Margaret McPhee - The Regency Season - Gentleman Rogues

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.

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.