Lucy Ashford - The Major and the Pickpocket

‘No! No gaming.’ Marcus’s vivid, handsome face, which had relaxed in the company of his friend, was suddenly serious once more. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever cast the dice again, Hal.’

Hal Beauchamp pulled a droll expression. He was dressed as usual in the most expensive, if discreet of styles; his long greatcoat that swept almost to the ground was exquisitely tailored, and his beaver hat and shining top-boots bore evidence of the tender care of a skilful valet. ‘Oh dear, oh dear me,’ he sighed. ‘It’s the end of the world indeed if Major Marcus Forrester renounces the fine art. What would your devoted soldiers say? Remember the game of hazard we had in camp, just before the raid on Wilmington last year? The enemy were all around, and you were saying, “One more throw, gentlemen. Just one more throw. I feel that my luck is in…”’

Marcus laughed, but his eyes were bleak. ‘It hasn’t been in lately, Hal.’

‘No.’ His friend’s expression softened. ‘I heard about your injury, at the siege of Savannah. Do you have somewhere to stay in London?’

Marcus shook his head. ‘Not yet. The army pensions office offered me some tedious post in recruitment with lodgings all in, but I refused. And I haven’t started looking for anywhere else yet. I just wanted to find Corbridge.’

‘And kill him? So I must assume you were planning on sleeping in Newgate gaol tonight,’ said Hal lightly as they jostled their way through the crowds that thronged Haymarket. ‘I have a better suggestion. Come and stay with Caroline and me, in Portman Square. Far more comfortable than Newgate, I assure you.’

Marcus struggled, then smiled. It was very difficult not to smile when Hal was around. They’d been at Oxford together, then the army; they’d shared good times and bad. But now they were both out of the war; Hal because his only sister, who had been recently widowed, needed him at home; and Marcus because of a rebel’s musketball through his thigh.

‘ You are more than kind,’ said Marcus, turning to face his friend. ‘But your sister—I would be imposing, surely?’

‘Not at all, dear fellow. She always had a soft spot for you. And your injured leg will give her something to fuss over.’ Hal hesitated. ‘I heard, you know, about your godfather Sir Roderick and the business with Corbridge. It must have come as a blow to you. The loss of your inheritance, the decline in your prospects…’

Marcus said quietly, The worst of it, Hal, was seeing what it has done to my godfather. This business has all but finished him off.’

Hal nodded, frowning in sympathy. Then stay with us, while you see what can be done.’

‘I have no wish whatsoever to be in anyone’s debt.’

‘My dear fellow,’ responded Hal swiftly, ‘let’s have no talk of debt. Consider our house your home for as long as you wish.’

And to ensure there could be no further argument, Hal resumed his steady pace along the Strand, where the candlelit shop windows with their displays of millinery and trinkets glittered enticingly. Carriages clattered by, and sedan-bearers pushed through the crowds, their polite calls of ‘By your leave, sir!’ swiftly changing to their usual ripe curses if people failed to move out of their way. Marcus hurried to keep up with his friend’s loping, athletic stride, knowing he shouldn’t have ridden so damned hard for the best part of two days—but what else could he have done other than resolve to take action, any kind of action, once he’d seen the state his gentle, kindly godfather was in?

Sir Roderick Delancey had been a friend and neighbour for as long as Marcus could remember to the Forrester family on their rather ramshackle Gloucestershire estate, and when Marcus’s mother had run off, amidst such disgrace that her husband, a broken and impoverished man, died soon after, Roderick took responsibility for his godson Marcus without hesitation. Not possessing any children himself, Sir Roderick had paid for Marcus’s schooling; and in the vacations Marcus spent long weeks at his godfather’s beautiful country mansion, which he came to regard as his home, his own home having to be sold to cover his father’s debts.

After Oxford, when Marcus set his heart on joining the army, Sir Roderick had offered to buy him a commission in one of the top cavalry units; but Marcus, who had his own kind of pride, refused, and became a captain in a line regiment. He was swiftly promoted, and when his regiment was sent to America to fight under Cornwallis, Sir Roderick continued to write regularly to his godson—but last autumn the letters had stopped.

And now Marcus knew why.

Some day, Marcus had resolved, he would return to active service. But not yet. He had another battle to fight first, on Sir Roderick Delancey’s behalf.

At the corner of Half Moon Alley, a crowd had gathered around a couple of street entertainers who, using a stretch of low wall as their table, were tempting passers-by to bet on which of three upturned cups covered a coin. The first of the pair, a ragged-looking man with a wooden leg, was dextrously switching the cups to allow onlookers tantalising glimpses of the bright coin, while his accomplice, a slim youth wearing a long coat and a cap rather too big for him, was strolling around and drumming up trade in a light, cheerful voice. ‘Roll up, roll up, ladies and gennelmen! Put your penny down, guess which cup hides the sixpence—it’s easy, see?—and win it for yourself! Yes, win a whole, shiny sixpence! Roll up, roll up—’

Then the lively youth broke off, because his sharp eyes had observed what Marcus now saw—a fat member of the Watch huffing and panting towards the pair with his stick raised, and two of his companions coming up behind. ‘Haul them two coves in!’ the watchman roared. ‘They’re thieves and scoundrels, the pair of ‘em!’ The man with the peg-leg had his coin and his little cups thrust deep in his pockets in no time; tucking his wooden limb under his arm, he raced away on two exceedingly sound legs, while, doubtless by prior arrangement, his young companion took off in the opposite direction towards Hal and Marcus, twisting and turning nimbly through the crowds that thronged the pavement. Marcus watched, interested and impressed, as the lad, though caught briefly by the wrist by one of the Charleys, kicked his way free and ran on boldly, his ragged coat flying and his cap crammed low over his head. As he drew nearer, Marcus glimpsed emerald green eyes glinting above an uptilted nose, and a merry mouth curled in scorn—until the lad realised some more watchmen were hurrying up from the other end of the street, thus cutting off his escape.

Now, Marcus Forrester could never understand why a pair like this—up to no real harm, as far as he could see—should arouse the full ire of the law, when murder and mayhem went on without interruption in some of the hellish back streets where the Watch were afraid to even set foot. ‘Let’s even the odds,’ he murmured to Hal. And just as the lad was hesitating, no escape in sight, Marcus reached out, grabbed him by the arm—‘Let go of me, you dratted coneyjack!’ was his only thanks—and thrust the slim fugitive, whose head barely came up to his shoulder, behind his back into a dark doorway. More colourful protests came flowing in abundance from that clear, expressive voice; but Marcus ordered through gritted teeth, ‘I’m trying to help, you young fool. Stay there. And shut up.’ Hal, brown eyes a-twinkling, completed their bodily barricade of the lad’s hiding place; then the pair of them, arms folded, pretended to look on as if faintly bored, while the breathless old watchmen—the Charleys—elbowed their way through the swirling London crowd, up and down the street, looking in vain for their quarry. ‘Where’s that there lad?’ one of them bellowed. ‘Old Peg-leg’s helper? Up to no good, ‘im and all his kind, should be ‘anged the lot of them—which way did ‘e go?’

Marcus cast a swift glance back into the doorway, where the youth, having decided rather sensibly to cooperate, was now crouching silently behind him and Hal. Marcus saw again, with a kind of startlement, that pair of wide, incredibly green eyes taking everything in; and just at that moment the young fugitive, sensing his gaze, looked up at him and—grinned.

No fear. No fear at all, in that smooth young face…Marcus frowned, then quickly switched his attention back to the watchmen, who were shaking their heads, swearing volubly and stamping off down the Strand. Marcus looked back into the doorway and nodded. ‘All clear now. Off you go.’ The lad, emerging blithely from behind the long folds of Marcus’s riding coat, whispered, ‘My thanks’, and quickly vanished into the crowds.

Hal lifted one querying, humorous eyebrow at his friend. ‘Still on the side of the underdog, I see?’

‘Most definitely,’ declared Marcus. ‘Why the hue and cry? They were only a couple of street entertainers.’ But even as he dismissed them both, he was aware that the younger one had puzzled him considerably. ‘My thanks… ‘That voice, if you ignored the insults, had been expressive and clear. No hint of low-life in those parting words. He shook his head, swiftly banishing that bright, green-eyed gaze from his mind. ‘On to business, Hal. Where are we heading after we’ve eaten?’

‘I thought we’d go to a new place in Suffolk Street, called the Angel,’ explained Hal. ‘It’s discreet, private, and has some of the best gaming in town. Oh, yes. I know—’ he raised a finger to silence Marcus’s protests ‘— you’re never going to gamble again. But let me just say this. You want to get your revenge on the loathsome Corbridge, for ruining your godfather. Am I right?’

‘You are,’ replied Marcus, his mood grim once more.

‘Then remember your army training, dear boy. Go to the kind of haunts your enemy would frequent. Probe his weaknesses. And Corbridge’s are…?’

‘You’ve got all night to listen? Well, apart from his general obnoxiousness, his weaknesses, from what I remember, are spending and gambling. And beautiful women, with rather doubtful reputations—’

‘Especially young fillies with an eye for the gaming table,’ broke in Hal. ‘Lady Franklin, Cecilia Connolly, and that ravishing blonde known as La Fanciola from the Opera House—they are all exquisitely golden-haired, all greedy for money by fair means or foul, and he’s dallied with them all! So listen, it’s quite simple. What you must do is find another of the same kind—young, accomplished, preferably with guinea-gold curls—persuade her to entice him to the card tables at some private establishment—and use her to get back all your godfather’s money off Corbridge!’

Marcus laughed, shaking his head. ‘That’s meant to be simple? I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t I just run him through? It would be a damn sight easier.’ His hand moved instinctively to his pocket, to check that he had enough money for the night ahead. And then he went very still. ‘My wallet,’ he breathed. ‘It’s gone.’

Hal’s eyes widened. ‘Are you sure? You might have left it somewhere, or dropped it in the street, perhaps…’

Oh, no. Marcus knew he hadn’t dropped it. Suddenly he remembered the young fugitive with the mocking green eyes. He remembered, too late, the light hand that he felt brushing his coat as the lad departed. He turned to Hal and said flatly, ‘If you’re still set on a game tonight, you’ll have to lend me the stake. Until I get to my bankers in the morning, I’ve not a penny to my name. That young wretch we helped back there has repaid me by picking my pocket.’ And, Marcus vowed, if he ever caught the lad, he would give his backside a beating he’d never forget…