The Regency Season: Gentleman Rogues: The Gentleman Rogue / The Lost Gentleman

‘I wanted to speak to her.’

‘About what?’

‘To verify her identity.’

‘And you needed to dance with her for that?’

‘I had to put all those lessons with that dancing master to use at some time. I paid him good money.’

Rob raised his eyebrows. His expression was cynical. ‘I take it she is who we think.’

‘What gives you that impression?’

‘Maybe the fact that you’re knocking two tons of stuffing out of that punchbag.’

Ned raised an eyebrow, then returned to jabbing at the sandbag, right hook, then left hook. Right hook, then left. ‘She doesn’t change anything. We go on just as before.’ He landed a left-handed blow so hard that it almost took the punchbag clear off its hook. He ducked as it swung back towards him, punched it again, and again. Kept up the training until his knuckles were sore and his arms ached and the keenness of what he felt was blunted by fatigue.

Rob threw a drying cloth up to him and got to his feet, gesturing with his eyes to the doorway with warning. ‘That it, is it, Stratham?’ he said, reverting to a form of formality now that they had company.

Ned caught the cloth and mopped the sweat from his face as he glanced round to see who it was that had entered.

There was only the slightest of hesitations in the Duke of Monteith and Viscount Devlin’s steps as they saw who was in the training room using the equipment.

Ned met Devlin’s eyes. The viscount returned the look—cold, insolent, contemptuous—before walking with Monteith to the other end of the room.

Ned and Rob exchanged a look.

‘Your favourite person,’ said Rob beneath his breath.

‘It just gets better and better.’ Ned smiled a grim smile, as he and Rob made their way to the changing rooms.

* * *

Within the dining room of Lady Lamerton’s town house a few streets away, Emma and the dowager were at breakfast.

‘It is just as I suspected, Mr Stratham dancing with you at Hawick’s ball is all the gossip, Emma,’ Lady Lamerton said as she read the letter within her hand.

The clock on the mantel ticked a slow and sonorous rhythm.

‘I cannot think why. It was only one dance.’ Emma did not speak while the footman moved from Lady Lamerton’s side, where he filled her cup with coffee, to Emma’s and stood waiting, coffee pot in hand.

She gave a nod, watching while the steaming hot liquid poured from the pot into the pretty orange-and-gold-rimmed cup. The aroma of coffee wafted through the air. She added a spot of cream from the jug and took a sip of the coffee.

Sunlight spilled in through the dining-room window. sparkling through the crystal drops of the chandelier above their heads to cast rainbows on the walls.

Lady Lamerton set the letter down on the growing pile of opened papers and reached for the next one. She glanced up as she broke the seal. ‘Because, my dear, Mr Stratham has not previously been seen upon a dance floor. He does not dance.’

Emma took another sip of coffee and tried to smile, as if what had happened upon the dance floor last night was nothing. ‘That must be somewhat of a disadvantage when he is at an Almack’s ball.’

‘Hardly,’ said the dowager. ‘If anything it is the opposite. It has created rather a stir of interest. The women see it as a challenge. The Lewis sisters have a sweepstake running as to who will be the first to tempt him upon a floor. It is considered to be an indicator of when he has made his choice of bride.’

Emma smiled again to hide the anger she felt at that thought. ‘Well, last night certainly disproved that theory.’

‘Indeed, it did. And will have made the Lewis sisters a deal richer.’ The dowager paused and looked at the letter in her hand. ‘They are all positively agog to know of what he spoke.’

If they only knew. ‘Nothing of drama or excitement. I already told you the details.’ Last night in the ballroom when there had been a subtle questioning which Lady Lamerton had parried with the air of a hawk, with its wings shielding its food for its own later consumption. And in the carriage on the way home the hawk had eaten...although not of the truth.

‘The weather and other trivialities are hardly going to satisfy them, Emma. Especially as the pair of you appeared to be having quite the conversation.’

Emma took another sip of coffee and said nothing.

Lady Lamerton held her spectacles to her eyes and peered at the letter again. ‘Apparently they are taking bets on whether he will dance again. And if it will be with you.’

Emma suppressed a sigh at the ton’s preoccupations. An hour’s walk away and the preoccupations and world were very different.

‘Fetch my diary, Emma, and check when the next dance is to be held.’

‘It is next week, on Thursday evening—the charity dance at the Foundling Hospital.’ Emma knew the line of thought the dowager’s mind was taking. ‘And even if Mr Stratham is there, I made it quite clear to him that my duty is as your companion and not to dance.’

‘Much as I admire your loyalty, my dear, you are quite at liberty to dance with him. Indeed—’ she glanced with unmistakable satisfaction at the unusually large pile of letters the morning post had brought ‘—it would be quite churlish not to.’

‘He will not ask me.’ Stay away from me, Ned.

You need not worry, Emma Northcote. I will stay far away from you. The echo of their words rang in her head. And she remembered again, as she had remembered in the night, the look in his eyes—cool anger and other things...

Emma smiled as if it were nothing and led the conversation away from Ned Stratham. ‘What are you wearing tonight for dinner at Mrs Lewis’s?’

Her tactic worked. ‘My purple silk and matching turban. I thought you could wear your dove-grey silk to complement me.’

‘It would match well,’ Emma agreed and listened as Lady Lamerton discussed a visit to the haberdashery to buy a feather for the turban.

Ned would stay away from her. And she would be glad of it.

More glad than you realise.

And a tingle ran over the skin at the nape of her neck at what those strange words might mean.

* * *

‘I see Mr Stratham is here,’ Lady Lamerton said sotto voce not five minutes after they had entered the drawing room of Mrs Lewis’s Hill Street house that night.

‘Is he? I had not noticed,’ Emma lied. He and his steward, Rob Finchley, were over by the windows talking with Lord Linwood and another gentleman, one whom Emma vaguely recognised but could not quite place. Ned was smartly dressed in the best of tailoring, his fair hair glinting gold in the candlelight. He looked as at ease here as he had in Whitechapel. Beneath that polished surface emanated that same awareness, that same feeling of strength and danger held in control. His eyes met hers, hard, watchful and bluer than she remembered, making her heart stumble and her body shiver. She returned the look, cool and hard as his own, and curved her lips in a smile as if he bothered her not in the slightest, before returning her attention to Lady Lamerton.

Their hostess appeared, welcoming them, telling Lady Lamerton how wonderful she looked and asking which mantua maker was she using these days.

Emma saw some of the women who had been friends of hers in what now seemed a different life. Women who had attended the same ladies’ educational seminary, who had made their come-outs at the same time, and against whom her competition in the marriage mart had necessitated spending a fortune on new wardrobes. They were dressed in the latest fashions, immaculately coiffured, safe in their little group. Emma knew how penniless ladies’ companions were viewed in their circle, the whispered pity; she, after all, had once been one of the whisperers. Not out of malice, but naïvety and ignorance. But who her father had been, and who she had been amongst them, still held influence for, despite her reduced status, most smiled and gave small acknowledgements. Only a few turned their heads away.

‘Lady Lamerton, how very delightful to find you here.’ Mrs Faversham arrived, all smiles and politeness, but with the barely concealed expression of a gossip hound on the scent of a story. ‘And Miss Northcote, too.’ Her eyes sharpened and lit as she looked at Emma.

‘Mrs Faversham,’ cooed Lady Lamerton and smiled that smile that, contrary to its softness, indicated when it came to gossip she was top dog and would be guarding her object of interest with ferocity. Emma’s father had been right.

‘Such a shame I missed Hawick’s ball. It seems it was quite the place to be. I heard that Mr Stratham finally took to the dance floor. But one can never be sure with such rumours.’

‘I can confirm the truth of it, my dear Agatha.’

‘Indeed?’ Curiosity was almost bursting out of her. ‘You must come to tea, dear Lady Lamerton. It has been an age since we visited together. Would tomorrow suit?’

‘I am taking tea with Mrs Hilton tomorrow. My tea diary is quite booked these days. But I might be able to squeeze you in at the end of the week...if that would be agreeable to you.’

‘Most agreeable.’ Mrs Faversham smiled and could not help her eyes straying to Emma once more. ‘And will Miss Northcote be there?’

But Emma was saved by the sound of the dinner gong.

* * *

The table was beautifully arranged with a central line of squat candelabras interspersed by pineapples. In the middle was a vast arrangement that involved the head and tail feathers of a peacock. Emma tensed, worrying that she would find herself seated beside Ned, but, for all his wealth, in the hierarchy of seating at a ton dinner table trade was still looked down upon and Ned and his steward were seated further down the table. A lady’s companion, effectively a servant, was deemed higher because her family had once been one of them.

Lord Soames, one of her father’s oldest and dearest friends, took his place by her side.

‘And how is your papa fairing out in rural Hounslow, young Miss Northcote?’ he bellowed on account of his deafness.

‘He is well, thank you, Lord Soames.’ She nodded and smiled, aware that the volume of Lord Soames’s voice was loud enough to be heard all around. Loud enough for Ned to hear those few seats away.

‘Glad to hear it, m’dear. You must tell him when you see him next that his presence is sorely missed.’

‘I will.’ She smiled again and smoothly changed the subject. ‘Such uncommonly good weather we have been having.’

‘What’s that you are saying? Speak up, girl.’

‘I was merely commenting upon the pleasant weather of late.’

Lord Soames held his ear trumpet to his ear. ‘Did not catch a word of it, Miss Northcote.’

‘Miss Northcote was speaking of the good weather,’ a man’s voice said from close behind. It was a voice that Emma recognised: aristocratic, educated, with a slight drawl of both careless sensuality and arrogance. She stiffened.

‘Splendid weather indeed,’ agreed Lord Soames with a nod and sat back in his chair to await his dinner.

‘Good evening, Miss Northcote,’ the voice drawled and its owner sat down in the vacant chair to her right.

The blood was pounding in her temple. She felt a little sick. Took a deep breath to steady herself before she looked round into the classically sculpted face of Viscount Devlin.

‘I think you are mistaken in your seat, sir.’ Her eyes looked pointedly at the small white place card with the name of Mr Frew written upon it.

Devlin lifted the place card and slipped it into a pocket of his dark evening tailcoat. ‘I do not think so, Miss Northcote.’

Emma blinked at his audacity, met his gaze with a fierceness and flicked her focus a few seats along to where Mr Frew was sitting meekly. The gentleman had the grace to look embarrassed before rapidly averting his eyes.

She returned her gaze to Devlin, her face as much a mask as his, even if her heart was still pumping hard with anger and loathing beneath. She knew that she could not start causing a fuss, or refuse to sit beside him. Guests were already sliding sly glances their way. Everybody would be watching to see her reaction to him. Everybody remembered her mother’s very public castigation of him and his friends. Everybody knew the history of him and her brother.

So she smiled, even if her eyes held all the warmth of an arctic night, and kept her voice low. ‘What are you doing, Devlin?’

‘Enjoying an evening out at dinner.’ He smiled, too. That lazy charming smile of his she had once thought so handsome.

Across the table Lord Fallingham had taken the seat beside Mrs Morley. His eyes met hers. He gave a nod of acknowledgement before he turned to Mrs Morley and engaged her in a conversation that had no room for anyone else.

She did not glance round at Lord Soames. She could hear Mrs Hilton on his left shouting a conversation with him.

Devlin smiled again as if he had known her thoughts.

She did not smile, just held his gaze and waited.

‘So how have you been, Miss Northcote?’

‘Never better...’ Her mouth smiled. Her eyes did not. ‘Until a moment ago. And you, sir?’ A parody of politeness and sincerity.

His smile was broader this time, lazier, more charming. ‘All the better for seeing you.’ And yet there was something in his eyes that gave lie to his words.

‘I cannot think why. Given your interchange with my family before we left London, I did not think that there was very much we had left to say to one another.’

He made no reply, just leaned back in his chair, and took a sip of his champagne as he watched her. ‘How did you find Hawick’s ball the other evening?’

By its own volition her gaze moved to Ned further down the table. His glance shifted to hers at the very same time. She looked away. Lifted her glass with a rock-steady hand.

‘It was a pleasant enough affair.’

Devlin flicked a glance towards Ned before coming back to her. ‘Pleasant enough to tempt Mr Stratham on to the dance floor so I hear. A hitherto unheard-of feat.’

‘I would not know, having been absent from society for so long.’

He smiled at the barb, a smile that did not touch his eyes. Took another sip of his champagne. ‘It is quite the accomplishment, I assure you.’

‘I will take your word for it.’

He smiled again.

‘He’s new money,’ he said in that same disparaging tone with which all of the ton viewed self-made men.

‘So I have heard.’

‘Men like Stratham do not play by the rules of our world. Some of them do not play by any rules at all.’ He paused, then added, ‘Especially when it comes to women.’

‘That is rather rich coming from you.’ The whole of London knew that Devlin was an out-and-out rake.

‘Maybe.’ Devlin smiled. ‘But my affairs are conducted with those who know the score.’

There was a silence and in it lay his unspoken insinuation over Ned. He held her gaze.

‘Why are you telling me?’

‘For the sake of my friendship with your brother.’

‘Friendship? Is that what you called it?’ She raised her brows.

‘And even if it were not so, given Stratham has expressed such an...interest in you, I would not be a gentleman were I to keep quiet and say nothing.’

‘One dance does not constitute an interest.’

‘I think, in this case, it rather does.’

‘I am sure you are well intentioned, sir.’ She kept her voice quiet and light, as if they were in truth discussing nothing more than the weather or the latest summer theatre show. ‘But what I do, and with whom, is not your concern.’

‘Maybe not.’ Devlin’s gaze flicked down the table to Ned and when he looked at her again there was a strange, almost possessive expression in his eyes. ‘And then again maybe it is more of my concern than you realise.’

The expression was gone so quickly that she doubted she had really seen it. She stared at him, wondering if he had just actually said those words.

He smiled again, that charming smile that had so many women fluttering their eyelashes and hoping to be the one that tamed him.

There was the clatter of dishes, the scrape of cutlery, the chink of glass and glug of wine being poured as the meal was served. Footmen were moving between them, offering dishes for their serving. All around was the hum of conversations and small laughter.

Emma felt the slink of unease in her stomach.

But when the footmen moved on, Devlin’s attention was across the table. ‘How was your chicken, Mrs Morley?’

‘Superb as ever can be expected from...’

The conversation played on. The seconds ticked slow.

Emma’s eyes moved down the table to where Ned was talking to Mr Jamison. He glanced up and met her eyes with cool speculation, before returning his focus to whatever it was Mr Jamison was saying.

Chapter Seven

The morning sky was a yawning blue. The air was fresh and perfect. Ned’s gig, sprung for sport and speed, and dark and sleek as the panther rumoured to be kept by the Prince Regent in his Tower menagerie, skimmed smooth and light over the roads towards Hyde Park.

‘Did you see that Devlin was seated beside Miss Northcote?’ Rob spoke loud enough to be heard above the noise of both the gig’s wheels and the horses’ hooves.

‘Devlin was not seated there. He intimidated Frew into swapping seats.’ Ned kept his attention on the four matched-black horses trotting smartly before them.

‘I wonder why.’

‘I would guess that he wished to speak to Miss Northcote.’

‘You think he’s sweet on her?’

‘Maybe. But she’s sure as hell not sweet on him.’ Whatever it was Emma felt for Devlin was more akin to dislike and anger judging by the look on her face when Devlin had first sat down. Certainly not a prearranged meeting and not one she wanted to be a part of. It shouldn’t have made any difference. She was nothing to him. But it did make a difference.

‘She does not like him. That’s why he had to wait until she was at the dinner table before he approached. Because she would have walked away otherwise,’ Ned said.

‘Strange that she should dislike him so much.’

‘Is it?’

He could feel the glance that Rob flicked his way. ‘Maybe he didn’t like you dancing with her.’

Ned smiled. ‘I’m sure he didn’t like me dancing with her.’

Rob chuckled.

There was the whir and rumble of the wheels, the clatter of the horses’ hooves, the noise and hubbub of the traffic all around them. They stopped at the junction behind a queue of carriages and waited while a road sweeper darted out ahead, sweeping the fresh pile of steaming horse manure up into his shovel ahead of the two city gentlemen who followed and receiving a tip for his trouble.

The carriages in front moved off. Ned gave a flick of the rein and his team followed.

‘You’re getting too good at this carriage driving,’ observed Rob with a grin. ‘Lessons paid off well.’

Ned smiled.

They lapsed into silence as they sped past the buildings.

When Rob spoke again it was in a voice not to be heard by any others. ‘Do you think Devlin said anything to her about...?’

‘No.’ Absolute. Categorical. ‘Whatever Devlin feels about me, he will not drag Emma Northcote into it. It’s more than his honour is worth.’

‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t set so much store by gentlemen and their honour.’

Ned smiled a hard smile.

‘Miss Northcote—she’s not what I thought she’d be. Not spoiled and pampered like the rest of them.’

Ned made no comment, but he thought of her in the red tavern dress dealing with the men in the Red Lion. He thought of her in his arms in the darkened alleyway, her mouth meeting his with passion and sweetness. He thought of the warmth of her smile, of her irrepressible spirit and strength of character. And how he had wanted her in his bed, in his life...in his future. He pushed the thoughts away with a will of steel. ‘Whatever she is makes no difference to us.’

Rob smiled and leaned back in his seat to enjoy the view of the fine town houses.

Ned drove the carriage onwards to Hyde Park.

* * *

Emma stood alone by the window in the dining room of the dowager’s Grosvenor Place town house, watching London wake to another day.

The Fortnum and Mason cart was passing, the delivery boy perched high on the back ready to spring down and run in with the groceries ordered by housekeepers and wives. Two milkmaids were on the other side of the road, wooden yokes across their shoulders, balanced like a weighing scale with large wooden churns. There seemed a never-ending stream of coaches and carts and gentlemen on horseback taking their mounts for exercise in the park. A clamour of activity, which was the reason that Lady Lamerton had chosen the house.

The sky was blue, but mired with that slight haze that would burn off as the earliness of the morning advanced and the sun climbed high in the sky. It was going to be another hot day. Emma could feel the clammy warmth in the air already. She massaged a hand against the tightness nipping the nape of her neck.

She was thinking about last night and Devlin...and Ned.

An uneasiness still sat upon her over Devlin’s veiled suggestion that he had an interest in her and over his implication about Ned and gentle-born women.

How Devlin could even think that there could be anything between them... Devlin, after all, was one of the men responsible for Kit’s downfall and the financial ruin of her family. And even were he not, he was a rake, a man who lived a life devoted to empty hedonism and lavish luxury. He had no thought for anything serious or meaningful. He spent his time bedding women of the demi-monde, gaming and drinking. After her months in Whitechapel she could not like a man like him.

She thought of Ned seeking his pleasures on the other side of town as much as Devlin. She thought of Devlin’s hints and wondered what it was Ned had done with another gentle-born woman. The thought made her chest tighten with a heavy rawness and sent a bitterness pumping again through her blood. Had he lied to her as he had lied to Emma? Had he deceived Emma as to what was between them? And over his offer to help her father? She closed her eyes at the thought of that small unnecessary cruelty.

And in her mind she saw again her father that day at the warehouse.

‘Oh, Papa,’ she whispered soft as a breath and that ever-present nagging sense of worry over him stole out from where it lurked in the shadows to fill her mind. And she thought, too, of what he would say if he ever discovered what she had done with Ned Stratham.

‘Ah, here you are, Emma.’ Lady Lamerton’s voice made her start. She hid away those feelings. Took a breath and turned to face her employer.

‘I did not mean to startle you, my dear.’

‘The fault is all mine. I was wool-gathering and did not hear your approach.’ She smiled and, moving from the window, directed the dowager’s attention elsewhere. ‘Cook has quite surpassed herself with the ham and eggs this morning.’

‘She has a temperament that requires handling with kid gloves, but...’ Lady Lamerton smiled and lowered her voice to share the confidence ‘...she is worth her weight in gold. Worked for the royal household for years. When she left, Amelia Hilton tried to snaffle her, but I got in first.’ The dowager leaned on her walking stick and gave a very satisfied cat-that-got-the-cream smile that made Emma smile in earnest.

Emma lifted a plate from the heater and helped Lady Lamerton to a selection from the breakfast dishes before they both took their seats.

Lady Lamerton peered at the empty space before Emma. ‘I trust you have eaten?’

‘I have, thank you.’ She knew how precious food was. How hungry a person could get. So she had eaten whether she had appetite or not.

‘I see Mrs Lewis seated you beside Devlin. Hardly the most sensitive of seating arrangements given the history of your families.’

Emma made no comment.

‘Did he upset you?’

‘Not at all,’ she lied and thought of Devlin’s insinuation about Ned.