Regency Mistresses: A Practical Mistress\The Wanton Bride (24 page)

Emily sensed the pressure of his mouth increasing, coaxing her to part her lips while the long fingers, circling softly on her cheeks, continued to skilfully subdue any sensible thought she had of objecting to the liberties he was taking. She yielded to his wooing and her full lips parted to allow his tongue to languidly taste hers. In a daze she rested her weight against him, revelling in the icy fire that was coursing through her limbs. A slow hand travelled to her nape to smooth sensitive places and a delicious shiver passed over Emily, making her sigh against his mouth.

Mark drew her further into his embrace, greatly
aroused by her unexpectedly eager response. His mouth plundered hers sweetly, defying her to protest as his hands slipped beneath her coat to caress her body.

A shock shivered through Emily as his thumbs brushed firmly over her rib cage to stroke the two tender nubs peaking beneath her bodice. Her back was beginning to arch invitingly when suddenly she tensed and her eyes flew wide. A hawker’s raucous shout reached her from the street and made her once more alert to where she was … and with whom. She jerked back.

Emily twisted her face free, horribly, shamefully aware that she was behaving like a brazen hussy with a man she knew was firmly attached elsewhere … and in broad daylight too!

She snatched herself from Mark’s embrace in two shaky backward steps. Her breathing was ragged as she whispered, ‘Thank you, Mr Hunter, for proving to me what I had suspected about you all along.’

Mark’s eyes narrowed on her flushed face. Her frigid tone and sparking eyes indicated he was to hear nothing complimentary. ‘And what do you suspect about me, my dear?’ he gritted out. The first exquisite taste of her had ended too soon and he felt cheated and frustrated.

‘I suspect, sir, that you will expect me to reward you for any assistance you give in finding Tarquin.’

‘Do you? And what exactly am I expecting to receive?’

Emily blushed scarlet. ‘You know very well. And I will not talk indelicately for your titillation.’

Mark tilted his head up and his hands gestured at the sky in exasperation. ‘God’s teeth! It was just a kiss … and not a very satisfying one at that.’

Emily blanched in mortification. Despite being ashamed of acting the wanton, she couldn’t deny she had thought their kiss had been thrilling … but not for him, it seemed.

Mark noticed the fleeting hurt that puckered her features. ‘It was nice … sweet … but unfinished,’ he explained gently. When she simply tilted her chin and flounced away from him he added, ‘You’re not yet a woman. When you are you’ll understand—’

‘Oh, I understand very well,’ Emily snapped. She pivoted back to face him to add coolly and quietly, ‘I am twenty-four years old and you need not patronise me.’

‘I’m not patronising you, I’m appreciating your innocence.’

‘Please don’t,’ Emily countered fiercely. ‘Your esteem is not appropriate.’

The silence that followed seemed to echo hollowly between the two high walls on either side of them. Emily jerkily swallowed, immediately regretting that her temper had caused her to unwisely hint at something very private. With her skirts clenched in quivering fists, she attempted to slip past him.

Mark refused to stand aside, although he kept his hands firmly in his pockets. ‘My esteem is not appropriate?’ he repeated softly. ‘Now it has been bestowed I think you owe me an explanation for throwing it back in my face. What is incorrect about my good opinion of your innocence?’

Emily nipped her lower lip in small teeth to prevent an outburst. She had no intention of resuming their previous dialogue. In an icy tone she demanded, ‘Please let me pass at once. I have been out too long and my parents will be worried for my safety.’

‘I understand their fears; you might have been waylaid by a reprobate.’

‘Indeed,’ Emily countered with acid amusement. ‘But rest assured, I will not mention meeting you.’

Mark gave her a sardonic smile. ‘And Riley? Will you tell them about him?’

Emily sent him a stare that might have turned a lesser mortal to stone. Mark unflinchingly returned her regard.

‘No. Will you tell them?’

‘Not if you’d rather I did not.’ He adopted an ironic innocence. ‘I swear I require nothing for that favour other than you let me immediately escort you home.’

After a moment of inner turmoil Emily finally capitulated and said sourly, ‘Why, thank you, sir, I accept your kind offer.’

Once handed into his curricle, she girded herself for a further interrogation. But he said nothing more at all; the journey passed in silence.

When he politely helped her down in Callison Crescent he said, ‘I shall increase my efforts to unearth your brother, but for my benefit as much as yours. There are some pressing matters I would discuss with him.’ His vivid eyes veered to her tense face. ‘In short, Miss Beaumont, when I drag him back I shall require nothing for the service.’

Emily began her muted thanks, but before their conclusion he was back on the seat and setting off again at speed.

‘I
’ll tell you what I told the rest, sir. I haven’t seen Mr Beaumont for a good while now. And, if you catch up with the slippery devil, you can tell him from me that I want my rent. If I don’t soon get it, I’ll set the duns to find him.’ With that fervent threat Mrs Dale tried to close the door in Viscount Devlin’s face. The toe of one of his polished boots was swiftly wedged on the threshold and prevented her doing so.

‘The rest?’ Nicholas asked and gave the landlady a smile. ‘Other people have been here looking for him?’

Mrs Dale allowed him to push the door a little wider open, her eyes slipping over him in sly assessment. He was Quality, no doubt about it, and might pay her for her time and trouble if she answered a few of his questions. He was probably in a similar
situation to hers: owed cash by that wastrel and with no idea how to run him to ground. At the beginning she’d thought Mr Beaumont a fine fellow, with his nice clothes and posh voice, and had no hesitation in renting him rooms.

This house on Westbury Avenue was one of the sounder properties Mrs Dale owned and was in a nice part of town, too. Yet, in her bitter experience, the well-heeled taking suites in Chelsea were no better at paying their rent than were the poor souls cramped in an attic in Whitechapel.

‘You said other people have been looking for Mr Beaumont,’ Viscount Devlin prompted with ill-concealed irritation at her brooding silence.

The landlady crossed her arms over her shrivelled chest and leaned on the doorjamb. A grimace was aimed at the heavens. ‘Mr Beaumont senior came looking for him. Oh, and before that there was a fellow looked like a street bruiser with a bent nose and hair as grey as fog. But a young feller, he seemed, for all that. Then there was a gentleman like yourself … Quality, he were, with fine clothes and a handsome face.’ Mrs Dale simpered sideways at the Viscount. ‘He had dark hair though, not fair like yours, and might have been taller too.’

‘Thank you.’ After a cursory nod Nicholas was down the steps and by his carriage.

Having taken up a comfortable position for a lengthy chat, Mrs Dale looked disappointed to see him go so soon. With a cluck of the tongue she turned to go back inside. Realising the nob had left without so much as handing over a farthing she swung back to snarl, ‘Tightfist’, before slamming the door.

Nicholas got into his carriage, whistling. He had got what he wanted and more besides. Mrs Dale’s description of the bruiser was detailed enough for him to be sure that it was Riley who had called looking for Tarquin. He had suspected that Mickey Riley was somehow involved in Tarquin’s disappearance. The fellow described as Quality was probably an acquaintance from one of the gaming clubs who was keen to call in his IOU quickly. He was not surprised to learn that Mr Beaumont senior had also been looking for his son. The family would, by now, know he’d absconded. Emily would thus be aware … and concerned … that her brother was in trouble.

She had been in Whiting Street at the same time as had Mickey Riley. Both had seemed oddly alert to the other’s presence, yet keen to keep it concealed. Only one reason could account for a meeting between
them: Tarquin. Emily must have been summoned by Riley to learn what her brother had been up to. And in return, of course, he would expect a payment.

Nicholas settled back into the squabs with a satisfied smile on his lips. He rapped for his driver to set the coach in motion. One of these nights he ought to make use of the services of that pretty little girl of Mickey’s … Jenny, he believed was her name. And while he was there he would have a little talk with Riley and discover if there was a way that Tarquin Beaumont’s latest misdemeanour—whatever it was—might benefit them both …

‘If you’d rather not attend, I shall convey your regrets.’

It was the pained tone of voice rather than the words spoken that penetrated Emily’s deep thoughts. A swift glance at Stephen detected that he was pink with embarrassment. She guessed that he had been talking to her and she had, unwittingly, been ignoring him. ‘I’m so sorry, Stephen. What did you say?’ Emily blinked beneath her mother’s rebuking look.

Before Stephen could answer her Penelope did. ‘Stephen was just inviting us to Lady Gerrard’s soirée.
Isn’t that wonderful?’ She shot a look at her daughter that dared her to disagree. ‘The invitation was issued to Stephen’s grandmother, who is her friend, but it has been extended to us too.’ Their guest received a grateful smile.

Emily’s small teeth sank into her lower lip as she tried to quickly summon up an acceptable excuse. In truth, she lately felt little like socialising. She had a vital and difficult task to undertake and that, together with incessant worries over Tarquin, was dampening her humour.

That morning she had received a note from Nicholas Devlin in which he stressed his pleasure at having finally had a chance to talk privately to her. The note had ended with him expressing a
great desire
that they might soon find another such opportunity. Emily had been stunned to receive it, and her first instinct had been to throw it on the fire. She might once have loved him, and been on the point of becoming his wife, but it had all turned to ashes years ago. He had married another woman and Frances was increasing with his child.

The Viscount’s letter to her, like his attitude on Whiting Street, was highly irregular to say the least. Emily had a suspicion that it was not a simple friendship that Nicholas was angling for, but a more intimate
relationship. But it was finished between them. She was a mature woman now, not a silly girl just out of the schoolroom. She was able to control her senses and her future, and she had no intention of allowing a married man to so much as kiss her.

If she simply ignored his letter, he might be encouraged to send another. She had to let him know immediately, and in strong terms, that pursuing her was a lost cause—he would never again seduce her into wantonness.

Hard on the heels of her virtuous resolve came a very disturbing truth:
Another gentleman had very recently and very easily made her act the wanton and the incident was impossible to put from her mind.

Emily fidgeted on her seat as phantom pressure from warm hard lips teased her mouth. She spitefully sank her teeth into the tingling skin to stop the sensation.

Tarquin … Viscount Devlin … She could accept that those gentlemen would be bothering her peace of mind, for both had given her due cause. But the most persistent images in her head were of Mark Hunter and what had occurred between them in the alleyway. And she wanted to dismiss that as inconsequential … as he had.

It was simply pique, she told herself. No woman
would like to have a kiss—whether it had been welcome or not—dismissed by a gentleman with such a lack of gallantry. Neither could she be pleased with herself for having hinted she was unchaste. Would he have already forgotten what she said? Or was he mulling it over and deeming her quite capable of being a sullied woman?

This time it was a long and sibilant sigh from her mother that startled her to the present.

‘My … you are in a daydream today, Emily.’ Penelope chirped a brittle laugh. ‘Perhaps another cup of tea might liven you a little and help you concentrate.’

Emily murmured an apology. Indeed, she felt guilty for having again failed to talk to Stephen. He was a fine gentleman and deserved better than being ignored while her mind was preoccupied with the less worthy. ‘You must thank your grandmother, Stephen, for thinking of us and securing such an invitation—’

‘Well, that’s settled then,’ Penelope Beaumont interjected swiftly, before Emily could conclude her declination.

‘The invitation is also extended to your friend Sarah Harper.’ Stephen’s muted pleasure at her acceptance spoke volumes. Emily realised he was well aware that she would rather not attend. ‘Grandmama mentioned to Fiona Gerrard that you might like a
young lady of your own age to accompany you. Not that there won’t be other young ladies present, of course. But you might not know any of them well enough to chat to …’ he finished lamely.

‘If you are to be there, Stephen, I shall have a friend to talk to,’ Emily said and gave him a comforting smile. She could not now cry off without causing a fuss and thus graciously accepted her defeat. ‘But I’m certain Sarah would be pleased to go too. I shall call on her later and find out for sure.’

When Stephen had gone Penelope surged to her feet and clapped her hands in delight. ‘Only think … Fiona Gerrard’s soirée! Augusta might be a rum old bird, but she has very influential friends, it seems. I expect she has secured us such a prized invitation to make up for being impolite when she came here to dine.’

‘Perhaps.’ Emily gave a slight smile. ‘A mere few days ago you were hoping Augusta would be on her way back to Bath by now.’

‘I know … and I don’t mind admitting that I hoped the old harridan might make the journey in a hearse.’ Penelope smiled wickedly. ‘Now I’m hoping dear Augusta might stay in London all Season. Who knows how many times we might be guests of Lady Gerrard? It might be a very happy time for you.’

Emily slipped her mother a shrewd look from silver eyes. ‘In what way are you hoping I might benefit, Mama?’

‘I think you know quite well, young lady.’ But Penelope went on to explain, ‘Lady Gerrard is known to have a host of eligible bachelors in her circle. We must make sure you look your very best—you might catch the eye of one of them.’

‘And what of Stephen?’ Emily asked wryly. ‘Is he now to be discouraged?’

‘Not at all!’ Penelope gasped. ‘We need a nice gentleman in reserve. By Michaelmas you
must
be spoken for. You cannot sit another year on the shelf. Oh … here’s your father home at last.’ Penelope rushed into the hallway to recount to him her exciting news.

Having listened with furrowed brow to his wife, Mr Beaumont nodded absently and made to walk on towards his study.

Penelope looked affronted by his lack of enthusiasm. ‘Well! I really think you could show a little more interest in such a promising opportunity for your only daughter. Your only daughter who, I might add, is worryingly close to her twenty-fifth birthday!’

Cecil turned about and gave an apologetic sigh. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, but lately I am too concerned
over Tarquin’s whereabouts to take heed of much at all. I have been to several of his haunts and all the clubs in St. James’s. Nobody has any news of him. It has been a confounded long while since I had word from my heir.’

Emily had ventured into the hallway and heard what her grim-faced father said about his errant son. Strain was etched deeply about his weary eyes and Emily felt herself seething with anger at Tarquin.

For a moment she was tempted to blurt out to her father that she knew more than he did. But what comfort would there be for him in knowing that the ruffian who had been loitering about was issuing threats in his quest to locate Tarquin? Neither would her parents relish knowing that the last news of their eldest son was of him cavorting with harlots in Covent Garden. Indeed, should she disclose what she knew, it was sure to increase her father’s anxiety, and make her mother quite hysterical.

‘He will turn up soon enough, Papa. I know Mark Hunter is searching for him, too.’ Emily said encouragingly.

‘Our son is the most selfish wretch imaginable!’ Penelope suddenly burst out. ‘All the while we must concentrate on him … only him! Well, I refuse to let his shenanigans spoil our outing to Lady Gerrard’s.
We will go, and we will enjoy ourselves!’ Penelope shot a look between her husband and her daughter. ‘I forbid another mention of Tarquin until the weekend!’

The sleek carriage slowed to a stop. After waiting and watching for a few minutes Viscount Devlin spotted, at a distance, the fellow he had been hoping would appear. He alighted and pulled his many-caped coat protectively about his elegant shoulders. With sheer distaste puckering his features, he began to pick a path, with the help of his cane, over dirt and debris underfoot. As he walked the gloomy lane, shadowy female bodies brushed against him, murmuring lewdly. He ignored them and roughly pushed away one bold harlot who persisted in clinging to his arm.

Crossing the road he approached a gin house spewing a pool of lamplight on to slimy cobbles. As he came closer, its raucous sound deadened the monotonous hum of begging irritating his brain.

‘Riley.’

His quarry spun about on hearing his name, and stared warily at Devlin as he stepped purposefully closer. ‘Evenin’ to you, sir.’ His tongue snaked over his lips. ‘Here for business?’

‘Why else?’ Nicholas sneered sarcastically and gave a speaking look at his squalid surroundings.

Mickey grimaced understanding, but his eyes were narrowed and alert. He hadn’t forgotten that this man had seen him in Whiting Street when he was there to meet Beaumont’s sister. And he was suspicious that the fine fellow was here for information, not pleasure.

‘Got a new girl called Lucy might take yer fancy. Young and fresh she is,’ Mickey said, hoping to distract any awkward questions by arousing the fellow’s lust.

‘I’ll take Jenny.’

Mickey shot a look at him. ‘She’s laid up … no use tonight …’

‘In that case, perhaps there’s another bit of business we might do.’ Two drunken navvies swayed past, arm in arm, roaring with laughter. Nicholas waited for them to weave away before gritting, ‘Is there a better place we might go to discuss this?’

Mickey chewed the inside of his cheek. Any mention of business pricked up his ears, but he didn’t trust this man. He didn’t trust him one bit. In fact, he’d sooner deal with Old Nick himself.

Noting his hesitation, Nicholas purred coaxingly, ‘There will be a tidy bit of blunt in this for you if things work out the way I like.’

It was what Mickey needed to hear. With a flick
of his beady eyes to right and to left, he cocked his head and led the Viscount through an iron gateway. The alleyway led to a small door and Mickey indicated the Viscount should enter.

Inside, revellers could be heard through the wall, showing they were immediately behind the gin shop. The room held the unmistakable reek of poverty, and a few battered pieces of furniture.