Edward squawked appreciatively and repeated, ‘Darling Marcus! Darling Marcus!’ Tassie hesitated again; then she pressed her lips together and hurled the wallet through the window as well.
The noise of singing and laughter came up from the tavern below. She went to put more coals on the slumbering fire, and caught sight of her face in the cracked mirror over the hearth. A pale, haunted face, with shadowed green eyes, and clouds of golden curls tumbling to her shoulders. Tassie, the street thief. Tassie the trickster. Who was she really? Why was she all alone, forced to run long ago from a place of hateful cruelty?
She went slowly to count up the coins in her money box, and the old memories came crowding in. The great old house, miles from anywhere. Well-bred, hateful voices, snarling over her: ‘This brat’s trouble, William, I tell you! Nothing but trouble, and some day she’s going to find out the truth…’
Thoughtfully, Tassie put her money box away and picked up her much-worn pack of cards from beside Edward’s perch. Outside she heard the nightwatchman call the hour, ‘Ten o’clock and all’s well..’
No. No. All was most decidedly not well. Sitting cross-legged on her little bed, she began by the light of the flickering candle to practise one of the tricks she’d persuaded old Peg-leg to teach her in return for her help today. The time had come, as she’d always known it would, for her to make her own plans—before somebody else tried to make them for her.
She might, perhaps, have felt even more trepidation had she realised just how ardently Major Marcus Forrester was thinking thoughts of revenge against the ungrateful wretch who’d removed his wallet. He and Hal were at that moment dining at a fashionable chop-house just off the Piazza, where Hal, guessing that his friend’s forlorn financial prospects must be lowering his spirits, talked to him encouragingly of the money that could be made by investing in cotton and shipping. Marcus listened, pretending to take an interest. Then Hal, taking the plunge, started to tell Marcus that his sister Caroline had recently met Miss Philippa Fawcett out walking in the park, and that she was looking unusually lovely, and was there any chance of Marcus calling on her; at which Marcus shook his head swiftly and ordered, Talk of something else, Hal. Anything else.’
And as Hal recounted inconsequential gossip, Marcus’s thoughts drifted far away to Lornings, the beautiful estate in the Gloucestershire countryside that belonged to his godfather, Sir Roderick Delancey. The place Marcus had always thought of as his home. As soon as Marcus, freshly returned to London just over a week ago after a storm-racked Atlantic voyage, had heard the news about Sir Roderick, he’d set out to see him. He’d found him, not at the great hall itself—which to Marcus’s dismay looked totally abandoned—but in the much smaller Dower House, which lay close by.
‘It’s all my own fault,’ Sir Roderick had replied simply. He seemed to have aged terribly in the two years of Marcus’s absence. ‘Dear boy, what a homecoming for you.’
Marcus had gone quickly over to his godfather and put his strong hand on his shoulder. ‘It wasn’t your fault. My cousin Corbridge is a lying, deceiving toad.’
‘And I should have known it! But I’d got so badly in debt, you see, thanks to the company Sebastian led me into; and only Sebastian seemed to know the way out of it—’
‘By taking you to one gaming house after another?’
‘He assured me I could not help but win, Marcus! But I lost so heavily, night after night. Corbridge saved me—at least I thought he did—by promising he would see to my bills until September of this year. But in return—’ and Sir Roderick sighed heavily ‘—I had to sign a letter promising him the entire Lornings estate as security.’
Marcus listened, tense-faced. ‘But surely your debts, however great they are, aren’t equivalent to the value of Lornings?’
Sir Roderick hung his head. ‘Believe me, they’re bad enough. If Sebastian hadn’t taken on the bills, I would have had to put myself in the hands of moneylenders; and then, you know, what with the interest they demand, my debts would have doubled and trebled, until even the sale of the estate wouldn’t have paid them off. I had no choice, Marcus. I’m so sorry. Lornings was supposed to be yours. I shall never forgive myself!’
Marcus shook his head vehemently. ‘I don’t give a fig for my inheritance. You’ve given me support and encouragement all my life—what more could I ask? But I can’t forgive Corbridge for forcing you out of your rightful home. And I swear to God I’ll make him pay.’
‘Lornings is still mine for the moment,’ Sir Roderick had said, with a gentleness that tore at Marcus’s heart. ‘Until the autumn, that is. But—I cannot afford to maintain the Hall now, so it seems best to live here, in the Dower House.’
Marcus was silent, thinking. Then he said suddenly, This last gaming house Corbridge took you to. Where you lost everything. Was it some backstreet den?’
‘It was disreputable, certainly. But if you’re thinking of contesting the letter that I signed, then don’t trouble yourself, because Corbridge had it legally drawn up and witnessed.’ He looked around him rather helplessly. ‘I’m comfortable here, really I am. And I’ve still got some land and livestock—I’ve always fancied trying my hand properly at farming…’
At your age? thought Marcus sadly. His godfather, who was sixty-three, suffered from arthritis. He had two ageing retainers, husband and wife, who had stayed loyally with him for a pittance, and a capable man called Daniels who ran the small farm. Otherwise he was on his own, with hardly any resources now that his fortune was so badly compromised.
‘I’ll come and help you,’ promised Marcus. ‘We’ll get the land to rights again, believe me. But first—’ his steely eyes narrowed ‘—I’ve got Corbridge to deal with.’
Sir Roderick was watching him with loving but anxious eyes. ‘Please don’t do anything foolish, my dear boy! I know how impetuous you can be!’
And Marcus had smiled grimly as he replied, ‘Impetuous? Don’t you worry. I shall consider every action—extremely carefully.‘
But so far, concluded Marcus, so far his plans had not gone well. He’d confronted Corbridge earlier tonight in the white heat of his rage, and been forced, publicly, to retreat—then he’d had his wallet stolen. Not the best of starts.
Hal was calling for the bill. Marcus hated not being able to pay for himself, but Hal brushed his objections aside. ‘If you’re staying with us as you promised, then you’ll have plenty of opportunities to repay me when you’re ready. Caro will love having you, and we might even persuade her to host one or two small gatherings; you could invite anyone you liked—’
Marcus interrupted. ‘If you’re thinking of Philippa again, then I must tell you I don’t think I’ll be inviting her anywhere. You see, she knows that my inheritance has gone.’
‘Marcus, I don’t believe—’
Marcus topped up their glasses. ‘Actually, I think she knew before I did.’ His voice was lightly casual, but Hal saw that his friend’s expression was bleak. ‘No doubt her doting parents found out and told her. I called on her just before I set off to see Sir Roderick. Oh, it was all very civilised; Philippa talked of how we both needed some time to reconsider our rash youthful commitment, and her foolish mother hovered by her side all the time, looking terrified in case I should try to change Philippa’s mind. I didn’t, of course.’
Hal frowned as he absently counted out the coins for the bill. He knew that Philippa’s parents, the businessman Sir John Fawcett and his wife, lived, when not in town, on a moderately prosperous estate in Gloucestershire that bordered Lornings to the south. Happily willing to overlook Marcus’s slightly dubious parentage in view of his being the great-grandson of the Earl of Stansfield and his expectation of Sir Roderick’s substantial estate, the ambitious