The Wanton Bride

Finally that morning Emily had drawn a twitch of amusement from her mother.

‘Do take another cup, Mr Bond,’ Penelope urged amiably and advanced with the pot.

Emily checked the wall clock and stood up. She needed to be on her way if she was to keep her appointment. ‘I’m going out shopping, but do stay and finish tea,’ she added as Stephen leaped to his feet.

‘I’ll gladly give you a ride,’ Stephen volunteered eagerly, raking his fingers through his springy blond curls. ‘Actually I ought to be getting along too. I have an appointment in Holborn.’

‘I accept your kind offer, in that case,’ Emily said.

Despite his noticeably wonky nose, it was not the fellow’s looks that drew Emily’s attention, but his manner. He had the demeanour of a person oblivious to the fact that he was under observation. Back and forth he strutted beneath the brass balls of the pawnbroker’s shop, every so often peering at the passing carts with obvious disappointment. Then, a few yards away, a hackney cab pulled up at the kerb. That sent the fellow darting into the shop doorway, only to reappear a moment later when a stout gentleman alighted from the vehicle and purposefully bowled off up the street.

Emily guessed he had been expecting to catch sight of her before she noticed him. Doubtless he imagined she would arrive at the pawnbroker’s in a vehicle rather than on foot. But Emily had not wanted to be quizzed by Stephen over why she was to be set down in an area so lacking fashionable shops. Instead, she had asked him to deliver her to a salubrious part of town that was within easy striking distance of Whiting Street. Having first declined Stephen’s offer to meet her later to take her home, she had then watched his rig turn the corner before briskly walking east.

It was a fine spring morning, but chilly gusts of wind made her keep her cloak pulled tight about her. She again sent a discreet look across Whiting Street at the fellow she was sure had sent her the note.

Although his burly figure didn’t intimidate her, she did feel nervous. This was an area generally populated by gentlemen. They came to these premises to meet their men of business and pore over contracts and unintelligible papers. A lone female loitering about was likely to incite curiosity. Emily knew that her own papa often had assignments on this street with his attorney. Fervently she prayed that he had not arranged a meeting with Mr Pritchard today.

‘Emily? Emily Beaumont?’

That cultured voice, once so well known to her, made Emily freeze, then pivot slowly about.

Viscount Devlin had been about to get into a crested carriage, but now he hesitated and sauntered, with much use of his ebony cane, along the pavement towards her.

Emily had wondered how she would feel if ever she and this man were to meet, alone. Of course, since the end of their betrothal many years ago, they had met socially. But that had been in polite company when they both were mindful of etiquette and speculative stares.

Notwithstanding the fact that Emily knew the love of her life was now a husband and prospective father—for she had heard that his wife was increasing before Augusta mentioned it—she wondered if the Viscount’s roguish charm would still impress her. The closer he came, the more she feared the potency of his attraction. He was still youthfully good looking and could have passed for a man half a decade younger than his thirty-one years. His fair hair was artfully dishevelled and his hazel eyes warm as they settled on her face.

‘Are you waiting for your father?’ he asked, surprise leavening his tone, as he took a glance along the street. Emily imagined he expected to spy Mr Beaumont emerging from a nearby portal.

‘No…I’m not,’ Emily answered too quickly and truthfully. She sought for an excuse for her odd presence on Whiting Street. But she need not have worried over any further interrogation from the Viscount—he now seemed distracted by her small tongue as it trailed moisture over her full pink lips.

Emily felt her heart begin to race beneath his languid appraisal. The heat smouldering in his eyes brought instantly to mind images of things they had done together that she thought she had buried deep in her past. A burst of knowledge brought with it a guilty exhilaration: Viscount Devlin still desired her.

‘When was it that last we met?’ the Viscount asked huskily, his tawny eyes moving to her body. ‘It must have been a year ago. I swear that every time I see you, Emily, you have grown more lovely.’

Emily sensed her heart increase tempo, but flashed him a cool look from silver eyes. ‘And I swear, sir, that I think you must be still recovering from a night of roistering to say such a thing to me.’

‘Can I not compliment you?’ he asked gravely. ‘Why are you so prickly, Emily? Has the hurt not yet healed?’

Emily blinked. Part of her wanted to laugh scornfully at his terribly inappropriate remarks, but there was also a shameful part of her that would rather listen to more of his flattery. Mentally she shook herself and took a step away. He might tell her she was lovely, and look at her as though he wanted to kiss her, but her memory was not so short. A few years ago, after Tarquin had thrashed him, there had been nothing but disgust and anger in his eyes when he saw any Beaumont, including her.

‘What you are referring to belongs to the past, sir,’ she said stiltedly, ‘and there is certainly nothing more to be said about it.’ She bobbed and made to whip past him, but a hand shot out, arresting her.

‘Don’t fly away, Emily,’ he softly pleaded. ‘I have long thought that there is more to be said. I have wanted to see you alone; have hoped we might meet by chance like this. I think of you often. I think of what might have been…’

Emily twisted her wrist from his restraint and took two crisp backward steps. She darted a look here and there to see if they were under observation and was annoyed to notice that they were. The bruiser who had summoned her to this dratted neighbourhood in the first place had now spotted her! Emily frowned and sighed softly. The situation had become farcical. She was not now likely to discover Tarquin’s whereabouts.

‘Do you know him?’ Viscount Devlin asked.

‘Who?’ Emily blurted and her eyes darted quickly to the Viscount’s face.

‘The fellow across the road who appears to be staring at you.’

Emily spontaneously shook her head. It was not a lie; she did not yet know him, but she was certain she had been within a few minutes of remedying that when Nicholas Devlin had turned up. In a way it was fortunate that the Viscount had come along when he did. A moment or two later and doubtless he would have seen her talking to the fellow and that would certainly have given rise to awkward questions.

Emily was aware that her brother and her erstwhile betrothed still shunned one another. Whereas Nicholas might show her a little sympathy and kindness, Tarquin would receive no such consideration. If her brother was again in bad trouble, she was certain that Nicholas would revel in knowing it.

Viscount Devlin shot a thoughtful look at Mickey Riley, for he knew the identity of the fellow, and how he made a living. In the past he had made use of his services for he had under his wing some extraordinarily pretty young women. Nicholas also knew that where Riley went, trouble usually followed. But he didn’t fear him; in fact, he knew that Riley was cunning enough to keep a respectful distance between himself and his superiors. A smile twitched Nicholas’s lips as he noticed that his steady regard was making Riley nervous. A moment later the man swaggered off along the street.

Emily watched the fellow departing too, realising quite miserably that her efforts to get here on time had been squandered. Her rendezvous was to come to nothing. She also realised, with a start of alarm, that Nicholas’s expression had turned shrewd. She guessed that he was about to interrogate her properly as to her reasons for being here, unaccompanied, on Whiting Street.

Quickly Emily shifted her gaze to an imposing pillared doorway some yards to her right. She could just decipher what was written on a bright brass plaque: Woodgate and Wilson, Attorneys at Law. The door was ajar and a sombre hallway could be spotted within.

‘I must be going or I shall be late for my appointment.’ She gave Nicholas a brief nod.

‘You have a meeting to keep?’

‘Yes…with Mr Woodgate. It is a private matter. Good day to you, sir.’

Emily turned and, with her skirts clutched in her quivering fists, confidently went up the steps and through the door that led, she imagined, to the offices of Mr Woodgate and Mr Wilson. What she would say to either of those gentlemen when they begged leave to know why she was trespassing, she had yet to decide. But at least she had put some distance between herself and the very disturbing presence of Viscount Devlin.

Nicholas watched Emily disappear, a smile thinning his lips. Mickey Riley had been interested in Emily Beaumont and she had been aware of him, Nicholas was sure of it. In addition, Emily had been lying about having an appointment with Mr Woodgate. The practice dealt almost exclusively in marine law and insurance; besides, unless the lawyer had been disinterred for the occasion, she would not find Woodgate within that building. The man had been dead for some few months now. With a look of intense concentration drawing together his brows, the Viscount strolled back to his carriage and got in.

Sinking back into the hide squabs, he wondered what the devil was going on and decided his curiosity had been roused enough for him to make some investigations and try to find out.

Emily crept the musty corridor and ducked back from a doorway on glimpsing a young clerk scribbling in a ledger. His bony profile was just visible behind a pile of papers balanced on the edge of a desk. He must have caught her shadow, for he peered sideways into the corridor before resuming writing.

Emily loitered quietly in the hallway, her mind working furiously. If she were challenged, she would simply say that she had got lost and entered the wrong building. She would only need to tarry a short while for, once the Viscount had gone, she would make her escape. Inwardly she cursed. She had learned nothing today other than that the fellow with the broken nose, who had been loitering outside their house and making enquiries about Tarquin, was the sender of the note. He obviously had not liked being under scrutiny and had scampered off when it became clear that she and the Viscount had spotted him. Emily paced back and forth, wondering if she might manage to apprehend him and discover what on earth was going on. She silently went towards the door. If the coast were clear, she would try to catch up with the rogue.

‘Miss Beaumont…what are you doing?’

Chapter Four

‘I’m avoiding someone, sir.’

Despite the bizarre situation in which she found herself, Emily had spoken with admirably firm clarity. The only hint of her discomposure was in her unblinking, wide-eyed stare that clung to Mark Hunter’s saturnine features.

He propped a negligent elbow on the wall as though prepared to wait for her to enlighten him further.

Emily slipped into a momentary daze that locked further explanation in her throat. His expression betrayed that he imagined she was stubbornly reticent, not tongue-tied. Obliquely she realised he must have emerged from one of the corridors that led off the main hallway. Mark Hunter obviously was a bona fide client of Messrs Woodgate and Wilson and had every right to be here to conduct his business.

‘Avoiding someone?’ Mark prompted easily, as though the incongruity of conversing with her in a musty office in the City rather than in an elegant drawing room in Mayfair had not occurred to him.

‘Yes,’ Emily breathed. ‘The door was open and I just quickly darted in as I didn’t want to speak to him any more.’

‘If he’s making a nuisance of himself, I’m sure I can persuade him to desist.’ Mark had spoken quietly yet Emily sensed in him an alarming purposefulness. He came closer as though he would pass her and go to confront the fellow in the street.

‘No! Thank you for your concern, but it is not that at all…’ The thought that Viscount Devlin might be still loitering outside and faced being accused of bothering her made Emily’s stomach churn queasily. As Mark drew level with her she grabbed hold of one of his arms to physically prevent him going out and causing a disturbance.

Barely had her small fingers curved over hard muscle when a frisson of something akin to excitement jolted through her. Suddenly she was very aware of how small and fragile she felt with Mark Hunter’s tall, powerful frame looming over her. The corridor was narrow and shadowy and a musky sandalwood scent seemed to emanate from the warmth of his body.

Nicholas Devlin was a well-built man, but he had nothing like the height and breadth of Mark Hunter. Nicholas had different colouring too, being fair, not devilishly dark as was this gentleman. Emily’s eyes levelled on a powerful shoulder clad in excellent grey superfine before slowly raising to a lean, angular face. Her breath caught in her throat as his gaze became sleepy and settled on her parted mouth.

Mark felt blood thicken his veins. He had an almost undeniable urge to trap her against the wall and kiss her senseless. She was the most unbelievably desirable little minx, even garbed in a voluminous cloak that disguised all her sweet curves. The distinctly wary look she was giving him did nothing to subdue the throb in his loins. Miss Emily Beaumont might not like him, but he feared he might like her…a little too much…

A dry cough shattered the tension and made Emily snatch her hand from Mark’s sleeve and spring back from him like a scalded cat.

‘Is everything in order, Mr Hunter?’ The voice was nasal and insinuating.

Emily darted a sideways look at the gentleman who was peering over the rim of his spectacles at them. He was of middle years and was wearing sombre clothes and a grim expression. His lids descended low over eyes brimming with disgust directed at Emily.

‘I assure you this lady is not a client of mine, Mr Hunter. I’ll send for a runner and have her immediately ejected if she is troubling you…’

‘She is not,’ Mark enunciated very coolly, very quietly. ‘She is a friend and I am taking her home.’

Emily felt blood flood her face. The lawyer—for she guessed that was who he was—thought she was…Shock and outrage vied for precedence. The infernal cheek of the man! It was true she was not supposed to be here. It was also true he had come upon them when she had hold of Mark Hunter and their bodies had been pressed close together in a gloomy corridor, but…Emily’s fury started to fade. The bald facts, so examined, did hint that a dalliance might have been taking place. That thought caused a fresh surge of colour to brighten her pale cheeks.

Mr Wilson now looked no less embarrassed than did Emily. He shuffled on the spot and mumbled an incoherent apology while pulling and pushing his spectacles back and forth on his hooked nose. Suddenly he slipped back out of sight through a doorway. He had made his escape at the right time; Emily’s indignation had rekindled and she had been considering dodging past Mark so that she might go and remonstrate with the pious busybody.

As though sensing belligerence was keeping her small frame tight as a spring, Mark turned her firmly about and, taking her by the elbow, propelled her back out into the sunlight and down the steps. He glanced up and down the street. There was nobody loitering in the vicinity.

‘Your troublesome fellow seems to have gone. Who was it?’ he asked easily. ‘An acquaintance…a stranger?’ He raised a hand to signal and an impressively smart curricle drew to a stop at the kerb. The tiger nimbly disembarked and held the reins for his master, awaiting instruction to take his position at the rear of the vehicle.

Emily quickly took a step away from him, her mind in turmoil. She had set out this morning with just her brother creating havoc in her thoughts. Now two other gentlemen were also disturbing her peace of mind, and for the same reason: this afternoon both had wanted to kiss her, she was sure of it.

A short while ago Viscount Devlin had made no secret of the fact that he found her attractive: he had openly told her so. Nothing that could be construed as flattery had passed Mark Hunter’s lips, yet she knew that just moments ago he also had looked at her with lust in his eyes. The lawyer would have been more justified in directing his scruples at his client than at her! Heavens above! She didn’t even like Mark Hunter, let alone want him to kiss her…Emily frowned at her shoes; an odd fluttery feeling had revived in her as she recalled the sensation of their bodies touching in the corridor.

Mark watched flitting emotions animating Emily’s sweet features. He guessed that the lawyer’s assumption that she had been a soliciting harlot still disturbed her. She had every right to her indignation. The man had made a crass remark and deserved a reprimand.

‘Mr Wilson is a cynic and a fool to have supposed a lady of your beauty and stature might be up to no good. All I can say in his defence is that the poor light must have prevented him getting a proper look at you.’ Mark paused, aware that mentioning the incident had caused her fiery embarrassment. Gently he added, ‘I will admit he is a fellow not much acquainted with charitable thoughts. But he is an excellent lawyer. Do you want me to fetch him so he might properly apologise?’

Emily looked up into eyes that were warm and rueful. ‘You would do that?’

‘Of course,’ Mark said and stepped away from her. He came close again. ‘But only if you promise to wait here until I return so I might take you home.’

The idea of again being trapped in close confinement with Mark Hunter, this time in his vehicle, made Emily blurt, ‘Thank you for the kind offer, sir, but there is no need for you to trouble yourself. I can hail a cab.’

Mark casually repositioned himself and in doing so blocked Emily’s retreat. She halted abruptly to avoid bumping into him.

‘I hope you are not going to make of me a liar, Miss Beaumont.’ Mark’s tone was mock-grave. ‘Mr Wilson is even now spying on us to see if we are friends and I do take you home.’

Emily glanced quickly at the building and immediately noticed a blind dropping back into place at a square-paned window. Renewed mortification sent heat fizzing beneath her cheeks. ‘Insufferable man,’ she muttered.

‘I take it that was directed at Mr Wilson, not at me,’ Mark drily remarked.

Emily looked up at him through a web of lashes and reluctantly returned him a small smile.

‘Shall I reprimand him before we leave?’

Emily shook her head, setting her blonde tresses dancing beneath her bonnet. ‘No; it was not entirely his fault that he mistook the situation. What he saw must have looked…odd…’ She bit her lip and frowned across the street.

Mark held out a hand to her and she permitted him to help her aboard his curricle. ‘Genteel young ladies are not often seen alone in these parts. They come usually with their male relations if they have business to conduct.’

That seemed to Emily to be a purposeful observation. She guessed he might next enquire what her business had been coming here in the first place. Keen to continue an easy dialogue, she quickly said, ‘I expect Mr Woodgate is nicer than Mr Wilson. It was Mr Wilson who appeared, was it not?’

‘Indeed it was.’ Mark set the beautiful greys in motion and drew smoothly into the flow of traffic in the street. ‘Mr Woodgate was a very decent chap. Mr Wilson was a better fellow too before his partner died. I think he now finds it all too much to deal with alone.’

‘Died?’ Emily echoed, aghast.

‘Mr Woodgate died suddenly of a heart attack some months ago now.’

Emily inwardly cursed that she’d made a mistake. Obviously Nicholas Devlin would have known that Woodgate was dead. It piqued Emily that her erstwhile fiancé knew she had lied about an appointment simply to dodge into the building and get away from him.

‘Are you not going to tell me who you were hiding from? Is his identity a secret?’

It seemed Mark Hunter’s thoughts were in tune with hers so Emily sought a brief explanation. ‘He is just an acquaintance; a gentleman I have not seen or spoken to for some while.’ To prevent a further interrogation she continued, ‘I have to purchase a birthday present for my mother. Would you be good enough to set me down in Regent’s Street? I should like to go to Madame Joubert’s.’

Mention of the modiste brought to mind the last time they had met. On that occasion Sarah had been with her when Mark and his mistress had chanced upon them window-shopping. Mark had volunteered to try to discover Tarquin’s whereabouts while Sarah and Barbara Emerson had looked at the silks. Quizzing Mark now over her brother might yield some information about Tarquin and have the added benefit of distracting him from questioning her further about Nicholas. Emily frowned at her hands for, in truth, she had no idea why she did not want Mark Hunter to know she had been avoiding the man who had come within a hair’s breadth of being her husband.

‘We have still not had word from Tarquin. Have you discovered anything that might shed light on what he is up to?’ Emily’s eyes shadowed as she recalled her parents’ anxiety over the lengthy silence from their eldest son. ‘My father is now quite concerned about him. Tarquin usually contacts him if he has problems, and we are sure he has. His landlady has not seen him for weeks and he appears to have left without paying his rent.’

Mark reined in the greys and glanced at Emily’s profile. She was chewing at her soft lower lip and slender fingers were intertwining nervously in her lap. Suddenly she turned and shot up at him a look of pure entreaty.

Mark felt the tightening in his gut that was not solely a lustful reaction to her sweet appeal. Emily Beaumont was getting under his skin in a way that disturbed him. In the hallway of the lawyer’s office he had been on the point of kissing her when they were interrupted. In truth, he was sorely tempted to divert to a quiet spot and do it now…but equally he wanted to find Tarquin and bawl him out for putting her through such torment. Mark’s jaw tightened as a liquid silver gaze clung to him. He snapped his eyes to the road ahead.

He had an idea where Tarquin might be hiding out, and he had discovered a bit about what the miscreant had recently been up to before he dropped from sight. It was not the sort of thing that could be recounted to the man’s unmarried sister.

Mark’s brother had volunteered some information when asked whether he had seen Tarquin recently. Sir Jason Hunter and his wife, Helen, had been returning from a performance in Drury Lane when they had spotted Tarquin drunkenly consorting with low life in a dark alleyway. Jason had drolly recounted how a particularly comely harlot had seemed to have a tenacious grip on his affections.

A grim smile twitched Mark’s lips. Perhaps Tarquin had taken seriously the sarcastic advice he had given him some months ago and was sampling a variety of vices instead of expending all his resources solely on gambling.

Emily’s soulful eyes were still on him and she was waiting patiently for his answer. Carefully he told her the bare bones of what he knew. ‘My brother and sister-in-law saw Tarquin about two weeks ago. I promise I will continue to investigate.’

‘Where was that? Where did they see him?’ Emily demanded to know. Mentally she made a note to call on Lady Hunter. Helen and she had been friends since before Helen’s marriage to Sir Jason Hunter.

‘They spotted him in the Covent Garden area when they were returning from the opera.’

‘Was he at the theatre too?’ Emily asked quickly. ‘Who was he with? We might be able to extract more information from his companions,’ she said excitedly.

‘He wasn’t in the theatre and his companions, from their description, will be hard to find. Jason only caught a glimpse of him from his carriage when journeying home. I promise I will find your brother,’ Mark said huskily as he drew the curricle to a halt outside Madame Joubert’s.