a murmur of gratitude Emily approached her friend and Mrs Emerson. Sarah was still persevering in trying to engage Barbara in a chat about French fashions. Barbara’s responses had been limited to a variety of tight-lipped expressions.
After polite farewells Emily and Sarah walked off along Regent Street. They had distanced themselves by only a few yards when Sarah glanced back over a shoulder. ‘He’s still looking at you,’ she hissed into Emily’s small ear. ‘And Mrs Emerson has an unladylike scowl on her face.’
‘He could be looking at you,’ Emily immediately pointed out. ‘Barbara is probably in a fit of the sulks from having delayed her shopping spree. I don’t say I blame her. Those silks looked quite wonderful. It is a shame we didn’t see what else was on the shelves.’
‘Let’s go back,’ Sarah breathed. ‘Why should we not? We were at Madame Joubert’s first, after all.’
‘Don’t be silly; it would look as though we’re following them.’ Emily gave Sarah’s arm a little tug to turn her about. ‘And stop staring at them, for goodness’ sake!’
Chapter Two
‘Stop staring at them, for Gawd’s sake!’
The young woman’s booted toe made ungentle contact with her companion’s shin. He yelped and swore beneath his breath at her. ‘Wot you do that fer, Jenny?’ he snarled.
‘To stop you gawping like an idiot,’ Jenny Trent hissed back. ‘This ain’t the time and place to be seen.’ The young woman shot a look from under dropped lids and cursed quietly. ‘I reckon the nob she was talking to has spotted us watching her. We don’t want to be tangling with the likes of him!’
Mickey Riley affected nonchalance as he turned to look across the street. Fleetingly he met Mark Hunter’s steady stare. His attention soon returned to his companion. ‘Fellow’s looking at you, Jenny.’ He leered at the pretty woman at his side. ‘I know his sort. Quality with cash and an eye for petticoat, he is.’ He chewed his lips and gave Jenny a sly look. ‘We could’ve found richer pickings than Beaumont.’
‘Bit late to be thinking that now!’ She pinched his arm, urging him to move on. ‘You and your daft ideas!’ she scoffed.
Mickey Riley eyed the distinguished gentleman propped against the doorjamb of the posh shop, whose pretty ladybird was pointing out to him something she liked in the window. The fellow didn’t seem that interested; he soon glanced again across the street. ‘I reckon he’s taken with you, Jen. Give him something to look at,’ he urged his shapely young companion.
Jenny scowled up at Mickey, but did instinctively twitch at her skirts thus revealing a pair of shapely calves and ankles. She shook back her auburn curls, setting them bouncing beneath the elaborate concoction of feathers perched on her head.
‘Good girl,’ Mickey praised with an appreciative grin and threaded her arm through his.
Mark Hunter watched the couple disappear into the Regent Street throng. Had Mickey Riley known his thoughts, he might have felt less cocksure. It was not Jenny who had taken Mark’s interest, but Mickey himself.
Mark allowed Barbara to steer him inside the shop. He made appropriate noises as she indicated the things she liked, but his thoughts were elsewhere.
It seemed a rather odd coincidence that Emily Beaumont should mention Tarquin and cockfights to him just moments before he clapped eyes on a fellow he had last seen arguing with Tarquin at a cockfight in Spitalfields Market. It had been a heated enough exchange for Mark to enquire after the fellow’s identity. Tarquin had obliged him with that information when he subsequently joined him at the ringside of a boxing bout, but had seemed reluctant to divulge more about Mickey Riley, or the subject of their disagreement.
The incident had been some weeks ago, but Mark had a good memory for faces, and Riley’s appearance was quite striking. He looked to be about Mark’s own age of thirty-two, yet had hair as grey as smoke and a complexion that had been ravaged by the elements to nut brown. Riley also had a misshapen nose that led one to believe he was, or had once been, a pugilist. Notwithstanding those blemishes, he was well built, and an oddly handsome man.
When Mark had witnessed the altercation between Tarquin and Mickey—who was quite obviously of a different social class—he had not been surprised or concerned. Tarquin’s love of gaming brought him into contact with all sorts of people at all sorts of venues. His friend would wager on a street scrap between two bruisers or a race of thoroughbreds at Epsom. Unfortunately, wherever he went, Tarquin had an unholy knack of backing a loser.
Most gentlemen with such an appalling record of luck would find diversion of a different kind. Yet after almost a decade, and a small fortune squandered, Tarquin still followed the philosophy that the next stake would bring it all right.
Mark’s thoughts returned to Mickey Riley. If Tarquin owed him money—perhaps from a bet that night in Spitalfields—Riley didn’t seem the sort of fellow to take the loss lightly. Of course, Tarquin’s debts were not his business…at least, not until he decided to call in the loan he had made him last year, and added to them, Mark wryly reflected.
But the sardonic tilt to his lips was soon gone. Mark’s mood became sombre, for he had an uneasy feeling that Mickey and his female companion had been watching Emily. Or it could have been Sarah Harper they were interested in, but instinct persuaded him it was not.
It seemed absurd to suppose that Riley might accost Emily because her brother owed him money. But it was certainly not unheard of for even well-connected creditors to pursue the relatives of those who tried to renege on a deal. Big and brash as Riley looked, perhaps he was too craven to approach Mr Beaumont senior with his complaints and was stalking his daughter instead.
Mark darted impatient looks about the cloyingly scented shop. Madame Joubert was rustling hither and thither, her arms full of froth, as she tempted Barbara to make her purchases. As he watched the pretty trivia pile on the counter, he wondered whether he was letting his imagination run riot. There was little substance on which to found his suspicions.
He had no proof that Riley and his female companion were doing more than enjoying a leisurely afternoon stroll. If they had been watching Emily and her friend, was it necessarily from sinister motives? Two attractive young ladies, obviously of enviable status, were bound to draw the attention of those less privileged.
It was a reasonable explanation, but ultimately did not quell Mark’s suspicions. He had a sudden urgent desire to quit the modiste’s, immediately track down Tarquin, and demand he tell him what the hell he had lately been up to.
‘Man over there give it to me. He told me to bring it to you.’
Emily looked down at the ragged child who had moments ago yanked rudely on her coat to gain her attention. The boy had then stuck out a grimy hand that clutched a note. Tentatively Emily took the paper and then peered in the direction that the wizened-faced little urchin was pointing. She couldn’t see anybody at all who looked to be the likely sender. People were stepping briskly along the pavements, going about their business with no hint of any interest in her.
She looked enquiringly at the boy, who was wrinkling his freckled nose. He cuffed at his face as he looked up and down the street. ‘He’s gorn,’ he admitted with a shrug. ‘But he was over there and he give me it and then he give me this.’ Dirty fingers were opened to reveal a few coppers. ‘You gonna give me anythin’?’ he boldly asked
