Читать книгу The Regency Season: Gentleman Rogues: The Gentleman Rogue / The Lost Gentleman - Margaret McPhee, Margaret McPhee - Страница 16

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.

Devlin scanned the rest of the crowd until his eyes finally met Ned’s.

Ned curved his mouth in a smile, drew Devlin a tiny acknowledgement, at which the viscount couldn’t quite hide his contempt.

‘Caught looking and he doesn’t seem too pleased about it if the expression on his face is anything to go by,’ said Rob. ‘He normally likes to pretend you’re so beneath him that he doesn’t even notice you.’

And yet they both knew that were there a thousand people in this room Devlin would still have noticed him.

Ned’s gaze shifted to Emma Northcote one last time.

And at the very same time her eyes met his. Something rippled between them before she looked away, engaging her attention more fully on Lady Lamerton and the group of women around her.

Ned pushed the thought of her from his head. It did not matter whether she was here or not. He had business to attend to. ‘Time to go and talk to Misbourne.’

Rob gave a nod.

The musicians finished their tuning and began to play the initial bars of the first dance.

Ned sat his empty glass on the tray of a passing footman before making his way with Rob across the dance floor.

* * *

Emma was standing with Lady Lamerton at the other end of the Foundling Hospital hall. Lady Lamerton’s social life was such a whir of activity. It had been so long since Emma had lived amongst the ton that she had forgotten what it was like to have so many social engagements, to plan one’s entire life around them. The Season and Little Season were possibly the most important events of the year. Wardrobes were built around them. Débutantes launched in them. Marriages forged. And money, huge amounts of money, spent on and because of them. Emma had grown up accepting it as normal, but since her return from Whitechapel she questioned it.

After six months in that other world she could see it with fresh eyes. The vast luxury of it. The wonder. The sophistication and elegance. It took her breath away at the same time as it made her feel uneasy. She wondered if this was how Ned must have felt when first he came to Mayfair; wondered if he still felt it or had grown used to it.

She glanced across the length of the hall at where he stood with his steward, Rob Finchley. The midnight-blue tailcoat served to show his strong square shoulders. Other men padded their shoulders, but Emma knew that Ned Stratham’s required no padding. She remembered too well how lean and hard and strong his body was.

Her eyes moved over his white cravat and white-worked waistcoat. Dark breeches clung to those long muscular thighs that had pressed to hers. White stockings and dark slippers. Hair that was cut short and cast golden by the candlelight.

And yet all his expensive tailoring did not disguise Ned’s slight edge of danger and darkness. There was something untamed about him. Like a wolf amongst a pack of sleek, pampered, pedigree dogs. She thought of what it took to survive in a place like Whitechapel. She thought of what it must have taken him to rise up out of it.

Her ears pricked up at the mention of his name. It dragged her back to the presence of Lady Lamerton and the surrounding conversation.

‘I would not have thought to find Mr Stratham here,’ Mrs Quigley, a tabby with the sharpest claws, was saying. Her little eyes flicked a look of superiority in his direction.

‘I would be more surprised over his absence,’ Lady Lamerton said in a tone that put Mrs Quigley in her place. ‘Given that Mr Stratham is a patron of the Foundling Hospital.’

That was news to Emma and apparently to Mrs Quigley, too.

‘I have it from m’son that Edward Stratham is the hospital’s most generous single donor.’

‘Garnering favour with the prospective fathers through marriage,’ said Mrs Quigley.

‘Tush,’ said Lady Routledge. ‘Any prospective fathers through marriage are likely to be up to their necks in River Tick and would be more impressed if Stratham kept the cash in his own coffers.’

‘Indeed.’ Lady Lamerton adjusted her walking stick. ‘But who I am surprised to see here are Devlin and his friends.’

‘Not their usual scene at all,’ said Mrs Hilton.

‘Would have thought it rather too tame for those dissolute young bucks,’ said Lady Routledge. ‘I hope they are not here to cause trouble.’

‘They are here for something,’ said Lady Lamerton. ‘Take my word upon it.’

‘Perhaps one of them has their eye on a respectable lady. Perhaps they have decided to give up their rakish ways and settle down. Perhaps Devlin’s papa has finally had a word in his ear.’ Mrs Quigley glanced across at Lady Lamerton.

‘Stanborough has mentioned nothing to me.’

‘That does not mean it is not true,’ pointed out Mrs Morley.

The dowager drew her a look that would have felled a lesser woman.

The music started up, the rhythm of the notes thudding through Emma’s head, through her blood. The first dance was announced.

Emma glanced across at Ned again and met the full force of his gaze. It made the butterflies flock in her stomach and her heart strike a tattoo just the same as it had done in the Red Lion; maybe even more so given the mess of their entanglement.

In that look was that same strength of character, that same tight rein of self-control. Calm, watchful confidence with the hint of something so resonant that it sent a shiver through her whole body.

Emma glanced away. This was not the Red Lion. He was not the same man. And even if he were, it was too late. She was here with a purpose. She could not forget her brother or the vow she had sworn to her mother. She turned away to the dowager just as Mrs Quigley exclaimed in breathy shock, ‘Oh, my! I do believe he is coming to ask Miss Northcote to dance. How...unexpected.’

For a tiny moment she thought Mrs Quigley meant Ned. Emma’s heart banged hard enough to escape her ribcage but when she followed the woman’s wide-eyed stare it was not Ned that stood there, but Devlin.

Her stomach dropped to meet her shoes. Her palms were suddenly clammy. As those arrogant eyes met hers she felt a flit of panic at the prospect of having to dance with him.

He turned his attention to Lady Lamerton. ‘Ma’am, would you permit your companion to stand up with me for this dance?’

Asking the dowager rather than Emma. Playing by the rules of society. Yet it irked Emma, making her feel every inch the paid servant that she was, rather than a woman who had a right to answer for herself.

She looked around the small circle of ladies. Every one of them was staring at Lady Lamerton, eyes goggling, waiting with bated breath. Lady Lamerton was in her element, holding them all in the palm of her hand.

‘I will, sir. But only if Miss Northcote is in agreement.’

All eyes swivelled to Emma, awaiting her reaction.

There was a calculated gleam in Devlin’s eyes. He knew full well the stir it would create if she dealt him the direct insult of a refusal. He smiled his usual lazy, arrogant smile, that of a man who was used to getting what he wanted.

It was almost enough to tempt her to refuse him, just to see it wiped from his face. And had there not been Lady Lamerton to consider, and all that depended on Emma’s position with her, she would have done it. But there was Lady Lamerton. And there was Kit.

So Emma met those arrogant dark eyes and gave a cool polite smile. ‘Thank you, Lord Devlin, how could I refuse?’

He held out his hand to her.

She took a breath and, placing her hand in his, let him lead her out on to the dance floor.

* * *

Ned and Rob were with Misbourne, chief amongst the Hospital’s governors. Rob stood back, watching the dance floor while Ned discussed financial matters with Misbourne. Even though Ned was listening to Misbourne he was aware of what it was his friend watched so intently.

His eyes cut a glance through the crowd upon the dance floor to one couple alone. Devlin’s hand upon Emma’s. A light touch here. A lingering touch there. They did not speak, only danced with smooth flowing steps. Polite, formal, nothing but respectable. Emma’s expression was a mask that revealed nothing.

‘You really think you can drum up the investment?’ Misbourne asked.

‘It’s already done.’

‘Then what do you need me for?’

‘To represent the project amongst the great and good.’ They would listen to Misbourne. He was an earl. He was part of the establishment. Misbourne’s sharp dark eyes narrowed as they fixed upon Ned. He stroked his beard and studied Ned as if trying to glean his measure. The earl was not devoid of prejudices and might have his own dark agendas, but Ned knew the man would do better for the Hospital than any other. And so it was to Misbourne that he made the proposition.

Misbourne gave a nod. ‘Come round tomorrow at seven. We will discuss it over dinner.’