Читать книгу Regency Pleasures and Sins Part 2 - Elizabeth Rolls - Страница 38

‘Mr Hunter is out, Miss Beaumont.’ Such was the butler’s polite response when Emily gave her name and requested an immediate audience with his master.

Geoffrey Lomax cast a dubious eye over the lovely young woman. It was obvious that she was a lady of good class, and that made her behaviour the more bizarre. It was not at all proper for an unaccompanied spinster to pay an impromptu call on a bachelor. His stern look softened a mite as he noticed her downcast expression. He deduced it was a matter of vital importance that had made her act bold and look glum. ‘If you would like to leave a message for Mr Hunter, I will make sure he has it directly he returns,’ he promised.

Chaotic thoughts cluttered her brain, keeping Emily wide-eyed and mute before the manservant. What was she to do? In a short while she was to meet Riley, and he had made it clear he would not wait if she were late for their rendezvous. But she desperately wanted Mark apprised of this latest development. Trusting Riley to his word carried a grave risk to her personal safety. The matter was too confidential to leave a verbal message with the butler, but a communication of some sort must be made. ‘Might I beg leave to have a pen and paper in order to write your master a note?’

A nod and a smile from Lomax invited her in to Mark’s mansion on Belgrave Crescent.

Emily stepped over the threshold and into a vast hallway. Absently her mind registered its opulence; smooth flags on the floor were of the same pristine marble as the graceful pillars that soared out of sight. Whilst the butler disappeared to fetch writing implements for her, she noted the stark elegance of Mark Hunter’s home. She paced nervously, oblivious to being surreptitiously observed from outside.

When Barbara’s equipage had drawn up at the kerb a few minutes ago, she had been immensely frustrated to see Emily hurrying up the wide stone steps. She had been on the point of using them herself!

She had swallowed her pride, and her fears that she might be hastening her own demise, to come to see Mark. Her hope had been to find him in a mellow mood and thus receptive to sharing sweet reminiscences of their youth. Barbara’s scowl deepened. The sight of the Beaumont girl had shaken her optimism, seeded doubts that Mark might be swayed by appeals to his memory … or his virility.

The footman closed the huge doors, cutting off Barbara’s view of Emily, thereby prompting a few unladylike expletives to roll off her tongue. She slammed her back against the squabs. It seemed that Miss Beaumont was soliciting Mark’s attention without so much as a maid in tow as token chaperon. But there was little satisfaction in knowing that her rival was a brazen baggage.

A furrow marred her brow as she sought for a reason why Emily might act with such audacity. Barbara was still ruminating on that conundrum when she heard the door again being opened. Quickly she shifted forward on the seat and twitched aside the blind. She watched as Emily descended the steps and headed off at a fast pace.

A smile curled Barbara’s tinted lips for Emily’s countenance had been puckered with strain. Perhaps Mark had been disgusted by her shocking intrusion and had sent her off with a flea in her ear. She had not been inside the house above ten minutes.

Assisted by a footman, Barbara was soon out of her carriage and mounting the steps.

‘Mr Hunter is not at home, Mrs Emerson.’ Mr Lomax coupled the information with a dour expression. He had never warmed to this woman despite knowing she had, for many years, retained her position as the master’s favourite lady friend. His lids descended over eyes studying Barbara’s lush figure swathed in muslin and a flimsy silk cape. Obviously the woman had attractions … if no sense on how to keep warm on a chilly day. And Mr Hunter was certainly a red-blooded gentleman.

Barbara sailed past Lomax and into the house with all the pomp of a woman who believed it her right to do so. She twirled about and gave the butler a perfunctory smile. ‘How disagreeable to have missed him. But he was not expecting me, so I cannot scold him.’ Her features were a study of insouciance as she glanced about. Her dark eyes darted back to a piece of parchment resting on an ebony surface. Idly Barbara moved in that direction to check her appearance in a gilt-framed mirror positioned over the console table. Her bonnet ribbons were loosened, then made more secure, but all the while covert glances were scanning what she now recognised to be a letter. On it she could decipher Mark’s name, and it had undoubtedly been written in a female hand. Barbara’s heart jumped a beat, for she had noticed something that indicated it could be from only one woman: the ink was still moist! Swiftly she turned her back on her reflection and regarded Lomax, but her hands were gripping the edge of the table behind her.

Her mind was suddenly overwhelmed by the whispered words she had overheard on Lady Gerrard’s terrace. But what if there is a child … what are we to do then? Did Emily Beaumont now know for certain she was increasing with Mark’s child? Such staggering news would certainly prompt her to disregard etiquette and urgently seek him. And she had looked violently troubled when she left this house a short while ago.

Barbara’s fingers tightened on ebony as she strove to contain her tormented imaginings. ‘I shall not leave a message and you need not tell Mr Hunter that I called.’

Mr Lomax elevated a quizzical eyebrow. ‘As you wish, ma’am.’

Barbara’s exploring fingers located paper and snatched. Suddenly she surged towards the door, rapidly covering marble in small steps. ‘I think that is all,’ she said as she swept past Mr Lomax. A regal nod at the footman bid he attend the door.

‘Does your wife know what you get up to?’

The drawled irony made Tarquin shoot up out of the armchair. The young woman who had been balancing astride his lap tumbled awkwardly sideways. She quickly scrambled to her feet whilst smoothing down her skirts and giving Tarquin’s arm an admonishing thump for such rough treatment.

‘What in damnation …?’ Tarquin’s unshaven jaw dropped to his chest. Agitatedly he scraped his fingers through his lank, flaxen hair, all the while gawping at Mark. ‘You just gave me the fright of my life, Hunter. What in damnation are you doing here?’ he snarled, fumbling at his breeches, his face ruddy with embarrassment.

‘What am I doing here?’ Mark echoed in a tone replete with sarcasm. He looked about the comfortable, if spartanly furnished, room. ‘Last time I saw the deeds I owned this lodge. I thus feel quite entitled to use it. More to the point, Beaumont, is what the hell you are doing here. Besides worrying the life out of your family, of course. But then I suppose you’ve not given much thought to any of that, have you?’

‘I hope you’re not going to preach,’ Tarquin muttered. ‘You’re no saint by any means.’

‘True; nevertheless you need a lesson over this.’ Mark moved purposefully closer, but halted when Tarquin’s companion skipped to shield him with her dishevelled figure. She continued to button her bodice, but up went her chin, and she challengingly met Mark’s eyes.

A contemptuous look was directed over her head at Tarquin before Mark strolled away to examine what was on the small dining table. He picked up a fork and turned over the remnants of a half-eaten meal of cheese and venison. A bottle of claret had a small amount left in it. Mark recognised the wine as from his cellar—a particularly good vintage—and it prompted him to wryly smile and wonder what provisions, if any, were left in the store. Mark poured what remained of the claret into a tumbler and tossed it back in a gulp. As he replaced his glass he remarked drily, ‘I see you’ve not gone without …’ A significant glance lingered on the woman. ‘Does your wife care that you’ve abandoned her? Or perhaps the honeymoon is already over.’

‘This is my wife,’ Tarquin admitted petulantly, and flung himself down into the chair he’d recently vacated.

‘Ah … I take it the honeymoon is progressing well, then.’ Mark took a more interested look at the pretty young woman and realised he vaguely recognised her. If his memory served him correctly, he had spotted Riley and her loitering in the vicinity of the modiste’s shop on Regent Street. On that occasion she had been wearing a flamboyant hat that had shielded her features. ‘Your manners are sadly lacking, Tarquin. Aren’t you going to properly introduce us?’

Tarquin did so, tersely. He gained his feet with a sigh and ambled to stand by his wife’s side in a show of grudging loyalty. Jenny slipped her hand through his arm and rewarded his gallantry with a little peck on the cheek. Mark received from her a glower that dared him to comment.

‘I suppose my marriage is common knowledge if you’ve come here looking for me. No doubt my father is beside himself and Mother is prostrate on a sofa with her salts—’

‘They don’t know,’ Mark cut sharply over Tarquin’s self-pitying whine. ‘And you had best give some serious thought to what you intend to do about the mess you’re in.’

‘He’ll cut me off without a penny.’

‘Can you blame him? You must have understood the risk you were taking.’

‘I hardly understood a blasted thing! I was so far in my cups, I was barely conscious throughout the service.’

Irritably Tarquin shrugged off Jenny’s possessive grip and stomped to a window of the hunting lodge. He gazed out through brown bars of bark to greensward in the distance. Finally he sighed and said, ‘It’s a God-awful mess. I don’t know what to do.’

‘You’ve got about half an hour to decide; then, ready or not, you’re coming back with me.’ Mark said in a voice that brooked no refusal. He glanced about. ‘I’m afraid your sojourn enjoying all the comforts of home, at my expense, has just ended. And to make sure you fully understand that … I’ll take back my spare keys.’

Tarquin turned his back on the pastoral view of Enfield Chase. Reluctantly he fished in a pocket, then lobbed metal on to the table. His mumbled gratitude for enjoying free hospitality was soon followed by, ‘So if it is not common knowledge about my marriage, how did you find out?’

‘Riley told me. He’s been trying to use your mésalliance to extort money from Emily. I’ve no doubt he would have blackmailed you instead had he discovered where you were hiding.’ Mark glanced at Jenny. ‘I take it your wife has your best interests at heart, not Riley’s?’

Tarquin looked affronted at that but, nevertheless, shot a dubious look Jenny’s way.

She had the grace to immediately blush. ‘I tried to put him off going after your sister,’ she insisted. ‘I told him to forget all about the Beaumonts and find another punter who’d cough up easy. But he’s a stubborn blighter. He wouldn’t let it rest.’ She raised doe-eyes to her husband. ‘I could’ve let on to Mickey where you was hiding, but I never did … honest …’

‘Emily’s embroiled in this?’ Tarquin had suddenly recaptured control of his shocked senses. His hoarse demand cut across his wife’s reassurances. Her little nod sent both his hands to cup his face, and he shook his head in a show of remorse.

Jenny snuggled against him, said softly, ‘I come here today to tell you about Riley and what he’s up to now, ‘cos it ain’t right, and I want no part of it. I would’ve said sooner about your sister, but …’ the pink in her cheeks deepened to crimson. ‘… you distracted me and it slipped me mind.’

Tarquin fidgeted on the spot. He couldn’t deny he had given Jenny very little opportunity to strike up a conversation since she arrived about twenty minutes ago. He cleared his throat, asked stiffly, ‘What have you to tell me about Emily?’

Jenny seemed suddenly tongue-tied. It was not the frowning look from her husband unsettling her, but the callous stare from his friend. Suddenly the fellow made a violently impatient gesture, making her jump and slip behind Tarquin.

‘If you know that Riley is planning more mischief in order to extort money from Miss Beaumont …’ Mark began.

‘It isn’t that,’ she blurted. ‘Mickey’s getting paid all right, but not from her.’ She looked at Tarquin apologetically. ‘He’s made a bargain with a fellow who’s got a fancy for your sister, and wants a chance to be private with her. Mickey, the vile devil, is getting paid to set up a meeting between them.’ Jenny quickly glanced away from the terrifying glint in Mark Hunter’s eyes.

‘What nonsense!’ Tarquin snorted. ‘I know Stephen Bond fancies Emily, but he’s a decent fellow. He hasn’t got it in him to plot a seduction, I’m sure of it.’ He shot a look at Mark and paled, for his friend’s features might have been hewn from stone.

‘What arrangements has Riley made? How is he to lure her there? Is it to soon take place?’ Mark fired the questions at Jenny.

Jenny blinked rapidly and moistened her lips. ‘It’s soon,’ she admitted. ‘I know Mickey wants to get his hands on the cash quick as can be. But that’s all he’s let on to me. By my reckoning he’ll use Tarquin as the bait.’

‘And who asked Mickey to set it up?’ Mark demanded with icy quiet. ‘And don’t lie to me.’

Jenny simply gazed forlornly at Tarquin for support. But he seemed to have retreated into a daze. His thumbnail was being whittled away by worrying teeth.

‘Tell me the name of the devil or by Heaven I’ll throttle it out of you!’ Mark gritted at Jenny through unmoving lips.

‘Steady on, Hunter …’ Tarquin snapped to attention to remonstrate on his wife’s behalf.

‘It’s Devlin!’ Jenny suddenly shouted with tears of fright sparking in her eyes. She knew that she had just burned her bridges by betraying Mickey. If he ever found out his money-spinner had turned sour due to her, he would not hesitate to seek revenge. She took a deep breath and repeated shakily, ‘It’s Devlin … that’s who it is … the brute …’

Emily looked up at the façade of the house and frowned. Moments ago she had disembarked from Riley’s gig and now stood with him on gravel that formed a circular drive to an elegant double-fronted residence. She took a look about. The property was definitely isolated from its neighbours, but was of grand proportions, and that put it beyond Tarquin’s pocket even had he been flush.

On the journey to the edge of town she had pondered on the hardship Tarquin might be enduring. Images of rural cottages with draughts whistling through windows and doors had beset her mind. She had feared she might find him a shivering wreck wrapped in rags with no fire in the grate. On looking skyward she could see curls of smoke drifting lazily upwards from twin chimneys.

Riley had told her that Tarquin was ill from sleeping rough. If he were within these doors, it would be more likely he was in fine fettle, and had been reposing on a feather bed at night.

She turned to Riley with a dubious frown and an unpleasant sensation gnawing at the pit of her stomach. ‘Tarquin would never have the means to rent such a house. As far as I am aware he has no friends hereabouts who might let him use their property. Are you sure this is the right place?’

‘It’s the right place right enough,’ Mickey returned on a bark of a laugh, but he avoided her eyes. Suddenly he stooped and grabbed the little bag of provisions and potions she had brought with her. ‘Come along, miss, won’t do to dawdle or we’ll never get back to town afore it gets dark.’ As though to emphasise that threat he glanced up deliberately at the lowering clouds in the west.

Emily skipped after his striding figure despite the host of niggling suspicions in her mind. Before she could voice even one anxiety, the door was suddenly opened by a manservant. Emily hesitated, the hairs on the back of her neck stirring as she noted the fellow’s neat uniform. It was an unusual livery of brown and gold that she recalled seeing before … quite recently. An instinct made Emily stop and take a pace back.

Riley had noticed her hesitation and, firmly clasping one of her elbows, propelled her up the steps and into the hallway. The manservant immediately closed the door and silently withdrew.

Emily spun about to gaze at Riley. But his attention was elsewhere.

‘There … all ready and waiting,’ he said, with a leer, but it was not her he was addressing in such a lewd tone of voice.

Slowly she became aware of approaching footfalls and twisted about. Her soft mouth slackened in amazement and her delicate brows pulled together. ‘Nicholas?’ She tested the name even though she could see quite clearly that it was indeed her former fiancé. She gave a little hysterical laugh. ‘Oh, never say that you have given my brother shelter. I thought the two of you were still at odds. Do you know all about Tarquin’s disappearance?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t, my dear, nor do I want to,’ Devlin said bluntly. ‘But over dinner you can tell me all about it, if you like. I’m prepared to indulge you, despite I couldn’t give a tinker’s cuss how he does. It’s you who arouses my interest,’ he concluded throatily.

Emily’s soft lips slackened, her eyes grew round. An absurd notion that the two men might have been in cahoots to dupe her entered her mind and refused to budge.

‘I take it this is mine?’ Riley said and snatched up something from the hall table.

Emily whisked about to look at him, but was uncertain to what he referred. Then she heard the unmistakable chink of coins as they were dropped into his pocket.

Mickey Riley had been paid by Viscount Devlin to bring her here! Swiftly she strode to Nicholas and glared up into his tawny eyes. ‘Have you plotted with this … this cur to trick me? Have you brought me here for no good reason?’

Nicholas put out a hand to touch her face soothingly. ‘You’re here for a very good reason, my love. I know you remember another such time when we were alone … and both so very pleased to be so. Soon you’ll be glad I acted the despot.’

Emily savagely slapped away the fingers that stroked her cheek. ‘You despicable beast!’ She would have returned her fist to her side, but it spontaneously raised and made vicious contact with his jaw. Obliquely she heard Riley give a hoot of laughter.

Nicholas pressed a few fingers to the livid stain her assault had put on his skin.

‘If it’s taming you want tonight, I’ll give it to you,’ he said hoarsely, his eyes darkening with a mix of anger and excitement.

Emily felt fear painfully knotting her insides, but steeled her courage, determined not to panic. ‘Was it not enough that you seduced me once before?’ she whispered in a tone of sheer loathing.

‘Of course not, or why would I go to such trouble and expense to do it again?’ Nicholas tore his eyes from Emily’s lovely features to give Riley a speaking look.

A ribald chuckle from Riley was the extent of him taking his leave. The sound seemed to echo about the hallway, petrifying Emily for a moment. Quickly gathering her senses, she flew towards the open door to escape from the house but, from the shadows, the manservant appeared. The fellow turned the key in the lock and removed it. As Emily watched her gaoler disappear she remembered where she had before seen that distinctive earth-brown livery: it had been in Whiting Street. Devlin’s coachman had been caped in brown and gold.

Her heart was thudding painfully slowly as she turned back to Devlin. She felt barely able to breathe let alone speak. Finally her arid, trembling lips formed brave words. ‘You are a devil and I am utterly ashamed that I once knew so little about your character that I wanted to marry you.’

‘Hush …’ Devlin purred as he pursued her retreating figure until she was cornered. ‘You have nothing to fear from me, Emily. I understand that you are angry at my scheming with that ghastly ruffian. But what could I do?’ He shrugged elegant shoulders. ‘You refused to meet me … sent me cruel letters spurning my love. Why? I want nothing from you that you have not before freely given.’