Regency Mistresses: A Practical Mistress\The Wanton Bride (32 page)

Violet’s riotous imaginings turned her mind feverish and her face florid. Suddenly she jerked to her senses as she became aware that Mark Hunter was almost at the door, and on the point of exiting the building now he had returned her a nod and a muttered greeting.

Violet sought swiftly to detain him. ‘Fancy bumping into you here, sir,’ she called shrilly, speeding in his wake. ‘Are you going, as we are, to the Festival in Guildford? Last year it was a delight; the orchestra and the singing divine …’

‘No, ma’am,’ Mark replied with a hint of irritation clipping his tone. I’m travelling in the opposite direction towards London.’

Violet Pearson was not so easily put off by a dark look and a curt response. She sidled the corridor wall, her head leading the way as she tried to get a
better look at the dainty female partially obliterated by Mark’s large frame. Violet’s tongue flicked excitedly to her lips; she was very aware that the fellow was deliberately trying to shield his companion from view. A glitter brightened her eyes. Would she be returning to town with a juicy tale to relate concerning the family of her arch-enemy? She advanced determinedly on the couple, already savouring the piquancy of a rousing victory over Mrs Penelope Beaumont.

Mark propelled Emily forward. She understood perfectly the instruction in his firm guidance and did her part by quickening her pace and keeping her bonnet brim low to shield her features.

Violet put on a spurt, and the exertion served her well. Suddenly she got a proper look past those powerful shoulders that, preposterously, were almost as wide as the corridor. ‘Why … Miss Beaumont, is it not?’ she purred. ‘How are you, my dear? And how is your mama? Is she here with you?’

Emily stood rigid and tongue-tied for a moment. Obliquely a corner of her mind registered that she was hopelessly, irrevocably compromised. But she turned slowly to receive Mrs. Pearson’s horribly gloating look. ‘No, she is not,’ Emily said in a lightly quavering tone.

‘Oh … I see,’ Violet said, immeasurable insinuation conveyed by those few words. Barely containing her glee, she added sweetly, ‘I expect you heard me say to Mr Hunter that we are off to the Festival in Guildford. Are you going there? Or are you also travelling back to London?’

Emily moistened her lips, about to speak, but Violet piped up again. ‘If your parents are not here, I expect your brother is escorting you. No doubt Tarquin is somewhere about the place.’ She gave an exaggerated peer about as though she might spot the fellow lurking in a corner. ‘Of course, I know you would not be here alone with Mr. Hunter … would you?’

‘Miss Beaumont is travelling with me,’ Mark interjected coolly. He gave the woman a purely cynical stare. ‘Enjoy the Festival, won’t you …’

‘Indeed I shall,’ Violet said. She twitched a smile, and her skirts, in a travesty of respect. Even a blast of cold air as the couple went out into the night could not shift her. She stood for some minutes shivering in the draught, a wondrously smug smile on her thin countenance.

‘She is a malicious witch and will delight in making trouble for our family.’ Emily’s face fell forward into her cupped palms. ‘Oh, why did I ever set out
today on such a stupid mission? Everything is now so much worse!’ she wailed.

The curricle sped on through the night, but one of Mark’s hands relinquished the reins to slide about Emily’s shoulders and draw her close against his side. A thumb smoothed against a wind-chilled cheek, back and forth in soothing rhythm until she succumbed to his comfort. A small hand snaked about his waist and she clung uninhibitedly to him, her eyes screwed tight against the breeze and burning tears.

‘Hush …’ Mark said softly. ‘You did what you thought best, and your brother is fortunate to have a sister as loyal and caring as you.’ The equipage raced smoothly on as he encouraged her head against his shoulder.

Emily snuggled readily into the lee of his powerful body, a watery snuffle muffled against his coat. ‘My intention was to shield my parents from further distress! Now look what I have done! I have increased their troubles tenfold!’ She miserably shook her head back and forth. ‘A wayward son is one thing. Society will tolerate a young man sowing wild oats, but not the shameless behaviour of his unmarried sister.’

‘Hush, Emily.’ Mark dropped his face to hers,
nudging up her chin so he might touch together their lips. She tasted salty-sweet and he relinquished her mouth reluctantly to concentrate on the dark road. ‘It is not insurmountable. There are ways and means of putting this right …’

‘There’s only one way and you know it.’ Emily choked on a hysterical giggle. ‘We must announce we are to be married. And I think you know far too much about me now to ever want to do that!’

‘Y
ou are a selfish wretch!’

‘I know … I’m sorry,’ Tarquin mumbled whilst shamefacedly contemplating his bitten nails. He suddenly leaned across the breakfast table, snatching at his sister’s hands to impress on her his apology.

Emily shrank back, firmly crossing her arms over her waist as though to prevent him again touching her. ‘Do you comprehend the extent of the chaos you caused?’ A whirling hand illustrated the magnitude of it all. Emily tipped back her head in despair.

Of course she already knew the answer to that! Her brother was ignorant of a great deal of the damage that had resulted from his foolishness. The worst of which was her horribly inopportune meeting with Violet Pearson, and the ruinous effect it might have
on their whole family. There was much she must tell Tarquin, and ask him, but she could barely contain her temper well enough to talk to him at all. With a depressive sigh Emily turned her attention on the coffee pot. She poured a cup and immediately gulped a mouthful of the strong, bitter brew.

‘Have you yet told our parents of your real reason for running away? Sooner or later it is bound to come out. You cannot keep your wife hidden for ever.’ Emily had breathed the final sentence in an undertone whilst darting a wary look at the door. She hoped they had not been overheard.

Her mother was no doubt still abed; it was not yet her usual time for rising. She was confident her father would already be out on matters of business, for he was an early bird however late he retired. But servants had a knack of gleaning titbits to chew over below stairs.

Emily again thanked her lucky stars that she had got home yesterday just minutes before her parents returned from their evening’s entertainment. She had been halfway up the stairs when she heard a key in the lock, followed by their jolly conversation in the hallway. Despite her weariness Emily had instinctively sprinted up the remaining treads and out of sight. Concealing herself behind the banisters on
the landing, she had called her goodnights in a sleepy voice as though she had kept awake especially to do so. Trudging off to bed, she had felt quite guilty at her spontaneous subterfuge, and then quite silly too. Forlornly she had recalled that, if Violet Pearson were bent on making mischief, her hellish jaunt with Riley would eventually be uncovered no matter how good had been her play-acting.

Emily’s attention returned to Tarquin. She was still waiting to learn from him whether their parents were cognizant of the fact of their son’s scandalous marriage.

‘Jenny is dead,’ Tarquin blurted out. His eyes glittered as he added sombrely, ‘And she was not really my wife at all.’

Emily clattered her cup and saucer together and her lips parted in astonishment. ‘Jenny is
dead?’
she echoed in a husky whisper. ‘And you say you did
not
marry her?’ She clamped a hand to her brow and thumb and forefinger pressed indentations into pearly skin. ‘Was it all for nothing? Did you suspect all along the marriage was some sort of hoax?’

‘No! I believed we were legally leg-shackled, I swear.’ Tarquin concealed his trembling lips with a fist planted hard against them, only removing it to briefly enlighten Emily to the circumstances of poor
Jenny’s demise at the hands of the fiendish Riley. He cleared his throat to gruffly continue, ‘Jeremiah Plumb is a clergyman, if a shifty character. It all seemed correct. The marriage was certainly consummated …’ Tarquin blinked nervously and blushed on recalling to whom he was expressing his thoughts.

‘Go on,’ Emily prompted, dismissing his tacit apology as unnecessary.

‘Jenny regained consciousness for a short while after Mark set out to rescue you. She told me before she expired that I was not her only husband. It was Riley’s idea, of course, to make of her a bigamist. At one time I think she was quite infatuated with him. But she came to know him for a selfish, avaricious swine.’ Tarquin flung his spine against the chair back. ‘Riley had successfully extorted money from other fellows who had been tricked into taking vows when stewed. Once sober, they readily parted with cash to seal Riley’s lips.’

‘He thought you would too. But you had none to give.’

Tarquin nodded slowly. ‘So he had the confounded cheek to accost you instead for payment.’ His mouth thinned to a white line. ‘I would gladly murder the brute for that alone, never mind what he did to Jenny!’

‘And in doing so most definitely embroil us all in a terrible brouhaha.’ Emily pointed out angrily. ‘We are not yet over one calamity before you are talking of creating another.’

Tarquin hung his head. ‘I shall arrange for a decent burial for Jenny in any case,’ he murmured on a suspiciously watery gurgle. ‘She wasn’t wholly a bad girl.’

Angry as Emily was with Tarquin, he deserved her sympathy for his bereavement. Kneeling close to his chair, she looked up into his mournful damp countenance. ‘I’m so very sorry to hear about Jenny’s fate. Had I known earlier, I would not have scolded you so.’ Her pale fingers covered his, squeezed in comfort. ‘It’s a mess and no doubt about it. But I’m glad to know you cared for one another. Jenny could have gone to her grave saying nothing about the bigamy, but she chose instead to put your mind at rest over it all. She loved you back, Tarquin,’ she stressed softly.

Tarquin nodded and made a snuffling noise before cuffing at his nose.

Emily let him be and sank back on her heels. Her brother was deeply upset by the death of his illicit wife. Tarquin had fallen for a harlot, a woman who had conspired to trick him, but had ultimately
risked and sacrificed her own life to help him. Emily felt no disgust on knowing on whom her brother had chosen to bestow his love. In fact, she rather admired him for having the pluck to buck convention in choosing his mate. She now suspected that, at the altar, her brother had been more in possession of his faculties than he cared to admit. Oddly that gave Emily a sense of serenity.

Gracefully she gained her feet and paced to the window. She stared out into a beautiful spring morning. The sun was shining and her countenance tilted up to be warmed by its golden glow. The lime trees were more leaf than wood, for the buds were now almost fully unfurled. With a sigh Emily turned her back on the pleasant scene. ‘Will you tell our parents about the real reason for your disappearance?’

Tarquin shook his head. ‘I am a widower—legal or not—and it is pointless now worrying them with news of a dead daughter-in-law.’

‘Indeed,’ Emily quietly concurred. She paced restlessly, then shot her brother a helpless look. ‘I’m afraid to say there might soon be something even worse to disturb them.’ For the first time that morning she allowed herself to ponder on her own distressing predicament. How long a reprieve might she have before Violet Pearson returned to town to ruin her future?

Just a day ago—it seemed so much longer than that!—she had written a letter to Stephen Bond in which she had kindly let him know she would only ever consider him a good friend. She had acted from altruism; now she felt mean for being relieved the note remained undelivered and in her cloak pocket.

But what would she do? Would she find the gall to encourage Stephen to propose simply to protect her reputation? That would certainly prove Sarah’s hints on her woeful character correct: she
was
selfish and inconsiderate.

If her betrothal were official before Mrs Pearson returned to town, would the woman admit defeat and say nothing? More importantly, if whispers
did
start to circulate about her being spotted in scandalous circumstances with a bachelor, would Stephen renege on the contract? He would have every right to do so!

‘I can’t guess at it. You must explain what you mean,’ Tarquin prompted.

With a sigh Emily proceeded to do so.

‘Violet Pearson! Of all people!’ Tarquin snorted in disgust. ‘I don’t socialise much with you ladies, but even I know that the old hag will go out of her way to stir the cauldron where our family is concerned.’ The palms of his hands made forceful contact
with his thighs. ‘What the deuce was Hunter thinking of, taking you, unchaperoned, to an inn where you might be spotted together? I’ll have something to say to him when I see him, I can tell you.’

A gasp of astonished laughter was Emily’s first response to that.
‘You
will have something to say to
him?’
she echoed incredulously. ‘It might have slipped your mind that in fact Mark was doing you and me a very great favour by getting involved in any of this. If you think sensibly on it, you will understand that pulling in to the Rose and Crown was a necessity, not an indulgence. Mark had risked the health of his animals by travelling many miles at full pelt. The poor things were on their last legs and, had we continued, I might never have been safely returned home at all.’

‘Calm down!’ Tarquin muttered. He knew he had deserved her tirade. ‘I’d not see you overturned in a ditch rather than compromised.’ Suddenly he gave a knowing chuckle. ‘For a lady who, as I recall, didn’t have a good word to say about a certain gentleman, you jumped to his defence pretty quickly
and
fiercely.’

Emily felt blood sting in her cheeks at that shrewd observation. ‘And I have good reason to do so, as do you. Had Mark not turned up when he did, I might
still be at Devlin’s mercy, and it would be your fault!’

‘Nothing for it, then,’ Tarquin suddenly proclaimed in ringing tones. ‘Hunter must marry you.’

Emily’s gasp of bitter laughter was drowned by the sound of the door opening. Millie was hovering on the threshold of the morning room.

‘A visitor for you, Miss Emily,’ the maid advised, her tone displaying her surprise that a caller had arrived at such an unfashionably early hour. ‘Mr Hunter is in the hall.’

After a moment of breathless indecision Emily shot a fleeting glance at Tarquin. Her brother had a smug grin on his face. ‘Show him in please, Millie,’ she said faintly.

On learning the identity of her visitor Emily had sensed her heart cease to beat. Now it began to throb alarmingly. Of course, she had expected he would come today to speak to her about what had happened at the inn, but she had not expected him yet and was certainly not ready to receive him.

She crossly reminded herself that, had she not made that stupid remark last night, when tired and hysterical, she might not be so flustered by his arrival.

Mark had received her impulsive jest with unsmiling gravity. His taciturn visage had remained
unflinchingly facing the road ahead as he urged the horses to increase pace. The final leg of the journey home to Mayfair had passed in virtual silence.

Surely he had not thought she seriously expected him to propose marriage? As though she would! She knew he was in love and spoken for. The attention he had paid to her was simply opportunistic flirting … she knew that too …

What had alarmed him, and turned her weak joke sour, was that they both had known she had voiced what others would think. If a genteel spinster were to be unfortunately compromised by a gentleman, polite society would deem it his duty to protect her reputation with an offer of marriage. But of course it was different with them. The gentleman had already guessed that the spinster was not as virtuous as polite society assumed her to be, and was loath to make the sacrifice.

‘He’s here to rescue your reputation, I’m sure.’

Tarquin’s hissed encouragement caused Emily to cast on him a frown. Far from being here to ask her to be his wife, Emily guessed Mark Hunter’s early arrival was due to his keenness to impress on her he knew the phrase about closing the stable door after the horse had bolted. And how could she blame him for that? For his pains, he risked being
vilified as her heartless seducer rather than her saviour.

Looking quite heartbreakingly handsome, and the epitome of composure too, Mark strolled in to the room. He was so elegantly groomed—charcoal tailcoat, snow-white cravat and top boots gleaming like glass—that it was obvious he deemed this visit a matter of grave importance. His immaculate appearance reminded Emily that she had been too agitated by recent events to take much time with her toilette that morning. Tendrils of blonde hair were quickly smoothed back from her pearly brow and her pink dimity skirts were given an unobtrusive shake to neaten them.

Mark looked straight at her and she gave him a small smile, hoping to reassure him that he would not suffer on her account. He was a kind and decent man, she knew that now, and she would set him free to marry the woman he loved.

Emily’s smile faded away for, far from being well received, her wordless welcome had caused his expression to become faintly ironic.

Tarquin immediately strode towards his friend and stuck out a hand. ‘Good to see you, Mark.’ The greeting was stressed in throbbing tones that conveyed a multitude of gratitude.

After a momentary hesitation Mark met the proffered hand. ‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t return the compliment.’ He managed to extricate his hand from being vigorously pumped. ‘In fact, it would not bother me if I never set eyes on you again, Beaumont.’

Tarquin had the grace to turn florid. ‘Caused a bit of trouble, I know …’ he mumbled and hung his head.

‘You have a nice way with understatement.’ Mark’s response was silky with sarcasm. ‘Jenny?’ It was a blunt question.

Tarquin’s chin dropped further towards his chest. He shook his head.

‘I’m very sorry,’ Mark said quietly. Within a moment he followed that with, ‘I would like to speak privately to your sister.’

Tarquin’s lowered eyes batted between the couple and he cleared his throat. ‘Yes … of course … understand …’ he mumbled, backing towards the door. Emily received a sly wink from her brother before he slunk into the corridor.

‘Ah … I see he does understand,’ Mark commented drily as soon as the door had closed.

Emily nodded jerkily, inwardly cursing her brother for having made it seem that there was a conspiracy between them. ‘I’ve just told him about the
unfortunate meeting with Mrs Pearson …’ Her voice faded into awkward silence.

‘My apologies for calling at such an ungodly hour,’ Mark said. ‘I hoped to catch your father at home. I know he rises early.’