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

‘Half past nine,’ he finished.

She lifted her eyebrows in unspoken question.

‘I used to work on the docks.’

‘And now?’

‘And now, I do not. Cards and chest,’ he said.

She laughed and the relaxed fascination he felt for her grew stronger.

‘Five o’clock start. Your father will be done by four.’

‘If only.’ She frowned again at the mention of her father. Twice in five minutes; Ned had never seen her look worried, even on the night when she had thought herself alone facing the two sailors in the alleyway. ‘He is on a double shift in the warehouse.’

‘Good money, but tiring.’

‘Very tiring.’ She glanced down the hill at the dockyard with sombre eyes. ‘It is hard work for a man of his age who is not used to manual labour.’

‘What did he do before manual labour?’

She gave no obvious sign or reaction, only stood still as a statue, but her stillness betrayed that she had not meant to let the fact slip.

Her gaze remained on the dockyard. ‘Not manual labour,’ she said in a parody of his answer to her earlier question. She glanced round at him then, still and calm, but in her eyes were both defence and challenge. Her smile was sudden and warm, deflecting almost. ‘I worry over my father, that is all. The work is hard and he is not a young man.’

‘I still know a few folk in the dockyard. I could have a word. See if there are any easier jobs going.’

The silence was like the quiet rustle of silk in the air.

‘You would do that?’

‘There might be nothing, but I’ll ask.’ But there would be something. He would make sure of it. ‘If you wish.’

He could see what she was thinking.

‘No strings attached,’ he clarified.

Emma’s eyes studied his. Looking at him, really looking at him, like no woman had ever looked before. As if she could see through his skin to his heart, to his very soul, to everything that he was. ‘I wish it very much,’ she said.

He gave a nod.

There was a pause before she said, ‘My father is an educated man. He can read and write and is proficient with arithmetic and mathematics, indeed, anything to do with numbers.’

‘A man with book learning.’

She nodded. ‘Although I’m not sure if that would be of any use in a dockyard.’

‘You would be surprised.’

They stood in silence, both watching the dockworkers unloading the ship, yet her attention was as much on him as his was on her.

‘Whatever you do for a living, Ned, whatever illicit activity you might be involved in...if you can help my father...’

‘You think I’m a rogue...’ He raised his brow. ‘Do I look a rogue?’

Her gaze dropped pointedly to the front of his shirt before coming back up to his face. It lingered on his scarred eyebrow before finally moving to his eyes.

‘Yes,’ she said simply.

‘My Mayfair shirt.’

‘And the eyebrow,’ she added.

‘What’s wrong with the eyebrow?’

‘It does give you a certain roguish appearance.’

He smiled at that.

And she did, too.

‘And if I am a rogue?’

She glanced away, gave a tiny shrug of her shoulders. ‘It would not affect how I judge you.’

‘How do you judge me, Emma?’

She slid a sideways glance at him. ‘Cards and chest, Ned.’

He laughed.

‘I should go and leave you to your contemplation.’

They looked at one another, the smile still in her sunlit eyes.

‘Join me,’ he said, yielding for once in his life to impulse. His eyes dared hers to accept.

He saw her gaze move to his scarred eyebrow again, almost caressingly.

He crooked it in a deliberate wicked gesture.

She smiled. ‘Very well, but for a few moments only.’ She smoothed her skirt to take a seat on the bench.

He sat down by her side.

A bee droned. From the branches overhead a blackbird sang.

Emma’s eyes moved from the dockyards to the derelict factory, then over the worn and pitted surface of the road mosaicked with flattened manure, and all the way along to the midden heap at its far end.

‘Why here?’ she asked.

‘I grew up here. It reminds me of my childhood.’

‘A tough neighbourhood.’

‘Not for the faint of heart,’ he said. ‘Children are not children for long round here.’

‘Indeed, they are not.’

There was a small silence while they both mused on that. And then let it go, eased by the peace of the morning and the place.

‘It is a beautiful view,’ she said.

Ned glanced round at her, wondering whether she was being ironic. ‘Men in gainful employment are always a beautiful sight,’ he said gravely.

‘I was not thinking in those terms.’ She smiled. ‘It reminds me of a Canaletto painting.’ Her eyes moved to the old manufactory. ‘It has the same ruined glory as some of his buildings. The same shade of stone.’

‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never seen a Canaletto painting.’

‘I think you would like them.’

‘I think maybe I would.’

Her gaze still lingered on the derelict building as she spoke. ‘A ruined glory. There are pigeons nesting in what is left of the roof. Rats with wings, my father used to call them,’ she said.

‘Plenty good eating in a rat.’

She laughed as if he were joking. He did not. He thought of all the times in his life when rat meat had meant the difference between starvation and survival.

‘One day it will be something else,’ he said. ‘Not a ruined glory, but rebuilt.’

‘But then there will be no more violets growing from the walls.’

‘Weeds.’

‘Not weeds, but the sweetest of all flowers. They used to grow in an old garden wall I knew very well.’ The expression on her face was as if she were remembering and the memory both pained and pleased her.

Emma looked round at Ned then and there was something in her eyes, as if he were glimpsing through the layers she presented to the world to see the woman beneath.

‘I will remember that, Emma de Lisle,’ he said, studying her and everything that she was. A man might live a lifetime and never meet a woman like Emma de Lisle, the thought whispered again in his ear.

Their eyes held, sharing a raw exposed honesty.

Everything seemed to still and fade around them.

He lowered his face to hers and kissed her in the bright glory of the sunshine.

She tasted of all that was sweet and good. She smelled of sunshine and summer, and beneath it the scent of soap and woman.

He kissed her gently, this beautiful woman, felt her meet his kiss, felt her passion and her heart. Felt the desire that was between them surge and flare hot. He intensified the kiss, slid his arms around her and instinctively their bodies moulded together, as their mouths explored. He was hard for her, felt her thigh brush against his arousal, felt the soft press of her breasts against his chest, the slide of her hand beneath his jacket to stroke against his shirt, against his heart.

And then her palm flattened, pressed against his chest to stay him.

Their lips parted.

‘It is broad daylight, Ned Stratham!’ Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes were dark with passion and shock. ‘Anyone might see us.’

He twitched his scarred eyebrow.

She shook her head as if she were chiding him, but she smiled as she got to her feet.

He stood, too.

A whistling sounded and a man’s figure appeared from the corner, trundling his barrow of fish along the road—Ernie Briggins, one of the Red Lion’s best customers. ‘Morning, Ned.’

Ned gave a nod.

Ernie’s eyes moved to Emma with speculation and a barely suppressed smile. ‘Morning, Emma.’

‘Morning, Ernie.’ Emma’s cheeks glowed pink.

Ernie didn’t stop, just carried on his way, leaving behind him the lingering scent of cod and oysters and the faint trill of his reedy whistle.

Emma said nothing, just raised her brows and looked at Ned with a ‘told you so’ expression.

‘I better get you safely home, before any more rogues accost you.’

‘I think I will manage more safely alone, thank you. Stay and enjoy your view.’ Her eyes held to his. ‘I insist.’ She backed away. Smiled. Turned to leave.

‘Emma.’

She stopped. Glanced round.

‘I’m going out of town for the next week or so. I have some business to attend to. But I’ll be back.’

‘Developed a compulsion for the porter, have you?’

‘A compulsion for something else, it would seem,’ he said quietly. ‘We need to talk when I return, Emma.’

‘That sounds serious.’

‘It is.’ He paused, then asked, ‘Will you wait for me?’

There was a silence as her eyes studied his. ‘I am not going anywhere, Ned Stratham.’

Their eyes held, serious and intent, for a second longer. ‘I will wait,’ she said softly.

They shared a smile before she turned and went on her way.

He watched her walk off into the sunlight until she disappeared out of sight.

A man might live a lifetime and never meet a woman like Emma de Lisle. But not Ned.

A fancy new dress and Emma wouldn’t be out of place in Mayfair. Ned smiled to himself and, lifting his hat, began the long walk back across town.

* * *

The letter came the very next morning.

Emma stood in the rented room in the bright golden sunshine with the folded and sealed paper between her fingers, and the smile that had been on her face since the previous day vanished.

It had taken a shilling of their precious savings to pay the post boy, but it was a willing sacrifice. She would have sold the shoes from her feet, sold the dress from her back to accept the letter and all that it might contain.

Her heart began to canter. She felt hope battle dread.

The paper was quality and white, her father’s name written on the front in a fine hand with deep-black ink. There was no sender name, no clue impressed within the red-wax seal.

She swallowed, took a deep breath, stilled the churn in her stomach. It might not be the letter for which her father and she had both prayed and dreaded all of these two years past.

The one o’clock bell tolled in the distance.

She placed the letter down on the scrubbed wooden table. Stared at it, knowing that her father would not finish his shift before she left for the Red Lion, knowing, too, that he would probably be asleep by the time she returned. She was very aware that the answer to what had sent her mother to an early grave and turned her father grey with worry might lie within its folds.

Kit. She closed her eyes at the thought of her younger brother and knew that she could not get through the rest of this day without knowing if the letter contained news of him. Nor would her father. He would want to know, just the same as Emma. Whether the news was good...or even if it was bad.

She pulled her shawl around her shoulders, fastened her bonnet on her head and, with the letter clutched tight within her hand, headed for the London Docks.

Chapter Four

Emma knew little of the warehouse in which her father worked. He had spoken nothing of it, so this was her first insight into the place that had become his world as much as the Red Lion had become hers.

All around the walls were great racks of enormous shelving stacked with boxes and bales. The windows in the roof were open, but with the heat of the day and the heavy work many of the men were working without shirts. She blushed with the shock of seeing their naked chests and rapidly averted her gaze, as she followed the foreman through the warehouse. Eventually through the maze of shelving corridors they came to another group of shirtless men who were carrying boxes up ladders to stack on high shelves.

‘Bill de Lisle,’ the foreman called. ‘Someone here to see you.’

One of the men stepped forward and she was horrified to see it was her father.

‘Papa?’ She forgot herself in the shock of seeing his gaunt old body, all stringy from hard labour.

‘Emma?’ She heard her shock echoed in his voice. In a matter of seconds he had reclaimed his shirt and pulled it over his head. ‘What has happened? What is wrong to bring you here?’

‘A letter. Addressed to you. I thought it might contain news of...’ She bit her lip, did not finish the sentence.

‘If you will excuse me for a few moments, gentlemen,’ her father said to the men behind him. ‘And Mr Sears,’ to the foreman who had brought her to him.

Her father guided her a little away from the group.

‘Bill?’

‘It is what they call me here.’

She gave a small smile. The smile faded as she passed the letter to him. ‘Maybe I should not have brought it here, but I thought...’ She stopped as her father scrutinised the address penned upon it. ‘The writing is not of Kit’s hand, but even so... Someone might have seen him. Someone might know his whereabouts.’

Her father said nothing, but she saw the slight tremble in his fingers as he broke the red-wax seal and opened the letter. He held it at arm’s length to read it since his spectacles were long gone.

She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry with anticipation. Rubbed her clammy palms together and waited. Waited until she could wait no more.

‘Is it good news?’

Her father finished reading and looked up at her. ‘It is the best of news, Emma...’

The breath she had been holding escaped in a gasp. Her heart leapt. The terrible tight tension that held her rigid relaxed.

‘...but it does not concern your brother.’

The warm happiness flowing through her turned cold. She glanced up at her father. ‘I do not understand.’

‘The letter is from Mrs Tadcaster, who was second cousin to your mama. She writes to say that the Dowager Lady Lamerton’s companion has run off with one of the footmen.’

‘Why is that good news?’

‘Because, my dear—’ he smiled ‘—the dowager is in need of a new companion, a woman of gentle breeding who would understand what was required of her and might start in the position with immediate effect.’

The penny dropped. Emma suddenly realised why her mother’s cousin had written to impart such trivial gossip. She knew where this was leading. And she should have been glad. Indeed, had it been only a few weeks ago she would have been. But much had happened in those weeks and the feeling in the pit of her stomach was not one of gladness.

‘Mrs Tadcaster had spoken to her ladyship of you and Lady Lamerton has agreed to take you on as her companion.’

Emma could not say a word.

‘Such sudden and surprising news after all this time. Little wonder you are shocked.’

She was shocked, but not for the reasons her father thought.

We need to talk when I return.

That sounds serious.

It is. Will you wait for me?

Ned’s words and all they might mean had not left her mind since yesterday. Her stomach felt hollow.

‘I cannot go.’

‘Why ever not?’ He stared at her

How could she tell him about Ned? Not a gentleman, but a Whitechapel man. A man who was tougher and more dangerous than all he had warned her against. A man who could best five men in a tavern fight and who had worked on these same docks. A man who made magic somersault in her stomach and passion beat through her blood. Whose kiss she wanted to last for ever...and who had implied he wanted a future with her.

‘I could not possibly contemplate leaving you here alone.’

‘Nonsense. It would be a weight off my mind to know that you were living a safe, respectable life with the Dowager Lady Lamerton. Do you not think I have enough to worry over with Kit?’

‘I understand that, but you need not worry over me.’

‘You are a serving wench in a tavern.’

‘It is a chop-house, Papa,’ she corrected him out of force of habit.

‘Emma, chop-house or tavern, it makes no difference. Do you think I do not know the manner of men with whom you must deal? Do you think there is a night goes by I am not sick with worry until Tom sees you safely home and I hear you coming through that front door?’

She felt guilt turn in her stomach at the thought of him worrying so much while she enjoyed being with Ned.

‘Were you with Lady Lamerton, I could find lodgings closer to the docks. There are always fellows looking for someone to share the rent on a single room. It would be easier for me. Cheaper. More convenient. And they are a good enough bunch in here. Tease me a bit, but that is the extent of it.’

‘Lady Lamerton will see this as an opportunity to glean every last detail of our scandal from me. You know she is chief amongst the gossipmongers and has a nose like a bloodhound.’

‘Clarissa Lamerton likes to be queen of the ton’s gossip, not its subject. She will grill you herself, but protect you from all others. What is this sudden change of heart, Emma? This argument is usually the other way around. You have always been so strong and committed to returning to society and tracing Kit.’

Emma glanced away.

‘Lady Lamerton’s ability to discover information is all the more reason to accept the position. You would be well placed, in one of the best households in London, to hear news of Kit. Lady Lamerton’s son has an association with Whitehall. Rest assured young Lamerton will hear if there is anything to be heard and thus, too, his mother. You have to take this opportunity, Emma, for Kit’s sake and mine, as well as for your own. You know that without me telling you.’

She did. That was the problem. She understood too well what he was saying and the truth in it.

‘If you stay here, you are lost. It is only a matter of time before one of these men makes you his own. Indeed, it is a miracle that it has not already happened.’

She glanced down at the floor beneath their feet so that he would not see the truth in her eyes.

But he reached over and tilted her face up to his. ‘You are a beautiful young woman, the very image of your mother when I met and married her. I want a better life for you than that which a husband from round here could offer you.’

She wanted to tell him so much, of Ned and all that was between them, but she could not. Not now, not when her duty was so pressing.

‘As if I would have a husband from round here.’ Her forced smile felt like a grimace.

Will you wait for me? In her mind she could see that soul-searching look in Ned’s eyes.

And hear her own reply. I am not going anywhere, Ned Stratham...I will wait.

‘I am glad you have not forgotten your vow to your mother, Emma.’

‘How could I ever forget?’ She never would, never could. Family was family. A vow was just that, even if it was at the expense of her own happiness. She felt like her heart was torn between her family and the man she loved.

She told herself that Ned might not love her, that she might have misunderstood what it was he wanted to talk to her of. After all, he had made no promises or declarations, and despite all those late-night conversations and all their passion, they knew so little of each other. But in her heart, she knew.

She knew, but it did not change what she had to do.

‘You know you have to take this chance, Emma.’ Her father’s eyes scanned hers.

‘Yes.’ One small word to deny the enormity of what was in her heart.

‘I will go past the mail-receiving office on the way home, pay for paper and some ink and write to Mrs Tadcaster.’

She gave a nod.

‘Let me escort you from this place.’

Emma placed her hand on his arm and walked with him, without noticing the shirtless men who stopped working to watch her pass with silent appreciation.

She was thinking of all the days and nights she had worked so hard to escape Whitechapel, of all the times she had prayed for just such an opportunity. And now that her prayer had finally been answered she did not want to leave.

She was thinking of a man whose hair the sun had lightened to the colour of corn-ripened fields and whose eyes matched the cloudless summer sky outside; a man who had captured her heart, and to whom there would be no chance to explain.

* * *

On the afternoon of Ned’s return from Portsmouth, he went straight to a meeting in White’s Club. But now the meeting was concluded, the necessary introductions made and ideas discussed. He shook hands with the Earl of Misbourne, Viscount Linwood, the Marquis of Razeby and Mr Knight.

‘If you will excuse me, gentlemen?’ A nod of the head and he and his friend and steward, Rob Finchley, were out of the room and walking down the corridor.

Further down the corridor, he saw the small group of men who knew his secret. Men who were bursting with longing to take him down, to expose his real identity, but could not. They knew what would happen if they did. He met each of their gazes in turn across the distance, held them so that they would remember why they could not tell what itched upon their tongues to be out. And in return they glowered with all their haughty disdain.

Rob cursed beneath his breath. ‘They look at you as if you’re a gutter rat in their midst.’

Ned smiled at the group of arrogant young noblemen. It had the desired effect, twisting the knife a little deeper. ‘But remember what it costs them to stand there and suffer my presence.’

Rob grinned. ‘I feel better already.’

They were still smiling as they crossed St James’s Street and climbed into the waiting gig. It was a top-of-the-range model, sleek, glossy black exterior, cream leather seats; a small white circle enclosing a red diamond shape adorned the front plate. Ned did not look back. Just took up the reins and drove off.

‘I think you hooked Misbourne.’

‘Let’s hope.’ The wheels sped along. Ned kept his eyes forward concentrating on the traffic. ‘I can’t make Dawson’s ball tonight.’

‘Not like you to miss a big event like Dawson’s.’

‘I have a commitment elsewhere.’ His face was closed and impassive, his usual expression when it came to dealing with friend and foe alike.

‘All the bigwigs are going to be there.’

‘I know.’

There was a small silence before Rob said, ‘Must be important, this other commitment.’

‘It is.’ Ned slid a glance at his friend, let his eyes linger for a moment, in that quiet confrontational way, and smiled.

Rob smiled, too. ‘All right, mate. I get the hint. I’ll stop fishing about your mystery woman.’

* * *

A few hours later, Ned walked alone into the Red Lion Chop-House. Some heads nodded at him, recognising him from the weeks before. Ned felt the usual comfort and ease that sat about the place, felt it as soon as he crossed the parish boundary that divided the East End from the rest of London. The taproom was busy as usual, the tables and rowdy noise of the place spilling out into the alleyway in front. His eyes scanned for Emma, but did not find her.

The first suspicion stroked when he saw that it was Paulette who came to serve him.

‘Your usual, is it?’

He gave a nod. ‘Emma not in tonight?’

‘Thought you might ask that.’ She smiled a saucy knowing look. ‘Emma’s gone. Landed herself some fancy job as a lady’s maid again. An offer she couldn’t refuse apparently, lucky mare. She left a message for you, though. Said to tell you goodbye. That she was real sorry she couldn’t tell you in person. Said she hoped you would understand.’

He dropped a coin into her hand for passing on the message. ‘Forget the lamb and the porter.’ He didn’t wait.

There were other chop-houses in Whitechapel. Other serving wenches. But Ned didn’t go to them. Instead he made his way up along Rosemary Lane to Tower Hill and the ancient stone bench beneath the beech trees. And he sat there alone and watched the day shift finish in the docks and the night shift begin. Watched the ships that docked and the ships that sailed. Watched until the sun set in a glorious blaze of fire over the Thames and the daylight faded to dusk and dusk to darkness.

Had she waited just one week...a single week and how different both their lives would have been.