Regency Mistresses: A Practical Mistress\The Wanton Bride (25 page)

Noting the Viscount’s disgust, Mickey said sardonically, ‘Best I can do at short notice. So if it ain’t a woman you’re after tonight, what can I do fer yer?’

‘You can tell me why you were on Whiting Street to meet Tarquin Beaumont’s sister.’

Mickey’s tongue tip hovered over his lips. ‘Who?’ he piped, all innocence.

Devlin smiled thinly. ‘Don’t act the fool and don’t bother lying. I know you were on Whiting Street to meet her.’

‘Told you that, did she?’

Devlin paced about the room, trying to find a spot where the atmosphere was less fetid. He came close to Mickey and looked directly into his eyes, for they were of similar height. ‘I know Miss Beaumont is trying to find her brother, and I would like to assist. That would please her. She might in turn then please me.’

Mickey gave a sly smile. ‘Ah … so you’d like to please Miss Beaumont … and have her please you …’

‘Indeed I would,’ Nicholas drawled

‘And you think I might be able to help.’

‘Yes.’

Mickey gave a chuckle. ‘That’s a thought, sir. That’s certainly a thought, and it is wot I do best. But it’s a bit risky with a classy lady ’cos there’s her family to consider.’

Viscount Devlin reached into an inside pocket and withdrew a silk purse. It was bulging fit to burst the seams. He leisurely slackened the drawstring and drew forth a gold sovereign. The glinting disc was held between thumb and forefinger while he shook the sack until chinking could be heard. His top lip curled as he saw Mickey’s eyes pounce greedily on the cash. ‘There’s twice that amount for you if it all goes to plan.’

Mickey shot a look at Devlin. He grinned, but his eyes were crafty slits. ‘You’ve come to the right place, sir. I’m sure that if Miss Beaumont got news that her brother were laid up somewhere, say somewhere quiet and very private, and him right poorly, well, I reckon she’d go there straight off to see him.’

‘I think so too,’ Nicholas Devlin said dulcetly. ‘I’m glad we understand one another.’

Mickey nodded.

‘Did you tell Miss Beaumont where her brother is hiding?’

Mickey shook his head, snorting a laugh. ‘I don’t know where the wily cove is, but she knows well enough that I’m on his tail, for I told her so straight.’

At Viscount Devlin’s enquiring look, Mickey brusquely explained, ‘I got a bit of business of me own to sort out with Beaumont. Nuthin’ that needs put a dampener on wot we just discussed.’

‘Good,’ Nicholas said. ‘You understand that we have not had a conversation of any sort?’

Mickey gave a bark of surly laughter. ‘Respectable gent like you … talk to the likes of me? Who’d believe that?’

Nicholas gave a nod.

‘I’ll see what I can do. Where can I contact you?’ Mickey asked.

‘You can’t. And don’t ever try to. I’ll return in a few days or so.’ Devlin turned towards the door, his nostrils flaring at the stench. ‘Let me out of this fleapit.’

Mickey sprang to open the door.

‘This new girl … she’s young and fresh, you say?’

‘She is indeed. Shall I fetch her?’ Mickey started to close the door again.

‘Not here, you fool,’ the Viscount barked with utter contempt. ‘My carriage is close by in Houndsditch. Send her there.’

Mark Hunter stepped swiftly into shadows to watch the black-cloaked figure traversing the rough cobbles. On reaching his carriage the Viscount sprang in, unaware he had been observed, and closed the door.

That Nick Devlin was sordid enough to seek pleasure in such a stew did not surprise Mark. Indeed, he had spotted him on other occasions doing business with whores in London’s back streets. But an idea stirred in his mind that another reason might have brought Devlin here tonight. Had the Viscount forgone the comfort of Mayfair to come, as he had, in search of Riley and some answers?

The only connection between Tarquin and Devlin that Mark knew of was a mutual loathing. After
a moment he grunted a soft, self-mocking laugh. He was being too fanciful. Why would Devlin give a damn about Tarquin’s whereabouts? It was far more likely to be lust, not hatred, that had urged Nick to visit this haunt.

Pushing away from the wall, Mark was about to approach the gin shop when he heard soft footfalls and drew back against the brick once more. A young woman emerged from the murk and came towards him. Fleetingly their eyes met as she gazed, wide-eyed, up at him. But she didn’t speak or accost him. She hurried on past, winding tighter about her head a shawl covering a thatch of curly fair hair.

Mark pivoted on a heel to watch her. He had been surprised by her looks. She wasn’t raddled or dead-eyed as were many jades. But then the girl looked only about fifteen and had not yet lost the optimism of youth. She halted by Devlin’s carriage and used her fist to bang on the door. Within a moment she had unceremoniously hiked up her skirts and disappeared inside. The vehicle remained stationary, although within seconds the carriage lamp began to swing on its hook.

Mark’s mouth thinned in disgust as he realised that Devlin could not even be bothered to take her somewhere more discreet. But of course he had no
idea he had been noticed by one of his peers, being serviced by a whore in Houndsditch. The locals sloping around might know the Viscount by sight, and know what he was about, but that would not worry Devlin. However, talk of his debauchery, in polite society salons, might.

Mark had never liked Nick Devlin. Even before he had married the sister of one of his friends, simply for her fortune, he had despised the man for his deviousness.

Mark was aware that Emily had been engaged to Devlin about four years ago. He and Tarquin had then been barely acquainted and he had not known Emily at all at that time. Before this precise moment Mark had never given much thought to what had broken the betrothal between Miss Beaumont and the Viscount, or what had ignited the burning enmity between Tarquin and Devlin. But now he viewed things differently. Lately Emily Beaumont had been arousing his curiosity … as well as his body. He wanted to know about her life, past and present, and why she would once have agreed to marry such a character as Nicholas Devlin.

Mickey Riley spat out an oath beneath his breath. Was he never to be left to his own devices this evening?
Again he slipped a look from beneath lowered lashes while trying to guess what this individual wanted. He certainly wasn’t a customer, but then there was always a first time for a bit of rough trade, even for fellows who seemed like they had never stepped foot outside Mayfair, and could afford a top-notch bit of muslin.

Mickey felt uneasy, for he twice had seen this gent talking to Miss Beaumont and it seemed an odd coincidence that he should turn up just after the Viscount had been by with a wicked suggestion concerning that very lady.

The fellow was getting closer and Mickey cursed again that he had ever got involved with Tarquin Beaumont. He was beginning to think Jenny was right: they should have forgotten all about him and moved on to someone with deeper pockets. Beaumont was of good stock and looked flush, but nevertheless Mickey was coming to fear the wastrel might not have two ha’pennies of his own to rub together.

The Viscount was a better class of nob; he’d seen the proof of his quality bulging in that silk bag. And there was a way he could get his hands on the cash. If Tarquin turned out to be a dud, he’d have to make sure that his sister made up for the loss …

But now this damnable fellow was prowling
about. Mickey felt his hackles stir and belatedly tried to slip out of sight through the gate. If he’d discovered what the Viscount was about he’d be here to do battle for the lady’s honour.

As Mark watched the pimp scuttling away, he felt a side of his mouth tug into a smile. So Riley had guessed what he wanted and it didn’t look as though he was willing to provide any answers to his questions. Mark quickened his pace, following Riley through the gate and into the alley.

‘You need us, Mickey?’

The bellowed offer of assistance came from the street where a couple of strapping young men stood belligerently eyeing the casual interloper.

Mickey slid a nervous glance up at his stalker. In an odd way he found him more intimidating than Devlin. He was taller and broader, but he sensed in him a power that was not just about physical strength. ‘Do I need ’em? Or are you here tonight just fer business, sir?’

‘I’m here for information. I’m willing to pay for your time.’ Mark gave a slight smile. ‘So … business it is …’

Mickey’s eyes narrowed in admiration. He was a courageous nob, he’d give him that. He didn’t seem at all put out on knowing that, with a click of
his fingers, Mickey could set a couple of his hounds on him.

‘I only got to shout and they’ll be back.’ Mickey flicked a hand, dismissing his associates. The fellow didn’t look as though he’d come for a brawl. His manner was straightforward and his rig-out expensive. Besides, the promise of payment always mellowed Mickey’s misgivings. He turned and opened the door, mockingly inviting his elegant visitor to enter.

As his eyes flitted over squalor, lit by a solitary oil lamp, a faint frown was all that betrayed Mark’s distaste. He launched straight away into, ‘I should introduce myself. I’m Mark Hunter and Tarquin Beaumont is a good friend of mine. Why have you been bothering Mr Beaumont’s sister, and asking after her brother’s whereabouts?’

Mickey cocked his head to an insolent angle. ‘Not been bothering her, been trying to help,’ he contradicted.

‘In what way?’

Mickey turned a sly eye up to a hard, shadowy visage. ‘Well, now … that’s private and confidential … just between me and the Beaumonts.’

Mark reached into his coat and withdrew a bank note. ‘They don’t want to be bothered with it all.’ He
waved the money held in thumb and forefinger. ‘I said I’d pay for your time and information.’

Mickey reflexively stuck out a hand, his eyes fixed on the plentiful cash.

Mark lazily crushed the paper in a broad palm. ‘First answer me—and give me the truth, or you’ll get nothing.’

‘Beaumont’s acted foolish, and I reckon if I can find him, and make him pay what’s necessary, it’ll save the family being made a laughing-stock. That’s all I wanted to see Miss Beaumont about. You can ask her.’

‘I don’t need to. She has already told me what you spoke about. You haven’t told me anything I, or any one else, doesn’t already know about Tarquin Beaumont. The family’s reputation will survive another tale of him losing his shirt at the tables.’

‘Ain’t gaming.’ Mickey’s voice was sulky.

‘What, then?’ Mark purred. ‘Has he been keeping company with your whores, and not paying you fast enough for their services?’

Mickey gave a lopsided smile. ‘Well, now, Mr Hunter, you’re getting closer, but I can tell you, you still ain’t quite right.’

‘And I can tell you, I’m getting tired of playing games.’ The hand holding the cash was thrust impatiently
into Mark’s pocket. ‘Have you set your bully boys on him and he’s fled?’

Mickey crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Ain’t done that at all,’ he said airily. ‘But he has taken off and all ’cos of a woman.’

‘Go on.’

‘Not until you pay, and I want that and another the same.’ He nodded his head at the pocket hiding the banknote. Mickey’s ferreting brain had realised that there was indeed a way to make money from the Beaumonts. He could recoup his losses twice over. Devlin would pay for fun with the sister, and Hunter would pay for information about the brother’s folly.

Mark gave him the cash with a perilous glower that made Mickey quickly blurt out, ‘Her name’s Jenny and he took a real shine to her right from the start …’

Fifteen minutes later Mark was striding back along the slimy cobbles with an expression as dark and forbidding as his environment.
Tarquin, you bloody fool!
was the thought rotating in his mind as he vaulted into his carriage and gave directions for it to head home.

‘You look like an angel.’

Emily gave her ardent-eyed admirer a smile and
absently smoothed her fingers over the ivory silk of her skirt. It had been her mother’s idea that she wear the pale, dainty dress; Emily had favoured wearing blue satin, which she thought suited her colouring and looked less … virginal. But she had not felt inclined to argue over something trivial when so much that was serious was occupying her mind.

Despite still having had no news of Tarquin, she considered her mother to be right in one respect: they rarely were invited to be entertained at such a fine address.

Before leaving the house this evening she had dashed off a concise note to Nicholas and, when handing it to Millie to take to the post, had felt pleased that she had allowed it to take up so little of her time. Emily felt lighter in spirits than she had in a while. She looked about at her scintillating surroundings. They ought to enjoy the outing and forget their woes for a few hours.

Stephen politely held out an arm to her, then one to her friend Sarah. ‘We must find some chairs in the music room before the orchestra starts. There is sure to be a crush later.’

As they walked, Sarah whispered, awestruck, ‘I’m so glad you asked me to come with you. This is quite the most impressive place I have ever entered.’

Emily gave a slow nod as her eyes flitted over the opulent appointments of Lady Gerrard’s drawing room. ‘Indeed it is wonderful.’

‘Her late husband died five years ago and left Fiona very rich indeed,’ Stephen contributed to the conversation. ‘But she has a host of influential friends to ease her pain at his passing.’ He nodded to Sir Jason Hunter, who was just entering the room with his wife. ‘Here is one of the most distinguished, just arrived.’

‘Oh, Helen is here,’ Emily said, with a pleased smile, on seeing her friend. ‘Let’s go and say hello.’

Barely a moment after they had joined Sir Jason and Lady Hunter, Emily’s eyes were drawn away from the handsome couple and to the doorway. Framed in the aperture and, she had to admit, looking quite magnificent in a slate-grey tailcoat and buff trousers, was a tall dark-haired gentleman she immediately recognised. But what caused her to quickly blink and look away was not the fact that the paragon’s eyes were steadily on her, but that his presence had caused her stomach to somersault.

Noting Emily’s slight flush, Helen casually turned her head. ‘Your brother has arrived,’ she told her husband while giving Emily an astute look.

As Emily was murmuring about moving on to the music room with her friends, Mark joined their group.

‘We were just off to listen to the concert,’ Jason told his brother, his hand welcoming his wife’s delicate fingers on his sleeve.

Sarah suddenly took Stephen’s elbow and, ignoring his rather startled expression and reluctance to go, steered him to follow Sir Jason and his wife.

When the couples had moved away a few paces, Mark looked down at the top of a shiny crown of blonde hair. ‘Am I forgiven yet?’ he asked huskily.

‘I’m afraid not, Mr Hunter,’ Emily said stiffly. Her elbow-length lace gloves were smoothed over shapely arms and she made a move to follow her friends.

‘Perhaps if I tell you that I have come here just to see you, and have some news of Tarquin, you might think more kindly of me.’

Emily immediately pivoted back to face him. She tilted her chin to a confident angle, but her hands were tightly clasped to still their quivering. ‘Is that true, or just a ruse to make me stay a while longer with you?’

‘Why are you afraid of staying a while longer with me, Emily?’ Mark asked softly. ‘Do you imagine I might try to kiss you in Lady Gerrard’s drawing room?’

Emily blushed to the roots of her golden hair, but
managed to say, ‘Not at all. I’m sure in company you adopt the manner of a perfect gentleman.’ Her silver eyes flashed at him. ‘Besides, why would you bother when you’re sure to again be disappointed?’

Mark’s soft laugh was directed over the top of Emily’s head. ‘Ah … so that still rankles, does it?’ he murmured. ‘I explained at the time why I said it, and paid you a compliment in the process. Which reminds me that you still owe me an explanation for finding fault with my praise.’

Emily felt her heart jump to her throat. She knew exactly to what he referred, and had no intention of resuming
that
conversation. She quickly changed subject. ‘I had no idea you would be here tonight.’ A hint of blame sharpened her tone.

‘I gather you would rather I was not.’

‘You overestimate the matter, sir,’ Emily returned coolly. ‘You may stay or go and it will make no difference whatsoever to me.’

Mark’s eyes held hers until Emily flushed and looked away. ‘Is that so?’ he softly drawled. ‘Well, as I came solely to see you, I think I shall go.’ With a slight nod of his dark head he turned and was soon strolling towards the door.

In mortification Emily watched his broad back. He was actually going to leave, and she had not yet
discovered what news he had of Tarquin. She bit down on her lower lip to control herself, for she was tempted to call him back. She had been so disturbed by those silly emotions that came to the fore when in close proximity to the dratted man that she had not quizzed him over her brother. And now she might have lost the chance.

She was obliquely aware that more people were moving away towards the music room. Strains of a melody reached her ears, but her eyes were focused on an athletic figure that would be soon lost from sight.