The Wanton Bride. Mary Brendan

her mother and Violet Pearson were continually sniping at one another. They had been at loggerheads since Robert planted a facer on Bertie, the Pearsons’ son, thereby knocking out his two front teeth. The patresfamilias had shrugged and commiserated together about the young scamps. But Penelope Beaumont and Violet Pearson seemed determined to keep the feud alive.

      ‘No sign of Tarquin, I’m afraid.’ Mr Beaumont had deposited his damp coat on a chair and was wearily approaching the ladies. His tone had changed since that morning. Now Emily detected a distinct hint of anxiety making his voice husky.

      ‘You went to Westbury Avenue, Papa?’

      ‘I did, and Tarquin’s landlady was pleased I had stopped off, I can tell you. I had no chance to ask her if she knew where he was. She demanded I disclose to her his direction. She is under the impression he has done a flit and will not be back.’ Mr Beaumont sadly shook his head. ‘Most of his possessions are gone and he owes her two months’ rent. She has not seen hide nor hair of him for almost two weeks.’

      ‘What are we to do with him?’ Penelope Beaumont flapped her hands in exasperation. ‘When will he settle himself down and act responsibly? I knew he was running away from his debts again.’

      Cecil pursed his lips. ‘In my opinion, it’s more than the rent he owes that’s bothering him. Mrs Dale told me a fellow with a broken nose had called at Westbury Avenue looking for him. She said he looked like a cove it would be best not to cross.’

      Penelope Beaumont anxiously clasped her husband’s arm. ‘A man with a crooked nose stopped Millie in the street. He was asking about Tarquin. Millie said he seemed quite polite…’ she added desperately.

      ‘So he will be if he is about to demand his cash,’ Mr Beaumont pointed out with a cynical grunt of a laugh. ‘It’s when he doesn’t get it that he’s likely to turn rude.’

      Emily bit at her lip as she swung a glance between her parents’ drawn countenances. Their brief respite from Tarquin’s problems was at an end. He might still be out of sight, but imagining what sort of chaos he had created was tormenting their minds.

      ‘I can’t understand why he’s not been in touch,’ Mr Beaumont said. ‘If he needs money, I’m usually his first port of call. I wonder if he’s approached one of his friends to bail him out? I warned him last time that I’d do it no more. Mayhap he took me at my word.’

      ‘I saw Mark Hunter when out,’ Emily quickly volunteered that information. ‘He also had called in at Westbury Avenue to look for Tarquin.’ She immediately allayed her parents’ fears as to why he would be seeking their son. ‘It was not for payment of a debt, Mr Hunter assured me of that. He has not seen Tarquin recently either, but he kindly said he will make enquiries and let us know if he discovers anything.’

      Cecil Beaumont nodded slowly. ‘Mark is a good chap; if he says he will put himself out to do that, then I expect he will.’ Cecil scraped lank greying locks off his freckled forehead. ‘I suppose I ought open the post in case the bad news is come in a letter from Tarquin. Usually he just turns up and I can read it in his face.’

      Emily’s father trudged towards his study; her mother hurried away to check on their dinner. Before Penelope disappeared towards the kitchens, she called back to her daughter, ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, make yourself presentable, Emily. Look at the time! The Bonds will be with us in less than an hour.’

      As the baize door closed behind her agitated mother, Emily slowly slid her hand into her pocket. She withdrew the parchment and felt a chill settle about her heart. Secret admirer, indeed! she mocked herself.

      She suddenly had a very strong suspicion as to who had sent her letter. The manner in which it had been delivered obviously indicated that her brother did not want her parents to know of its existence, or its content. But why had he not shown himself to her? Why had he sent the boy to deliver it? If he was too wary to approach her in the street, even for a few moments, then Emily realised he must be in bad trouble indeed. The paper was dropped back into her pocket and quickly Emily headed for the stairs and the privacy of her chamber.

      ‘You are a pretty gel, but undoubtedly past your prime.’

      Emily heard that ambiguous tribute as she was sipping her wine. She swallowed quickly, for an urge to giggle had caused her to almost choke. She coughed delicately while composing herself, then smiled at Mrs Augusta Bond. She deposited her glass back on the table.

      ‘Emily is not yet five and twenty,’ Mrs Beaumont stiffly interjected. ‘Hardly in her dotage, I think.’

      Augusta Bond raised her lorgnette and divided her myopic gaze between mother and daughter. ‘Her chances of getting a husband are not so good as the younger gels out this year. Her looks come from her father’s side,’ the grande dame opined, then affected not to see the icy stare that comment elicited from her hostess. Augusta let her glasses fall against her ample bosom and resumed attacking her beef with her knife and fork.

      Emily sensed the old harridan’s grandson was looking her way. She knew Stephen would want to wordlessly convey his chagrin at his grandmother’s shockingly blunt manner. Emily took pity on him and gave him a subtle smile. Immediately he returned her an apologetic grimace that caused his thick brows to disappear beneath his fringe of blonde curls.

      ‘Miss Beaumont has an exceedingly fine singing voice,’ Stephen nervously told his grandmother. When that praise failed to wring a compliment from the old lady, he added, ‘And I’ve not encountered any young lady who can play the pianoforte so well, and without a piece of music to follow.’

      ‘That don’t mean she’ll make a good wife,’ Mrs Bond hissed at her grandson in an audible aside.

      Emily quickly snatched up her glass and downed an unladylike quantity of wine in one gulp. Oddly she felt an urge to endorse Mrs Bond’s advice to her grandson. Stephen Bond was a nice gentleman but, unless there was no option but to do it, she would not marry him. He deserved to be loved, not tolerated.

      Emily’s silver eyes, brimful of laughter, lifted to Stephen’s embarrassed countenance, then darted to her mother’s face. Penelope Beaumont’s expression was a study of furious indignation.

      Had Emily been in lighter spirits, she would have more fully appreciated the unexpected entertainment that had arrived punctually at seven o’clock in the stout shape of Mrs Augusta Bond. She might even have entered into the spirit of the game and given the mischievous old biddy a run for her money. But her eyes were drawn to where her papa sat quietly at the head of the table. He seemed to have withdrawn to a world of his own. Even his wife’s frequent glares could not budge him from it.

      Emily could guess what was preoccupying her poor papa. He was trying to fathom into what sort of trouble his eldest son had now plunged. Before dinner Emily had thought she would by now have an answer to that conundrum. But the letter she had received was not after all from her brother. However, it did concern him, and Emily was still pondering on the peculiar message she had received, and why it had come to her at all.

      When Tarquin’s creditors gathered, if they could not find him, they usually sought to inveigle her father into paying. But this time she had received the begging letter, albeit couched in covert terms.

      A person who remained anonymous had issued her an invitation to meet them tomorrow by the pawnbrokers’ shop in Whiting Street in order that she might learn something important concerning her brother. It also stated that she must keep the matter to herself to avoid a scandal.

      Emily had marvelled at the audacity of the fellow. She had quickly concluded that the author must be one of Tarquin’s creditors who hoped to coerce her to honour her brother’s debt. She had also deduced that the likely culprit was the ruffian with the broken nose, who had been loitering about, because the message was poorly written.

      Emily was not so naïve to believe that her brother gambled solely in the gentlemen’s clubs with his peers, but the idea that he was consorting with a man sporting a broken nose and a lack of grammar was indeed disheartening. Nevertheless, she would keep the appointment, and she would keep