Forbidden Page 5

  He laughed. It was a laugh that said he knew she was lying. He was right, of course, though she was damned if she was going to admit it. She quickened her pace. He matched it with minimum effort.

  “Wait,” he said. “I’d like to speak with you.” He hesitated. “Please.”

  It was the please that stopped her. She was not accustomed to courtesy from the aristocracy but by the time she had realized her mistake she was standing still and he was holding her hand. She had no idea how either of these things had occurred, only that his charm was clearly very dangerous to her.

  “Miss Mallon—”

  Margery snatched her hand back. “That reminds me. When we met in the brothel you addressed me as Miss Mallon. How did you know my name?”

  She saw a flash of expression in his eyes that she could not read. Then it was gone; he shrugged lightly.

  “I forget,” he said. “Perhaps Mrs. Tong mentioned your name.”

  Margery shook her head. She knew that was not true. “No,” she said, refusing to be deflected. “She did not.”

  Henry looked at her. His gaze was clear and open, yet she sensed something hidden. Instinct warned her that there was something he was not telling her.

  “Then I do not know,” he said. “Someone must have told me your name. The brothel servants, perhaps, or one of the girls…”

  Margery turned a shoulder and started walking again. A sharp pain had lodged itself in her chest, like a combination of indigestion and disappointment. She did not want to think about Henry spending time with Mrs. Tong’s girls, taking his pleasure with them, lying with one of them or perhaps more than one.

  The images jostled in her head, bright, vivid, intolerably lustful and licentious. Jealousy, sudden and vicious, scored her with deep claws. It disturbed her because she had no right to feel it. She did not want to feel it. She had no claim on him. She might as well be jealous of the horribly disdainful lady in the striped gown, the one who had been clinging to Henry’s arm at the ball.

  She paused. Now she thought about it, she was jealous of the snobbish aristocrat in the striped gown.

  “I didn’t stay at the brothel.” He put one hand on her sleeve. She stopped again. “There is no need to be jealous,” he said softly.

  Margery shook him off. “Why would I be jealous?” She did not want him reading her mind. It was too disconcerting.

  “You are jealous because you like me.” He smiled at her. It was arrogant. It was irresistible. Something heated and unfurled within her like a flower opening in the sun.

  “I like you, too,” he said gently. “I like you very much.”

  He touched her cheek and Margery could not help herself; she felt her whole body sweeten and sing at his words. It was impossible for her to withstand his charm. Her defenses felt like straw in the wind.

  “Why did you come to find me?” She could hear that her tone had lost its sharpness.

  “I wanted to thank you for returning the cravat pin,” Henry said. “I hope it did not cause any difficulties for you with Lady Grant. I would not have wanted you to get into trouble.”

  Margery smiled. His concern for her made her feel warm and cherished. It was a new sensation. Jem was a protective brother but he did not make her feel as special as she did now.

  “Thank you,” she said. “That is kind of you.” She smiled. “There was no difficulty. Lady Grant was only grateful that your lost property had been found. She is the best of employers. All the ladies I have worked for have been so kind—”

  She stopped, aware of the smile in Henry’s eyes, wondering why she was telling him so much. She was not usually so open. Disquiet stirred in her as she realized the extent of her danger. Henry was too charming and too easy to talk to, and she was too inexperienced to deal with him. She should run now, while she still had the chance.

  “Thank you for your thoughtfulness,” she said quickly, “and for not giving me away to Lady Grant.”

  Henry shook his head. “I’d never do that.” There was warmth and sincerity in his tone. Margery’s pulse fluttered.

  “You could have sent a note,” she said. “There was no need—” She stopped abruptly as Henry took her hand again. Her breath caught in her throat. Her heart seemed to skip a beat.

  “No need to see you again?” His thumb brushed her gloved palm and she shivered. She felt hot and melting, trembling on the edge of something sweet and dangerous. “But perhaps,” he said, “I am here by choice. Perhaps I am here because I wanted to see you.”

  Margery closed her eyes against the seduction of his words. She wondered if she had run mad. Maybe there would be a full moon tonight to account for her foolishness. For she knew she was being very, very foolish. There was nothing more imprudent than a maidservant who succumbed to wicked temptation and a rake’s charm.

  Her sensible soul told her to dismiss him and go straight home again.

  Her wicked side, the part of her she had not even known existed until Henry had kissed her, told her that this was just a small adventure and it could do no harm.

  She took the arm that he offered and they started to walk again, more slowly this time, her hand tucked confidingly into the crook of his elbow. She had thought it would feel like walking with Jem or another of her brothers. She could not have been more wrong. Even through the barrier of her glove, she could feel the hardness of muscle beneath his sleeve. The sensation distracted her; she realized that Henry had asked her a question and she had failed to answer.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I asked where we were going.” Henry sounded amused, as though he had guessed the cause of her disturbance. She blushed to imagine that he knew the effect he had on her.

  “I am going for a walk,” Margery said. “I like to get some fresh air and see the people passing by.” She hesitated and cast a shy glance at him from beneath her lashes. “I suppose you may accompany me if you wish.”

  Henry slanted a smile down at her and her wayward heart did another little skip. “That,” he said, “would be entirely delightful. Do you go walking often?”

  “As often as I have an evening free and good weather,” Margery said.

  “Alone?”

  “Of course I go alone,” Margery said. “I am not going to sit inside on a beautiful evening because I lack a suitable escort.”

  His lips twitched. “How very practical of you,” he murmured. “I hope that you are not troubled by importunate men when you are out alone.”

  Margery looked at him. “Only tonight,” she said dryly.

  His smile was rueful. “Touché.”

  “It is not a problem because I do nothing to draw attention to myself,” Margery said. “A maidservant is nothing more than a fool if she does. Besides—” She stopped on the edge of further confession. It seemed fatally easy to confide in Mr. Henry Ward.

  Henry looked down at her. “What is it?”

  Margery blushed. “Oh, it is nothing.”

  “You were going to say that no one notices you,” Henry said. “But I do. I see you.”

  They had stopped walking. “How did you know?” she demanded. “How did you know I was going to say that?”

  Henry smiled. He put his fingers beneath her chin and tilted her face up to his. Margery met his eyes and felt fear as well as excitement shimmer down her spine. There was something in his expression that was bright and hot and searing; it matched the expression he had worn that night in the brothel. She shivered.

  “You are always trying to hide,” Henry said quietly, “but you cannot hide from me. I noticed you from the very first.”

  Margery tried, she really tried this time, not to let his words go to her head. But it was hopeless. She was already half seduced. She felt her lips form a tiny “oh” sound that was a mixture of disbelief and pure longing. She felt her stomach clench with the echo of that desire. She saw Henry’s gaze slide along the curve of her cheek to her mouth. He brushed his thumb over the line of her jaw and her heart jumped almost out of her
chest as she heard herself give a little gasp.

  Are you mad, my girl? The man is a rake. You will be in his bed before you can say strumpet.

  Once more, Granny Mallon’s acerbic words slid into Margery’s mind, wrenching her back to reality. It was impossible to lose her head over a handsome gentleman with Granny Mallon metaphorically sitting on her shoulder all the time, the voice of her virtue.

  “I was not fishing for compliments,” she said. “And I am not looking for carte blanche, Mr. Ward.”

  He stepped back, his hand falling slowly to his side. There was rueful amusement in his eyes. “I beg your pardon. I never imagined that you were, Miss Mallon, and I am sorry if I offended you.” He smiled at her and Margery felt her tension ease. Soon, she knew, they would have to turn back to Bedford Street. Darkness was falling and it would be beyond foolish for her to stay out with him at night. Her small adventure would end very soon.

  Henry offered her his arm again and after a moment they resumed their walk, silently now as the sun sank behind the roofs of the town houses and the sunset turned red and gold.

  There was a flower seller on the street corner with a cart that was empty but for a few bunches of delicate pink rosebuds. Margery looked at them and her heart ached. She loved flowers, from the huge hothouse arrangements that overflowed in Lady Grant’s ballroom to the tiny wild harebells that grew in profusion on the chalk lands where she had grown up.

  Perhaps her longing was in her eyes, because Henry had turned to the flower girl. “I’d like to buy the rest of your stock, please,” he said, and the girl’s tired face lifted as she handed him the bouquets and took his coins. He presented them to Margery who buried her nose in the sweet-scented sprays.

  “How lovely,” she said. She was trying to guard her heart against him but it was no good. She was so touched and happy. “No one has ever bought me flowers before.”

  Henry smiled at her. “It is my pleasure.”

  “My mother said I was named after two flowers,” Margery said. She was inhaling the scent of the roses with her eyes closed. When she opened them she saw that Henry was watching her.

  “Marguerite and Rose,” she said. “Those are my names.”

  She saw some expression cloud Henry’s eyes. Doubt clutched at her. Something was wrong but she had no idea what it was.

  “It’s quite a mouthful, isn’t it,” she said uncertainly.

  “Is that why you changed it to Margery?” Henry said.

  “It seemed more practical,” Margery said. “For a lady’s maid.”

  Henry nodded and smiled at her. “I would like to take you for supper,” he said. He took her hand. “Please. Allow me.”

  Margery hesitated, hanging back, wary of him again. A walk in the evening was one thing, supper with its suggestion of intimacy and seduction, quite another.

  “Why would you do that?” she asked cautiously.

  “Because you look as though you are hungry,” Henry said.

  Margery could not help her peal of laughter. “That was not what I meant.”

  “I know,” Henry said. He was laughing, too. “But you do.”

  “I had no dinner today.” Margery was surprised to realize it. “Lady Grant is attending a ball tonight so I dressed her and then came straight out.”

  “Then you need to eat,” Henry said. He gave her hand a little tug. Still, she hesitated.

  It can do no harm….

  Not Granny Mallon’s voice this time, but the voice of her own desires, dangerously persuasive.

  She felt her heart sing with pleasure and anticipation that the evening was not to end yet and that she would always have something sweet to remember in the future.

  “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.

  * * *

  LADY EMILY TEMPLEMORE 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 t
oo 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.