The Wanton Bride. Mary Brendan
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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.