Praise for

Lucy Ashford

writing as Elizabeth Redfern:

THE MUSIC OF THE SPHERES

‘Unputdownable…[a] remarkable debut…a glittering

tale of London in 1795, full of science, intrigue, war,

revolution, and obsessive passion.’

—Guardian

‘An engrossing read and a rich,

pungent evocation of the period.’

—The Observer

‘…brilliantly handled to keep the reader guessing

right to the end.’

—Charles Palliser

‘Striking and original…a star is born.’—Literary Review

‘Quite wonderful…It is Redfern’s ability to

bring each scene, each character alive

that makes this such toothsome reading.’

—USA TODAY

AURIEL RISING

‘Intelligent.’—The New York Times

‘Richly atmospheric…Redfern’s strength

is in recreating a morally corrupt world…’

—Publishers Weekly

‘You do have qualities in which I am interested,’ Marcus said.

‘There is a man in London on whom I wish, very badly, to be revenged. He has several weaknesses, and I intend to attack accordingly. Firstly he is a gambler, who cannot resist a challenge when the stakes are high. And secondly he has a marked liking for pretty women who are skilled at card play.’

‘So I’m ruled out for certain, surely, if you are looking for someone pretty? Since you make it quite clear that I am nothing of the kind!’

She saw a half-smile flicker across his strong mouth—a dangerous, all-male smile. ‘Those weren’t my precise words, minx,’ he said softly. ‘I think, in fact, that you could be very, very pretty.’

Tassie felt the colour rising in her cheeks. ‘You jest with me.’

‘I assure you, this is not jest.’ No, indeed. His voice, his expression told her he was in deadly earnest. ‘To put it briefly, Tassie, you and I could help each other out quite considerably.’

Lucy Ashford, an English Studies lecturer, has always loved literature and history, and from childhood one of her favourite occupations has been to immerse herself in historical romances. She studied English with history at Nottingham University, and the Regency is her favourite period.

Lucy has written several historical novels, but this is her first for Mills & Boon. She lives with her husband in an old stone cottage in the Peak District, near to beautiful Chatsworth House and Haddon Hall, all of which give her a taste of the magic of life in a bygone age. Her garden enjoys spectacular views over the Derbyshire hills, where she loves to roam and let her imagination go to work on her latest story.

This is Lucy Ashford’s debut novel for Mills & Boon® Historical Romance.

AUTHOR NOTE

I’ve always adored historical romances. I grew up daydreaming about King Arthur’s knights, Rosemary Sutcliff’s Roman heroes, the Scarlet Pimpernel and, of course, Georgette Heyer’s Regency rakes.

So you can imagine that, although I’d had some success writing historical thrillers, I was really longing to create a romance set in a bygone age. And who else to approach but Mills & Boon?

After a lot of fun dreaming up my plot and characters, and with a great deal of help from skilled and sympathetic editors, I finally became a Mills & Boon author with THE MAJOR AND THE PICKPOCKET. The story is set in 1780, at a time when gambling fever was really starting to take the nation in its grip. Great lords and ladies would lose and win mighty fortunes in all-night sittings. My feisty heroine, Tassie, is as skilled as any of them at tricking her way out of trouble at the turn of a card—that is, until the wounded war hero Major Marcus Forrester calls her bluff!

So here it is—my first Mills & Boon® Historical Romance. I do hope you enjoy the story of how the Major and the mischievous pickpocket Tassie discover true love together.

The Major and the Pickpocket
Lucy Ashford

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Praise

Excerpt

Author The Author

Author Note

Title Page

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

Copyright

Chapter One

London—February 1780

Heavy rain that night meant the streets were almost deserted, and so it was even more startling for the few pedestrians in the vicinity of Pall Mall to see a big chestnut mare being pulled up in a frenzy of sparking hooves outside the porticoed entrance of one of London’s most discerning clubs. The mare had been ridden hard. Its glossy flanks were heaving, and its eyes rolled whitely in the gleam of the yellow lamplight. Swiftly the horse’s rider dismounted, thrusting the reins and a few coins towards a hovering groom before swinging round to face a footman who watched him uncertainly from the shelter of the imposing doorway. At this time of night, and in this sort of foul February weather, club members usually arrived by carriage or sedan, not like some whirlwind from hell on horseback.

But before the footman could issue a challenge, the dark-haired rider, his mouth set in a grim line, was already striding up the wide steps. It was noticeable now that he had a slight limp, but it didn’t seem to slow him in the least. His long riding coat, glistening with rain, whirled out behind him as he crashed open the door, and his whip was still clutched in his hand. As the gust of cold air he’d let in billowed through the lofty reception hall, all the candles were set a-flicker, and a number of disdainful faces turned to stare. A plump butler started busily towards the intruder, but found himself brushed aside, like a moth.

‘I’m looking for Sebastian Corbridge,’ announced the man. ‘Lord Sebastian Corbridge.’ His voice was calm, but the menacing gleam in his eyes was like sparks struck from flint.

He looked as if he had been riding hard all day, to judge by the mud on his boots, and the way his dark, unpowdered hair fell in disordered waves to his collar. He was not old, perhaps no more than twenty-five or twenty-six, but the taut lines of fatigue that ran from his nose to his strong jaw made him look older. The butler backed away warily, because he could see that this tall stranger with the limp wore a sword beneath his loose riding coat. And unlike most of the primped, scented men of leisure who frequented this club, he looked as if he would know how to use it.

By now the man’s abrupt intrusion had registered even in the furthest recesses of the reception hall. Murmured conversations died away; startled faces, adorned in many cases with powder and patches, turned one after the other towards the doorway. Even the sombre portraits hanging from the oak-panelled walls seemed to gaze disapprovingly at the abrasive stranger whose clothing continued to drip water on the fine parquet floor, creating little puddles around his leather riding boots.

‘Lord Sebastian Corbridge. I want him,’ the intruder repeated softly, his hand flicking his whip against his booted leg in unspoken warning.

Someone rose languidly from a deep leather chair in a shadowed alcove. He was about the same age as the intruder, but his appearance could not have been more different, for his elegantly curled cadogan wig was immaculately powdered; his blue satin frock coat, with its discreet ruffles of lace at cuff and throat, was quite exquisitely fitted to his slender body. And his haughty, finely bred face expressed utter scorn as he gazed at the man who spoke his name.

‘So, Marcus,’ he drawled, taking a lazy pinch of snuff from a filigree box. ‘You’re back. As usual, dear fellow, you seem to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The army hasn’t done much for your manners, has it? Members only allowed in here, I’m afraid—’

Sebastian Corbridge broke off, as the dark-haired man threw his whip aside, then covered the ground between them to grasp his blue satin lapels with both hands. ‘My God, Corbridge,’ the man grated out, ‘but you’ve got some explaining to do. Let me tell you that I’ve just returned from Lornings, and I didn’t like what I found there. You’d better start talking. You’d better think up some excuses, and quickly.’

Corbridge looked down with pointed disdain at the hands that gripped his exquisite lapels. ‘So you’ve ridden all the way from Gloucestershire,’ he sneered, the slight tremor of fear disguised by heavy scorn. ‘Dear me. And there was I thinking you might have come straight from some modish salon—after all, I suppose it’s just about possible that clothing such as yours is permitted at fashionable gatherings now that there are so many unemployed ex-army officers around town…’

The taller man’s powerful shoulder muscles bunched dangerously beneath his greatcoat, and Corbridge was lifted from the ground.

‘Do put me down, Marcus!’ breathed Lord Sebastian Corbridge. ‘You smell of horse, man. Wet horses. All in all, you’re rather overdoing it—betraying your origins, you know?’

All around the room their audience watched the scene in breath-holding fascination. A young footman, who’d just come through from the inner salon bearing a brandy decanter on a silver tray, froze into immobility at the sight, his mouth agape, and the candlelight danced on the golden-amber liquid as it shivered behind the cut glass. Slowly, the dark-haired man called Marcus let go of his victim. His steel-grey eyes were still burning with intensity, and the skin around his grim mouth was white. He drew a ragged breath. ‘At least, cousin Sebastian, I don’t stink of trickery and theft.’

Nearby an older man whose face was red with indignation jumped to his feet. ‘Enough, man,’ he rasped at the intruder. ‘Guard your tongue, or we’ll have you thrown out bodily!’

Corbridge shook his head quickly, smoothing down his satin lapels. ‘No need for that, eh, Marcus? Firstly, I’d like to hear you explain yourself. And, secondly, I’d much, much rather you didn’t address me as cousin.’

‘I’d rather not have to address you as anything,’ said Marcus. He was more in control of himself now. ‘But the fact remains that we are, unfortunately, related. And you ask me to explain myself; but first I’ll ask you this. How do you justify the fact that you’ve managed to rob my elderly godfather of everything: every acre of land, every penny of savings, and above all the home he loves so dearly?’

Lord Corbridge arched his pale eyebrows, just a little. ‘Facts, dear Marcus, let us look at the facts! Though facts, I remember, were never your strong point. Always emotional, weren’t you? Must be your unstable heritage showing through…’.

Marcus’s face darkened and his fists clenched dangerously at his sides. Corbridge, after taking a hasty step back from him, went on hurriedly, ‘I’ve robbed Sir Roderick Delancey of absolutely nothing, I assure you! In fact, I tried to help him, tried to dissuade him from plunging into yet greater debts…Gambling is such a sad sickness, especially at his age.’ He shrugged, an expression of concern creasing his smooth features. ‘But in spite of my every endeavour, Marcus, the foolish Sir Roderick continued to plunge yet deeper into the mire. I extricated him from the likelihood of a debtors’ prison at vast personal expense. In return, he agreed to offer me as security the great hall at Lornings and the land that goes with it.’

‘If he loses Lornings, he’ll be a penniless bankrupt!’

‘Wrong again, Marcus.’ Corbridge gave a thin-lipped smile, drawing confidence from those who’d gathered around him. ‘Your godfather will always have a roof over his head—the Dower House, to be precise—and some income from the home farm. Though it’s more than the pitiful old fool deserves. Gambling is a quite fatal disease, I fear.’

‘And one that he was never infected with, until you decided to poison him!’

Corbridge shook his head. ‘You’ve been away for two years, Marcus. What’s the matter? Didn’t find fame and fortune soldiering in the Americas? Managed to get yourself a lame leg instead? Hoped to come back and live off weak-witted old Sir Roderick’s fat purse—only to find the purse no longer so fat? What a shame.’ He turned with mock concern to his rapt audience. ‘Something should be done about our returned war heroes. They should be awarded a better pension, perhaps. We heard about your promotion, Marcus—pity it wasn’t with a decent regiment, though. Perhaps the beautiful Miss Philippa Fawcett would have revived her interest in you if you’d had a little more to offer her on your return.’

The other man’s eyes blazed. ‘You know damn well why I didn’t get in with a fancier regiment, Corbridge. It was because I didn’t care to go around oiling palms with false compliments and fistfuls of money that would have kept some of our badly paid foot soldiers in luxury for the rest of their lives.’

‘How noble,’ breathed Lord Sebastian Corbridge. ‘How infinitely noble of you, Marcus. Of course, your particular family circumstances don’t exactly endear you to your superiors, do they?’

Someone in the audience laughed jeeringly. ‘Have the man thrown out, Corbridge. Unstable streak in the whole family, if you ask me. Isn’t he the fellow whose mother went mad? Mad as a hatter, they say. She actually ran off with one of his father’s grooms…’

Marcus turned. In the blinking of an eye, so fast that no one there had time to register it, he had whipped out his sword and held it so that its point just nicked the lace ruffles at the throat of the man who had spoken. The man’s eyes were suddenly round with fear; his plump face had gone as white as a sheet. After a second’s paralysing silence, Marcus let his sword fall. He turned back to Sebastian, slamming the long blade back into its sheath.

‘This quarrel is becoming too public for my liking,’ he said flatly. ‘I don’t care to discuss my private affairs, or my family, in front of specimens like these. Let us arrange a duel.’

The flash of fear that crossed Lord Sebastian’s face was quickly concealed. ‘A duel? With an injured man?’ he queried, looking pointedly at Marcus’s leg. ‘My dear cousin, what must you think of me?’

Marcus lifted his dark, expressive eyebrows. ‘Do you really want me to explain exactly what I think of you? In words of one syllable, so everyone here understands?’

But Lord Sebastian Corbridge did not reply. Instead he was looking furtively over Marcus’s shoulder; and Marcus, seeing that look, swung round, his sword once more at the ready, to face several burly-looking footmen who were advancing rapidly towards him with their fists clenched.

Then, suddenly, another figure moved swiftly out from the shadows, knocking Marcus’s weapon aside with a deft blow of his arm. A voice—cheerful, almost laughing—called out, ‘Now, Marcus! Time for the disengage, dear boy! Live to fight another day, eh?’

And Marcus found himself being hustled, almost pushed, towards the big outer doors, which were kicked open with a crash by his companion as he hurried Marcus down the wide steps into the chilly street.

Once on the pavement Major Marcus Forrester shook himself free and reluctantly sheathed his sword. ‘Hal,’ he said with a sigh. ‘You’re a good friend, but you should have let me hit him, at least.’

Hal Beauchamp, whose compact, expensively dressed frame nevertheless hid considerable physical expertise, relaxed into a smile and handed Marcus the riding whip he’d tossed aside earlier. ‘What, and give those beefy minions who were creeping up behind you the chance to beat you black and blue?’ he objected. ‘Not the best of ideas, Marcus! A strategic retreat is definitely in order, I think, before those painted fops in there combine their scanty brain power and come after us!’

Marcus grinned back at his friend. ‘A pursuit? And you reputedly the best swordsman in the regiment? Hardly likely, I think, Hal.’

‘No. Hardly likely.’ Hal held out his hand warmly for the other to shake. ‘Good to see you back in London, Marcus. Really good. Now, I assume from your attire that you arrived here on horseback?’

‘A hired horse, yes—I paid a groom to see to it.’

‘Very well, then, dear fellow; so now I insist you come and share a bottle of claret with me, somewhere more congenial than that hole, and tell me—’ Hal’s brown eyes gleamed ‘—absolutely everything.’

Inside the hallowed portals of the club, Lord Sebastian Corbridge, smoothing down his satin frock-coat like a bird preening its badly ruffled feathers, returned to his table and affected nonchalant disdain. But his hands were still trembling, and he was aware that his acquaintances had rather enjoyed the spectacle they had just witnessed. Corbridge was not a popular man in London.

‘Is he really your cousin, Corbridge?’ grinned the portly Viscount Lindsay, generally known as Piggy. ‘You kept quiet about that side of the family, dear boy.’

Lord Corbridge paled slightly beneath his fashionably applied powder and patches. ‘I have numerous distant cousins,’ he replied disdainfully. ‘My great-grandfather, you will recall, was the Earl of Stansfield—’

‘Oh, we remember all right,’ replied Viscount Lindsay, sharing a covert sneer with the others seated at their table. ‘You remind us of it nightly, dear fellow.’

‘The Earl,’ continued Corbridge stiffly, ‘had a variety of offspring. Major Marcus Forrester, whose mother was the only child of the Earl’s disreputable youngest son, is one of the least significant of them all.’

‘Fellow didn’t look insignificant to me,’ drawled Viscount Lindsay, raising his eyebrows. ‘Fellow looked damned frightening to me, Corbridge, when he had you dangling there like a gasping fish.’

The others joined in the laughter, and Corbridge paled again. ‘The army’s all he’s fit for,’ he muttered in a low, angry voice. ‘There’s bad blood on that side of the family. He was scarcely out of infancy when his mother fled to Europe with her lover, some lowly serving man. Since then, Marcus Forrester has shown a dangerous instability. I never thought to see him return alive from the war in America.’

‘No,’ put in Viscount Lindsay rather maliciously. ‘I bet you didn’t, Corbridge. Seems as if young Marcus has found out, too, exactly what you’ve been up to while he’s been away with his precious old godfather and that rather splendid estate at Lornings. All in all, it’s rather damned bad luck for you that he’s returned at all, isn’t it? Alive and well and primed for action, it seems.’

Lord Sebastian Corbridge was silent. But his slender white hand, which glittered with jewelled rings, twisted in some agitation around the stem of his glass.

Outside the sepia clouds still surged menacingly overhead, and the pavements glinted with puddles in the yellow light of the street lamps as Hal and Marcus proceeded on foot towards the Strand. But at least the rain had ceased; and the citizens of London were heading out again for the gaming clubs of St James’s, or the colourful taverns and theatres beyond Leicester Fields. Hal Beauchamp—as fair as Marcus was dark, with a slighter build, and an open, sunny countenance—was cheerfully extolling the merits of the dining parlour at the Bull’s Head. They’ll set us up with some excellent victuals, Marcus!’ he promised. The claret’s first rate as well, I assure you. And then we could go on somewhere for a decent game of hazard—’

‘No! No gaming.’ Marcus’s vivid, handsome face, which had relaxed in the company of his friend, was suddenly serious once more. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever cast the dice again, Hal.’

Hal Beauchamp pulled a droll expression. He was dressed as usual in the most expensive, if discreet of styles; his long greatcoat that swept almost to the ground was exquisitely tailored, and his beaver hat and shining top-boots bore evidence of the tender care of a skilful valet. ‘Oh dear, oh dear me,’ he sighed. ‘It’s the end of the world indeed if Major Marcus Forrester renounces the fine art. What would your devoted soldiers say? Remember the game of hazard we had in camp, just before the raid on Wilmington last year? The enemy were all around, and you were saying, “One more throw, gentlemen. Just one more throw. I feel that my luck is in…”’

Marcus laughed, but his eyes were bleak. ‘It hasn’t been in lately, Hal.’

‘No.’ His friend’s expression softened. ‘I heard about your injury, at the siege of Savannah. Do you have somewhere to stay in London?’

Marcus shook his head. ‘Not yet. The army pensions office offered me some tedious post in recruitment with lodgings all in, but I refused. And I haven’t started looking for anywhere else yet. I just wanted to find Corbridge.’

‘And kill him? So I must assume you were planning on sleeping in Newgate gaol tonight,’ said Hal lightly as they jostled their way through the crowds that thronged Haymarket. ‘I have a better suggestion. Come and stay with Caroline and me, in Portman Square. Far more comfortable than Newgate, I assure you.’

Marcus struggled, then smiled. It was very difficult not to smile when Hal was around. They’d been at Oxford together, then the army; they’d shared good times and bad. But now they were both out of the war; Hal because his only sister, who had been recently widowed, needed him at home; and Marcus because of a rebel’s musketball through his thigh.

‘ You are more than kind,’ said Marcus, turning to face his friend. ‘But your sister—I would be imposing, surely?’

‘Not at all, dear fellow. She always had a soft spot for you. And your injured leg will give her something to fuss over.’ Hal hesitated. ‘I heard, you know, about your godfather Sir Roderick and the business with Corbridge. It must have come as a blow to you. The loss of your inheritance, the decline in your prospects…’

Marcus said quietly, The worst of it, Hal, was seeing what it has done to my godfather. This business has all but finished him off.’

Hal nodded, frowning in sympathy. Then stay with us, while you see what can be done.’

‘I have no wish whatsoever to be in anyone’s debt.’

‘My dear fellow,’ responded Hal swiftly, ‘let’s have no talk of debt. Consider our house your home for as long as you wish.’

And to ensure there could be no further argument, Hal resumed his steady pace along the Strand, where the candlelit shop windows with their displays of millinery and trinkets glittered enticingly. Carriages clattered by, and sedan-bearers pushed through the crowds, their polite calls of ‘By your leave, sir!’ swiftly changing to their usual ripe curses if people failed to move out of their way. Marcus hurried to keep up with his friend’s loping, athletic stride, knowing he shouldn’t have ridden so damned hard for the best part of two days—but what else could he have done other than resolve to take action, any kind of action, once he’d seen the state his gentle, kindly godfather was in?

Sir Roderick Delancey had been a friend and neighbour for as long as Marcus could remember to the Forrester family on their rather ramshackle Gloucestershire estate, and when Marcus’s mother had run off, amidst such disgrace that her husband, a broken and impoverished man, died soon after, Roderick took responsibility for his godson Marcus without hesitation. Not possessing any children himself, Sir Roderick had paid for Marcus’s schooling; and in the vacations Marcus spent long weeks at his godfather’s beautiful country mansion, which he came to regard as his home, his own home having to be sold to cover his father’s debts.

After Oxford, when Marcus set his heart on joining the army, Sir Roderick had offered to buy him a commission in one of the top cavalry units; but Marcus, who had his own kind of pride, refused, and became a captain in a line regiment. He was swiftly promoted, and when his regiment was sent to America to fight under Cornwallis, Sir Roderick continued to write regularly to his godson—but last autumn the letters had stopped.

And now Marcus knew why.

Some day, Marcus had resolved, he would return to active service. But not yet. He had another battle to fight first, on Sir Roderick Delancey’s behalf.

At the corner of Half Moon Alley, a crowd had gathered around a couple of street entertainers who, using a stretch of low wall as their table, were tempting passers-by to bet on which of three upturned cups covered a coin. The first of the pair, a ragged-looking man with a wooden leg, was dextrously switching the cups to allow onlookers tantalising glimpses of the bright coin, while his accomplice, a slim youth wearing a long coat and a cap rather too big for him, was strolling around and drumming up trade in a light, cheerful voice. ‘Roll up, roll up, ladies and gennelmen! Put your penny down, guess which cup hides the sixpence—it’s easy, see?—and win it for yourself! Yes, win a whole, shiny sixpence! Roll up, roll up—’

Then the lively youth broke off, because his sharp eyes had observed what Marcus now saw—a fat member of the Watch huffing and panting towards the pair with his stick raised, and two of his companions coming up behind. ‘Haul them two coves in!’ the watchman roared. ‘They’re thieves and scoundrels, the pair of ‘em!’ The man with the peg-leg had his coin and his little cups thrust deep in his pockets in no time; tucking his wooden limb under his arm, he raced away on two exceedingly sound legs, while, doubtless by prior arrangement, his young companion took off in the opposite direction towards Hal and Marcus, twisting and turning nimbly through the crowds that thronged the pavement. Marcus watched, interested and impressed, as the lad, though caught briefly by the wrist by one of the Charleys, kicked his way free and ran on boldly, his ragged coat flying and his cap crammed low over his head. As he drew nearer, Marcus glimpsed emerald green eyes glinting above an uptilted nose, and a merry mouth curled in scorn—until the lad realised some more watchmen were hurrying up from the other end of the street, thus cutting off his escape.

Now, Marcus Forrester could never understand why a pair like this—up to no real harm, as far as he could see—should arouse the full ire of the law, when murder and mayhem went on without interruption in some of the hellish back streets where the Watch were afraid to even set foot. ‘Let’s even the odds,’ he murmured to Hal. And just as the lad was hesitating, no escape in sight, Marcus reached out, grabbed him by the arm—‘Let go of me, you dratted coneyjack!’ was his only thanks—and thrust the slim fugitive, whose head barely came up to his shoulder, behind his back into a dark doorway. More colourful protests came flowing in abundance from that clear, expressive voice; but Marcus ordered through gritted teeth, ‘I’m trying to help, you young fool. Stay there. And shut up.’ Hal, brown eyes a-twinkling, completed their bodily barricade of the lad’s hiding place; then the pair of them, arms folded, pretended to look on as if faintly bored, while the breathless old watchmen—the Charleys—elbowed their way through the swirling London crowd, up and down the street, looking in vain for their quarry. ‘Where’s that there lad?’ one of them bellowed. ‘Old Peg-leg’s helper? Up to no good, ‘im and all his kind, should be ‘anged the lot of them—which way did ‘e go?’

Marcus cast a swift glance back into the doorway, where the youth, having decided rather sensibly to cooperate, was now crouching silently behind him and Hal. Marcus saw again, with a kind of startlement, that pair of wide, incredibly green eyes taking everything in; and just at that moment the young fugitive, sensing his gaze, looked up at him and—grinned.

No fear. No fear at all, in that smooth young face…Marcus frowned, then quickly switched his attention back to the watchmen, who were shaking their heads, swearing volubly and stamping off down the Strand. Marcus looked back into the doorway and nodded. ‘All clear now. Off you go.’ The lad, emerging blithely from behind the long folds of Marcus’s riding coat, whispered, ‘My thanks’, and quickly vanished into the crowds.

Hal lifted one querying, humorous eyebrow at his friend. ‘Still on the side of the underdog, I see?’

‘Most definitely,’ declared Marcus. ‘Why the hue and cry? They were only a couple of street entertainers.’ But even as he dismissed them both, he was aware that the younger one had puzzled him considerably. ‘My thanks… ‘That voice, if you ignored the insults, had been expressive and clear. No hint of low-life in those parting words. He shook his head, swiftly banishing that bright, green-eyed gaze from his mind. ‘On to business, Hal. Where are we heading after we’ve eaten?’

‘I thought we’d go to a new place in Suffolk Street, called the Angel,’ explained Hal. ‘It’s discreet, private, and has some of the best gaming in town. Oh, yes. I know—’ he raised a finger to silence Marcus’s protests ‘—you’re never going to gamble again. But let me just say this. You want to get your revenge on the loathsome Corbridge, for ruining your godfather. Am I right?’

‘You are,’ replied Marcus, his mood grim once more.

‘Then remember your army training, dear boy. Go to the kind of haunts your enemy would frequent. Probe his weaknesses. And Corbridge’s are…?’

‘You’ve got all night to listen? Well, apart from his general obnoxiousness, his weaknesses, from what I remember, are spending and gambling. And beautiful women, with rather doubtful reputations—’

‘Especially young fillies with an eye for the gaming table,’ broke in Hal. ‘Lady Franklin, Cecilia Connolly, and that ravishing blonde known as La Fanciola from the Opera House—they are all exquisitely golden-haired, all greedy for money by fair means or foul, and he’s dallied with them all! So listen, it’s quite simple. What you must do is find another of the same kind—young, accomplished, preferably with guinea-gold curls—persuade her to entice him to the card tables at some private establishment—and use her to get back all your godfather’s money off Corbridge!’

Marcus laughed, shaking his head. ‘That’s meant to be simple? I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t I just run him through? It would be a damn sight easier.’ His hand moved instinctively to his pocket, to check that he had enough money for the night ahead. And then he went very still. ‘My wallet,’ he breathed. ‘It’s gone.’

Hal’s eyes widened. ‘Are you sure? You might have left it somewhere, or dropped it in the street, perhaps…’

Oh, no. Marcus knew he hadn’t dropped it. Suddenly he remembered the young fugitive with the mocking green eyes. He remembered, too late, the light hand that he felt brushing his coat as the lad departed. He turned to Hal and said flatly, ‘If you’re still set on a game tonight, you’ll have to lend me the stake. Until I get to my bankers in the morning, I’ve not a penny to my name. That young wretch we helped back there has repaid me by picking my pocket.’ And, Marcus vowed, if he ever caught the lad, he would give his backside a beating he’d never forget…

Hal frowned. ‘The ungrateful rogue! Well, of course I’ll lend you something, Marcus. Who knows? Tonight at the Angel your luck might change for the better!’

‘I certainly hope so,’ replied Marcus with feeling. But his bleak eyes did not echo that smile. And Hal, who had been intending to ask Marcus if he had seen Philippa yet, decided that perhaps now was not the best time to broach that rather tricky subject.

Chapter Two

The street trickster whom Marcus was cursing so roundly was meanwhile twisting and turning knowingly through the assortment of narrow alleyways behind Maiden Lane before finally sidling into the shadows of an empty doorway and listening hard.

Nothing. No pursuers. No Charleys. With a sigh of relief the young thief sauntered off northwards whistling The Bold Ploughboy’, cap pulled down low over forehead, hands thrust deep into shabby greatcoat; because, although it had stopped raining, the February night was still damp and cold. One hand encountered a leather wallet, and those bright green eyes were troubled, just for a moment, at the memory of its owner; then the youngster strolled onwards. Doubtless the dark-haired swell was rich enough not to miss it over-much.

Carefully avoiding the clusters of hard-drinking men who gathered around Bob Derry’s Cider Cellar, the pickpocket, now munching on an apple filched earlier from a fruit stall, chose a secret way through the warren of courtyards that lay behind Drury Lane; then at last came to a halt, gazing up to where a flickering lantern illuminated a faded inn sign. This was the Blue Bell tavern: a pretty name for a low-life inn run by a steel-tongued landlady called Moll. Frowning briefly at the thought of Moll, the youth straightened his shabby coat and marched through the crowded, smoky taproom to push open a small side door into a private parlour, occupied only by a group of men clustered intently round a card game. The sudden draught from the door made the tallow candles flicker. Three of the players leapt to their feet, their hands clutching their cards. Then the fourth one, a gangly young fellow with rather startling tufts of red hair, grinned broadly. ‘No cause for alarm, lads! It’s just our Tassie, bin up to her usual tricks, no doubt.’

The men sat down again. Tassie closed the door with a deft kick, pulled off her cap and threw it defiantly on the table as her long golden hair tumbled around her shoulders. ‘What do you mean, ‘tis only me?’ she challenged. ‘Haven’t you missed me, all of you?’ No reply. Sighing a little, she let her keen eyes rove over the well-worn cards splayed out on the table. ‘Fie, Georgie Jay, if ‘tis whist you’re playing, then I hope you remembered to keep the guard on your pictures, as I told you last night!’

Then the girl sat among the men, quite at ease, as the sturdily built, black-haired man in his thirties whom she’d addressed as Georgie Jay, looked frowning at his cards. ‘God’s blood, but you’re right, Tassie,’ he said.

‘Course she’s right,’ said the red-haired lad, still gazing admiringly at the newcomer. ‘There’s no one to beat our Tassie at cards.’

‘Or dice,’ grinned Georgie Jay. He patted the girl’s shoulder and turned back to the game.

The girl let her fair brow pucker a little. ‘Weren’t you—worried about me, Georgie?’

‘Why, lass? Should we have been?’

She shrugged. ‘Not really. I helped the cups-and-sixpence man up on the Strand.’

‘Old Peg-leg? Did you make much?’

‘Didn’t get the chance. We were chased off by the Charleys.’

‘Good job you can run fast, then.’

‘Indeed.’ Tassie stretched out her legs in their over-large boots and leaned back in her chair, her hands in her pockets, secretly a little upset that they weren’t more troubled by her encounter with the Watch. She decided to say nothing about the dark-haired man and his wallet, though at one time she’d have told Georgie Jay everything, for he was the undisputed leader of this motley crew of travellers, and had been like a father to her ever since he’d found her eight years ago, alone on a country lane. ‘We work when we can,’ he’d told her, ‘and when we can’t—for times are hard for poor folks like us—why, then, we take a little from those who have enough and to spare!’ Yes, Georgie Jay had been her saviour and protector, and she would always be grateful to him. But things had changed. Oh, how they had changed.

Moll, the buxom landlady, had just come into the room to see what was going on, Then she spotted Tassie, and scowled. ‘Our Tassie’s had a run-in with the Watch, Moll!’ Georgie Jay told her.

‘Lord’s sake,’ said Moll, ‘what a fuss you all do make of that girl. ‘Tain’t natural, a grown lass like her trailing round with you all.’

Tassie met Moll’s glare with stony dislike, and began to get to her feet, but Georgie reached out to forestall her. ‘Tassie’s one of us, Moll. Bring the girl some food, will you? You know she’ll be ready for her supper.’

Tassie was; but she fought down the hunger pangs gnawing at her ribs. ‘My thanks, but I’m not hungry.’ Most certainly not for anything Moll dished out.

She picked up her cap, ready to leave; but just at that moment Georgie Jay exclaimed, ‘Tassie! Now, what in the name of wonder is that?’ He was pointing at the ugly bruising on her wrist, where the Watch man had grabbed her.

‘It’s nothing. Nothing at all.’ She stepped quickly back, shaking down her sleeve.

‘So you were in danger! Look, Tass, perhaps it really is time you stopped all your trickery out on the streets…’

‘Oh, fiddlesticks, Georgie,’ she said airily, ‘you all have close shaves with the Watch every now and then, don’t you? Tonight was no different!’

But Georgie Jay was sighing as he gazed at Tassie’s defiant face beneath her tumbling curls that glowed a fierce gold in the flickering candlelight. ‘You’re a lass, Tassie,’ he said regretfully. ‘It’s as simple as that. Things just can’t go on the same. Why, you’re nigh as tall as young Lem! How old are you now—fifteen, sixteen?’

Tassie shrugged her shoulders, guessing now was not the best of times to tell him she was seventeen. ‘How should I know how old I am? Do you really think anyone used to celebrate my birthday?’ No, indeed. Painful memories flashed through her mind. The big old house where she’d spent her early childhood. The long days spent locked in her room, learning her letters or struggling over hateful stitching with frozen fingers. The endless fear of punishment. She’d run because she felt that nothing, anywhere, could be worse.

She realised now that she’d been more than lucky to be found by good-hearted Georgie Jay, who still lived by the honourable code of the travelling folk, and insisted that his followers did the same. He’d stoutly declared that Tassie had a place with them for ever; but even he, it seemed, was now having his doubts. And so, perhaps, was she.

‘All the same,’ he was saying now, ‘we need to have a talk, lass.’

Tassie gazed at him steadily. ‘Are you trying to tell me that you don’t want me with you any more?’

Georgie Jay looked unhappy. ‘We’ve been doin’ a bit of thinkin’ and Moll’s got a grand idea that might suit you just fine!’

Tassie’s eyes flashed warningly as she looked at the older woman. ‘Oh, has she now?’

‘Moll’s got a brother,’ Georgie pressed on. ‘He and his wife, they’ve got a small farm—Kent way, isn’t it, Moll?—and they could do with some help around the place—’

Tassie turned on Moll incredulously. ‘You think that I’d go as a servant to your brother? The one you were going on about the other night, saying he was a miserable skinflint and a tyrant?’

Moll coloured and looked angry. ‘There’s a good opportunity for you there, young madam, and don’t you scoff at it!’

‘I’ll scoff at it all right,’ Tassie breathed. ‘You’d better think again, Moll, if you want to find your brother a—a cheap skivvy.’ And, holding her head high, she marched to the door that led to the stairs, and closed it with a resounding bang behind her.

Once in the inner hallway, though, Tassie stopped, fighting to control the emotions that were now shaking her body. Despite her words of bold defiance, there was a huge lump in her throat, and her heart ached sorely. She’d known for some time that things couldn’t go on as they were. But if Georgie Jay and his comrades didn’t want her, she had no one. No one.

She heard them all getting up. One by one the others—Lemuel, Billy, and kind old Matt who played the fiddle at country fairs, who’d all been her friends for years—traipsed out through the other door to the taproom to have their meal, until only Moll and Georgie were left in there. Tassie bit her lip. Moll and Georgie. Usually Georgie Jay and his friends kept pretty much on the move, taking rooms at various inns or lodging houses depending on the work they found. But this winter they’d spent all of the last two months at the Blue Bell—because Georgie Jay had taken to sharing landlady Moll’s room, and Moll’s bed. And now Tassie could tell by the sound of clacking little heels on the flagstones that Moll had moved towards the jar of gin that she kept for herself on a high shelf near the door. Georgie Jay must have followed her; he was saying, in a low voice so that Tassie could only just hear, ‘I did warn you she wouldn’t like the idea, Moll.’

‘Such a fuss about a silly girl,’ Moll snapped back. Tassie heard the rattle of gin jar against beaker; and could just picture Moll drinking it down in one greedy swallow. ‘All right, then. I’ll not interfere! But you’ll have to think of somethin’ for her, Georgie Jay. Sakes alive, you must have seen the way men are starting to look at her! Lemuel worships the ground she walks on, and that big simpleton Billy watches her all the time. She’s becomin’ a real pretty piece, and there’ll be trouble soon if you don’t look out…’

Tassie could stand to hear no more. Horrified to find that her eyes were smarting with tears, she almost ran up the rickety staircase to her tiny attic room, where she was greeted by the loud squawking of a brightly coloured parrot gazing at her from its perch by the window. Georgie Jay had bought Edward for her seven years ago in Dorchester market, and now she angrily dashed away her tears with the back of her hand and stroked the bird’s beautifully-crested head, whispering, ‘How can Georgie Jay be so taken in by that—that strumpet, Edward? Moll’s fat, and she paints her face, and she pickles herself in gin!’

Edward cocked his beady eye at her. ‘Who’s a pretty girl, then?’ Tassie almost smiled. But she couldn’t ignore the fact that what Moll had said was right. Tassie couldn’t go on pretending to be what she was not for much longer. ‘If only I were a boy!’ she went on in anguish, jumping up to pace the little room while at the same time trying to resist the temptation to chew her fingernails, something she always did when she was distressed. Edward just put his head on one side, his bright eyes blinking, and crunched steadily on the remains of a crust. Tassie drew a deep breath, then flung her big coat on the bed.

Soon after she had joined Georgie Jay’s band, she’d taken to dressing like a lad because it was easier, and when her breasts had started to swell she’d worn loose shirts buttoned to the neck and hoped no one would notice. When her monthly courses began, a kindly serving girl at the farm where they were working came to her rescue and gave her some strips of linen to use, and into the bargain gave her an earthy lecture on how men were fiery creatures, and likely to be aroused beyond reason by the presence of a young, pretty maid. So Tassie tied up her bright golden hair with a piece of twine and pushed it under a cap; as she grew she continued to dress in loose breeches and boots and a rough cambric jacket several sizes too big for her that concealed her swelling curves; and season after season she tramped the dusty roads in the cheery company of Georgie Jay and his band, never complaining of weariness, always hoping that things would remain the same, because in truth she had no other life to turn to.

But she knew, in her heart of hearts, that things were changing fast. Moll had spotted the trouble with Billy already.

Billy was big and strong, but he was simple-minded. His family had been turned out of their cottage when the local landowner wanted to pull it down to make more space for sheep, and Billy had attached himself to the company like a faithful dog, invaluable if there was any kind of hard physical work. Tassie had always felt quite safe with him, as she did with all the others in their little band. But a couple of weeks ago, a little after midnight, Billy had knocked at the door of Tassie’s bedroom. ‘Tass,’ he called out. ‘Let me in, will you? I want ter tell you somethin’.’

She’d opened the door, and instantly smelled that he’d been drinking. Big Billy, with his thatch of wiry black hair, had always been a little over-fond of his ale. So she told him that she would talk to him in the morning; but he’d muttered something and a strange, hot look had spread across his face as he gazed at Tassie, with her hair loose past her shoulders, and dressed only in her thin cotton nightshirt.

He’d tried to kiss her then, grabbing her shoulders and pulling her close. Tassie struggled desperately to push him away, but Billy wrapped one arm around her waist, trapping her, while with the other hand he began to fumble at her breasts. She could feel the hardness of his arousal pressing against his breeches while his hot lips smothered her mouth; and Tassie, gasping, twisted violently and used her knee, very hard, in the place where she knew it would hurt him the most. Billy had whimpered with shock and gone limping off to his room. Tassie hoped fervently that the hateful episode had vanished into the shadows of Billy’s slow mind; certainly he’d not troubled her again in that way, and she didn’t think he would. But it had been an unpleasant reminder that Moll’s warnings were only too true.

And now, they thought they could just pack her off to Moll’s brother in the country! Oh, never. Suddenly she remembered the wallet she’d stolen from the gent in Half Moon Alley. Pulling herself up on the dingy little bed, she sat cross-legged in her boots and buckskin breeches and her man’s shirt, and tossed back her long blonde curls from her face. Then she eased the slim leather wallet from her hip pocket; but her heart sank again, for there wasn’t much in it. A few coins, amounting to little more than two guineas, and a pencilled note, folded up. The coins she put carefully into a little locked box hidden beneath her bed; the note she casually unfolded, preparing to crumple it and toss it aside. But then her eyes opened wide as a curling lock of chestnut hair tied up in a pretty blue ribbon fell on to the bed. Tassie read the note avidly. For my darling Marcus. A little memento. All my love for ever, Philippa.

Well! So her noble rescuer—Marcus—was in love! Tassie instantly held it closer. Philippa’s handwriting was dainty, with lots of curly flourishes, quite the opposite of Tassie’s bold, clear hand; Tassie would be prepared to wager that Philippa didn’t chew her nails as she did, or fuzz the cards at whist, or swear like a trooper when the occasion arose. A prim parlour-miss indeed; the writing was a little faded, but the sheet was still scented with the remnants of some exotic and no doubt expensive floral perfume, which made both Tassie and Edward sneeze. Tassie went over to the window, preparing to hurl the lock of hair and the note out into the darkness. All my love for ever.

Just for a moment, she paused. Just for a moment she wondered what it must be like, to love a man like that; to be loved, in return. Then she pushed the window open and tossed out the lock of chestnut hair and the note into the courtyard, to join the heaps of stinking rubbish down there. ‘Fancy carrying that around with him, Edward.’ She shook her head. Darling Marcus. A little memento…

Edward squawked appreciatively and repeated, ‘Darling Marcus! Darling Marcus!’ Tassie hesitated again; then she pressed her lips together and hurled the wallet through the window as well.

The noise of singing and laughter came up from the tavern below. She went to put more coals on the slumbering fire, and caught sight of her face in the cracked mirror over the hearth. A pale, haunted face, with shadowed green eyes, and clouds of golden curls tumbling to her shoulders. Tassie, the street thief. Tassie the trickster. Who was she really? Why was she all alone, forced to run long ago from a place of hateful cruelty?

She went slowly to count up the coins in her money box, and the old memories came crowding in. The great old house, miles from anywhere. Well-bred, hateful voices, snarling over her: ‘This brat’s trouble, William, I tell you! Nothing but trouble, and some day she’s going to find out the truth…’

Thoughtfully, Tassie put her money box away and picked up her much-worn pack of cards from beside Edward’s perch. Outside she heard the nightwatchman call the hour, ‘Ten o’clock and all’s well..’

No. No. All was most decidedly not well. Sitting cross-legged on her little bed, she began by the light of the flickering candle to practise one of the tricks she’d persuaded old Peg-leg to teach her in return for her help today. The time had come, as she’d always known it would, for her to make her own plans—before somebody else tried to make them for her.

She might, perhaps, have felt even more trepidation had she realised just how ardently Major Marcus Forrester was thinking thoughts of revenge against the ungrateful wretch who’d removed his wallet. He and Hal were at that moment dining at a fashionable chop-house just off the Piazza, where Hal, guessing that his friend’s forlorn financial prospects must be lowering his spirits, talked to him encouragingly of the money that could be made by investing in cotton and shipping. Marcus listened, pretending to take an interest. Then Hal, taking the plunge, started to tell Marcus that his sister Caroline had recently met Miss Philippa Fawcett out walking in the park, and that she was looking unusually lovely, and was there any chance of Marcus calling on her; at which Marcus shook his head swiftly and ordered, Talk of something else, Hal. Anything else.’

And as Hal recounted inconsequential gossip, Marcus’s thoughts drifted far away to Lornings, the beautiful estate in the Gloucestershire countryside that belonged to his godfather, Sir Roderick Delancey. The place Marcus had always thought of as his home. As soon as Marcus, freshly returned to London just over a week ago after a storm-racked Atlantic voyage, had heard the news about Sir Roderick, he’d set out to see him. He’d found him, not at the great hall itself—which to Marcus’s dismay looked totally abandoned—but in the much smaller Dower House, which lay close by.

‘It’s all my own fault,’ Sir Roderick had replied simply. He seemed to have aged terribly in the two years of Marcus’s absence. ‘Dear boy, what a homecoming for you.’

Marcus had gone quickly over to his godfather and put his strong hand on his shoulder. ‘It wasn’t your fault. My cousin Corbridge is a lying, deceiving toad.’

‘And I should have known it! But I’d got so badly in debt, you see, thanks to the company Sebastian led me into; and only Sebastian seemed to know the way out of it—’

‘By taking you to one gaming house after another?’

‘He assured me I could not help but win, Marcus! But I lost so heavily, night after night. Corbridge saved me—at least I thought he did—by promising he would see to my bills until September of this year. But in return—’ and Sir Roderick sighed heavily ‘—I had to sign a letter promising him the entire Lornings estate as security.’

Marcus listened, tense-faced. ‘But surely your debts, however great they are, aren’t equivalent to the value of Lornings?’

Sir Roderick hung his head. ‘Believe me, they’re bad enough. If Sebastian hadn’t taken on the bills, I would have had to put myself in the hands of moneylenders; and then, you know, what with the interest they demand, my debts would have doubled and trebled, until even the sale of the estate wouldn’t have paid them off. I had no choice, Marcus. I’m so sorry. Lornings was supposed to be yours. I shall never forgive myself!’

Marcus shook his head vehemently. ‘I don’t give a fig for my inheritance. You’ve given me support and encouragement all my life—what more could I ask? But I can’t forgive Corbridge for forcing you out of your rightful home. And I swear to God I’ll make him pay.’

‘Lornings is still mine for the moment,’ Sir Roderick had said, with a gentleness that tore at Marcus’s heart. ‘Until the autumn, that is. But—I cannot afford to maintain the Hall now, so it seems best to live here, in the Dower House.’

Marcus was silent, thinking. Then he said suddenly, This last gaming house Corbridge took you to. Where you lost everything. Was it some backstreet den?’

‘It was disreputable, certainly. But if you’re thinking of contesting the letter that I signed, then don’t trouble yourself, because Corbridge had it legally drawn up and witnessed.’ He looked around him rather helplessly. ‘I’m comfortable here, really I am. And I’ve still got some land and livestock—I’ve always fancied trying my hand properly at farming…’

At your age? thought Marcus sadly. His godfather, who was sixty-three, suffered from arthritis. He had two ageing retainers, husband and wife, who had stayed loyally with him for a pittance, and a capable man called Daniels who ran the small farm. Otherwise he was on his own, with hardly any resources now that his fortune was so badly compromised.

‘I’ll come and help you,’ promised Marcus. ‘We’ll get the land to rights again, believe me. But first—’ his steely eyes narrowed ‘—I’ve got Corbridge to deal with.’

Sir Roderick was watching him with loving but anxious eyes. ‘Please don’t do anything foolish, my dear boy! I know how impetuous you can be!’

And Marcus had smiled grimly as he replied, ‘Impetuous? Don’t you worry. I shall consider every action—extremely carefully.‘

But so far, concluded Marcus, so far his plans had not gone well. He’d confronted Corbridge earlier tonight in the white heat of his rage, and been forced, publicly, to retreat—then he’d had his wallet stolen. Not the best of starts.

Hal was calling for the bill. Marcus hated not being able to pay for himself, but Hal brushed his objections aside. ‘If you’re staying with us as you promised, then you’ll have plenty of opportunities to repay me when you’re ready. Caro will love having you, and we might even persuade her to host one or two small gatherings; you could invite anyone you liked—’

Marcus interrupted. ‘If you’re thinking of Philippa again, then I must tell you I don’t think I’ll be inviting her anywhere. You see, she knows that my inheritance has gone.’

‘Marcus, I don’t believe—’

Marcus topped up their glasses. ‘Actually, I think she knew before I did.’ His voice was lightly casual, but Hal saw that his friend’s expression was bleak. ‘No doubt her doting parents found out and told her. I called on her just before I set off to see Sir Roderick. Oh, it was all very civilised; Philippa talked of how we both needed some time to reconsider our rash youthful commitment, and her foolish mother hovered by her side all the time, looking terrified in case I should try to change Philippa’s mind. I didn’t, of course.’

Hal frowned as he absently counted out the coins for the bill. He knew that Philippa’s parents, the businessman Sir John Fawcett and his wife, lived, when not in town, on a moderately prosperous estate in Gloucestershire that bordered Lornings to the south. Happily willing to overlook Marcus’s slightly dubious parentage in view of his being the great-grandson of the Earl of Stansfield and his expectation of Sir Roderick’s substantial estate, the ambitious father and vain, silly mother had openly encouraged the friendship that had grown up between their daughter and Marcus. Even Marcus’s long absence in the American wars had not dulled everyone’s belief that the two of them would marry.

But Sir Roderick’s catastrophic change of fortune had altered all that, and now Philippa was doing her Season in London, intent on wealthier prospects. Hal felt deeply angry for his friend, who had come back from two years of brave service to his country to be faced with calculated rejection. But of course Hal knew that Marcus didn’t want his, or anybody’s, sympathy.

Instead, Hal leaned forwards, and poured out the last of the wine. ‘Time to re-plan tactics, dear boy,’ he said briskly. ‘Plenty more where she came from.’

Were there? Marcus had been remembering a summer’s day, just before he had set sail for the American war two years ago. He and Philippa had ridden out along the Gloucestershire lanes, unchaperoned—Philippa had laughingly escaped from her groom—and on a grassy bank by a secluded stream Philippa had allowed Marcus to kiss her and promised him that she would wait for him for ever…

Hal was still talking. ‘Capitalise your assets, Marcus,’ he was pronouncing gleefully, ‘and get your revenge on Corbridge. Remember gambling is his fatal flaw!’

‘Revenge on Corbridge indeed.’ Marcus echoed Hal’s toast at last, and knocked back the last of the claret. ‘Talking of gambling, Hal—didn’t you mention a gaming house called the Angel?’

It was eleven o’clock, and the night was just beginning.

Chapter Three

‘Got it!’ Tassie was still sitting cross-legged on her bed in the light of a tallow candle, so utterly absorbed in her task of getting all the hearts to the bottom of the pack that at first she didn’t hear the quiet knock at her door. Then it came again, and she tensed, afraid that it might be Billy. But, no, it was Lemuel’s voice that she heard, calling out quietly, ‘Tassie. Tassie, are you in there? I was just wonderin’ if Edward’s all right, seeing as I was lookin’ after him for you…’

Quickly Tassie scrambled off the bed, pushing her loose hair back from her face and tucking her big shirt into her slim buckskin breeches. Lemuel was a bit sweet on her, she knew, but she trusted him to keep his distance. She opened the door wide. ‘Come in, Lemuel, do. Yes, Edward’s fine. Moll hasn’t poisoned him—yet. My thanks for keeping an eye on him.’

‘Darling Marcus! Darling Marcus!’ cackled Edward, pleased with his new-found phrase.

‘Marcus?’ Lemuel stood in the middle of the room, frowning in puzzlement.

Tassie laughed and coloured a little. ‘Oh, it’s just some nonsense he’s picked up.’ She tapped Edward’s perch lightly. ‘Be quiet now, Edward, do.’

Lemuel nodded, his face expressing eager shyness. ‘And you, Tass? Are you all right? After—after—’

She shrugged, thrusting her hands into the pockets of her breeches. ‘After hearing that Moll wants to get rid of me, you mean? Aye, Lemuel, I’m all right. She’ll not get the better of me, never fear.’

Lemuel grinned at her approvingly, then his eyes fell on the pack of cards. ‘You been practising your tricks then, Tass? There’s none of us can beat you at cards, is there?’

‘No one,’ said Tassie earnestly, because it was true. She could even beat Georgie Jay, without him realising exactly which trick she was up to—the Kingston Bridge cheat, or shaving the cards, or even the difficult sauter la coupe. She’d mastered them all…

And then, suddenly, she realised what she had to do next. It was so blindingly obvious that she almost laughed aloud. Her green eyes gleaming, she gestured Lemuel to the battered chair at the foot of the bed. ‘Sit down, Lemuel,’ she said encouragingly. ‘I want to talk to you.’

‘To me?’ His freckled face lit up.

‘Yes, Lemuel.’ She perched on the edge of her bed again and gazed at him thoughtfully as he lowered his gangly frame into the chair facing her. ‘Last night,’ she went on, ‘I heard you talking with the others about a private gaming parlour that’s just opened up in town. You were saying that everyone of fashion—all the swells—are crowding into it. And I heard Georgie Jay tell how someone lost five hundred guineas at basset there—in just one evening.’

Lemuel’s perplexed brow cleared a little. ‘Oh, the Angel, you mean? Aye, Georgie Jay was talking of us dressin’ in our smart togs and goin’ along there some time. Though it’s a bit risky, ‘cos the place hasn’t got a full gaming licence, you see. That means it could be raided by the Horneys, any time.’

Tassie nodded, her chin resting in her hand. Mmm. So it was an illegal gaming den, patronised by the fashionable and the rich…Already her pulse was speeding up in anticipation. ‘I see. And what else do they play there, Lemuel, beside basset?’

‘Oh, the usual. Faro, vingt-et-un, piquet—you know, Tass, all those fancy French games! Apparently it’s full to busting every evening. Attracts everyone, from the highest blue-bloods to—well, to—’

‘People like us?’ slid in Tassie gently.

‘Aye! Though I told Georgie Jay I thought we’d be a bit out of our depth, seein’ as how the stakes are so high. And, like I said, it could be raided any time.’

‘So all the more reason,’ said Tassie thoughtfully, ‘to go as soon as possible.’ She smiled at him. ‘Like—tonight.’

‘Tonight?’ Lemuel shook his head. ‘Oh, no, Georgie Jay’s far too busy. He’s promised Moll he’ll move her some barrels of ale up from the cellar.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of Georgie Jay,’ whispered Tassie sweetly, leaning forwards from her perch at the edge of the bed. ‘I was thinking about you and me, Lem dear.’

He gaped. ‘We can’t, Tassie! We’d never get in! And we’ve not the stakes—’

‘I have,’ she responded calmly. She patted the little money box at her side. ‘And of course we’ll get in. Ladies are admitted, aren’t they?’

‘Why, yes,’ stuttered Lemuel. ‘They say the ladies of quality think it fine sport to go along without their husbands knowin’, and play in secret. But you’re—’

‘But I’m what, Lem?’ Tassie stood up and gracefully pirouetted around his chair. ‘I shall dress up like a fine lady, and you can be my escort. And I shall win more money than you’ve ever seen before, and I’ll pay you your share, if you do exactly as I say!’

Lemuel was still open-mouthed. ‘But, Tassie, we can’t just walk into a place like that and start fleecing them high-up swells.’

She broke off her pirouetting to declare, ‘You’re just scared, Lemuel, that’s your trouble.’

He jumped to his feet at that, burning with hurt pride. ‘I ain’t scared of nothing! But it’s too risky for you, girl! There’ll be all sorts lurking there amongst the gentry—cheats, rakes, whoremongers—bad company, Tass!’

She gazed at him, her hands on her slender hips, her green eyes gleaming. Then come with me to protect me. If you won’t come—why, then, I’ll just have to go on my own. Won’t I?’

‘Very well, then! I’ll go with you! But if Georgie Jay finds out…’

‘And why should he find out, unless you tell him?’

Lemuel let out a low moan of defeat.

Already Tassie had worked out that all she needed to do was ‘borrow’ one of Moll’s gowns, and pile up her hair in the foolish way all the ladies of fashion did. ‘Dear Lemuel,’ she grinned, ‘I knew you’d agree. Give me twenty minutes to prepare myself, would you? And you must put on your best brown suit, and polish your shoes. Not a word of this to anyone else, mind!’ She held the door open for Lemuel and he stumbled out, looking rather stunned. She started humming ‘The Bold Ploughboy’, then broke off to call after him, ‘No ale, now, to fuddle your wits. We’re in for a lively night, you and I!’

It was an hour later. The Angel was crowded; and Marcus was uneasy, because it was becoming apparent to him that his good friend Hal was being systematically cheated. How, exactly, he could not say. Hal, playing piquet, had easily won the first game, and the second also. His female opponent appeared almost hesitant, pausing over her discards and frowning like a Johnny Raw.

But the third game she won in six quick hands, a look of unwavering concentration on her face.

From then on, the usually unflappable Hal began to look flustered. Marcus knew that his friend was no mean player, but his female opponent never seemed to put a foot wrong. Marcus himself had stopped playing at the faro table some while ago, because he was unwilling to risk any more of the stake that Hal had lent him; and now he drew closer to study the girl’s face, because there was something about her that puzzled him. Of course there were plenty of women amongst the men up here in the candlelit, luxuriously furnished back room of the Angel. Some of them were ladies of high rank out for a secret adventure without their husbands, though others were scarcely better than women of the streets. Was this one a Cyprian?

Whatever part she was playing, she certainly played it demurely, keeping her head lowered and speaking at all times in a cool and alluring voice. When she looked up to smile at Hal, Marcus saw that her face was sweetly heart-shaped, and dominated by huge green eyes that drew his gaze time and time again. And her hair was glorious: a rich cluster of golden curls piled in artful disarray, with just a few stray locks trailing down around the slender column of her neck in a way guaranteed to make most men dream of kissing her there…

But she wore far too much rouge and lip paint, and as for her gown…Her gown was a hideous contraption, made of some reddish-brown fabric in the style of years ago; it was too large for her slender figure, and the shabby lace ruffles at her wrists were yellow with age. Who was she? Who had brought her here?

At that very moment, she looked up at Hal and said, in her gentle voice, “Tis my game, sir, I believe. But no credit to me; I rather think fortune smiled on me.’

The somewhat bemused Hal put a brave face on it. ‘Nonsense. You were by far the better player, ma’am!’ Gallantly he pushed his guinea rouleaux across the table to her. ‘Will you honour me with another game?’

The young woman hesitated before saying, ‘Very well, then. Just one more.’

‘One more is probably all I can afford,’ said Hal ruefully, and his opponent laughed, a pleasing, merry sound that to Marcus was strangely familiar, though he was damned if he could place it. Surely he would remember a girl like that if he’d met her before! Her face was almost—beautiful, and yet her clothes, and her lip paint, were ridiculous…Marcus looked round. All in all there must be fifty or sixty people crowded in here, and every table had its punters and watchers, all eyeing every turn of the cards, every cut and deal. Hal’s table was in a corner of the room, and quite a few of the usual gamesters had gathered round, their greedy eyes devouring the golden-haired girl as she began to deal.

Then Marcus saw that somebody else a few yards away was also watching her closely; a nervous long-limbed young fellow in a homespun suit too tight for him, with shockingly cut red hair. Here was her accomplice, thought Marcus scornfully, ready to safeguard the girl’s winnings and perhaps sell her on for the night! He frowned. Yet her clothes, her entire manner, were just not right for a whore, though God knew she’d tried her best, with that face paint.

Marcus again found his memory stirring tantalisingly. Then he saw something. She was spreading her cards in her hand in an attempt to study them, her green eyes wide and her brows drawn together in apparent puzzlement. Her fingernails looked as if she made a habit of chewing them; her painted lips were moving in what appeared to be a naïve endeavour to calculate the value of her cards.

But there was nothing naïve about the way she reached to flick a loose fold of the tawdry lace at her wrist, while at the same time making another very quick, almost imperceptible movement. She’s drawn a card from her sleeve and interchanged it with one from her hand. Marcus swore softly under his breath. Of course it was over in an instant, and Hal hadn’t noticed a thing, because he was too busy frowning over his own cards. And now, Marcus saw, those thick eyelashes of hers were fluttering demurely as she displayed her cards to Hal and said, in her sweet voice, ‘I think you will find that I’ve spoiled your repique, sir. The game is surely mine.’

Hal was soundly routed. His pleasant face twisted ruefully in acknowledgement of his fate as he pushed the last of his guinea rouleaux across the table. ‘How clever of you to have kept the guard! Well done, ma’am, well done indeed; I wish I had half your skill at the game.’

The girl, smiling, was already gathering her winnings together. ‘You must take consolation, sir, in the fact that most certainly I had the luck of the cards tonight.’

Luck? questioned Marcus grimly. Luck? He could see that her edgy red-haired companion was already sidling through the crowd towards her. No doubt they’d swiftly exchange for golden guineas the rouleaux she’d won and move on to some other backstreet gambling haunt, ready to fleece some other innocent—if he, Marcus, were to let them…

No time to explain to Hal. As Hal rose, Marcus was there in his place, saying quickly to the girl, ‘Your pardon, ma’am, but I could not help noticing that you play an intriguing game. Would you care to indulge me before you go?’

She looked up swiftly, and just for a moment Marcus could have sworn that there was a flash of something—was it fear?—in her eyes. But then she said, with only a trace of hesitation, ‘Why, with pleasure, sir.’

Hal, surprised, muttered to him, ‘You’ll find your match there, Marcus. She’s good.’

‘Perhaps that’s the attraction,’ said Marcus, gazing coldly at the girl, whose heart-shaped face still looked somewhat pale beneath her rouge. ‘Shall we say ten shillings the point?’

The girl seemed to catch her breath, and then nodded. Marcus beckoned a groom-porter for a fresh pack, and put some card money on the tray. Looking up, he was in time to catch a scarcely perceptible glance between the girl and her red-headed companion, who had perched nervously on a chair nearby. Marcus smiled grimly to himself and handed the pack to the girl. She won the cut, and opted to discard five of her twelve cards. Once more her pretty face with its delicate tip-tilted nose was a mask of concentration.

For a while the play was even. Marcus went down on the first rubber, though not by much. But then, gradually, the girl began pulling away. He watched her fingers, so quick, so agile as they drew his tokens relentlessly towards her. His keen grey eyes, that on active service had been able to see the gleam of gunmetal in woodland over a mile away, strained to see more. This time she made no move towards her wrist-lace; in fact, she’d—deliberately?—pushed back her cuff to her elbow. He frowned as he noticed a faint ring of fresh finger-shaped bruises around her slender wrist; someone had been rough with her recently. But then he saw what he had been waiting for. Yes. She was marking the cards, indenting certain corners very, very lightly with the sharp little fingernail of her right hand, in a gesture as swift as the blinking of an eye! Marcus carried on playing and was aware of Hal’s increasingly puzzled frown as his pile of rouleaux continued their journey to the girl’s side of the table. The girl’s companion was watching, too, his unease scarcely hidden.

There it was again. A tiny squeeze of his opponent’s fingernail as she delicately indented yet another glossy card. Moments later she carefully spread out her winning hand, and her cheeks dimpled in a sweet smile. ‘Four aces and three kings, sir! I think I have you, if you please!’

Marcus was very still for a moment. Then he deliberately leaned forwards, and picked up the girl’s cards at one stroke, breaking all the rules of play. Hal, at his shoulder, gasped aloud. The girl’s painted smile flickered, but her big green eyes were still wide and innocent. ‘Is aught amiss, sir?’

‘Indeed, there is a slight problem—ma’am,’ Marcus replied, equally calmly. ‘You see, I discover in myself an aversion to playing with out-and-out cheats.’

He was aware of Hal drawing closer, standing tensely at his side. Of the thin, anxious fellow in brown also edging nearer to the girl, his face tight with strain. The girl was better. In fact, she was amazing. She gazed across the table at Marcus, saying in that same sweet, polite voice, ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite follow your meaning, sir.’

‘Ha! Don’t you, by God!’ Marcus was gathering up all the cards now, and throwing them on the table, picking up one picture card after another with his strong, lean hands and jabbing at the telltale indentations. ‘You’re trying to tell me you didn’t do this?’ he grated out. ‘And this? And this?’

His raised voice was drawing onlookers now. And the girl’s slender figure seemed frozen to her chair as she realised, at last, that her game was at an end. Marcus reached across the table scornfully for the winnings she’d garnered from himself and Hal. And then, suddenly, he heard shouting from the street outside, and the sound of feet clattering up the staircase, and the room was filled with cries of alarm. ‘The Watch! The Watch are upon us!’ Marcus was on his feet already, but not before the wretched girl had grabbed all the rouleaux back and was elbowing her way through the panic-stricken punters towards the back staircase. Marcus lunged after her, and just managed to catch hold of her arm. ‘Not so fast. Not so fast, you bloody little cheat…’

She fought him quite ferociously, though no one noticed, because all around them people were pushing and jostling and calling out in panic. This was an illegal gaming parlour, after all, and none of them wanted to spend the night in a magistrate’s cell. Chairs were being overturned, candles extinguished, cards sent flying to the floor as they all tried to get to the stairs that led to the back exit. The girl continued to struggle wildly, but he hung on all the tighter as they were swept towards the top of that staircase with the rest of the fleeing crowd. He must have hurt her; she let out a low cry; then suddenly her elbow in his diaphragm all but winded him, and she hissed, ‘Take your hands off me, you coneyjack, you!’

Coneyjack. Thieftaker. Marcus almost dropped her in his surprise. ‘It was you!’ he exclaimed. ‘You, running from the Watch earlier this evening in the Strand! I hid you from them, told them you’d gone the other way—and then—then, you ungrateful wretch, you damned well picked my pocket!’

The press was even tighter now because they were almost at the top of the darkened staircase. For a moment her huge green eyes glinted vividly in the shadows. With fear? Not for long. ‘Maybe,’ she breathed, ‘that’s ‘cos all you overbearing, arrogant gents deserve to be robbed!’ Then she twisted violently to get free of his grip and called out wildly, ‘Lemuel, Lemuel, where are you? Come and help me, you great slow-witted fool!’

Marcus clung on grimly to his captive as the tide of people in full flight swept past them. ‘Lemuel,’ he growled. ‘So that’s your young friend’s name, is it? I’ll wager he’s out on the streets by now, running full tilt for whatever hovel you call home—’

He got no further, because she brought her knee up and thudded it, hard, against his right thigh.

Marcus swore fluently and almost lost her. He snatched a swift look over his shoulder, but of Hal there was no sign, damn it. He tightened his grip on the wretched girl and dragged her with him—she was still kicking out—to the crush at the top of the stairs. He wasn’t going to let her go, yet if the minx carried on fighting him like this, they’d end up tumbling down the steps, and being trampled underfoot in the stampede…

Nothing else for it. He picked the girl up and put her over his shoulder, then let himself be carried down the rickety staircase by the crowd of nervous punters hustling towards the back doorway, and the safety of the warren of dark alleyways that lay behind Great Suffolk Street. Within seconds the girl had started to pummel his back, but fortunately his coat was of good, thick broadcloth; his strongly muscled shoulders were as impervious to her clenched little fists as were his ears to her colourful threats. All the same, he was glad when at last they got outside and he was able to swing the jade down and set her on her feet. It was starting to rain again. Around them the crowd was melting swiftly away; the girl tried to hop off, too, but he gripped her and pulled her into a nearby doorway. There were no lamps here, and the shadows clustered like sepia pools, far away from the candle-lit windows further along the street. ‘Let go of me!’ She was still struggling, like a wildcat; he almost shook her into submission and suddenly she went limp in his arms. Another trick? If he did let her go, would she fall—or run?

Somewhere in the darkness fiddle music was spilling out from a lively tavern. But out here, as the last of the Angel’s fleeing patrons vanished into the blackness, they were quite alone. The doorway gave them little shelter from the rain, which was landing on her cheeks, washing away her rouge and starring her thick lashes—or were they tears he saw? Her golden hair was tumbling from its pins and falling around her shoulders in damp disarray. What would she try next? He expected more insults, more oaths; but this time the cunning jade adopted a different tactic. In a voice that quivered slightly she begged, ‘Please, please, sir, don’t hand me in. I’m but a poor orphan; I do swear I meant no harm…’

Marcus had no difficulty hardening his heart against this plea. ‘I’ll let you go with the greatest of pleasure. But not before you’ve given me back my winnings, and also the wallet you stole from me earlier this evening.’

She caught her breath. ‘Wallet? Fie, what wallet? I’ve not the faintest notion what you mean!’ Marcus wanted to shake the girl; he found her cheek incredible; but before he could reply he heard the sound of clattering footsteps as some of the magistrate’s men came rushing down the back staircase from the gaming hell and out into the alley, furious because so far they’d been deprived of their prey. Until now. Marcus cursed thoroughly under his breath. ‘Leave this to me,’ he hissed at the girl.

‘Here’s one of ‘em, lads!’ called a constable, jabbing his finger at Marcus. ‘Now, you was up there, wasn’t you, eh?’ He jerked his head towards the deserted upper storey of the ill-fated gaming club. ‘Reckon we need to ask you some questions, sir—you’re coming along with us, if you please!’

Marcus had absolutely no intention of doing so. Swiftly he drew the rainsoaked girl into his arms and laughed. ‘A gaming hell, constable? Not me. In fact, I’ve just been down to a little nunnery in Haymarket, where Mother Bentley—you know her?—rules the roost. And from there I picked out this charming maid for a night of pleasure. A whole guinea, I’ve paid, and we were just on our way back to my lodgings—now, do you think I’d have time to waste on cards, or dice?’

Even as he spoke he heard the girl’s sharply indrawn breath as the damned little minx prepared to protest. The constables were muttering and scratching their heads, eyeing him dubiously. One word of denial from the girl, and he’d be finished.

Swiftly he pulled her hard against his body and bent his head to kiss her. He could taste the cool rain on her lips, could feel her heart thumping through the wet silk of her gown as she struggled like a trapped bird in his arms. He was surprised, because she smelled so clean, so fresh. Surprised, too, because, as he continued to kiss her for the benefit of those gawping officers of the law, she seemed to freeze in shock, as if she had never been kissed before…

But that was impossible! Inevitably, though, he felt the spearing of desire at his loins. Her mouth was strangely tempting—cool, tender, tantalising—and as he held her closer, just in case the jade once more tried to run, he felt her slender body tense against him, felt the thrust of her nipples pressing against his chest through her thin bodice in a way that made the blood pound in his veins. Aware of some sudden, unguessed—at danger, Marcus relaxed his grip on her and fought down his arousal. She sagged in his arms, just as if he’d drawn all the strength from her slender body. Marcus felt a pang of pity for her, then reminded himself grimly that she was a pickpocket, a cheat, and no doubt a whore. He tried not to wonder again whether it was rain or tears that had gathered on her thick lashes.

‘You’re an excellent actress, minx,’ he muttered grimly in her ear. ‘But you’re not getting out of this one. Two guineas were in that wallet of mine, and two guineas’ worth of a kiss I shall have, if only to save us both from a night in the magistrates’ cells.’ In a louder voice he called out to the watching men, ‘Would you leave us in peace, gents? I told you, I paid dearly for this little lightskirt!’

‘You made a mistake, then,’ jeered one of the men. ‘Pretty she may be, but she ain’t got enough flesh on her to keep a man warm for a minute, let alone a night.’

‘Oh, let ‘im alone,’ muttered another. ‘The fool’s probably lost all his money gambling. He’ll be glad of any doxy he can get. Come on—I’m cold and wet. The pair of ‘em ain’t worth the blasted trouble.’

Marcus still held on tightly to the girl even though the officers of the watch were disappearing down the street; for he could hear fresh footsteps hurrying towards them from the opposite direction. But it was only Hal pounding up the alleyway, his boots splashing in the river of water that ran down the cobbled streets, his expensive wide-brimmed hat dripping with rain. ‘Marcus, there you are!’ he exclaimed. ‘I went after the girl’s accomplice, but he bolted like a ferret. See you’ve managed to hang on to the girl herself, though. By all that’s holy, never seen such a neat gamester in my life!’

There was almost admiration in his voice. Marcus pulled the girl back into the shelter of the doorway, out of the rain. ‘So you realised she was cheating you, did you? Just a little late, if I may say so. Any ideas what to do with her? I’m wondering if I should hand her over to the magistrates for her own good…’

That started her up. ‘No! You can’t prove a thing! You’ll not send me to gaol, you’ll not!’ The girl was starting to struggle wildly again, her breasts rising and falling rapidly beneath her soaking gown.

Then Hal, scratching his elegant head in some bemusement, said, ‘I agree with the girl; not sure, you know, that the magistrates are the answer, dear boy. But,’ he added in his droll way, ‘she certainly brings to mind what we were talking of earlier.’

‘What the devil are you talking about?’

Hal shrugged defensively. ‘Well, with that hair of hers, and her skill at cards, you could almost dress the girl up and use her to tempt your cousin Sebastian…’

‘Corbridge!’ Marcus’s eyes opened wide as he stared at his captive. Her ravishing blonde hair had tumbled from its pins and was glittering in the rain: guinea-gold curls. ‘Corbridge…Yes. Yes. The girl’s an expert at trickery. Yet with that look of wide-eyed innocence, she had both of us fooled; Hal, my friend, you’ve maybe hit on the answer…’

Hal was staring at him. ‘But, Marcus, I didn’t really mean it. Only a joke. Look at her. She’s dressed like a scarecrow, swears like a trooper…’

‘She’s also a fine little actress,’ Marcus announced. ‘It was she who stole my wallet earlier this evening.’

‘No!’ Drawing warily nearer, Hal regarded the girl with a kind of horrified fascination. ‘By God, yes, I see it now—it’s the fleet-footed lad you saved from pursuit! Not at all sure, you know, that Corbridge’s fancy runs in that particular direction, dear boy. But then again, his taste for whores is said to range far and wide.’

Marcus felt the girl suddenly freeze into stillness. ‘Are you calling me a whore?’ she breathed.

Hal stammered, ‘No! Not exactly, you know, I merely suggested…’ But with a last desperate burst of strength the girl had broken free, and Marcus was lunging after her, catching her round her slender waist; which was just as well because Tassie, who had hardly consumed anything all day except for one over-rich glass of wine at the Angel, suddenly swayed on her feet.

Hal called out, ‘Gently there, Marcus. Go easy with her, man!’

Trickery,’ said Marcus dismissively, ‘all trickery.’ But even as he spoke, he had to move quickly, and was just in time to catch her as she crumpled slowly into his arms.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.