at Oxford together, then the army; they’d shared good times and bad. But now they were both out of the war; Hal because his only sister, who had been recently widowed, needed him at home; and Marcus because of a rebel’s musketball through his thigh.
‘ You are more than kind,’ said Marcus, turning to face his friend. ‘But your sister—I would be imposing, surely?’
‘Not at all, dear fellow. She always had a soft spot for you. And your injured leg will give her something to fuss over.’ Hal hesitated. ‘I heard, you know, about your godfather Sir Roderick and the business with Corbridge. It must have come as a blow to you. The loss of your inheritance, the decline in your prospects…’
Marcus said quietly, The worst of it, Hal, was seeing what it has done to my godfather. This business has all but finished him off.’
Hal nodded, frowning in sympathy. Then stay with us, while you see what can be done.’
‘I have no wish whatsoever to be in anyone’s debt.’
‘My dear fellow,’ responded Hal swiftly, ‘let’s have no talk of debt. Consider our house your home for as long as you wish.’
And to ensure there could be no further argument, Hal resumed his steady pace along the Strand, where the candlelit shop windows with their displays of millinery and trinkets glittered enticingly. Carriages clattered by, and sedan-bearers pushed through the crowds, their polite calls of ‘By your leave, sir!’ swiftly changing to their usual ripe curses if people failed to move out of their way. Marcus hurried to keep up with his friend’s loping, athletic stride, knowing he shouldn’t have ridden so damned hard for the best part of two days—but what else could he have done other than resolve to take action, any kind of action, once he’d seen the state his gentle, kindly godfather was in?
Sir Roderick Delancey had been a friend and neighbour for as long as Marcus could remember to the Forrester family on their rather ramshackle Gloucestershire estate, and when Marcus’s mother had run off, amidst such disgrace that her husband, a broken and impoverished man, died soon after, Roderick took responsibility for his godson Marcus without hesitation. Not possessing any children himself, Sir Roderick had paid for Marcus’s schooling; and in the vacations Marcus spent long weeks at his godfather’s beautiful country mansion, which he came to regard as his home, his own home having to be sold to cover his father’s debts.
After Oxford, when Marcus set his heart on joining the army, Sir Roderick had offered to buy him a commission in one of the top cavalry units; but Marcus, who had his own kind of pride, refused, and became a captain in a line regiment. He was swiftly promoted, and when his regiment was sent to America to fight under Cornwallis, Sir Roderick continued to write regularly to his godson—but last autumn the letters had stopped.
And now Marcus knew why.
Some day, Marcus had resolved, he would return to active service. But not yet. He had another battle to fight first, on Sir Roderick Delancey’s behalf.
At the corner of Half Moon Alley, a crowd had gathered around a couple of street entertainers who, using a stretch of low wall as their table, were tempting passers-by to bet on which of three upturned cups covered a coin. The first of the pair, a ragged-looking man with a wooden leg, was dextrously switching the cups to allow onlookers tantalising glimpses of the bright coin, while his accomplice, a slim youth wearing a long coat and a cap rather too big for him, was strolling around and drumming up trade in a light, cheerful voice. ‘Roll up, roll up, ladies and gennelmen! Put your penny down, guess which cup hides the sixpence—it’s easy, see?—and win it for yourself! Yes, win a whole, shiny sixpence! Roll up, roll up—’
Then the lively youth broke off, because his sharp eyes had observed what Marcus now saw—a fat member of the Watch huffing and panting towards the pair with his stick raised, and two of his companions coming up behind. ‘Haul them two coves in!’ the watchman roared. ‘They’re thieves and scoundrels, the pair of ‘em!’ The man with the peg-leg had his coin and his little cups thrust deep in his pockets in no time; tucking his wooden limb under his arm, he raced away on two exceedingly sound legs, while, doubtless by prior arrangement, his young companion took off in the opposite direction towards Hal and Marcus, twisting and turning nimbly through the crowds that thronged the pavement. Marcus watched, interested and impressed, as the lad, though caught briefly by the wrist by one of the Charleys, kicked his way free and ran on boldly, his ragged coat flying and his cap crammed low over his head. As he drew nearer, Marcus glimpsed emerald green eyes glinting above an uptilted nose, and a merry mouth curled in scorn—until the lad realised some more watchmen were hurrying up from the other end of the street, thus cutting off his escape.
Now, Marcus Forrester could never understand why a pair like this—up to no real harm, as far as he could see—should arouse the full ire of the law, when murder and mayhem went on without interruption in some of the hellish back streets where the Watch were afraid to even set foot. ‘Let’s even the odds,’ he murmured to Hal. And just as the lad was hesitating, no escape in sight, Marcus reached out, grabbed him by the arm—‘Let go of me, you dratted coneyjack!’ was his only thanks—and thrust the slim fugitive, whose head barely came up to his shoulder, behind his back into a dark doorway. More colourful protests came flowing in abundance from that clear, expressive voice; but Marcus ordered through gritted teeth, ‘I’m trying to help, you young fool. Stay there. And shut up.’ Hal, brown eyes a-twinkling, completed their bodily barricade of the lad’s hiding place; then the pair of them, arms
folded, pretended to look on as if faintly bored, while the breathless old watchmen—the Charleys—elbowed their way through the swirling London crowd, up and down the street, looking in vain for their quarry. ‘Where’s that there lad?’ one of them bellowed. ‘Old Peg-leg’s helper? Up to no good, ‘im and all his kind, should be ‘anged the lot of them—which way did ‘e go?’
Marcus cast a swift glance back into the doorway, where the youth, having decided rather sensibly to cooperate, was now crouching silently behind him and Hal. Marcus saw again, with a kind of startlement, that pair of wide, incredibly green eyes taking everything in; and just at that moment the young fugitive, sensing his gaze, looked up at him and—grinned.
No fear. No fear at all, in that smooth young face…Marcus frowned, then quickly switched his attention back to the watchmen, who were shaking their heads, swearing volubly and stamping off down the Strand. Marcus looked back into the doorway and nodded. ‘All clear now. Off you go.’ The lad, emerging blithely from behind the long folds of Marcus’s riding coat, whispered, ‘My thanks’, and quickly vanished into the crowds.
Hal lifted one querying, humorous eyebrow at his friend. ‘Still on the side of the underdog, I see?’
‘Most definitely,’ declared Marcus. ‘Why the hue and cry? They were only a couple of street entertainers.’ But even as he dismissed them both, he was aware that the younger one had puzzled him considerably. ‘My thanks… ‘That voice, if you ignored the insults, had been expressive and clear. No hint of low-life in those parting words. He shook his head, swiftly banishing that bright, green-eyed gaze from his mind. ‘On to business, Hal. Where are we heading after we’ve eaten?’
‘I thought we’d go to a new place in Suffolk Street, called the Angel,’ explained Hal. ‘It’s discreet, private, and has some of the best gaming in town. Oh, yes. I know—’ he raised a finger to silence Marcus’s protests ‘—you’re never going to gamble again. But let me just say this. You want to get your revenge on the loathsome Corbridge, for ruining your godfather. Am I right?’
‘You are,’ replied Marcus, his mood grim once more.
‘Then remember your army training, dear boy. Go to the kind of haunts your enemy would frequent. Probe his weaknesses. And Corbridge’s are…?’
‘You’ve got all night to listen? Well, apart from his general obnoxiousness, his weaknesses, from what I remember, are spending and gambling. And beautiful women, with rather doubtful reputations—’
‘Especially young fillies with an eye for the gaming table,’ broke in Hal. ‘Lady Franklin, Cecilia Connolly, and that ravishing blonde known as La Fanciola from the Opera House—they are all exquisitely golden-haired, all greedy for money by fair means or foul, and he’s dallied with them all! So listen, it’s quite simple. What you must do is find another of the same kind—young, accomplished, preferably with guinea-gold curls—persuade her to entice him to the card tables at some private establishment—and use her to get back all your godfather’s money off Corbridge!’
Marcus laughed, shaking his head. ‘That’s meant to be simple? I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t I just run him through? It would be a damn sight easier.’ His hand moved instinctively to his pocket, to check that he had enough money for the night ahead. And then he went very still. ‘My wallet,’ he breathed. ‘It’s gone.’
Hal’s eyes widened. ‘Are you sure? You might have left it somewhere, or dropped it in the street, perhaps…’
Oh, no. Marcus knew he hadn’t dropped it. Suddenly he remembered the young fugitive with the mocking green eyes. He remembered, too late, the light hand that he felt brushing his coat as the lad departed. He turned to Hal and said flatly, ‘If you’re still set on a game tonight, you’ll have to lend me the stake. Until I get to my bankers in the morning, I’ve not a penny to my name. That young wretch we helped back there has repaid me by picking my pocket.’ And, Marcus vowed, if he ever caught the lad, he would give his backside a beating he’d never forget…
Hal frowned. ‘The ungrateful rogue! Well, of course I’ll lend you something, Marcus. Who knows? Tonight at the Angel your luck might change for the better!’
‘I certainly hope so,’ replied Marcus with feeling. But his bleak eyes did not echo that smile. And Hal, who had been intending to ask Marcus if he had seen Philippa yet, decided that perhaps now was not the best time to broach that rather tricky subject.
Chapter Two
The street trickster whom Marcus was cursing so roundly was meanwhile twisting and turning knowingly through the assortment of narrow alleyways behind Maiden Lane before finally sidling into the shadows of an empty doorway and listening hard.
Nothing. No pursuers. No Charleys. With a sigh of relief the young thief sauntered off northwards whistling The Bold Ploughboy’, cap pulled down low over forehead, hands thrust deep into shabby greatcoat; because, although it had stopped raining, the February night was still damp and cold. One hand encountered a leather wallet, and those bright green eyes were troubled, just for a moment, at the memory of its owner; then the youngster strolled onwards. Doubtless the dark-haired swell was rich enough not to miss it over-much.
Carefully avoiding the clusters of hard-drinking men who gathered around Bob Derry’s Cider Cellar, the pickpocket, now munching on an apple filched earlier from a fruit stall, chose a secret way through the warren of courtyards that lay behind Drury Lane; then at last came to a halt, gazing up to where a flickering lantern illuminated a faded inn sign. This was the Blue Bell tavern: a pretty name for a low-life inn run by a steel-tongued landlady called Moll. Frowning briefly at the thought of Moll, the youth straightened his shabby coat and marched through the crowded, smoky taproom to push open a small side door into a private parlour, occupied only by a group of men clustered intently round a card game. The sudden draught from the door made the tallow candles flicker. Three of the players leapt to their feet, their hands clutching their cards. Then the fourth one, a gangly young fellow with rather startling tufts of red hair, grinned broadly. ‘No cause for alarm, lads! It’s just our Tassie, bin up to her usual tricks, no doubt.’
The men sat down again. Tassie closed the door with a deft kick, pulled off her cap and threw it defiantly on the table as her long golden hair tumbled around her shoulders. ‘What do you mean, ‘tis only me?’ she challenged. ‘Haven’t you missed me, all of you?’ No reply. Sighing a little, she let her keen eyes rove over the well-worn cards splayed out on the table. ‘Fie, Georgie Jay, if ‘tis whist you’re playing, then I hope you remembered to keep the guard on your pictures, as I told you last night!’
Then the girl sat among the men, quite at ease, as the sturdily built, black-haired man in his thirties whom she’d addressed as Georgie Jay, looked frowning at his cards. ‘God’s blood, but you’re right, Tassie,’ he said.
‘Course she’s right,’ said the red-haired lad, still gazing admiringly at the newcomer. ‘There’s no one to beat our Tassie at cards.’
‘Or dice,’ grinned Georgie Jay. He patted the girl’s shoulder and turned back to the game.
The girl let her fair brow pucker a little. ‘Weren’t you—worried about me, Georgie?’
‘Why, lass? Should we have been?’
She shrugged. ‘Not really. I helped the cups-and-sixpence man up on the Strand.’
‘Old Peg-leg? Did you make much?’
‘Didn’t get the chance. We were chased off by the Charleys.’
‘Good job you can run fast, then.’
‘Indeed.’ Tassie stretched out her legs in their over-large boots and leaned back in her chair, her hands in her pockets, secretly a little upset that they weren’t more troubled by her encounter with the Watch. She decided to say nothing about the dark-haired man and his wallet, though at one time she’d have told Georgie Jay everything, for he was the undisputed leader of this motley crew of travellers, and had been like a father to her ever since he’d found her eight years ago, alone on a country lane. ‘We work when we can,’ he’d told her, ‘and when we c
an’t—for times are hard for poor folks like us—why, then, we take a little from those who have enough and to spare!’ Yes, Georgie Jay had been her saviour and protector, and she would always be grateful to him. But things had changed. Oh, how they had changed.
Moll, the buxom landlady, had just come into the room to see what was going on, Then she spotted Tassie, and scowled. ‘Our Tassie’s had a run-in with the Watch, Moll!’ Georgie Jay told her.
‘Lord’s sake,’ said Moll, ‘what a fuss you all do make of that girl. ‘Tain’t natural, a grown lass like her trailing round with you all.’
Tassie met Moll’s glare with stony dislike, and began to get to her feet, but Georgie reached out to forestall her. ‘Tassie’s one of us, Moll. Bring the girl some food, will you? You know she’ll be ready for her supper.’
Tassie was; but she fought down the hunger pangs gnawing at her ribs. ‘My thanks, but I’m not hungry.’ Most certainly not for anything Moll dished out.
She picked up her cap, ready to leave; but just at that moment Georgie Jay exclaimed, ‘Tassie! Now, what in the name of wonder is that?’ He was pointing at the ugly bruising on her wrist, where the Watch man had grabbed her.
‘It’s nothing. Nothing at all.’ She stepped quickly back, shaking down her sleeve.
‘So you were in danger! Look, Tass, perhaps it really is time you stopped all your trickery out on the streets…’
‘Oh, fiddlesticks, Georgie,’ she said airily, ‘you all have close shaves with the Watch every now and then, don’t you? Tonight was no different!’
But Georgie Jay was sighing as he gazed at Tassie’s defiant face beneath her tumbling curls that glowed a fierce gold in the flickering candlelight. ‘You’re a lass, Tassie,’ he said regretfully. ‘It’s as simple as that. Things just can’t go on the same. Why, you’re nigh as tall as young Lem! How old are you now—fifteen, sixteen?’