The Wanton Bride

Emily held Mark’s gaze and in her mind whirled conflicting thoughts. Part of her was tempted to divulge to Mark that she had a little information on her brother too. Should she tell him that she had received a letter summoning her to Whiting Street? Mark might recognise the description of the fellow with the broken nose and be able to shed some light on his identity, and how he might be connected to Tarquin. But Emily’s natural caution with this man kept the words hovering on her tongue tip.

Mark Hunter had once had her brother sent to gaol over a paltry debt of a hundred pounds. They were friends again, but how dedicated was Mark Hunter to helping Tarquin? Emily didn’t really trust him or his loyalty to her brother.

Earlier she had reflected on the differences between Mark Hunter and Nicholas Devlin, but they had at least one thing in common: both had a keener interest in her than in her brother. And it was an interest she had no intention of encouraging. Both gentlemen were spoken for; yet today she had had first-hand knowledge of how fickle-hearted they were as husbands and lovers. With just a little encouragement—and a little privacy—she could have been kissed by either of them. The fact that they both were firmly attached elsewhere, yet would like to engage in a little dalliance with her made Emily seethe with indignation. Perhaps they imagined that, as she had reached an age when it was considered she might be left on the shelf, she would be grateful for their lecherous attention.

‘I’ll wait for you to make your purchases and take you home.’

Emily allowed the young tiger to help her dismount. Yes, indeed, Mark Hunter was definitely showing her a little more consideration than was due to the sister of one of his friends. He was angling, she was sure, to seduce her, and doubtless he thought his good looks and affluence would make her fall into his arms. Perhaps he imagined that she was so desperate for his help in finding Tarquin that she might act like a gullible fool. But she had acted so once before, with Nicholas, and had vowed never to do so again.

The Hunter brothers had long been known as rakish characters. Jason had reformed when he married Helen Marlowe and was now a devoted husband. Acidly Emily wondered whether Mark would similarly change when Mrs Emerson finally got him to the altar.

Subduing a sour smile, she swung about to look up at him from the pavement. He returned her gaze with a steady intensity that confirmed her suspicions. He wanted her.

‘Thank you for the ride, sir,’ Emily began lightly, ‘and for the offer to wait, but I have other things to do besides shopping.’ Before entering the modiste’s, she hesitated, beset by an urge to turn her head and see if he was still watching her.

Slowly she pivoted around and noticed that the curricle was quite still and so was he. Their eyes tangled for a moment, then Emily looked away. Her mind foraged for something to say to explain away her reason for stopping to stare at him. ‘Of course, if you learn any more about Tarquin’s dealings, then, good or bad, we would welcome news of him.’ Without waiting for his reply, she quickly whisked about and entered the shop.

Chapter Five

‘What did she say?’

Jenny Trent’s excited query drew nothing but a dark scowl from Mickey Riley. A sulky shrug slipped her hand from his shoulder and he slumped down on to a threadbare sofa. A stove was burning in the cramped back parlour they rented, but washing draped over a chair was blocking its meagre heat. Belligerently Mickey kicked away the obstruction and it overturned scattering the clothes onto grimy floorboards.

‘This place is a dump. Don’t you ever clean up, woman?’

Jenny slid a wary glance at Mickey as she put the chair back on its rickety legs. She picked up her stockings and petticoats, giving them a shake, before neatly arranging them on the slats again so they might dry.

‘She won’t fall fer it, will she?’ she said as she hung the last scrap of linen on black oak.

‘Dunno yet,’ Riley snapped.

Jenny eyed Mickey’s surly features, then perched on a stool opposite him. ‘She didn’t turn up,’ she muttered scornfully. ‘I told you it would be a waste of time.’

Mickey Riley surged to his feet, fists balled at his side. ‘I did right, I tell you,’ he bawled. ‘She was there, and on time, but an accursed nob went up to her. Then he saw me, and looked a bit curious, so I didn’t hang around. I know him. You do too. It was Devlin and I ain’t getting on his wrong side.’

‘Devlin?’ Jenny echoed, startled. Oh, she knew him and hated it when she caught his attention and he chose to spend cash on her. That fine and dandy appearance of his hid a nasty rough streak. ‘Do you think Tarquin’s sister told Devlin about the letter you sent?’

Mickey shook his head. ‘When he clocked me I walked off, but not far. I watched them from an alley. They was only together a few minutes. Looked to me like she was keen to dodge him ’n’ all. She nipped in Wilson’s office and Devlin went off in his carriage.’

‘Did you wait for her to come out?’

Mickey nodded and grunted a laugh. ‘Waste of time it were, too. When she came out of Wilson’s she was with another fellow. It were the same swell she was talking to by the posh French shop. She must’ve liked him good ’nuff—she went off with him in his flash rig. And that were the end of me chances.’

Jenny chewed her lower lip pensively. For a few moments the tiny room was quiet except for the sound of her tapping her small booted feet in rhythm against the dirty bare boards. ‘You gonna try fer another chance to meet her?’ she suddenly piped up.

Mickey’s curt nod answered her.

‘Won’t do no good.’ Her derision was emphasised by an impatient hand flick. ‘We ain’t never gonna find Tarquin like this. We should forget him and find another punter.’

A string of curses from Mickey met that suggestion.

Jenny more volubly repeated her idea.

‘Hold your tongue, woman,’ he roared. ‘Can’t you see I’m thinking?’

‘Penny for your thoughts…’

Mark surfaced from his sightless contemplation of the ceiling as his naked mistress leaned over him and kissed him on the lips. A corner of his mouth tilted in appreciation, but his hands remained pillowing his head, his blue eyes watching the spectral shadows above him.

‘What are you thinking about?’ Barbara asked huskily, stretching out sinuously on the feather mattress beside him. She slid a finger softly over the muscled ridges on his torso, then let it drift lower. Her tone had hinted at pique, but she was canny enough not to vent it. For some weeks now she had sensed that her hold on this charismatic bachelor was weakening. She didn’t want that; she wanted his ring on her finger and her belly swelling with his child. After many years together as friends and lovers she wanted a promotion in Mark Hunter’s life.

They were of similar age and a decade ago had been planning to marry, although no formal arrangements were made. Then Mark had taken himself off on a Grand Tour despite Barbara’s protestations. Barbara had been desolate to discover that he was not after all crooked as tightly about her finger as she would have liked. It was shortly after Mark sailed for France that she, while still in a temper, accepted a proposal from someone much older and far richer. She had long regretted resorting to such tactics to punish Mark for abandoning her.

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