Margaret McPhee - The Gentleman Rogue

There had not been. Pork was expensive and the choicest chop they offered. It was also her father’s favourite, which was why Emma had paid for them out of her own pocket, largely with the generous tip Ned Stratham had left, the rest covered by Nancy’s discount. ‘Happy Birthday, Papa.’ She dropped a kiss to his cheek as he drew her close and gave her a hug.

‘It is my birthday? I lose track of time these days.’ He sat down in one of the spindly chairs at the bare table in the corner of the room.

‘That is what happens with age,’ Emma teased him. But she knew it was not age that made him forget, but the fact that all the days merged together when one just worked all the time.

She hung her cloak on the back of the door, then set a place at the little table, unwrapped the lidded plate from its cloth and finally produced an earthenware bottle. ‘And as a treat, one of the finest of the Red Lion’s porters.’

‘You spoil me, Emma,’ he chided, but he smiled. ‘You are not having anything?’

‘I ate earlier, in the Red Lion. And you know I cannot abide the taste of beer.’

‘For which I am profoundly thankful. Bad enough my daughter chooses to work in a common tavern, but that she would start drinking the wares...’ He gave an exaggerated shudder.

‘It is a chop-house, not a tavern as I have told you a hundred times.’ She smiled. Although the distinction made little difference in reality, it made her father feel better. But he would not feel better were he to see the Red Lion’s clientele and her best customers. She wondered what he would make of a man like Ned Stratham. Or what he would say had he witnessed the manner in which Ned had bested five men to defend her.

Her father smiled, too. ‘And I suppose I should be heartily grateful for that.’

‘You know the tips from the chop-house pay very well indeed, much better than for any milliner or shop girl. And it will not be for ever.’

‘Perhaps not,’ he said thoughtfully.

‘No perhaps about it, Papa,’ she said sternly. ‘Our savings begin to grow. And I have made an application for a position in Clerkenwell. It is not Mayfair, but it is heading in the right direction.’

‘Managing a chop-house.’

Managing a tavern, but she did not tell him that. ‘One step at a time, on a journey that will eventually lead us back to our own world.’

He smiled. ‘My dear girl, have I told you that you are stubborn as a mastiff?’

‘Once or twice. I wonder where I might have acquired such a trait? I do not recall my dear mama having such a defect.’

He chuckled. ‘Indeed, I own the blame. The apple does not fall so very far from the tree.’ He gently patted her hand. ‘Come, take a seat. You must be tired after working all evening.’

Emma dropped into the seat opposite. ‘Not so tired at all.’ And although her feet were aching it was the truth. She thought of Ned Stratham and the interaction that had passed between them earlier that evening and smiled. He was a man without an inch of softness in him. Probably more dangerous than any of the other men that came to the chop-house, and the men that came to the Red Lion were not those anyone would wish to meet alone on a dark night. Definitely more dangerous, she corrected, remembering precisely what he had done to Black-Hair and his cronies. And yet there was something about him, something that marked him as different. Pushing the thought away, she focused her attention on her father.

‘How were the docks today?’

‘The same as they ever are. The good news is that I managed to get an extra shift for tomorrow.’

‘Again?’ The fatigue in his face worried her. ‘Working a double shift is too much for you.’ Working a single shift in a manual job in the London Docks’ warehouses was too much for a man who had been raised and lived as a gentleman all his life.

‘What is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander,’ he said. ‘Do not start with your scolding, please, Emma.’

She sighed and gave a small smile. It was his birthday and she wanted what was left of it to be nice for him. There would be other days to raise the issue of his working double shifts. ‘Very well.’

‘Fetch your cup. I shall propose a toast.’

She did as he bid.

He poured a dribble of porter into her cup. Raised his own tankard in the air. ‘God has granted me another year and I am happy and thankful for it.’ But there was a shadow of sadness in his eyes and she knew what he was thinking of. ‘To absent loved ones,’ he said. ‘Wherever Kit is. Whatever he is doing. God keep him safe and bring him home to us.’

‘To absent loved ones,’ she echoed and tried to suppress the complicated swirl of emotions she felt whenever Kit’s name was mentioned.

They clunked the cups together and drank down the porter. Its bitterness made her shudder. Once it had been champagne in the finest of cut-crystal glasses with which he made his birthday toast and the sweetest of lemonades, extravagantly chilled with ice. Once their lives had been very different from the ones they lived here.

As if sensing her thought, he reached his hand to hers and gave it a squeeze. Her eyes met his, sombre for a moment with shared dark memories, before she locked the memories away in the place they belonged. Neither spoke of them. It was not their way. She forced a smile to her face. ‘You should eat those pork chops before they grow cold.’

‘With pleasure, my dear girl.’ Her father smiled in return and tucked into the meal with relish.

* * *

Across town the next day, within the dining room of a mansion house in Cavendish Square, a very distinguished luncheon was taking place.

The fireplace was black marble, carved and elaborate. The walls were red, lined with ornate paintings of places in Scotland and overseas Ned had never been. Above the table hung an enormous chandelier from which a thousand crystal drops danced and shimmered in the slight breeze from the opened window. There were two windows in the room, both large, bowed in style, both framed with long heavy red damask curtains with fringed swags and tails. Both had blinds that were cream in colour and pulled high.

Out in the street beyond, the sky was bright with the golden light of a summer’s afternoon. It glinted on the silver service and crystal of the glasses on the polished mahogany table stretched out like a long banqueting table from kings of old. Enough spaces to seat eighteen. But there were only five men dining from the sumptuous feast. Seated in the position of the principal guest was the government minister for trade. On his left was the minister’s secretary. Directly opposite the minister was the biggest mill owner in the north and one away was a shipping magnate whose line was chief to service the West Indies and the Americas. A powerful collection of men, and seated at their heart, in the position of host, was Ned Stratham.

He fed them the best of fine foods and rich sauces prepared by a chef who had once been employed by the Prince Regent. He ensured that his butler and footmen were well trained enough to keep the men’s glasses flowing with expensive French wines. A different one suited for each dish.

Ned knew how to play the game. He knew what was necessary for success in business and influence over policy.

‘I can make no promises,’ said the minister.

‘I’m not asking you to,’ replied Ned.

‘And the source of the figures you quoted?’

‘Sound.’

‘You really think it would work?’

Ned gave a nod.

‘You would be taking as much a risk as us, maybe even more so as it is your money on the line.’

‘Maximum gain comes from maximum venture.’

‘If the vote were to go against us and the bill fail...’

‘You would survive it.’