Regency Mistresses: A Practical Mistress\The Wanton Bride (22 page)

‘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.

‘W
hat 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.

On his return to England, Mark had seemed insultingly philosophical over his loss. Barbara had been
wounded to the core by his attitude—simply imagining his foreign
amours
made her jealous. But they had again become lovers when her husband died.

Not so long ago she could inflame him with a touch, a kiss, into passionate hour-long lovemaking. Now she had to work at wooing him. Her fingers fanned on his firm flesh in strong, sensual massage and she leaned close, seductively swaying her breasts against his chest.

Absently Mark tasted her eager lips and a hand cupped behind her raven head. He allowed her to arouse him, quite selfishly, for some minutes while the haunting image of blonde hair and silver-blue eyes danced erotically behind his lids. With a low curse he banished the tantalising images of Miss Beaumont and, turning swiftly, paid attention to the woman he was with.

Mark Hunter was not the only gentleman behaving with a distinct lack of gallantry because Emily had captivated his mind.

Barely ten minutes after arriving in his wife’s bedchamber, Viscount Devlin shrugged into his silk dressing gown and strolled out again. If he was aware of the Viscountess’s glittering eyes watching him, he gave no sign that her frustration and sadness bothered him.

He had married her five months ago and got her with child almost immediately. He had also just claimed his conjugal rights but was, as usual, left unsatisfied. Instead of heading towards the four-poster in his chamber, he strolled to the large window that overlooked Cleveland Street. Nicholas gazed into the night sky and brooded on the woman he knew certainly could extinguish the fire in his loins.

It was not that he wished he had married Emily Beaumont. He had a wife who was infinitely more suited to the role. Frances was attractive, placid and amenable. Most importantly, she had brought with her an enormous dowry and impressive family connections.

Emily had none of those material advantages. But she was beautiful and, as he had discovered to his delight, passionately responsive. In Nicholas’s opinion, Emily Beaumont, but for an accident of gentle birth, would have made a most exquisite courtesan. She had a natural vivacity tempered with shyness; she had the body of a sensual goddess but was engagingly innocent. When he had met her at Almack’s, she had been an entrancing mix of child and woman and he had wanted her—desperately. Thus the urge to propose to her had come from his loins,
not his heart, and virtually as soon as it was done he had been cursing himself for an impetuous fool.

From the start he had known that she would not allow herself to be seduced by a man who did not love her or want to marry her. So he had told her what he knew she longed to hear and mercilessly fostered her devotion to him. With her father, he had spoken of honour and security and sounded noble and sincere.

But he was cursed with the Devlin trait of profligacy, as had been his father before him. As his spending continued apace and his bank balance sank to an alarming level, he had wondered constantly how he might extricate himself to hunt a fortune without bringing opprobrium down on his head.

Fortuitously Tarquin Beaumont had saved him the bother of pondering long on devious tactics. He had not forgiven Tarquin for that beating, but their enmity had served a very useful purpose and set him free to stalk an heiress. And now, with his wife increasingly fat and boring, possessing Emily again was becoming an obsession.

When he had told Emily this afternoon that he had been thinking of her, he had spoken the truth. For months past she had constantly been in his mind. He rarely saw her, for socially they moved in different
circles. The opportunity to meet her alone had seemed just yesterday a hopeless ambition. But today it had come about. She might act coolly towards him, but he could tell she was not indifferent. Emily was older, more worldly-wise and, with a little subtlety, he was confident he could seduce her again.

Now that his wife had brought him such riches, he didn’t see why he should not slake his lust with a woman of refinement rather than Mickey Riley’s sluts. He had the wherewithal to set up a mistress in style in a fashionable part of town. And he knew exactly whom he wanted to visit. All he had to do was get Emily to accept his proposition …

Nicholas smiled at the twinkling stars; perhaps discovering why Emily had been acting so deviously in Whiting Street, with Mickey Riley watching her, might help bring it all about.

‘Emily!’ Helen Hunter rose from the chair and rushed to greet her visitor. ‘How good to see you. My! You’re an early bird!’

Emily embraced her friend and accepted the offer to be seated in Lady Hunter’s elegantly furnished rose salon. With a little grimace she said, ‘I know it’s quite unfashionable to be out of doors at this hour, but I have something pressing I need to ask you.’

Helen scooped up from her seat the journal she had moments before been reading and dropped it to the carpet. She sat down and gave her friend an enquiring smile. ‘Well, now, I’m intrigued as well as pleased by your visit. Please ask away without delay.’

Emily bit her lip, then blurted, ‘I saw your brother-in-law yesterday and I wanted to quiz you over something he said.’

Helen settled back into her armchair with a wry expression. She knew very well that Emily did not like Mark, and why that was. She also knew from her husband, Jason, that Mark’s motives for having Emily’s brother imprisoned had been altruistic rather than spiteful. ‘Has Mark said something to upset you?’ It was doubtfully suggested—Helen knew that her brother-in-law went out of his way to be pleasant with Emily. In fact, she had a strong suspicion that Mark liked Emily and was quite hurt that she felt so differently towards him.

‘No, he has not upset me … not intentionally, in any case. Mark told me something about Tarquin. Well, in truth, I rather prised the information from him.’

Helen chuckled. ‘Would you care to start again?’

Emily gestured apology for the garbled explanation and, with a sigh, removed her bonnet and gloves and settled back to gather her thoughts.

‘Let’s have some tea,’ Helen suggested. ‘If we are to get our teeth into something—and I rather think we are—we shall need some refreshment.’

Helen Hunter and Emily were close friends who had over the years confided secrets both good and bad. In fact, just two weeks ago, Emily had been entrusted with the wonderful news, before it was officially out, that Helen suspected she was expecting her first-born. Thus, between sips of tea, Helen had no qualms in directly answering Emily’s questions about when last she had seen Tarquin. She told her friend that she had witnessed him embracing a hussy in an alley close to Covent Garden. Helen was then surprised to learn that Tarquin had, afterwards, seemed to have disappeared.

Following that first burst of vital dialogue, the two young ladies sat in pensive silence for a few minutes and finished their tea.

Emily suddenly deposited her cup, in a clatter, on a side table. ‘Tell me honestly, Helen … do you think he has been set about? Are you thinking, as I am, that these … these rough people might have robbed Tarquin? Beaten him? They might not have meant to do him real harm but … do you think a terrible accident might have occurred? Oh, where
is
the wretch?’

Helen jumped to her feet and flew to Emily’s
chair. ‘Hush,’ she soothed, crouching down to comfort her friend. ‘It is surely not the case. If every gentleman who consorted with a Covent Garden nun was attacked and disappeared, Almack’s would be sadly bereft of bachelors on a Wednesday evening.’

Emily managed a chuckle at that wry observation. ‘Do you suppose he is simply still on a drunken revel?’

Helen elevated her dark brows. ‘If he is, he
will
return with a sore head, beating or no beating.’ Helen took Emily’s agitated fingers into her own. ‘Shall I ask Jason to try to find him?’

Emily vigorously shook her head. ‘Mark has already offered to make some investigations. I would not put Sir Jason to the bother of it too.’ Suddenly a look of enlightenment lifted her features. ‘I wonder if that is why the ruffian with the wonky nose sent me the letter: to tell me he knows Tarquin is unwell and cannot get home. It might not be about a gambling debt at all, but I expect he will, in any case, want some money for his trouble …’

Helen’s astonished laugh curtailed Emily’s further ramblings. ‘I think you must immediately explain some more. Letter? Ruffian with a wonky nose? What
is
going on?’

‘That is what
I
should like to know,’ Emily returned
pithily. But she went on quickly to explain all about her fruitless trip to Whiting Street and that she had had the bad luck to meet both Viscount Devlin and Mark Hunter there.

As Emily would have rushed on, Helen put up a silencing hand. ‘Wait a moment. I must know more of this. You have been talking to the man to whom you were engaged? I thought you and Viscount Devlin kept at a distance.’

‘We do … or we always have. He approached me in Whiting Street and acted far too friendly for a married man.’ Emily arched a dainty eyebrow. ‘To escape him I dodged into a building and that’s where I bumped into your brother-in-law.’ The memory of being pressed against Mark in the dark corridor had spontaneously filled Emily’s mind, making her feel rather hot. Briskly she forced herself to concentrate on the mystery of Tarquin’s disappearance. ‘Mark gave me a ride home and told me you and Jason had spotted Tarquin, but he would not elaborate.’

She understood now why Mark had seemed reticent about identifying Tarquin’s companions that evening. It was certainly not considered the done thing for a gentleman to bring to a lady’s attention that her brother had been cavorting with loose women, even if the lady in question had just been
mistaken for a loose woman herself! She bit at her lip to prevent a wry smile as she wondered what Helen would think on learning she had been mistaken for a harlot.