Regency Mistresses: A Practical Mistress\The Wanton Bride (21 page)

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?’

‘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 purpose-fulness. 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.

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.