Regency Mistresses: A Practical Mistress\The Wanton Bride (23 page)

‘Mark must have thought it odd for you to be alone in such an area. Did you tell him you had received a note and had gone there to try to discover Tarquin’s whereabouts?’

Emily shook her head. ‘I wanted first to find out what the fellow was up to. It would not be the first time Tarquin has created a scandal that we must all try to keep secret.’

‘Mark is a trustworthy fellow, you know,’ Helen said softly.

Emily put up her chin. There was one thing on which she and Helen tended to be at odds: the worthiness of Mark Hunter. ‘He has been horrid to Tarquin in the past.’

‘I know you think so … but … oh, let’s not debate it now,’ Helen said quietly.

Emily’s lips twitched in conciliation. ‘I would rather you did not tell anyone what we have discussed this morning.’

Helen dipped her head. ‘And I will not,’ she said huskily. ‘Your secrets, as ever, are safe with me. Just as I know mine are with you.’

The two young women exchanged an empathetic smile.

‘Brothers!’

‘Indeed,’ Helen agreed ruefully, for she was no stranger to the selfish behaviour of an older brother. She lifted the teapot, then replaced it. ‘I think we need something a little stronger,’ she announced and went off to fetch a decanter and two crystal glasses.

Half an hour later, and fortified by a measure of sherry, Emily stepped again into the sunshine in Grosvenor Square. As she walked with the glow of the sun on her head and the sherry a warm coat on her insides, her thoughts again turned to the men troubling her peace of mind. She knew Tarquin ought to dominate her musings, but her memory kept returning to Nicholas Devlin’s declaration that he missed her; strangely, she also found herself thinking of the look in Mark Hunter’s eyes when they had been pressed close together in the corridor.

With an impatient sigh she increased her pace. The only person who had been likely to shed some light on Tarquin’s circumstances was the fellow she’d gone to meet. And how on earth was she to find the rogue now?

She was close to home when she glanced up,
frowning, and through the shimmering atmosphere saw a man coming straight towards her. The fellow was darting furtive looks to the right and left, displaying a crooked nose in profile. Suddenly he darted into an alley between two houses and urgently beckoned to her.

‘W
ot luck bumping into you, miss.’ Mickey’s gruff greeting was accompanied by the doffing of his hat. In fact he had been, for some while, loitering about the streets close to Emily’s home in the hope of having an opportunity to waylay her.

‘What do you have to tell me about my brother?’ Emily had briskly recovered from her astonishment at being brought face to face with the ruffian. ‘Be assured that you will not collect any winnings from me. I never settle my brother’s gambling debts.’ She adopted a prim look to impress on him that she was not to be fobbed off with any fantastic yarns designed to make her part with cash. She doubted she would get the whole truth, but was optimistic she might glean a few clues as to what was going on.

Mickey’s blue eyes slipped a look left and right and over her shoulder as though to ensure they were private enough. He refused to be rushed into disclosing too much too soon. While he considered tactics he muttered, ‘Be more private up there.’ He walked away then, with a wag of his head, urging Emily to follow him.

After a moment’s hesitation Emily did. It was a narrow gap between the buildings, but an area that was still visible from the main street.

‘Ain’t about gaming, so don’t fret on that. I sent a boy to deliver you a note,’ Mickey said as they came to a halt in the alley.

‘Yes, I realise it came from you,’ Emily retorted sharply. ‘I came to Whiting Street and caught sight of you. Why did you leave so suddenly?’ She studied his swarthy features. She guessed he was not much older than Tarquin, yet his hair was quite grey and his weatherbeaten skin deeply lined. At close quarters he had an oddly striking, confident appearance. She guessed many people knew him, but she had no idea who he was. ‘What is your name and why have you bothered me?’

That enquiry earned her just a crafty squint.

‘I put myself to some trouble to meet you in the
City,’ Emily pointed out impatiently. ‘I hope you are not again wasting my time.’

‘I saw Devlin talking to you. I didn’t fancy getting tangled with him.’

‘You are acquainted with the Viscount?’ Emily asked, astonished. She might have thought this fellow of some renown, but had not imagined he might boast an association with a peer of the realm.

Mickey scolded himself for having let that slip. He was canny enough to appreciate that one of his rich and influential clients would not want to acknowledge that he existed.

‘’Course we ain’t acquainted,’ Mickey scoffed. ‘Just know of him, that’s all. And I ain’t wasting yer time. Wot I’m about is trying to do you all a favour in case things turn real bad.’

‘Has my brother been hurt?’ Emily demanded in a whisper. Her mind raced back some years to the time Tarquin had settled a debt at dawn on Wimbledon Common. ‘He has duelled before and taken a blade in the shoulder.’

Mickey looked rather startled at knowing that. ‘Didn’t take him for a fighting fellow.’ He shifted his weight. ‘Last time I clapped eyes on him he looked right as rain,’ he added.

Emily felt a release of tension at knowing it.

‘’Course if you don’t value yer family’s reputation, then it’s me as is wasting time. I’ll be getting off.’ Mickey made no move to go and continued slyly peering at Emily from beneath wiry brows.

‘Value my family’s reputation?’
Emily echoed. A ball of lead had settled in her stomach. She had always suspected that eventually something unpleasant would be revealed.

‘If you know where Tarquin is you’d be best off telling me,’ Mickey urged. ‘Then I can warn him ’cos it’s sure to leak out if he don’t pay up.’

Emily was taken aback as much by the news as by the familiar address he used. Tarquin would surely not class this fellow a friend. ‘I do not know where my brother is presently,’ Emily said coolly. ‘The only reason I came to meet you yesterday was to discover his whereabouts from you.’ Disappointment sent a surge of water to her eyes. Angrily Emily dashed it away unwilling to let the rogue see her distress. ‘What might leak out? You said this was not about money.’

‘Didn’t say it weren’t about money … said it weren’t about gaming.’ Mickey Riley’s expression had hardened and his voice was little more than a sibilant hiss.

His change in attitude made Emily warily put
distance between them. ‘Quickly explain, for I have tarried here with you long enough.’

Mickey shifted sideways to prevent her slipping past him on the path. With a sinister calm he said, ‘If you know where he is you’d best let on or I’ll have to come knockin’ on yer father’s door. Poor lass has got nowhere to go, y’see …’ Suddenly he interrupted himself with a low curse and shot a frown over Emily’s shoulder. With almost comic clumsiness he backed away a yard or two in a few seconds. ‘Best finish this another time,’ he muttered, then set off briskly up the alley.

Emily spun about to see what had made the fellow abruptly turn tail. She immediately recognised the imposing dark-haired gentleman who was standing by a smart landau. At their ease, and seated in the landau, were her friend, Helen, and her husband, Sir Jason Hunter. The couple were carrying on a laughing conversation with Mark Hunter, who had splayed a hand idly on the glossy coachwork.

Mark was no longer chatting to his brother and sister-in-law, although his smiling expression remained unchanged, and the couple were in no way alerted to the fact that his attention was actually at a distance.

Abruptly Mark gave the landau a final tap and stepped away from it. Emily watched Helen wave at him as the vehicle moved smoothly away heading west.

She had no doubt that Mark had watched her talking to the ruffian, and seen the fellow slope away. She had no doubt too that Mark was about to approach her and ask some awkward questions. He stood sentinel at the mouth of the narrow alley for a moment, trapping her, before strolling very purposefully towards her.

‘Miss Beaumont …’

‘Mr Hunter …’

The hint of challenge in her tone pulled his mouth wryly aslant.

‘Were you again tolerating the company of your troublesome fellow?’

Emily knew immediately to whom he referred, although, of course, Mark was still unaware that Viscount Devlin was the man who had forced her to seek sanctuary in Mr Wilson’s office. ‘Umm … no … it was not him I was avoiding on Whiting Street.’

‘Ah,’ Mark said. ‘I thought perhaps it might not be him. Of the two of you Riley seemed the more eager to get away just now.’

‘Riley?’ Emily echoed, testing the name. ‘You
know
him?’ She unconsciously stepped close to Mark to hurry his reply.

‘I take it that he did not introduce himself. He must improve his manners.’

Emily coloured faintly at his ironic tone.

‘His name is Mickey Riley and I am intrigued to know why you were talking to him.’

While awaiting her answer, and expecting it in any case to be evasive, Mark pondered on the time Mickey Riley and his lady friend had seemed to be watching Emily outside the
modiste’s
shop. He had wondered then if Riley would have the audacity to approach Emily over an unpaid debt of Tarquin’s. In his wisdom, he had deduced that Tarquin owed money to Riley over that cockfight. Now his suspicions were straying elsewhere.

He had heard that Mickey Riley procured for a slightly better class of petticoat than the usual drabs who congregated about Covent Garden. Mark, having learned from his brother that Tarquin had last been spotted with a comely harlot in that area, thought it likely that Riley was chasing Tarquin’s payment for another vice. In fact, Mark was fearful Mickey Riley was bothering Emily in his role as pimp, not bookie. Tarquin might be ignorant of the fact that his sister was being dragged
into his sordid world, but nevertheless it seemed to be the case.

‘Why were you talking to him?’ Mark’s voice was harsh with suppressed anger. Had Tarquin been within reach he would have throttled him. ‘Was Riley asking you for money?’

Emily immediately bridled at such a curt interrogation. ‘I do not see, sir, that our private conversation is any of your business.’ She tipped her blonde head to a confident angle and made to pass him, but a hand shot to the redbrick wall, blocking her path.

‘Tell me what he wanted.’

Emily curled five fingers over the solid arm beneath his sleeve. The muscle tightened very little in response to her fierce attempt to move him. Unwilling to participate longer in an undignified tussle, she snatched back her hand and stepped away from him. ‘I repeat, sir, that my conversation with Mr Riley is none of your business. And your arrogance in demanding to know of it is breathtaking.’

‘Your naïveté is breathtaking, Miss Beaumont, if you expect to deal with Riley alone. Besides, you made all of this my business when you solicited my help in finding Tarquin. A moment ago you did not even know Mickey Riley’s name. I would hazard a
guess you certainly know nothing about his character or what he does.’

Emily slanted him a mutinous look. Reluctantly she allowed that what he had said was correct. Mark obviously knew that a link existed between Riley and Tarquin and to deny it would be pointless. She had to admit, too, that Tarquin’s lengthy absence was becoming a sinister mystery and she felt unequal to solving it alone. She had thus far been allowing her natural antipathy towards Mark to get the better of her. His arrogance needled her, and she certainly did not trust him, but he was rich and powerful and he was Tarquin’s friend. She needed just such a gentleman’s support for she was sure that Riley would soon return. Without money or physical strength to oil his tongue, she would get nothing from him but more riddles and garbled threats.

She could reveal all to her father, but she was quite sure now that no mild explanation was to be had for her brother’s disappearance. When they had been dining with Stephen and his grandmother earlier in the week, her father’s melancholy had concerned her. His strained features haunted her mind again now. He was worried for both his sons, not just his firstborn. Emily understood why her parents had encouraged Tarquin to move out of the family home
and into his own apartment. They wanted to put distance between Robert and his older brother’s excesses in case Robert might follow the example of the brother he idolised.

Conscious she had been some minutes lost in introspection, Emily shot a glance up at Mark. She forged a small smile; it elicited a cynical look.

Mark was not for a moment fooled by
her faux
cordiality and a grimace of impatience impressed on her that he still required an answer to his question.

In a snap she explained, ‘Mr Riley sent me a message to meet him in Whiting Street. The note hinted I would get news of Tarquin.’ A terse hand flick ridiculed the likelihood. ‘It transpires he doesn’t know where my brother is. In fact, he expects
me
to disclose to
him
Tarquin’s whereabouts.’ A glance from beneath her lashes revealed Mark’s expression to be unyieldingly stern. ‘A moment ago I told Riley I don’t know where my brother is, but I’m not sure he believes me.’

‘Did you not tell him all that yesterday?’

Emily shook her head. ‘I didn’t manage to speak to him because …’ She hesitated and frowned.

‘Because a troublesome fellow scared him off.’

‘Yes,’ Emily muttered.

‘And who was that?’ Mark drawled, but his easy tone held an edge of steel.

Emily turned her head, ignoring his probing. ‘I have bowed to your bullying and explained about my conversation with Mickey Riley. Please do not annoy me by being too impertinent.’

Emily watched as he leisurely strolled closer. He halted inches away, so close that his broad shoulders completely blocked her view of the road. Slowly he withdrew a hand from where it was lodged in his pocket. Long lean fingers trapped her chin, turned her to look at him.

‘I am trying very hard, Miss Beaumont, not to wash my hands of all of this and leave you to your own devices.’

Emily gazed up into eyes of peacock blue and felt her stomach lurch at the threat she read there. Again she bit back defiant words and impressed on herself that this man would have better luck than would she in unearthing Tarquin. His ruggedly handsome face was very close to hers; she blinked as she noticed his long lashes drooping lazily to conceal that he was watching her mouth.

‘But you will not abandon me, will you, sir?’ The challenge was issued in a voice of silky insolence, and immediately Emily regretted what she had done.

‘Will I not?’ Mark asked with specious softness. ‘And what makes you so sure of that?’

Emily attempted to jerk her face free, but his grip tightened just enough to keep her still.

Very well, if he wanted to know, she would tell him that she knew no noble reason existed for his unexpected helpfulness! But several silent moments later Emily was still finding it difficult to reveal her conceit and accuse him of lusting after her. The more she tried to concentrate on whipping up righteous indignation, and the courage to slander him, the more intensely conscious she was of his touch scorching her jaw.

‘Why will I not abandon you?’ Mark demanded with veiled amusement. He propped an elbow on the wall and leaned closer. After a moment he felt a surge of tenderness soften his mockery, for her embarrassment was causing her complexion to glow rosily. ‘Come, say it. I promise I won’t object if you tell me that I’m a fool too susceptible to your beauty and too tolerant of your acid tongue. It’s the truth after all.’ His fingers extended, caressing a fiery cheek before he abruptly dropped the hand to his side. But he didn’t move away and mere inches separated their bodies.

Emily snatched a peek at eyes blackened with desire.
Don’t annoy him, you need his assistance,
was the thought racing in her mind. But despite his undeniable
usefulness, what really kept her so still and quiet was a longing to again have his cool fingers curving soothingly on her hot cheek. She craved to know how it would feel to have Mark Hunter kiss her.

The yearning was undeniable and, of its own volition, her body seemed to sway forward, her face tilt to tempt a mouth that looked firm and warm …

Mark dipped his head the few inches required to skim together their lips. When she didn’t immediately skitter away from that gentle salute, he took immediate advantage. His palms slid to cradle her jaw’s sharp fragility and keep her close.