The Major and the Pickpocket. Lucy Ashford

       Chapter One

      London—February 1780

      Heavy rain that night meant the streets were almost deserted, and so it was even more startling for the few pedestrians in the vicinity of Pall Mall to see a big chestnut mare being pulled up in a frenzy of sparking hooves outside the porticoed entrance of one of London’s most discerning clubs. The mare had been ridden hard. Its glossy flanks were heaving, and its eyes rolled whitely in the gleam of the yellow lamplight. Swiftly the horse’s rider dismounted, thrusting the reins and a few coins towards a hovering groom before swinging round to face a footman who watched him uncertainly from the shelter of the imposing doorway. At this time of night, and in this sort of foul February weather, club members usually arrived by carriage or sedan, not like some whirlwind from hell on horseback.

      But before the footman could issue a challenge, the dark-haired rider, his mouth set in a grim line, was already striding up the wide steps. It was noticeable now that he had a slight limp, but it didn’t seem to slow him in the least. His long riding coat, glistening with rain, whirled out behind him as he crashed open the door, and his whip was still clutched in his hand. As the gust of cold air he’d let in billowed through the lofty reception hall, all the candles were set a-flicker, and a number of disdainful faces turned to stare. A plump butler started busily towards the intruder, but found himself brushed aside, like a moth.

      ‘I’m looking for Sebastian Corbridge,’ announced the man. ‘Lord Sebastian Corbridge.’ His voice was calm, but the menacing gleam in his eyes was like sparks struck from flint.

      He looked as if he had been riding hard all day, to judge by the mud on his boots, and the way his dark, unpowdered hair fell in disordered waves to his collar. He was not old, perhaps no more than twenty-five or twenty-six, but the taut lines of fatigue that ran from his nose to his strong jaw made him look older. The butler backed away warily, because he could see that this tall stranger with the limp wore a sword beneath his loose riding coat. And unlike most of the primped, scented men of leisure who frequented this club, he looked as if he would know how to use it.

      By now the man’s abrupt intrusion had registered even in the furthest recesses of the reception hall. Murmured conversations died away; startled faces, adorned in many cases with powder and patches, turned one after the other towards the doorway. Even the sombre portraits hanging from the oak-panelled walls seemed to gaze disapprovingly at the abrasive stranger whose clothing continued to drip water on the fine parquet floor, creating little puddles around his leather riding boots.

      ‘Lord Sebastian Corbridge. I want him,’ the intruder repeated softly, his hand flicking his whip against his booted leg in unspoken warning.

      Someone rose languidly from a deep leather chair in a shadowed alcove. He was about the same age as the intruder, but his appearance could not have been more different, for his elegantly curled cadogan wig was immaculately powdered; his blue satin frock coat, with its discreet ruffles of lace at cuff and throat, was quite exquisitely fitted to his slender body. And his haughty, finely bred face expressed utter scorn as he gazed at the man who spoke his name.

      ‘So, Marcus,’ he drawled, taking a lazy pinch of snuff from a filigree box. ‘You’re back. As usual, dear fellow, you seem to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The army hasn’t done much for your manners, has it? Members only allowed in here, I’m afraid—’

      Sebastian Corbridge broke off, as the dark-haired man threw his whip aside, then covered the ground between them to grasp his blue satin lapels with both hands. ‘My God, Corbridge,’ the man grated out, ‘but you’ve got some explaining to do. Let me tell you that I’ve just returned from Lornings, and I didn’t like what I found there. You’d better start talking. You’d better think up some excuses, and quickly.’

      Corbridge looked down with pointed disdain at the hands that gripped his exquisite lapels. ‘So you’ve ridden all the way from Gloucestershire,’ he sneered, the slight tremor of fear disguised by heavy scorn. ‘Dear me. And there was I thinking you might have come straight from some modish salon—after all, I suppose it’s just about possible that clothing such as yours is permitted at fashionable gatherings now that there are so many unemployed ex-army officers around town…’

      The taller man’s powerful shoulder muscles bunched dangerously beneath his greatcoat, and Corbridge was lifted from the ground.

      ‘Do put me down, Marcus!’ breathed Lord Sebastian Corbridge. ‘You smell of horse, man. Wet horses. All in all, you’re rather overdoing it—betraying your origins, you know?’

      All around the room their audience watched the scene in breath-holding fascination. A young footman, who’d just come through from the inner salon bearing a brandy decanter on a silver tray, froze into immobility at the sight, his mouth agape, and the candlelight danced on the golden-amber liquid as it shivered behind the cut glass. Slowly, the dark-haired man called Marcus let go of his victim. His steel-grey eyes were still burning with intensity, and the skin around his grim mouth was white. He drew a ragged breath. ‘At least, cousin Sebastian, I don’t stink of trickery and theft.’

      Nearby an older man whose face was red with indignation jumped to his feet. ‘Enough, man,’ he rasped at the intruder. ‘Guard your tongue, or we’ll have you thrown out bodily!’

      Corbridge shook his head quickly, smoothing down his satin lapels. ‘No need for that, eh, Marcus? Firstly, I’d like to hear you explain yourself. And, secondly, I’d much, much rather you didn’t address me as cousin.’

      ‘I’d rather not have to address you as anything,’ said Marcus. He was more in control of himself now. ‘But the fact remains that we are, unfortunately, related. And you ask me to explain myself; but first I’ll ask you this. How do you justify the fact that you’ve managed to rob my elderly godfather of everything: every acre of land, every penny of savings, and above all the home he loves so dearly?’

      Lord Corbridge arched his pale eyebrows, just a little. ‘Facts, dear Marcus, let us look at the facts! Though facts, I remember, were never your strong point. Always emotional, weren’t you? Must be your unstable heritage showing through…’.

      Marcus’s face darkened and his fists clenched dangerously at his sides. Corbridge, after taking a hasty step back from him, went on hurriedly, ‘I’ve robbed Sir Roderick Delancey of absolutely nothing, I assure you! In fact, I tried to help him, tried to dissuade him from plunging into yet greater debts…Gambling is such a sad sickness, especially at his age.’ He shrugged, an expression of concern creasing his smooth features. ‘But in spite of my every endeavour, Marcus, the foolish Sir Roderick continued to plunge yet deeper into the mire. I extricated him from the likelihood of a debtors’ prison at vast personal expense. In return, he agreed to offer me as security the great hall at Lornings and the land that goes with it.’

      ‘If he loses Lornings, he’ll be a penniless bankrupt!’

      ‘Wrong again, Marcus.’ Corbridge gave a thin-lipped smile, drawing confidence from those who’d gathered around him. ‘Your godfather will always have a roof over his head—the Dower House, to be precise—and some income from the home farm. Though it’s more than the pitiful