Forbidden (6 page)

“Thank you,” she said. “I should like that very much.”

From the broad, elegant spaces of Bedford Square, they turned
southward toward the higgledy-piggledy jumble of cobbled streets that crowded
near the Thames. The evening was cool and bright, the roads busy and noisy, but
Margery did not notice the crowds. Her entire attention was wrapped up in Henry,
in the brush of his body against hers as they walked, in his smile and in his
touch. She wanted no more than this. She held the pink rosebuds carefully and
breathed in their heady scent. She was very happy.

* * *

L
ADY
E
MILY
T
EMPLEMORE
sat at the
cherrywood table in the Red Saloon at Templemore House, her tarot cards spread
out in a horseshoe shape before her. She had been in her teens when she first
started to use the ancient wisdom of the tarot to foretell the future and to
guide her. People had laughed at her for her credulity and her interest in the
occult. She had been labeled an eccentric and a bluestocking but there had been
a hint of fear in those who mocked her. She did not really care. No one
understood her; they never had and they never would.

Tonight she had asked the cards a direct question and, as
always, they had answered her. She had asked if Margery Mallon was the lost
grandchild of her half brother the earl, and if so, what she should do. That was
two questions, really, but the one went with the other. If the child had been
found, then Lady Emily knew she could not keep quiet and wait for fate to catch
up with her. She would need to take action.

Card one in the spread represented the past. It was Temperance,
but it was reversed, speaking of quarrels and strife. A shiver shook Lady
Emily’s narrow frame as the cruelty and guilt of the past reached out to touch
her again. There certainly had been quarrels aplenty at Templemore.

Card two, representing the present, was the Eight of Swords.
The card summed up her current emotions very accurately. She felt trapped and
powerless and very afraid. She reached for her glass of ratafia and swallowed
three quarters of the sweet liqueur in one gulp. A flush lit her sallow cheeks.
She felt a little warmer. The neck of the bottle rattled against the glass as
she topped it up. The fire hissed as a log settled deeper in the grate.

Card three was very important, because it gave an insight into
the hidden influences at work. It was the Knight of Swords. She thought this was
probably Henry. Henry was ruthless and determined and driven by duty. He would
do his utmost to bring Lady Marguerite home, even though he would be the one who
would lose the most by it. Lady Emily shrugged her thin shoulders. She knew
Henry was dangerous, her most dangerous enemy.

Matters did not improve with the fourth card, which represented
the obstacles in her path. It was the Seven of Cups. The card spoke of important
choices to be made. The problem was that there were so many different options
that she felt quite overwhelmed. The card held a warning, as well: take care in
your decision, for all is not as it seems.

Frowning, Lady Emily turned her attention to the final three
cards. Card five showed the attitudes of other people. There was help here,
though not in very reliable form. The Page of Pentacles was a wastrel, dissolute
and impatient. He was not a good ally, but at the moment he was all she had.
Lady Emily’s gaze strayed toward the writing desk. Later she would write,
secretly and swiftly, to put him on his guard and to ask for his aid.

There were two cards remaining. They told her what she should
do and the final outcome. The first was Strength, but it was reversed. She had
to overcome her fears. If she did so then the final card promised her reward. It
was the Six of Wands. Victory. Already she felt flushed with success and
achievement. If she was patient, if she was brave, she would triumph.

In the depths of the house a clock struck eight. It was the
only sound. Templemore House felt as though it was waiting, waiting to awaken,
waiting for the lost heir to return. Lady Emily’s gaze went to the portrait over
the fireplace. Her father. It was a great pity that, having lost his first wife
in childbirth 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

M
ARGERY
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 me I should cultivate a taste for sherry if I am to be a
housekeeper in my turn,” she said, “but I find it too genteel a drink.”

“Do you want to be a housekeeper?” Henry enquired. “Is that not
the pinnacle of achievement for an upper servant?” He topped up her glass.

“Mrs. Biddle says that I could do it if I wished, for I am
already the youngest lady’s maid she has ever known.” She sighed. “Truth is, I
do not want to be a servant.”

Henry’s lips twitched into that irresistible smile that always
led her into indiscretion. “What do you want to be, Miss Mallon?”

“I want to be a confectioner,” Margery said in a rush. “I want
to have a shop and make comfits and marzipan cakes and sweetmeats. I want to own
my own business and sell my cakes to all the lords and ladies of the ton.”

Once again Henry’s eyes gleamed with that secret amusement. “It
is good to have ambition,” he murmured.

“But I need money to set myself up in business.” Margery
drooped. “I save all that I can from my wages—and the money that Billy pays me
for collecting old clothes for him—but it will never be enough to buy a
shop.”

Henry’s eyes met hers over the rim of his glass. “You had not
thought to…ah…raise funds another way?”

The spark in his eyes captured and held her. She saw
speculation there and desire that burned her and set her heart racing. She also
saw exactly, explicitly, what he was suggesting.

She took another gulp of the ale. “Certainly not. I told you I
was not a lightskirt! Besides—” even in her indignation she could not quite
escape the force of logic “—I am not certain that I would be in any way
successful enough to make the necessary capital.”

A corner of Henry’s mouth twitched upward into that dangerous
smile. “I am sure you could learn.”

Their gazes tangled, his dark, direct with an undercurrent that
made Margery’s toes curl. Then his smile broadened.

“Actually,” he said lightly, “I only wondered whether there was
someone who might give you a loan.”

Margery almost choked on her ale. “You were teasing me,” she
accused.

“Yes. Although…” Henry paused. “If the other idea appeals to
you—”

“It does not. I told you I was not looking for carte
blanche!”

She had spoken too quickly, intent only on denying the quiver
of desire in the pit of her stomach. It was illuminating to discover that her
morals were nowhere near as stalwart as she had believed them to be. She thought
of Henry’s hands on her body, his lips against her skin, and she felt the tide
of warmth rush into her face. Oh, how she wanted him. How seductive it was and
how much trouble she could get herself into with the slightest of missteps. She
was completely out of her depth.

Henry was watching her. He
knew
.

Margery sought to hide her mortification in her glass of ale
and took several long swallows, which only served to make her head spin all the
more.

The pies arrived, fragrant with mutton and dark gravy. Henry
refilled her glass. They talked as they ate, which Margery knew was not refined,
but suddenly there seemed so much to say. Henry asked her about her childhood in
Wantage, and her work there and her family. She told him about Granny Mallon and
her dire warnings about London gentlemen and Henry laughed and told her that her
grandmother had been in the right of it.

Margery laughed, too, and drank until her head was fuzzy and
the candlelight blurred to a golden haze and her elbow slid off the table, which
made Henry laugh some more. A fiddler struck up in the other room, and the
scrape of tables being pushed back was followed by a wild jig, the notes rising
to the rafters.

But in their corner of the parlor, it was warm and intimate and
felt as though it was theirs alone.

“Tell me,” Henry said, leaning forward, the candlelight
reflected in his dark eyes. “What is the earliest thing that you remember?”

Margery wrinkled up her nose. It seemed an odd, fanciful
question, but then she supposed they had been discussing their childhoods. Or
rather they had been discussing her childhood. She could not recall a single
thing that Henry had told her in answer to her questions. She knew she was a
little cast away, so perhaps she was not remembering. Henry was drinking brandy
now and she had a glass of cherry brandy, sweet and strong.

“I recollect a huge room,” she said slowly, “with a checkered
floor of black and white and a dome high above my head that scattered colored
light all around me.” She looked up to meet an odd expression in Henry’s eyes.
It was gone before she could place it.

“I have no idea where it was. I have been in many great houses
since, but have never seen anything like it. Perhaps I imagined it.”

There had been other memories, too; people whose faces she
could see only in shadow, scents, voices. She thought she remembered a carriage,
a flight through the night, raised voices, cold and tears, but the memories were
overlaid with others of her childhood in the tenement house in Wantage and the
rough-and-tumble of life with her brothers.

Henry was watching her and the expression in his eyes was
intent and secret.

“Sometimes,” she said slowly, knowing that the drink was
prompting her to be indiscreet, “I do think my imagination plays tricks on me.
It disturbs me because I remember things that seem quite fanciful—silks and
perfumes and such soft beds, yet I am not a fanciful person.”

“And yet you do have a romantic streak, do you not, Miss
Mallon?” Henry said. “I know, for example, that you read Gothic romances.”

Margery jumped. “How could you possibly know that?” It was
unnerving the way in which he appeared to know so much about her. No one, not
even those people who had known her for twenty years or more, realized that she
loved those stories of beautiful heroines and handsome heroes and haunted
castles.

Henry raised his brows. “I saw that you had a copy of Mrs.
Radcliffe’s book
The Romance of the Forest
in your
reticule. I assumed that it was yours, unless you are taking it home for the
admirable Mrs. Biddle.”

Margery was betrayed into a giggle. “Mrs. Biddle reads nothing
other than books on household management,” she said. “She thinks fiction is
frivolous.”

“We won’t tell her your secret, then,” Henry said with his slow
smile. “For fear of damaging your future prospects.”

The music was becoming wilder still, the customers more raucous
and amorous. One of the tavern wenches was enthusiastically kissing a tall fair
man who had her pressed up against the plaster wall and looked as though he was
about to ravish her there and then, in full view of the customers.

“He’s a scamp,” Margery said. “A highwayman. Jem says he works
the Great West Road.”

Two men at the next table were coming to blows over a game of
shove ha’penny. One planted a punch on the other; the table rocked and
overturned and then they were locked in grunting combat. A knife flashed.

“Time to go, I think,” Henry said. He stood up, drawing Margery
to her feet, one arm about her waist as she stumbled a little. “You may have a
taste for dangerous company,” he said, “but I have more care for
self-preservation.”