The Major and the Pickpocket

by Lucy Ashford

  Marcus clung on grimly to his captive as the tide of people in full flight swept past them. ‘Lemuel,’ he growled. ‘So that’s your young friend’s name, is it? I’ll wager he’s out on the streets by now, running full tilt for whatever hovel you call home—’

  He got no further, because she brought her knee up and thudded it, hard, against his right thigh.

  Marcus swore fluently and almost lost her. He snatched a swift look over his shoulder, but of Hal there was no sign, damn it. He tightened his grip on the wretched girl and dragged her with him—she was still kicking out—to the crush at the top of the stairs. He wasn’t going to let her go, yet if the minx carried on fighting him like this, they’d end up tumbling down the steps, and being trampled underfoot in the stampede…

  Nothing else for it. He picked the girl up and put her over his shoulder, then let himself be carried down the rickety staircase by the crowd of nervous punters hustling towards the back doorway, and the safety of the warren of dark alleyways that lay behind Great Suffolk Street. Within seconds the girl had started to pummel his back, but fortunately his coat was of good, thick broadcloth; his strongly muscled shoulders were as impervious to her clenched little fists as were his ears to her colourful threats. All the same, he was glad when at last they got outside and he was able to swing the jade down and set her on her feet. It was starting to rain again. Around them the crowd was melting swiftly away; the girl tried to hop off, too, but he gripped her and pulled her into a nearby doorway. There were no lamps here, and the shadows clustered like sepia pools, far away from the candle-lit windows further along the street. ‘Let go of me!’ She was still struggling, like a wildcat; he almost shook her into submission and suddenly she went limp in his arms. Another trick? If he did let her go, would she fall—or run?

  Somewhere in the darkness fiddle music was spilling out from a lively tavern. But out here, as the last of the Angel’s fleeing patrons vanished into the blackness, they were quite alone. The doorway gave them little shelter from the rain, which was landing on her cheeks, washing away her rouge and starring her thick lashes—or were they tears he saw? Her golden hair was tumbling from its pins and falling around her shoulders in damp disarray. What would she try next? He expected more insults, more oaths; but this time the cunning jade adopted a different tactic. In a voice that quivered slightly she begged, ‘Please, please, sir, don’t hand me in. I’m but a poor orphan; I do swear I meant no harm…’

  Marcus had no difficulty hardening his heart against this plea. ‘I’ll let you go with the greatest of pleasure. But not before you’ve given me back my winnings, and also the wallet you stole from me earlier this evening.’

  She caught her breath. ‘Wallet? Fie, what wallet? I’ve not the faintest notion what you mean!’ Marcus wanted to shake the girl; he found her cheek incredible; but before he could reply he heard the sound of clattering footsteps as some of the magistrate’s men came rushing down the back staircase from the gaming hell and out into the alley, furious because so far they’d been deprived of their prey. Until now. Marcus cursed thoroughly under his breath. ‘Leave this to me,’ he hissed at the girl.

  ‘Here’s one of ‘em, lads!’ called a constable, jabbing his finger at Marcus. ‘Now, you was up there, wasn’t you, eh?’ He jerked his head towards the deserted upper storey of the ill-fated gaming club. ‘Reckon we need to ask you some questions, sir—you’re coming along with us, if you please!’

  Marcus had absolutely no intention of doing so. Swiftly he drew the rainsoaked girl into his arms and laughed. ‘A gaming hell, constable? Not me. In fact, I’ve just been down to a little nunnery in Haymarket, where Mother Bentley—you know her?—rules the roost. And from there I picked out this charming maid for a night of pleasure. A whole guinea, I’ve paid, and we were just on our way back to my lodgings—now, do you think I’d have time to waste on cards, or dice?’

  Even as he spoke he heard the girl’s sharply indrawn breath as the damned little minx prepared to protest. The constables were muttering and scratching their heads, eyeing him dubiously. One word of denial from the girl, and he’d be finished.

  Swiftly he pulled her hard against his body and bent his head to kiss her. He could taste the cool rain on her lips, could feel her heart thumping through the wet silk of her gown as she struggled like a trapped bird in his arms. He was surprised, because she smelled so clean, so fresh. Surprised, too, because, as he continued to kiss her for the benefit of those gawping officers of the law, she seemed to freeze in shock, as if she had never been kissed before…

  But that was impossible! Inevitably, though, he felt the spearing of desire at his loins. Her mouth was strangely tempting—cool, tender, tantalising—and as he held her closer, just in case the jade once more tried to run, he felt her slender body tense against him, felt the thrust of her nipples pressing against his chest through her thin bodice in a way that made the blood pound in his veins. Aware of some sudden, unguessed—at danger, Marcus relaxed his grip on her and fought down his arousal. She sagged in his arms, just as if he’d drawn all the strength from her slender body. Marcus felt a pang of pity for her, then reminded himself grimly that she was a pickpocket, a cheat, and no doubt a whore. He tried not to wonder again whether it was rain or tears that had gathered on her thick lashes.

  ‘You’re an excellent actress, minx,’ he muttered grimly in her ear. ‘But you’re not getting out of this one. Two guineas were in that wallet of mine, and two guineas’ worth of a kiss I shall have, if only to save us both from a night in the magistrates’ cells.’ In a louder voice he called out to the watching men, ‘Would you leave us in peace, gents? I told you, I paid dearly for this little lightskirt!’

  ‘You made a mistake, then,’ jeered one of the men. ‘Pretty she may be, but she ain’t got enough flesh on her to keep a man warm for a minute, let alone a night.’

  ‘Oh, let ‘im alone,’ muttered another. ‘The fool’s probably lost all his money gambling. He’ll be glad of any doxy he can get. Come on—I’m cold and wet. The pair of ‘em ain’t worth the blasted trouble.’

  Marcus still held on tightly to the girl even though the officers of the watch were disappearing down the street; for he could hear fresh footsteps hurrying towards them from the opposite direction. But it was only Hal pounding up the alleyway, his boots splashing in the river of water that ran down the cobbled streets, his expensive wide-brimmed hat dripping with rain. ‘Marcus, there you are!’ he exclaimed. ‘I went after the girl’s accomplice, but he bolted like a ferret. See you’ve managed to hang on to the girl herself, though. By all that’s holy, never seen such a neat gamester in my life!’

  There was almost admiration in his voice. Marcus pulled the girl back into the shelter of the doorway, out of the rain. ‘So you realised she was cheating you, did you? Just a little late, if I may say so. Any ideas what to do with her? I’m wondering if I should hand her over to the magistrates for her own good…’

  That started her up. ‘No! You can’t prove a thing! You’ll not send me to gaol, you’ll not!’ The girl was starting to struggle wildly again, her breasts rising and falling rapidly beneath her soaking gown.

  Then Hal, scratching his elegant head in some bemusement, said, ‘I agree with the girl; not sure, you know, that the magistrates are the answer, dear boy. But,’ he added in his droll way, ‘she certainly brings to mind what we were talking of earlier.’

  ‘What the devil are you talking about?’

  Hal shrugged defensively. ‘Well, with that hair of hers, and her skill at cards, you could almost dress the girl up and use her to tempt your cousin Sebastian…’

  ‘Corbridge!’ Marcus’s eyes opened wide as he stared at his captive. Her ravishing blonde hair had tumbled from its pins and was glittering in the rain: guinea-gold curls. ‘Corbridge…Yes. Yes. The girl’s an expert at trickery. Yet with that look of wide-eyed innocence, she had both of us fooled; Hal, my friend, you’ve maybe hit on the answer…’

  Hal was staring at
him. ‘But, Marcus, I didn’t really mean it. Only a joke. Look at her. She’s dressed like a scarecrow, swears like a trooper…’

  ‘She’s also a fine little actress,’ Marcus announced. ‘It was she who stole my wallet earlier this evening.’

  ‘No!’ Drawing warily nearer, Hal regarded the girl with a kind of horrified fascination. ‘By God, yes, I see it now—it’s the fleet-footed lad you saved from pursuit! Not at all sure, you know, that Corbridge’s fancy runs in that particular direction, dear boy. But then again, his taste for whores is said to range far and wide.’

  Marcus felt the girl suddenly freeze into stillness. ‘Are you calling me a whore?’ she breathed.

  Hal stammered, ‘No! Not exactly, you know, I merely suggested…’ But with a last desperate burst of strength the girl had broken free, and Marcus was lunging after her, catching her round her slender waist; which was just as well because Tassie, who had hardly consumed anything all day except for one over-rich glass of wine at the Angel, suddenly swayed on her feet.

  Hal called out, ‘Gently there, Marcus. Go easy with her, man!’

  Trickery,’ said Marcus dismissively, ‘all trickery.’ But even as he spoke, he had to move quickly, and was just in time to catch her as she crumpled slowly into his arms.

  Chapter Four

  Tassie woke to find herself in a big four-poster bed curtained with damask drapes. Feeling suddenly as if she couldn’t breathe, she pushed her way out to find that it was daytime, and she was in a vast room full of dark mahogany furniture with gloomy paintings on the walls. Fear dried her throat. There was no sound at all, except for the ticking of an ormolu clock on the marble mantelshelf above the fireplace. The fingers pointed to just past three o’clock. She must have slept all night—and half the day.

  She flew to the door and tried the handle. It was locked. Her panic mounting, she hurried across to the big, velvet-draped window through which the low February sun was sending slanting rays of pale afternoon light. There was no escaping this way either, for from the window it was a straight drop of thirty feet or more to the broad pavement below. Now there’s a bone-breaker of a fall, Georgie Jay would say…

  Where was she? How far away were her friends? She knew she was still in London, because beyond the huge stuccoed houses that lined this wide square she could see slate rooftops and white church spires stretching away to the familiar golden dome of St Paul’s. But there was no sign at all of the seething bustle of humanity that filled the noisy streets around Covent Garden. A solitary carriage was pulling up further down the road, and a footman held open the door to let out a beautifully dressed woman and a small girl.

  The way the woman held the child’s hand, and smiled down at her, with love, brought a sudden ache to Tassie’s heart. Then her mind was filled with other emotions, because she’d suddenly realised that she was no longer wearing Moll’s shabby old gown, but was swathed in a white lawn nightdress, with lacings at her throat, and with skirts that fell down to her bare ankles. She touched it with distaste and growing alarm. Who had undressed her, and put her in this? She couldn’t remember a thing about arriving at the house! But she did remember those men last night. Marcus and his fancy friend Hal. Had they brought her here? If so, why? Why hadn’t Marcus just handed her over to the constables? Then she remembered. And felt rather sick again. She sat suddenly on the edge of the vast bed, and recalled how Marcus and his friend had been discussing her hair, her voice, her skill with cards. Talking about her—as if she was for sale.

  Moll’s brash voice came back to her, as she warned, ‘You must have seen the way men are starting to look at her! There’ll be trouble soon if you don’t look out…‘

  She clasped her hands together tightly. Something told her that what the men Marcus and Hal had in mind for her could be a good deal more dangerous even than being hauled up before the magistrates. Frantically she started to search the room for her shoes, her stockings, the horrible gown she’d stolen from Moll; but it was no good. Every chest, every closet was quite empty.

  And besides, the door was locked.

  She stood very still in the centre of the room, trying to keep calm, trying to think what her friends would do. ‘Stay in charge, Tass,’ Georgie Jay was always telling her. ‘Size up your enemy’s weakness—and remember every card that’s been played in the game.’

  But her game so far, with the man called Marcus, had been a simple path to disaster. Again her heart quailed within her. She’d been stupid enough—yes, and ungrateful enough—to pick his temptingly placed pocket as he hid her from the Watch yesterday—and then, as if Fortune was wreaking revenge, she’d been challenged by him to a game of piquet at the Angel. She’d recognised him immediately, of course, with his thick dark hair and his lean, hard face and his limp. A little shiver had gone through her as he assessed her. But she still hadn’t been able to resist cheating him, playing a dangerous game as ever; and if it hadn’t been for the place being raided she’d have escaped with her winnings, despite the fact that the man called Marcus had realised she was cheating him. But the general alarm, the rush to get out, had meant that she was trapped, literally, in her enemy’s arms. And then he’d recognised her as the thief who’d taken his wallet.

  He’d also assumed that she was a doxy, and that Lemuel was her keeper. Lemuel, in charge of her! That was a joke, but nothing else about her situation was very funny at all.

  Tassie curled up, shivering, on the big bed. She couldn’t help but remember the moment when Marcus had pulled her against his long, powerful body—how he’d felt dangerously strong and full of hard-packed muscle. Then he’d kissed her, so casually, as if he’d done that sort of thing with women a hundred times before…She clenched her hands tightly.

  And that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst of it was that she’d been wildly disturbed. Her whole body had pounded with agitation. She should have pushed him away, should have defended herself, as she had that time with Billy, but instead she’d found herself melting treacherously in his arms. She remembered all too vividly how her small breasts had tingled, her nipples growing hard, almost painful as they were crushed against his broad chest. And all the time, as he pressed his lips mercilessly against hers, all the time, as his strong hands played across her back for the benefit of the constables, pulling her even closer, she’d felt an insistent ache of longing, a melting in the pit of her stomach, as though a flame had been kindled there…

  Worst of all, though, had been the cold, shivery feeling that engulfed her when at last he let her go, and insulted her so hatefully in front of those leering constables.

  They had some plan afoot, the arrogant Marcus and his friend Hal—something to do with a man called Corbridge. Then when she’d tried to run away, they’d kidnapped her and brought her here. Why? Oh, this was playing deeper than she’d ever intended when she planned her stunt with Lemuel last night. She had to get out of here.

  Just then she heard the sound of footsteps coming towards her door. She jumped up, her arms folded defensively across her breasts as she heard a key turning in the lock. Her heart thumped so heavily she thought she might choke. The door opened, and a woman glided into the room. She wore a black gown, edged frugally with lace; her brown hair was gathered tightly at the nape of her neck. She was young, yet she was dressed like a middle-aged matron. Was she perhaps the housekeeper here? Behind her followed a thin female servant, also in black, but with a starched white apron over her skirt and a white lace cap on her head. She carried a tray of food, and her expression was dauntingly grim. But the first woman smiled at Tassie and, to Tassie’s astonishment, her unremarkable face was quite transformed by the kindness that shone from within her.

  ‘My dear,’ she said softly, ‘you should not have got out of bed! You should still be resting.’ She turned to the maid, who had put the tray down on a small satinwood table. ‘That will be all, thank you, Emilia. You may go.’

  The maid gave Tassie a far from friendly look, which Tassie duly registered. Then
she left, and Tassie waited, tense, silent. ‘You looked so ill, my dear,’ the woman was continuing, ‘when Hal and Major Forrester—Marcus—brought you here last night. You need to rest. And you need plenty of good, nourishing food.’

  Major Forrester. An army officer. Tassie shut her eyes and opened them, both frightened and perplexed. If Hal and Marcus had brought her here, why hadn’t they told this kind woman—who clearly had authority—that Tassie was a common thief and a cheat to boot?

  ‘We thought you might enjoy a light meal after your rest.’ The woman pointed encouragingly at the tray. ‘What is your name, pray?’

  Tassie took a deep breath. ‘Tassie. That’s all—ma’ am.’

  ‘Then welcome to this house, Tassie. Hal has instructed me to look after you until you get your strength back.’

  Tassie muttered, ‘Saints and fiddlesticks, I don’t believe—’ She corrected herself rapidly. ‘I mean—why, ma’am?’

  ‘Oh, you poor thing, of course, you’ll hardly remember! You’re here because Hal and Marcus found you, hungry and near-frozen with cold, out on the streets last night. You fainted; they couldn’t just leave you there.’

  Tassie blinked. So the two men hadn’t told this lady anything like the truth, and the omission did nothing to reassure her. She glanced quickly at the door, wondering whether to make a run for it right now. ‘They have acted very—nobly,’ she breathed.

  Her irony was completely lost on the other woman. ‘Well, naturally!’ She smiled. ‘Hal is sometimes rash and impetuous, but he has a most generous heart. And so, of course, has Marcus. Gracious me, here I am, rattling on, and your food is growing cold! I’ll leave you to eat in peace—but first, can I let anyone know you are here? Friends, or family?’

  ‘No one, ma’am,’ said Tassie in a small voice. No one at all—she should be used to it by now, but even so she was caught unawares by the sudden ache in her throat. ‘But you are kind to think of it. My—my thanks.’