The Regency Season: Gentleman Rogues

No insinuations that they had met before. No hints over Whitechapel.

Their eyes held.

She swallowed.

‘May I introduce Miss Emma Northcote,’ Lady Lamerton said.

Ned seemed to still and for the flicker of a second Emma saw something that looked like shock in his eyes. Then it was gone and he was once more his quiet assured self.

Only then did she remember that he knew her as de Lisle.

Her eyes held his, waiting for him to make some comment on her change of name. Her breath held, waiting as that tiny moment seemed to stretch. The atmosphere between them was obvious.

‘I am pleased to meet you, Miss Northcote.’ His voice was as cool as his gaze. He gave a curt bow.

‘Likewise, Mr Stratham.’ She dropped the smallest curtsy.

There was a deafening silence, which Ned made no effort to fill.

‘We are for the circulating library, sir,’ said Lady Lamerton. ‘Are you?’

‘No.’ He did not elaborate.

The dowager inclined her head, dismissing him.

‘Your servant, ma’am.’

His eyes moved to Emma’s again.

This time there was no perfunctory smile on his lips and the look in his eyes made her shiver. ‘Miss Northcote.’ The slightest emphasis on her name.

She gave a nod and turned away to escort the dowager into the library.

There was no sound of his footsteps upon the pavement and she had the feeling that he was standing there, watching her. It made her feel nervous. It made each step feel like an eternity. But she did not yield to the urge to glance behind. Not until Lady Lamerton was through the door and Emma, too, was safe inside the library.

He was still standing there, just as she had thought. And there was something in the way he was looking at her, something focused and hard, as if he were seeing her for the first time, as if he were scrutinising her. Something of accusation that made her uncomfortably aware that she had not been entirely honest with him.

Only then did he dip his head in a final acknowledgement and turn and walk away.

* * *

Rob was waiting for him in his study when Ned got back to the mansion in Cavendish Square.

His friend and steward glanced round from where he was examining the arrangement of swords and sabres mounted upon the wall. ‘I came early. Wanted to check over a few things before we left for Misbourne’s.’

Ned gave a nod, and passed his cane and hat to Clarkson. Then peeled off his gloves and did the same.

The door closed with a quiet click behind the departing butler.

Ned walked straight to his desk and, ignoring the crystal decanter of brandy that sat there on the silver salver, opened the bottom drawer and took out a bottle of gin. He poured two generous measures into the matching crystal glasses. Passed one to Rob and took a deep swig from the other.

He could feel his friend’s eyes on him and knew it didn’t look good, but right at this minute he didn’t give a damn.

‘You all right, Ned?’

‘I’ve been better.’

‘You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.’

That was certainly one way of putting it.

‘Business deal gone bad?’ Rob asked.

Nothing so simple. ‘Something like that.’

‘Not Misbourne. Not the—’

‘No.’ He cut Rob off. Took another swig of the gin, relishing the raw kick of it. ‘Not Misbourne.’

‘That’s a relief, at least.’

‘Yes.’

There was a silence. Ned’s mind was whirring. His blood still pumping hard as if he’d just floored ten men. He could feel a cold sweat on his upper lip, a clamminess on the palms of his hands. He took another gulp of gin to numb the tremor of shock that still ran through him.

‘If you need to call off with Misbourne...’

‘I don’t.’ Ned met his friend’s gaze. ‘I need Misbourne on board. And missing a lunch he’s arranged will set him against me.’

‘It’s just a lunch.’

‘Nothing with these men of the ton is just a lunch.’

‘If he asks about any of the details...’

‘Leave the details to me.’

Rob gave a nod.

Ned finished the rest of the gin and set the glass down on the desk.

‘Let’s walk. I could do with some fresh air.’ To calm the pound of his blood and shutter the disbelief that was coursing through his body.

Rob nodded.

Ned rang the bell for his butler. There would be time to think later and there was much riding on Misbourne.

Ned was well practised at putting emotion aside. He did it now, coldly, deliberately, and got on with the task in hand.

* * *

‘More tea?’ Emma asked, teapot poised in hand to refill the dowager’s delicate blue Sèvres teacup.

The afternoon sunlight filled Lady Lamerton’s little parlour, making it bright and warm. Dust motes floated in the sunbeams to land on the circulating library’s latest romance novel on the embroidered tablecloth of the tea table before them.

On the sideboard at the other end of the parlour, a book on antiquity and a heavyweight tedious literary novel had been discarded until they were required for next week’s return visit to the library.

‘Thank you, my dear.’ Lady Lamerton gave a small nod.

Emma poured the tea.

‘So what did you make of our Mr Stratham?’

‘Tolerable enough, I suppose.’ Emma managed to keep her hand steady and concentrated on adding a splash of cream and three lumps of sugar to the dowager’s cup, just the way she liked it.

‘Tolerable?’ The dowager looked at her aghast as she accepted the cup and saucer from Emma. ‘With those eyes?’

‘A pair of fine eyes do not make the man.’

‘So you did notice,’ said the dowager slyly. ‘And I must say he seemed rather struck by you.’

‘Hardly.’ Emma took satisfaction in her calm tone as she topped up her own teacup.

‘Indeed, I do not think I have seen any woman make such an impression upon him.’

Emma remembered again that expression on his face outside the library. The intense scrutiny in his eyes. The force of something that seemed to emanate from him. Something angry and accusatory that he had no right to feel. She took a sip of tea and said nothing.

‘I wonder if he will be at Hawick’s ball tonight,’ the dowager mused.

Emma felt a shiver ripple down her spine. ‘Is it likely?’

‘Most likely, indeed.’

We will talk, Emma. She thought of the cool promise that had been in his eyes and the utter certainty in those quiet words. She swallowed and resolved not to leave the dowager’s side for the entirety of the evening.

* * *

The Duke of Hawick’s ballroom was heaving. It seemed that the entirety of the ton had returned early to London, and were here, turned out for the event since the rumour had got out that the Prince Regent himself might be present.

It was as warm as an evening in the Red Lion, even though there were no adjacent kitchens here that fanned the heat. No low ceiling or small deep-sunk windows, and bricks that held the heat in summer and the cold in winter. It was a huge room of wealth and opulence that would have been beyond the imagination of most of those who frequented the Red Lion Chop-House. The massive chandelier held a hundred candles whose flames made the crystals glitter and sparkle like diamonds. The windows were numerous and large, the sashes pulled up to allow a circulation of fresh air. At the back of the room were glass doors that opened out on to a long strip of town garden similar to that at the back of the mansion house in Cavendish Square. All of that open glass and air and yet still the place was too warm because of the throng of guests.

‘Another fine evening,’ Lord Longley said and lifted a glass of champagne from the silver salver that the footman held before him.

‘Indeed.’ Ned accepted a glass of champagne, too. Took a sip without betraying the slightest hint that he hated the stuff. He was all too aware of the way Longley ignored Rob’s presence. ‘You have met my steward, Mr Finchley.’

Longley could barely keep the curl from his upper lip as he gave the smallest of acknowledgements to Rob before returning his attention to Ned. He thought Rob beneath him. And Ned, too, but swallowed his principles for the sake of money.

‘Harrow tells me you were at Tattersall’s saleroom the other day looking at the cattle.’ Tattersall’s was the auction house where the ton went to buy their horses. Ned could hear the slight sneer that Longley always had in his voice when he spoke to him. Felt the edge of anger that he always felt amongst these men born to titles and wealth and privilege and who lived in a world far removed from reality.

‘Browsing the wares.’ Ned’s eyes were cool. ‘Were we not, Mr Finchley?’

‘And fine wares they were, too,’ said Rob.

‘Matters equine take a knowledgeable eye.’ Which you do not have. That patronising air that Longley could not quite hide no matter how hard he tried. ‘And experience. I would be happy to teach you a thing or two.’

‘How kind.’ Ned smiled.

The sentiment behind the smile was lost on Longley.

‘Where do you ride?’

‘I don’t.’

‘I did not know that,’ said Longley and tucked the tidbit away to share with his friends in White’s should matters not work out between him and Ned as he was hoping. ‘I suppose I should have realised, what with your not having come from—’ He stopped himself just in time.

Ned held Longley’s gaze.

The earl glanced away, cleared his throat and changed the subject to why he was standing here in Ned’s company tonight. ‘Lady Juliette is in good spirits tonight.’ Lady Juliette, Longley’s daughter for whom he was seeking a match with new money.

‘You must be pleased for her.’ From the corner of his eye he saw Rob struggle to stifle a grin.

‘Do not need to tell you that she was quite the diamond of this year’s Season. I am sure you are already aware of her.’

‘Very aware.’

Longley smiled.

‘Quite the horsewoman as I recall,’ said Ned.

Longley’s smile faltered as he realised the mistake he’d just made. He squirmed. ‘Not so much these days.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘Excuse me, sir. I see Willaston and have a matter to discuss with him.’

A small bow and Longley took himself off, leaving Ned and Rob standing alone.

There was a silence before Ned spoke. ‘There’s something you need to know, Rob. The Dowager Lady Lamerton has a new companion.’

‘You think I’m in with a shout?’ Rob grinned.

Ned did not smile. His eyes held Rob’s. ‘Her name is Miss Emma Northcote.’

Rob’s grin vanished. ‘Northcote? I thought the Northcotes were long gone. Moved away to the country.’

‘So did I.’ Ned thought of the truth of Emma Northcote and her father’s circumstance—the nights in the Red Lion Chop-House; the narrow street with its shabby lodging house; and the London Dock warehouse—and something tightened in his throat. He swallowed it down. Gave a hard smile. ‘It seems we were wrong.’

‘Hell.’ A whispered curse so incongruous in the expensive elegance of their surroundings as the shock made Rob forget himself. ‘That’s going to make things awkward.’

‘Why?’ Ned’s expression was closed.

‘You know why.’

‘I did nothing wrong. I’ve got nothing to feel awkward over.’

‘Even so.’

‘It isn’t going to be a problem. She isn’t going to be a problem.’ Not now he knew who she was.

Both men’s gazes moved across the room as one to where Lady Lamerton sat with her cronies...and her companion.

Northcote, not de Lisle, the worst lie of them all.

He looked at the long gleaming hair coiled and caught up in a cascade of dark roped curls at the back of her head, at the sky-blue silk evening dress she was garbed in, plain and unadorned unlike the fancy dresses of the other ladies and obviously paid for by Lady Lamerton. She wore no jewellery. He knew that she would have none. The décolletage of her dress showed nothing other than her smooth olive skin. Long white silk evening gloves covered her arms and matching white slippers peeped from beneath the dress.

She had seen him the minute she entered the ballroom. He knew it. Just as he knew she was ignoring him.

‘No,’ said Rob quietly. ‘Knowing you, I don’t suppose she will.’

Ned’s eyes shifted from Emma to Rob. ‘Would you hold this for me?’ He passed his glass to Rob. ‘There’s something I have to do.’

‘You can’t be serious...’

Ned smiled a hard smile.

‘Tell me you’re not going over there to get yourself introduced?’ Rob was staring at him as if he were mad.

‘I’m not going over there for an introduction. Miss Northcote and I have already had that pleasure.’

Rob looked shocked.

‘But the lady and I didn’t get a chance to talk.’

The music came to a halt. The dance came to an end. The figures crowded upon the floor bowed and curtsied and began to disperse.

Ned glanced across the floor to Emma once more.

‘This won’t take long.’

‘Ned...’ Rob lowered his voice and spoke with quiet insistence.

But Ned was already moving smoothly through the crowd, crossing the ballroom, his focus fixed on Emma Northcote.

Chapter Six

‘Oh, my!’ Emma heard Miss Chichester exclaim as she stared in the direction where Ned Stratham stood talking with Mr Finchley and Lord Longley. ‘You are not going to believe this, Miss Northcote, but Mr Stratham—’

Emma resisted the urge to look round. ‘I do not understand why Mr Stratham is of such fascination to the ladies of the ton,’ she interrupted. ‘He is just trade, for all his money.’ It was a cruel and elitist remark, but after what he had done he deserved it.

Miss Chichester’s eyes widened. Her pale cheeks flushed ruddy. She gave a soft, breathless gasp and pressed a hand to her décolletage.

‘Indeed I am, Miss Northcote,’ Ned Stratham’s voice said. That same soft East End accent, that same slight edge underlying the quiet words.

Emma’s heart stuttered. Her stomach turned end over end. She froze for a second before turning to look up into those too-familiar cool blue eyes.

‘Mr Stratham,’ she said with a controlled calm that belied the trembling inside. ‘You surprise me.’

He smiled. ‘Evidently.’

She held his gaze as if she were not embarrassed at being caught out and ashamed of her words, but the seep of heat into her cheeks betrayed her. However, she offered no apology.

The silence stretched between them.

His eyes never faltered for a moment. He stood there, all quiet strength and stillness, with those eyes that knew her secrets and those lips that had seduced her own. ‘I am here to ask you to dance, Miss Northcote.’

Her stomach gave a somersault.

Beside her she heard Miss Chichester give a quiet gasp.

‘I thank you kindly for your magnanimous offer, sir.’ Emma held his gaze with a determined strength, knowing that, in this battle of wills, to look away would be to admit defeat. ‘But I am obliged to refuse. I am here as Lady Lamerton’s companion, not to dance.’

His mouth made a small dangerous curve, making fear trickle into her blood at what he meant to do. Too late she remembered that one word from his mouth could destroy her. One word and her return to the ton and all that meant for her brother would be over. Her mouth turned dry as a desert.

He turned his attention to Lady Lamerton. Only then did Emma notice that all of the ladies around them had fallen silent and that Lady Lamerton and her friends were watching with avid interest.

‘I am sure that Lady Lamerton would be able to spare you for some small time.’ He looked at Lady Lamerton with that quiet confidence in his eyes. Cocked the rogue eyebrow.

All eyes turned to the dowager, like a queen with the presiding vote over a court.

‘Mr Stratham has the right of it, Emma.’ Lady Lamerton turned her focus to Ned. ‘I trust you will return m’companion to me safely, sir.’

‘Safe and sound, ma’am.’ Ned smiled at Lady Lamerton.

Safe and sound. The very air around him vibrated with danger.

All of the tabbies watched in rapt amazement.

His eyes switched back to Emma, the bluest blue eyes in all the world, so cool and dangerous, and filled with the echoes of shared intimacies between them. ‘Miss Northcote.’ He held out his hand in invitation. ‘Shall we?’

Her eyes held his for a tiny moment longer, knowing that he had manoeuvred her into a corner from which there was no escape. Then she inclined her head in acknowledgement.

He might have won the battle but it did not mean he would win the war.

She placed her hand in his, rose to her feet and let him lead her out on to the dance floor.

* * *

They joined the nearest set for a country dance that was neither progressive nor too fast for conversation.

‘What game are you playing, Ned Stratham?’

‘No game. We need to speak with a degree of privacy. This provides the perfect opportunity.’

She glanced around to all the pairs of eyes fixed upon them, to all the murmurs being whispered behind fans and into ears. ‘You call this privacy? Our every move is under scrutiny.’

‘Indeed. Apparently I am a source of fascination for the ladies of the ton.’

She blushed and eyed him with anger. She was very aware of the warmth of his hand around hers, of the proximity of his body. ‘I have already told you I will not listen to more of your lies.’

‘But I was not the one who was telling the lies, was I, Emma?’

‘Given what you did, I do not think I owe you any explanation as to why I did not wait. And as for a lady’s maid, I have undertaken such duties in the past. For a month.’

‘A month.’ He paused. ‘As the daughter of the maid’s master.’ He looked at her.

‘Strictly speaking it was not a lie.’

‘Strictly speaking.’

She pressed her lips firm. Glanced away.

He leaned closer, so that she felt the brush of his breath against her cheek, felt the shiver tingle down her spine and tighten her breasts.

‘And as we are speaking strictly, the little fact of your name, Miss de Lisle...’ His blue eyes seemed to bore into hers.

‘It was not a lie. De Lisle is my mother’s name.’

‘Your mother’s name. But not yours.’

She swallowed again. Her mouth was dry with nerves. He was making it sound as if she were the one in the wrong. ‘My father and I could hardly admit the truth of our background. That we were fallen from society. That we were of that privileged class so despised in Whitechapel. Do you think we would have been accepted? Do you think Nancy would have given me a job in the Red Lion?’

‘No.’ His eyes held hers, unmoved by the argument. ‘But it does not change the fact that you lied to me, Emma Northcote.’

‘Small white lies that made no difference.’

Something flashed in his eyes, something angry and passionate and hard. Something in such contrast to the cool deliberate control normally there that it sent a shiver tingling down her spine and made her heart skip a beat. ‘They would have made all the difference in the world.’

The dance took them apart, leading them each to change places with the couple on their right. She took those few moments to try to compose herself before they were reunited once more and his hand closed over hers, binding her to him. And to this confrontation she had no wish to conduct upon a crowded dance floor.

‘Do not seek to turn this around,’ Emma said. ‘You made me believe you were something you were not.’

He raised his eyebrows at that. Just as she had made him believe she was someone she was not.

It fuelled her anger and sense of injustice.

‘All those nights, Ned... And in between them you were here, living in your mansion, dancing at some ball with the latest diamond of the ton hanging on your arm. Seeking to ally yourself with some earl’s daughter while you played your games in Whitechapel.’

He said nothing.

‘You would have bedded me and cast me aside.’

‘Would I?’ His voice was cold, hard, emotionless. There was something in his eyes when he said it that unnerved her.

Had she waited, she would know for sure.

Had she waited it would have been too late.

The dance played on, their feet following where it led. There was only the music and the scrape and tread of slipper soles against the smooth wood of the floorboards. Only the sound of her breath and his. Given all that was at stake, she had to know. She had to ask him.

‘Are you going to tell them the truth of me? That I was a serving wench in a chop-house in Whitechapel? That my father is a dockworker? That we lodged in one of the roughest boarding houses in all London?’

‘Are you going to tell them that I was a customer in the same chop-house?’

They looked at one another.

‘You they would forgive. Me, you know they would not.’

‘They would be a deal less forgiving of me than you anticipate.’ He smiled a hard smile. ‘But do not fear, Emma. Your secret is safe with me.’

She waited for the qualifier. For what he would demand for his silence.

He just smiled a cynical smile as if he knew her thoughts. Gave a tiny shake of his head.

It made her feel as though she was the one who had got this all wrong. She reminded herself of the shabby leather jacket and boots he had worn—a disguise. She reminded herself of what had passed between them in the darkness of a Whitechapel alleyway while he was living a double life here. For all his denials he was a liar who had used and made a fool of her.

‘Now that matters are clear between us, there is no need to speak again. Stay away from me, Ned.’

He smiled again. A hard, bitter smile. ‘You need not worry, Emma Northcote,’ he taunted her over her name. ‘I will stay far away from you.’

‘I will be glad of it.’

He studied her eyes, as if he could see everything she was, all her secrets and lies, all her hopes and fears. Then he leaned closer, so close that she could smell the clean familiar scent of him and feel his breath warm against her cheek, so close that she shivered as he whispered the words into her ear, ‘Much more than you realise.’

Her heart was thudding. Her blood was rushing. All that had been between them in the Red Lion and the alleyway, and at the old stone bench, was suddenly there in that ballroom.

They stared at one another for a moment. Then he stepped back, once more his cool controlled self.

‘Smile,’ he said. ‘Every eye is upon us and you wouldn’t want our audience to think we were discussing anything other than the usual petty fripperies that are discussed upon a ballroom floor.’

He smiled a smile that did not touch his eyes.

And she reciprocated, smiling as she said the words, ‘You are a bastard, Ned Stratham.’

‘Yes, I am. Quite literally. But I deem that better than a liar.’

His words, and their truth, cut deep.

The music finally came to a halt.

The ladies on either side of her were curtsying. Emma smothered her emotions and did the same.

Ned bowed. ‘Allow me to return you to Lady Lamerton.’

She held his gaze for a heartbeat and then another. And then, uncomfortably aware that every eye in the ballroom was upon them, she touched the tips of her fingers to his arm and let him lead her from the floor.

* * *

Ned and Rob were in Gentleman John Jackson’s pugilistic rooms in Bond Street the next morning. At nine o’clock the hour was still too early for any other gentleman to be present. After a night of gentlemen’s clubs, drinking, gaming and womanising—which were, as far as Ned could make out, the chief pursuits of most men of the gentry and nobility—gentlemen did not, in general, rise before midday. After a bout of light sparring together, Ned and Rob were working on the heavy sand-filled canvas punchbags that hung from a bar fixed along the length of one wall.

Rob sat on the floor, back against the wall, elbows on knees, catching his breath. Ned landed regular punches to the sandbag.