The Regency Season: Gentleman Rogues: The Gentleman Rogue / The Lost Gentleman
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Lady Lamerton glanced across at Emma as she ate. ‘And yet you have something weighing upon your mind.’
The butler appeared with a fresh pot of coffee and set it down on the table between them, sending wafts of steam and its rich roasted aroma through the air. By unspoken consent both Emma and Lady Lamerton waited until he had departed again before they resumed their conversation.
‘I was thinking of my father,’ Emma admitted, aware that the older woman was no fool. It was the truth, just not all of it.
‘Wondering how he is faring in Hounslow without you?’
In his small comfortable cottage living a quiet but respectable life in Hounslow. So many lies. Emma met Lady Lamerton’s gaze. There was a formidable kindness in it. She wondered what Lady Lamerton would do if she knew the truth? Of Whitechapel and the hardship of life there, of the dockyard warehouse and the Red Lion Chop-House. Part of her wanted so much to tell. To unburden herself. To cease the dishonesty. But Emma knew she could not. She was under no misapprehensions. Lady Lamerton had a kind heart, but she would not understand. And she certainly would not have a woman who had been a serving wench living in her house, acting as her companion. So Emma just smiled in reply.
‘I am taking tea with Mrs Hilton this afternoon. There is no need for you to come. Take the day off. Travel out to Hounslow and surprise your papa with a visit.’
And discover for herself the truth of how he was coping. ‘If you are certain...’
‘Quite certain. I would not say it were I not. As long as you are returned before evening. Remember we have agreed to a card evening at Lady Routledge’s.’
‘I will be back long before evening.’ No woman wanted to be walking the Whitechapel streets at night. And that made her think of the night that Ned Stratham had stepped in to save her from the two sailors. Of his walking her home...and all it had led to. She stopped the thoughts. Closed her mind to them. Thought of her purpose in being here.
‘I have been meaning to ask you whether Lord Lamerton has yet had word of Kit?’ she asked.
‘It is early days, Emma, and m’son continues with his enquires. We must leave the matter in his capable hands.’
‘I am most grateful. My father will be, too.’ It would be the first thing her father would ask.
‘If there is word to be had, Lamerton will be the one to have it.’
‘He will.’ Emma smiled, but as she sipped her coffee the question on Emma’s mind was what that word would be.
* * *
It was a couple of hours later when Emma made her way across town, walking at a brisk pace. The new olive-green walking dress, cream spencer, bonnet and gloves, all part of the wardrobe Lady Lamerton had bought for her upon her arrival, allowed her to belong in Mayfair. But not so in the East End. It was only when she got into Spitalfields and then headed further east into Whitechapel that she was aware of the way people were looking at her.
Before, in her own old and shabby attire, or the serving dress lent to her by Nancy, she had fitted in, drawn no notice. Now her new and expensive clothing proclaimed her from another tribe, an intruder from another world. The further she trod into Whitechapel the more uncomfortable she became.
Streets that only a couple of weeks ago had been her home, her locale, seemed threatening. Men, lurking in doorways, eyed her with sly speculation. Women, sitting upon their steps, did not recognise her as Emma de Lisle, one of Nancy’s girls from the Red Lion, but as someone who should not be here, someone who did not fit in. Only two weeks had passed, but already she had forgotten the depth of the darkness, the stench of the dirt and the cutting danger of this place.
Five miles separated Whitechapel and Mayfair. It might as well have been five thousand. They were worlds apart. Little wonder Ned changed his clothes to come here. She wished she had done the same.
But although her clothes were all wrong, she knew these people. She kept her head up, maintained her confidence and stayed true to herself.
It was with relief that she eventually reached the London Docks.
In the warehouse was the same foreman she had met before. He did not recognise her at first. Did a double take when she apologised for inconveniencing him and asked him if she might speak to her father.
‘Of course, miss.’ He gave a nod. ‘Come right this way for Mr de Lisle.’
Not Bill this time, but Mr de Lisle. It struck her as odd, as did the fact he led her into an office at the front she had not noticed before.
Her father was not shirtless and glistening in sweat. The clothes he wore were new—a fine fitted tailcoat and matching breeches, pale shirt and stockings, dark neckcloth and waistcoat. His grey hair was cut short and tidy and combed neat. A new pair of spectacles was perched on the end of his nose. He was the very image of respectability, sitting there at a large desk in the middle of the room writing within a ledger. Like the gentleman he had once been. So many emotions welled up at the sight. Surprise and relief, pride and affection. She pressed her gloved fingers to her lips to control them.
‘Emma!’ He set the pen down in its wooden holder. Got to his feet, came to her and embraced her.
She heard the office door close behind the foreman.
‘Oh, Papa! How on earth...?’ She looked him up and down before gazing around them at the change in his environment.
‘It is a miracle, is it not?’ He laughed. ‘The very day that you left the company deemed they had a need of someone who could manage the accounts in-house rather than farm it out to an office on the other side of town. A money-saving venture they said. They seemed to know that I had something of an education and offered me the job. Fate has dealt us both good fortune, Emma.’
‘It seems that it has,’ she said quietly.
‘And the vast increase in wage means I can afford some very fine rooms not so far away in Burr Street, although I have not yet had a chance to write to Mrs Tadcaster so that she could inform you.’
‘And you are eating?’
‘Like a king. There are some splendid chop-houses in the vicinity.’ There was a twinkle in his eye as he said it.
Her smile broadened. It was so good to see him like this.
‘Now tell me all about how things are with you, my dear girl. I have been worrying over you.’
‘I accepted the position with Lady Lamerton so that you would not worry.’
He smiled. ‘Ah, it is true. But I confess that my worry is a great deal less than it used to be. And besides, it is a father’s duty to worry over his daughter.’
‘And a daughter’s duty to worry over her father.’
They laughed and talked some more. She told him that young Lord Lamerton was making enquiries as to Kit’s whereabouts. She told of her life with the Dowager Lady Lamerton, of what was the same in the ton and what had changed. But she made no mention of the newcomer Mr Stratham.
‘You see,’ said her father. ‘Am I not proved right? Accepting the position was the best thing to do.’
‘It was,’ she said, but she did not smile.
Her last view of him as she left was of him sitting at the big wooden desk, a contented expression on his face, as he dipped his pen into the inkwell and wrote entries into the large ruled ledger open before him.
Emma left the London Docks and headed west towards Mayfair, walking with a hundred other people across roads and along pavements. All around was the hurried tread of boots and shoes, the buzz of voices, and, louder than all, the clatter of horses’ shoes. But what she heard in her head as she walked were the words that Ned had spoken to her on a morning that seemed now to belong to another time and another world.
I used to work on the docks... I still know a few folk in the dockyard... I could have a word. See if there are any easier jobs going.
And she knew that it was neither fate that had rescued her father from hefting crates upon the warehouse floor, nor a miracle, but Ned Stratham.
Chapter Eight
Mrs Morley’s picnic in Hyde Park took place three days after Ned and Rob’s early morning drive in the same place. The weather had grown hotter and stickier. It was a select affair arranged by one of the ton’s grande dames to raise funds for her husband’s regimental charity. The price of the tickets guaranteed only a select attendance; as did the limited number of places.
Ned was there, with Rob, not because he enjoyed such frivolous wastes of time, or displaying the style of his dress. Ned did not care about clothes or fashion or the style of his hair. He kept the knot in his cravat simple and had looked at his valet in disbelief when the man suggested tying rags in his hair overnight to curl it. To give the valet his due, he had not asked again. Ned was there because he knew the importance of maintaining a presence when it came to doing business with these men. And being on a level meant attending social functions like this on a regular basis. It meant dining with them and being a member of a gentlemen’s club.
He nodded an acknowledgement at Lord Misbourne across the grass. Misbourne was of particular importance to him, more so than the others. But Ned had sown the seeds. Now he had to wait for Misbourne to come back to him.
‘Quite the turnout,’ he said, looking over to where Spencer Perceval, the prime minister, and the Prince Regent were speaking to Devlin and his cronies. Beyond them he could see Emma Northcote and Lady Lamerton.
‘Old boys’ club,’ said Rob.
Ned gave a small smile of amusement and accepted a glass of champagne from the silver tray the footman offered.
‘Such a fine day for our picnic, don’t you think, Mr Stratham?’ Amanda White, a pretty young widow of a certain reputation, announced her arrival. Her neckline was just a low enough cut to afford an unhindered view of her cleavage and transparent enough to more than suggest what lay beneath. She looked at him with bold, seductive eyes and a lazy, sensuous smile.
‘A fine day, indeed, madam.’
‘I’m positively famished and need some advice over which are the tastiest morsels on offer.’ She glanced across at the feast of extravagant dishes set out on the line of tables, the tablecloths of which gleamed white in the sun. ‘Whether to have the wafer-thin sliced chicken or ham. Or something bigger, more masculine and...substantial. Like steak. Such a choice as to quite confuse a lady.’ She touched her teeth against her bottom lip, biting it gently. ‘What do you think, sir?’
From the corner of his eye he could see Rob’s gaze fixated on Amanda White’s ample bosom.
‘I think you need the guidance of a renowned epicure. What good fortune there is one so close at hand...’ He glanced round at Rob. ‘Mr Finchley...?’
‘I would be delighted, ma’am,’ said Rob and offered his arm.
Amanda White could not in all civility refuse. She eyed Ned for a moment, knowing full well what he had just done, but then she smiled and tucked her hand into the crook of Rob’s arm.
Rob smiled, too, as he led her away towards the picnic tables.
Ned’s eyes moved across the distance to where Emma Northcote and Lady Lamerton had stood, but both were gone. He located the dowager at the far edge of the party, talking intently with Mrs Hilton. His eyes were still scanning the crowd when he heard Emma’s voice behind him.
‘Mr Stratham.’
A tiny muscle tightened in his jaw. Other than that, not one other sign betrayed him.
‘Miss Northcote.’ He turned to face her. Did not smile. ‘Shouldn’t you be with Lady Lamerton?’
‘She and Mrs Hilton are discussing something which they deem unsuitable for an unmarried lady to hear.’ She gave a small ironic smile. And in that moment, standing there dressed in their finery with champagne glasses in their hands and the extravagance of pineapples upon a banqueting table, surrounded by the elite of London’s ton, Whitechapel and all that had happened there whispered between them.
The hint of a breeze flicked lazily at the olive-green satin of her bonnet ribbons. The colour suited her dark complexion well, highlighting the velvet brown of her eyes and the glossy dark gleam of her hair.
Neither of them drank their champagne. Both stood there, glasses steady in hands, appraising the other with calm measure. She watched him with those same dark perceptive eyes as the woman he had met in the Red Lion.
‘I came to thank you.’ Her voice was quiet enough that only he would hear.
‘I have done nothing for which you should thank me.’
A smile, there then gone. ‘You helped my father.’
‘Did I?’
They looked at one another across the small distance, aware of the layers of tension between them.
‘You were not lying, after all.’
‘No.’ His eyes held hers, serious, focused, revealing nothing of the hard beat of his heart.
‘But you were courting titles on the marriage mart.’
‘Before you. And after.’
‘And in between?’
‘No.’
Her eyes scanned his. ‘You really are from Whitechapel.’
‘Born and bred.’
Their gazes still held locked. ‘You needn’t worry, Ned. Your secret is safe with me.’ The very words he had spoken to her upon Hawick’s dance floor.
He smiled a crooked smile.
And she smiled, too, that glorious warm smile of hers that revealed the small sensuous dimple.
Ned’s gaze shifted to beyond Emma, to the four tall dark figures that were making a beeline for them.
‘Miss Northcote,’ Devlin said as he came to stand at her side. Monteith stood by Devlin. Fallingham and Bullford took her other flank. Aligning themselves around her. Aligning themselves against him. ‘And...Mr Stratham.’ There was a slight razor edge in the way Devlin said his name. The viscount held his gaze with disdain and contempt and a hint of threat.
Ned found the less-than-subtle attempt at intimidation amusing. He had grown up the hard way. He knew how to read people. He understood Devlin better than Devlin understood himself. And he knew exactly which buttons to press to play him.
‘Lord Devlin.’ He smiled. ‘How nice of you all to come over.’
The remark hit the spot. Devlin stiffened, then forced a smile. ‘Miss Northcote’s company beckoned.’ The viscount turned his attention to Emma. ‘I trust you are enjoying the picnic, Miss Northcote.’
‘Very much, thank you, Lord Devlin.’ Her words were polite, but Ned could hear the cool tinge in them. Her smile was small, perfunctory. It did not touch her eyes. Her dimple remained hidden. Her gaze skimmed over Devlin and his friends. Her poise was calm and controlled, yet beneath it Ned could sense her discomfort.
‘And you? Are you enjoying being here?’ Ned asked of Devlin.
‘Not as much as you, it would seem. I do not suppose they have picnics where you come from. Where was it again? I am not sure you ever did say?’ Devlin sipped at his champagne as he played a dangerous game.
Emma shifted with unease.
‘Such an interest in me, Lord Devlin. How flattering. I could give you my life history—where I came from...how I came to be here... All the details, if you want. We never really have had a chance to chat.’
Devlin’s eyes narrowed with contempt. ‘I am a busy man. My time is precious. And I have no interest in trade.’
Emma’s eyes widened at the implied insult.
Ned smiled. ‘And yet here you are, sharing that precious time with me.’
Devlin bristled. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he clenched his teeth. He glared at Ned for a moment before addressing Emma. ‘If you will excuse me, Miss Northcote.’
She gave a tiny nod of her head.
The four young noblemen made curt bows and walked away.
Emma and Ned looked at one another.
It could have been just the two of them standing there, as it had been that day at the old stone bench. But that day was long gone and was never coming back.
His eyes traced her face.
‘Goodbye, Emma.’ A small bow and he walked away.
* * *
That evening was one of Lady Lamerton’s rest evenings, as she called them. One of two or three evenings a week when she stayed at home. To rest and nurture her strength and vigour and to make her presence all the more appreciated at the Foundling Hospital’s ball the next evening. Every night and they grew tired of one, she said. Too few evenings and they thought one out of it. The trick was in getting the balance of nights in and nights out just right. And the dowager knew a thing or two about such subtleties of the ton, having spent a lifetime mastering its handling.
They sat together in the little parlour playing whist.
‘Apparently the picnic raised more than three thousand pounds for Colonel Morley’s regimental charity.’ Lady Lamerton eyed her cards.
‘A very successful fundraiser. Mrs Morley must be happy.’ Emma placed a card down on the pile.
The dowager gave a tut when she saw the card.
Emma smiled at her.
And the dowager smiled, too. ‘Positively crowing. You know she never got over Lamerton—God rest his soul—choosing me over her. Accepted Morley as a poor second best.’
‘I did not know that.’
‘It was so long ago that there are few enough of us left to remember.’
‘Was it a love match between you and Lord Lamerton?’
‘Good heavens, no!’ She gave a chuckle as if it were an absurd suggestion. ‘Lamerton needed my papa’s fortune.’
As too many earls needed Ned’s.
‘I was in love with someone else.’
The revelation was so unexpected. It allowed Emma a glimpse into the past and the young and passionate woman that Lady Lamerton must have been.
The dowager placed her card down on top of Emma’s with deliberation. When she looked up to meet Emma’s gaze she smiled. ‘Elizabeth Morley’s contribution to the picnic was paltry. Considerably more is expected of the hostess than a few seed cakes. Little wonder her face was so sour when she saw the magnificence of my peach flans.’ She gave a small cackle.
‘You are incorrigible.’
‘I am blessed with natural ability.’
They both smiled.
‘I saw you talking to Devlin and Mr Stratham. Matters between you and Devlin seem amicable.’
They were hardly amicable, but in her role as the dowager’s companion Emma could not be anything other than civil to him. She gave a smile that the dowager interpreted as agreement.
‘You do know that Mr Stratham contributed the pineapples.’
‘Rather too extravagant,’ said Emma.
‘I would describe it as a clever move. When it comes to cultivating the ton, he knows he must make his money work for him.’
Ned was a shrewd man. She thought of the way he had sat in the Red Lion all those months. Self-contained, serene, but with so much beneath. She thought, too, of Devlin’s words about Ned and women. She hesitated just a moment, then spoke.
‘And yet I heard a rumour concerning Mr Stratham.’
‘A rumour, you say?’ The dowager raised an eyebrow and looked interested.
‘That Mr Stratham is less than discreet or honourable when it comes to women.’
‘Rather a risqué rumour for the ears of an innocent.’
Emma smiled. ‘I could not help overhearing a conversation as I was passing.’
Lady Lamerton smiled her appreciation of eavesdropping. ‘It is a quite misinformed opinion, my dear. Stratham is not that manner of man at all.’
‘And yet he did spend time with Mrs White at the picnic.’ Emma thought of the vivacious young widow and the way her violet eyes had looked so seductively into Ned’s, the way she had touched a gloved hand on more than one occasion to his arm.
‘Amanda White is always angling after him, but without success.’
‘That is surprising.’
‘Not at all. He is focused upon his business interests and on securing himself the best marriage alliance for his money. Stratham undoubtedly attracts women, but however he conducts his affairs it is with discretion. There has been nothing untoward. And believe me, had there been, I would know. Gentlemen of trade are not exactly welcomed with open arms into the ton. He is under constant scrutiny.’
There was a truth in that. Emma knew very well how the ton viewed self-made men.
‘Who was speaking of him?’ the dowager wanted to know.
‘I could not see. I was trying to be discreet.’
‘I must teach you better.’
They exchanged a smile, then went back to their cards.
With the last trick played the dowager had won again.
‘You are too good at this,’ said Emma.
The dowager chuckled.
As Emma shuffled the pack and dealt the cards again, her mind strayed to Ned and their conversation earlier that day.
But you were courting titles on the marriage mart.
Before you. And after.
And in between?
No.
He had not lied about her father. Maybe he was not lying about the rest of it.
She had the feeling that her initial reaction, natural though it was to finding Ned Stratham living the life of a gentleman in Mayfair, had been misjudged.
Ned had never hidden the fact that he kept secrets. He had not lied about his. He was right; she had been the one who had lied about hers, even if it was for the best of reasons.
But I’ll be back.... We need to talk when I return... She remembered the look in his eyes, serious, intent, soul-searching. About their future, she had thought. A future together.
She wondered what would have happened had she waited for him as she said she would.
She wondered with all her heart what Ned Stratham would have said.
* * *
Within the main hall at the Foundling Hospital the next evening the ball was in full swing. The turnout was more than good. In one corner of the room a posse of musicians played Handel’s music, on account of the many fundraising concerts the composer had played on behalf of the Hospital. The design inside the hall, like the rest of the building, was Palladian, yet simple and unadorned; the Hospital did not want to be open to accusations of extravagance.
Ned and Rob stood across the room from the musicians. It was a position that Ned had chosen from instinct drummed into him across the years. Always keep your back to the wall so that no one could surprise you from behind. Always have a clear view of the doorway—both to see who entered and for exiting purposes. Where they stood satisfied both criteria.
On their right was the wall lined with long rectangular windows that had no curtains or blinds, only shutters that were fixed open. On their left were the internal wall and doorway that led in from the hallway and chapel. The dying sunset outside lit the windows, casting the hall with a rosy glow. From the centre of the high ceiling hung a massive but unadorned chandelier lit with the flicker of candles. It was a glamorous event, select, fashionable, six months in the organising. Tickets had been priced at one hundred pounds and every single one had been sold. To the richest and most elite of the ton. Ned smiled at that thought.
Rob gave a faint gesture of his head towards the door. ‘Thought that Devlin and his cronies would have been at the demi-monde masquerade ball in the Argyle Rooms. Wonder what they’re doing here instead?’
‘Supporting the Foundling Hospital.’ Ned gave a wry smile.
Rob laughed. ‘A nice thought that.’
‘Very nice.’
‘Would get right up their noses as much as you do, if they knew precisely where their money was going.’
‘If things go well with Misbourne, it won’t be too long before they discover it for themselves.’
Rob grinned.
But Ned suspected that there was more to Devlin’s presence here than just a night out. As if on cue, Devlin glanced at Emma.
Ned didn’t need to follow his gaze. He already knew that she and the Dowager Lady Lamerton were standing with a group of the ton’s tabbies at the other end of the room. He knew that beside her the other women seemed faded and bland and that, beneath her calm, capable, polite interchanges, Emma was as aware of him as he was of her.