His raised voice was drawing onlookers now. And the girl’s slender figure seemed frozen to her chair as she realised, at last, that her game was at an end. Marcus reached across the table scornfully for the winnings she’d garnered from himself and Hal. And then, suddenly, he heard shouting from the street outside, and the sound of feet clattering up the staircase, and the room was filled with cries of alarm. ‘The Watch! The Watch are upon us!’ Marcus was on his feet already, but not before the wretched girl had grabbed all the rouleaux back and was elbowing her way through the panic-stricken punters towards the back staircase. Marcus lunged after her, and just managed to catch hold of her arm. ‘Not so fast. Not so fast, you bloody little cheat…’
She fought him quite ferociously, though no one noticed, because all around them people were pushing and jostling and calling out in panic. This was an illegal gaming parlour, after all, and none of them wanted to spend the night in a magistrate’s cell. Chairs were being overturned, candles extinguished, cards sent flying to the floor as they all tried to get to the stairs that led to the back exit. The girl continued to struggle wildly, but he hung on all the tighter as they were swept towards the top of that staircase with the rest of the fleeing crowd. He must have hurt her; she let out a low cry; then suddenly her elbow in his diaphragm all but winded him, and she hissed, ‘Take your hands off me, you coneyjack, you!’
Coneyjack. Thieftaker. Marcus almost dropped her in his surprise. ‘It was you!’ he exclaimed. ‘You, running from the Watch earlier this evening in the Strand! I hid you from them, told them you’d gone the other way—and then—then, you ungrateful wretch, you damned well picked my pocket!’
The press was even tighter now because they were almost at the top of the darkened staircase. For a moment her huge green eyes glinted vividly in the shadows. With fear? Not for long. ‘Maybe,’ she breathed, ‘that’s ‘cos all you overbearing, arrogant gents deserve to be robbed!’ Then she twisted violently to get free of his grip and called out wildly, ‘Lemuel, Lemuel, where are you? Come and help me, you great slow-witted fool!’
Marcus clung on grimly to his captive as the tide of people in full flight swept past them. ‘Lemuel,’ he growled. ‘So that’s your young friend’s name, is it? I’ll wager he’s out on the streets by now, running full tilt for whatever hovel you call home—’
He got no further, because she brought her knee up and thudded it, hard, against his right thigh.
Marcus swore fluently and almost lost her. He snatched a swift look over his shoulder, but of Hal there was no sign, damn it. He tightened his grip on the wretched girl and dragged her with him—she was still kicking out—to the crush at the top of the stairs. He wasn’t going to let her go, yet if the minx carried on fighting him like this, they’d end up tumbling down the steps, and being trampled underfoot in the stampede…
Nothing else for it. He picked the girl up and put her over his shoulder, then let himself be carried down the rickety staircase by the crowd of nervous punters hustling towards the back doorway, and the safety of the warren of dark alleyways that lay behind Great Suffolk Street. Within seconds the girl had started to pummel his back, but fortunately his coat was of good, thick broadcloth; his strongly muscled shoulders were as impervious to her clenched little fists as were his ears to her colourful threats. All the same, he was glad when at last they got outside and he was able to swing the jade down and set her on her feet. It was starting to rain again. Around them the crowd was melting swiftly away; the girl tried to hop off, too, but he gripped her and pulled her into a nearby doorway. There were no lamps here, and the shadows clustered like sepia pools, far away from the candle-lit windows further along the street. ‘Let go of me!’ She was still struggling, like a wildcat; he almost shook her into submission and suddenly she went limp in his arms. Another trick? If he did let her go, would she fall—or run?
Somewhere in the darkness fiddle music was spilling out from a lively tavern. But out here, as the last of the Angel’s fleeing patrons vanished into the blackness, they were quite alone. The doorway gave them little shelter from the rain, which was landing on her cheeks, washing away her rouge and starring her thick lashes—or were they tears he saw? Her golden hair was tumbling from its pins and falling around her shoulders in damp disarray. What would she try next? He expected more insults, more oaths; but this time the cunning jade adopted a different tactic. In a voice that quivered slightly she begged, ‘Please, please, sir, don’t hand me in. I’m but a poor orphan; I do swear I meant no harm…’
Marcus had no difficulty hardening his heart against this plea. ‘I’ll let you go with the greatest of pleasure. But not before you’ve given me back my winnings, and also the wallet you stole from me earlier this evening.’
She caught her breath. ‘Wallet? Fie, what wallet? I’ve not the faintest notion what you mean!’ Marcus wanted to shake the girl; he found her cheek incredible; but before he could reply he heard the sound of clattering footsteps as some of the magistrate’s men came rushing down the back staircase from the gaming hell and out into the alley, furious because so far they’d been deprived of their prey. Until now. Marcus cursed thoroughly under his breath. ‘Leave this to me,’ he hissed at the girl.
‘Here’s one of ‘em, lads!’ called a constable, jabbing his finger at Marcus. ‘Now, you was up there, wasn’t you, eh?’ He jerked his head towards the deserted upper storey of the ill-fated gaming club. ‘Reckon we need to ask you some questions, sir—you’re coming along with us, if you please!’
Marcus had absolutely no intention of doing so. Swiftly he drew the rainsoaked girl into his arms and laughed. ‘A gaming hell, constable? Not me. In fact, I’ve just been down to a little nunnery in Haymarket, where Mother Bentley—you know her?—rules the roost. And from there I picked out this charming maid for a night of pleasure. A whole guinea, I’ve paid, and we were just on our way back to my lodgings—now, do you think I’d have time to waste on cards, or dice?’
Even as he spoke he heard the girl’s sharply indrawn breath as the damned little minx prepared to protest. The constables were muttering and scratching their heads, eyeing him dubiously. One word of denial from the girl, and he’d be finished.
Swiftly he pulled her hard against his body and bent his head to kiss her. He could taste the cool rain on her lips, could feel her heart thumping through the wet silk of her gown as she struggled like a trapped bird in his arms. He was surprised, because she smelled so clean, so fresh. Surprised, too, because, as he continued to kiss her for the benefit of those gawping officers of the law, she seemed to freeze in shock, as if she had never been kissed before…
But that was impossible! Inevitably, though, he felt the spearing of desire at his loins. Her mouth was strangely tempting—cool, tender, tantalising—and as he held her closer, just in case the jade once more tried to run, he felt her slender body tense against him, felt the thrust of her nipples pressing against his chest through her thin bodice in a way that made the blood pound in his veins. Aware of some sudden, unguessed—at danger, Marcus relaxed his grip on her and fought down his arousal. She sagged in his arms, just as if he’d drawn all the strength from her slender body. Marcus felt a pang of pity for her, then reminded himself grimly that she was a pickpocket, a cheat, and no doubt a whore. He tried not to wonder again whether it was rain or tears that had gathered on her thick lashes.
‘You’re an excellent actress, minx,’ he muttered grimly in her ear. ‘But you’re not getting out of this one. Two guineas were in that wallet of mine, and two guineas’ worth of a kiss I shall have, if only to save us both from a night in the magistrates’ cells.’ In a louder voice he called out to the watching men, ‘Would you leave us in peace, gents? I told you, I paid dearly for this little lightskirt!’
‘You made a mistake, then,’ jeered one of the men. ‘Pretty she may be, but she ain’t got enough flesh on her to keep a man warm for a minute, let alone a night.’