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.
Chapter Four
Tassie woke to find herself in a big four-poster bed curtained with damask drapes. Feeling suddenly as if she couldn’t breathe, she pushed her way out to find that it was daytime, and she was in a vast room full of dark mahogany furniture with gloomy paintings on the walls. Fear dried her throat. There was no sound at all, except for the ticking of an ormolu clock on the marble mantelshelf above the fireplace. The fingers pointed to just past three o’clock. She must have slept all night—and half the day.
She flew to the door and tried the handle. It was locked. Her panic mounting, she hurried across to the big, velvet-draped window through which the low February sun was sending slanting rays of pale afternoon light. There was no escaping this way either, for from the window it was a straight drop of thirty feet or more to the broad pavement below. Now there’s a bone-breaker of a fall, Georgie Jay would say…
Where was she? How far away were her friends? She knew she was still in London, because beyond the huge stuccoed houses that lined this wide square she could see slate rooftops and white church spires stretching away to the familiar golden dome of St Paul’s. But there was no sign at all of the seething bustle of humanity that filled the noisy streets around Covent Garden. A solitary carriage was pulling up further down the road, and a footman held open the door to let out a beautifully dressed woman and a small girl.
The way the woman held the child’s hand, and smiled down at her, with love, brought a sudden ache to Tassie’s heart. Then her mind was filled with other emotions, because she’d suddenly realised that she was no longer wearing Moll’s shabby old gown, but was swathed in a white lawn nightdress, with lacings at her throat, and with skirts that fell down to her bare ankles. She touched it with distaste and growing alarm. Who had undressed her, and put her in this? She couldn’t remember a thing about arriving at the house! But she did remember those men last night. Marcus and his fancy friend Hal. Had they brought her here? If so, why? Why hadn’t Marcus just handed her over to the constables? Then she remembered. And felt rather sick again. She sat suddenly on the edge of the vast bed, and recalled how Marcus and his friend had been discussing her hair, her voice, her skill with cards. Talking about her—as if she was for sale.
Moll’s brash voice came back to her, as she warned, ‘You must have seen the way men are starting to look at her! There’ll be trouble soon if you don’t look out…‘
She clasped her hands together tightly. Something told her that what the men Marcus and Hal had in mind for her could be a good deal more dangerous even than being hauled up before the magistrates. Frantically she started to search the room for her shoes, her stockings, the horrible gown she’d stolen from Moll; but it was no good. Every chest, every closet was quite empty.
And besides, the door was locked.
She stood very still in the centre of the room, trying to keep calm, trying to think what her friends would do. ‘Stay in charge, Tass,’ Georgie Jay was always telling her. ‘Size up your enemy’s weakness—and remember every card that’s been played in the game.’
But her game so far, with the man called Marcus, had been a simple path to disaster. Again her heart quailed within her. She’d been stupid enough—yes, and ungrateful enough—to pick his temptingly placed pocket as he hid her from the Watch yesterday—and then, as if Fortune was wreaking revenge, she’d been challenged by him to a game of piquet at the Angel. She’d recognised him immediately, of course, with his thick dark hair and his lean, hard face and his limp. A little shiver had gone through her as he assessed her. But she still hadn’t been able to resist cheating him, playing a dangerous game as ever; and if it hadn’t been for the place being raided she’d have escaped with her winnings, despite the fact that the man called Marcus had realised she was cheating him. But the general alarm, the rush to get out, had meant that she was trapped, literally, in her enemy’s arms. And then he’d recognised her as the thief who’d taken his wallet.
He’d also assumed that she was a doxy, and that Lemuel was her keeper. Lemuel, in charge of her! That was a joke, but nothing else about her situation was very funny at all.
Tassie curled up, shivering, on the big bed. She couldn’t help but remember the moment when Marcus had pulled her against his long, powerful body—how he’d felt dangerously strong and full of hard-packed muscle. Then he’d kissed her, so casually, as if he’d done that sort of thing with women a hundred times before…She clenched her hands tightly.
And that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst of it was that she’d been wildly disturbed. Her whole body had pounded with agitation. She should have pushed him away, should have defended