when his heir was born, he had failed to marry his mistress, Emily’s mother, until after her birth. For the first two years of her life Emily had been illegitimate. She glared at the fierce-looking man in his Georgian finery. He had been no more than a smug, licentious, arrogant scoundrel. How she hated him for the sexual excesses that had led to her being branded a bastard. Legitimizing her through eventual marriage to her mother had been too little, too late. It had barred her from the succession and turned her into an oddity, scorned by society as the daughter of a whore, laughed at behind her back.
The old fury rose in her. Her silver bracelets clashed as she sent the tarot pack tumbling with one flick of her wrist. The card showing the Fool fluttered into the fire, its edges curling in the flame. Damn her father and damn her half brother and damn his spoiled daughter who had deserved to die. Emily stood up. Lady Rose had been destroyed but now her daughter was coming home. The Wheel of Fortune was turning once again.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Seven of Swords: Do not give your trust too easily
MARGERY HAD SUGGESTED taking Henry to the Hoop and Grapes Inn for dinner. It was, as Henry pointed out, the haunt of footpads, highwaymen and any number of criminals. Margery had chosen it for the good food and because they knew her there.
“You do not strike me as the sort of female to frequent a place like this, Miss Mallon,” Henry said as they stopped in front of an ancient black-beamed and white-plastered building that boasted a battered wooden signboard above the door. “You seem far too respectable for such a flash house.”
“I’m far too respectable to frequent a bawdy house,” Margery said, “but you found me in one.”
“So I did,” Henry said. Amusement glinted in his eyes. “What an unusual woman you are, Miss Mallon.”
He opened the door to usher her inside. The air was so thick with the smell of pipe smoke it almost made Margery choke. Her eyes watered, and the smell of strong ale and warm bodies caught in her throat.
The taproom was packed with men and a few women. Total silence fell as they walked in. Margery saw the amusement deepen in Henry’s eyes. His lips twitched into a smile. “I’ve had warmer welcomes behind the French lines,” he murmured.
“They think you might be from Bow Street,” Margery said.
Henry looked offended. “They think I’m a Runner when I dress as well as this?”
Margery giggled. She took his hand and led him through to an inner parlor flickering with golden candlelight. There was a rickety wooden table in the corner by the fire. Henry held a chair for her before taking the one opposite.
“So you were a soldier,” Margery said, resting her elbows on the table and studying him thoughtfully. He looked entirely relaxed as though the unfriendly atmosphere of the Grapes had completely failed to intimidate him. “No wonder you’re not afraid,” she said slowly.
Henry raised a dark brow. “Were you trying to scare me by bringing me here?”
“Not scare you, precisely,” Margery said. She dropped her gaze and traced a circle on the top of the table with her fingertip. She had to admit that she had been testing him. She was curious; he gave away so little of himself. There was something watchful and closed about him, as though he held himself under the tightest control. A little shiver edged down her spine.
“My brothers drink here,” Margery said.
“Ah. You wish to introduce me to your family.” Henry sat back in his chair, stretching out his long legs. “Our acquaintance proceeds quickly, Miss Mallon.”
Margery laughed. “No, indeed. You need have no fear of that. I am simply being careful.”
“Very wise,” Henry said. “In case I fail to act as a gentleman should.” He was smiling but there was something challenging in his eyes that made Margery’s stomach curl and the heat rise through her blood. She tore her gaze away from his. At this rate she would not be able to eat a mouthful.
“I am relying on you to behave properly,” she said.
Henry gave her an ironic bow. “Not a cast-iron way of ensuring success,” he drawled.
“Do your best,” Margery said tartly and saw him grin.
“So, your brothers are criminals.” He slid his hand over hers where it rested on the table. His touch was warm and sent quivers of awareness trembling through her. “How stimulating.”
“Are you sure you are not a Runner?” Margery asked sweetly. She drew her hand gently from under his, not because she wanted to but because she knew she had to, if she was going to stick to the straight and narrow.
“Of course they are not criminals,” she said. Then honesty prompted her to qualify the statement. “That is, Jed is certainly not a criminal. He is a pot man at the Bear Hotel in Wantage. Billy runs his own business buying and selling cloth.” She ignored the other, less respectable things she knew Billy bought and sold. “And Jem…” She paused. “Well, I have to admit that Jem does sail a little close to the wind.”
Henry was laughing at her but she did not mind. There was warmth and admiration in his eyes that made her feel very happy inside.
“I like that you defend them,” he murmured. “You see the best in everyone.”
The Grapes’s three maidservants now converged upon them, squabbling for the privilege of serving them. Margery knew exactly why the girls were competing for Henry’s attention. It seemed that he rated even more highly than Jem, for he was not only good-looking but he looked rich, as well. All three girls were eyeing him with fascinated speculation and more than a little anticipation. Margery felt jealousy stir in her, the same jealousy that had beset her earlier.
“What would you like to eat and drink?” Henry asked her, while the tavern wench who had won the tussle for their order eyed Margery with ill-concealed dislike.
“I will take the mutton pie and a glass of ale, if you please,” Margery said.
The girl turned her attention back to Henry. “My lord?” she asked.
“I will have the same, please,” Henry said. He passed over a guinea and the maidservant pocketed it faster than a rat moved up a drainpipe. She dropped him a curtsy. “That would buy you plenty more than food and drink, my lord,” she said, opening her eyes very wide to make her meaning explicitly clear.
Henry raised his brows and smiled at her with such charm that even Margery blinked. “Thank you,” he murmured. “If I require more I will be sure to let you know.” He turned to Margery as the girl strolled away with a suggestive swing of the hips.
“She thinks me a nobleman and you are not even sure that you rate me a gentleman,” he said.
“She thinks you ripe for fleecing,” Margery said crushingly. “She is judging the guinea, not you.” She put up a hand and untied the ribbons on her bonnet, laying it aside. Looking up, she saw that Henry’s gaze was on her hair. Her first thought was that it must have got squashed beneath the hat, but when his eyes met hers she saw a spark of something hot that made her heart jerk. Her hair was a golden-brown, fine and entirely without curl, completely ordinary, yet Henry looked as though he wanted to reach out and touch it. She saw him swallow hard. It was extraordinary. She felt hot and bewildered, but excitement tingled in the pit of her stomach as she thought of his fingers slipping through the strands.
She was glad when the ale came. It broke the rather odd silence between them. Henry poured for them both from the pitcher. Margery took a mouthful, looked up and saw Henry’s eyes on her, a gleam of humor in them.
“It tastes rougher than a badger’s pelt,” he murmured.
“I prefer it to wine,” Margery said. She could feel the ale loosening her tongue already. It was indeed rough, with a kick like a mule. “Mrs. Biddle tells