Margaret McPhee - The Regency Season - Gentleman Rogues - The Gentleman Rogue / The Lost Gentleman

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.’