The Wanton Bride

The incident had been some weeks ago, but Mark had a good memory for faces, and Riley’s appearance was quite striking. He looked to be about Mark’s own age of thirty-two, yet had hair as grey as smoke and a complexion that had been ravaged by the elements to nut brown. Riley also had a misshapen nose that led one to believe he was, or had once been, a pugilist. Notwithstanding those blemishes, he was well built, and an oddly handsome man.

When Mark had witnessed the altercation between Tarquin and Mickey—who was quite obviously of a different social class—he had not been surprised or concerned. Tarquin’s love of gaming brought him into contact with all sorts of people at all sorts of venues. His friend would wager on a street scrap between two bruisers or a race of thoroughbreds at Epsom. Unfortunately, wherever he went, Tarquin had an unholy knack of backing a loser.

Most gentlemen with such an appalling record of luck would find diversion of a different kind. Yet after almost a decade, and a small fortune squandered, Tarquin still followed the philosophy that the next stake would bring it all right.

Mark’s thoughts returned to Mickey Riley. If Tarquin owed him money—perhaps from a bet that night in Spitalfields—Riley didn’t seem the sort of fellow to take the loss lightly. Of course, Tarquin’s debts were not his business…at least, not until he decided to call in the loan he had made him last year, and added to them, Mark wryly reflected.

But the sardonic tilt to his lips was soon gone. Mark’s mood became sombre, for he had an uneasy feeling that Mickey and his female companion had been watching Emily. Or it could have been Sarah Harper they were interested in, but instinct persuaded him it was not.

It seemed absurd to suppose that Riley might accost Emily because her brother owed him money. But it was certainly not unheard of for even well-connected creditors to pursue the relatives of those who tried to renege on a deal. Big and brash as Riley looked, perhaps he was too craven to approach Mr Beaumont senior with his complaints and was stalking his daughter instead.

Mark darted impatient looks about the cloyingly scented shop. Madame Joubert was rustling hither and thither, her arms full of froth, as she tempted Barbara to make her purchases. As he watched the pretty trivia pile on the counter, he wondered whether he was letting his imagination run riot. There was little substance on which to found his suspicions.

He had no proof that Riley and his female companion were doing more than enjoying a leisurely afternoon stroll. If they had been watching Emily and her friend, was it necessarily from sinister motives? Two attractive young ladies, obviously of enviable status, were bound to draw the attention of those less privileged.

It was a reasonable explanation, but ultimately did not quell Mark’s suspicions. He had a sudden urgent desire to quit the modiste’s, immediately track down Tarquin, and demand he tell him what the hell he had lately been up to.

‘Man over there give it to me. He told me to bring it to you.’

Emily looked down at the ragged child who had moments ago yanked rudely on her coat to gain her attention. The boy had then stuck out a grimy hand that clutched a note. Tentatively Emily took the paper and then peered in the direction that the wizened-faced little urchin was pointing. She couldn’t see anybody at all who looked to be the likely sender. People were stepping briskly along the pavements, going about their business with no hint of any interest in her.

She looked enquiringly at the boy, who was wrinkling his freckled nose. He cuffed at his face as he looked up and down the street. ‘He’s gorn,’ he admitted with a shrug. ‘But he was over there and he give me it and then he give me this.’ Dirty fingers were opened to reveal a few coppers. ‘You gonna give me anythin’?’ he boldly asked and peered at Emily with one eye open and one closed against the afternoon sunlight brightening his sallow complexion.

Recovering her senses and her voice, Emily murmured, ‘Oh, of course.’ She fished in her reticule and then tipped a few more coins to chink on those reposing on his blackened palm. His fingers trapped the pennies, then he was haring away as though he feared she might snatch them back.

Emily walked on slowly towards Callison Crescent. She had a few minutes ago left Sarah at her door and had been barely five minutes from her own home when the lad had accosted her. Curiously she inspected the note. It was sealed, but there was no name or direction on it, just the sooty marks left by the child’s fingers. She made to open it, then hesitated. With a little inner smile she wondered if perhaps she had a secret admirer. If so, she ought to, at her leisure, discover his identity. She slipped the parchment into a pocket. It certainly would not have come from the gentleman who openly admired her.

Mr Stephen Bond was not prone to such romantic gestures as employing guttersnipes to deliver her a billet-doux. But he was nice enough, if rather predictable. Emily let out a sigh. Thinking of that gentleman had reminded her that Mr Bond was due to dine with them later and of course he would be exceedingly punctual.

‘I expected you home before this,’ was the peevish greeting that Emily received from her mother as she stepped into the hallway. ‘You have not forgot that we have company?’

‘No, Mama,’ Emily said. ‘I know Mr Bond is coming at seven.’

‘Well…good…let Millie do something pretty with your hair. The curls looks limp.’ Her mother circled her and picked a loose golden tress from the shoulder of her blue velvet coat. ‘Stephen is to bring his grandmamma with him this evening. She is up from Bath and seems eccentric. I was introduced to her at the Revue and couldn’t but invite her when Stephen mentioned he was coming. She had on the ugliest gown I ever did see. It was a shade of purple with fawn stripes. What possessed her to wear a green hat with it?’

Emily gave her mother a wicked smile. ‘If she arrives here in the same ensemble, perhaps we should demand to know.’

Penelope Beaumont chuckled, but her humour soon faded and she frowned at the door. ‘And your father is late home too. It’s nearly a quarter to six.’

‘He said he would call in at Tarquin’s lodgings. That has probably delayed him.’

‘A man was looking for Tarquin.’ Mrs Beaumont volunteered that information with a furrow in her brow. ‘Millie ran an errand for me earlier and she said the fellow stopped her in the street. He must have watched her leaving the house or how would he know of a connection between them? She said he was polite to her despite seeming a bit of a rough sort.’ Mrs Beaumont peered past her daughter as her husband entered the hallway brushing water from his caped shoulders. ‘It’s come on to rain again,’ she gleefully remarked. ‘The Pearsons will have to cancel their firework display.’

‘It is as well then that you were not invited, Mama.’ Emily was aware that her mother and Violet Pearson were continually sniping at one another. They had been at loggerheads since Robert planted a facer on Bertie, the Pearsons’ son, thereby knocking out his two front teeth. The patresfamilias had shrugged and commiserated together about the young scamps. But Penelope Beaumont and Violet Pearson seemed determined to keep the feud alive.

‘No sign of Tarquin, I’m afraid.’ Mr Beaumont had deposited his damp coat on a chair and was wearily approaching the ladies. His tone had changed since that morning. Now Emily detected a distinct hint of anxiety making his voice husky.

‘You went to Westbury Avenue, Papa?’

‘I did, and Tarquin’s landlady was pleased I had stopped off, I can tell you. I had no chance to ask her if she knew where he was. She demanded I disclose to her his direction. She is under the impression he has done a flit and will not be back.’ Mr Beaumont sadly shook his head. ‘Most of his possessions are gone and he owes her two months’ rent. She has not seen hide nor hair of him for almost two weeks.’

‘What are we to do with him?’ Penelope Beaumont flapped her hands in exasperation. ‘When will he settle himself down and act responsibly? I knew he was running away from his debts again.’

Cecil pursed his lips. ‘In my opinion, it’s more than the rent he owes that’s bothering him. Mrs Dale told me a fellow with a broken nose had called at Westbury Avenue looking for him. She said he looked like a cove it would be best not to cross.’

Penelope Beaumont anxiously clasped her husband’s arm. ‘A man with a crooked nose stopped Millie in the street. He was asking about Tarquin. Millie said he seemed quite polite…’ she added desperately.

‘So he will be if he is about to demand his cash,’ Mr Beaumont pointed out with a cynical grunt of a laugh. ‘It’s when he doesn’t get it that he’s likely to turn rude.’

Emily bit at her lip as she swung a glance between her parents’ drawn countenances. Their brief respite from Tarquin’s problems was at an end. He might still be out of sight, but imagining what sort of chaos he had created was tormenting their minds.

‘I can’t understand why he’s not been in touch,’ Mr Beaumont said. ‘If he needs money, I’m usually his first port of call. I wonder if he’s approached one of his friends to bail him out? I warned him last time that I’d do it no more. Mayhap he took me at my word.’

‘I saw Mark Hunter when out,’ Emily quickly volunteered that information. ‘He also had called in at Westbury Avenue to look for Tarquin.’ She immediately allayed her parents’ fears as to why he would be seeking their son. ‘It was not for payment of a debt, Mr Hunter assured me of that. He has not seen Tarquin recently either, but he kindly said he will make enquiries and let us know if he discovers anything.’

Cecil Beaumont nodded slowly. ‘Mark is a good chap; if he says he will put himself out to do that, then I expect he will.’ Cecil scraped lank greying locks off his freckled forehead. ‘I suppose I ought open the post in case the bad news is come in a letter from Tarquin. Usually he just turns up and I can read it in his face.’

Emily’s father trudged towards his study; her mother hurried away to check on their dinner. Before Penelope disappeared towards the kitchens, she called back to her daughter, ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, make yourself presentable, Emily. Look at the time! The Bonds will be with us in less than an hour.’

As the baize door closed behind her agitated mother, Emily slowly slid her hand into her pocket. She withdrew the parchment and felt a chill settle about her heart. Secret admirer, indeed! she mocked herself.

She suddenly had a very strong suspicion as to who had sent her letter. The manner in which it had been delivered obviously indicated that her brother did not want her parents to know of its existence, or its content. But why had he not shown himself to her? Why had he sent the boy to deliver it? If he was too wary to approach her in the street, even for a few moments, then Emily realised he must be in bad trouble indeed. The paper was dropped back into her pocket and quickly Emily headed for the stairs and the privacy of her chamber.

‘You are a pretty gel, but undoubtedly past your prime.’

Emily heard that ambiguous tribute as she was sipping her wine. She swallowed quickly, for an urge to giggle had caused her to almost choke. She coughed delicately while composing herself, then smiled at Mrs Augusta Bond. She deposited her glass back on the table.

‘Emily is not yet five and twenty,’ Mrs Beaumont stiffly interjected. ‘Hardly in her dotage, I think.’

Augusta Bond raised her lorgnette and divided her myopic gaze between mother and daughter. ‘Her chances of getting a husband are not so good as the younger gels out this year. Her looks come from her father’s side,’ the grande dame opined, then affected not to see the icy stare that comment elicited from her hostess. Augusta let her glasses fall against her ample bosom and resumed attacking her beef with her knife and fork.

Emily sensed the old harridan’s grandson was looking her way. She knew Stephen would want to wordlessly convey his chagrin at his grandmother’s shockingly blunt manner. Emily took pity on him and gave him a subtle smile. Immediately he returned her an apologetic grimace that caused his thick brows to disappear beneath his fringe of blonde curls.

‘Miss Beaumont has an exceedingly fine singing voice,’ Stephen nervously told his grandmother. When that praise failed to wring a compliment from the old lady, he added, ‘And I’ve not encountered any young lady who can play the pianoforte so well, and without a piece of music to follow.’

‘That don’t mean she’ll make a good wife,’ Mrs Bond hissed at her grandson in an audible aside.

Emily quickly snatched up her glass and downed an unladylike quantity of wine in one gulp. Oddly she felt an urge to endorse Mrs Bond’s advice to her grandson. Stephen Bond was a nice gentleman but, unless there was no option but to do it, she would not marry him. He deserved to be loved, not tolerated.

Emily’s silver eyes, brimful of laughter, lifted to Stephen’s embarrassed countenance, then darted to her mother’s face. Penelope Beaumont’s expression was a study of furious indignation.

Had Emily been in lighter spirits, she would have more fully appreciated the unexpected entertainment that had arrived punctually at seven o’clock in the stout shape of Mrs Augusta Bond. She might even have entered into the spirit of the game and given the mischievous old biddy a run for her money. But her eyes were drawn to where her papa sat quietly at the head of the table. He seemed to have withdrawn to a world of his own. Even his wife’s frequent glares could not budge him from it.

Emily could guess what was preoccupying her poor papa. He was trying to fathom into what sort of trouble his eldest son had now plunged. Before dinner Emily had thought she would by now have an answer to that conundrum. But the letter she had received was not after all from her brother. However, it did concern him, and Emily was still pondering on the peculiar message she had received, and why it had come to her at all.

When Tarquin’s creditors gathered, if they could not find him, they usually sought to inveigle her father into paying. But this time she had received the begging letter, albeit couched in covert terms.

A person who remained anonymous had issued her an invitation to meet them tomorrow by the pawnbrokers’ shop in Whiting Street in order that she might learn something important concerning her brother. It also stated that she must keep the matter to herself to avoid a scandal.

Emily had marvelled at the audacity of the fellow. She had quickly concluded that the author must be one of Tarquin’s creditors who hoped to coerce her to honour her brother’s debt. She had also deduced that the likely culprit was the ruffian with the broken nose, who had been loitering about, because the message was poorly written.

Emily was not so naïve to believe that her brother gambled solely in the gentlemen’s clubs with his peers, but the idea that he was consorting with a man sporting a broken nose and a lack of grammar was indeed disheartening. Nevertheless, she would keep the appointment, and she would keep it to herself. She glanced again at her father as he absently pushed food about on his plate. He was approaching his sixty-fifth birthday and had for too long been encumbered with Tarquin’s problems. Emily had no intention of taking on the yoke and would make that abundantly clear to Tarquin as soon as she again got within earshot of the selfish wretch.

‘Have you ever received a marriage proposal, Miss Beaumont?’

Emily focussed on the present and saw that Augusta Bond had her bright beady eyes on her.

‘Has any man asked you to marry him?’ the old lady insisted on knowing.

Emily glanced at her mother’s hideously shocked expression. Stephen had ceased chewing in alarm and had one cheek bloated with food. Emily compressed her lips to suppress the giggle throbbing in her throat. She took a deep breath before replying calmly, ‘Indeed I have, Mrs Bond. I was engaged when I was twenty.’

‘Cry off, did he?’

‘Umm…no. I think I did, actually,’ Emily said and placed her napkin down on her plate.

‘Emily was betrothed to Viscount Devlin.’ Mrs Beaumont issued that information in a glacial tone.

The old lady raised her lorgnette and peered at Emily with a glimmer of respect. ‘Managed to hook a title, did you? No chance of getting him back now he’s married to the Corbett chit. I hear she’s already increasing.’

‘I’ll see if the next course is ready,’ Penelope enunciated frigidly and surged up majestically from the table.

Emily glanced at her father to see he was now very aware of the tension in the room. He was looking in concern at her as though fearing she was upset. She reassured him with a smile before sending a challenging look at Augusta.

The old lady’s eyes narrowed behind the glass, but Emily had the oddest impression that, before she let fall her lorgnette, Augusta winked at her.

Chapter Three

‘That woman is the rudest person I ever did meet!’

Emily had barely managed to put a foot over the threshold of the morning room when that exclamation assaulted her ears. She had hoped that a good night’s sleep might dilute her mother’s ire, but it seemed as strong as ever.

When their guests had left at ten of the clock last evening, Mrs Beaumont had needed several draughts of sherry and the ministrations of both her husband and daughter to calm her enough to get her to bed.

‘And her grandson is so…pleasant, so…inoffensive,’ Mrs Beaumont emphasised with a quivering finger. ‘Do you think it is her age? She looks to have reached her three score years and ten. Perhaps she is becoming a little confused.’

‘I think she knows exactly what she is about,’ Emily said with a light chuckle. ‘I imagine Mrs Bond likes to be shocking.’

Penelope Beaumont clucked disgust at that. She pushed the jam pot towards her daughter as Emily sat down opposite her at the breakfast table.

Emily commenced spreading blackberries on to her toast, saying, ‘Mrs Bond might be getting on in years, but she seemed to me to be in robust health and, in an odd way, I quite liked her.’

When Penelope heard that, her chin sagged towards her bosom.

‘Oh, come, Mama, you must admit Augusta has a certain lively spirit, and she plays a mean hand of piquet. Papa lost a crown to her.’

Penelope snapped together her lips. ‘And that compensates for her insults? How dare she speak so! You are a beauty in your prime.’

‘She said nothing that was not true.’ Emily took a fond glance at her mother from under long brunette lashes. Penelope had long harboured hopes that a knight in shining armour would carry her only daughter off to his Mayfair mansion and a life of untold luxury. Emily’s eyes shaded wistfully. The knave had tarried too long. Her mother was on the point of urging Emily to settle for Mr Bond and a villa in Putney. Emily pushed away her plate and wiped crumbs from her slender fingers. ‘You know I’m too old to successfully compete with the débutantes for a husband. And I do actually take after Papa’s side of the family. The miniature of Grandmama Beaumont could be my likeness.’

‘And what about Augusta’s appalling insensitive remarks about your aborted betrothal?’

‘She did not know of it, Mama, I’m sure. She simply asked if I had received any marriage proposals.’

‘I’ll wager she did know of it and was out to be provocative,’ Penelope snorted in muted outrage. ‘Dreadful woman! You might have again burst into tears over it all.’

‘I have not burst into tears over it all for a long while,’ Emily said softly. ‘And I promise I will never do so again. As for Augusta, I think she genuinely knew nothing about it. She lives in the country and the scandal was not so great.’ She paused before reciting, ‘When Tarquin Beaumont gave Viscount Devlin a beating, thereby ruining his sister’s chance of happiness with the Viscount, I imagine it got scant mention in Bath drawing rooms. The gossip in London lasted barely a week, thank heavens.’

‘It was only so soon forgot because that hussy Olivia Davidson ran off with her sister’s husband and set all the cats’ tongues wagging.’

‘And how grateful I was for poor Miss Davidson’s disgrace,’ Emily reminisced wryly. ‘I still feel a little guilty when I see Olivia’s sour face,’ she added.

‘It’s her own fault she’s ostracised by everyone, including her own kin. Silly fool should have known he’d slink home with his tail between his legs and it would all end in tears.’ Penelope flapped a hand. ‘Oh, enough about them! We were talking of your fiasco. I still say you acted too proud and too hasty, Emily. You should have married the Viscount, you know.’

‘Indeed?’ Emily gave a sour little laugh. ‘Nicholas had made it clear by then he regretted an association with our family. I had no intention of binding him to his word and having a husband who might grow to despise me.’

Penelope waved that away, but her further arguments were immediately interrupted.

‘We have been through this before and I refuse to rake it all over again. It is done with.’ The grit in Emily’s tone was at odds with the easy smile she gave her mother. Gracefully she rose from the dining table and went to the window. ‘I am going out early today. Madame Joubert has some fine new silk…’

‘I’ll come too. I need some buttons—’

‘No.’ Emily realised she had declined the offer of her mother’s company far too abruptly. Penelope looked rather taken aback, so she hastened to say, ‘I was going to find something nice for your birthday. It won’t be a surprise if you come too.’

Penelope flushed in pleasure and murmured, ‘Oh, I see…’

Emily felt a little guilty at the excuse, though she had not told a lie. She would call in to the modiste’s on Regent Street and would find her mama something special for her birthday. Nevertheless, her real reason for going early abroad this morning was to keep her rendezvous on Whiting Street with the person who had sent the note. And she had certainly no intention of letting her mother in on that.

Penelope Beaumont could become disproportionately agitated over a trifling upset. If a storm was about to break over Tarquin’s debts, it would be prudent to shield her from the worst of it for as long as possible.

‘Mr Bond is here, ma’am.’ Millie had slipped into the room to announce they had a visitor.

Penelope frowned—it was hardly yet the hour to be receiving callers. She gave her daughter a quizzical look.

‘I expect he has come to apologise for his grandmother’s blunt manner.’ Emily gestured that she had no objection to seeing him.

‘We will receive him in the parlour, Millie,’ Penelope told the young maidservant.

Once in the parlour, and in the company of their diffident guest, Mrs Beaumont proceeded to pour tea while Emily and Mr Bond made polite observations on the vagaries of spring weather. Stephen was handed his cup and saucer and accepted the invitation to sit down whereupon, without preamble, he set about doing his duty.

‘I must apologise for calling on you so early but I wasn’t sure…that is to say…’ His eyes darted between the two ladies as though searching for assistance. He cleared his throat and blurted, ‘I wanted to again thank you for such fine hospitality yesterday and to make sure that you had not…been perturbed by my grandmother’s blunt manner.’

Stephen glanced at Penelope Beaumont. Something in her expression caused him to quickly add, ‘My grandmother does not intend to upset people, but she can be rather too outspoken.’ He took a gulp from his tea, then clattered the cup down to rest.

‘Does she not understand that being too outspoken is likely to upset people?’ Penelope asked stiffly.

Stephen coloured and coughed. ‘I don’t think she does, ma’am. But if you thought any of her remarks offensive I will, of course, unreservedly apologise on her behalf.’

Emily put her tea down on a side table and kindly said, ‘I thought your grandmama was quite a character. I enjoyed meeting her.’ Emily’s smile turned wry as Stephen looked most surprised to hear that. ‘If Mrs Bond is not soon returning to Bath, you must introduce her to Mrs Pearson.’ Emily sent her mother a twinkling look. ‘Do you not think, Mama, that Violet Pearson might benefit from an acquaintance with Stephen’s grandmother?’