The Major and the Pickpocket

by Lucy Ashford

  ‘Did I?’ His question was mild, but his eyes were hard. ‘That was the trouble: I’m not sure that it was right. I’m not sure that we should have been fighting in America. That country wants, and probably deserves, its freedom, and sooner or later it will get it.’

  ‘So you’re not going back, then, to be a soldier?’

  ‘At the moment,’ he said, ‘they wouldn’t have me, I’m not fit enough.’ He put his hands gently on her shoulders—a mistake, her skin was warm and soft beneath her nightgown; he pulled away quickly. ‘Listen, Tassie. About our agreement. I’ll release you from it now, if you like. You don’t have to stay. You don’t have to do what we agreed. I lied to you, about Lemuel, and that made our agreement a false one.’

  She froze then. ‘But—I thought we had a bargain!’

  ‘Of course,’ he said hastily. ‘I just wanted to say—’

  ‘We agreed, Marcus. We decided. On everything!’ She looked quite genuinely dismayed.

  ‘A bargain, Tassie!’ he vowed quickly.

  Her expression instantly relaxed. He reached out his hand, and she took it, then snatched her fingers away as if his touch burned her. ‘A bargain,’ she breathed. And she went slowly off up the stairs, an upright, lonely figure.

  Marcus watched her go, shaking his head in perplexity. Had she truly not realised what she was doing to him, when she stroked his thigh like that? She had lived her life in the company of the lowest of the low. And yet she had seemed, when she knelt at his side, genuinely innocent of what effect such an intimate touch would have on a red-blooded male…She was either innocent—or she was very clever. But would she be a match for Corbridge?

  Sighing, he set off to his own bedroom, and realised that this was the first day for a long time that his thoughts had not been dominated by Philippa.

  But he thought about her now. For two years, at war in a foreign country where the very soil had stunk of men’s dying, his memories of Philippa and her sweet love for him had guided him homewards.

  Oh, yes. He thought about her now.

  It was a little after midnight that same evening, and Lord Sebastian Corbridge was at the exclusive little establishment in Albemarle Street that Marcus had mentioned to Hal. It was a popular destination among the gentry, with everything on offer that could contribute to a man’s well-being: good wine, delectable suppers, and plenty of deep play expertly conducted by Lady Sallis’s charming young hostesses, who would, for a certain rate of pay, provide rather more intimate companionship in the private rooms upstairs.

  Sebastian Corbridge, who’d just gone down several hundred guineas in a game of piquet, was not in the best of moods. And his brooding thoughts about his cousin Marcus did not help.

  Several of his acquaintances were here tonight, the same men who’d been in the club yesterday evening when Marcus had burst in and threatened Corbridge so vilely. Curse Marcus, for his damned impudence! People had been reminding him of the unpleasant incident wherever he went, and Corbridge had tried his best to shrug it off. But the memory of Marcus’s hard, uncompromising face, of his primed soldier’s hand ready and waiting on the hilt of his sword, continued to unsettle him.

  ‘What are you going to do, Corbridge?’ his cronies had probed avidly. ‘Marcus Forrester insulted you in public. God’s blood, man, he threatened you!’

  ‘You should report him to the magistrates,’ drawled another. ‘Get him hauled up before the beaks and drummed out of town for disturbing the peace.’

  Lord Sebastian Corbridge saw the light of malevolence in their eyes, and knew that secretly they were all enjoying his discomfiture, damn them. He’d worried all night about Marcus’s reappearance in London. Sebastian knew only too well that the way he’d encouraged Sir Roderick Delancey, Marcus’s godfather, to gamble his way into massive debt, then to sign that formal letter handing over the Lornings estate to Sebastian if Roderick couldn’t pay off those debts by September, might not bear too close a scrutiny. Corbridge had planned on his cousin Marcus being away in the American war for much, much longer. Then Lornings would have been safely in Corbridge’s hands, well before Marcus returned. If indeed he did return. Many did not.

  But Marcus was back, damn him, and his injured leg certainly did nothing to reduce his formidable demeanour in Corbridge’s worried eyes. Nevertheless Corbridge had reacted nonchalantly to his friends’ probing questions. ‘I wouldn’t dream of lowering myself to his level,’ he’d drawled, taking a delicate pinch of snuff.

  ‘But he challenged you to a duel,’ Viscount Lindsay maliciously reminded him.

  ‘A duel? A tavern brawl is more his scene. And it certainly isn’t mine, my friends. Why…’ and he smiled round at them all ‘…think of the damage he might do to this coat of mine. The Mechlin lace alone cost two hundred guineas!’

  Unfortunately this sally was received with frowns, not laughs. ‘But surely you won’t just let him get away with it, Corbridge?’

  ‘No,’ breathed Lord Sebastian Corbridge, ‘no, my friends, I won’t just let him get away with it.’

  In fact, he’d already made up his mind that if Marcus proved too troublesome, he would pay some city toughs, perhaps some ex-Bow Street Runners who knew what they were doing, to rough him up and spoil that handsome face of his for good. For Marcus was, undoubtedly, handsome. And a reminder of that fact was the last straw in a long and difficult day.

  Corbridge had just been debating whether to risk another game or cut his losses and leave, when the proprietress of this discreet establishment, Lady Sallis herself, came over to him. Corbridge’s spirits rose, until he realised she’d come to ask him about bloody Marcus Forrester.

  ‘I hear that your military cousin is back in town, Lord Sebastian,’ she’d said softly, moving her fan just a little to one side so he could see the dimples that had intrigued many men adorning her knowing smile. ‘Perhaps you would arrange a meeting for me.’

  ‘With Marcus?’ Corbridge hadn’t troubled to keep the scorn from his voice. Scorn mingled with disappointment, because he’d had his eyes on Lady Amanda Sallis himself. She was a wealthy, intriguing widow, not yet thirty, with raven curls and mischievous if rather hard blue eyes; and everyone knew that alongside her rather successful private gaming establishment she was not averse to conducting spirited adventures of the amorous kind with a favoured few. ‘I hadn’t realised, my lady,’ Corbridge went on rather bitterly, ‘that you had a taste for the low-life.’

  Lady Sallis lifted up her finely arched eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘Come, now, Lord Sebastian,’ cajoled Lady Sallis. ‘Major Marcus Forrester is hardly what could be called low-life, surely? He is your cousin, after all. His great-grandfather—as you never cease to remind everyone with reference to yourself—was the illustrious Earl of Stansfield.’ She wafted her fan gently. ‘And he is remarkably handsome.’

  ‘I suppose he is,’ replied Corbridge with studied acidity, ‘if you have a taste for ex-army men with no culture or manners, who stride—or rather limp— around all day in boots and greatcoat as if they’d just got off their horse.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Lady Sallis rather dreamily. ‘Some of us do have such tastes, you know. He is a fine figure of a man. And a slight roughness around the edges adds a certain pleasure to any encounter…’ She gazed rather pointedly at Corbridge’s slight figure, undistinguished in spite of his expensive tailoring. ‘So introduce me, will you? After all, I hear he’s fancy-free now that Miss Philippa Fawcett is having second thoughts about him.’

  Corbridge said rather shortly, ‘I imagine you’re quite adept at making your own introductions, Lady Sallis. You’ve certainly had no difficulty in other quarters.’

  ‘Steady now, Sebastian.’ Her smile was still bright, but those blue eyes had suddenly narrowed. ‘I would advise you to tread carefully. You gained yourself no friends by ruining Marcus’s godfather, you know. And everyone’s talking about the way Marcus had you spluttering like a plucked chicken when he accosted you at your club last night. Don’t undere
stimate him.’

  ‘He’s a rash, warmongering fool!’

  ‘Really? One way or another, he seems pretty able to look after himself.’

  That was just the trouble—Lord Sebastian Corbridge knew that already. He was frightened of Marcus, of the cold steel in his eyes, as well as in his hand.

  Lady Sallis moved away from him after that, in a cloud of perfume and rustling silk, to talk and laugh with her favoured guests and to ensure that her pretty female assistants were playing their parts dutifully at the gaming tables. Corbridge left the house shortly afterwards, considerably agitated.

  He was worried about his finances. The bills incurred in his extravagant way of life strained his resources badly. Sir Roderick’s letter of security was of no use till the autumn, and on quarter-day—a mere five weeks from now—the rent on his expensive house would be due. He needed more money soon, and badly.

  Chapter Six

  When Tassie came down to breakfast the next morning, there was no one around. It was the stony-faced butler who eventually directed her to the breakfast parlour, while making it quite plain that he thought she had no business being there. Tassie hoped fervently that he had no idea just how lost and vulnerable she felt in this big house. Last night Marcus’s apparent kindness to her, when they were alone, had unsettled her deeply; it was almost as if he had some respect, even liking for her. Yet she must remind herself always that his sole intention was to use her to lure his enemy into a trap. The term he’d used was bait.

  She’d dressed herself that morning in a plain grey gown brought in to her by Emilia, had brushed her hair with a mixture of apprehension and defiance, lifted her chin in a haughty stance, and swept down the staircase—only to find herself alone.

  ‘Major Forrester and Mr Beauchamp went out early,’ the butler Sansom told her stiffly in response to her query, as if it were none of her business what her betters got up to. Tassie gave him her best haughty nod in return, and seated herself with a flourish at the damask-covered table. Then she saw how the table was groaning under dish after dish of the most delicious food she had ever seen in her life, and her spirits began to lift. A maid younger than Emilia brought her a plate, and she gazed rather dizzily at the hot dishes of eggs and sausages, sautéed kidneys and bacon and golden kedgeree sitting before her. At least it seemed that she could trust Marcus and his friends to feed her well.

  The butler Sansom was hovering nearby, his face disdainful. Probably watching to make sure she didn’t steal the silver. ‘Coffee or tea—ma’am?’

  ‘Coffee, if you please, Sansom,’ she said, echoing the butler’s haughty tone and actually starting to enjoy herself.

  The butler took a dainty china cup and saucer and filled it from the big pot with a silent pursing of his mouth. And as he passed it back to her, he let go of the saucer too soon; Tassie grabbed for it, and the scalding brown coffee splashed across the pristine white tablecloth.

  ‘Oh, no!’ Tassie cried.

  Just at that moment Caro came in, and gasped as she saw what had happened. Tassie saw Sansom smirking behind his hand as he sternly ordered one of his maids to clear up the mess; and Tassie knew then that he had done it deliberately, to make it look as if it were her fault. Caro—whom Tassie had assumed was the housekeeper, a mistake that caused her cheeks to burn—was all kindness, assuring her that it didn’t really matter, but Tassie found that her appetite had quite gone. No good trying to blame the butler; no one would believe her. ‘I am very sorry,’ she muttered to Caro. ‘You must wish me at Jericho, I’m sure.’

  ‘Why, of course not,’ Caro protested. ‘We are all truly glad to have you here, my dear.’

  All of you? queried Tassie inwardly, biting her fingernail. For the sour-faced Emilia had just come in, and she, like Sansom, shot Tassie a look of downright dislike, as if to say, Whatever makes you think you belong in a grand place like this, you slut? Then Emilia bobbed a quick, respectful curtsy to Caro.

  ‘Begging your pardon, ma’am, but there’s a lady to see you. Miss Philippa Fawcett.’

  Caro set off quickly towards the entrance hall, and Sansom had gone off to the kitchen for fresh coffee, so Tassie, all alone in the breakfast parlour, put down the piece of toast she was buttering and turned round slowly in her chair to gaze through the open door. In the hallway she saw Caro talking to a poised young woman in a hooped pink gown and matching fringed silk shawl, with an elaborate straw bonnet perched on her shining curls. Chestnut curls. Yours for ever, Philippa…

  ‘Our carriage is waiting outside, so I cannot stay, dearest Caro, for longer than a few moments,’ the newcomer was saying in a bright, cultured voice. ‘I declare, I never realised that our stay in London would be so very hectic! I feel quite weary at the thought of all the invitations we have received this last week alone…I have called only to return this book that you lent me.’ She held out a slim volume. ‘And to ask—is it true that Marcus Forrester is staying with you?’

  Tassie didn’t miss how Caro seemed to stiffen at the other woman’s question. ‘He is, for a while at least, Philippa. But he went out early this morning, with Hal—for a ride, I think.’

  Philippa looked disappointed. Then she gave a bright little smile. ‘You have probably heard, dear Caro, that Marcus and I have had—a certain—misunderstanding.’

  ‘Really?’ Caro spoke very gently. ‘Marcus does not confide in me, of course.’

  Philippa was toying with the strings of her pink silk reticule. ‘No. But—I did hear some talk, that there may be some prospect of poor Sir Roderick’s fortune being restored after all. Is that true, do you know?’

  ‘I really don’t know, Philippa. Again, it’s none of my business.’

  ‘Will you tell Marcus I was asking after him?’

  Tassie had moved closer to the doorway of the breakfasting parlour. She heard Caro say, in her usual kindly way, ‘Of course I will tell him, as soon as he returns.’

  ‘My thanks…Well, my carriage is waiting.’ Philippa re-arranged her lace-edged shawl, nodded and was turning to go, all pink silk and ruffles, when she caught sight of Tassie in her drab gown. Her nose wrinkled in disdain. ‘Dear Caro, who on earth is that?’

  ‘This is Tassie,’ said Caro quietly. ‘She is a friend—a distant cousin of Marcus’s—who is staying with us for a few days.’

  ‘Really? You should be careful, Caro, one hears such dreadful stories of people being taken in by obscure relatives…’

  Tassie sighed inwardly. Then her spirits picked up. Time for a bit of fun. ‘Pleased to meet you!’ she declared, stepping forward to make a ridiculously exaggerated curtsy. ‘Fresh from the country, I am, miss, only they don’t speak of my side of the family much, seeing as how we was poor folk living off the land, sheep and pigs we had, but at least I know what’s the genuine article and what’s not, and that goes for people as well as porkers…’

  ‘Tassie!’The icy male voice cut like a sword through Tassie’s jaunty banter. ‘That is considerably more than enough!’ It was Marcus, who’d just come in through the front door. Slamming it behind him, he stood there, clearly furious, looking more than usually formidable in his long riding coat and boots, with his dark hair drawn back from his hard-boned features. Tassie’s heart was thumping as he looked from her to Philippa.

  ‘Tassie,’ he went on, ‘apologise this instant.’

  Tassie nodded meekly and turned to face Caro. ‘I’m truly sorry, Miss Caro. That was rude and—rustic of me.’

  ‘I meant apologise to—’ But Marcus, clearly, could see from Tassie’s expression that this was one battle he would win at too great a cost. Better to cut his losses. ‘Philippa,’ he said, giving her a cool bow. ‘This is an unexpected surprise.’

  Philippa shot a look of sheer dislike at Tassie, then turned to Marcus, her face all smiles. ‘Why, Marcus,’ she said, ‘our carriage was just passing, so I thought, having heard you were staying with dear Caro and Hal, that I would call to see how you were.’

  Marcus bowed his
head. ‘I am honoured.’

  ‘And…’ she lowered her voice, glancing again at Tassie ‘…Marcus, do I have to speak in front of this—creature?’

  ‘Pretend I ain’t here, miss,’ suggested Tassie helpfully. ‘Like you’d ignore the riff-raff on the street.’

  ‘Really…‘

  Marcus took Philippa’s arm and guided her a few feet away. ‘What were you going to say, Philippa?’

  Philippa’s voice was rather tight. ‘I—I wanted to tell you, Marcus, that Mama is holding a soirée next Wednesday. Naturally Caro and Hal are invited also. There will be many of your old London friends there…’

  Tassie began to softly hum the tune of a popular street ballad. She couldn’t help but notice that Marcus was not overwhelmed by Philippa’s invitation. ‘I’m really not sure, Philippa,’ he was saying. ‘You see, I’m rather rusty at soirees. And I might already have an engagement.’

  ‘I shall consult with Hal, Philippa; your soiree sounds enjoyable,’ interrupted Caro, stepping forwards swiftly to cover the awkward silence that followed. ‘Pray thank your mama for us!’

  Philippa twitched her pink shawl and looked one last time at Marcus, as if hoping for some reaction from him. When none came, she turned to go rather abruptly, saying, over her shoulder, ‘Please do try to attend, Marcus. I think you might enjoy mingling with the kind of company to which you are accustomed.’ She cast a final cold look at Tassie, who grinned and bobbed a mocking curtsy. Philippa said, ‘Well, really!’ and made for the door with Caro following in her wake to show her out.

  Tassie decided it was rather a good time to make her exit, up the stairs to her room. But Marcus had other ideas entirely. Marching swiftly up behind her, he reached out with one strong hand and pulled her back to face him. In a voice of steel he rasped, ‘Acting the part of a country simpleton was never part of our bargain. Do you understand me, Tassie?’