The Major and the Pickpocket

by Lucy Ashford

  Tassie frowned. ‘When’s quarter-day, Marcus?’

  ‘The twenty-fifth of March. Lady Day.’

  ‘Five weeks,’ she breathed. ‘Five whole weeks…’ She looked almost—afraid. Oh, thought Marcus suddenly, she deserves a better life than she’s led…And immediately his inner self reproached him: Are you going to give her a better life, then, Marcus? Are you?

  Suddenly the bird, Edward, swooped down from the high picture frame, anointing the gloomy painting with a fresh deposit in passing, and glided to a practised halt on Tassie’s shoulder. She reached up to stroke the bird’s soft, turquoise breast. ‘There, Edward, there. It’s all right now.’

  The parrot regarded Marcus with its head on one side, its bright eyes beady with dislike. ‘The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon,’ it cackled.

  ‘Macbeth,’ explained the girl tonelessly. ‘It’s one of his favourites. He knows a lot of Shakespeare, from old Matt.’

  Marcus felt quite dazed. ‘I’m sure he does,’ he said. ‘You’d better go to your room now, Tassie, and catch up on your sleep. We’ve got a lot to sort out tomorrow. One of my first tasks is to find you somewhere safe to stay.’

  ‘You mean I’m not staying here?’ The girl’s head flew up and Edward hopped about, agitated, on her shoulder. ‘I thought it was part of our bargain that I stayed here!’

  ‘What, and plague my generous friends to death? I hardly think so.’

  ‘But I don’t want to be anywhere except London! I don’t want to leave London!’

  ‘Or Georgie Jay?’ demanded Marcus. ‘I’m paying you to work for me, Tassie, and paying you well. Does it matter where you stay?’

  She shook her head, her dishevelled blonde curls rippling around the collar of Hal’s coat in the shadowy candlelight. She said, ‘No. No, I suppose it doesn’t really matter where. I need the money, you see.’

  She was turning to go up the stairs, dejectedly. But Marcus, a sudden thought striking him, caught her by the shoulder. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘You’re not planning anything with your friends, are you? Not going to let them in secretly in the next night or two to strip this place bare?’

  She gazed up at him with something very like scorn in her eyes. ‘What do you take me for? Don’t worry, Marcus!’ She regarded him almost pityingly. ‘You must be truly desperate to get this money back for your precious godfather, when ‘tis plain you can scarcely bring yourself to tolerate me for an instant!’ Suddenly her eyes opened, very wide. ‘This money. The money of your godfather’s, that you want to win back, from your enemy Lord Corbridge. Let me hazard a guess. It is to be yours, is it not? Yes, that must be it!’ She clapped her hands together. ‘It is your inheritance, and that is why you will do anything—even put up with me, whom you plainly despise—to get it back.’

  Marcus said strongly, ‘I want it for my godfather, to restore him to his rightful position.’

  ‘But you are his heir, aren’t you?’ Tassie gazed at him with her bright, clear eyes. ‘You do not deny it…Do you know, I almost feel sorry for your cousin Lord Corbridge.’

  ‘Tassie—’

  But she had snatched herself away from his grip. ‘No need to lock me in,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I keep my promises, Marcus. I only hope that you do, too.’ And slowly, with the big greatcoat trailing ridiculously at her heels and the bird perched precariously on her shoulder, she made her way up the remainder of the stairs and along the shadowed corridor to her bedroom.

  Marcus felt as if he’d started a rash campaign and had just lost the first battle. As he went tiredly down the stairs, he saw that the bird had left tell-tale splashes not only on the oil painting, but also over the carved banister rail and the marble tiles of the hall.

  Hal was waiting for him in the hall below. He must have overheard something of their conversation, because he said, ‘You needn’t take her anywhere, Marcus. You know we’ve always told you to consider this house your home.’

  Marcus eyed some green feathers drifting in the candlelight and sighed. ‘Your generosity, my friend, exceeds all bounds as usual. But if Corbridge heard from the London gossips that I’d taken a half-criminal little sharper under my wing, my plan would be all to pieces before it began.’

  Hal nodded, frowning. Then his kind face brightened. ‘Why don’t we say that she’s a distant relative of yours, a poor cousin perhaps, who’s come for an unexpected visit? They’d never realise her true past, or her skill at card play; and the story will keep the gossips away, if only for a while.’

  ‘A while is all I need. A few weeks, no more.’

  ‘Then she will stay.’ Hal hesitated. ‘She looked so tired just then, Marcus, and so—alone. Do you really think you can make this thing work?’

  ‘I have to. I have to, for my godfather’s sake.’

  ‘And do you think the girl is capable of playing her part?’

  ‘I do,’ responded Marcus firmly. ‘I’d guess she’s already planning what to do with that money I’ve promised her. And she’s a cunning little thing—an excellent actress, sharp and resourceful. Yes. I think we can do it.’

  ‘I know you’ll take care. But the girl—well, she might be a rogue, but nevertheless she could come to real harm in the kind of circles you’re planning to place her in. You don’t intend to…’ he frowned ‘…to let Corbridge actually get his hands on her, do you?’

  Marcus was surprised at the strength of his reaction to the thought of Sebastian Corbridge’s notoriously lecherous hands going anywhere near the girl Tassie. ‘I want her to play cards with him,’ he said vehemently, ‘not seduce him!’

  Hal nodded, but his expression was still uncertain.

  Tassie, too, was full of doubts. The fire in her room had died, and the sheets rustled with crisp unfriendliness as she climbed into the big bed. She longed suddenly for the constant racket of Drury Lane, the blandishments of the late-night pie-and-ballad sellers, the shouts of the sailors and young gallants as they tottered noisily from one alehouse to the next.

  At least she had Edward. She’d fixed him up a perch beside the mantelpiece, using a coatstand, and now he was preening his feathers and crooning to himself in consolation for his earlier fright.

  She’d lied to Marcus about saying goodbye to Georgie Jay, because in fact she hadn’t seen Georgie Jay at all. By the time she’d got to the Blue Bell, it was late, for it had taken her a long time to fiddle the lock with the hairpin Emilia had dropped, and then she’d had to hunt for something to wear. Hal’s coat and boots in the downstairs hall had been all she could lay her hands on. Easing open the heavy front door had been no simple task either as she tried not to disturb the silence of the big house.

  She’d made her way to Covent Garden by a mixture of walking, running and tricking a couple of sedan-bearers into giving her a lift. She’d had to run really fast from the sedan-bearers, because they had been mad as hell once they realised she had no intention of paying them for the ride. And when she got to the Blue Bell at last, she found that Georgie Jay wasn’t there. He’d gone—with Moll, naturally—to drink ale and eat mutton pie at Bob Derry’s Cider Cellar. He wasn’t even worried, it seemed, by Tassie’s disappearance.

  And Lemuel—Lemuel, who Marcus told her had been arrested by the constables—was in the taproom with Billy and old Matt, busy in a game of whist!

  ‘Lemuel,’ she’d breathed gladly, ‘oh, Lemuel, you’re safe!’

  “Course I am,’ he retorted, lifting his eyebrows in surprise at her outburst. Though I had to run like the blazes to get away from them Horneys outside the Angel! It were a daft idea of yours, Tassie—don’t you involve me in any thin’ like that again, you hear?’

  Then he went back to his cards. She gazed at them, speechless. They didn’t ask one question about how she’d escaped from the raid, or where she’d been ever since. All they were interested in was getting on with their game.

  Then old Matt said in a kindlier tone, ‘You look all in, lass. Best go to your bed, and get some rest befor
e morning.’

  ‘Aye,’ put in Billy eagerly, ‘there’s someone comin’ to see you tomorrow, Tass!’

  Matt looked at him quickly, warningly, and Tassie caught that look. ‘Who?’ she demanded. ‘Who’s he talking about, Matt?’

  Old Matt sighed and said, ‘Well, you’ll know about it soon enough. Moll’s brother and his missus are coming up to London for a day or two. Moll told them about you, and they want to meet you. Just for a chat, that’s all.’

  Lemuel was looking at her a little forlornly now and pulling his hair into fierce red tufts. It appeared that Georgie Jay had decided her fate in her absence. Tassie felt a tight constriction round her heart. She smiled brightly at them all, as if she didn’t care that her old world was falling to pieces. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave you to get on with your game.’

  And she’d gone upstairs, as if on her way to her bed, but instead she had fetched Edward in his small travelling-cage, and hurried down the back stairs so no one would see her. She made her way back to Portman Square, this time sneaking a ride on the rear of a heavy carriage rumbling westwards, while Edward grumbled away from under Hal’s coat.

  Nowhere to turn. Nowhere to turn, the big wheels had chided mockingly in her ears.

  Now she stirred restlessly as the cold moonlight stole through a gap in the heavy curtains and cast alarming shadows across her bed. She had made a bargain with the man Marcus, and she was going to keep it. But the thought of being in Marcus’s company day after day set up stirrings of unease all through her body. With burning cheeks she remembered the way he’d crushed her in his arms and kissed her; the way he’d brushed his palms across her breasts. He’d been a soldier, an officer; clearly he was used to being in charge, to making judgements about people. And he thought she, Tassie, was a low-life trickster. A slut, he’d called her.

  She’d learned years ago what happened between men and women when their passions were stirred. When Georgie Jay’s band had been staying on a farm, helping with the harvest, she’d been sent to fetch twine from the barn loft. Suddenly she’d heard soft womanly cries from below her and, peering down, she saw a dairymaid lying with a farmhand in the hay, her hands grabbing fiercely at the man’s brawny back as he kissed her hungrily. Tassie had watched, frozen, as the man had loosened the girl’s laced bodice, flicking his tongue and his lips over her breasts; then he’d fumbled with her skirts, and his own breeches, before beginning to thrust with rhythmic strokes against the woman’s hips.

  Tassie couldn’t get down from the loft, or they’d have seen her. At one point the man had pulled away, muttering something, and Tassie had glimpsed, in full arousal, his rigid manhood—that part of his body that women were always whispering and giggling about. Then the dairymaid reached for him and stroked him there, making little sighing noises in the back of her throat before clutching him to her again, her eyes closed, her hips urging him on. Realising they were quite beyond noticing her, Tassie had bolted down the ladder outside into the blinding sun, and stood there trembling.

  That night, as the farm labourers all had supper, she had heard the dairymaid dismissed as a slut—and the one who insulted her most was the very man who’d lain with her. From that incident, and from everything else that went on around her, Tassie had learned that it was dangerous ever to get involved with men. Men would flatter you and caress you until they got just what they wanted, and the gentry were no different. She had to remember that the kiss last night would have meant nothing to Marcus. Why, he might even be laughing about it now, with his friend Hal!

  And yet—the money he had promised her. You’d need a whole purseful of guineas for that, girl, Georgie Jay had told her when she’d tentatively talked about solving the mystery of her past. Her mind full of fevered thoughts, she drifted at last into a light and restless sleep, dreaming that she was a child again, and there was some lesson she had failed to learn from her schoolroom books, and so she was to be beaten when daylight came; but she was wakened when she heard a strange noise somewhere in the distance. Ever alert to night sounds that could be a warning of danger, she sat up quickly and listened. The sound of footsteps, slow and uneven, going to and fro, to and fro…

  Whispering to Edward, who was cocking one beady eye at her from his perch, to be silent, she went to her door and opened it softly. Someone in the hall below was as wide awake as she was.

  She hurried to the banister and peered over. Marcus was down there, pacing the hallway; and his face was a mask of pain each time he put his weight on his left leg. She watched for a moment, her heart suddenly torn with instinctive pity. She’d already guessed he was the sort of man who would endure any amount of pain silently, and ask for no help. She watched him a moment longer, in the near-darkness—only a single candle burned, in a holder inside the big front door—and then she began to return, quietly, to her room. But he looked up. He had sharp hearing, even sharper eyes. She must remember that for the future. ‘Tassie!’ he called out. ‘Is that you?’

  She turned back reluctantly.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he called again, more gently this time. ‘I just wanted a few words. Come down here, will you?’

  She walked down the stairs in her nightgown and stood facing him, her mouth set stubbornly in anticipation of fresh trouble.

  ‘Can’t you sleep?’ he asked, almost kindly.

  She was taken aback by this show of concern. Be careful. Remember that he thinks he has bought you. ‘I was asleep, yes. But—I heard someone walking around.’

  ‘I woke you. I’m sorry. Confound it—’ He sat down, rather suddenly, on one of the chairs placed against the wall, and she realised that his forehead was beaded with sweat.

  ‘You’re in pain,’ she said swiftly. ‘Have you seen a physician?’

  ‘Of course.’ He grimaced. ‘It’s just a matter of time, they say; they also tell me to rest, as if that were an option…Seems you’re a light sleeper, Tassie, like me. Look, I’ve been wanting to apologise properly. About your friend Lemuel. It was wrong of me to lie. I’m sorry.’

  She shrugged and looked away. ‘I suppose—most people would do the same. If they wanted something really badly, that is.’

  Still seated, he was gazing up at her intently. ‘But would you, Tassie? Tell lies, I mean, to someone who trusted you?’

  She hesitated. This was a different Marcus. A man she could almost be friends with. She replied steadily, ‘You know already that I’ll take advantage of people who’ve got money and who look down on me and my friends. But, no, I wouldn’t lie to someone who trusted me.’

  ‘I wonder how many people have your trust, Tassie? I wonder who, exactly, you are?’

  She didn’t reply, but her heart hammered a warning as his gaze held hers. Street thief. Bait in the trap. In the silence, the hall clock ticked steadily.

  ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘I’ve disturbed your rest and soon I’ll be disturbing everybody else if I keep up my midnight marching. Off you go, back to your bed. And I’ll see you in the morning.’

  He stood up, but sat down again quickly, his face contracted with pain. ‘Just a muscle,’ he muttered, ‘sometimes it seizes up…’

  Tassie was instantly on her knees beside him. ‘I can see it!’ she declared. The long muscle of his injured thigh was jumping, the nerves on edge beneath his tight breeches. ‘Let me ease it for you.’ As she spoke she was already starting to knead his thigh, using her small, sensitive fingers to probe and soothe. ‘Tell me if I hurt you,’ she instructed him. ‘Tell me at once.’

  Marcus somehow managed to swallow his surprise at her unhesitating response. Managed to fight down, too, his reaction to such a sudden and intimate contact. Because the touch of her fingers was working magic; beneath her light but sure touch the pain was vanishing, and the sweet scent of her hair, so close to him, was intoxicating…

  ‘You’re not hurting me,’ he said. ‘Far from it.’

  She gazed up at him with those clear lambent eyes. ‘Were you injured in the war,
Marcus?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a flesh wound, it’s nothing; should have healed weeks ago…’

  ‘You probably didn’t rest it enough.’ Tassie’s hands were still busy manipulating the knotted flesh that had tensed with pain; her face was all concern. He realised she’d completely forgotten that he was a stranger who’d hired her. To her he was someone in distress, who merited her help. Unfortunately Marcus found himself battling to suppress his physical response to such a sudden and intimate contact.

  ‘There!’ she was breathing with satisfaction. ‘I think some of the tightness has gone. This is what the Romanies do, when one of their kind is taken with this sort of pain…’

  ‘Tassie.’ His voice was curter than he’d intended. ‘Tassie, you’d better stop. Now.’

  She looked at him in dismay. ‘Oh, Marcus, have I hurt you?’

  ‘No. Far from it indeed.’

  Her face was crestfallen. ‘Then—is it because I mentioned my travelling days?’

  ‘Your travelling days have nothing whatever to do with it.’ Deliberately he moved her hand away, forcing a smile. ‘And I’m grateful to your Romany friends. That’s really much better, believe me.’

  ‘Then I’ll carry on—’

  ‘No, damn it!’ Her eyes were shocked. He stood up, trying his leg carefully, and went on, more gently, ‘Thank you, Tassie. You’re certainly full of surprises.’

  She stood up also, embarrassed and shy. ‘I don’t like to see anyone in pain,’ she muttered. ‘Or any animal. Not ever.’

  ‘I’ve grown rather too used to witnessing pain, I’m afraid. War toughens you.’

  Her eyes were dark with sympathy. ‘I suppose it has to, or you couldn’t do what you have to do. But you went to war because you thought it was right, didn’t you, Marcus?’