Margaret McPhee - The Regency Season - Gentleman Rogues

‘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.