The Major and the Pickpocket. Lucy Ashford

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       Chapter Four

      Tassie woke to find herself in a big four-poster bed curtained with damask drapes. Feeling suddenly as if she couldn’t breathe, she pushed her way out to find that it was daytime, and she was in a vast room full of dark mahogany furniture with gloomy paintings on the walls. Fear dried her throat. There was no sound at all, except for the ticking of an ormolu clock on the marble mantelshelf above the fireplace. The fingers pointed to just past three o’clock. She must have slept all night—and half the day.

      She flew to the door and tried the handle. It was locked. Her panic mounting, she hurried across to the big, velvet-draped window through which the low February sun was sending slanting rays of pale afternoon light. There was no escaping this way either, for from the window it was a straight drop of thirty feet or more to the broad pavement below. Now there’s a bone-breaker of a fall, Georgie Jay would say…

      Where was she? How far away were her friends? She knew she was still in London, because beyond the huge stuccoed houses that lined this wide square she could see slate rooftops and white church spires stretching away to the familiar golden dome of St Paul’s. But there was no sign at all of the seething bustle of humanity that filled the noisy streets around Covent Garden. A solitary carriage was pulling up further down the road, and a footman held open the door to let out a beautifully dressed woman and a small girl.

      The way the woman held the child’s hand, and smiled down at her, with love, brought a sudden ache to Tassie’s heart. Then her mind was filled with other emotions, because she’d suddenly realised that she was no longer wearing Moll’s shabby old gown, but was swathed in a white lawn nightdress, with lacings at her throat, and with skirts that fell down to her bare ankles. She touched it with distaste and growing alarm. Who had undressed her, and put her in this? She couldn’t remember a thing about arriving at the house! But she did remember those men last night. Marcus and his fancy friend Hal. Had they brought her here? If so, why? Why hadn’t Marcus just handed her over to the constables? Then she remembered. And felt rather sick again. She sat suddenly on the edge of the vast bed, and recalled how Marcus and his friend had been discussing her hair, her voice, her skill with cards. Talking about her—as if she was for sale.

      Moll’s brash voice came back to her, as she warned, ‘You must have seen the way men are starting to look at her! There’ll be trouble soon if you don’t look out…‘

      She clasped her hands together tightly. Something told her that what the men Marcus and Hal had in mind for her could be a good deal more dangerous even than being hauled up before the magistrates. Frantically she started to search the room for her shoes, her stockings, the horrible gown she’d stolen from Moll; but it was no good. Every chest, every closet was quite empty.

      And besides, the door was locked.

      She stood very still in the centre of the room, trying to keep calm, trying to think what her friends would do. ‘Stay in charge, Tass,’ Georgie Jay was always telling her. ‘Size up your enemy’s weakness—and remember every card that’s been played in the game.’

      But her game so far, with the man called Marcus, had been a simple path to disaster. Again her heart quailed within her. She’d been stupid enough—yes, and ungrateful enough—to pick his temptingly placed pocket as he hid her from the Watch yesterday—and then, as if Fortune was wreaking revenge, she’d been challenged by him to a game of piquet at the Angel. She’d recognised him immediately, of course, with his thick dark hair and his lean, hard face and his limp. A little shiver had gone through her as he assessed her. But she still hadn’t been able to resist cheating him, playing a dangerous game as ever; and if it hadn’t been for the place being raided she’d have escaped with her winnings, despite the fact that the man called Marcus had realised she was cheating him. But the general alarm, the rush to get out, had meant that she was trapped, literally, in her enemy’s arms. And then he’d recognised her as the thief who’d taken his wallet.

      He’d also assumed that she was a doxy, and that Lemuel was her keeper. Lemuel, in charge of her! That was a joke, but nothing else about her situation was very funny at all.

      Tassie curled up, shivering, on the big bed. She couldn’t help but remember the moment when Marcus had pulled her against his long, powerful body—how he’d felt dangerously strong and full of hard-packed muscle. Then he’d kissed her, so casually, as if he’d done that sort of thing with women a hundred times before…She clenched her hands tightly.

      And that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst of it was that she’d been wildly disturbed. Her whole body had pounded with agitation. She should have pushed him away, should have defended herself, as she had that time with Billy, but instead she’d found herself melting treacherously in his arms. She remembered all too vividly how her small breasts had tingled, her nipples growing hard, almost painful as they were crushed against his broad chest. And all the time, as he pressed his lips mercilessly against hers, all the time, as his strong hands played across her back for the benefit of the constables, pulling her even closer, she’d felt an insistent ache of longing, a melting in the pit of her stomach, as though a flame had been kindled there…

      Worst of all, though, had been the cold, shivery feeling that engulfed her when at last he let her go, and insulted her so hatefully in front of those leering constables.

      They had some plan afoot, the arrogant Marcus and his friend Hal—something to do with a man called Corbridge. Then when she’d tried to run away, they’d kidnapped her and brought her here. Why? Oh, this was playing deeper than she’d ever intended when she planned her stunt with Lemuel last night. She had to get out of here.

      Just then she heard the sound of footsteps coming towards her door. She jumped up, her arms folded defensively across her breasts as she heard a key turning in the lock. Her heart thumped so heavily she thought she might choke. The door opened, and a woman glided into the room. She wore a black gown, edged frugally with lace; her brown hair was gathered tightly at the nape of her neck. She was young, yet she was dressed like a middle-aged matron. Was she perhaps the housekeeper here? Behind her followed a thin female servant, also in black, but with a starched СКАЧАТЬ