“Miss Beaumont…what are you doing?”

“I’m avoiding someone, sir.”

“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 anymore.”

“If he’s making a nuisance of himself I’m sure I can persuade him to desist.” As Mark drew level to her, a frisson of something akin to excitement jolted through her. The corridor was narrow and shadowy, and a musky sandalwood scent seemed to emanate from the warmth of his body.

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. Miss Emily Beaumont might not like him, but he feared he might like her…a little too much….

The Wanton Bride

Harlequin®Historical #894—April 2008

MILLS & BOON

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Praise for Mary Brendan

A Practical Mistress

“Brendan has created a heroine to root for, and the indignities she suffers will pull at readers’ sympathies.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

The Silver Squire

“Mary Brendan delivers a lively tale with unconventional lovers and good characterization.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

A Kind and Decent Man

“Accomplished talent Mary Brendan is very adept at telling both sides of a love story, which easily doubles the readers’ pleasure.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

The Wanton Bride
MARY BRENDAN

Author Note

During the Regency period, genteel ladies hoping to find a husband were expected to be of impeccable reputation. In writing THE HUNTER BROTHERS duet of books, I have created heroines who don’t quite fit Polite Society’s view of an ideal wife.

In the first novel, A Practical Mistress, Sir Jason Hunter is captivated by a young widow brazen enough to proposition him.

The subsequent novel, The Wanton Bride, features Mark Hunter and his pursuit of a woman with a guilty secret in her past.

I hope you enjoy reading about two eligible gentlemen who are prepared to fight for the unique women they love.

Available from Harlequin®Historical and MARY BRENDAN

*Wedding Night Revenge #203

*The Unknown Wife #205

*A Scandalous Marriage #210

*The Rake and the Rebel #211

**A Practical Mistress #865

**The Wanton Bride #894

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter One

‘Nonsense, my dear! There is nothing sinister in it. Boys like to go off gallivanting once in a while. You’re worrying unnecessarily, I tell you!’ Mr Cecil Beaumont gave his beautiful blonde daughter a beaming smile. ‘Don’t look so glum. He’ll turn up when he’s good and ready.’

‘Tarquin is not a boy, Papa,’ Emily Beaumont pointed out quietly. ‘He is a man of twenty-seven and I suspect he has got himself into one scrape too many. Perhaps he has not succeeded in stalling his creditors and is in trouble.’ Her silver-blue eyes took on a faraway look as she pondered on instances when her older brother had brought himself close to ruination through gaming and wild ways. But he had never yet disappeared for more than a few days before turning up, like the proverbial bad penny, sober and remorseful. ‘Perhaps we ought to check with the authorities in case he is again in the Fleet.’

Mr Beaumont waved a dismissive hand. ‘No need…no need, my dear.’ He picked up his pen, idle on a page of his ledger, and set about using it.

His daughter was not so easily put off. Emily paced to the window of her father’s den, stared out sightlessly, before wandering back into the room, deep in thought. With a sigh she sank into an old armchair.

Tarquin had been due to come to their parents’ home in Callison Crescent and take their brother Robert to the outfitters. But he had failed to arrive at the appointed hour five days ago and had not contacted his family to make his excuses or his apologies. Emily thought it highly irregular behaviour, even for someone as self-centred as her brother.

Mrs Beaumont’s reaction on that afternoon was to mutter about the inconsiderate knave before she got her husband’s valet to take Robert to the tailors instead. When Emily had earlier today approached her mother about Tarquin’s lengthy silence, she showed herself no more concerned over her eldest son’s whereabouts than did her husband.

Mr Beaumont raised an indulgent paternal eye to his daughter. He tossed his quill on to the blotter and clucked his tongue. ‘Come, my dear, no long face, I beg you. If Tarquin had been threatened with prison, he would have by now summoned my help, you may take my word on it.’ Cecil gave a cynical little laugh. ‘I’ll not go looking for him to sort out his troubles—if troubles he has—for they always find me soon enough.’ A nod concluded his philosophy and he resumed his writing. A quiet moment passed. Warily he peeked up to find his daughter still in the room and looking no less melancholy. ‘Emily!’ he expostulated with a hint of impatience. ‘If you’re unable to put your mind at ease over it, I’ll call in to Westbury Avenue and see if his landlady knows where he might be.’

Emily brightened. ‘You promise you will do that, Papa?’ she asked.

Cecil nodded affirmation. ‘I can go that way to Boodle’s later.’

A smile erased the strain from Emily’s lovely features. Her father bowed his head over his ledger once more, gave a couple of short coughs, firmly letting Emily know their conversation was definitely concluded.

Emily rose gracefully from his armchair and went upstairs to her bedchamber.

Feeling lighter in spirits, she gazed out on to the street scene. She watched with an amount of amused interest as their neighbour’s footman strutted back and forth on the pavement, trying to catch the eye of the housemaid scrubbing the front step of the house opposite. The young woman’s complexion was as fiery as her hair and she looked too hot and bothered to presently entertain any thoughts of flirtation. Emily glanced up at a clear azure sky, then at fat green buds beginning to break on the lime trees guarding the crescent of townhouses. She decided she would call on her friend Sarah Harper who lived just a few turnings away. They could go for a stroll if Sarah was amenable to the idea of whiling away the afternoon with a chat and a browse in the shops. The day was clement and after a week of unremitting rain it would be nice to get out of the house and into the fresh air.

Emily was donning her coat by the front door when her mother appeared and frowned at her. ‘You must take Millie with you if you are going abroad,’ she lectured. ‘That crone made a point of telling me that she recently saw you out without even a maid.’

Emily signalled her insouciance with a delicately arched eyebrow. She knew exactly to whom her mother was referring, for the two women were archenemies of long standing. ‘Well, Mama, you must tell Violet Pearson that I am a woman of four and twenty and perfectly able to take care of myself.’

‘Your age is not the point, and you know it,’ Mrs Beaumont began, but her intention to furnish a lesson on etiquette and how it applied to spinsters came to nought. Her daughter gave her a little wave and skipped down the front steps. For a moment longer Penelope Beaumont stared at the front door. She shrugged—she was long used to her daughter’s headstrong ways. It was just a nuisance when hags, with nothing better to do than cause trouble, sought to bring it to her attention. She turned about and headed towards the parlour and a fortifying nip of sherry.

‘It is very odd behaviour,’ Sarah commented and looked thoughtful. ‘Surely your brother would at least pen a note to let you know if he is out of town.’

The two young ladies linked arms and promenaded towards Regent Street. They had decided to peruse the window displays of the new French modiste who had recently opened for business.

Sarah’s frown lifted in tentative enlightenment. ‘Perhaps Tarquin has fallen in love and has been lured to the country to do his courting.’

Emily chuckled. ‘I’d like to think such a noble reason exists for his absence. Unfortunately, Tarquin is besotted with Lady Luck. No real woman could compete with such a possessive mistress.’ She flashed Sarah a wry smile. ‘I expect Papa is right and I am worrying needlessly. My thoughtless brother is probably just gone off on a revel with one of his chums. But it is bad of him not to say so and odd that he has let Robert down. He and Robert are friends, despite the age gap between them.’ She frowned. ‘It was not nice to see Robert’s disappointment. He has gone back to school now and missed seeing Tarquin entirely.’

Emily’s arm was given a tug as Sarah drew her towards Madame Joubert’s shop. Behind small mullioned panes were draped a shimmering array of silks, artfully arranged to highlight their quality.

‘The sea-green colour is divine…but the gold is an unusual shade.’ Emily tilted her head to peer through the door. ‘They have more inside…’

Sarah interrupted Emily’s appreciation of the sumptuous cloths with a hissed, ‘Look who is coming!’ Emily’s ribs received a dig. ‘You ought ask him if he knows of Tarquin’s whereabouts. They are friends after all.’

Emily glanced along the road and her eyes fixed immediately on the man to whom Sarah had breathlessly referred. Indeed, it would be hard not to notice him. Mark Hunter was tall and broad with darkly attractive features that excited female attention. Emily recognised the elegant lady at his side who had her hand curved possessively over his arm. It was an open secret in polite society that Barbara Emerson was Mark Hunter’s mistress.

‘I see Mr Hunter has his chère amie with him,’ Sarah whispered.

‘I think it is more than that between them,’ Emily returned on a little huff of laughter. ‘I’ve heard a rumour that Mark Hunter is expected to marry Mrs Emerson. I imagine she considers herself to be his unofficial betrothed.’

Sarah arched an eyebrow. ‘I wonder who started that rumour?’ she said drily. ‘And until he makes it official, there is still hope for us all. Goodness, he is handsome!’ she breathed. ‘I think I might swoon.’

Her friend’s theatrical tone made Emily cast at her a small scowl. Sarah was quite aware that Emily did not like the man. ‘Handsome is as handsome does…’ Emily muttered in response to Sarah’s teasing. Her eyes returned to the object of Sarah’s admiration and lingered. Indisputably Mark Hunter looked a personable gentleman, but Emily had reason to believe him mean and callous. Was he not the fellow who had in the past had Tarquin imprisoned in the Fleet because he owed him money? Yet despite that betrayal her brother still liked Mark and classed him as one of his friends. On the few occasions Emily had quizzed him over his odd attachment to a man who had betrayed him, Tarquin had simply said Mark wasn’t a bad fellow.

Emily pondered on Sarah’s comment that this meeting might prove useful. Perhaps Tarquin’s friend might know if he had recently gone off to Brighton or to the Newmarket races or some other such place where fashionable gentlemen chose to congregate. It was an opportunity to find out and she ought take it.

Her eyes flicked up as she realised that the distinguished couple were almost upon them.

‘Miss Beaumont…Miss Harper.’ Mark dipped his dark head and slowed his pace, allowing the young ladies time to respond. Sarah did so immediately. A shy smile accompanied her curtsy.

Emily sketched a bob and muttered his name. He was steadily watching her and boldly she met his eyes. They were an unusual shade of blue, she realised, not unlike the lustrous peacock silk she had moments ago admired in Madame Joubert’s window.

A faint smile touched Mark’s lips as he acknowledged her cool response and she glimpsed humour far back in his vivid eyes. Of course, he was aware that she didn’t like him given that she had once frankly told him so. She hoped he was also aware that she found his good looks and ready charm quite resistible, even if her entranced friend did not. Emily shot a stern look at Sarah.

Aware that her lover seemed more interested in gazing at Emily Beaumont than conversing with her, Mrs Emerson quickly filled the silence. ‘I have not seen you in a while, Miss Harper.’ She turned to Sarah. ‘How is your mother? When last we spoke she was afflicted with the rheumatics.’

‘She is improved, I thank you, ma’am,’ Sarah replied. ‘When the weather is better, her condition is too.’

Barbara Emerson murmured her pleasure at knowing it, then turned to Emily. ‘And you look very well, Miss Beaumont. Are your family in good health?’

Emily gave the elegant woman an affirmative and a fleeting smile. She guessed that Barbara Emerson was probably no more than a year or two older than was she, yet Barbara had an effortless air of sophistication that made her feel girlish in comparison.

Barbara had married a wealthy man at nineteen, been widowed and left his property and fortune at twenty-one and was now the mistress and aspirant future wife of one of society’s most eligible bachelors. Emily charitably allowed that Barbara had earned her quietly superior attitude.

Noting that her attempt to distract her lover’s attention from Miss Beaumont had failed, Barbara subtly urged Mark to move over the shop’s threshold by squeezing the muscle beneath her fingers.

Emily felt Sarah’s elbow nudge her side as wordlessly her friend reminded her to speak of Tarquin before the opportunity was lost.

Mark smoothly extricated his arm from Barbara’s control in a way that was uncompromising yet courteous. With a faint flush livening her olive complexion, Barbara swished about and started to peruse the silks that had drawn Emily and Sarah to a halt by the window. Sarah stepped over to her and gamely indicated the colour she preferred.

‘Is your brother at home, Miss Beaumont?’

‘No, he went back to school this morning,’ Emily immediately answered.

A wry smile tilted Mark’s mouth. ‘I meant your older brother,’ he gently corrected.

‘Oh…I thought you were referring to Robert—I imagined you would know Tarquin is not with us.’ Emily’s small tongue stroked moisture to her dry lips. She felt faintly embarrassed by her gaffe, but her nervousness stemmed more from being constantly under his penetrating gaze. ‘Actually, I was about to ask if you know where Tarquin might be.’

Mark frowned—he had discerned the quiver of anxiety in Emily’s voice. ‘I have not seen him since last week at White’s when we played cards. I went this morning to his lodgings in Westbury Avenue, but his landlady said she’d not seen him for some days. I assumed he was staying with all of you at Callison Crescent. I’m not pursuing him for a gambling debt, I assure you,’ Mark added mildly, noticing her sharp look. ‘Tarquin expressed an interest in coming to Cambridge with me, that is all.’

Emily recalled then that Mark Hunter had a vast country estate in Cambridgeshire. Tarquin had visited it before and returned quite in awe of its size and splendid appointments. But now her thoughts returned to a place closer to home. She grimaced with disappointment as she recalled her conversation earlier with her father. ‘Papa said he would call in at Westbury Avenue this afternoon. From what you have said, he will be wasting his time.’ An unconscious sigh escaped Emily. ‘It is too bad of Tarquin to go off like that without a word.’ She raised anxious eyes to his face. ‘Do you have any idea at all where he might be? I know he pursues unusual entertainment. Are there any boxing bouts or cockfights that might have taken him out of town?’

Mark looked down into a heart-shaped face that was tense with concern. She wanted his help and he would have loved to be able to give it. Unfortunately he had no idea where Tarquin was.

Despite knowing that Miss Emily Beaumont didn’t like him, Mark had always harboured a soft spot for Tarquin’s sister. It was not simply her looks that attracted him, although she was exquisitely pretty and had an alluring little figure. Presently her curves were primly hidden beneath her velvet coat, but he’d seen her dressed in less and admired the way her body tautened silk in all the right places. And on such occasions when she’d quickened his pulse, he’d brooded on trying to alter her opinion of him. Inwardly he smiled, for it would be no easy task. And therein lay another reason she held a fascination for him. Emily Beaumont had a robust character and was not too timid to challenge him or to speak her mind. A lamentable amount of young ladies tended to blush and stammer in his presence. Emily was more likely to flash him a glare from silver eyes than flirtatiously flutter those wonderfully long lashes at him.

But she was looking at him now in mute appeal and that surely indicated she was open to being persuaded he was not the heartless fellow she’d previously thought him. Mark was reasonably sure that her brother was simply lying low to avoid paying his dues. But he was willing to keep his thoughts to himself and act knightly for the beguiling chit.

‘I’ve not heard of any such events taking place,’ Mark said levelly. ‘But that does not mean none exist. I can make some proper enquiries and try to find him, if you’d like me to,’ he offered huskily.

Emily gave a spontaneous smile. ‘Thank you, sir. I would indeed like you to do that. It would be reassuring to know that Tarquin is simply acting thoughtlessly and selfishly as usual.’ She had, she realised with a pang of regret, betrayed criticism of her brother’s character. Previously when with this man she had always been defensive if mention was made of Tarquin’s shortcomings. But her patience was wearing thin where he was concerned. He had let them all down in the past with his antics and they had rallied to support and to protect him. But Tarquin gave little back—even in the way of thanks—and Emily was aware that her parents’ lack of concern over his whereabouts sprang from a relief that their eldest son had taken himself and his problems away for a while.

Vexation caused a sigh to escape Emily. She would like to similarly forget Tarquin. Considering he had once driven away the only man she had ever loved, it seemed absurd that she could not banish the bothersome wretch from her mind.

Emily surfaced from her introspection to become conscious of a pair of deep blue eyes steadily watching her. Mark Hunter was aware of a momentary lapse in her role as loyal sibling. She guessed he was also reflecting on her reason for suddenly warming towards him.

Just minutes ago she had greeted Mark Hunter with distinct coolness. Now she felt awkward. They both knew that her abrupt change of attitude was simply due to the fact that she needed his help. That glint in his eyes was mockery, she was sure, and probably signalled that he thought her a hypocrite. And why should he not? She was on the verge of acknowledging it herself! Emily briskly dipped her head and took a step away from him.

‘Were you about to go in and make some purchases?’ Mark asked conversationally, seeking to delay her departure.

Emily shook her head. ‘No…we were just window-shopping. If you do come across my brother, Mr Hunter, I’d be grateful if you’d remind him where the Beaumonts live. Perhaps he might think to call in and say hello. Good day, sir.’

A smile curved his lips, acknowledging her ironic tone. ‘I won’t forget, Miss Beaumont. I’ll let you know if I discover Tarquin’s likely whereabouts.’

After a murmur of gratitude Emily approached her friend and Mrs Emerson. Sarah was still persevering in trying to engage Barbara in a chat about French fashions. Barbara’s responses had been limited to a variety of tight-lipped expressions.

After polite farewells Emily and Sarah walked off along Regent Street. They had distanced themselves by only a few yards when Sarah glanced back over a shoulder. ‘He’s still looking at you,’ she hissed into Emily’s small ear. ‘And Mrs Emerson has an unladylike scowl on her face.’

‘He could be looking at you,’ Emily immediately pointed out. ‘Barbara is probably in a fit of the sulks from having delayed her shopping spree. I don’t say I blame her. Those silks looked quite wonderful. It is a shame we didn’t see what else was on the shelves.’

‘Let’s go back,’ Sarah breathed. ‘Why should we not? We were at Madame Joubert’s first, after all.’

‘Don’t be silly; it would look as though we’re following them.’ Emily gave Sarah’s arm a little tug to turn her about. ‘And stop staring at them, for goodness’ sake!’

Chapter Two

‘Stop staring at them, for Gawd’s sake!’

The young woman’s booted toe made ungentle contact with her companion’s shin. He yelped and swore beneath his breath at her. ‘Wot you do that fer, Jenny?’ he snarled.

‘To stop you gawping like an idiot,’ Jenny Trent hissed back. ‘This ain’t the time and place to be seen.’ The young woman shot a look from under dropped lids and cursed quietly. ‘I reckon the nob she was talking to has spotted us watching her. We don’t want to be tangling with the likes of him!’

Mickey Riley affected nonchalance as he turned to look across the street. Fleetingly he met Mark Hunter’s steady stare. His attention soon returned to his companion. ‘Fellow’s looking at you, Jenny.’ He leered at the pretty woman at his side. ‘I know his sort. Quality with cash and an eye for petticoat, he is.’ He chewed his lips and gave Jenny a sly look. ‘We could’ve found richer pickings than Beaumont.’

‘Bit late to be thinking that now!’ She pinched his arm, urging him to move on. ‘You and your daft ideas!’ she scoffed.

Mickey Riley eyed the distinguished gentleman propped against the doorjamb of the posh shop, whose pretty ladybird was pointing out to him something she liked in the window. The fellow didn’t seem that interested; he soon glanced again across the street. ‘I reckon he’s taken with you, Jen. Give him something to look at,’ he urged his shapely young companion.

Jenny scowled up at Mickey, but did instinctively twitch at her skirts thus revealing a pair of shapely calves and ankles. She shook back her auburn curls, setting them bouncing beneath the elaborate concoction of feathers perched on her head.

‘Good girl,’ Mickey praised with an appreciative grin and threaded her arm through his.

Mark Hunter watched the couple disappear into the Regent Street throng. Had Mickey Riley known his thoughts, he might have felt less cocksure. It was not Jenny who had taken Mark’s interest, but Mickey himself.

Mark allowed Barbara to steer him inside the shop. He made appropriate noises as she indicated the things she liked, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

It seemed a rather odd coincidence that Emily Beaumont should mention Tarquin and cockfights to him just moments before he clapped eyes on a fellow he had last seen arguing with Tarquin at a cockfight in Spitalfields Market. It had been a heated enough exchange for Mark to enquire after the fellow’s identity. Tarquin had obliged him with that information when he subsequently joined him at the ringside of a boxing bout, but had seemed reluctant to divulge more about Mickey Riley, or the subject of their disagreement.

The incident had been some weeks ago, but Mark had a good memory for faces, and Riley’s appearance was quite striking. He looked to be about Mark’s own age of thirty-two, yet had hair as grey as smoke and a complexion that had been ravaged by the elements to nut brown. Riley also had a misshapen nose that led one to believe he was, or had once been, a pugilist. Notwithstanding those blemishes, he was well built, and an oddly handsome man.

When Mark had witnessed the altercation between Tarquin and Mickey—who was quite obviously of a different social class—he had not been surprised or concerned. Tarquin’s love of gaming brought him into contact with all sorts of people at all sorts of venues. His friend would wager on a street scrap between two bruisers or a race of thoroughbreds at Epsom. Unfortunately, wherever he went, Tarquin had an unholy knack of backing a loser.

Most gentlemen with such an appalling record of luck would find diversion of a different kind. Yet after almost a decade, and a small fortune squandered, Tarquin still followed the philosophy that the next stake would bring it all right.

Mark’s thoughts returned to Mickey Riley. If Tarquin owed him money—perhaps from a bet that night in Spitalfields—Riley didn’t seem the sort of fellow to take the loss lightly. Of course, Tarquin’s debts were not his business…at least, not until he decided to call in the loan he had made him last year, and added to them, Mark wryly reflected.

But the sardonic tilt to his lips was soon gone. Mark’s mood became sombre, for he had an uneasy feeling that Mickey and his female companion had been watching Emily. Or it could have been Sarah Harper they were interested in, but instinct persuaded him it was not.

It seemed absurd to suppose that Riley might accost Emily because her brother owed him money. But it was certainly not unheard of for even well-connected creditors to pursue the relatives of those who tried to renege on a deal. Big and brash as Riley looked, perhaps he was too craven to approach Mr Beaumont senior with his complaints and was stalking his daughter instead.

Mark darted impatient looks about the cloyingly scented shop. Madame Joubert was rustling hither and thither, her arms full of froth, as she tempted Barbara to make her purchases. As he watched the pretty trivia pile on the counter, he wondered whether he was letting his imagination run riot. There was little substance on which to found his suspicions.

He had no proof that Riley and his female companion were doing more than enjoying a leisurely afternoon stroll. If they had been watching Emily and her friend, was it necessarily from sinister motives? Two attractive young ladies, obviously of enviable status, were bound to draw the attention of those less privileged.

It was a reasonable explanation, but ultimately did not quell Mark’s suspicions. He had a sudden urgent desire to quit the modiste’s, immediately track down Tarquin, and demand he tell him what the hell he had lately been up to.

‘Man over there give it to me. He told me to bring it to you.’

Emily looked down at the ragged child who had moments ago yanked rudely on her coat to gain her attention. The boy had then stuck out a grimy hand that clutched a note. Tentatively Emily took the paper and then peered in the direction that the wizened-faced little urchin was pointing. She couldn’t see anybody at all who looked to be the likely sender. People were stepping briskly along the pavements, going about their business with no hint of any interest in her.

She looked enquiringly at the boy, who was wrinkling his freckled nose. He cuffed at his face as he looked up and down the street. ‘He’s gorn,’ he admitted with a shrug. ‘But he was over there and he give me it and then he give me this.’ Dirty fingers were opened to reveal a few coppers. ‘You gonna give me anythin’?’ he boldly asked and peered at Emily with one eye open and one closed against the afternoon sunlight brightening his sallow complexion.

Recovering her senses and her voice, Emily murmured, ‘Oh, of course.’ She fished in her reticule and then tipped a few more coins to chink on those reposing on his blackened palm. His fingers trapped the pennies, then he was haring away as though he feared she might snatch them back.

Emily walked on slowly towards Callison Crescent. She had a few minutes ago left Sarah at her door and had been barely five minutes from her own home when the lad had accosted her. Curiously she inspected the note. It was sealed, but there was no name or direction on it, just the sooty marks left by the child’s fingers. She made to open it, then hesitated. With a little inner smile she wondered if perhaps she had a secret admirer. If so, she ought to, at her leisure, discover his identity. She slipped the parchment into a pocket. It certainly would not have come from the gentleman who openly admired her.

Mr Stephen Bond was not prone to such romantic gestures as employing guttersnipes to deliver her a billet-doux. But he was nice enough, if rather predictable. Emily let out a sigh. Thinking of that gentleman had reminded her that Mr Bond was due to dine with them later and of course he would be exceedingly punctual.

‘I expected you home before this,’ was the peevish greeting that Emily received from her mother as she stepped into the hallway. ‘You have not forgot that we have company?’

‘No, Mama,’ Emily said. ‘I know Mr Bond is coming at seven.’

‘Well…good…let Millie do something pretty with your hair. The curls looks limp.’ Her mother circled her and picked a loose golden tress from the shoulder of her blue velvet coat. ‘Stephen is to bring his grandmamma with him this evening. She is up from Bath and seems eccentric. I was introduced to her at the Revue and couldn’t but invite her when Stephen mentioned he was coming. She had on the ugliest gown I ever did see. It was a shade of purple with fawn stripes. What possessed her to wear a green hat with it?’

Emily gave her mother a wicked smile. ‘If she arrives here in the same ensemble, perhaps we should demand to know.’

Penelope Beaumont chuckled, but her humour soon faded and she frowned at the door. ‘And your father is late home too. It’s nearly a quarter to six.’

‘He said he would call in at Tarquin’s lodgings. That has probably delayed him.’

‘A man was looking for Tarquin.’ Mrs Beaumont volunteered that information with a furrow in her brow. ‘Millie ran an errand for me earlier and she said the fellow stopped her in the street. He must have watched her leaving the house or how would he know of a connection between them? She said he was polite to her despite seeming a bit of a rough sort.’ Mrs Beaumont peered past her daughter as her husband entered the hallway brushing water from his caped shoulders. ‘It’s come on to rain again,’ she gleefully remarked. ‘The Pearsons will have to cancel their firework display.’

‘It is as well then that you were not invited, Mama.’ Emily was aware that her mother and Violet Pearson were continually sniping at one another. They had been at loggerheads since Robert planted a facer on Bertie, the Pearsons’ son, thereby knocking out his two front teeth. The patresfamilias had shrugged and commiserated together about the young scamps. But Penelope Beaumont and Violet Pearson seemed determined to keep the feud alive.

‘No sign of Tarquin, I’m afraid.’ Mr Beaumont had deposited his damp coat on a chair and was wearily approaching the ladies. His tone had changed since that morning. Now Emily detected a distinct hint of anxiety making his voice husky.

‘You went to Westbury Avenue, Papa?’

‘I did, and Tarquin’s landlady was pleased I had stopped off, I can tell you. I had no chance to ask her if she knew where he was. She demanded I disclose to her his direction. She is under the impression he has done a flit and will not be back.’ Mr Beaumont sadly shook his head. ‘Most of his possessions are gone and he owes her two months’ rent. She has not seen hide nor hair of him for almost two weeks.’

‘What are we to do with him?’ Penelope Beaumont flapped her hands in exasperation. ‘When will he settle himself down and act responsibly? I knew he was running away from his debts again.’

Cecil pursed his lips. ‘In my opinion, it’s more than the rent he owes that’s bothering him. Mrs Dale told me a fellow with a broken nose had called at Westbury Avenue looking for him. She said he looked like a cove it would be best not to cross.’

Penelope Beaumont anxiously clasped her husband’s arm. ‘A man with a crooked nose stopped Millie in the street. He was asking about Tarquin. Millie said he seemed quite polite…’ she added desperately.

‘So he will be if he is about to demand his cash,’ Mr Beaumont pointed out with a cynical grunt of a laugh. ‘It’s when he doesn’t get it that he’s likely to turn rude.’

Emily bit at her lip as she swung a glance between her parents’ drawn countenances. Their brief respite from Tarquin’s problems was at an end. He might still be out of sight, but imagining what sort of chaos he had created was tormenting their minds.

‘I can’t understand why he’s not been in touch,’ Mr Beaumont said. ‘If he needs money, I’m usually his first port of call. I wonder if he’s approached one of his friends to bail him out? I warned him last time that I’d do it no more. Mayhap he took me at my word.’

‘I saw Mark Hunter when out,’ Emily quickly volunteered that information. ‘He also had called in at Westbury Avenue to look for Tarquin.’ She immediately allayed her parents’ fears as to why he would be seeking their son. ‘It was not for payment of a debt, Mr Hunter assured me of that. He has not seen Tarquin recently either, but he kindly said he will make enquiries and let us know if he discovers anything.’

Cecil Beaumont nodded slowly. ‘Mark is a good chap; if he says he will put himself out to do that, then I expect he will.’ Cecil scraped lank greying locks off his freckled forehead. ‘I suppose I ought open the post in case the bad news is come in a letter from Tarquin. Usually he just turns up and I can read it in his face.’

Emily’s father trudged towards his study; her mother hurried away to check on their dinner. Before Penelope disappeared towards the kitchens, she called back to her daughter, ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, make yourself presentable, Emily. Look at the time! The Bonds will be with us in less than an hour.’

As the baize door closed behind her agitated mother, Emily slowly slid her hand into her pocket. She withdrew the parchment and felt a chill settle about her heart. Secret admirer, indeed! she mocked herself.

She suddenly had a very strong suspicion as to who had sent her letter. The manner in which it had been delivered obviously indicated that her brother did not want her parents to know of its existence, or its content. But why had he not shown himself to her? Why had he sent the boy to deliver it? If he was too wary to approach her in the street, even for a few moments, then Emily realised he must be in bad trouble indeed. The paper was dropped back into her pocket and quickly Emily headed for the stairs and the privacy of her chamber.

‘You are a pretty gel, but undoubtedly past your prime.’

Emily heard that ambiguous tribute as she was sipping her wine. She swallowed quickly, for an urge to giggle had caused her to almost choke. She coughed delicately while composing herself, then smiled at Mrs Augusta Bond. She deposited her glass back on the table.

‘Emily is not yet five and twenty,’ Mrs Beaumont stiffly interjected. ‘Hardly in her dotage, I think.’

Augusta Bond raised her lorgnette and divided her myopic gaze between mother and daughter. ‘Her chances of getting a husband are not so good as the younger gels out this year. Her looks come from her father’s side,’ the grande dame opined, then affected not to see the icy stare that comment elicited from her hostess. Augusta let her glasses fall against her ample bosom and resumed attacking her beef with her knife and fork.

Emily sensed the old harridan’s grandson was looking her way. She knew Stephen would want to wordlessly convey his chagrin at his grandmother’s shockingly blunt manner. Emily took pity on him and gave him a subtle smile. Immediately he returned her an apologetic grimace that caused his thick brows to disappear beneath his fringe of blonde curls.

‘Miss Beaumont has an exceedingly fine singing voice,’ Stephen nervously told his grandmother. When that praise failed to wring a compliment from the old lady, he added, ‘And I’ve not encountered any young lady who can play the pianoforte so well, and without a piece of music to follow.’

‘That don’t mean she’ll make a good wife,’ Mrs Bond hissed at her grandson in an audible aside.

Emily quickly snatched up her glass and downed an unladylike quantity of wine in one gulp. Oddly she felt an urge to endorse Mrs Bond’s advice to her grandson. Stephen Bond was a nice gentleman but, unless there was no option but to do it, she would not marry him. He deserved to be loved, not tolerated.

Emily’s silver eyes, brimful of laughter, lifted to Stephen’s embarrassed countenance, then darted to her mother’s face. Penelope Beaumont’s expression was a study of furious indignation.

Had Emily been in lighter spirits, she would have more fully appreciated the unexpected entertainment that had arrived punctually at seven o’clock in the stout shape of Mrs Augusta Bond. She might even have entered into the spirit of the game and given the mischievous old biddy a run for her money. But her eyes were drawn to where her papa sat quietly at the head of the table. He seemed to have withdrawn to a world of his own. Even his wife’s frequent glares could not budge him from it.

Emily could guess what was preoccupying her poor papa. He was trying to fathom into what sort of trouble his eldest son had now plunged. Before dinner Emily had thought she would by now have an answer to that conundrum. But the letter she had received was not after all from her brother. However, it did concern him, and Emily was still pondering on the peculiar message she had received, and why it had come to her at all.

When Tarquin’s creditors gathered, if they could not find him, they usually sought to inveigle her father into paying. But this time she had received the begging letter, albeit couched in covert terms.

A person who remained anonymous had issued her an invitation to meet them tomorrow by the pawnbrokers’ shop in Whiting Street in order that she might learn something important concerning her brother. It also stated that she must keep the matter to herself to avoid a scandal.

Emily had marvelled at the audacity of the fellow. She had quickly concluded that the author must be one of Tarquin’s creditors who hoped to coerce her to honour her brother’s debt. She had also deduced that the likely culprit was the ruffian with the broken nose, who had been loitering about, because the message was poorly written.

Emily was not so naïve to believe that her brother gambled solely in the gentlemen’s clubs with his peers, but the idea that he was consorting with a man sporting a broken nose and a lack of grammar was indeed disheartening. Nevertheless, she would keep the appointment, and she would keep it to herself. She glanced again at her father as he absently pushed food about on his plate. He was approaching his sixty-fifth birthday and had for too long been encumbered with Tarquin’s problems. Emily had no intention of taking on the yoke and would make that abundantly clear to Tarquin as soon as she again got within earshot of the selfish wretch.

‘Have you ever received a marriage proposal, Miss Beaumont?’

Emily focussed on the present and saw that Augusta Bond had her bright beady eyes on her.

‘Has any man asked you to marry him?’ the old lady insisted on knowing.

Emily glanced at her mother’s hideously shocked expression. Stephen had ceased chewing in alarm and had one cheek bloated with food. Emily compressed her lips to suppress the giggle throbbing in her throat. She took a deep breath before replying calmly, ‘Indeed I have, Mrs Bond. I was engaged when I was twenty.’

‘Cry off, did he?’

‘Umm…no. I think I did, actually,’ Emily said and placed her napkin down on her plate.

‘Emily was betrothed to Viscount Devlin.’ Mrs Beaumont issued that information in a glacial tone.

The old lady raised her lorgnette and peered at Emily with a glimmer of respect. ‘Managed to hook a title, did you? No chance of getting him back now he’s married to the Corbett chit. I hear she’s already increasing.’

‘I’ll see if the next course is ready,’ Penelope enunciated frigidly and surged up majestically from the table.

Emily glanced at her father to see he was now very aware of the tension in the room. He was looking in concern at her as though fearing she was upset. She reassured him with a smile before sending a challenging look at Augusta.

The old lady’s eyes narrowed behind the glass, but Emily had the oddest impression that, before she let fall her lorgnette, Augusta winked at her.

Chapter Three

‘That woman is the rudest person I ever did meet!’

Emily had barely managed to put a foot over the threshold of the morning room when that exclamation assaulted her ears. She had hoped that a good night’s sleep might dilute her mother’s ire, but it seemed as strong as ever.

When their guests had left at ten of the clock last evening, Mrs Beaumont had needed several draughts of sherry and the ministrations of both her husband and daughter to calm her enough to get her to bed.

‘And her grandson is so…pleasant, so…inoffensive,’ Mrs Beaumont emphasised with a quivering finger. ‘Do you think it is her age? She looks to have reached her three score years and ten. Perhaps she is becoming a little confused.’

‘I think she knows exactly what she is about,’ Emily said with a light chuckle. ‘I imagine Mrs Bond likes to be shocking.’

Penelope Beaumont clucked disgust at that. She pushed the jam pot towards her daughter as Emily sat down opposite her at the breakfast table.

Emily commenced spreading blackberries on to her toast, saying, ‘Mrs Bond might be getting on in years, but she seemed to me to be in robust health and, in an odd way, I quite liked her.’

When Penelope heard that, her chin sagged towards her bosom.

‘Oh, come, Mama, you must admit Augusta has a certain lively spirit, and she plays a mean hand of piquet. Papa lost a crown to her.’

Penelope snapped together her lips. ‘And that compensates for her insults? How dare she speak so! You are a beauty in your prime.’

‘She said nothing that was not true.’ Emily took a fond glance at her mother from under long brunette lashes. Penelope had long harboured hopes that a knight in shining armour would carry her only daughter off to his Mayfair mansion and a life of untold luxury. Emily’s eyes shaded wistfully. The knave had tarried too long. Her mother was on the point of urging Emily to settle for Mr Bond and a villa in Putney. Emily pushed away her plate and wiped crumbs from her slender fingers. ‘You know I’m too old to successfully compete with the débutantes for a husband. And I do actually take after Papa’s side of the family. The miniature of Grandmama Beaumont could be my likeness.’

‘And what about Augusta’s appalling insensitive remarks about your aborted betrothal?’

‘She did not know of it, Mama, I’m sure. She simply asked if I had received any marriage proposals.’

‘I’ll wager she did know of it and was out to be provocative,’ Penelope snorted in muted outrage. ‘Dreadful woman! You might have again burst into tears over it all.’

‘I have not burst into tears over it all for a long while,’ Emily said softly. ‘And I promise I will never do so again. As for Augusta, I think she genuinely knew nothing about it. She lives in the country and the scandal was not so great.’ She paused before reciting, ‘When Tarquin Beaumont gave Viscount Devlin a beating, thereby ruining his sister’s chance of happiness with the Viscount, I imagine it got scant mention in Bath drawing rooms. The gossip in London lasted barely a week, thank heavens.’

‘It was only so soon forgot because that hussy Olivia Davidson ran off with her sister’s husband and set all the cats’ tongues wagging.’

‘And how grateful I was for poor Miss Davidson’s disgrace,’ Emily reminisced wryly. ‘I still feel a little guilty when I see Olivia’s sour face,’ she added.

‘It’s her own fault she’s ostracised by everyone, including her own kin. Silly fool should have known he’d slink home with his tail between his legs and it would all end in tears.’ Penelope flapped a hand. ‘Oh, enough about them! We were talking of your fiasco. I still say you acted too proud and too hasty, Emily. You should have married the Viscount, you know.’

‘Indeed?’ Emily gave a sour little laugh. ‘Nicholas had made it clear by then he regretted an association with our family. I had no intention of binding him to his word and having a husband who might grow to despise me.’

Penelope waved that away, but her further arguments were immediately interrupted.

‘We have been through this before and I refuse to rake it all over again. It is done with.’ The grit in Emily’s tone was at odds with the easy smile she gave her mother. Gracefully she rose from the dining table and went to the window. ‘I am going out early today. Madame Joubert has some fine new silk…’

‘I’ll come too. I need some buttons—’

‘No.’ Emily realised she had declined the offer of her mother’s company far too abruptly. Penelope looked rather taken aback, so she hastened to say, ‘I was going to find something nice for your birthday. It won’t be a surprise if you come too.’

Penelope flushed in pleasure and murmured, ‘Oh, I see…’

Emily felt a little guilty at the excuse, though she had not told a lie. She would call in to the modiste’s on Regent Street and would find her mama something special for her birthday. Nevertheless, her real reason for going early abroad this morning was to keep her rendezvous on Whiting Street with the person who had sent the note. And she had certainly no intention of letting her mother in on that.

Penelope Beaumont could become disproportionately agitated over a trifling upset. If a storm was about to break over Tarquin’s debts, it would be prudent to shield her from the worst of it for as long as possible.

‘Mr Bond is here, ma’am.’ Millie had slipped into the room to announce they had a visitor.

Penelope frowned—it was hardly yet the hour to be receiving callers. She gave her daughter a quizzical look.

‘I expect he has come to apologise for his grandmother’s blunt manner.’ Emily gestured that she had no objection to seeing him.

‘We will receive him in the parlour, Millie,’ Penelope told the young maidservant.

Once in the parlour, and in the company of their diffident guest, Mrs Beaumont proceeded to pour tea while Emily and Mr Bond made polite observations on the vagaries of spring weather. Stephen was handed his cup and saucer and accepted the invitation to sit down whereupon, without preamble, he set about doing his duty.

‘I must apologise for calling on you so early but I wasn’t sure…that is to say…’ His eyes darted between the two ladies as though searching for assistance. He cleared his throat and blurted, ‘I wanted to again thank you for such fine hospitality yesterday and to make sure that you had not…been perturbed by my grandmother’s blunt manner.’

Stephen glanced at Penelope Beaumont. Something in her expression caused him to quickly add, ‘My grandmother does not intend to upset people, but she can be rather too outspoken.’ He took a gulp from his tea, then clattered the cup down to rest.

‘Does she not understand that being too outspoken is likely to upset people?’ Penelope asked stiffly.

Stephen coloured and coughed. ‘I don’t think she does, ma’am. But if you thought any of her remarks offensive I will, of course, unreservedly apologise on her behalf.’

Emily put her tea down on a side table and kindly said, ‘I thought your grandmama was quite a character. I enjoyed meeting her.’ Emily’s smile turned wry as Stephen looked most surprised to hear that. ‘If Mrs Bond is not soon returning to Bath, you must introduce her to Mrs Pearson.’ Emily sent her mother a twinkling look. ‘Do you not think, Mama, that Violet Pearson might benefit from an acquaintance with Stephen’s grandmother?’

Finally that morning Emily had drawn a twitch of amusement from her mother.

‘Do take another cup, Mr Bond,’ Penelope urged amiably and advanced with the pot.

Emily checked the wall clock and stood up. She needed to be on her way if she was to keep her appointment. ‘I’m going out shopping, but do stay and finish tea,’ she added as Stephen leaped to his feet.

‘I’ll gladly give you a ride,’ Stephen volunteered eagerly, raking his fingers through his springy blond curls. ‘Actually I ought to be getting along too. I have an appointment in Holborn.’

‘I accept your kind offer, in that case,’ Emily said.

Despite his noticeably wonky nose, it was not the fellow’s looks that drew Emily’s attention, but his manner. He had the demeanour of a person oblivious to the fact that he was under observation. Back and forth he strutted beneath the brass balls of the pawnbroker’s shop, every so often peering at the passing carts with obvious disappointment. Then, a few yards away, a hackney cab pulled up at the kerb. That sent the fellow darting into the shop doorway, only to reappear a moment later when a stout gentleman alighted from the vehicle and purposefully bowled off up the street.

Emily guessed he had been expecting to catch sight of her before she noticed him. Doubtless he imagined she would arrive at the pawnbroker’s in a vehicle rather than on foot. But Emily had not wanted to be quizzed by Stephen over why she was to be set down in an area so lacking fashionable shops. Instead, she had asked him to deliver her to a salubrious part of town that was within easy striking distance of Whiting Street. Having first declined Stephen’s offer to meet her later to take her home, she had then watched his rig turn the corner before briskly walking east.

It was a fine spring morning, but chilly gusts of wind made her keep her cloak pulled tight about her. She again sent a discreet look across Whiting Street at the fellow she was sure had sent her the note.

Although his burly figure didn’t intimidate her, she did feel nervous. This was an area generally populated by gentlemen. They came to these premises to meet their men of business and pore over contracts and unintelligible papers. A lone female loitering about was likely to incite curiosity. Emily knew that her own papa often had assignments on this street with his attorney. Fervently she prayed that he had not arranged a meeting with Mr Pritchard today.

‘Emily? Emily Beaumont?’

That cultured voice, once so well known to her, made Emily freeze, then pivot slowly about.

Viscount Devlin had been about to get into a crested carriage, but now he hesitated and sauntered, with much use of his ebony cane, along the pavement towards her.

Emily had wondered how she would feel if ever she and this man were to meet, alone. Of course, since the end of their betrothal many years ago, they had met socially. But that had been in polite company when they both were mindful of etiquette and speculative stares.

Notwithstanding the fact that Emily knew the love of her life was now a husband and prospective father—for she had heard that his wife was increasing before Augusta mentioned it—she wondered if the Viscount’s roguish charm would still impress her. The closer he came, the more she feared the potency of his attraction. He was still youthfully good looking and could have passed for a man half a decade younger than his thirty-one years. His fair hair was artfully dishevelled and his hazel eyes warm as they settled on her face.

‘Are you waiting for your father?’ he asked, surprise leavening his tone, as he took a glance along the street. Emily imagined he expected to spy Mr Beaumont emerging from a nearby portal.

‘No…I’m not,’ Emily answered too quickly and truthfully. She sought for an excuse for her odd presence on Whiting Street. But she need not have worried over any further interrogation from the Viscount—he now seemed distracted by her small tongue as it trailed moisture over her full pink lips.

Emily felt her heart begin to race beneath his languid appraisal. The heat smouldering in his eyes brought instantly to mind images of things they had done together that she thought she had buried deep in her past. A burst of knowledge brought with it a guilty exhilaration: Viscount Devlin still desired her.

‘When was it that last we met?’ the Viscount asked huskily, his tawny eyes moving to her body. ‘It must have been a year ago. I swear that every time I see you, Emily, you have grown more lovely.’

Emily sensed her heart increase tempo, but flashed him a cool look from silver eyes. ‘And I swear, sir, that I think you must be still recovering from a night of roistering to say such a thing to me.’

‘Can I not compliment you?’ he asked gravely. ‘Why are you so prickly, Emily? Has the hurt not yet healed?’

Emily blinked. Part of her wanted to laugh scornfully at his terribly inappropriate remarks, but there was also a shameful part of her that would rather listen to more of his flattery. Mentally she shook herself and took a step away. He might tell her she was lovely, and look at her as though he wanted to kiss her, but her memory was not so short. A few years ago, after Tarquin had thrashed him, there had been nothing but disgust and anger in his eyes when he saw any Beaumont, including her.

‘What you are referring to belongs to the past, sir,’ she said stiltedly, ‘and there is certainly nothing more to be said about it.’ She bobbed and made to whip past him, but a hand shot out, arresting her.

‘Don’t fly away, Emily,’ he softly pleaded. ‘I have long thought that there is more to be said. I have wanted to see you alone; have hoped we might meet by chance like this. I think of you often. I think of what might have been…’

Emily twisted her wrist from his restraint and took two crisp backward steps. She darted a look here and there to see if they were under observation and was annoyed to notice that they were. The bruiser who had summoned her to this dratted neighbourhood in the first place had now spotted her! Emily frowned and sighed softly. The situation had become farcical. She was not now likely to discover Tarquin’s whereabouts.

‘Do you know him?’ Viscount Devlin asked.

‘Who?’ Emily blurted and her eyes darted quickly to the Viscount’s face.

‘The fellow across the road who appears to be staring at you.’

Emily spontaneously shook her head. It was not a lie; she did not yet know him, but she was certain she had been within a few minutes of remedying that when Nicholas Devlin had turned up. In a way it was fortunate that the Viscount had come along when he did. A moment or two later and doubtless he would have seen her talking to the fellow and that would certainly have given rise to awkward questions.

Emily was aware that her brother and her erstwhile betrothed still shunned one another. Whereas Nicholas might show her a little sympathy and kindness, Tarquin would receive no such consideration. If her brother was again in bad trouble, she was certain that Nicholas would revel in knowing it.

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?’

Chapter Four

‘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 purposefulness. 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.

‘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.

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