The Major and the Pickpocket

by Lucy Ashford

  Instead, Hal leaned forwards, and poured out the last of the wine. ‘Time to re-plan tactics, dear boy,’ he said briskly. ‘Plenty more where she came from.’

  Were there? Marcus had been remembering a summer’s day, just before he had set sail for the American war two years ago. He and Philippa had ridden out along the Gloucestershire lanes, unchaperoned—Philippa had laughingly escaped from her groom—and on a grassy bank by a secluded stream Philippa had allowed Marcus to kiss her and promised him that she would wait for him for ever…

  Hal was still talking. ‘Capitalise your assets, Marcus,’ he was pronouncing gleefully, ‘and get your revenge on Corbridge. Remember gambling is his fatal flaw!’

  ‘Revenge on Corbridge indeed.’ Marcus echoed Hal’s toast at last, and knocked back the last of the claret. ‘Talking of gambling, Hal—didn’t you mention a gaming house called the Angel?’

  It was eleven o’clock, and the night was just beginning.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Got it!’ Tassie was still sitting cross-legged on her bed in the light of a tallow candle, so utterly absorbed in her task of getting all the hearts to the bottom of the pack that at first she didn’t hear the quiet knock at her door. Then it came again, and she tensed, afraid that it might be Billy. But, no, it was Lemuel’s voice that she heard, calling out quietly, ‘Tassie. Tassie, are you in there? I was just wonderin’ if Edward’s all right, seeing as I was lookin’ after him for you…’

  Quickly Tassie scrambled off the bed, pushing her loose hair back from her face and tucking her big shirt into her slim buckskin breeches. Lemuel was a bit sweet on her, she knew, but she trusted him to keep his distance. She opened the door wide. ‘Come in, Lemuel, do. Yes, Edward’s fine. Moll hasn’t poisoned him—yet. My thanks for keeping an eye on him.’

  ‘Darling Marcus! Darling Marcus!’ cackled Edward, pleased with his new-found phrase.

  ‘Marcus?’ Lemuel stood in the middle of the room, frowning in puzzlement.

  Tassie laughed and coloured a little. ‘Oh, it’s just some nonsense he’s picked up.’ She tapped Edward’s perch lightly. ‘Be quiet now, Edward, do.’

  Lemuel nodded, his face expressing eager shyness. ‘And you, Tass? Are you all right? After—after—’

  She shrugged, thrusting her hands into the pockets of her breeches. ‘After hearing that Moll wants to get rid of me, you mean? Aye, Lemuel, I’m all right. She’ll not get the better of me, never fear.’

  Lemuel grinned at her approvingly, then his eyes fell on the pack of cards. ‘You been practising your tricks then, Tass? There’s none of us can beat you at cards, is there?’

  ‘No one,’ said Tassie earnestly, because it was true. She could even beat Georgie Jay, without him realising exactly which trick she was up to—the Kingston Bridge cheat, or shaving the cards, or even the difficult sauter la coupe. She’d mastered them all…

  And then, suddenly, she realised what she had to do next. It was so blindingly obvious that she almost laughed aloud. Her green eyes gleaming, she gestured Lemuel to the battered chair at the foot of the bed. ‘Sit down, Lemuel,’ she said encouragingly. ‘I want to talk to you.’

  ‘To me?’ His freckled face lit up.

  ‘Yes, Lemuel.’ She perched on the edge of her bed again and gazed at him thoughtfully as he lowered his gangly frame into the chair facing her. ‘Last night,’ she went on, ‘I heard you talking with the others about a private gaming parlour that’s just opened up in town. You were saying that everyone of fashion—all the swells—are crowding into it. And I heard Georgie Jay tell how someone lost five hundred guineas at basset there—in just one evening.’

  Lemuel’s perplexed brow cleared a little. ‘Oh, the Angel, you mean? Aye, Georgie Jay was talking of us dressin’ in our smart togs and goin’ along there some time. Though it’s a bit risky, ‘cos the place hasn’t got a full gaming licence, you see. That means it could be raided by the Horneys, any time.’

  Tassie nodded, her chin resting in her hand. Mmm. So it was an illegal gaming den, patronised by the fashionable and the rich…Already her pulse was speeding up in anticipation. ‘I see. And what else do they play there, Lemuel, beside basset?’

  ‘Oh, the usual. Faro, vingt-et-un, piquet—you know, Tass, all those fancy French games! Apparently it’s full to busting every evening. Attracts everyone, from the highest blue-bloods to—well, to—’

  ‘People like us?’ slid in Tassie gently.

  ‘Aye! Though I told Georgie Jay I thought we’d be a bit out of our depth, seein’ as how the stakes are so high. And, like I said, it could be raided any time.’

  ‘So all the more reason,’ said Tassie thoughtfully, ‘to go as soon as possible.’ She smiled at him. ‘Like—tonight.’

  ‘Tonight?’ Lemuel shook his head. ‘Oh, no, Georgie Jay’s far too busy. He’s promised Moll he’ll move her some barrels of ale up from the cellar.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of Georgie Jay,’ whispered Tassie sweetly, leaning forwards from her perch at the edge of the bed. ‘I was thinking about you and me, Lem dear.’

  He gaped. ‘We can’t, Tassie! We’d never get in! And we’ve not the stakes—’

  ‘I have,’ she responded calmly. She patted the little money box at her side. ‘And of course we’ll get in. Ladies are admitted, aren’t they?’

  ‘Why, yes,’ stuttered Lemuel. ‘They say the ladies of quality think it fine sport to go along without their husbands knowin’, and play in secret. But you’re—’

  ‘But I’m what, Lem?’ Tassie stood up and gracefully pirouetted around his chair. ‘I shall dress up like a fine lady, and you can be my escort. And I shall win more money than you’ve ever seen before, and I’ll pay you your share, if you do exactly as I say!’

  Lemuel was still open-mouthed. ‘But, Tassie, we can’t just walk into a place like that and start fleecing them high-up swells.’

  She broke off her pirouetting to declare, ‘You’re just scared, Lemuel, that’s your trouble.’

  He jumped to his feet at that, burning with hurt pride. ‘I ain’t scared of nothing! But it’s too risky for you, girl! There’ll be all sorts lurking there amongst the gentry—cheats, rakes, whoremongers—bad company, Tass!’

  She gazed at him, her hands on her slender hips, her green eyes gleaming. Then come with me to protect me. If you won’t come—why, then, I’ll just have to go on my own. Won’t I?’

  ‘Very well, then! I’ll go with you! But if Georgie Jay finds out…’

  ‘And why should he find out, unless you tell him?’

  Lemuel let out a low moan of defeat.

  Already Tassie had worked out that all she needed to do was ‘borrow’ one of Moll’s gowns, and pile up her hair in the foolish way all the ladies of fashion did. ‘Dear Lemuel,’ she grinned, ‘I knew you’d agree. Give me twenty minutes to prepare myself, would you? And you must put on your best brown suit, and polish your shoes. Not a word of this to anyone else, mind!’ She held the door open for Lemuel and he stumbled out, looking rather stunned. She started humming ‘The Bold Ploughboy’, then broke off to call after him, ‘No ale, now, to fuddle your wits. We’re in for a lively night, you and I!’

  It was an hour later. The Angel was crowded; and Marcus was uneasy, because it was becoming apparent to him that his good friend Hal was being systematically cheated. How, exactly, he could not say. Hal, playing piquet, had easily won the first game, and the second also. His female opponent appeared almost hesitant, pausing over her discards and frowning like a Johnny Raw.

  But the third game she won in six quick hands, a look of unwavering concentration on her face.

  From then on, the usually unflappable Hal began to look flustered. Marcus knew that his friend was no mean player, but his female opponent never seemed to put a foot wrong. Marcus himself had stopped playing at the faro table some while ago, because he was unwilling to risk any more of the stake that Hal had lent him; and now he drew closer to study the girl’s face, because there was someth
ing about her that puzzled him. Of course there were plenty of women amongst the men up here in the candlelit, luxuriously furnished back room of the Angel. Some of them were ladies of high rank out for a secret adventure without their husbands, though others were scarcely better than women of the streets. Was this one a Cyprian?

  Whatever part she was playing, she certainly played it demurely, keeping her head lowered and speaking at all times in a cool and alluring voice. When she looked up to smile at Hal, Marcus saw that her face was sweetly heart-shaped, and dominated by huge green eyes that drew his gaze time and time again. And her hair was glorious: a rich cluster of golden curls piled in artful disarray, with just a few stray locks trailing down around the slender column of her neck in a way guaranteed to make most men dream of kissing her there…

  But she wore far too much rouge and lip paint, and as for her gown…Her gown was a hideous contraption, made of some reddish-brown fabric in the style of years ago; it was too large for her slender figure, and the shabby lace ruffles at her wrists were yellow with age. Who was she? Who had brought her here?

  At that very moment, she looked up at Hal and said, in her gentle voice, “Tis my game, sir, I believe. But no credit to me; I rather think fortune smiled on me.’

  The somewhat bemused Hal put a brave face on it. ‘Nonsense. You were by far the better player, ma’am!’ Gallantly he pushed his guinea rouleaux across the table to her. ‘Will you honour me with another game?’

  The young woman hesitated before saying, ‘Very well, then. Just one more.’

  ‘One more is probably all I can afford,’ said Hal ruefully, and his opponent laughed, a pleasing, merry sound that to Marcus was strangely familiar, though he was damned if he could place it. Surely he would remember a girl like that if he’d met her before! Her face was almost—beautiful, and yet her clothes, and her lip paint, were ridiculous…Marcus looked round. All in all there must be fifty or sixty people crowded in here, and every table had its punters and watchers, all eyeing every turn of the cards, every cut and deal. Hal’s table was in a corner of the room, and quite a few of the usual gamesters had gathered round, their greedy eyes devouring the golden-haired girl as she began to deal.

  Then Marcus saw that somebody else a few yards away was also watching her closely; a nervous long-limbed young fellow in a homespun suit too tight for him, with shockingly cut red hair. Here was her accomplice, thought Marcus scornfully, ready to safeguard the girl’s winnings and perhaps sell her on for the night! He frowned. Yet her clothes, her entire manner, were just not right for a whore, though God knew she’d tried her best, with that face paint.

  Marcus again found his memory stirring tantalisingly. Then he saw something. She was spreading her cards in her hand in an attempt to study them, her green eyes wide and her brows drawn together in apparent puzzlement. Her fingernails looked as if she made a habit of chewing them; her painted lips were moving in what appeared to be a naïve endeavour to calculate the value of her cards.

  But there was nothing naïve about the way she reached to flick a loose fold of the tawdry lace at her wrist, while at the same time making another very quick, almost imperceptible movement. She’s drawn a card from her sleeve and interchanged it with one from her hand. Marcus swore softly under his breath. Of course it was over in an instant, and Hal hadn’t noticed a thing, because he was too busy frowning over his own cards. And now, Marcus saw, those thick eyelashes of hers were fluttering demurely as she displayed her cards to Hal and said, in her sweet voice, ‘I think you will find that I’ve spoiled your repique, sir. The game is surely mine.’

  Hal was soundly routed. His pleasant face twisted ruefully in acknowledgement of his fate as he pushed the last of his guinea rouleaux across the table. ‘How clever of you to have kept the guard! Well done, ma’am, well done indeed; I wish I had half your skill at the game.’

  The girl, smiling, was already gathering her winnings together. ‘You must take consolation, sir, in the fact that most certainly I had the luck of the cards tonight.’

  Luck? questioned Marcus grimly. Luck? He could see that her edgy red-haired companion was already sidling through the crowd towards her. No doubt they’d swiftly exchange for golden guineas the rouleaux she’d won and move on to some other backstreet gambling haunt, ready to fleece some other innocent—if he, Marcus, were to let them…

  No time to explain to Hal. As Hal rose, Marcus was there in his place, saying quickly to the girl, ‘Your pardon, ma’am, but I could not help noticing that you play an intriguing game. Would you care to indulge me before you go?’

  She looked up swiftly, and just for a moment Marcus could have sworn that there was a flash of something—was it fear?—in her eyes. But then she said, with only a trace of hesitation, ‘Why, with pleasure, sir.’

  Hal, surprised, muttered to him, ‘You’ll find your match there, Marcus. She’s good.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s the attraction,’ said Marcus, gazing coldly at the girl, whose heart-shaped face still looked somewhat pale beneath her rouge. ‘Shall we say ten shillings the point?’

  The girl seemed to catch her breath, and then nodded. Marcus beckoned a groom-porter for a fresh pack, and put some card money on the tray. Looking up, he was in time to catch a scarcely perceptible glance between the girl and her red-headed companion, who had perched nervously on a chair nearby. Marcus smiled grimly to himself and handed the pack to the girl. She won the cut, and opted to discard five of her twelve cards. Once more her pretty face with its delicate tip-tilted nose was a mask of concentration.

  For a while the play was even. Marcus went down on the first rubber, though not by much. But then, gradually, the girl began pulling away. He watched her fingers, so quick, so agile as they drew his tokens relentlessly towards her. His keen grey eyes, that on active service had been able to see the gleam of gunmetal in woodland over a mile away, strained to see more. This time she made no move towards her wrist-lace; in fact, she’d—deliberately?—pushed back her cuff to her elbow. He frowned as he noticed a faint ring of fresh finger-shaped bruises around her slender wrist; someone had been rough with her recently. But then he saw what he had been waiting for. Yes. She was marking the cards, indenting certain corners very, very lightly with the sharp little fingernail of her right hand, in a gesture as swift as the blinking of an eye! Marcus carried on playing and was aware of Hal’s increasingly puzzled frown as his pile of rouleaux continued their journey to the girl’s side of the table. The girl’s companion was watching, too, his unease scarcely hidden.

  There it was again. A tiny squeeze of his opponent’s fingernail as she delicately indented yet another glossy card. Moments later she carefully spread out her winning hand, and her cheeks dimpled in a sweet smile. ‘Four aces and three kings, sir! I think I have you, if you please!’

  Marcus was very still for a moment. Then he deliberately leaned forwards, and picked up the girl’s cards at one stroke, breaking all the rules of play. Hal, at his shoulder, gasped aloud. The girl’s painted smile flickered, but her big green eyes were still wide and innocent. ‘Is aught amiss, sir?’

  ‘Indeed, there is a slight problem—ma’am,’ Marcus replied, equally calmly. ‘You see, I discover in myself an aversion to playing with out-and-out cheats.’

  He was aware of Hal drawing closer, standing tensely at his side. Of the thin, anxious fellow in brown also edging nearer to the girl, his face tight with strain. The girl was better. In fact, she was amazing. She gazed across the table at Marcus, saying in that same sweet, polite voice, ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite follow your meaning, sir.’

  ‘Ha! Don’t you, by God!’ Marcus was gathering up all the cards now, and throwing them on the table, picking up one picture card after another with his strong, lean hands and jabbing at the telltale indentations. ‘You’re trying to tell me you didn’t do this?’ he grated out. ‘And this? And this?’

  His raised voice was drawing onlookers now. And the girl’s slender figure seemed frozen to her chair as sh
e realised, at last, that her game was at an end. Marcus reached across the table scornfully for the winnings she’d garnered from himself and Hal. And then, suddenly, he heard shouting from the street outside, and the sound of feet clattering up the staircase, and the room was filled with cries of alarm. ‘The Watch! The Watch are upon us!’ Marcus was on his feet already, but not before the wretched girl had grabbed all the rouleaux back and was elbowing her way through the panic-stricken punters towards the back staircase. Marcus lunged after her, and just managed to catch hold of her arm. ‘Not so fast. Not so fast, you bloody little cheat…’

  She fought him quite ferociously, though no one noticed, because all around them people were pushing and jostling and calling out in panic. This was an illegal gaming parlour, after all, and none of them wanted to spend the night in a magistrate’s cell. Chairs were being overturned, candles extinguished, cards sent flying to the floor as they all tried to get to the stairs that led to the back exit. The girl continued to struggle wildly, but he hung on all the tighter as they were swept towards the top of that staircase with the rest of the fleeing crowd. He must have hurt her; she let out a low cry; then suddenly her elbow in his diaphragm all but winded him, and she hissed, ‘Take your hands off me, you coneyjack, you!’

  Coneyjack. Thieftaker. Marcus almost dropped her in his surprise. ‘It was you!’ he exclaimed. ‘You, running from the Watch earlier this evening in the Strand! I hid you from them, told them you’d gone the other way—and then—then, you ungrateful wretch, you damned well picked my pocket!’

  The press was even tighter now because they were almost at the top of the darkened staircase. For a moment her huge green eyes glinted vividly in the shadows. With fear? Not for long. ‘Maybe,’ she breathed, ‘that’s ‘cos all you overbearing, arrogant gents deserve to be robbed!’ Then she twisted violently to get free of his grip and called out wildly, ‘Lemuel, Lemuel, where are you? Come and help me, you great slow-witted fool!’